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                       THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.




                                  THE

                         MYSTERIES OF LONDON.

                                  BY

                        GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS,

    AUTHOR OF "PICKWICK ABROAD," "THE MODERN LITERATURE OF FRANCE,"
                        "ROBERT MACAIRE," ETC.

                      WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS

                             BY G. STIFF.

                                VOL. I.

                                LONDON:

             GEORGE VICKERS, 3, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.

                              MDCCCXLVI.

                                LONDON:
       Printed by J. J. WILKINSON, "Bonner House," Seacoal Lane.




CONTENTS OF VOL. I.


                                                     PAGE
  PROLOGUE                                              1
  CHAPTER I.--The Old House in Smithfield               2
  II.--The Mysteries of the Old House                   4
  III.--The Trap-Door                                   6
  IV.--The Two Trees                                    7
  V.--Eligible Acquaintances                           11
  VI.--Mrs. Arlington                                  14
  VII.--The Boudoir                                    16
  VIII.--The Conversation                              19
  IX.--A City Man.--Smithfield Scenes                  20
  X.--The Frail One's Narrative                        24
  XI.--"The Servants' Arms"                            27
  XII.--The Bank Notes                                 30
  XIII.--The Hell                                      32
  XIV.--The Station-House                              35
  XV.--The Police-Office                               37
  XVI.--The Beginning of Misfortunes                   39
  XVII.--A Den of Horrors                              43
  XVIII.--The Boozing-Ken                              45
  XIX.--Morning                                        50
  XX.--The Villa                                       51
  XXI.--Atrocity                                       54
  XXII.--A Woman's Mind                                55
  XXIII.--The Old House in Smithfield again            58
  XXIV.--Circumstantial Evidence                       61
  XXV.--The Enchantress                                63
  XXVI.--Newgate                                       67
  XXVII.--The Republican and the Resurrection Man      69
  XXVIII.--The Dungeon                                 71
  XXIX.--The Black Chamber                             75
  XXX.--The 26th of November                           78
  XXXI.--Explanations                                  84
  XXXII.--The Old Bailey                               86
  XXXIII.--Another Day at the Old Bailey               91
  XXXIV.--The Lesson interrupted                       93
  XXXV.--Whitecross Street Prison                      95
  XXXVI.--The Execution                                99
  XXXVII.--The Lapse of Two Years                     102
  XXXVIII.--The Visit                                 105
  XXXIX.--The Dream                                   109
  XL.--The Speculation--An unwelcome Meeting          111
  XLI.--Mr. Greenwood                                 115
  XLII.--"The Dark House"                             118
  XLIII.--The Mummy                                   122
  XLIV.--The Body-Snatchers                           125
  XLV.--The Fruitless Search                          128
  XLVI.--Richard and Isabella                         131
  XLVII.--Eliza Sydney                                138
  XLVIII.--Mr. Greenwood's Visitors                   140
  XLIX.--The Document                                 148
  L.--The Drugged Wine-glass                          151
  LI.--Diana and Eliza                                154
  LII.--The Bed of Sickness                           156
  LIII.--Accusations and Explanations                 158
  LIV.--The Banker                                    162
  LV.--Miserrima!!                                    167
  LVI.--The Road to Ruin                              171
  LVII.--The Last Resource                            176
  LVIII.--New Year's Day                              178
  LIX.--The Royal Lovers                              182
  LX.--Revelations                                    185
  LXI.--The "Boozing-Ken" once more                   188
  LXII.--The Resurrection Man's History               191
  LXIII.--The Plot                                    197
  LXIV.--The Counterplot                              198
  LXV.--The Wrongs and Crimes of the Poor             202
  LXVI.--The Result of Markham's Enterprise           205
  LXVII.--Scenes in Fashionable Life                  207
  LXVIII.--The Election                               210
  LXIX.--The "Whippers-in"                            213
  LXX.--The Image, the Picture, and the Statue        216
  LXXI.--The House of Commons                         219
  LXXII.--The Black Chamber again                     221
  LXXIII.--Captain Dapper and Sir Cherry Bounce       224
  LXXIV.--The Meeting                                 227
  LXXV.--The Crisis                                   230
  LXXVI.--Count Alteroni's Fifteen Thousand Pounds    233
  LXXVII.--A Woman's Secret                           235
  LXXVIII.--Marian                                    237
  LXXIX.--The Bill.--A Father                         239
  LXXX.--The Revelation                               242
  LXXXI.--The Mysterious Instructions                 245
  LXXXII.--The Medical Man                            246
  LXXXIII.--The Black Chamber again                   248
  LXXXIV.--The Second Examination.--Count Alteroni    250
  LXXXV.--A Friend in Need                            254
  LXXXVI.--The Old Hag                                256
  LXXXVII.--The Professor of Mesmerism                260
  LXXXVIII.--The Figurante                            262
  LXXXIX.--The Mysterious Letter                      266
  XC.--Markham's Occupations                          268
  XCI.--The Tragedy                                   274
  XCII.--The Italian Valet                            277
  XCIII.--News from Castelcicala                      282
  XCIV.--The Home Office                              285
  XCV.--The Forger and the Adulteress                 290
  XCVI.--The Member of Parliament's Levee             293
  XCVII.--Another's New Year's Day                    296
  XCVIII.--Dark Plots and Schemes                     301
  XCIX.--The Buffer's History                         304
  C.--The Mysteries of the Ground-floor Rooms         310
  CI.--The Widow                                      312
  CII.--The Reverend Visitor                          314
  CIII.--Hopes and Fears                              317
  CIV.--Female Courage                                318
  CV.--The Combat                                     321
  CVI.--The Grave-digger                              323
  CVII.--A Discovery                                  326
  CVIII.--The Exhumation                              328
  CIX.--The Stock-Broker                              331
  CX.--The Effects of a Trance                        339
  CXI.--A Scene at Mr. Chichester's House             340
  CXII.--Viola                                        342
  CXIII.--The Lovers                                  346
  CXIV.--The Contents of the Packet                   349
  CXV.--The Treasure.--A New Idea                     351
  CXVI.--The Rattlesnake's History                    353
  CXVII.--The Rattlesnake                             361
  CXVIII.--The Two Maidens                            364
  CXIX.--Poor Ellen!                                  367
  CXX.--The Father and Daughter                       369
  CXXI.--His Child!                                   371
  CXXII.--A Change of Fortune                         373
  CXXIII.--Aristocratic Morals                        375
  CXXIV.--The Intrigues of a Demirep                  377
  CXXV.--The Reconciliation                           380
  CXXVI.--The Rector of Saint David's                 382
  CXXVII.--Blandishments                              384
  CXXVIII.--Temptation                                387
  CXXIX.--The Fall                                    389
  CXXX.--Mental Struggles                             391
  CXXXI.--The Statue                                  394
  CXXXII.--An Old Friend                              396
  CXXXIII.--Skilligalee's History                     400
  CXXXIV.--The Palace in the Holy Land                406
  CXXXV.--The Proposal.--Unexpected Meetings          408
  CXXXVI.--The Secret Tribunal                        413
  EPILOGUE                                            415




ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL I.


  For Woodcut on page 1 see page 3
  For Woodcut on page 9 see page 15
  For Woodcut on page 17 see page 17
  For Woodcut on page 25 see page 25
  For Woodcut on page 33 see page 34
  For Woodcut on page 41 see page 51
  For Woodcut on page 49 see page 53
  For Woodcut on page 57 see page 64
  For Woodcut on page 65 see page 71
  For Woodcut on page 73 see page 70
  For Woodcut on page 81 see page 79
  For Woodcut on page 89 see page 91
  For Woodcut on page 97 see page 102
  For Woodcut on page 105 see page 112
  For Woodcut on page 113 see page 121
  For Woodcut on page 121 see page 127
  For Woodcut on page 129 see page 133
  For Woodcut on page 137 see page 139
  For Woodcut on page 145 see page 152
  For Woodcut on page 153 see page 155
  For Woodcut on page 161 see page 168
  For Woodcut on page 169 see page 174
  For Woodcut on page 177 see page 180
  For Woodcut on page 185 see page 185
  For Woodcut on page 193 see page 196
  For Woodcut on page 201 see page 205
  For Woodcut on page 209 see page 213
  For Woodcut on page 217 see page 217
  For Woodcut on page 225 see page 228
  For Woodcut on page 233 see page 239
  For Woodcut on page 241 see page 248
  For Woodcut on page 249 see page 251
  For Woodcut on page 257 see page 261
  For Woodcut on page 265 see page 266
  For Woodcut on page 273 see page 276
  For Woodcut on page 281 see page 287
  For Woodcut on page 289 see page 292
  For Woodcut on page 297 see page 299
  For Woodcut on page 305 see page 309
  For Woodcut on page 313 see page 314
  For Woodcut on page 321 see page 322
  For Woodcut on page 329 see page 330
  For Woodcut on page 337 see page 338
  For Woodcut on page 345 see page 349
  For Woodcut on page 353 see page 354
  For Woodcut on page 361 see page 362
  For Woodcut on page 369 see page 369
  For Woodcut on page 377 see page 376
  For Woodcut on page 385 see page 386
  For Woodcut on page 393 see page 395
  For Woodcut on page 401 see page 403
  For Woodcut on page 409 see page 413




                       THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.

                            [Illustration]




PROLOGUE.


Between the 10th and 13th centuries Civilisation withdrew from Egypt and
Syria, rested for a little space at Constantinople, and then passed away
to the western climes of Europe.

From that period these climes have been the grand laboratory in which
Civilisation has wrought out refinement in every art and every science,
and whence it has diffused its benefits over the earth. It has taught
commerce to plough the waves of every sea with the adventurous keel; it
has enabled handfuls of disciplined warriors to subdue the mighty
armaments of oriental princes; and its daring sons have planted its
banners amidst the eternal ice of the poles. It has cut down the
primitive forests of America; carried trade into the interior of Africa;
annihilated time and distance by the aid of steam; and now contemplates
how to force a passage through Suez and Panama.

The bounties of Civilisation are at present almost everywhere
recognised.

Nevertheless, for centuries has Civilisation established, and for
centuries will it maintain, its headquarters in the great cities of
Western Europe: and with Civilisation does Vice go hand-in-hand.

Amongst these cities there is one in which contrasts of a strange nature
exist. The most unbounded wealth is the neighbour of the most hideous
poverty; the most gorgeous pomp is placed in strong relief by the most
deplorable squalor; the most seducing luxury is only separated by a
narrow wall from the most appalling misery.

The crumbs which fall from the tables of the rich would appear delicious
viands to starving millions; and yet those millions obtain them not!

In that city there are in all districts five prominent buildings: the
church, in which the pious pray; the gin-palace, to which the wretched
poor resort to drown their sorrows; the pawnbroker's, where miserable
creatures pledge their raiment, and their children's raiment, even unto
the last rag, to obtain the means of purchasing food, and--alas! too
often--intoxicating drink; the prison, where the victims of a vitiated
condition of society expiate the crimes to which they have been driven
by starvation and despair; and the workhouse, to which the destitute,
the aged, and the friendless hasten to lay down their aching heads--and
die!

And, congregated together in one district of this city, in an assemblage
of palaces, whence emanate by night the delicious sounds of music;
within whose walls the foot treads upon rich carpets; whose sideboards
are covered with plate; whose cellars contain the choicest nectar of the
temperate and torrid zones; and whose inmates recline beneath velvet
canopies, feast at each meal upon the collated produce of four worlds,
and scarcely have to breathe a wish before they find it gratified.

Alas! how appalling are these contrasts!

And, as if to hide its infamy from the face of heaven, this city wears
upon its brow an everlasting cloud, which even the fresh fan of the
morning fails to disperse for a single hour each day!

And in one delicious spot of that mighty city--whose thousand towers
point upwards, from horizon to horizon, as an index of its boundless
magnitude--stands the dwelling of one before whom all knees bow, and
towards whose royal footstool none dares approach save with downcast
eyes and subdued voice. The entire world showers its bounties upon the
head of that favoured mortal; a nation of millions does homage to the
throne whereon that being is exalted. The dominion of this personage so
supremely blest extends over an empire on which the sun never sets--an
empire greater than Jenghiz Khan achieved or Mohammed conquered.

This is the parent of a mighty nation; and yet around that parent's seat
the children crave for bread!

Women press their little ones to their dried-up breasts in the agonies
of despair; young delicate creatures waste their energies in toil from
the dawn of day till long past the hour of midnight, perpetuating their
unavailing labour from the hour of the brilliant sun to that when the
dim candle sheds its light around the attic's naked walls; and even the
very pavement groans beneath the weight of grief which the poor are
doomed to drag over the rough places of this city of sad contrasts.

For in this city the daughter of the peer is nursed in enjoyments, and
passes through an uninterrupted avenue of felicity from the cradle to
the tomb; while the daughter of poverty opens her eyes at her birth upon
destitution in all its most appalling shapes, and at length sells her
virtue for a loaf of bread.

There are but two words known in the moral alphabet of this great city;
for all virtues are summed up in the one, and all vices in the other:
and those words are

                           WEALTH. | POVERTY.

Crime is abundant in this city: the lazar-house, the prison, the
brothel, and the dark alley, are rife with all kinds of enormity; in the
same way as the palace, the mansion, the clubhouse, the parliament, and
the parsonage, are each and all characterised by their different degrees
and shades of vice. But wherefore specify crime and vice by their real
names, since in this city of which we speak they are absorbed in the
multi-significant words--WEALTH and POVERTY?

Crimes borrow their comparative shade of enormity from the people who
perpetrate them: thus is it that the wealthy may commit all social
offences with impunity; while the poor are cast into dungeons and
coerced with chains, for only following at a humble distance in the
pathway of their lordly precedents.

From this city of strange contrasts branch off two roads, leading to two
points totally distinct the one from the other.

One winds its tortuous way through all the noisome dens, of crime,
chicanery, dissipation, and voluptuousness: the other meanders amidst
rugged rocks and wearisome acclivities, it is true, but on the wayside
are the resting-places of rectitude and virtue.

Along those roads two youths are journeying.

They have started from the same point; but one pursues the former path,
and the other the latter.

Both come from the city of fearful contrasts; and both follow the wheels
of fortune in different directions.

Where is that city of fearful contrasts?

Who are those youths that have thus entered upon paths so opposite the
one to the other?

And to what destinies do those separate roads conduct them?




CHAPTER I.

THE OLD HOUSE IN SMITHFIELD.


Our narrative opens at the commencement of July, 1831.

The night was dark and stormy. The sun had set behind huge piles of
dingy purple clouds, which, after losing the golden hue with which they
were for awhile tinged, became sombre and menacing. The blue portions of
the sky that here and there had appeared before the sunset, were now
rapidly covered over with those murky clouds which are the hiding-places
of the storm, and which seemed to roll themselves together in dense and
compact masses, ere they commenced the elemental war.

In the same manner do the earthly squadrons of cavalry and mighty
columns of infantry form themselves into one collected armament, that
the power of their onslaught may be the more terrific and irresistible.

That canopy of dark and threatening clouds was formed over London; and a
stifling heat, which there was not a breath of wind to allay or
mitigate, pervaded the streets of the great metropolis.

Everything portended an awful storm.

In the palace of the peer and the hovel of the artisan the windows were
thrown up; and at many, both men and women stood to contemplate the
scene--timid children crowding behind them.

The heat became more and more oppressive.

At length large drops of rain fell, at intervals of two or three inches
apart, upon the pavement.

And then a flash of lightning, like the forked tongue of one of those
fiery serpents of which we read in oriental tales of magic and
enchantment, darted forth from the black clouds overhead.

At an interval of a few seconds the roar of the thunder, reverberating
through the arches of heaven--now sinking, now exalting its fearful
tone, like the iron wheels of a chariot rolled over a road with patches
of uneven pavement here and there--stunned every ear, and struck terror
into many a heart--the innocent as well as the guilty.

It died away, like the chariot, in the distance; and then all was
solemnly still.

The interval of silence which succeeds the protracted thunder-clap is
appalling in the extreme.

A little while--and again the lightning illuminated the entire vault
above: and again the thunder, in unequal tones,--amongst which was one
resembling the rattling of many vast iron bars together,--awoke every
echo of the metropolis from north to south, and from east to west.

This time the dread interval of silence was suddenly interrupted by the
torrents of rain that now deluged the streets.

There was not a breath of air; and the rain fell as perpendicularly
straight as a line. But with it came a sense of freshness and of a pure
atmosphere, which formed an agreeable and cheering contrast to the
previously suffocating heat. It was like the spring of the oasis to the
wanderer in the burning desert.

But still the lightning played, and the thunder rolled, above.

At the first explosion of the storm, amidst the thousands of men and
women and children, who were seen hastening hither and thither, in all
directions, as if they were flying from the plague, was one person on
whose exterior none could gaze without being inspired with a mingled
sentiment of admiration and interest.

He was a youth, apparently not more than sixteen years of age, although
taller than boys usually are at that period of life. But the tenderness
of his years was divined by the extreme effeminacy and juvenile
loveliness of his countenance, which was as fair and delicate as that of
a young girl. His long luxuriant hair, of a beautiful light chestnut
colour, and here and there borrowing dark shades from the frequent
undulations in which it rolled, flowed not only over the collar of his
closely-buttoned blue frock coat, but also upon his shoulders. Its
extreme profusion, and the singular manner in which he wore it, were,
however, partially concealed by the breadth of the brim of his hat, that
was placed as it were entirely upon the back of his head, and, being
thus thrown off his countenance, revealed the high, intelligent, and
polished forehead above which that rich hair was carefully parted.

His frock coat, which was single-breasted, and buttoned up to the
throat, set off his symmetrical and elegant figure to the greatest
advantage. His shoulders were broad, but were characterised by that fine
fall or slope which is so much admired in the opposite sex. He wore
spurs upon the heels of his diminutive polished boots; and in his hand
he carried a light riding-whip. But he was upon foot and alone; and,
when the first flash of lightning dazzled his expressive hazel eyes, he
was hastily traversing the foul and filthy arena of Smithfield-market.

An imagination poetically inspired would suppose a similitude of a
beautiful flower upon a fetid manure heap.

He cast a glance, which may almost be termed one of affright, around;
and his cheek became flushed. He had evidently lost his way, and was
uncertain where to obtain an asylum against the coming storm.

The thunder burst above his head; and a momentary shudder passed over
his frame. He accosted a man to inquire his way; but the answer he
received was rude, and associated with a ribald joke.

He had not courage to demand a second time the information he sought;
but, with a species of haughty disdain at the threatening storm, and a
proud reliance upon himself, proceeded onwards at random.

He even slackened his pace: a contemptuous smile curled his lips, and
the glittering white teeth appeared as it were between two rose-leaves.

His chest, which was very prominent, rose up and down almost
convulsively; for it was evident that he endeavoured to master
conflicting feelings of vexation, alarm, and disgust--all produced by
the position in which he found himself.

To one so young, so delicate, and so frank in appearance, the mere fact
of losing his way by night in a disgusting neighbourhood, during an
impending storm, and insulted by a low-life ruffian, was not the mere
trifle which it would have been considered by the hardy and experienced
man of the world.

Not a public conveyance was to be seen; and the doors of all the houses
around appeared inhospitably closed: and every moment it seemed to grow
darker.

Accident conducted the interesting young stranger into that labyrinth of
narrow and dirty streets which lies in the immediate vicinity of the
north-western angle of Smithfield-market.

It was in this horrible neighbourhood that the youth was now wandering.
He was evidently shocked at the idea that human beings could dwell in
such fetid and unwholesome dens; for he gazed with wonder, disgust, and
alarm upon the houses on either side. It seemed as if he had never
beheld till now a labyrinth of dwellings whose very aspect appeared to
speak of hideous poverty and fearful crime.

Meantime the lightning flashed, and the thunder rolled; and at length
the rain poured down in torrents. Obeying a mechanical impulse, the
youth rushed up the steps of a house at the end of one of those dark,
narrow, and dirty streets the ominous appearance of which was every now
and then revealed to him by a light streaming from a narrow window, or
the glare of the lightning. The framework of the door projected
somewhat, and appeared to offer a partial protection from the rain. The
youth drew as closely up to it as possible; but to his surprise it
yielded behind him, and burst open. With difficulty he saved himself
from falling backwards into the passage with which the door
communicated.

Having recovered from the sudden alarm with which this incident had
inspired him, his next sentiment was one of pleasure to think that he
had thus found a more secure asylum against the tempest. He, however,
felt wearied--desperately wearied; and his was not a frame calculated to
bear up against the oppressive and crushing feeling of fatigue. He
determined to penetrate, amidst the profound darkness by which he was
surrounded, into the dwelling; thinking that if there were any inmates
they would not refuse him the accommodation of a chair; and if there
were none, he might find a seat upon the staircase.

He advanced along the passage, and groped about. His hand encountered
the lock of a door: he opened it, and entered a room. All was dark as
pitch. At that moment a flash of lightning, more than usually vivid and
prolonged, illuminated the entire scene. The glance which he cast around
was as rapid as the glare which made objects visible to him for a few
moments. He was in a room entirely empty; but in the middle of the
floor--only three feet from the spot where he stood--there was a large
square of jet blackness.

The lightning passed away: utter darkness again surrounded him; and he
was unable to ascertain what that black square, so well defined and
apparent upon the dirty floor, could be.

An indescribable sensation of fear crept over him; and the perspiration
broke out upon his forehead in large drops. His knees bent beneath him;
and, retreating a few steps, he leaned against the door-posts for
support.

He was alone--in an uninhabited house, in the midst of a horrible
neighbourhood; and all the fearful tales of midnight murders which he
had ever heard or read, rushed to his memory: then, by a strange but
natural freak of the fancy, those appalling deeds of blood and crime
were suddenly associated with that incomprehensible but ominous black
square upon the floor.

He was in the midst of this terrible waking dream--this more than ideal
nightmare--when hasty steps approached the front door from the street;
and, without stopping, entered the passage. The youth crept silently
towards the farther end, the perspiration oozing from every pore. He
felt the staircase with his hands; the footsteps advanced; and, light as
the fawn, he hurried up the stairs. So noiseless were his motions, that
his presence was not noticed by the new-comers, who in their turns also
ascended the staircase.

The youth reached a landing, and hastily felt for the doors of the rooms
with which it communicated. In another moment he was in a chamber, at
the back part of the house. He closed the door, and placed himself
against it with all his strength--forgetful, poor youth! that his
fragile form was unavailing, with all its power, against even the single
arm of a man of only ordinary strength.

Meantime the new-comers ascended the stairs.




CHAPTER II.

THE MYSTERIES OF THE OLD HOUSE.


Fortunately for the interesting young stranger, the individuals who had
just entered the house did not attempt the door of the room in which he
had taken refuge. They proceeded straight--and with a steadiness which
seemed to indicate that they knew the locality well--to the front
chamber upon the same floor.

In a few moments there was a sharp grating noise along the wall; and
then a light suddenly shone into the room where the young stranger was
concealed. He cast a terrified glance around, and beheld a small square
window in the wall, which separated the two apartments. It was about
five feet from the floor--a height which permitted the youth to avail
himself of it, in order to reconnoitre the proceedings in the next room.

By means of a candle which had been lighted by the aid of a
lucifer-match, and which stood upon a dirty deal table, the young
stranger beheld two men, whose outward appearance did not serve to
banish his alarm. They were dressed like operatives of the most humble
class. One wore a gabardine and coarse leather gaiters, with laced-up
boots; the other had on a fustian shooting-jacket and long corduroy
trousers. They were both dirty and unshaven. The one with the
shooting-jacket had a profusion of hair about his face, but which was
evidently not well acquainted with a comb: the other wore no whiskers,
but his beard was of three or four days' growth. Both were powerful,
thick-set, and muscular men; and the expression of their countenances
was dogged, determined, and ferocious.

The room to which they had betaken themselves was cold, gloomy, and
dilapidated. It was furnished with the deal table before mentioned, and
three old crazy chairs, upon two of which the men now seated themselves.
But they were so placed that they commanded, their door being open, a
full view of the landing-place; and thus the youthful stranger deemed it
impolitic to attempt to take his departure for the moment.

"Now, Bill, out with the bingo," said the man in the gabardine to his
companion.

"Oh! you're always for the lush, you are, Dick," answered the latter in
a surly tone, producing at the same time a bottle of liquor from the
capacious pocket of his fustian coat. "But I wonder how the devil it is
that Crankey Jem ain't come yet. Who the deuce could have left that
infernal door open?"

"Jem or some of the other blades must have been here and left it so. It
don't matter; it lulls suspicion."

"Well, let's make the reglars all square," resumed the man called Bill,
after a moment's pause; "we'll then booze a bit, and talk over this here
new job of our'n."

"Look alive, then," said Dick; and he forthwith took from beneath his
gabardine several small parcels done up in brown paper.

The other man likewise divested the pockets of his fustian coat of
divers packages; and all these were piled upon the table.

A strange and mysterious proceeding then took place.

The person in the fustian coat approached the chimney, and applied a
small turnscrew, which he took from his pocket, to a screw in the iron
frame-work of the rusty grate. In a few moments he was enabled to remove
the entire grate with his hands; a square aperture of considerable
dimensions was then revealed. Into this place the two men thrust the
parcels which they had taken from their pockets: the grate was replaced,
the screws were fastened once more, and the work of concealment was
complete.

The one in the gabardine then advanced towards that portion of the wall
which was between the two windows; and the youth in the adjoining room
now observed for the first time that the shutters of those windows were
closed, and that coarse brown paper had been pasted all over the chinks
and joints. Dick applied his hand in a peculiar manner to the part of
the wall just alluded to, and a sliding panel immediately revealed a
capacious cupboard. Thence the two men took food of by no means a coarse
description, glasses, pipes, and tobacco; and, having hermetically
closed the recess once more, seated themselves at the table to partake
of the good cheer thus mysteriously supplied.

The alarm of the poor youth in the next chamber, as he contemplated
these extraordinary proceedings, may be better conceived than depicted.
His common sense told him that he was in the den of lawless
thieves--perhaps murderers; in a house abounding with the secret means
of concealing every kind of infamy. His eyes wandered away from the
little window that had enabled him to observe the above-described
proceedings, and glanced fearfully around the room in which he was
concealed. He almost expected to see the very floor open beneath his
feet. He looked down mechanically as this idea flitted through his
imagination; and to his horror and dismay he beheld a trap-door in the
floor. There was no mistaking it: there it was--about three feet long
and two broad, and a little sunken beneath the level of its frame-work.

Near the edge of the trap-door lay an object which also attracted the
youth's attention and added to his fears. It was a knife with a long
blade pointed like a dagger. About three inches of this blade was
covered with a peculiar rust: the youth shuddered; could it be human
blood that had stained that instrument of death?

Every circumstance, however trivial, aided, in such a place as that, to
arouse or confirm the worst fears, the most horrible suspicions.

The voices of the two men in the next room fell upon the youth's ear;
and, perceiving that escape was still impracticable, he determined to
gratify that curiosity which was commingled with his fears.

"Well, now, about this t'other job, Dick?" said Bill.

"It's Jem as started it," was the reply. "But he told me all about it,
and so we may as well talk it over. It's up Islington way--up there
between Kentish Town and Lower Holloway."

"Who's crib is it?"

"A swell of the name of Markham. He is an old fellow, and has two sons.
One, the eldest, is with his regiment; t'other, the youngest, is only
about fifteen, or so--a mere kid."

"Well, there's no danger to be expected from him. But what about the
flunkies?"

"Only two man-servants and three vimen. One of the man-servants is the
old butler, too fat to do any good; and t'other is a young tiger."

"And that's all?"

"That's all. Now you, and I, and Jem is quite enough to crack that there
crib. When is it to be done?"

"Let's say to-morrow night; there is no moon now to speak on, and
business in other quarters is slack."

"So be it. Here goes, then, to the success of our new job at old
Markham's;" and as the burglar uttered these words he tossed off a
bumper of brandy.

This example was followed by his worthy companion; and their
conversation then turned upon other topics.

"I say, Bill, this old house has seen some jolly games, han't it?"

"I should think it had too. It was Jonathan Wild's favourite crib; and
he was no fool at keeping things dark."

"No, surely. I dare say the well-staircase in the next room there,
that's covered over with the trap-door, has had many a dead body flung
down it into the Fleet."

"Ah! and without telling no tales too. But the trap-door has been nailed
over for some years now."

The unfortunate youth in the adjacent chamber was riveted in silent
horror to the spot, as these fearful details fell upon his ears.

"Why was the trap-door nailed down?"

"'Cos there's no use for _that_ now, since the house is uninhabited, and
no more travellers comes to lodge here. Besides, if we wanted to make
use of such a conwenience, there's another----"

A loud clap of thunder prevented the remainder of this sentence from
reaching the youth's ears.

"I've heard it said that the City is going to make great alterations in
this quarter," observed Dick, after a pause. "If so be they comes near
us, we must shift our quarters."

"Well, and don't we know other cribs as good as this--and just under the
very nose of the authorities too? The nearer you gets to them the safer
you finds yourself. Who'd think now that here, and in Peter-street, and
on Saffron-hill too, there was such cribs as this? Lord, how such coves
as you and me does laugh when them chaps in the Common Council and the
House of Commons gets on their legs and praises the blue-bottles up to
the skies as the most acutest police in the world, while they wotes away
the people's money to maintain 'em!"

"Oh! as for alterations, I don't suppose there'll be any for the next
twenty years to come. They always talks of improvements long afore they
begins 'em."

"But when they _do_ commence, they won't spare this lovely old crib! It
'ud go to my heart to see them pull it about. I'd much sooner take and
shove a dozen stiff uns myself down the trap than see a single rafter of
the place ill-treated--that I would."

"Ah! if so be as the masons does come to pull its old carcass about,
there'll be some fine things made known to the world. Them cellars down
stairs, in which a man might hide for fifty years and never be smelt out
by the police, will turn up a bone or two, I rather suspect; and not of
a sheep, nor a pig, nor a bull neither."

"Why--half the silly folks in this neighbourhood are afeerd to come here
even in the daytime, because they say it's haunted," observed Bill,
after a brief pause. "But, for my part, I shouldn't be frightened to
come here at all hours of the night, and sit here alone too, even if
every feller as was scragged at Tyburn or Newgate, and every one wot has
been tumbled down these holes into the Fleet, was to start up, and----"

The man stopped short, turned ghastly pale, and fell back stupified and
speechless in his chair. His pipe dropped from between his fingers, and
broke to pieces upon the floor.

"What the devil's the matter now?" demanded his companion, casting an
anxious glance around.

"There! there! don't you see----," gasped the terrified ruffian,
pointing towards the little window looking into the next room.

"It's only some d----d gammon of Crankey Jem," ejaculated Dick, who was
more courageous in such matters than his companion. "I'll deuced soon
put that to rights!"

Seizing the candle, he was hurrying towards the door, when his comrade
rushed after him, crying, "No--I won't be left in the dark! I can't bear
it! Damme, if you go, I'll go with you!"

The two villains accordingly proceeded together into the next room.




CHAPTER III.

THE TRAP-DOOR.


The youthful stranger had listened with ineffable surprise and horror to
the conversation of the two ruffians. His nerves had been worked up by
all the circumstances of the evening to a tone bordering upon
madness--to that pitch, indeed, when it appeared as if there were no
alternative left save to fall upon the floor and yield to the _delirium
tremens_ of violent emotions.

He had restrained his feelings while he heard the burglary at Mr.
Markham's dwelling coolly planned and settled; but when the discourse of
those two monsters in human shape developed to his imagination all the
horrors of the fearful place in which he had sought an asylum,--when he
heard that he was actually standing upon the very verge of that
staircase down which innumerable victims had been hurled to the depths
of the slimy ditch beneath,--and when he thought how probable it was
that his bones were doomed to whiten in the dark and hidden caverns
below, along with the remains of other human beings who had been
barbarously murdered in cold blood,--reason appeared to forsake him. A
cold sweat broke forth all over him; and he seemed about to faint under
the impression of a hideous nightmare.

He threw his hat upon the floor--for he felt the want of air. That proud
forehead, that beautiful countenance were distorted with indescribable
horror; and an ashy pallor spread itself over his features.

Death, in all its most hideous forms, appeared to follow--to
surround--to hem him in. There was no escape:--a trap-door here--a well,
communicating with the ditch, there--or else the dagger;--no matter in
what shape--still Death was before him--behind him--above him--below
him--on every side of him.

It was horrible--most horrible!

Then was it that a sudden thought flashed across his brain; he resolved
to attempt a desperate effort to escape. He summoned all his courage to
his aid, and opened the door so cautiously that, though the hinges were
old and rusted, they did not creak.

The crisis was now at hand. If he could clear the landing unperceived,
he was safe. It was true that, seen or unseen, he might succeed in
escaping from the house by means of his superior agility and nimbleness;
but he reflected that these men would capture him, again, in a few
minutes, in the midst of a labyrinth of streets with which he was
utterly unacquainted, but which they knew so well. He remembered that he
had overheard their secrets and witnessed their mysterious modes of
concealment; and that, should he fall into their power, death must
inevitably await him.

These ideas crossed his brain in a moment, and convinced him of the
necessity of prudence and extreme caution. He must leave the house
unperceived, and dare the pitiless storm and pelting rain; for the
tempest still raged without.

He once more approached the window to ascertain if there were any chance
of stealing across the landing-place unseen. Unfortunately he drew too
near the window: the light of the candle fell full upon his countenance,
which horror and alarm had rendered deadly pale and fearfully convulsed.

It was at this moment that the ruffian, in the midst of his unholy
vaunts, had caught sight of that human face--white as a sheet--and with
eyes fixed upon him with a glare which his imagination rendered stony
and unearthly.

The youth saw that he was discovered; and a full sense of the desperate
peril which hung over him, rushed to his mind. He turned, and
endeavoured to fly away from the fatal spot; but, as imagination
frequently fetters the limbs in a nightmare, and involves the sleeper in
danger from which he vainly attempts to run, so did his legs now refuse
to perform their office.

His brain whirled--his eyes grew dim: he grasped at the wall to save
himself from falling--but his senses were deserting him--and he sank
fainting upon the floor.

He awoke from the trance into which he had fallen, and became aware that
he was being moved along. Almost at the same instant his eyes fell upon
the sinister countenance of Dick, who was carrying him by the feet. The
other ruffian was supporting his head.

They were lifting him down the staircase, upon the top step of which the
candle was standing.

All the incidents of the evening immediately returned to the memory of
the wretched boy, who now only too well comprehended the desperate
perils that surrounded him.

The bottom of the staircase was reached: the villains deposited their
burden for a moment in the passage, while Dick retraced his steps to
fetch down the candle.

And then a horrible conflict of feelings and inclinations took place in
the bosom of the unhappy youth. He shut his eyes; and for an instant
debating within himself whether he should remain silent or cry out. He
dreamt of immediate--instantaneous death; and yet he thought that he was
young to die--oh! so young--and that men could not be such
barbarians----

But when the two ruffians stooped down to take him up again, fear
surmounted all other sentiments, feelings, and inclinations; and his
deep--his profound--his heartfelt agony was expressed in one long, loud,
and piercing shriek!

And then a fearful scene took place.

The two villains carried the youth into the front room upon the
ground-floor, and laid him down for a moment.

It was the same room to which he had first found his way upon entering
that house.

It was the room in which, by the glare of the evanescent lightning, he
had seen that black square upon the dirty floor.

For a few instants all was dark. At length the candle was brought by the
man in the fustian coat.

The youth glanced wildly around him, and speedily recognised that room.

He remembered how deep a sensation of horror seized him when that black
square upon the floor first caught his eyes.

He raised himself upon his left arm, and once more looked around.

Great God! was it possible?

That ominous blackness--that sinister square was the mouth of a yawning
gulf, the trap-door of which was raised.

A fetid smell rose from the depths below, and the gurgling of a current
was faintly heard.

The dread truth was in a moment made apparent to that unhappy boy--much
more quickly than it occupies to relate or read. He started from his
supine posture, and fell upon his knees at the feet of those merciless
villains who had borne him thither.

"Mercy, mercy! I implore you! Oh! do not devote me to so horrible a
death! Do not--_do not murder me_!"

"Hold your noisy tongue, you fool," ejaculated Bill, brutally. "You have
heard and seen too much for our safety; we can't do otherwise."

"No, certainly not," added Dick. "You are now as fly to the fakement as
any one of us."

"Spare me, spare me, and I will never betray you! Oh! do not send me out
of this world, so young--so very young! I have money, I have wealth, I
am rich, and I will give you all I possess!" ejaculated the agonized
youth; his countenance wearing an expression of horrible despair.

"Come; here's enough. Bill, lend a hand!" and Dick seized the boy by one
arm, while his companion took a firm hold of the other.

"Mercy, mercy!" shrieked the youth, struggling violently; but struggling
vainly. "You will repent when you know---- I am not what I----"

He said no more: his last words were uttered over the mouth of the chasm
ere the ruffians loosened their hold;--and then he fell.

The trap-door was closed violently over the aperture, and drowned the
scream of agony which burst from his lips.

The two murderers then retraced their steps to the apartment on the
first floor.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the following day, about one o'clock, Mr. Markham, a gentleman of
fortune residing in the northern environs of London, received the
following letter:--

     "The inscrutable decrees of Providence have enabled the undersigned
     to warn you, that this night a burglarious attempt will be made
     upon your dwelling. The wretches who contemplate this infamy are
     capable of a crime of much blacker die. Beware!

"AN UNKNOWN FRIEND."



This letter was written in a beautiful feminine hand. Due precaution was
adopted at Mr. Markham's mansion; but the attempt alluded to in the
warning epistle was, for some reason or another, not made.




CHAPTER IV.

THE TWO TREES.


It was between eight and nine o'clock, on a delicious evening, about a
week after the events related in the preceding chapters, that two youths
issued from Mr. Markham's handsome, but somewhat secluded dwelling, in
the northern part of the environs of London, and slowly ascended the
adjacent hill. There was an interval of four years between the ages of
these youths, the elder being upwards of nineteen, and the younger about
fifteen; but it was easy to perceive by the resemblance which existed
between them that they were brothers. They walked at a short distance
from each other, and exchanged not a word as they ascended the somewhat
steep path which conducted them to the summit of the eminence that
overlooked the mansion they had just left. The elder proceeded first;
and from time to time he clenched his fists, and knit his brows, and
gave other silent but expressive indications of the angry passions which
were concentrated in his breast. His brother followed him with downcast
eyes, and with a countenance denoting the deep anguish that oppressed
him. In this manner they arrived at the top of the hill, where they
seated themselves upon a bench, which stood between two young ash
saplings.

For a long time the brothers remained silent; but at length the younger
of the two suddenly burst into tears, and exclaimed, "Oh! why, dearest
Eugene, did we choose this spot to say farewell--perhaps for ever?"

"We could not select a more appropriate one, Richard," returned the
elder brother. "Four years ago those trees were planted by our hands;
and we have ever since called them by our own names. When we were wont
to separate, to repair to our respective schools, we came hither to talk
over our plans, to arrange the periods of our correspondence, and to
anticipate the pursuits that should engage us during the vacations. And
when we returned from our seminaries, we hastened hither, hand-in-hand,
to see how our trees flourished; and he was most joyous and proud whose
sapling appeared to expand the more luxuriantly. If ever we quarrelled,
Richard, it was here that we made our peace again; and, seated upon this
bench, we have concocted plans for the future; which, haply, will never
now be realised!"

"You are right, my dear brother," said Richard, after a pause, during
which he appeared to reflect profoundly upon Eugene's words; "we could
not have selected a better spot. Still it is all those happy days to
which you allude that now render this moment the more bitter. Tell me,
must you depart? Is there no alternative? Can I not intercede with our
father? Surely, surely, he will not discard one so young as you, and
whom he has loved--must still love--so tenderly?"

"Intercede with my father!" repeated Eugene, with an irony which seemed
extraordinary in one of his tender age; "no, never! He has signified his
desire, he has commanded me no longer _to pollute his dwelling_--those
were his very words, and he shall be obeyed."

"Our father was incensed, deeply incensed, when he spoke," urged
Richard, whose voice was rendered almost inaudible by his sobs; "and
to-morrow he will repent of his harshness towards you."

"Our father had no right to blame me," said Eugene violently; "all that
has occurred originated in his own conduct towards me. The behaviour of
a parent to his son is the element of that son's ruin or success in
after life."

"I know not how you can reproach our father, Eugene," said Richard,
somewhat reproachfully, "for he has ever conducted himself with
tenderness towards us; and since the death of our dear mother----"

"You are yet too young, Richard," interrupted Eugene impatiently, "to
comprehend the nature of the accusation which I bring against my father.
I will, however, attempt to enable you to understand my meaning, so that
you may not imagine that I am acting with duplicity when I endeavour to
find a means of extenuation, if not of justification, for my own
conduct. My father lavished his gold upon my education, as he also did
upon yours; and he taught us from childhood to consider ourselves the
sons of wealthy parents who would enable their children to move with
éclat in an elevated sphere of life. It was just this day year that I
joined my regiment at Knightsbridge. I suddenly found myself thrown
amongst gay, dissipated, and wealthy young men--my brother officers.
Many of them were old acquaintances, and had been my companions at the
Royal Military College at Sandhurst. They speedily enlisted me in all
their pleasures and debaucheries, and my expenditure soon exceeded my
pay and my allowance. I became involved in debts, and was compelled to
apply to my father to relieve me from my embarrassments. I wrote a
humble and submissive letter, expressing contrition for my faults, and
promising to avoid similar pursuits in future. Indeed, I was wearied of
the dissipation into which I had plunged, and should have profited well
by the experience my short career of pleasure and folly had enabled me
to acquire. I trembled upon that verge when my father could either ruin
or save me. He did not reply to my letter, and I had not courage to seek
an interview with him. Again did I write to him: no answer. I had lost
money at private play, and had contracted debts in the same manner.
Those, Richard, are called _debts of honour_, and must be paid in full
to your creditor, however wealthy he may be, even though your servants
and tradesmen should be cheated out of their hard-earned and perhaps
much-needed money altogether. I wrote a third time to our father, and
still no notice was taken of my appeal. The officers to whom I owed the
money lost at play began to look coldly upon me, and I was reduced to a
state of desperation. Still I waited for a few days, and for a fourth
time wrote to my father. It appears that he was resolved to make me feel
the inconvenience of the position in which I had placed myself by my
follies; and he sent me no answer. I then called at the house, and he
refused to see me. This you know, Richard. What could I do? Driven mad
by constant demands for money which I could not pay, and smarting under
the chilling glances and taunting allusions of my brother officers, I
sold my commission. You are acquainted with the rest. I came home, threw
myself at my father's feet, and he spurned me away from him! Richard,
was my crime so very great? and has not the unjust, the extreme severity
of my father been the cause of all my afflictions?"

"I dare not judge between you," said Richard mildly.

"But what does common sense suggest?" demanded Eugene.

"Doubtless our father knows best," returned the younger brother.

"Old men are often wrong, in spite of their experience--in spite of
their years," persisted Eugene.

"My dear brother," said Richard, "I am afraid to exercise my judgment in
a case where I stand a chance of rebelling against my father, or
questioning his wisdom; and, at the same time, I am anxious to believe
everything in your justification."

"I knew that you would not comprehend me," exclaimed Eugene,
impatiently. "It is ridiculous not to dare to have an opinion of one's
own! My dear brother," he added, turning suddenly round, "you have been
to Eton to little purpose: I thought that nearly as much of the world
was to be seen there as at Sandhurst. I find that I was mistaken."

And Eugene felt and looked annoyed at the turn which the conversation
had taken.

Richard was unhappy, and remained silent.

In the meantime the sun had set; and the darkness was gradually becoming
more intense.

Suddenly Eugene grasped his brother's hand, and exclaimed, "Richard, I
shall now depart!"

"Impossible!" cried the warm-hearted youth: "you will not leave me
thus--you will not abandon your father also, for a hasty word that he
has spoken, and which he will gladly recal to-morrow? Oh! no--Eugene,
you will not leave the dwelling in which you were born, and where you
have passed so many happy hours! What will become of you? What do you
purpose? What plan have you in view?"

"I have a few guineas in my pocket," returned Eugene; "and many a
princely fortune has been based upon a more slender foundation."

"Yes," said Richard hastily; "you read of fortunes being easily acquired
in novels and romances; and in past times persons may have enriched
themselves suddenly; but in the great world of the present day, Eugene,
I am afraid that such occurrences are rare and seldom seen."

"You know nothing of the world, Richard," said Eugene, almost
contemptuously. "There are thousands of persons in London who live well,
and keep up splendid establishments, without any apparent resources; and
I am man of the world enough to be well aware that those always thrive
the best in the long run who have the least to lose at starting. At all
events I shall try my fortune. I will not, cannot succumb to a parent
who has caused my ruin at my very first entrance into life."

[Illustration]

"May God prosper your pursuits, and lend you the fortune which you
appear to aim at!" ejaculated Richard fervently. "But once again--and
for the last time, let me implore you--let me entreat you not to put
this rash and hasty resolve into execution. Do stay--do not leave me, my
dearest, dearest brother!"

"Richard, not all the powers of human persuasion shall induce me to
abandon my present determination," cried Eugene emphatically, and rising
from the bench as he spoke. "It is growing late, and I must depart. Now
listen, my dear boy, to what I have to say to you."

"Speak, speak!" murmured Richard, sobbing as if his heart would break.

"All will be yet well," said Eugene, slightly touched by his brother's
profound affliction. "I am resolved not to set foot in my father's house
again; you must return thither and pack me up my papers and a few
necessaries."

"And you will not leave this spot until my return?" said Richard.

"Solemnly I promise _that_," answered Eugene. "But stay; on your part
you must faithfully pledge yourself not to seek my father, nor in any
way interfere between him and me. Nay, do not remonstrate; you must
promise."

"I promise you all--anything you require," said Richard mournfully; and,
after affectionately embracing his brother, he hurried down the hill
towards the mansion, turning back from time to time to catch a glimpse
of Eugene's figure through the increasing gloom, to satisfy himself that
he was still there between the two saplings.

Richard entered the house, and stole softly up to the bed-room which his
brother usually occupied when at home. He began his mournful task of
putting together the few things which Eugene had desired him to select;
and while he was thus employed the tears rolled down his cheeks in
torrents. At one moment he was inclined to hurry to his father, and
implore him to interfere in time to prevent Eugene's departure; but he
remembered his solemn promise, and he would not break it. Assuredly this
was a sense of honour so extreme, that it might be denominated _false_;
but it was, nevertheless, the sentiment which controlled all the actions
of him who cherished it. Tenderly, dearly as he loved his
brother--bitterly as he deplored his intended departure, he still would
not forfeit his word and take the simple step which would probably have
averted the much-dreaded evil. Richard's sense of honour and inflexible
integrity triumphed, on all occasions, over every other consideration,
feeling, and desire; and of this characteristic of his brother's nature
Eugene was well aware.

Richard had made a small package of the articles which he had selected,
and was about to leave the room to return to his brother, when the sound
of a footstep in the passage communicating with the chamber, suddenly
fell upon his ear.

Scarcely had he time to recover from the alarm into which this
circumstance had thrown him, when the door slowly opened, and the butler
entered the apartment.

He was a man of about fifty years of age, with a jolly red face, a
somewhat bulbous nose, small laughing eyes, short grey hair standing
upright in front, whiskers terminating an inch above his white cravat,
and in person considerably inclined to corpulency. In height he was
about five feet seven inches, and had a peculiar shuffling rapid walk,
which he had learnt by some twenty-five years' practice in little
journeys from the sideboard in the dining-room to his own pantry, and
back again. He was possessed of an excellent heart, and was a
good-humoured companion; but pompous, and swelling with importance in
the presence of those whom he considered his inferiors. He was
particularly addicted to hard words; and as, to use his own expression,
he was "self-taught," it is not to be wondered if he occasionally gave
those aforesaid hard words a pronunciation and a meaning which militated
a little against received rules. In attire, he was unequalled for the
whiteness of his cravat, the exuberance of his shirt-frill, the elegance
of his waistcoat, the set of his kerseymere tights, and the punctilious
neatness of his black silk stockings, and his well-polished shoes.

"Well, Master Richard," said the butler, as he shuffled into the room,
with a white napkin under his left arm, "what in the name of everythink
indiwisible is the matter now?"

"Nothing, nothing, Whittingham," replied the youth. "You had better go
down stairs--my father may want you."

"If so be your father wants anythink, Tom will despond to the summins as
usual," said the butler, leisurely seating himself upon a chair close by
the table whereon Richard had placed his package. "But might I be so
formiliar as to inquire into the insignification of that bundle of
shirts and ankerchers."

"Whittingham, I implore you to ask me no questions: I am in a
hurry--and----"

"Master Richard, Master Richard," cried the butler, shaking his head
gravely, "I'm very much afeerd that somethink preposterious is going to
incur. I could not remain a entire stranger to all that has transpirated
this day; and now I know what it is," he added, slapping his right hand
smartly upon his thigh; "your brother's a-going to amputate it!"

"To what?"

"To cut it, then, if you reprehend that better. But it shan't be done,
Master Richard--it shan't be done!'

"Whittingham----"

"That's my nomenklitter, Master Richard," said the old man, doggedly;
"and it was one of the fust you ever learned to pernounce. Behold ye,
Master Richard, I have a right to speak--for I have knowed you both from
your cradles--and loved you too! Who was it, when you come into this
subluminary spear--who was it as nussed you--and----"

"Good Whittingham, I know all that, and----"

"I have no overdue curiosity to satisfy, Master Richard," observed the
butler; "but my soul's inflicted to think that you and Master Eugene
couldn't make a friend of old Whittingham. I feel it here, Master
Richard--here, in my buzzim!"--and the worthy old domestic dealt himself
a tremendous blow upon the chest as he uttered these words.

"I must leave you now, Whittingham; and I desire you to remain here
until my return," said Richard. "Do you hear, Whittingham?"

"Yes, Master Richard; but I don't choose to do as you would wish in this
here instance. I shall foller you."

"What, Whittingham?"

"I shall foller you, sir."

"Well--you can do that," said Richard, suddenly remembering that his
brother had in nowise cautioned him against such an intervention as
this; "and pray God it may lead to some good."

"Ah! now I see that I am raly wanted," said the butler, a smile of
satisfaction playing upon his rubicund countenance.

Richard now led the way from the apartment, the butler following him in
a stately manner. They descended the stairs, crossed the garden, and
entered the path which led to the top of the hill.

"Two trees, I suppose?" said the old domestic inquiringly.

"Yes--he is there!" answered Richard; "but the reminiscence of the times
when we planted those saplings has failed to induce him to abandon a
desperate resolution."

"Ah! he ain't got Master Richard's heart--I always knowed that," mused
the old man half audibly as he trudged along. "There are them two
lads--fine tall youths--both black hair, and intelligible black
eyes--admirably formed--straight as arrows--and yet so diversified in
disposition!"

Richard and the butler now reached the top of the hill. Eugene was
seated upon the bench in a deep reverie; and it was not until his
brother and the faithful old domestic stood before him, that he awoke
from that fit of abstraction.

"What! Is that you, Whittingham?" he exclaimed, the moment he recognised
the butler. "Richard, I did not think you would have done this."

"It wasn't Master Richard's fault, sir," said Whittingham; "I was
rayther too wide awake not to smell what was a-going on by virtue of my
factory nerves; and so----"

"My dear Whittingham," hastily interrupted Eugene, "I know that you are
a faithful servant to my father, and very much attached to us: on that
very account, pray do not interfere!"

"Interfere!" ejaculated Whittingham, thoroughly amazed at being thus
addressed, while a tear started into his eye: "not interfere Master
Eugene? Well, I'm--I'm--I'm--regularly flabbergasted!"

"My mind is made up," said Eugene, "and no persuasion shall alter its
decision. I am my own master--my father's conduct has emancipated me
from all deference to parental authority. Richard, you have brought my
things? We must now say adieu."

"My dearest brother----"

"Master Eugene----"

"Whither are you going?"

"I am on the road to fame and fortune!"

"Alas!" said Richard mournfully, "you may perhaps find that this world
is not so fruitful in resources as you now imagine."

"All remonstrances--all objections are vain," interrupted Eugene
impatiently. "We must say adieu! But one word more," he added, after an
instant's pause, as a sudden thought seemed to strike him; "_you_ doubt
the possibility of my success in life, and I feel confident of it. Do
_you_ pursue your career under the auspices of that parent in whose
wisdom you so blindly repose: I will follow _mine_, dependent only on
mine own resources. This is the 10th of July, 1831; twelve years hence,
on the 10th of July, 1843, we will meet again upon this very spot,
between the two trees, if they be still standing. Remember the
appointment: we will _then_ compare notes relative to our success in
life!"

The moment he had uttered these words, Eugene hastily embraced his
brother, who struggled in vain to retain him; and, having wrung the hand
of the old butler, who was now sobbing like a child, the discarded son
threw his little bundle over his shoulder, and hurried away from the
spot.

So precipitately did he descend the hill in the direction leading away
from the mansion, and towards the multitudinous metropolis at a little
distance, that he was out of sight before his brother or Whittingham
even thought of pursuing him.

They lingered for some time upon the summit of the hill, without
exchanging a word; and then, maintaining the same silence, slowly
retraced their steps towards the mansion.




CHAPTER V.

ELIGIBLE ACQUAINTANCES.


Four years passed away.

During that interval no tidings of the discarded son reached the
disconsolate father and unhappy brother; and all the exertions of the
former to discover some trace of the fugitive were fruitless. Vainly did
he lavish considerable sums upon that object: uselessly did he despatch
emissaries to all the great manufacturing towns of England, as well as
to the principal capitals of Europe, to endeavour to procure some
information of him whom he would have received as the prodigal son, and
to welcome whose return he would have "killed the fatted calf:"--all his
measures to discover his son's retreat were unavailing.

At length, after a lapse of four years, he sank into the tomb--the
victim of a broken heart!

A few days previous to his death, he made a will in favour of his
remaining son, the guardianship of whom he intrusted to a Mr. Monroe,
who was an opulent City merchant, and an old and sincere friend.

Thus, at the age of nineteen, Richard found himself his own master, with
a handsome allowance to meet his present wants, and with a large fortune
in the perspective of two years more. Mr. Monroe, feeling the utmost
confidence in the young man's discretion and steadiness, permitted him
to reside in the old family mansion, and interfered with him and his
pursuits as little as possible.

The ancient abode of the family of Markham was a spacious and commodious
building, but of heavy and sombre appearance. This gloomy aspect of the
architecture was increased by the venerable trees that formed a dense
rampart of verdure around the edifice. The grounds belonging to the
house were not extensive, but were tastefully laid out; and within the
enclosure over which the dominion of Richard Markham extended, was the
green hill surmounted by the two ash trees. From the summit of that
eminence the mighty metropolis might be seen in all its vastitude--that
metropolis whose one single heart was agitated with so many myriads of
conflicting passions, warring interests, and opposite feelings.

Perhaps a dozen pages of laboured description will not afford the reader
a better idea of the characters and dispositions of the two brothers
than that which has already been conveyed by their conversation and
conduct detailed in the preceding chapter. Eugene was all selfishness
and egotism, Richard all generosity and frankness: the former deceitful,
astute, and crafty; the latter honourable even to a fault.

With Eugene, for the present, we have little to do; the course of our
narrative follows the fortunes of Richard Markham.

The disposition of this young man was somewhat reserved, although by no
means misanthropical nor melancholy. That characteristic resulted only
from the domesticated nature of his habits. He was attached to literary
pursuits, and frequently passed entire hours together in his study,
poring over works of a scientific and instructive nature. When he
stirred abroad for the purpose of air and exercise, he preferred a long
ramble upon foot, amongst the fields in the vicinity of his dwelling, to
a parade of himself and his fine horse amid the busy haunts of wealth
and fashion at the West End of London.

It was, nevertheless, upon a beautiful afternoon in the month of August,
1835, that Richard appeared amongst the loungers in Hyde Park. He was on
foot, and attired in deep mourning; but his handsome countenance,
symmetrical form, and thoroughly genteel and unassuming air attracted
attention.

Parliament had been prorogued a fortnight before; and all London was
said to be "out of town." Albeit, it was evident that a considerable
portion of London was "in town," for there were many gorgeous equipages
rolling along "the drive," and the enclosure was pretty well sprinkled
with well-dressed groups and dotted with solitary fashionable gentlemen
upon foot.

From the carriages that rolled past many bright eyes were for a moment
turned upon Richard; and in these equipages there were not wanting young
female bosoms which heaved at the contrast afforded by that tall and
elegant youth, so full of vigour and health, and whose countenance
beamed with intelligence, and the old, emaciated, and semi-childish
husbands seated by their sides, and whose wealth had purchased their
hands, but never succeeded in obtaining their hearts.

Richard, wearied with his walk, seated himself upon a bench, and
contemplated with some interest the moving pageantry before him. He was
thus occupied when he was suddenly accosted by a stranger, who seated
himself by his side in an easy manner, and addressed some common-place
observation to him.

This individual was a man of about two-and-thirty, elegantly attired,
agreeable in his manners, and prepossessing in appearance. Under this
superficial tegument of gentility a quicker eye than Richard Markham's
would have detected a certain swagger in his gait and a kind of dashing
recklessness about him which produced an admirable effect upon the
vulgar or the inexperienced, but which were not calculated to inspire
immediate confidence in the thorough man of the world. Richard was,
however, all frankness and honour himself, and he did not scruple to
return such an answer to the stranger's remark as was calculated to
encourage farther conversation.

"I see the count is abroad again," observed the stranger, following with
his eyes one of the horsemen in "the drive." "Poor fellow! he has been
playing at hide-and-seek for a long time."

"Indeed! and wherefore?" exclaimed Richard.

"What! are you a stranger in London, sir?" cried the well-dressed
gentleman, transferring his eyes from the horseman to Markham's
countenance, on which they were fixed with an expression of surprise and
interest.

"Very nearly so, although a resident in its immediate vicinity all my
life;" and, with the natural ingenuousness of youth, Richard immediately
communicated his entire history, from beginning to end, to his new
acquaintance. Of a surety there was not much to relate; but the stranger
succeeded in finding out who the young man was, under what circumstances
he was now living, and the amount of his present and future resources.

"Of course you mean to see life?" said the stranger.

"Certainly. I have already studied the great world by the means of
books."

"But of course you know that there is nothing like experience."

"I can understand how experience is necessary to a man who is anxious to
make a fortune, but not to him who has already got one."

"Oh, decidedly! It is frequently more difficult to keep a fortune than
it was to obtain one."

"How--if I do not speculate?"

"No; but others will speculate upon you."

"I really cannot comprehend you. As I do not wish to increase my means,
having enough, I shall neither speculate with my own nor allow people to
speculate with it for me; and thus I can run no risk of losing what I
possess."

The stranger gazed half incredulously upon Markham for a minute; and
then his countenance expressed a species of sneer.

"You have never played?"

"Played! at----?"

"At cards; for money, I mean."

"Oh! never!"

"So much the better: never do. Unless," added the stranger, "it is
entirely amongst friends and men of honour. But will you avail yourself
of my humble vehicle, and take one turn round 'the Drive?'"

The stranger pointed as he spoke to a very handsome phaeton and pair at
a little distance, and attended by a dapper-looking servant in light
blue livery with silver lace.

"Might I have the honour of being acquainted with the name of a
gentleman who exhibits so much kindness----"

"My dear sir, I must really apologise for my sin of omission. You
confided your own circumstances so frankly to me that I cannot do
otherwise than show you equal confidence in return. Besides, _amongst
men of honour_," he continued, laying particular stress upon a word
which is only so frequently used to be abused, "such communications, you
know, are necessary. I do not like that system of familiarity based upon
no tenable grounds, which is now becoming so prevalent in London. For
instance, nothing is more common than for one gentleman to meet another
in Bond-street, or the Park, or in Burlington Arcade, for example's
sake, and for the one to say to the other--'_My dear friend, how are
you?_'--'_Quite well, old fellow, thank you; but, by-the-by, I really
forget your name!_' However," added the fashionable gentleman with a
smile, "here is my card. My town-quarters are Long's Hotel, my country
seat is in Berkshire, and my shooting-box is in Scotland, at all of
which I shall be most happy to see you."

Richard, who was not only highly satisfied with the candour and openness
of his new friend, but also very much pleased and amused with him,
returned suitable acknowledgments for this kind invitation; and,
glancing his eyes over the card which had been placed in his hands,
perceived that he was conversing with the HONOURABLE ARTHUR CHICHESTER.

As they were moving towards the phaeton, a gentleman, elegantly attired,
of about the middle age, and particularly fascinating in his manners,
accosted Mr. Chichester.

"Ah! who would have thought of meeting you here--when London is actually
empty, and I am ashamed of being yet left in it? Our mutual friend the
duke assured me that you were gone to Italy!"

"The duke always has some joke at my expense," returned Mr. Chichester.
"He was once the cause of a very lovely girl committing suicide. She was
the only one I ever loved; and he one day declared in her presence that
I had just embarked for America. Poor thing! she went straight up to her
room, and----"

"And!" echoed Richard.

"Took poison!" added Mr. Chichester, turning away his head for a moment,
and drawing an elegant cambric handkerchief across his eyes.

"Good heavens!" ejaculated Markham.

"Let me not trouble you with my private afflictions. Sir Rupert, allow
me to introduce my friend Mr. Markham:--Mr. Markham, Sir Rupert
Harborough."

The two gentlemen bowed, and the introduction was effected.

"Whither are you bound?" inquired Sir Rupert.

"We were thinking of an hour's drive," leisurely replied Mr. Chichester;
"and it was then my intention to have asked my friend Mr. Markham to
dine with me at Long's. Will you join us, Sir Rupert?"

"Upon my honour, nothing would give me greater pleasure; but I am
engaged to meet the duke at Tattersall's; and I am then under a solemn
promise to dine and pass the evening with Diana."

"Always gallant--always attentive to the ladies!" exclaimed Mr.
Chichester.

"You know, my dear fellow, that Diana is so amiable, so talented, so
fascinating, so accomplished, and so bewitching, that I can refuse her
nothing. It is true her wants and whims are somewhat expensive at times;
but----"

"Harborough, I am surprised at you! What! complain of the fantasies of
the most beautiful woman in London--if not in England--you a man of
seven thousand a year, and who at the death of an uncle----"

"Upon my honour I begrudge her nothing!" interrupted Sir Rupert,
complacently stroking his chin with his elegantly-gloved hand. "But, by
the way, if you will honour me and Diana with your company this
evening--and if Mr. Markham will also condescend----"

"With much pleasure," said Mr. Chichester; "and I am sure that my friend
Mr. Markham will avail himself of this opportunity of forming the
acquaintance of the most beautiful and fascinating woman in England."

Richard bowed: he dared not attempt an excuse. He had heard himself
dubbed the friend of the Honourable Mr. Arthur Chichester; his ears had
caught an intimation of a dinner at Long's, which he knew by report to
be the headquarters of that section of the fashionable world that
consists of single young gentlemen; and he now found himself suddenly
engaged to pass the evening with Sir Rupert Harborough and a lady of
whom all he knew was that her name was Diana, and that she was the most
beautiful and fascinating creature in England.

Truly, all this was enough to dazzle him; and he accordingly resigned
himself to Mr. Arthur Chichester's good will and pleasure.

Sir Rupert Harborough now remembered "that he must not keep the duke
waiting;" and having kissed the tip of his lemon-coloured glove to Mr.
Chichester, and made a semi-ceremonious, semi-gracious bow to
Markham--that kind of bow whose formality is attempered by the blandness
of the smile accompanying it--he hastened away.

It may be, however, mentioned as a singular circumstance, and as a proof
of how little he cared about keeping "the duke" waiting, that, instead
of proceeding towards Tattersall's, he departed in the direction of
Oxford-street.

This little incident was, however, unnoticed by Richard--for the simple
reason, that at this epoch of his life he did not know where
Tattersall's was.

"What do you think of my friend the baronet?" inquired Mr. Chichester,
as they rolled leisurely along "the Drive" in the elegant phaeton.

"I am quite delighted with him," answered Richard; "and if her ladyship
be only as agreeable as her husband----"

"Excuse me, but you must not call her '_her ladyship_.' Address her and
speak of her simply as Mrs. Arlington."

"I am really at a loss to comprehend----"

"My dear friend," said Chichester, sinking his voice, although there was
no danger of being overheard, "Diana is not the wife of Sir Rupert
Harborough. The baronet is unmarried; and this lady----"

"Is his mistress," added Markham hastily. "In that case I most certainly
shall not accept the kind invitation I received for this evening."

"Nonsense, my dear friend! You must adapt your behaviour to the customs
of the sphere in which you move. _You_ belong to the aristocracy--like
_me_--and like _the baronet_! In the upper class, even supposing you
have a wife, she is only an encumbrance. Nothing is so characteristic of
want of gentility as to marry early; and as for children, pah! they are
the very essence of vulgarity! Then, of course, every man of fashion in
London has his mistress, even though he only keeps her for the sake of
his friends. This is quite allowable amongst the aristocracy. Remember,
I am not advocating the cause of immorality: I would not have every
butcher, and tea-dealer, and linen-draper do the same. God forbid!
_Then_ it would, indeed, be the height of depravity!"

"Since it is the fashion, and you assure me that there is nothing wrong
in this connexion between the baronet and Mrs. Arlington--at least, that
the usages of high life admit it--I will not advance any farther
scruples," said Richard; although he had a slight suspicion, like the
ringing of far-distant bells in the ears, that the doctrine which his
companion had just propounded was not based upon the most tenable
grounds.

It was now half-past six o'clock in the evening; and, one after the
other, the splendid equipages and gay horsemen withdrew in somewhat
rapid succession. The weather was nevertheless still exquisitely fine;
indeed, it was the most enchanting portion of the entire day. The sky
was of a soft and serene azure, upon which appeared here and there thin
vapours of snowy white, motionless and still; for not a breath of wind
stirred the leaf upon the tree. Never did Naples, nor Albano, nor
Sorrentum, boast a more beautiful horizon; and as the sun sank towards
the western verge, he bathed all that the eye could embrace--earth and
sky, dwelling and grove, garden and field--in a glorious flood of golden
light.

At seven o'clock Mr. Chichester and his new acquaintance sat down to
dinner in the coffee-room at Long's Hotel. The turtle was
unexceptionable; the iced punch faultless. Then came the succulent neck
of venison, and the prime Madeira. The dinner passed off pleasantly
enough; and Richard was more and more captivated with his friend. He
was, however, somewhat astonished at the vast quantities of wine which
the Honourable Mr. Chichester swallowed, apparently without the
slightest inconvenience to himself.

Mr. Chichester diverted him with amusing anecdotes, lively sallies, and
extraordinary narratives; and Richard found that his new friend had not
only travelled all over Europe, but was actually the bosom friend of
some of the most powerful of its sovereigns. These statements, moreover,
rather appeared to slip forth in the course of conversation, than to be
made purposely; and thus they were stamped with an additional air of
truth and importance.

At about half-past nine the Honourable Mr. Chichester proposed to
adjourn to the lodgings of Mrs. Arlington. Richard, who had been induced
by the example of his friend and by the excitement of an interesting
conversation, to imbibe more wine than he was accustomed to take, was
now delighted with the prospect of passing an agreeable evening; and he
readily acceded to Mr. Chichester's proposal.

Mrs. Arlington occupied splendidly furnished apartments on the first and
second floors over a music-shop in Bond-street: thither, therefore, did
the two gentlemen repair on foot; and in a short time they were
introduced into the drawing-room where the baronet and his fair
companion were seated.




CHAPTER VI.

MRS. ARLINGTON.


The Honourable Mr. Arthur Chichester had not exaggerated his description
of the beauty of the Enchantress--for so she was called by the male
portion of her admirers. Indeed, she was of exquisite loveliness. Her
dark-brown hair was arranged _en bandeaux_, and parted over a forehead
polished as marble. Her eyes were large, and of that soft dark melting
blue which seems to form a heaven of promises and bliss to gladden the
beholder.

She was not above the middle height of woman; but her form was modelled
to the most exquisite and voluptuous symmetry. Her figure reminded the
spectator of the body of the wasp, so taper was the waist, and so
exuberant was the swell of the bust.

Her mouth was small and pouting; but, when she smiled, the parting roses
of the lips displayed a set of teeth white as the pearls of the East.

Her hand would have made the envy of a queen. And yet, above all these
charms, a certain something which could not be exactly denominated
boldness nor effrontery, but which was the very reverse of extreme
reserve, immediately struck Richard Markham.

He could not define the fault he had to find with this beautiful woman;
and still there was something in her manners which seemed to proclaim
that she did not possess the tranquillity and ease of a wife. She
appeared to be constantly aiming at the display of the accomplishments
of her mind, or the graces of her attitudes. She seemed to court
admiration by every word and every motion; and to keep alive in the mind
of the baronet the passion with which she had inspired him. She
possessed not that confidence and contented reliance upon the idea of
unalienable affections which characterise the wife. She seemed to be
well aware that no legal nor religious ties connected the baronet to
her; and she, therefore, kept her imagination perpetually upon the rack
to weave new artificial bonds to cast around him. And, as if each action
or each word of the baronet severed those bonds of silk and wreathed
flowers, she found, Penelope-like, that at short intervals her labours
were to be achieved over again.

This constant state of mental anxiety and excitement imparted a
corresponding restlessness to her body; and those frequent changes of
attitude, which were originally intended to develop the graces of her
person, or allow her lover's eye to catch short glimpses of her heaving
bosom of snow, became now a settled habit.

Nevertheless, she was a lovely and fascinating woman, and one for whom a
young heart would undertake a thousand sacrifices.

_By accident_ Richard was seated next to Mrs. Arlington upon the sofa.
He soon perceived that she was, indeed, as accomplished as the baronet
had represented her to be; and her critical opinions upon the current
literature, dramatic novelties, and new music of the day were delivered
with judgment and good taste.

Richard could not help glancing from time to time in admiration at her
beautiful countenance, animated as it now was with the excitement of the
topics of discourse; and whenever her large blue eyes met his, a deep
blush suffused his countenance, and he knew not what he said or did.

"Well, what shall we do to amuse ourselves?" said Chichester, at the
expiration of about an hour, during which coffee had been handed round.

"Upon my honour," exclaimed the baronet, "I am perfectly indifferent.
What say you to a game of whist or _écarté_?"

"Just as you choose," said Chichester carelessly.

At this moment the door opened, and a roguish-looking little tiger--a
lad of about fourteen, in a chocolate-coloured livery, with three rows
of bright-crested buttons down his Prussian jacket--entered to announce
another guest.

A short, stout, vulgar-looking man, about forty years of age, with a
blue coat and brass buttons, buff waistcoat, and grey trousers, entered
the room.

"Holloa, old chap, how are you?" he exclaimed in a tone of most
ineffable vulgarity. "Harborough, how are you? Chichester, my tulip, how
goes it?"

The baronet hastened to receive this extraordinary visitor, and, as he
shook hands with him, whispered something in his ear. The stranger
immediately turned towards Richard, to whom he was introduced by the
name of Mr. Augustus Talbot.

This gentleman and the baronet then conversed together for a few
moments; and Chichester, drawing near Markham, seized the opportunity of
observing, "Talbot is an excellent fellow--a regular John Bull--not over
polished, but enormously rich and well connected. You will see that he
is not more cultivated in mind than in manners; but he would go to the
devil to do any one a service; and, somehow or another, you can't help
liking the fellow when once you know him."

"Any friend of yours or of the baronet's will be agreeable to me," said
Richard; "and, provided he is a man of honour, a little roughness of
manner should be readily overlooked."

"You speak like a man of the world, and as a man of honour yourself,"
said Mr. Chichester.

Meantime the baronet and Mr. Talbot had seated themselves, and the
Honourable Mr. Chichester returned to his own chair.

The conversation then became general.

"I didn't know that you were in town, Talbot," said Mr. Chichester.

"And I forgot to mention it," observed the baronet.

"Or rather," said the lady, "you meditated a little surprise for your
friend Mr. Chichester."

"I hope you've been well, ma'am, since I saw you last--that is the day
before yesterday," said Mr. Talbot. "You was complaining then of a
slight cold, and I recommended a treacle-posset and a stocking tied
round the throat."

"My dear Talbot, take some liqueur," cried the baronet, rising hastily,
and purposely knocking down his chair to drown the remainder of Mr.
Talbot's observation.

"But I dare say you didn't follow my advice, ma'am," pursued Mr. Talbot,
with the most imperturbable gravity. "For my part I am suffering
dreadful with a bad foot. I'll tell you how it were, ma'am. I've got a
nasty soft corn on my little toe; and so what must I do, but yesterday
morning I takes my razor, sharpens it upon the paytent strap, and goes
for to cut off master corn. But instead of cutting the corn, I nearly
sliced my toe off; and----"

"By the way, Diana, has the young gentleman called yet, whom we met the
other evening at the Opera?" said the baronet, abruptly interrupting
this vulgar tirade.

"Do you mean the effeminate youth whom we dubbed the _Handsome
Unknown_?" said the Enchantress.

"Yes: he who was so very mysterious, but who seemed so excessively
anxious to form our acquaintance."

"He promised to call some evening this week," answered Diana, "and play
a game of _écarté_. He told me that he was invincible at _écarté_."

"Talking of _écarté_, let us play a game," ejaculated Mr. Chichester,
who was sitting upon thorns lest Mr. Talbot should commence his
vulgarities again.

"Well, I'll take a hand with pleasure," said this individual: then
turning towards Diana, he added, "I will tell you the rest of the
adventure about the soft corn another time, ma'am."

"What a nuisance this is!" whispered Chichester to the baronet. "The
young fellow does stare so."

"You must give him some explanation or another," hastily replied the
baronet; "or I'll tell Diana to say something presently that will smooth
down matters."

The cards were produced, and Mr. Talbot and the Honourable Mr.
Chichester sat down to play.

Sir Rupert backed the former, and considerable sums in gold and notes
were placed upon the table. Presently the lady turned towards Richard,
and said with a smile, "Are you fond of _écarté_?" "I must venture a
guinea upon Mr. Chichester. Sir Rupert is betting against him; and I
love to oppose Sir Rupert at cards. You will see how I shall tease him
presently."

With these words the Enchantress rose and seated herself near Mr.
Chichester. Of course Markham did the same; and in a very short time he
was induced by the lady to follow her example, and back the same side
which she supported.

Mr. Chichester, however, had a continued run of ill luck, and lost every
rubber. Richard was thus the loser of about thirty sovereigns; but he
was somewhat consoled by having so fair a companion in his bad fortune.
He would have suffered himself to be persuaded by her to persist in
backing Mr. Chichester, as she positively assured him that the luck must
change, had not that gentleman himself suddenly risen, thrown down the
cards, and declared that he would play no more.

"Would you, ma'am, like to take Mr. Chichester's place?" said Mr.
Talbot.

Mr. Chichester shook his head to the baronet, and the baronet did the
same to Diana, and Diana accordingly declined. The card-table was
therefore abandoned; and Mrs. Arlington, at the request of Sir Rupert,
seated herself at the piano. Without any affectation she sang and
accompanied herself upon the instrument in a manner that quite ravished
the heart of Richard Markham.

Suddenly the entire house echoed with the din of the front-door knocker,
and almost simultaneously the bell was rung with violence.

In a few moments the young tiger announced Mr. Walter Sydney.

He was a youth apparently not more than nineteen or twenty, of middle
height, and very slim. He wore a tight blue military frock coat buttoned
up to the throat; ample black kerseymere trousers, which did not,
however, conceal the fact that he was the least thing knock-kneed, and a
hat with tolerably broad brims. His feet and hands were small to a
fault. His long light chestnut hair flowed in luxuriant undulations over
the collar of his coat, even upon his shoulders, and gave him a
peculiarly feminine appearance. His delicate complexion, upon the pure
red and white of which the dark dyes of no beard had yet infringed, wore
a deep blush as he entered the room.

"Mr. Sydney, you are welcome," said Mrs. Arlington, in a manner
calculated to reassure the bashful youth. "It was but an hour ago that
we were talking of you, and wondering why we had not received the
pleasure of a visit."

"Madam, you are too kind," replied Mr. Sydney, in a tone which sounded
upon the ear like a silver bell--so soft and beautiful was its cadence.
"I am afraid that I am intruding: I had hoped to find you alone--I mean
yourself and Sir Rupert Harborough--and I perceive that you have
company----"

He stammered--became confounded with excuses--and then glanced at his
attire, as much as to intimate that he was in a walking dress.

Both the baronet and Diana hastened to welcome him in such a manner as
to speedily place him upon comfortable terms with himself once more; and
he was then introduced to Mr. Chichester, Mr. Talbot, and Mr. Markham.

The moment the name of Markham was mentioned, the youthful visitor
started perceptibly, and then fixed his intelligent hazel eyes upon the
countenance of Richard with an expression of the most profound interest
mingled with surprise.

Mr. Chichester made an observation at the same moment, and Sydney
immediately afterwards entered with ease and apparent pleasure into a
conversation which turned upon the most popular topics of the day.
Richard was astonished at the extreme modesty, propriety, and good sense
with which that effeminate and bashful youth expressed himself; and even
the baronet, who was in reality well informed, listened to his
interesting visitor with attention and admiration. Still there was a
species of extreme delicacy in his tastes, as evidenced by his remarks,
which bordered at times upon a fastidiousness, if not an inexperience
actually puerile or feminine.

At half-past eleven supper was served up, and the party sat down to that
most welcome and sociable of all meals.

It was truly diverting to behold the manner in which Mr. Talbot fell,
tooth and nail, upon the delicacies which he heaped upon his plate; and
his applications to the wine-bottle were to correspond. At one time he
expressed his regret that it was too vulgar to drink half-and-half; and
on another he vented his national prejudices against those who
maintained that Perigord pies were preferable to rump steaks, or that
claret was more exquisite than port or sherry. Once, when, it would
appear, Mr. Chichester kicked him under the table, he roared out a
request that his soft corn might be remembered; and as his friends were
by no means anxious for a second edition of that interesting
narrative--especially before Mr. Walter Sydney--they adopted the prudent
alternative of conveying their remonstrances to him by means of winks
instead of kicks.

After supper Mr. Talbot insisted upon making a huge bowl of punch in his
own fashion; but he found that Mr. Chichester would alone aid him in
disposing of it. As for Mr. Walter Sydney, he never appeared to do more
than touch the brim of the wine-glass with his lips.

In a short time Mr. Talbot insisted upon practising his vocal powers by
singing a hunting song, and was deeply indignant with his friends
because they would not join in the very impressive but somewhat common
chorus of "_Fal de lal lal, fal de lal la_." It is impossible to say
what Mr. Talbot would have done next; but, much to the horror of the
baronet, Mr. Chichester, and Diana--and equally to the surprise of
Richard Markham and Walter Sydney--he suddenly lost his balance, and
fell heavily upon the floor and into a sound sleep simultaneously.

"What a pity," said Mr. Chichester, shaking his head mournfully, and
glancing down upon the prostrate gentleman, as if he were pronouncing a
funeral oration over his remains; "this is his only fault--and, as it
happens every night, it begins materially to disfigure his character.
Otherwise, he is an excellent fellow, and immensely rich!"

At this moment the eyes of Richard caught those of Walter Sydney. An
ill-concealed expression of superlative contempt and ineffable disgust
was visible upon the handsome countenance of the latter; and the proud
curl of his lip manifested his opinion of the scene he had just
witnessed. In a few moments he rose to depart. To Diana he was only
coldly polite; to the baronet and Chichester superbly distant and
constrained; but towards Markham, as he took leave of him, there was a
cordiality in his manner, and a sincerity in the desire which he
expressed "that they should meet again," which formed a remarkable
contrast with his behaviour towards the others.

That night slumber seemed to evade the eyes of Richard Markham. The
image of Mrs. Arlington, and all that she had said, and the various
graceful and voluptuous attitudes into which she had thrown herself,
occupied his imagination. At times, however, his thoughts wandered to
that charming youth--that mere boy--who seemed to court his friendship,
and who was so delicate and so fragile to encounter the storms and
vicissitudes of that world in whose dizzy vortex he was already found.
Nor less did Richard ever and anon experience a sentiment of profound
surprise that the elegant and wealthy Sir Rupert Harborough, the
accomplished and lovely Diana, and the fastidious Mr. Arthur Chichester,
should tolerate the society of such an unmitigated vulgarian as Mr.
Talbot.




CHAPTER VII.

THE BOUDOIR.


It was the morning after the events related in the last chapter.

The scene changes to a beautiful little villa in the environs of Upper
Clapton.

This charming retreat, which consisted of a main building two storeys
high, and wings each containing only one apartment, was constructed of
yellow bricks that had retained their primitive colour, the dwelling
being too far from the metropolis to be affected by its smoky
exhalations.

The villa stood in the midst of a small garden, beautifully laid out in
the French style of Louis XV.; and around it--interrupted only by the
avenue leading to the front door of the dwelling--was a grove of
evergreens. This grove formed a complete circle, and bounded the garden;
and the entire enclosure was protected by a regular paling, painted
white.

This miniature domain, consisting of about four acres, was one of the
most beautiful spots in the neighbourhood of London; and behind it--far
as the eye could reach--stretched the green fields, smiling and
cultivated like those of Tuscany.

In front of the villa was a small grass plot, in the centre of which was
a basin of clear and pellucid water, upon whose surface floated two
noble swans, and other aquatic birds of a curious species.

Every now and then the silence of the morning was broken by the bay of
several sporting-dogs, which occupied, in the rear of the building,
kennels more cleanly and more carefully attended upon than the dwellings
of many millions of Christians.

And yet the owner of that villa wanted not charity: witness the poor
woman and two children who have just emerged from the servants' offices
laden with cold provisions, and with a well-filled bundle of other
necessaries.

At the door of a stable a groom was seen dismounting from the back of a
thorough-bred chestnut mare, which had just returned from an airing, and
upon which he cast a glance of mingled pride and affection.

The windows of the villa were embellished with flowers in pots and vases
of curious workmanship; and outside the casements of the chambers upon
the first floor were suspended cages containing beautiful singing birds.

To the interior of one of those rooms must we direct the attention of
the reader. It was an elegant _boudoir_: and yet it could scarcely
justify the name; for by a _boudoir_ we understand something completely
feminine, whereas this contained articles of male and female use and
attire strangely commingled--pell-mell--together.

Upon a toilet-table were all the implements necessary for the decoration
and embellishment of female beauty; and carelessly thrown over a chair
were a coat, waistcoat, and trousers. A diminutive pair of
patent-leather Wellington boots kept company with delicate morocco
shoes, to which sandals were affixed. A huge press, half-open, disclosed
an array of beautiful dresses--silk, satin, and precious stuffs of all
kinds; and on a row of pegs were hung a scarlet hunting-coat, a
shooting-jacket, a jockey-cap, and other articles of attire connected
with field sports and masculine recreations. Parasols, foils,
single-sticks, dandy-canes, and hunting-whips, were huddled together in
one corner of that bureau. And yet all the confusion of these various
and discrepant objects was so regular in appearance--if the phrase can
be understood--that it seemed as if some cunning hand had purposely
arranged them all so as to strike the eye in a manner calculated to
encourage the impression that this elegant boudoir was inhabited by a
man of strange feminine tastes, or a woman of extraordinary masculine
ones.

[Illustration]

There was no pompous nor gorgeous display of wealth in this boudoir: its
interior, like that of the whole villa throughout, denoted competence
and ease--elegance and taste, but no useless luxury nor profuse
expenditure.

The window of the boudoir was half open. A bowl of chrystal water,
containing gold and silver fish, stood upon a table in the recess of the
casement. The chirrup of the birds echoed through the room, which was
perfumed with the odour of sweet flowers.

By the wall facing the window stood a French bed, on the head and foot
of which fell pink satin curtains, flowing from a gilt-headed arrow
fixed near the ceiling.

It was now nine o'clock, and the sun shed a flood of golden light
through the half-open casement upon that couch which was so voluptuous
and so downy.

A female of great beauty, and apparently about five-and-twenty years of
age, was reading in that bed. Her head reposed upon her hand, and her
elbow upon the pillow: and that hand was buried in a mass of luxuriant
light chestnut hair, which flowed down upon her back, her shoulders, and
her bosom; but not so as altogether to conceal the polished ivory
whiteness of the plump fair flesh.

The admirable slope of the shoulders, the swan-like neck, and the
exquisite symmetry of the bust, were descried even amidst those masses
of luxuriant and shining hair.

A high and ample forehead, hazel eyes, a nose perfectly straight, small
but pouting lips, brilliant teeth, and a well rounded chin, were
additional charms to augment the attractions of that delightful picture.

The whole scene was one of soft voluptuousness--the birds, the flowers,
the vase of gold and silver fish, the tasteful arrangements of the
boudoir, the French bed, and the beautiful creature who reclined in that
couch, her head supported upon the well-turned and polished arm, the
dazzling whiteness of which no envious sleeve concealed!

From time to time the eyes of that sweet creature were raised from the
book, and thrown around the room in a manner that denoted, if not mental
anxiety, at least a state of mind not completely at ease. Now and then,
too, a cloud passed over that brow which seemed the very throne of
innocence and candour; and a sigh agitated the breast which the sunbeams
covered as it were with kisses.

Presently the door was opened softly, and an elderly female, well but
simply dressed, and of placid and reserved aspect, entered the room.

"Mr. Stephens is below," said the servant; "I told him you had not risen
yet, and he says he will await your convenience."

"I know not how it is," exclaimed the lady impatiently, "but I never
felt less disposed for the visit of him whom I regard as my benefactor.
Ah! Louisa," she added, a cloud overspreading her entire countenance, "I
feel as if one of those dreadful attacks of despondency--one of those
fearful fits of alarm and foreboding--of presentiment of evil, were
coming on; and----"

"Pray calm yourself," interrupted the servant, speaking in a kind and
imploring tone. "Remember that the very walls have ears; that a word
spoken in too high a tone may betray your secret; and heaven alone knows
what would be the result of such an appalling discovery!"

"Yes, it is that horrible mystery," ejaculated the lady, "which fills me
with the most acute apprehensions. Compelled to sustain a constant
cheat--to feel that I am a living, a breathing, a moving falsehood, a
walking lie;--forced to crush all the natural amenities--ay, and even
the amiable weaknesses of my sex; governed by an imperious necessity
against which it is now impossible to rebel,--how can I do otherwise
than experience moments of unutterable anguish!"

"You must still have patience--patience only for a few months--three
short months,--and the result of all this suspense--the end of all this
anxiety, will be no doubt as advantageous--as immensely important and
beneficial--as we are led to believe."

"True: we are bound to believe a man who seems so serious in all his
actions with regard to me," said the lady, after a short pause, during
which she seemed to be wrapped up in a deep reverie. "But why does he
keep me in the dark with regard to the true nature of that grand result?
Why does he not trust me, who have placed such unbounded, such implicit
confidence in him?"

"He is afraid lest an unguarded moment on your part should betray what
he assures us to be of the most vital--the last importance," answered
the domestic, in a kindly remonstrative tone. "And really, my dearest
girl," she added, affectionately,--"pardon me for calling you so----"

"Ah! Louisa, you are my dearest friend!" said the lady energetically.
"You, and you alone, have supported my courage during the four years and
a half that this horrible deceit has already lasted; your kindness----"

"I have only done my duty, and acted as my heart dictated," mildly
replied the female dependant. "But as I was observing, you are so very
imprudent, as it is; and can you expect that Mr. Stephens will reveal to
you the minute details of a scheme, which----"

"Imprudent!" hastily exclaimed the lady: "how am I imprudent? Do I not
follow all _his_ directions--all _your_ advice? Have I not even learned
to talk to the very groom in his own language about the horses and the
dogs? and do I not scamper across the country, upon my chestnut mare,
with him following upon the bay horse at my heels, as if we were both
mad? And then you say that I am imprudent, when I have done all I can to
sustain the character which I have assumed? And with the exception of
these rides, how seldom do I go abroad? Half-a-dozen names include all
my acquaintances: and no one--no one ever comes here! This is, indeed, a
hermit's dwelling! How can you say that I am imprudent?"

"Without going out of this very room," began Louisa, with a smile, "I
could----"

"Ah! the eternal remonstrances against these habiliments of my sex!"
exclaimed the lady, drawing back the satin curtain at the head of the
bed with her snow-white arm, and glancing towards the bureau which
contained the female dresses: "ever those remonstrances! Alas! I should
die--I could not support this appalling deceit--were I not to gratify my
woman's feelings from time to time? Do you think that I can altogether
rebel against nature, and not experience the effects? And, in
occasionally soothing my mind with the occupations natural to my sex,
have I ever been imprudent? When I have dressed my hair as it should
ever be dressed--when I have put on one of those silk or muslin robes,
merely to see myself reflected in my mirror--and, oh! what a pardonable
vanity under such circumstances!--have I ever been imprudent enough to
set foot outside this retreat--this boudoir, to which you alone are ever
admitted? Do I ever dress with the blinds of the windows raised? No: I
have done all that human being can do to support my spirits during this
sad trial, and sustain the character I have assumed. But if it be
desired that I should altogether forget my sex--and cling to the garb of
a man; if I may never--not even for an hour in the evening--follow my
fantasy, and relieve my mind by resuming the garb which is natural to
me--within these four walls--unseen by a soul save you----"

"Yes, yes, you shall have your way," interrupted Louisa soothingly. "But
Mr. Stephens waits: will you not rise and see him?"

"It is my duty," said the lady resignedly. "He has surrounded me with
every comfort and every luxury which appetite can desire or money
procure; and, however he may ultimately benefit by this proceeding, in
the meantime my gratitude is due to him."

"The delicacy of his conduct towards you equals his liberality,"
observed Louisa pointedly.

"Yes; notwithstanding the peculiarity of our relative position, not a
word, not a look disrespectful towards me from the first moment of our
acquaintance! He faithfully adheres to his portion of the contract, and
I will as religiously observe mine."

"You speak wisely and consistently," said Louisa; "and the result of
your honourable conduct towards Mr. Stephens will no doubt be a
recompense which will establish your fortunes for life."

"That hope sustains me. Oh! how happy, thrice happy shall I be, when,
the period of my emancipation being arrived, I may escape to some
distant part of my own native country, or to some foreign clime, resume
the garb belonging to my sex, and live in a way consistent with nature,
and suitable to my taste. It is in anticipation of those golden moments
that I from time to time retire into the impenetrable mystery of this
boudoir, and dress myself in the garb which I love, and which is my own.
And when that elysian age shall come, oh! how shall I divert my mind
with a retrospection upon these long weary weeks and months, during
which I have been compelled to study habits opposed to my taste and
feeling--to affect a love of horses and dogs, that a manly predilection
may avert attention from a feminine countenance,--and to measure each
word that falls from my lips, to study each attitude which my form
assumes, and to relinquish pursuits and occupations which my mind
adores."

The lady threw herself back upon her pillow and gave way to a delicious
reverie. Louisa did not attempt to disturb her for some minutes. At
length she murmured something about "keeping Mr. Stephens waiting rather
longer than usual;" and her mistress, acting by a sudden impulse, rose
from her couch.

Then followed the mysterious toilet.

Stays, curiously contrived, gave to that exquisitely modelled form as
much as possible the appearance of the figure of a man. The swell of the
bosom, slightly compressed, was rendered scarcely apparent by padding
skilfully placed, so as to fill up and flatten the undulating bust. The
position of the waist was lowered; and all this was effected without
causing the subject of so strange a transformation any pain or
uneasiness.

The semi-military blue frock coat, buttoned up to the throat, completed
the disguise; and as this species of garment is invariably somewhat
prominent about the chest, the very fashion of its make materially aided
an effectual concealment, by averting surprise at the gentle
protuberance of the breast, in the present instance.

Louisa arranged the luxuriant and flowing hair with particular
attention, bestowing as much as possible a masculine appearance upon
that which would have been a covering worthy of a queen.

The toilet being thus completed, this strange being to whom we have
introduced our readers, descended to a parlour on the ground floor.

When Louisa left the boudoir she carefully locked the door and consigned
the key to her pocket.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE CONVERSATION.


The parlour which that lovely and mysterious creature--who now seemed a
youth of about twenty--entered upon the ground floor, was furnished with
taste and elegance. Everything was light, airy, and graceful. The
windows were crowded with flowers that imparted a delicious perfume to
the atmosphere, and afforded a picture upon which the eye rested with
pleasure.

A recess was fitted up with book-shelves, which were supplied with the
productions of the best poets and novelists of England and France.

Around the walls were suspended several paintings--chiefly consisting of
sporting subjects. Over the mantel, however, were two miniatures,
executed in water-colours in the first style of the art, and
representing the one a lovely youth of sixteen, the other a beautiful
girl of twenty.

And never was resemblance more striking. The same soft and intelligent
hazel eyes--the same light hair, luxuriant, silky, and shining--the some
straight nose--the same vermilion lips, and well-turned chin. At a
glance it was easy to perceive that they were brother and sister; and as
the countenance of the former was remarkably feminine and delicate, the
likeness between them was the more striking.

Beneath the miniature of the brother, in small gilt letters upon the
enamelled frame, was the word WALTER: under the portrait of the sister
was the name of ELIZA.

Attired as she now was, the mysterious being whom we have introduced to
our readers, perfectly resembled the portrait of _Walter_: attired as
she ought to have been, consistently with her sex, she would have been
the living original of the portrait of _Eliza_.

Upon a sofa in the parlour, some of the leading features of which we
have just described, a man, dressed with great neatness, but no
ostentatious display, was lounging.

He was in reality not more than three or four and thirty years of age;
although a seriousness of countenance--either admirably studied, or else
occasioned by habits of business and mental combination--made him appear
ten years older. He was handsome, well-formed, and excessively courteous
and fascinating in his manners: but, when he was alone, or not engaged
in conversation, he seemed plunged in deep thought, as if his brain were
working upon numerous plans and schemes of mighty and vital import.

The moment the heroine of the boudoir entered the parlour, Mr.
Stephens--for he was the individual whom we have just described--rose
and accosted her in a manner expressive of kindness, respect, and
patronage.

"My dear Walter," he exclaimed, "it is really an age since I have seen
you. Six weeks have elapsed, and I have not been near you. But you
received my letter, stating that I was compelled to proceed to Paris
upon most particular business?"

"Yes, my dear sir," answered the lady,--or in order that some name may
in future characterise her, we will call her Walter, or Mr. Walter
Sydney, for that was indeed the appellation by which she was
known,--"yes, my dear sir, I received your letter, and the handsome
presents and remittances accompanying it. For each and all I return you
my sincere thanks: but really, with regard to money, you are far too
lavish towards me. Remember that I scarcely have any opportunity of
being extravagant," added Walter, with a smile; "for I scarcely ever
stir abroad, save to take my daily rides; and you know that I never
receive company, that my acquaintances are limited, so limited----"

"I know, my dear Walter, that you follow my advice as closely as can be
expected," said Mr. Stephens. "Three short months more and my object
will be achieved. We shall then be both of us above the reach of
Fortune's caprices and vicissitudes. Oh! how glorious--how grand will be
this achievement! how well worth all the sacrifices that I have required
you to make."

"Ah! my dear sir," observed Walter, somewhat reproachfully, "you must
remember that you are now talking enigmas to me; that I am at present
only a blind instrument in your hands--a mere machine--an automaton----"

"Do not press me upon this head, Walter," interrupted Mr. Stephens,
hastily. "You must not as yet be led to comprehend the magnitude of my
views: you must have patience. Surely I have given you ample proofs of
my good feeling and my honourable views towards yourself. Only conceive
what would be your present position without me; not a relation, not a
friend in the wide world to aid or protect you! I do not say this to
vaunt my own conduct: I am merely advancing arguments to prove how
confident I am in the success of my plans, and how sincere I am in my
friendship towards you. For, remember, Walter--I always forget your sex:
I only look upon you as a mere boy--a nephew, or a son, whom I love.
Such is my feeling: I am more than a friend; for, I repeat, I feel a
paternal attachment towards you!"

"And I entertain feelings of deep--yes, of the deepest gratitude towards
you," said Walter. "But the motive of my constant intercession to be
admitted more into your confidence, is to be convinced--by my own
knowledge--that my present conduct tends to facilitate no dishonest, no
dangerous views. Oh! you will pardon me when I say this; for there are
times when I am a prey to the most horrible alarms--when fears of an
indescribable nature haunt me for hours together--and when I seem to be
walking blindfold upon the brink of an abyss!"

"Walter, I am surprised that you should thus give way to suspicions most
injurious to my honour," said Mr. Stephens, whose countenance remained
perfectly collected and unchanged; "for the hundredth time do I assure
you that you have nothing to fear."

"Then wherefore this disguise? why this constant cheat relative to my
sex? why this permanent deception?" demanded Walter, in an impassioned
tone.

"Cannot the most rigorous honesty be connected with the most profound
prudence--the most delicate caution?" said Mr. Stephens, adopting an
attitude and manner of persuasion. "Do not judge of motives by their
mere superficial aspect: strange devices--but not the less honourable
for being singular--are frequently required in the world to defeat
designs of infamy and baseness."

"Pardon my scepticism," said Walter, apparently convinced by this
reasoning; "I was wrong, very wrong to suspect you. I will not again
urge my anxiety to penetrate your secrets. I feel persuaded that you
conceal the means by which our mutual prosperity is to be effected,
simply for my good."

"Now you speak rationally, my dear, my faithful and confiding Walter,"
exclaimed Mr. Stephens. "It was just in this vein that I was anxious to
find you; for I have an important communication to make this morning."

"Speak: I am ready to follow your instructions or advice."

"I must inform you, Walter, that in order effectually to work out my
plans--in order that there should not exist the slightest chance of
failure--a third person is required. It will be necessary that he should
be conversant with our secret: he must know all; and, of course, he must
be taken care of hereafter. To be brief, I have already fallen in with
the very individual who will suit me; and I have acquainted him with the
entire matter. You will not object to receive him occasionally as a
guest?"

"My dear sir, how can I object? Is not this your house? and am not I in
your hands? You know that you can command me in all respects."

"I thought that you would meet my views with this readiness and good
will," said Mr. Stephens. "To tell you the real truth, then--I have
taken the liberty of inviting him to dine with us here this day."

"To-day!"

"Yes. Are you annoyed?"

"Oh! not at all: only, the preparations----"

"Do not alarm yourself. While you were occupied with your toilet, I gave
the necessary instructions to the cook. The old woman is almost blind
and deaf, still she knows full well how to serve up a tempting repast;
and as I am believed by your three servants to be your guardian, my
interference in this respect will not have appeared strange."

"How could they think otherwise?" ejaculated Walter. "Did not you
provide those dependants who surround me? Do they not look upon you as
their master as well as myself? Are they not aware that the villa is
your own property? And have they not been led to believe--with the
exception of Louisa, who alone of the three knows the secret--that the
state of my health compelled you to place me here for the benefit of a
purer air than that which your residence in the city affords?"

"Well, since my arrangements meet with your satisfaction," said Mr.
Stephens, smiling, "I am satisfied. But I should tell you that I invited
my friend hither not only to dine, but also to pass the day, that we
might have an opportunity of conversing together at our leisure.
Indeed," added Mr. Stephens, looking at his watch, "I expect him here
every moment."

Scarcely were the words uttered when a loud knock at the front door
echoed through the house.

In a few minutes Louisa appeared, and introduced "Mr. Montague."




CHAPTER IX.

A CITY MAN.--SMITHFIELD SCENES.


George Montague was a tall, good-looking young man of about three or
four-and-twenty. His hair and eyes were black, his complexion rather
dark, and his features perfectly regular.

His manners were certainly polished and agreeable; but there was,
nevertheless, a something reserved and mysterious about him--an anxiety
to avert the conversation from any topic connected with himself--a
studied desire to flatter and gain the good opinions of those about him,
by means of compliments at times servile--and an occasional betrayal of
a belief in a code of morals not altogether consistent with the
well-being of society, which constituted features in his character by
no means calculated to render him a favourite with all classes of
persons. He was, however, well-informed upon most topics; ambitious of
creating a sensation in the world, no matter by what means; resolute in
his pursuit after wealth, and careless whether the paths leading to the
objects which he sought were tortuous or straightforward. He was
addicted to pleasure, but never permitted it to interfere with his
business or mar his schemes. _Love_ with him was merely the blandishment
of beauty; and _friendship_ was simply that bond which connected him
with those individuals who were necessary to him. He was utterly and
completely selfish; but he was somehow or another possessed of
sufficient tact to conceal most of his faults--of the existence of which
he was well aware. The consequence was that he was usually welcomed as
an agreeable companion; some even went so far as to assert that he was a
"devilish good fellow;" and all admitted that he was a thorough man of
the world. He must have commenced his initiation early, thus to have
acquired such a character ere he had completed his four-and-twentieth
year!

London abounds with such precocious specimens of thorough heartlessness
and worldly-mindedness. The universities and great public schools let
loose upon society every half-year a cloud of young men, who think only
how soon they can spend their own property in order to prey upon that of
others. These are your "young men _about_ town:" as they grow older they
become "men _upon_ the town." In their former capacity they graduate in
all the degrees of vice, dissipation, extravagance, and debauchery; and
in the latter they become the tutors of the novices who are entering in
their turn upon the road to ruin. The transition from the young man
about town to the man upon the town is as natural as that of a chrysalis
to a butterfly. These men _upon_ the town constitute as pestilential a
section of male society as the women _of_ the town do of the female
portion of the community. They are alike the reptiles produced by the
great moral dung-heap.

We cannot, however, exactly class Mr. George Montague with the men upon
the town in the true meaning of the phrase, inasmuch as he devoted his
attention to commercial speculations of all kinds and under all shapes,
and his sphere was chiefly the City; whereas men upon the town seldom
entertain an idea half "so vulgar" as mercantile pursuits, and never
visit the domains of the Lord Mayor save when they want to get a bill
discounted, or to obtain cash for a check of too large an amount to be
entrusted to any of their high-born and aristocratic companions.

Mr. George Montague was, therefore, one of that multitudinous class
called "City men," who possess no regular offices, but have their
letters addressed to the Auction Mart or Garraway's, and who make their
appointments at such places as "the front of the Bank," "the
Custom-house Wharf," and "under the clock at the Docks."

City men are very extraordinary characters. They all know "a certain
speculation that would make a sure fortune, if one had but the capital
to work upon;" they never fail to observe, while making this assertion,
that they _could_ apply to a friend if they chose, but that they do not
choose to lay themselves under the obligation; and they invariably
affirm that nothing is more easy than to make a fortune in the City,
although the greater portion of them remain without that happy
consummation until the day of their deaths. Now and then, however, one
of these City men _does_ succeed in "making a hit" by some means or
other; and then his old friends, the very men who are constantly
enunciating the opinion relative to the facility with which fortunes are
obtained in the City, look knowing, wink at each other, and declare
"that it never could have been done unless he'd had somebody with plenty
of money to back him."

Now Mr. Montague was one of those who adopted a better system of logic
than the vulgar reasoning. He knew that there was but little merit in
producing bread from flour, for instance; but he perceived that there
was immense credit due to those who could produce their bread without
any flour at all. Upon this principle he acted, and his plan was not
unattended with success. He scorned the idea "that money was necessary
to beget money;" he began his "City career," as he sometimes observed,
without a farthing; and he was seldom without gold in his pocket.

No one knew where he lived. He was sometimes seen getting into a Hackney
omnibus at the Flower Pot, a Camberwell one at the Cross Keys; or
running furiously after a Hammersmith one along Cheapside; but as these
directions were very opposite, it was difficult to deduce from them any
idea of his domiciliary whereabouts.

He was young to be a City man; the class does not often include members
under thirty; but of course there are exceptions to all rules; and Mr.
George Montague was one.

He was then a City man: but if the reader be anxious to know what sort
of _business_ he transacted to obtain his living; whether he dabbled in
the funds, sold wines upon commission, effected loans and discounts,
speculated in shares, got up joint-stock companies, shipped goods to the
colonies, purchased land in Australia at eighteen-pence an acre and sold
it again at one-and-nine, conducted compromises for insolvent tradesmen,
made out the accounts of bankrupts, arbitrated between partners who
disagreed, or bought in things in a friendly way at public sales;
whether he followed any of these pursuits, or meddled a little with them
all, we can no more satisfy our readers than if we attempted the
biography of the Man in the Moon.--all we can say is, that he was
invariably in the City from eleven to four; that he usually had "an
excellent thing in hand just at that moment;" and, in a word, that he
belonged to the class denominated _City Men_!

We have taken some pains to describe this gentleman; for reasons which
will appear hereafter.

Having been duly introduced to Walter Sydney by Mr. Stephens, and after
a few observations of a general nature, Mr. Montague glided almost
imperceptibly into topics upon which he conversed with ease and fluency.

Presently a pause ensued; and Mr. Stephens enquired "if there were
anything new in the City?"

"Nothing particular," answered Montague. "I have not of course been in
town this morning; but I was not away till late last night. I had a
splendid thing in hand, which I succeeded in bringing to a favourable
termination. By-the-by, there was a rumour on 'Change yesterday
afternoon, just before the close, that Alderman Dumkins is all wrong."

"Indeed," said Stephens; "I thought he was wealthy."

"Oh! no; _I_ knew the contrary eighteen months ago! It appears he has
been starting a joint-stock company to work the Ercalat tin-mines in
Cornwall----"

"And I suppose the mines do not really exist?"

"Oh! yes; they do--upon his maps! However, he has been exhibiting
certain specimens of tin, which he has passed off as Ercalat produce;
and it is now pretty generally known that the article was supplied him
by a house in Aldgate."

"Then he will be compelled to resign his gown?"

"Not he! On the contrary, he stands next in rotation for the honours of
the civic chair; and he intends to go boldly forward as if nothing had
happened. You must remember that the aldermen of the City of London have
degenerated considerably in respectability during late years; and that
none of the really influential and wealthy men in the City will have
anything to do with the corporation affairs. You do not see any great
banker nor merchant wearing the aldermanic gown. The only alderman who
really possessed what may be called a large fortune, and whose pecuniary
position was above all doubt, resigned his gown the other day in disgust
at the treatment which he received from his brother authorities, in
consequence of his connexion with the _Weekly Courier_--the only
newspaper that boldly, fearlessly, and effectually advocates the
people's cause."

"And Dumkins will not resign, you think?"

"Oh! decidedly not. But for my part," added Montague, "I feel convinced
that the sooner some change is made in the City administration the
better. Only conceive the immense sums which the corporation receives
from various sources, and the uses to which they are applied. Look at
the beastly guzzling at Guildhall, while there are in the very heart of
the City Augean stables of filth, crime, and debauchery to be
cleansed--witness Petticoat-lane, Smithfield----"

A species of groan or stifled exclamation of horror issued from the lips
of Walter as Montague uttered these words: her countenance grew deadly
pale, and her entire frame appeared to writhe under a most painful
reminiscence or emotion.

"Compose yourself, compose yourself," said Stephens, hastily. "Shall I
ring for a glass of water, or wine, or anything----"

"No, it is past," interrupted Walter Sydney; "but I never think of that
horrible--that appalling adventure without feeling my blood curdle in my
veins. The mere mention of the word Smithfield----"

"Could I have been indiscreet enough to give utterance to anything
calculated to annoy?" said Montague, who was surprised at this scene.

"You were not aware of the reminiscence you awoke in my mind by your
remark," answered Walter, smiling; "but were you acquainted with the
particulars of that fearful night, you would readily excuse my
weakness."

"You have excited Mr. Montague's curiosity," observed Stephens, "and you
have now nothing to do but to gratify it."

"It is an adventure of a most romantic kind--an adventure which you will
scarcely believe--and yet one that will make your hair stand on end."

"I am now most anxious to learn the details of this mysterious
occurrence," said Montague, scarcely knowing whether these remarks were
made in jest or earnest.

Walter Sydney appeared to reflect for a few moments; and then commenced
the narrative in the following manner:--

"It is now a little more than four years ago--very shortly after I first
arrived at this house--that I rode into town, attended by the same groom
who is in my service now. I knew little or nothing of the City, and felt
my curiosity awakened to view the emporium of the world's commerce. I
accordingly determined to indulge in a ramble by myself amidst the
streets and thoroughfares of a place of which such marvellous accounts
reach those who pass their youth in the country. I left the groom with
the horses at a livery-stable in Bishopsgate-street, with a promise to
return in the course of two or three hours. I then roved about to my
heart's content, and never gave the lapse of time a thought. Evening
came, and the weather grew threatening. Then commenced my perplexities.
I had forgotten the address of the stables where the groom awaited my
return; and I discovered the pleasing fact that I had lost my way just
at the moment when an awful storm seemed ready to break over the
metropolis. When I solicited information concerning the right path which
I should pursue, I was insulted by the low churls to whom I applied. To
be brief, I was overtaken by darkness and by the storm, in a place which
I have since ascertained to be Smithfield market. I could not have
conceived that so filthy and horrible a nuisance could have been allowed
to exist in the midst of a city of so much wealth. But, oh! the
revolting streets which branch off from that Smithfield. It seemed to me
that I was wandering amongst all the haunts of crime and appalling
penury of which I had read in romances, but which I never could have
believed to exist in the very heart of the metropolis of the world.
Civilisation appeared to me to have chosen particular places which it
condescended to visit, and to have passed others by without even leaving
a foot-print to denote its presence."

"But this horrible adventure?" said Montague.

"Oh! forgive my digression. Surrounded by darkness, exposed to the rage
of the storm, and actually sinking with fatigue, I took refuge in an old
house, which I am sure I could never find again; but which was situated
nearly at the end, and on the right-hand side of the way, of one of
those vile narrow streets branching off from Smithfield. That house was
the den of wild beasts in human shape! I was compelled to hear a
conversation of a most appalling nature between two ruffians, who made
that place the depôt for their plunder. They planned, amongst other
atrocious topics, the robbery of a country-seat, somewhere to the north
of Islington, and inhabited by a family of the name of Markham."

"Indeed! What--how strange!" ejaculated Montague: then immediately
afterwards, he added, "How singular that you should have overheard so
vile a scheme!"

"Oh! those villains," continued Walter, "were capable of crimes of a far
deeper dye! They discussed horror upon horror, till I thought that I
was going raving mad. I made a desperate attempt to escape, and was
perceived. What then immediately followed I know not, for I became
insensible: in a word, Mr. Montague, I fainted!"

A deep blush suffused her countenance, as she made this avowal--for it
seemed to have a direct relation to her sex; and she was well aware that
the secret connected therewith had been revealed by her benefactor to
George Montague. On his part, he gazed upon her with mingled interest
and admiration.

"I awoke to encounter a scene of horror," she continued, after a short
pause, "which you must fancy; but the full extent of which I cannot
depict. I can only _feel_ it even now. Those wretches were conveying me
to a room upon the ground-floor--a room to which the cells of the
Bastille or the Inquisition could have produced no equal. It had a
trap-door communicating with the Fleet Ditch! I begged for mercy--I
promised wealth--for I knew that my kind benefactor," she added,
glancing towards Mr. Stephens, "would have enabled me to fulfil my
pledge to them; but all was in vain. The murderers hurled me down the
dark and pestiferous hole!"

"Merciful heavens!" ejaculated Montague.

"It would appear that the house in question," proceeded Walter, "stood
upon the side of, and not over the Ditch. There can be, however, no
doubt that the trap-door was contrived for the horrible purpose of
disposing of those victims who fell into the merciless hands of the
occupants of the dwelling; for when I had fallen some distance, instead
of being immersed in black and filthy mud, I was caught upon a sloping
plank which shelved towards a large aperture in the wall of the Ditch. I
instinctively clung to this plank, and lay stretched upon it for some
moments until I had partially recovered my presence of mind. The
circumstance of having thus escaped a dreadful death gave me an amount
of courage at which I myself was astonished. At length I began to reason
whether it would be better to remain there until morning, and then
endeavour to reach the trap-door above my head, or to devise some means
of immediate escape. I decided upon the latter proceeding; for I
reflected that the morning would not afford light to that subterranean
hole to enable me to act with certainty; and I, moreover, dreaded the
extreme vengeance of those ruffians who had already given me a sample of
their brutality, should I happen to encounter them on emerging from the
trap-door. Lastly, I considered that it was also probable that I might
not succeed in raising the trap-door at all."

"What a fearful situation!" observed Montague.

"Horrible even to think of," added Stephens, who listened with the
deepest attention to this narrative, although he had heard it related on
former occasions.

"With my hands and legs I groped about," continued Walter, "and I
speedily ascertained my exact position with regard to the locality. My
feet were close to a large square aperture in the perpendicular wall
overhanging the Ditch; and the floor of the cellar was only a couple of
feet below the aperture. I accordingly got cautiously off the board, and
stood upon the damp ground. After the lapse of several minutes, during
which I nerved myself to adopt the idea that had struck me, I passed my
head through the aperture, and looked out over the Ditch. The stream
appeared rapid, to judge by its gurgling sound; and the stench that
exhaled from it was pestiferous in the extreme. Turning my head to the
left I saw hundreds of lights twinkling in the small narrow windows of
two lines of houses that overhung the Ditch. The storm had now
completely passed away--the rain had ceased--and the night was clear and
beautiful. In a few minutes I was perfectly acquainted with the entire
geography of the place. The means of escape were within my reach. About
three feet above the aperture through which I was now looking, a plank
crossed the Ditch; and on the opposite side--for the Ditch in that part
was not above two yards wide from wall to wall--was a narrow ledge
running along the side of the house facing the one in which I was, and
evidently communicating with some lane or street close by. I can
scarcely tell you how I contrived to creep through the aperture and
reach the plank overhead. Nevertheless, I attempted the dangerous feat,
and I accomplished it. I crossed the plank, and reached the ledge of
which I have spoken: it terminated in the very street where stood the
terrible den from which I had just so miraculously escaped. Indeed, I
emerged upon that street only at a distance of a few yards from the door
of that detestable place. To hurry away in a contrary direction was my
first and most natural impulse; but I had not proceeded far when the
door of a house was suddenly thrown violently open, and out poured a
crowd of men and women, among whom I was, as it were, immediately hemmed
in."

"What! another adventure?" exclaimed Montague.

"One calculated to inspire feelings of deep disgust, if not of alarm,"
answered Walter. "It appeared that two women had been quarreling and had
turned out to fight. They fell upon each other like wild cats, or as you
would fancy that tigers would fight. A clear and lovely moon lighted
this revolting scene. A circle was formed round the termagants, and for
ten minutes did they lacerate themselves with fists and nails in a
fearful manner. Their clothes were torn into ribands--their countenances
were horribly disfigured with scratches--the blood poured from their
noses--and their hair, hanging all dishevelled over their naked
shoulders, gave them a wild, ferocious, and savage appearance, such as I
never could have expected to encounter in the metropolis of the
civilised world."

"And in the very heart of the City," added Mr. Montague.

"Suddenly a cry of '_The Bluebottles!_' was raised, and the crowd,
belligerents and all, rushed pell-mell back again into the house. In
spite of all my endeavours to escape I was hurried in with that hideous
mob of ferocious-looking men and brazen-faced women. In a few moments I
found myself in a large room, in which there were at least thirty
wretched beds huddled close together, and so revoltingly dirty that the
cold pavement or a hedge-side would have seemed a more preferable couch.
And, oh! how can I describe the inmates of that den, many of whom were
crowding round a fire cooking provender, which filled the place with a
sickening and most fetid odour. There were young girls almost naked,
without shoes or stockings, and whose sunken checks, dimmed eyes, and
miserable attire contrasted strangely with their boisterous mirth. Some
of these unfortunate creatures, nevertheless, retained traces of
original beauty prematurely faded. The men were hatless and shoeless;
indeed the entire assembly consisted of males and females evidently of
the most wretched description. Scarcely had I time to cast a glance
around me when I was questioned as to how I came there? what I wanted?
and whether I meant to stand anything? 'I will tell you what it is,'
said one to his companions, 'he is a swell who is come to have a look at
these kind of cribs, and he must pay his footing.' I immediately
comprehended the nature of the impression which my presence had created,
and presented the individual who had spoken with a couple of
half-crowns. The sight of the money produced an immense feeling in my
favour. Heaven only knows how many gallons of beer were fetched from a
neighbouring public-house; and when the inmates of that lazar-house--for
I can scarcely call it anything else--had all partaken of the liquor, I
was overwhelmed with offers of service. One declared, that if I merely
came to see the neighbourhood he would take me round to every place in
the street; another assured me, that if I had committed a forgery or any
other 'genteel crime,' he would either help me to lie secure until the
matter had blown over, or to escape from the country; and so on. I
suffered the wretches to retain the impression that curiosity had alone
led me thither; and as soon as I had made this announcement the mistress
of the house was summoned to do the honours of the establishment. A
blear-eyed old crone made her appearance, and insisted upon showing me
over the house. 'These rooms,' said she, meaning the two upon the ground
floor, 'are for those who can afford to pay threepence for their bed and
who have supper to cook.' We then ascended to the first floor. 'These
are the four-penny beds,' said the old woman, pointing with pride and
satisfaction to some thirty or forty couches, a shade cleaner, and the
least thing further off from each other than those down stairs. The
rooms on the first floor were also filled with lodgers; and another
demand was made upon my purse. On the third floor and in the attics were
the most horrible scenes of wretchedness which I had yet beheld. Those
dens were filled with straw beds, separated from each other only by
pieces of plank about eight or ten inches in height. Men, women, and
children were all crowded together--sleeping pell-mell. Oh! it was a
horrible, horrible spectacle. To be brief, I escaped from that moral
plague-house; and in a few moments was traversing Smithfield once more.
Even the tainted air of that filthy enclosure was refreshing after the
foul atmosphere from which I had just emerged."

Louisa entered the room at this moment to announce that luncheon was
prepared in another apartment.

"And you never took any steps to root out that nest of villains in the
Old House whence you escaped alive so miraculously?" said Montague
sipping a glass of exquisite wine after his luncheon.

"I wrote two anonymous letters the very next morning," answered Walter:
"one to Mr. Markham, warning him of the contemplated burglar at his
house; and another to the Lord Mayor of London. It did not altogether
suit Mr. Stephens's plans----"

"No--not to make a fuss about an affair which would have been sure to
bring your name into notoriety," added this gentleman hastily.

"That adventure has no doubt given you a distaste for late rambles,"
said Montague.

"In the City--decidedly so," was the reply. "I seldom go into London,
early or late--I have so few inducements--so few acquaintances! By the
way, a few evenings ago I treated myself to a visit to the Opera, and
there accident threw me into conversation with a gentleman and lady who
sat in the same box as myself. The result was an invitation to the abode
of the lady--a Mrs. Arlington----"

"Mrs. Arlington," ejaculated Montague, a light flush animating his
countenance.

"The same. She is _the friend_ of Sir Rupert Harborough. I am anxious to
see something of the world now and then--and to avail myself of my
present garb for that purpose. I accordingly called upon Mrs. Arlington
last evening, and learnt 'a lesson of life.' I saw an elegant woman, a
baronet, a fashionable gentleman, and a very interesting young man,
associating with a vulgar wretch of the name, I believe, of Talbot,
whose manners would have disgraced a groom. I must, however, observe
that the interesting young gentleman to whom I allude did not seem to be
more pleased with the conversation and conduct of this vulgarian than
myself. One coincidence somewhat extraordinary occurred--that same
interesting young man was no other than Mr. Richard Markham, one of the
sons of----"

"Ah! indeed--how singular!" exclaimed George Montague, not waiting till
Walter finished his sentence; "very singular!" he added; then, having
tossed off a bumper of Madeira, he walked up to the window, where he
affected to inhale with delight the exquisite fragrance of the flowers
that adorned the casement.




CHAPTER X.

THE FRAIL ONE'S NARRATIVE.


We must now return to Richard Markham.

Sir Rupert Harborough and the Honourable Arthur Chichester apparently
took a very great fancy to him, for they were constantly making
appointments to meet him in town, and hastening to his own house to
ferret him out when he did not appear at their usual places of
rendezvous. He dined at least three times a week at Mrs. Arlington's,
and, to confess the truth, his morning calls were repeated at intervals
which gradually grew shorter and shorter.

Richard thus frequently passed hours together alone with Diana. In spite
of himself he now and then suffered his eyes to rest tenderly upon her
countenance; and by degrees her glances encountered his and were not
immediately withdrawn. Those glances were so languishing, and withal so
melancholy, that they inspired Richard with a passion amounting almost
to a delirium; and he felt at times as if he could have caught that
beauteous creature in his arms and clasped her rapturously to his bosom.

One morning, as he took leave of her, he fancied that her hand gently
pressed his own. The idea filled him with a joy till then unknown, and
which he could not describe even to himself.

On the following morning he called a little earlier than usual. Diana
was in a delicious _déshabillé_, which set off her voluptuous person to
its very greatest advantage. Richard was more tender than usual--the
Enchantress more enchanting.

[Illustration]

They were seated upon the sofa together; and a pause in their
conversation ensued. Richard heaved a deep sigh, and suddenly exclaimed,
"I am always thinking of the period when I must bid adieu to your
charming society."

"Bid adieu!" cried Diana; "and wherefore?"

"It must happen, sooner or later, that our ways in the world will be
different."

"Then you are not your own master?" said Diana, enquiringly.

"Certainly I am. But all friends must part some time or another."

"True," said Diana; then, in a subdued tone, she added, "There are
certain persons who are attracted towards each other by kindred feelings
and emotions, and it is painful--very painful, for them to part!"

"Heavens, Diana!" ejaculated Richard; "you feel as I do!"

She turned her face towards him; her cheeks were suffused in blushes,
and her eyes were filled with tears. But through those tears she cast
upon him a glance which ravished his inmost soul. It seemed fraught with
love and tenderness, and inspired him with emotions which he had never
known before. The words "You feel as I do," contained the ingenuous and
unsophisticated avowal of a new passion on the part of a mind that was
as yet as unskilled in the ways of this world as the unfledged bird in
the nest of its mother is ignorant of the green woods. But those tears
which stood in the lady's eyes, and the blushes which dyed her checks,
and the glance which, like a sunbeam in the midst of an April shower,
she darted upon the youth at her side, inspired him with courage,
awakened undefined hopes, and filled him with an ecstacy of joy.

"Why do you weep, Diana? why do you weep?"

"You love me, Richard," she replied, turning her melting blue eyes fully
upon him, and retaining them for some moments fixed upon his
countenance: "you love me; and I feel--I know that I am not worthy of
your affection!"

Richard started as if he were suddenly aroused from a dream--as if he
had abruptly awoke to a stern truth from a pleasing vision. He suffered
her hand, which he had taken in his, to fall from his grasp; and for
some moments he remained buried in a profound reverie.

"Ah! I knew that I should remind you of your duty towards yourself,"
said Diana, bitterly. "No--I am not worthy of you. But that you may
hereafter give me credit for frankness and candour,--that you may be
actually warned by myself _against_ myself,--that you may learn to
esteem me as a friend, if you will, I shall in a few words relate to you
the incidents that made me what I am!"

"Proceed," said Richard, "proceed! Believe me I shall listen with
attention,--with the greatest attention!"

"My father was a retired tradesman," began Mrs. Arlington; "and as I was
his only child and he enjoyed a competency, he gave me the best
education that money could procure. Probably the good old man made up
his mind that I should one day espouse a nobleman; and, as my mother had
died when I was very young, there was no one near me to correct the
vanity with which my father's adulation and ambitious pretensions
inspired me. About three years ago I met at the theatre--whither I went
with some friends--a young gentleman--tall, handsome, and fascinating
like yourself. He contrived to obtain a formal introduction to my
father, and was invited to our house, at which he speedily became a
constant visitor. He had a happy tact in suiting his humours or tastes
to those with whom he came in contact; and he quite won my father's
heart by playing chess with him, telling him the news of the City, and
reading the evening paper to him. George Montague soon became an
established favourite; and my father could do nothing without him. At
length Montague proposed to him certain speculations in the funds: my
father was allured by the prospect of quadrupling his capital, and
consented. I must confess that the young man's handsome person had
produced a certain effect upon me--a giddy young girl as I was at that
time; and I rather encouraged my father in these schemes than otherwise.
At first the speculations were eminently successful; but in a short time
they took a turn. Day after day did Montague come to the house to
announce fresh losses and the necessity of farther advances. He declared
that he should now speculate for a grand stake, which could not fail
shortly to turn to his advantage. A species of infatuation seized upon
my father; and I was not aware of the ruinous course he was pursuing
until it was too late. At length my father was totally ruined; and
George come to announce to us the failure of our last chance. My father
now repented when it was too late. Eight short months had sufficed to
dissipate his whole fortune; he had not even enough left to pay the few
debts which he had contracted, and which he had neglected to liquidate,
trusting each day to the arrival of the lucky moment when he should find
himself the master of millions!"

"Oh! the absurd hope!" exclaimed Richard, deeply interested in this
narrative.

"Alas! this event was a fatal blow to my father's health, at the same
time that it wrecked his happiness," continued Diana. "He implored
Montague not to desert 'his darling child'--for so he called me--in case
anything should happen to himself; and that same day--the day on which
he saw all his prospects and hopes in this life blasted--he put a period
to his existence by means of poison!"

"This was horrible!" cried Markham. "Oh! that villain Montague!"

"My father's creditors came to seize the few effects which remained,"
said Diana, after a pause; "and I was about to be turned houseless and
unprotected into the streets, when Montague arrived. He took gold from
his pocket, and satisfied the demands of the creditors. He moreover
supplied me with money for my immediate wants. I was totally dependent
upon him;--I had no relations--no friends to whom I could apply for
succour or comfort. He seemed to commiserate my position----"

"Perhaps," observed Richard, "he was not so very guilty, after all,
relative to the loss of your father's property?"

"Judge by the sequel," answered Diana bitterly. "He was as base as he
was in reality unfeeling. The transition from that state of dependence
upon a young man to a more degraded one still, was to be expected. He no
longer talked to me of marriage, as he once had done; but he took
advantage of my forlorn situation. I became his mistress."

"Ah! it was base--it was ungenerous--it was unmanly!" ejaculated
Richard.

"He seemed to be possessed of ample resources; but he accounted for this
circumstance by assuring me that he had found another friend who was
backing him in the same speculations in which my poor father had failed.
We lived together for four months; and he then coolly informed me that
we must part. I found that I had never really entertained any very
sincere affection for him; and the little love which I experienced at
first, had been quenched in my bosom by his cold cruelty. He seemed
unfeeling to a degree. Observations, calculated to wound most acutely,
fell from his lips upon all occasions----"

"The dastard!" exclaimed Richard, profoundly touched by this recital.

"If I wept at this cruelty, he treated me with increased brutality. You
may, therefore, suppose that I was not deeply distressed to part with
him. He gave me twenty guineas, and bade me a chilling farewell. From
that moment I have neither seen nor heard of him. A few weeks after our
separation my money was exhausted. I resolved to lead a virtuous and
honourable life, and atone for my first fault. O God! I did not then
know that society will not receive the penitent frail one;--that society
excludes poor deceived woman from all hopes of reparation, all chances
of repentance! I endeavoured to obtain a situation as a governess;--I
might as well have attempted to make myself queen of England.
Character--references! I had neither. Vainly did I implore one lady to
whom I applied to give me a month's trial. She insulted me grossly. To
another I candidly confessed my entire history: she patiently heard me
to the end, and then ordered her lacquey to turn me out of the house.
Oh! society does more than punish: it pursues the unfortunate female who
has made one false step, with the most avenging and malignant
cruelty;--it hunts her to suicide or to new ways of crime. These are the
dread alternatives. At that moment, had some friendly hand been
stretched out to aid me,--had I met with one kind heart that would have
believed in the possibility of repentance,--had I only been blest with
the chance of entering upon a career of virtue, I should have been
saved! Yes--I should have redeemed my first fault, as far as redemption
was possible;--and to accomplish that aim, I would have worked my nails
down to the very quick,--I would have accepted any position, however
menial,--I would have made any sacrifice, enjoyed any lot, so long as I
was assured of earning my bread in a manner which need not make me
blush. But society treated me with contempt. Why, in this Christian
country, do they preach the Christian maxim, that '_there is more joy
over one sinner who repenteth, than over ninety-and-nine just persons
who need no repentance_?' Why is this maxim preached, when the entire
conduct of society expresses in terms which cannot be misunderstood, a
bold denial of its truth?"

"Merciful heavens," ejaculated Richard, "can this be true? are you
drawing a correct picture, Diana, or inventing a hideous fiction?"

"God knows how true is all I say!" returned Mrs. Arlington, with
profound sincerity of tone and manner. "Want soon stared me in the face:
what could I do? Chance threw me in the way of Sir Rupert
Harborough:--compelled by an imperious necessity, I became his mistress.
This is my history."

"And the baronet treats you kindly?" said Richard, inquiringly.

"The terms upon which our connexion is based do not permit him an
opportunity of being either very kind or very cruel."

"I must now say farewell for the present," exclaimed Markham, afraid of
trusting himself longer with the Syren who had fascinated him with her
misfortunes as well as by her charms. "In a day or two I will see you
again. Oh! I cannot blame you for what you have done:--I commiserate--I
pity you! Could any sacrifice that I am capable of making, restore you
to happiness and--and--"

"Honour, you would say," exclaimed Diana, firmly.

"I would gladly make that sacrifice," added Richard. "From this moment
we will be friends--very sincere friends. I will be your brother,
dearest Diana--and you shall be my sister!"

The young man rose from the sofa, as he uttered these disjointed
sentences in a singularly wild and rapid manner; and Diana, without
making any reply, but apparently deeply touched, pressed his hand for
some moments between both her own.

Richard then hastily escaped from the presence of that charming and
fascinating creature.




CHAPTER XI.

"THE SERVANTS' ARMS."


Upon the same day that this event took place, Mr. Whittingham, the
butler of Richard Markham, had solicited and obtained permission to pass
the evening with a certain Mr. Thomas Suggett, who occupied the
distinguished post of _valet de chambre_ about the person of the
Honourable Arthur Chichester. Whittingham was determined to enjoy
himself:--he seemed suddenly to have cast off twenty years from his
back, and to walk the more upright for having rid himself of the
burthen;--his hat was slightly cocked on one side; and, as he walked
along, with Mr. Thomas Suggett tucked under his arm, he struck his
silver-headed bamboo, which he always carried with him when he went
abroad on Sundays and holidays, very forcibly upon the pavement. Mr.
Suggett declared "that, for his part, he was very well disposed for a
spree;" and he threw into his gait a most awful swagger, which certainly
excited considerable attention, because all the small boys in the
streets laughed at him as he wended on his way.

"I wonder what them urchins are garping at so," said Whittingham. "It
mystificates me in no inconsiderable degree. Raly the lower orders of
English is exceedingly imperlite. I feel the most inwigorated disgust
and the most unboundless contempt for their manners."

"That's jist like me," observed Suggett: "I can't a-bear the lower
orders. I hate everythink wulgar.--But, by the bye, Mr. Whittingham, do
you smoke?"

"I can't say but what I like a full-flavoured Havannah--a threepenny,
mind," added the butler, pompously.

"Just my taste, Mr. Whittingham. If I can't afford threepennies, I won't
smoke at all."

Mr. Suggett entered a cigar shop, purchased half-a-dozen _real
Havannahs_ (manufactured in St. John-street, Clerkenwell), joked with
the young lady who served him, and then presented the one which he
considered the best to his companion. The two gentlemen's gentlemen
accordingly lighted their cigars, and then continued their walk along
the New Road, in the vicinity of which Mr. Whittingham had met Mr.
Suggett by appointment upon this memorable afternoon.

In a short time Mr. Suggett stopped suddenly at the door of a large
white public-house, not a hundred miles distant from the new church, St.
Pancras.

"This is a nice crib," said he. "Excellent company; and to-night there
is a supper at eleven."

"The very identified thing," acquiesced Mr. Whittingham; and into the
public-house they walked.

Nothing could be more neat and cleanly than the bar of the _Servants'
Arms_--no one more obliging nor bustling than the "young lady" behind
the bar. The _Servants' Arms_ was reported to draw the best liquor in
all the neighbourhood; and its landlord prided himself upon the
superiority of his establishment over those which sold beer "at
three-pence a-pot in your own jugs." And then what a rapid draught the
landlord had for all his good things; and how crowded was the space
before the bar with customers.

"Glass of ale--mild, Miss, if you please," said one.

"A quartern of gin and three outs, Caroline," cried a second, who was
more familiar.

"Pint of half-and-half, here," exclaimed a third.

"Six of brandy, warm, Miss--four of gin, cold, and a pint of ale with
the chill off--parlour!" ejaculated the waiter, who now made his
appearance at the bar.

"Pot of porter; and master's compliments, and can you lend him
yesterday's _Advertiser_ for half an hour or so?" said a pretty little
servant girl, placing a large yellow jug on the bright lead surface of
the bar.

"Pot of ale, and a screw, Miss."

"Pint of gin, for mixing, please."

"Bottle of Cape wine, at eighteen, landlord."

"Four-penn'orth of rum, cold without."

"Half pint of porter, and a pipe, Caroline."

Such were the orders, issued from all quarters at the same moment, and
to which Caroline responded with incredible alacrity; finding time to
crack a joke with the known frequenters of the house, and to make a
pleasant observation upon the weather to those whose faces were strange
to her;--while the landlord contented himself with looking on, or every
now and then drawing a pot of beer, apparently as a great favour and in
a lazy independent manner. Nevertheless, he was a good, civil kind of a
man; only somewhat independent, because he was growing rich. He was
never afraid at the end of month to see Truman and Hanbury's collector,
and Nicholson's man, alight from their gigs at his door. They were
always sure to find the money ready for them, when they sate down to
write their receipts in the little narrow slip of a parlour behind the
bar. In fact, the landlord of the _Servants' Arms_, was reported to be
doing "a very snug business:"--and so he was.

Messrs. Whittingham and Suggett sauntered leisurely into the parlour of
the _Servants' Arms_, and took their seats at the only table which
remained unoccupied.

"Good evening, Sir," said the waiter, addressing Mr. Suggett with a sort
of semi-familiarity, which showed that the latter gentleman was in the
habit of "using the house."

"How are you, William?" cried Mr. Suggett, in a patronising manner.
"George been here lately?"

"Not very: I think he's down in the country."

"Oh! Well, what shall we have, Mr. Whittingham--brandy and water?"

"That's my inwariable beverage, Mr. Suggett."

"Two sixes, gentlemen?" said the waiter.

"No," answered Mr. Whittingham, solemnly; "two shillings' worth, to
begin with."

The liquor was supplied, and when the two gentlemen had tasted it, and
found it to their liking, they glanced around the room to survey the
company. It soon appeared that Mr. Suggett was well known to many of the
gentlemen present; for, upon making his survey, he acknowledged, with a
nod or a short phrase, the bows or salutations of those with whom he was
acquainted.

"Ah! Mr. Guffins, always up in the same corner, eh?" said he, addressing
a middle-aged man in seedy black: "got a new work in the press, 'spose?
You literary men contrive to enjoy yourselves, I know. How do you do,
Mr. Mac Chizzle?" looking towards a short, pock-marked man, with a quick
grey eye, and black hair combed upright off his forehead: "how get on
the clients? Plenty of business, eh? Ah! you lawyers always contrive to
do well. Mr. Drummer, your servant, sir. Got a good congregation still,
sir?"

"The chapel thriveth well, I thank you--as well as can be expected in
these times of heathen abominations," answered a demure-looking
middle-aged gentleman, who was clad in deep black and wore a white
neck-cloth, which seemed (together with the condition of his shirt and
stockings) to denote that although he had gained the confidence of his
flock, he had certainly lost that of his washer-woman. After having
taken a long draught of a pint of half-and-half which stood before him,
he added, "There is a many savoury vessels in my congregation--reputable,
pious, and prayer-full people, which pays regular for their sittings and
fears the Lord."

"Well, I am glad of that," ejaculated Mr. Suggett. "But, ah!" he cried,
observing a thin white-haired old gentleman, with huge silver spectacles
hanging half-way down his nose,--"I'm glad to see Mr. Cobbington here.
How gets on the circulating library, eh--sir?"

"Pretty well--pretty well, thank'ee," returned the bookseller: "pretty
well--considering."

A great many people qualify their observations and answers by the
addition of the word "_considering_;" but they seldom vouchsafe an
explanation of _what is to be considered_. Sometimes they use the phrase
"considering all things;" and then the mind has so much to consider,
that it cannot consider any one thing definitively. It would be much
more straightforward and satisfactory if persons would relieve their
friends of all suspense, and say boldly at once, as the case may be,
"_considering_ the execution I have got in my house;" or "_considering_
the writ that's out against me;" or even "_considering_ the trifling
annoyance of not having a shilling in my pocket, and not knowing where
to look for one." But, somehow or another, people never will be candid
now-a-days; and Talleyrand was right when he said that "language was
given to man to enable him to conceal his thoughts."

But to continue.

Mr. Suggett glanced a little further around the room, and recognized
another old acquaintance.

"Ah! Snoggles, how are you?"

"Very well, thank'ee--how be you?"

"Blooming; but how come you here?"

"I dropped in quite permiscuously," answered Snoggles, "and finding good
company, stayed. But it is up'ards o' three years since I see you, Mr.
Suggett."

"About. What grade do you now fill in the profession? Any promotion?"

"I'm sorry to say not," replied Mr. Snoggles, shaking his head
mournfully. "I've tumbled off the box down to a level with the osses;"
which, being interpreted, means that Mr. Snoggles had fallen from the
high estate of coachman to the less elevated rank of ostler. "But what
rank do you now hold?"

"I left off the uniform of _tiger_ last month," answered Mr. Suggett,
"and received the brevet of walley-de-chambre."

"That gentleman one of the profession?" demanded Snoggles, alluding to
Mr. Whittingham.

"Mr. Markham's butler, sir, at your service," said Whittingham, bowing
with awe-inspiring stiffness: "and I may say, without exag-gerating,
sir, and in no wise compromising my indefatigable character for
weracity, that I'm also Mr. Markham's confidential friend. And what's
more, gen'leman," added the butler, glancing proudly around the room,
"Mr. Richard Markham is the finest young man about this stupendous city
of the whole universe--and that's as true as that this is a hand."

As Mr. Whittingham concluded this sentence, he extended his arm to
display the hand relative to which he expressed such confidence; and
while he flourished the arm to give weight to his language, the
aforesaid hand encountered the right eye of the dissenting parson.

"A case of assault and battery," instantly exclaimed Mr. Mac Chizzle,
the lawyer; "and here are upwards of a dozen witnesses for the
plaintiff."

"I really beg the gentleman's pardon," said Whittingham.

"Special jury--sittings after term--damages five hundred pounds;"
exclaimed Mac Chizzle.

"No harm was intended," observed Suggett.

"Not a bit," added Snoggles.

"Verdict for Plaintiff--enter up judgment--issue execution--_ca. sa._ in
no time," said Mac Chizzle doggedly.

"I am used to flagellations and persecutions at the hands of the
ungodly," said the Reverend Mr. Drummer, rubbing his eye with his fist,
and thereby succeeding in inflaming it.

"Perhaps the reverend gentleman wouldn't take it amiss if I was to offer
him my apologies in a extra powerful glass of brandy and water?"
exclaimed Whittingham.

"Bribery," murmured Mac Chizzle.

"No, let us have a bowl of punch at once," exclaimed Suggett.

"And corruption," added the lawyer.

The bowl of punch was ordered, and the company generally was invited to
partake of it. Even Mr. Mac Chizzle did not hesitate; and the dissenting
minister, in order to convince Mr. Whittingham that he entirely forgave
him, consented to partake of the punch so often that he at length began
slapping Mr. Whittingham upon the back, and declaring that he was the
best fellow in the world.

The conversation became general; and some of it is worth recording.

"I hope to have your patronage, sir, for my circulating library," said
Mr. Cobbington to the butler.

"Depends, sir, upon the specified nature of the books it contains," was
the reply.

"I have nothing but moral romances in which vice is always punished and
virtue rewarded."

"That conduct of yours is highly credulous to you."

"All books is trash, except one," observed Mr. Drummer, winking his eyes
in an extraordinary manner. "They teaches naught but swearing, lewd
conversation, ungodliness, and that worst of all vices--intemperance."

"I beg you to understand, sir," exclaimed Mr. Guffins, who had hitherto
remained a silent spectator of the proceedings, although a persevering
partaker of the punch; "I beg you to understand, Mr. Drummer, my works,
sir, are not the trash you seem to allude to."

"I won't understand nothing nor nobody," answered the reverend
gentleman, swaying backwards and forwards in his chair. "Leave me to
commune with myself upon the vanities of this wicked world,
and--and--drink my punch in quiet."

"Humbug!" exclaimed the literary man, swallowing his resentment and the
remainder of his punch simultaneously.

"Ah!" said the bookseller, after a pause; "nothing now succeeds unless
it's in the comic line. We have comic Latin grammars, and comic Greek
grammars; indeed, I don't know but what English grammar, too, is a
comedy altogether. All our tragedies are made into comedies by the way
they are performed; and no work sells without comic illustrations to it.
I have brought out several new comic works, which have been very
successful. For instance, '_The Comic Wealth of Nations_;' '_The Comic
Parliamentary Speeches_;' '_The Comic Report of the Poor-Law
Commissioners_,' with an Appendix containing the '_Comic Dietary
Scale_;' and the '_Comic Distresses of the Industrious Population_.' I
even propose to bring out a '_Comic Whole Duty of Man_.' All these books
sell well: they do admirably for the nurseries of the children of the
aristocracy. In fact they are as good as manuals and text-books."

"This rage for the comic is most unexpressedly remarkable," observed the
butler.

"It is indeed!" ejaculated Snoggles; and, in order to illustrate the
truth of the statement, he jerked a piece of lemon-peel very cleverly
into the dissenting parson's left eye.

"That's right--stone me to death!" murmured the reverend gentleman. "My
name is Stephen--and it is all for righteousness' sake! I know I'm a
chosen vessel, and may become a martyr. My name is Stephen, I tell
you--Stephen Drum--um--ummer!"

He then began an eulogium upon meekness and resignation under injuries,
and reiterated his conviction that he was a chosen vessel; but, becoming
suddenly excited by a horse-laugh which fell upon his ear, he forgot all
about the chosen vessel, and lifted another very savagely from the
table. In a word, he seized a pewter pot in his hand, and would have
hurled it at Mr. Snoggles' head, had not Mr. Whittingham stopped the
dangerous missile in time, and pacified the reverend gentleman by
calling for more punch.

"We must certainly have those two men bound over to keep the peace,"
said Mac Chizzle; "two sureties in fifty, and themselves in a hundred,
each."

"I shall dress the whole scene up for one of the _Monthlies_," observed
Mr. Guffins.

"If you do, you'll be indictable for libel," said Mac Chizzle. "The
greater the truth, the greater the libel."

In the meanwhile Suggett and his friend Snoggles drew close to each
other, and entered into conversation.

"It must be about three years since I saw you last," said the latter.

"Three year, come January," observed Suggett.

"Ah! I've seed some strange wicissitudes in the interval," continued
Snoggles. "I went abroad as coachman, with a dashing young chap of the
name of Winchester--"

"The devil you did! how singular! why my present guvner's name is
Chichester."

"Well, I des say they're cousins then," said the ostler; "but I hope
your'n won't treat you as mine did me. He seemed to have no end of tin
for some months, and lived--my eye, how he lived! King's Bench dinners
ain't nothin' to what his'n was; and yet I've heard say that the
prisoners live there better than their creditors outside.
Howsomever--things didn't always go on swimmingly. We went to
Baden--called so cos of the baths; and there my guvner got involved in
some gambling transactions, as forced him to make his name _Walker_.
Well, he bolted, leaving all his traps behind, and me amongst them, and
not a skurrick to pay the hotel bill and find my way back agin to
England. The landlord he seized the traps, and I was forced to walk all
the way to--I forget the name of the place--"

"Constantinople, perhaps," said Suggett, kindly endeavouring to assist
his friend in his little geographical embarrassments.

"No; that ain't it," returned Snoggles. "Howsomever, I had every kind of
difficulty to fight up against; and I never see my guvner from that day
to this. He owed me eight pound, nineteen, and sixpence for wages; and
he was bound by contract to bring me back to England."

"Disgraceful raskel, that he was!" ejaculated Mr. Suggett. "I raly think
that we gentlemen ought to establish a society for our protection. The
Licensed Witlers have _their_ Association; why shouldn't we have the
Gentlemen's Gentlemen organized into a society?"

"Why not?" said Snoggles.

The waiter now acquainted the company that supper was ready in an
upstairs room for those who liked to partake of it. All the gentlemen
whose names have been introduced to the reader in connection with the
parlour of the _Servants' Arms_, removed to the banqueting saloon, where
the table was spread with a snow-white cloth and black handled knives
and forks. At intervals stood salt-cellars and pepper boxes, the latter
resembling in shape the three little domes upon the present National
Gallery in Trafalgar Square. A huge round of boiled beef tripe both
boiled and fried, and rump steaks, formed the supper. The methodist
parson insisted upon being allowed to say grace--or, as he expressed it,
"ask a blessing," for which purpose the same neighbours who had kindly
helped him up the stairs, now sustained him upon his legs. Dread was the
havoc then made upon the various dainties on the table, Mr. Guffins
being especially characterised by a good appetite upon this occasion.

The Reverend Mr. Drummer was also far from being behind-hand in this
onslaught upon the luxuries supplied by the _Servants' Arms_; and while
he bolted huge mouthfuls of boiled beef, he favoured the company with an
excellent moral dissertation upon abstemiousness and self-mortification.
Mr. Drummer was, however, one of those who content themselves with
inculcating morality, and do not consider it necessary to set an example
in their own persons; for, after having clearly demonstrated that
gluttony and drunkenness lead to blasphemy, ungodliness, and profane
swearing, he abruptly turned to the landlord, who presided at the
supper-table, and, holding his plate to be filled for the fourth time,
exclaimed, "D--n your eyes, don't cut it so infernally thick!"

After supper, "glasses round" of hot brandy and water were introduced,
and the conversation was carried on with considerable spirit. It was
midnight before the party thought of breaking up, although several of
the gentlemen present had already begun to see three or four Dutch
clocks staring them in the face besides the one which graced the wall.
As for the Reverend Mr. Drummer, he declared that he was so affected by
the ungodly proceedings of those present that he should forthwith
endeavour to wash away their guilt with his tears; and it is distressing
to be compelled to observe that all the reward this truly pious and
deserving man experienced at the hands of the ungrateful company, was
the cruel accusation that he was "crying drunk." This disgraceful
behaviour produced such an effect upon his naturally nervous
temperament, that he fell flat upon the floor, and was compelled to be
taken in a wheelbarrow to his own house close by.

We may also add here that on the following day this proceeding was
rumoured abroad, so that the much injured minister was necessitated to
justify his conduct from the pulpit on the ensuing sabbath. This he did
so effectually, that two old ladies, who carried small flasks of brandy
in their pockets, were conveyed out of the chapel in a peculiar
state--no doubt overpowered by the minister's eloquence. They however
recovered at the expiration of some hours, and immediately opened a
subscription to present a piece of plate to the Reverend Stephen
Drummer, together with a vote of thanks and confidence on the part of
the congregation. The vote was respectfully, but gratefully declined by
this holy man; but, after some little entreaty, he was prevailed upon to
accept the plate. From that time to the present day his congregation has
been rapidly increasing; and, although envy and jealousy have declared
that he himself helped to augment its numbers in the shape of three
innocent little children by different servant-girls, he very properly
disdained to contradict the report, and is considered by his flock to be
a chosen and savoury vessel of the Lord.




CHAPTER XII.

THE BANK-NOTES.


When Richard left the presence of Diana, after the full confession of
her frailty, he hurried home on horseback at a rate which kept pace with
his thoughts.

Upon reaching his dwelling, he retired to his apartment, and sate
himself down seriously to consider all that had taken place.

His eyes were now open to two facts:--in the first instance he saw that
he had been giving way to a passion which was dishonourable in respect
to the relations existing between its object and another individual--the
baronet; and, secondly, he perceived that even if that barrier were
removed, Diana was not the being whom he ought to make the partner of
his fortunes. He was endowed with feelings and notions of the most
scrupulous honour; and he deeply regretted that he should ever have been
induced to utter a word or manifest a sentiment towards Diana, which he
would have been ashamed for the baronet to become acquainted with. To
such an extent did he carry his notions of honour, that if, for
instance, he had pledged himself to keep a secret, he would sooner have
suffered himself to be put to death than have forfeited his word. Even
were a crime communicated to him in confidence, he would not have
benefitted society by handing the perpetrator over to justice. He thus
fell into an extreme almost as dangerous and fatal as the total absence
of moral rectitude.

If the reader should marvel how a young man possessing such punctilious
sentiments, could have so far forgotten himself as to declare his
affection to one who stood in the light of a friend's wife,--let it be
remembered that he was surprised into a partial avowal of that passion:
and that a certain impulse, favoured by a rapid succession of visits,
parties, and _tête-â-tête_ interviews, in which the object thereof was
always present, had hurried him onward up to that point when a word was
to decide his fate.

Love is a stream so rapid that he who embarks upon it does not observe
that his rude boat crushes the beauteous flowers upon the banks between
which it passes:--it is a river whose waters are those of oblivion, in
which all other passions, sentiments, and ideas are swallowed up.

O woman, what power hast thou over the heart of man! Thou wast born a
creature of grace and fascination: to whatever clime thou dost belong,
neither habit nor costume can deface in thee that natural charm of
witchery and love which characterises thee in all the relations of life.

Richard had not been long alone, when a knock at his door aroused him
from the reverie in which had been plunged; and Mr. Chichester entered
the room.

"My dear Markham," said he, "you must excuse the liberty which I take in
thus intruding upon your privacy; but what is the meaning of this? You
were to lunch with Harborough to-day, and we were all to dine together
in the evening. You called at Diana's; and from what you said upon
leaving, she fancied you were coming straight home. So I have galloped
all this way after you. You shut yourself up from your friends as if you
had a design upon your life."

"I am not well--I am anxious to be alone."

"But I shall not allow you to remain alone," said Chichester. "If you
should feel melancholy, what guarantee have I that you will not commit
suicide, or do what is nearly as bad--sit down and write sentimental
poetry?"

"I am not very likely to do either."

"You must come and join us: the baronet----"

"I would rather----"

"I can take no excuse. Order round your chestnut, and let us be off."

"Well--at all events I must go straight into the City first," said
Markham. "I have occasion to call at my guardian's banker."

"Will you join me at seven precisely this evening, at Harborough's own
lodgings in Conduit-street? We shall expect you."

"You may rely upon me," answered Markham who now suddenly experienced an
anxiety for society and bustle. "But who will be there?"

"Only the baronet, you, I, and Talbot--a _partie quarre_. Talbot is
really a good fellow at heart, and has taken a great liking to you.
Besides, he is the most liberal and generous fellow in existence. He
sent a hundred pounds to every hospital in London yesterday morning--his
annual donations; and he thinks that no one knows anything about it. He
always puts himself down as X. Y. Z. in the lists of charitable
subscriptions: he is so unostentatious!"

"Those are admirable traits in his character."

"They are, indeed. Just now, for instance, he heard of a horrid case of
distress. Only conceive a poor man, with nine small children and a wife
just ready to present him with a tenth, dragged to Whitecross Street
Prison, for a paltry hundred pounds! Talbot instantly called me aside,
and said, '_Chichester, my dear fellow, I have not time to attend to any
business to-day. There is a five hundred pound note; have the kindness
to get it changed for me, and devote a hundred pounds to save the
unhappy family._' Those were Talbot's own words," added Mr. Chichester
surveying Richard in a peculiar manner from under his eyebrows.

"How liberal! how grand! how noble!" exclaimed Richard, forgetting all
Mr. Talbot's vulgarity and coarseness, as he listened to these admirable
traits of philanthropy. "To be candid with you, I am myself going to the
banker's to draw some money; and when I see you this evening, I shall be
happy to place twenty pounds in your hands for the use of that poor
family."

"No, my dear fellow, keep your money: the baronet and I shall take care
of those poor people."

"Nay--I insist--"

"Well--I am sorry now that I told you of the circumstance."

"And I am very glad."

"There--you shall have your own way then. But, by the by," added
Chichester, a sudden thought appearing to strike him, "you are going
into the City, and to your banker's?"

"Yes. And you?"

"I am anxious to get back to the West End as hastily as possible,"
answered Chichester. "You could do me a service, if you would?"

"Name it," said Richard.

"Get this note changed for me in the City," returned Chichester: and as
he spoke he drew a Bank of England note for five hundred pounds from his
pocket.

"Oh! certainly," cried Markham; and he took charge of the note
accordingly.

He and Mr. Chichester then separated. Richard mounted his horse and rode
towards the City, while his friend proceeded to the West End.

At seven o'clock Richard was ushered into Sir Rupert Harborough's
drawing-room in Conduit-street, Hanover Square.

"There!" exclaimed Chichester, who was lounging upon the sofa; "I knew
that my melancholy young gentleman would be punctual."

"Delighted to see you, Markham," said the baronet, pressing his hand
with more than usual fervour.

"How are you, my tulip?" shouted Talbot. "Why, Chichester said you had
the blue devils!"

"I really felt unequal to society to-day," returned Richard; "and I
fancied that a little rest----"

"A little humbug!" ejaculated Mr. Talbot. "That's all my eye and my
elbow, Markham. A d--d good bottle of champagne will soon put you to
rights. But when I'm ill, what do you think I always take?"

"I really can't guess."

"Why, going to bed I always take a pint of dog's nose. There's nothing
like dog's-nose for getting into the system. You must have it in the
pewter, you know--and nice and hot: you will then sweat a bucket-full in
the course of the night, and get up in the morning as right as a trivet.
I can assure you there's nothing like dog's-nose."

"And pray what is dog's-nose!" enquired Richard.

"Well, may I be hanged! you are jolly green not to know what dog's-nose
is! You take half a pint of the best half-and-half--or you may have ale
all alone, if you like--a quartern of blue ruin----"

"It is a mixture of gin, beer, and sugar," said Mr. Chichester,
impatiently.

"Well, and why couldn't you let me tell the gentleman how to make
dog's-nose in my own manner?" asked Talbot, somewhat sulkily. "However,
there's nothing better than dog's-nose for the gripes, or wind on the
stomach, or the rheumatics. For my part----"

"D--n your part!" cried the Honourable Arthur Chichester, now absolutely
losing all patience.

Fortunately for all parties, the door was at that moment thrown open,
and a valet announced that dinner was served up. Richard took advantage
of the haste with which Mr. Talbot rushed down stairs to the
dining-room, to slip a bundle of Bank of England notes and a quantity of
gold into Chichester's hand, whispering at the same time "There is your
change, together with my twenty pounds for the poor family."

"Thank you, my boy," said Chichester, and over Markham's shoulder, he
exchanged with the baronet a significant glance of satisfaction
amounting almost to joy.

Meantime Mr. Talbot had rushed to his place at the dinner-table,
declaring that "he was uncommonly peckish," and began sharpening his two
knives one against the other. The baronet took his seat at the top of
the table; Mr. Chichester at the bottom; and Markham sate opposite to
Talbot.

"This soup is unexceptionable," observed Chichester: "I never tasted
better save once--and that was at the King of Prussia's table."

"Ah! I once had d--d good pea-soup, I remember, at the Duke of Lambeth's
table," ejaculated Mr. Talbot. "But, I say, who the devil's that kicking
my unfortunate soft corn?"

"A glass of wine, Markham?" said Chichester "I suppose we'd all better
join in," suggested Talbot.

"_I_ shall be happy to drink wine with _you_, Mr. Talbot," said the
baronet, with a reproving emphasis upon the pronouns.

"Just as you please," returned the man of charity, who certainly
required some virtue or another to cover such a multitude of sins of
vulgarity. "I wonder what's coming next. I say, Harborough, you haven't
ordered any tripe, have you? I am so fond of tripe. There's nothing like
tripe and onions for supper."

The dinner passed away; and the bottle was circulated pretty freely.
Richard regained his good spirits, and offered no objection when
Chichester proposed a stroll up Regent's-street with a cigar.

The baronet and Talbot went together first; and Markham was about to
follow, when Chichester drew him back into the dining-room, and said,
"Excuse me: but you went to your banker's to-day. If you have much money
about you, it is not safe to carry it about the streets of London at
night-time."

"I have fifty-five pounds in gold and fifty pounds in notes," answered
Markham.

"Notes are safe enough," returned Chichester; "but gold is dangerous.
Some one would be sure to _frisk_ your purse. Here--I tell you how we
can manage it--give me fifty sovereigns, and I will give you a fifty
pound note in exchange. I can then lock up the gold in the baronet's
writing-desk, the key of which, I see, he has fortunately left in the
lock."

Chichester glanced, as he spoke, to the writing-desk, which stood upon a
little table between the windows.

"I am much obliged to you for the thought," said Richard: "it is very
considerate of you."

He accordingly handed over his purse of gold to his kind friend, and
received in exchange a fifty pound note, which Mr. Chichester selected
from a huge roll that he took from his pocket.

The two gentlemen then hastened to rejoin the baronet and Talbot, whom
they overtook in Regent-street.

They all walked leisurely along towards the Quadrant; and while Talbot
engaged Markham in conversation upon some trivial topic or another,
Chichester related in a few words to the baronet the particulars of the
little pecuniary arrangement which had just taken place.




CHAPTER XIII.

THE HELL.


After having taken a few turns in Regent-street, the baronet observed
"that it was devilish slow work;" Mr. Talbot suggested the propriety of
"a spree;" and Mr. Chichester declared "that as his friend Markham was
anxious to see _life_, the best thing they could all do was to drop in
for an hour at No. ----, Quadrant."

"What place is that?" demanded Markham.

"Oh; only an establishment for cards and dice, and other innocent
diversions," carelessly answered Chichester.

The Quadrant of an evening is crowded with loungers of both sexes.
Beneath those arcades walk the daughters of crime, by ones and
twos--dressed in the flaunting garb that tells so forcibly the tale of
broken hearts, and blighted promise, and crushed affections,--to lose an
hour amidst the haunts of pleasure and of vice, and to court the crime
by which alone they live. The young men that saunter arm-in-arm up and
down, and the hoary old sinners, whose licentious glances seem to plunge
down into the depths of the boddices of those frail but beauteous girls,
little think of the amount of mental suffering which is contained
beneath those gay satins and rustling silks. They mark the heaving of
the voluptuous bosom, but dream not of the worm that gnaws eternally
within:--they behold smiles upon the red lips, and are far from
suspecting that the hearts of those who laugh so joyfully are all but
broken!

Thus is it that in the evening the Quadrant has a characteristic set of
loungers of its own:--or, at least, it is frequented after dusk by a
population whose characters are easily to be defined.

A bright lamp burnt in the fan-light over the door of No. ----. Mr.
Chichester gave a loud and commanding knock; and a policeman standing
by, who doubtless had several golden reasons for not noticing anything
connected with that establishment, instantly ran across the road after a
small boy whom he suspected to be a thief, because the poor wretch wore
an uncommonly shabby hat. The summons given by Mr. Chichester was not
immediately answered. Five minutes elapsed ere any attention was paid to
it; and then the door was only opened to the small extent allowed by a
chain inside. A somewhat repulsive looking countenance was at the same
time protruded from behind the door.

"Well?" said the man to whom the countenance belonged.

"All right," returned Chichester.

The chain was withdrawn, and the door was opened to its full extent. The
party was thereupon admitted, with some manifestations of impatience on
the part of the porter, who no doubt thought that the door was kept open
too long, into a passage at the end of which was a staircase covered
with a handsome carpet.

Chichester led the way, and his companions followed, up to a suite of
rooms on the first floor. These were well furnished, and brilliantly
lighted; and red moreen curtains, with heavy and rich fringes, were
carefully drawn over the windows. Splendid mirrors stood above the
mantels, which were also adorned with French timepieces in _or molu_, and
candelabra of the same material. On one side of the front room stood a
bouffet covered with wines and liquors of various descriptions.

In the middle of that same front apartment was the _rouge et noir_
table. On each side sate a _Croupier_, with a long rake in his hand, and
a green shade over his eyes. Before one of them was placed a tin case:
this was the _Bank_;--and on each side of that cynosure of all
attention, stood little piles of markers, or counters.

Two or three men--well but flashily dressed, and exhibiting a monstrous
profusion of Birmingham jewellery about their persons--sate at the
table. These were the _Bonnets_--individuals in reality in the pay of
the proprietor of the establishment, and whose duties consist in
enticing strangers and visitors to play, or in maintaining an appearance
of playing deeply when such strangers and visitors first enter the room.

The countenances of the croupiers were cold, passionless, and totally
devoid of any animation. They called the game, raked up the winnings, or
paid the losings, without changing a muscle of their features. For all
that regarded animation or excitement, they might have been easily
passed off as automatons.

[Illustration]

Not so was it with the Bonnets. These gentlemen were compelled to affect
exuberant joy when they won, and profound grief or rage when they lost.
From time to time they paid a visit to the sideboard, and helped
themselves to wine or spirits, or regaled themselves with cigars. These
refreshments were supplied gratuitously to all comers by the proprietor:
this apparent liberality was upon the principle of throwing out a sprat
to catch a whale.

When none save the Croupiers and Bonnets are present, they throw aside
their assumed characters, and laugh, and joke, and chatter, and smoke,
and drink; but the moment steps are heard upon the staircase, they all
relapse with mechanical exactitude into their business aspect. The
Croupiers put on their imperturbable countenances as easily as if they
were masks; and the Bonnets appear to be as intent upon the game, as if
its results were to them perspective life or death.

The Croupiers are usually trustworthy persons well known to the
proprietor, or else shareholders themselves in the establishment. The
Bonnets are young men of education and manners, who have probably lost
the ample fortunes wherewith they commenced life, in the very whirlpool
to which, for a weekly stipend, they are employed to entice others.

In one of the inner rooms there was a roulette-table; but this was
seldom used. A young lad held the almost sinecure office of attending
upon it.

The front room was tolerably crowded on the evening when Chichester,
Markham, the baronet, and Talbot, honoured the establishment with a
visit.

The moment they entered the apartment, Richard instinctively drew back,
and, catching hold of Chichester's arm, whispered to him in a hurried
and anxious manner, "Tell me, is this a Gambling-House? is it what I
have heard called a Hell?"

"It is a Gambling-House, if you will, my dear fellow," was the reply;
"but a most respectable one. Besides--you must see life, you know!"

With these words he took Markham's arm, and conducted him up to the
_rouge et noir_ table.

A young officer, whose age could not have exceeded twenty, was seated
at the further end of the green-baize covered board. A huge pile of
notes and gold lay before him; but at rapid intervals one of the
Croupiers raked away the stakes which he deposited; and thus his heap of
money was gradually growing smaller.

"Well, this is extraordinary!" ejaculated the young officer; "I never
saw the luck set so completely in against me. However--I can afford to
lose a little; for I broke your bank for you last night, my boys?"

"What does that mean?" demanded Richard in a whisper.

"He won all the money which the proprietor deposited in that tin case,
he means," replied Chichester.

"And how much do you suppose that might be?"

"About fifteen hundred to two thousand pounds."

"Here--waiter!" exclaimed the young officer, who had just lost another
stake,--"a glass of claret."

The waiter handed him a glass of the wine so demanded. The young officer
did not notice him for a moment, but waited to see the result of the
next chance.

He lost again.

He turned round to seize the glass of wine; but when his eyes caught
sight of it, his countenance became almost livid with rage.

"Fool! idiot!" he ejaculated, starting from his seat: "bring me a
tumbler--a large tumbler full of claret; my mouth is as parched as h--l,
and my stomach is like a lime-kiln."

The waiter hastened to comply with the wishes of the young gambler. The
tumbler of claret was supplied; and the game continued.

Still the officer lost.

"A cigar!" he shouted, in a fearful state of excitement--"bring me a
cigar!"

The waiter handed him a box of choice Havannahs, that he might make his
selection.

"Why the devil don't you bring a light at the same time, you d--d
infernal rascal?" cried the gamester; and while the domestic hastened to
supply this demand also, he poured a volley of most horrible oaths at
the bewildered wretch's head.

Again the play proceeded.

And again the young officer lost.

His pile of gold was gone: the Croupier who kept the bank changed one of
his remaining notes.

"That makes three thousand that I have lost already, by G--d!"
ejaculated the young officer.

"Including the amount you won last night, I believe," said one of the
Bonnets.

"Well, sir, and suppose it is--what the deuce is that to you?" demanded
the officer fiercely. "Have I not been here night after night for these
six weeks? and have I not lost thousands--thousands? When did I ever get
a vein of good luck until last night? But never mind--I'll play on--I'll
play till the end: I will either win all back, or lose everything
together. And then--in the latter case--"

He stopped: he had just lost again. His countenance grew ghastly pale,
and he bit his lips convulsively.

"Claret--more claret!" he exclaimed, throwing away the Havannah: "that
cigar only makes me the more thirsty."

And again the play proceeded.

"I am really afraid to contemplate that young man's countenance,"
whispered Markham to Chichester.

"Why so?"

"I have an idea that if he should prove unsuccessful he will commit
suicide. I have a great mind just to mention my fears to these men in
the green shades, who seem to be winning all his money."

"Pray be quiet. They will only laugh at you."

"But the life of a fellow-creature?"

"What do they care?"

"Do you mean to say they are such wretches--"

"I mean that they do not care one fig what may happen so long as they
get the money."

Markham was struck speechless with horror as he heard this cold-blooded
announcement. Chichester had however stated nothing but the truth.

The proceedings were now fearfully interesting. The young officer was
worked up to a most horrible state of excitement: his losses continued
to be unvaried by a single gleam of good fortune. Still he persisted in
his ruinous career: note after note was changed. At length his last was
melted into gold. He now became absolutely desperate: his countenance
was appalling;--the frenzy of gambling and the inflammatory effects of
the liquors he had been drinking, rendered his really handsome features
positively hideous.

Markham had never beheld such a scene before, and felt afraid. His
companions surveyed it with remarkable coolness.

The play proceeded; and in a few moments the officer's last stake was
swept away.

Then the croupiers paused, as it were, by common consent; and all eyes
were directed towards the object of universal interest.

"Well--I said I would play until I won all or lost all," he said; "and I
have done so. Waiter, give me another tumbler of claret: it will compose
me."

He laughed bitterly as he uttered these words.

The claret was brought: he drained the tumbler, and threw it upon the
table, where it broke into a dozen pieces.

"Clear this away, Thomas," said one of the Croupiers, completely
unmoved.

"Yes, sir;" and the fragments of the tumbler disappeared forthwith.

The Bonnets, perceiving the presence of other strangers, were now
compelled to withdraw their attention from the ruined gambler, and
commence playing.

And so the play again proceeded.

"Where is my hat, waiter?" demanded the young officer, after a pause,
during which he had gazed vacantly upon the game.

"In the passage, sir--I believe."

"No--I remember, it is in the inner room. But do not trouble yourself--I
will fetch it myself."

"Very good, sir;" and the waiter did not move.

The young officer sauntered, in a seeming leisurely manner, into the
innermost room of the suite.

"What a shocking scene!" whispered Markham to Chichester. "I am glad I
came hither this once: it will be a lesson for me which I can never
forget."

At this instant the report of a pistol echoed sharply through the rooms.

There was a simultaneous rush to the inner apartment:--Markham's
presentiments were fulfilled--the young officer had committed suicide.

His brains were literally blown out, and he lay upon the carpet
weltering in his blood.

A cry of horror burst from the strangers present; and then, with one
accord, they hastened to the door. The baronet, Chichester, and Talbot,
were amongst the foremost who made this movement, and were thereby
enabled to effect their escape.

Markham stood rivetted to the spot, unaware that his companions had left
him, and contemplating with feelings of supreme horror the appalling
spectacle before him.

Suddenly the cry of "The police" fell upon his ears; and heavy steps
were heard hurrying up the staircase.

"The Bank!" ejaculated one of the Croupiers.

"All right!" cried the other; and in a moment the lights were
extinguished, as by magic, throughout the entire suite of rooms.

Obeying a natural impulse, Markham hastened towards the door; but his
progress was stopped by a powerful hand, and in an instant the
bull's-eye of a lantern glared upon his countenance.

He was in the grasp of a police officer.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE STATION-HOUSE.


OF all the persons who were in the gambling-house at the moment when the
police, alarmed by the report of the pistol, broke in, Richard Markham
was alone captured. The others, aware of the means of egress in
emergencies of this kind, had rushed up stairs, entered upon the leads,
and thus obtained admittance into the adjacent dwelling, from whose
friendly doors they subsequently issued one by one when all was once
more quiet in the street.

The police-officer conducted Markham to the nearest station-house. They
entered a low dark gloomy apartment, which was divided into two parts by
means of a thick wooden bar running across the room, about two feet and
a half from the ground. There was a small dull fire in the grate; and in
a comfortable arm-chair near it, was seated the inspector--a short,
stout, red-faced, consequential-looking man, with a pen stuck behind his
left ear. A policeman in uniform was standing at a high desk, turning
over the leaves of a large book; and another officer in plain clothes
(and very plain and shabby they were too) was lounging before the fire,
switching the dust out of his trousers with a thin cane.

"Well, what now?" said the inspector, gruffly, as Markham was conducted
into the office, and led behind the bar, towards the fire.

"Me, and Jones, and Jenkins, broke into No.--, in the Quadrant, as we
heard a pistol--or else we should ha' known ourselves better; and this
young feller is all we caught. Jones and Jenkins is staying in the house
along with the dead body of the man as killed his self."

The inspector indulged in a good long stare at Markham; and, when his
curiosity was completely gratified, he said, "Now, Crisp, we'll enter
that charge, if you please."

The policeman standing at the desk turned to the proper leaf in the
large book before him, and then took down the deposition of the officer
who had apprehended Markham.

When this was done, the inspector proceeded, in a very pompous and
magisterial manner, to question the prisoner.

"What is your name, young man?"

"Richard Markham."

"Oh! Richard Markham. Put that down, Crisp. Where do you live?"

"At Markham Place, near Holloway."

"Put that down, Crisp. Now, do you want to let any of your friends know
that you are in trouble?"

"First tell me of what I am accused, and why I am detained."

"You are accused of being in an unlawful house for an unlawful
purpose--namely, gambling; and a suicide has been committed there, they
say. You will be wanted afore the coroner as well as the magistrate."

"Can I be released until to-morrow by giving security for my
appearance?"

"No--I can't part with you. It is said that it is suicide--and I believe
it: still it might be murder. But you seem a respectable young
gentleman, and so you sha'nt be locked up in a cell all night. You may
sit here by the fire, if you'll be quiet."

"I am at least obliged to you for this courtesy. But can you give me any
idea of the extent of the penalty to which I am liable? I did not gamble
myself--I merely accompanied----"

"You need'nt criminate anybody, you know," interrupted the Inspector.
"The Magistrate will fine you a few pounds, and that will be all."

"Then I should prefer not to acquaint my friends with my position," said
Markham, "since I can release myself from my present difficulty without
their assistance."

Reassured by this conviction, though still strangely excited by the
appalling scene which he had witnessed, Richard seated himself by the
fire, and soon fell into conversation with the policemen. These men
could talk of nothing but themselves or their pursuits: they appeared to
live in a world of policeism; all their ideas were circumscribed to
station-houses, magistrates' offices, prisons, and criminal courts of
justice. Their discourse was moreover garnished with the slang terms of
thieves; they could not utter a sentence without interpolating a
swell-mob phrase or a Newgate jest. They seemed to be so familiar with
crime (though not criminal themselves) that they could not devote a
moment to the contemplation of virtue: they only conversed about persons
who were "in trouble," but never condescended to lavish a thought to
those who were out of it.

"Crankey Jem has done it brown at last, has'nt he?" said Crisp.

"He has indeed," replied the inspector. "But what could he have done
with all the swag?"[1]

"Oh! he's fadded[2] that safe enough," observed the officer in plain
clothes. "My eye! What a slap-up lily benjamin[3] he had on when he was
nabbed."

"Yes--and sich a swell bandanna fogle[4] in the gropus."[5]

"He had'nt any ready tin though; for he wanted to peel,[6] and put the
white-poodle up the spout[7] for a drop of max."[8]

"And because you would'nt let him he doubled you up with a wallop in
your dumpling-depot,[9] did'nt he?"

"Yes--but I bruised his canister[10] for him though."

"This'll be the third time he's been up afore the beaks[11] at the Old
Bailey."

"Consequently he's sartain sure to be lagged."[12]

"Ah! it must be a clever nob in the fur trade[13] who'll get him off."

"Well--talking makes me thirsty," said Crisp. "I wish I'd someot to
sluice my ivories[14] with."

Markham entertained a faint idea that Mr. Crisp was athirst; he
accordingly offered to pay for anything; which he and his brother
policemen chose to drink.

The officer in plain clothes was commissioned to procure some
"heavy-wet"--_alias_ porter; and even the pompous, and magisterial
inspector condescended to take what he called "a drain," but which in
reality appeared to be something more than a pint.

The harmony was disturbed by the entrance of a constable dragging in a
poor ragged, half-starved, and emaciated lad, without shoes or
stockings.

"What's the charge?" demanded the inspector.

"A rogue and vagabond," answered the constable.

"Oh! very well: put that down, Crisp. How do you know?"

"Because he's wandering about and hasn't no where to go to, and no
friends to refer to and I saw him begging."

"Very good; put that down, Crisp. And I suppose he's without food and
hungry?"

"I have not tasted food--" began the poor wretch, who stood shivering at
the bar.

"Come, no lies," ejaculated the inspector.

"No lies!" echoed the constable, giving the poor wretch a tremendous
shake.

"Have you put it all down, Crisp?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, let him have a bit of bread, and lock him up. He'll get three
months of it on the stepper to-morrow."

The poor creature was supplied with a cubic inch of stale bread, and
then thrust into a filthy cell.

"What do you think that unfortunate creature will be done to?" enquired
Markham.

"Three months on the stepper--the treadmill, to be sure."

"But what for?"

"Why, for a rogue and vagabond."

"A vagabond he may be," said Markham, "because he has no home to go to;
but how do you know he is a rogue?"

"Why--he was found begging, wasn't he?"

"And does that make a man a rogue?"

"Certainly it do--in the eye of the law."

"Ah! and that eye can see without spectacles too," added Mr. Crisp with
a laugh.

Markham was reflecting profoundly upon the law's definitions of _rogue_
and _vagabond_, when another constable entered, leading in an elderly
man, belonging to the humbler class, but very cleanly in appearance.

"Well, what's the charge?" demanded the inspector.

"This fellow will come upon my beat with his apple-cart, and I can't
keep him off. So I've sent his cart to the Green Yard, and brought him
here."

"Please, sir," said the poor fellow, wiping away a tear from his eye, "I
endeavour to earn an honest living by selling a little fruit in the
streets. I have a wife and seven children to support, and I only stayed
out so long to-night because I had had a bad day of it, and the money is
so much wanted at home--it is indeed, sir! I do hope you'll let me go,
sir: my poor wife will be ready to break her heart when she finds that I
don't come home; and my eldest boy always sits up for me. Poor little
fellow! he will cry so if he don't kiss _Father_ before he goes to bed."

There was something profoundly touching in this poor man's manner and
language; and Markham felt inclined to interfere in his behalf. He,
however, remembered that he was only allowed to sit in that room by
suffrance, and that he was at the mercy of the caprice of ignorant,
tyrannical, and hard-hearted men: he accordingly held his tongue.

"Come, Crisp--have you got that down?" said the inspector.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, let the man be locked up: the magistrate must decide in the
morning."

And the poor fellow, in spite of his remonstrances, was removed to a
cell.

"I could not exactly understand what this new prisoner has done," said
Markham.

"Obstructed the way and created a nuisance," replied the inspector
pompously.

"But he is endeavouring to earn his bread honestly, I think; and the
road is open to every one."

"Oh! no such thing. Those little carts frighten the horses in the great
folks' carriages, and can't be allowed. He must have a month of it--he's
been warned several times, and is incorrigible. I'll tell the magistrate
so."

"And what will become of his family?"

"Family! why, go to the workhouse, to be sure!" Presently a third
constable made his appearance, accompanied by a poor miserable-looking
woman and three small children--all wretchedly clad and careworn.

"What's the charge now?"

"Charge from the workus. This here o'oman was admitted to-night to the
Union with them three children; and 'cos the master ordered her to be
separated from her children, she kicked up hell's delight. So the master
turned 'em all out together, called me up, and give 'em in charge."

"Put that down, Crisp."

"Yes--and it is true too," sobbed the poor woman. "I am not ashamed to
own that I love my children; and up to this blessed hour they have never
been separated from me. It would break their poor little hearts to be
torn away from me--that it would, God bless them! I love them all,
poor--miserable as I am!"

A flood of tears drowned the voice of this wretched mother.

"Inspector," said Markham, touched to the quick by this affecting scene,
"you will allow me----"

"Silence, young man. It's a charge from the workus, and the workus is
paramount."

"So it appears, indeed!" cried Richard bitterly.

"Silence, I say. Don't interfere, there's a good lad. Crisp, have you
got it all down?"

"Yes, sir."

"Lock 'em up, then."

"At least we shall be together!" exclaimed the unfortunate mother, to
whom the three little children clung with all the tenacity of sincere
affection.

An hour elapsed, when another policeman entered, bringing in a man
dressed as an ostler, and whose face was all covered with blood.

"Well--what now?"

"Fighting in the _Blue Dragon_: the landlord turned him out, and so I
took him up."

"Put that down, Crisp. What's your name, my fine fellow?"

"John Snoggles."

"Put that down, Crisp. He's a nice bird, isn't he, Mr. Markham?" added
the inspector.

"Markham!" ejaculated the new prisoner.

"Yes--that is my name," said Richard: "do you know me?"

"Not that I am aweer of sir. Only the name reminded me that I have been
this evening in the company of a gentleman as is in the service of a
Mr. Markham. I left the _Servants' Arms_ at twelve precisely, and walked
straight down to this here wicinity--I ain't been more than half an hour
coming--when I gets into a row----"

"Well, well," said Richard, somewhat impatiently "and what is the name
of the person with whom you have passed the evening?"

"With several gentlemen--but the one I named was Vittingham."

"Whittingham! he is my butler. Poor fellow! how anxious he will be about
me."

"He's too drunk to be anxious," said Snoggles drily: "I was the on'y one
as come away sober."

"I tell you what he could do, if you like," observed the inspector, who
now began to entertain an idea of Markham's standing in society by the
mention of the word _butler_: "there is no one here to make any charge
against the fellow--the constable will withdraw it, and he can take a
note home for you."

"A thousand thanks!" ejaculated Markham. "But you intimated that he was
tipsy?"

"He is certainly elevated," answered Snoggles.

"Well, can you be at my house to-morrow morning by six or seven
o'clock?"

"Of course I can, sir."

"I need not write: you can say that you have seen me, and that I shall
be home in the course of the day. Do not mention where I am: I would not
have him coming here to seek me."

Markham slipped half a sovereign into the hands of Snoggles, who took
his departure with a faithful promise to execute the commission
entrusted to him, and not a little pleased at having so pleasantly
escaped a night in the station-house.

It was now past one o'clock; and Markham, feeling rather drowsy, lay
down to slumber for a few hours upon a bench, wrapped up in Mr. Crisp's
police-coat.




CHAPTER XV.

THE POLICE-OFFICE.


The morning was rainy, cold, and lowering.

Markham awoke unrefreshed by his sleep, which had been haunted by the
ghost of the young officer who had committed suicide at the Hell. He
shivered and felt nervous; as if under the impulse of some impending
danger whose nature he could not altogether define. By the good offices
of Crisp he obtained the means of washing himself and arranging his
toilette previous to an appearance at the police-court; and the same
intervention procured him a good breakfast. As he, however, could not
eat a morsel, Mr. Crisp very kindly and considerately devoured it all
for him.

At about half-past nine o'clock the various constables connected with
the charges entered in the police-sheet, arrived at the station-house
for the purpose of conducting their prisoners to the Police-court. All
those persons who were charged with felony were handcuffed; but of this
class the most knowing contrived to bring their hands beneath their
garments in some way or other, and thus conceal the symbol of ignominy
as they passed through the streets.

Richard was astonished at the number of women who were charged with
intoxication and disorderly conduct; and the chivalrous admiration of
the whole sex which he felt, and which is so natural to youth, was
considerably diminished by the hardened appearance and revolting
language of these females.

Markham and the constable who had arrested him proceeded in a cab
together to the police-office in Marlborough Street. Upon reaching that
establishment, the officer said, "The Magistrate will hear the _drunk_
and _assault_ charges first; so it may be an hour or more before your
business will come on. I ought by rights to lock you up; but if you
like, we can stay together in the public-house there; and one of my
partners will let us know when the case is coming on."

This arrangement was very acceptable to Richard; and to the nearest
public-house did he and the constable accordingly adjourn. For this
handsome accommodation all that he had to pay was half-a-guinea to the
officer, besides liquidating the score for as much liquor as the said
officer and every one of his "partners" who happened to drop in, could
consume.

For the present we must request the reader to accompany us to the
interior of the police-office.

In a small, low, badly-lighted room, sate an elderly gentleman at a
desk. This was the Magistrate. Near him was the clerk, whom the worthy
functionary consulted so often that it almost seemed as if this clerk
were a peripatetic law-manual or text-book. In front of the desk were
the bar and the dock; and the space between them and the door was filled
with policemen and the friends of those "who had got into trouble."

The first charge was called. A man dressed in the garb of a common
labourer was accused of being drunk and incapable of taking care of
himself. The Magistrate put on a most awfully severe and frowning
countenance, and said in a gruff tone, "Well, my man, what do you say to
this charge?"

"Please your worship," observed the prisoner, scratching his head, "I am
out of work, and my wife has pawned all our little bits of things for
food for the children, and yesterday morning I was forced to go out to
look for work without any breakfast. There was but a little bread left,
and that I would not touch for all the world. Well, your worship, I was
fortunate enough to get the promise of some work for Monday; and meeting
a friend, he asked me to have a glass. Now beer upon an empty stomach,
your worship----"

The Magistrate, who had been reading a newspaper during this defence,
now lifted up his head, and exclaimed, "Well, you do'nt deny the charge:
you are fined five shillings. Call the next case."

"But your worship----"

"Call the next case."

The poor fellow was dragged away from the bar by two huge policemen; and
an elegantly dressed person of about twenty-six years of age was
introduced to the notice of the magistrate.

"What is your name?" enquired the clerk.

"Name! Oh--John Jenkins," was the reply, delivered in a flippant and
free-and-easy manner.

The Clerk and the Magistrate whispered together.

A constable then stood forward, and stated the charge. The prisoner at
the bar had turned out of a flash tavern in the Haymarket at one in the
morning, and commenced crowing like a cock, and ringing at front-door
bells, and playing all imaginable kinds of antics. When the constable
interfered, the gentleman knocked him down; and had not another
policeman come up to the spot at the moment, the said gentleman never
would have been taken into custody.

The Magistrate cross-questioned the policeman who gave evidence in this
case, with great severity; and then, turning with a bland smile to the
prisoner, who was surveying the clerk through his eye glass in as
independent a manner as if he were lounging over the front of his box at
the opera, the worthy functionary said in a tone of gentle entreaty,
"Now really we have reason to suspect that John Jenkins is _not_ your
name. In fact, my lord, we know you."

"Well, then," exclaimed the prisoner, turning his eye-glass from the
clerk upon the magistrate, "chalk me up as Lord Plymouth, since you are
down upon me in this way."

"My lord--my lord," said the Magistrate, with parental urbanity of
manner, "these little freaks of yours are really not creditable: upon my
honour they are not. I sit here to administer justice to the rich as
well as to the poor----"

"Oh! you do, do you?" cried the nobleman. "Now I tell you what it is--if
you dare talk any of your nonsense about prisons and houses of
correction to me, I'll not stand it. You know as well as I do that
whenever a barrister is to be appointed magistrate, the Home Secretary
sends for him and tells him to mind his P's and Q's towards the
aristocracy. So none of your nonsense; but be quick and let me off with
the usual fine."

"My lord," ejaculated the Magistrate, glancing with consternation from
the prisoner to the clerk, and from the clerk to the prisoner; "did I
not say that I sate here to administer equal justice to the rich and the
poor? The fine for drunkenness is five shillings, my lord--and in that
sum I fine you. As for the assault upon the policeman, I give you leave
to speak to him outside."

The nobleman demanded change for a ten pound note, and threw the five
shillings in a contemptuous and insolent manner towards the Clerk, who
thanked his lordship as if he had just received an especial favour. The
assault was easily settled _outside_; and the nobleman drove away in an
elegant cab, just as the wife of the poor labourer departed in tears
from her husband's cell for the purpose of pledging every remaining
article of clothing that could possibly be dispensed with, to raise the
five shillings wherewith to procure his liberation.

Several other cases of intoxication, disorderly conduct, and
"obstruction of the police in the exercise of their duty"--which last
embraced the veriest trifles as well as the most daring attempts at
rescue--were then disposed of. In all instances the constables
endeavoured to exaggerate the conduct of the accused, and never once
attempted to palliate it; and as the Magistrate seemed to place implicit
confidence in every word the police uttered (although one or two cases
of gross perjury were proved against them), convictions were much more
frequent than acquittals.

The cases of the poor starving emaciated beggar, the apple-cart man, and
the affectionate mother, who had all three so powerfully excited
Markham's attention at the station-house, were called on one after
another consecutively. Fortunately the inspector was not present at the
time to use his influence against the two first, and the master of the
workhouse did not appear to press the charge against the last. They were
all three accordingly discharged, with a severe admonition--the first
against begging and being houseless--the second against earning an
honest livelihood by selling fruit in the streets--and the third against
clamouring in a workhouse for the mere trifle of being separated from
her children.

As these three individuals emerged from the police-office, they were
accosted by Mr. Crisp, who informed them that they were "wanted" by a
gentleman at a public-house in the neighbourhood. Thither did the trio
of unfortunates, accompanied by the poor woman's children, proceed; and
great was their surprise when Mr. Crisp officiously introduced them into
a private room which Markham had engaged.

Richard and the police-officer in whose charge he remained, were there;
and the moment the poor creatures were shown in, they were accosted by
that young man whose ingenuous countenance inspired them with confidence
and hope.

"My good friends," said he, "I was in the station-house last night when
you arrived; and your sad tales touched me to the quick. Now, with
regard to you, my poor lad," he continued, addressing himself to the
_rogue and vagabond_, "what prospect have you before you? In what way
could a friend aid you?"

"My brother, sir, is well off, and would assist me," replied the poor
creature, "if I could but get to him. He lives in Edinburgh, and is well
to do as a wheelwright."

"Here are two guineas for you, my friend," said Richard. "They will take
you home; and then may your reception be as favourable as you seem to
think. There--I do not want you to thank me: go--and commence your
journey at once."

The poor fellow pressed Markham's hand with the most enthusiastic
gratitude, and took his departure with tears in his eyes and gladness in
his heart.

"And now, my good man," said Richard to the owner of the apple-cart,
"what do you propose to do?"

"To speak the truth, sir, I don't know. The police seem determined that
I shan't earn an honest livelihood: and as I am equally resolved not to
see my children starve before me, I have nothing left to do but to
become a thief. I shan't be the first whom the police have driven to
that last resource in this city."

"You speak bitterly," said Markham.

"Yes--because I tell the truth, sir. My cart is to be returned to me;
but of what use is it, or the stock that is in it, since I don't dare go
about to sell fruit?"

"Could you not open a little shop?"

"Ah! sir--that requires money!"

"How much?"

"A matter of four or five pounds, sir," replied the man; "and where
could a poor devil like me----"

"I will give you five pounds for the purpose;" interrupted Markham; and
taking from his pocket-book a bank note, he handed it to the poor man.

We will not attempt to depict his gratitude: words would completely fail
to convey an idea of the exuberant joy which filled the heart of that
good and affectionate father, who would rather have become a thief than
seen his children starve!

"And now, my good woman, what can I do for you?" said Markham, turning
to the third object of his charity. "How in the name of heaven, came you
reduced, with three children, to such a state of want and destitution?"

"My husband, sir, is in prison," answered the poor creature, bursting
into tears, while her children clung the more closely around her.

"In prison! and for what crime?"

"Oh! crime, sir--it is only a crime in the eye of the law, but not in
the eye of either man or heaven."

"My good woman, this is absurd. Is there any offence of which the law
alone takes cognisance, and which is not reprehensible in the eye of
God?"

"On the contrary, sir--God has given us for our general use and benefit
the very thing which the law has forbidden us to take."

"This is trifling!" exclaimed Richard impatiently. "Can you, whom I
behold so affectionate to your children, be hardened in guilt?"

"Do not think so, sir! My husband was a hard working man--never spent an
hour at the public-house--never deprived his family of a farthing of his
wages. He was a pattern to all married men--and his pride was to see his
children well-dressed and happy. Alas, sir--we were too happy not to
meet with some sad reverse! My husband in an evil hour went out shooting
one afternoon, when there was a holiday at the factory where he worked;
and he killed a hare upon a nobleman's grounds near Richmond. He was
taken up and tried for poaching, and was sentenced to a year's
imprisonment with hard labour! This term expires in six weeks; but in
the meantime--O God! what have we not suffered!"

"Ah! forgive me," ejaculated Markham, deeply touched by this recital: "I
spoke harshly to you, because I did not remember that the law could be
guilty of a deed of such inhuman atrocity. And yet I have heard of
many--many such cases ere now! Merciful heavens! is it possible that the
law, which with the right hand protects the privileges of the
aristocracy, can with the left plunge whole families into despair!"

"Alas! it is too true!" responded the poor woman, pointing towards her
pale and shivering offspring.

"Well--cheer up--your husband will be restored to you in six weeks,"
said Markham. "In the meantime here is wherewith to provide for your
family."

Another five-pound note was taken from the pocket-book, and transferred
to the hand of the poor but tender-hearted mother. The children clung to
Richard's knees, and poured forth their gratitude in tears: their parent
loaded him with blessings which came from the very bottom of her heart,
and called him the saviour of herself and famished little ones. Never
until that day had Richard so entirely appreciated the luxury of
possessing wealth!

Scarcely was this last matter disposed of, when information arrived that
Markham's case would be heard in about ten minutes. To the police-court
did he and the constable who had charge of him, proceed accordingly; and
in due time the young man found himself standing at the bar in the
presence of a magistrate.

The usual questions were put relative to name, age, and residence, to
all of which Richard answered in a candid and respectful manner. The
constable then stated the nature of the charge, with which the reader is
already acquainted. Evidence was also gone into to show that the
officer, whose death had led to the irruption into the gambling-house on
the part of the police, had died by his own hand, and not in consequence
of any violence. This point was sufficiently proved by a medical man.

Markham, in his defence, stated he had accompanied some friends, whose
names he declined mentioning, to the gaming-house on the preceding
evening; that he had not played himself, nor had he intended to play;
and that he had been led into the establishment without previously being
acquainted with the exact nature of the place he was about to visit.

The Magistrate remonstrated with him upon the impropriety of being seen
in such houses, and inflicted a fine of five pounds, which was of course
immediately paid.

As he was leaving the police-court, Markham was informed by a beadle who
accosted him, that his presence would be required at the gambling-house
that same afternoon, at four o'clock, to give evidence at the coroner's
inquest concerning the means by which the deceased officer came by his
death.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE BEGINNING OF MISFORTUNES.


At eight o'clock in the morning after the scene at the Hell, and while
Richard was still in the custody of the police, Sir Rupert Harborough
and the Honourable Arthur Chichester were hastening, in a handsome
cabriolet, belonging to the former, to Markham Place.

The conversation of these gentlemen during the drive will tend to throw
some light upon one or two preceding incidents that may have appeared a
little mysterious to the reader.

"I wonder what became of him last night," said Chichester.

"Upon my honour at the moment I did not care," returned the baronet.

"Nor I either. I was only intent upon getting off myself."

"He will not be pleased at our having left him in that unceremonious
manner."

"Oh! trust to me--any explanation will do. He is so exceedingly green."

"And so marvellously particular in his conduct. If it had not been for
us, he would have remained quite a saint."

"I am not afraid," observed Chichester, "of being able to manage him and
of turning him to immense advantage in our plans. But that vulgar beast
Talbot will most certainly spoil all. Even the idea of the fellow's
wealth and charities will not always induce Markham to put up with his
vulgarities. Besides, the wretch has such execrable bad taste. Last
evening, for instance, when I casually dropped a neat little lie about
the soup at the King of Prussia's table, Talbot instantly paraded the
Duke of Lambeth's pea-soup. Only fancy a Duke and pea-soup united
together!"

"And then his dog's nose, and sore feet, and boiled tripe," said the
baronet. "After all the drilling we gave him in the first instance, when
he stipulated upon associating with us in order to see how we worked the
thing, he is still incorrigible. Then, when I think of all the money I
have already laid out in buying the materials--in getting the proper
paper--and in keeping him in feather all the time he was at work, my
blood boils to see that he hangs like a millstone round our necks, and
threatens by his vulgarity to spoil all."

"But what could we do?" cried Chichester. "You told me in the first
instance to find an engraver on whom we could rely; and I was compelled
to enlist the fellow Pocock in our cause. He was the very man, so far as
knowledge went, having been employed all his life in working for
Bankers. But his atrocious vulgarity is his bane; and even his
aristocratic name of Talbot which I made him assume, does not help him
to pass himself off as a gentleman. It was a pity he could not listen to
reason and take the sum of ready money down, which you offered him in
the first instance. But, no--he must needs cry _thirds_, and insist upon
going about with us to see fair play."

"And get his share," added the baronet.

"Yes. Even the very first night that he ever saw Markham," continued
Chichester, "his greediness would have induced him to risk the ruin of
everything by winning a few paltry pounds of the young fellow at Diana's
lodgings. But I d--d soon stopped _that_. I didn't even want to take the
twenty pounds yesterday, which Markham offered for the poor family
concerning whom I invented so capital a story."

"No--it is not a few pounds that will do us any good, or remunerate me
for my large outlay," said the baronet. "We want thousands--and this
Markham is the very instrument we require. The first trial was made
yesterday, and succeeded admirably. The note has actually been changed
at a banker's: no one can expect a better test than that. Now if this
Talbot is to ruin us with Markham--the very person we want--the most
excellent medium we could require--himself being above all suspicion,
and entertaining no suspicion----"

"It would be enough to break one's heart," added Chichester.

"Besides, my creditors are so clamorous, settle with them I must,"
continued the baronet. "And then Diana costs me a fortune. I must get
rid of her without delay; for I expect that she is getting sentimental
on this youth, and will not interest herself in our affair for fear of
letting him into a scrape."

"Why, it is very certain," observed Chichester, "that according to the
admirable way in which we have arranged our plans, if an explosion took
place, we could not possibly be implicated. However--we must make haste
and work London, and then off to Paris. We might get rid of four or five
thousand pounds worth amongst the money-changers in the Palais-Royal.
Then off to Germany in due rotation--Italy next--touch at Spain--and
home to England."

"Upon my honour, it is a noble scheme--a grand, a princely scheme!"
cried the baronet, elated with the idea. "My God! if it were spoilt in
its infancy by any fault of ours or our associates!"

"And Talbot is such a drunken beast, that we can scarcely rely upon
him," said Chichester. "He will one day commit himself and us too: the
fellow does not know how to get tipsy like a gentleman."

"We will tell him the candid truth and see what he says," pursued the
baronet "When he finds that we are determined not to tolerate him with
us, and that we will quash the whole thing at once if he insists upon
remaining, he must yield. There was that young Walter Sydney who seemed
at first to have taken a fancy to Diana. I thought of making use of him
too;--but he never called again after that drunken display of Mr.
Talbot's. He was evidently disgusted with him for his conduct, and with
us for associating with him."

"Well," said Chichester, "let us resolve, then, to have an explanation
with Talbot in the sense you have mentioned; and you must also speak
seriously to Diana and get her to make use of young Markham."

"And if she will not," added the baronet, "I shall get rid of her
without delay. What is the use of having an expensive mistress, unless
you can use her either as a _blind_ or a _plant_?"

The delectable conversation terminated here, because those who had
carried it on, were now arrived at their destination.

The baronet's tiger knocked at the front door, and Mr. Whittingham
speedily made his appearance.

"Is your master at home?" demanded Chichester.

"No sir; he has not domesticated himself in his own abode since he went
out shortly after you yesterday. But a person of my acquaintance--a man
of perfect credibleness--has just come to ensure me that my young master
will be here again in the currency of the day."

"Where did this person see your master?" enquired Chichester, struck by
the absence of Markham the entire night.

"His respondencies is evasive and dissatisfactory," said Whittingham.

"This is very remarkable!" ejaculated Chichester: then, after a pause,
he added, "But we will await Mr. Markham's return; and I will just see
this man and interrogate him alone--_alone_, do you hear, Whittingham."

"I hear, sir, because my accoustic propensities is good. I will send
this person to you into the library."

Mr. Chichester alighted from the vehicle and hastened to the library,
while the baronet repaired to the stables to see that his horse
(concerning which he was very particular) was properly cared for.

Mr. Chichester walked up and down the library, reflecting upon the
probable causes of Richard's absence. At the moment he fancied that he
might have fallen into the hands of the police; but then he thought
that, had this been the case, Markham would have sent for himself or the
baronet. He did not imagine that the noble nature of the young man whom
he was conducting headlong to his ruin, would scorn to take any steps
calculated to compromise his friends.

The door of the library opened, and a man entered.

"What? John!" ejaculated Mr. Chichester, turning very pale and
manifesting much confusion.

"Mr. Winchester!" cried Snoggles--for it was he.

"Hush, my good fellow--don't say a word!" said Chichester, recovering
his presence of mind. "I am really glad to see you--I have often thought
of you since that unpleasant affair. I hope it put you to no
inconvenience. At all events, I will make matters all right now."

"Better late than never," said Snoggles.

"Well--and you must promise me faithfully not to mention this affair to
any one, and I will always stand your friend. And, remember--my name is
Chichester _now_--not Winchester. Pray do not forget that."

"No--no: I'm fly enough--I'm down to trap," replied Snoggles, with a
leer of insolent familiarity.

"Here is a twenty-pound note--that will cover all your losses, and
recompense you into the bargain."

"That'll do."

"It would be better that you should not say that you ever knew me
before."

"Just as you like."

"I prefer that course. But now to another point. Where did you see Mr.
Richard Markham?"

"At the station-house, in ---- street."

"The station-house! And for what?"

"Ah! there you beat me. I can't say! All that I know is that he gave me
half-a-sovereign to come and tell his old butler this morning that he
should be home in the course of the day."

"And that is all you know?"

"Everything."

"Now can I rely upon you in respect to keeping the other matter secret?"
demanded Chichester.

"I have already told you so," answered Snoggles.

"And you need not tell old Whittingham that his master is at the
station-house."

[Illustration]

Snoggles withdrew and Mr. Chichester was immediately afterwards joined
by the baronet.

"Markham is at the station-house in ---- street."

"The deuce he is! and for what?"

"I cannot learn. Do you not think it is odd that he did not send for
either of us?"

"Yes. We will return to town this moment," said the baronet, "and send
some one unknown to him to hear the case at the police-office. We shall
then learn whether anything concerning the notes transpires, and what to
say to him when we see him."

"Yes: there is not a moment to lose," returned Chichester.

The cabriolet was brought round to the door again in a few minutes,
during which interval Chichester assured Whittingham that he had learned
nothing concerning his master, and that he and the baronet were only
returning to town for the purpose of looking after him.

As soon as the vehicle was out of sight, Mr. Whittingham returned in a
disconsolate manner to his pantry, where Mr. Snoggles was occupied with
a cold pasty and a jug of good old ale.

"Well, I've learnt someot to-day, I have," observed Snoggles, who could
not keep a secret for the life of him.

"What's that?" demanded Whittingham.

"Why that Winchester is Chichester, and Chichester is Winchester."

"They are two irrelevant cities," observed the butler; "and not by no
manner of means indentical."

"The cities is different, but the men is the same," said Snoggles.

"I can't apprehend your meaning."

"Well--I will speak plain. Did you hear me tell Suggett the story about
my old master, last night at the _Servants' Arms_?"

"No--I was engaged in a colloquial discourse at the time."

"Then I will tell you the adventur' over agin;"--and Mr. Snoggles
related the incident accordingly.

Mr. Whittingham was quite astounded; and he delivered himself of many
impressive observations upon the affair, but which we shall not be cruel
enough to inflict upon our readers.

It was about half-past twelve o'clock when Richard returned home. His
countenance was pale and anxious; and he vainly endeavoured to smile as
he encountered his faithful old dependant.

"Ah! Master Richard, I was sadly afraid that you had fallen into some
trepidation!"

"A very unpleasant adventure, Whittingham--which I will relate to you
another time--kept me away from home. I was with Sir Rupert Harborough
and Mr. Chichester----"

"Mr. Chichester ain't no good, sir," interrupted the butler
emphatically.

"What do you mean, Whittingham?"

"I mean exactly what I say, Master Richard,--and nothing more nor less.
Both the baronet and Mr. Chichester have been here this morning."

Then, with a considerable amount of circumlocution and elaborate
comment, the butler related the conduct of Chichester towards Snoggles,
and their accidental meeting that morning.

"This is very extraordinary," said Richard, musing.

"I can't say I ever regularly admired this Mr. Chichester," observed
Whittingham. "He seems too dashing, too out-and-out, and
too--too--circumwenting in his discourse, to be anythink exceeding and
excessive good. Now I like the baronet much better; he isn't so
formiliar in his manners. Whenever he speaks to me he always says '_Mr.
Whittingham_;' but Mr. Chichester calls me plain '_Whittingham_.' As for
that wulgar fellow Talbot, who has called here once or twice, he slaps
me on the shoulder, and bawls out, '_Well, Whittingham, my tulip, how
are you?_' Now, you know, Master Richard, it's not conformant to
perceived notions to call a butler a tulip."

"I have been deceived in my acquaintances--no doubt I have been
deceived," said Richard, musing audibly, and pacing the library, with
agitated steps. "There is something suspicious in the connexion of that
man Talbot--however rich he may be--with so elegant a gentleman as the
baronet;--then this conduct of Chichester's towards his servant--their
taking me to a common gambling-house--their deserting me in the moment
of need,--yes, I have been deceived! And then, Diana--I ought never more
to see her: her influence, her fascination are too dangerous!"

"A gambling-house!" ejaculated Whittingham, whose ears caught fragments
of these reflections.

"My old friend," said Richard, turning suddenly towards the butler, "I
am afraid I have been enticed--inveigled into society which is not
creditable to me or my position. I will repair my fault. Mr. Monroe, my
guardian, advised me some weeks ago to indulge in a tour upon the
continent: I will avail myself of this permission. At four o'clock I
have an appointment--a pressing appointment to keep in town: by seven at
latest I shall return. Have a post-chaise at the door and all things in
readiness: we will proceed to Dover to-night. You alone shall accompany
me."

"Let's do it, sir--let's do it," exclaimed the faithful old dependant:
"it will separate you from them flash fellows which lead young men into
scrapes, and from them wulgar persons which call butlers tulips."

Whittingham retired to make the preparations for the contemplated
journey, and Richard seated himself at the table to write a couple of
letters.

The first was to Mrs. Arlington, and ran thus:--

     "Circumstances of a very peculiar nature, and which I cannot at
     present explain to you, compel me to quit London thus abruptly. I
     hope you will not imagine that I leave your agreeable society
     without many regrets. We shall probably meet again, when I may
     perhaps confide to you the motives of this sudden departure; and
     you will then understand that I could not have remained in London
     another minute with safety to myself. I scarcely know what I
     write--I am so agitated and uneasy. Pray excuse this scrawl.

"RICHARD MARKHAM."



The second letter was to Mr. Monroe, and was couched in the following
terms:--

     "You will be surprised, my dear sir, to find that I am immediately
     about to avail myself of your kind recommendation and permission to
     visit the continent. I conceive it to be my duty--in consequence of
     rumours or reports which may shortly reach your ears concerning
     me--to inform you that I have this moment only awoke to the fearful
     perils of the career in which I have for same weeks past been
     blindly hurrying along, till at length yesterday----: but I dare
     not write any more. I am penitent--deeply penitent: let this
     statement induce you to defend and protect my reputation,

"Ever your sincerely obliged,
"R. MARKHAM."



Having hastily folded, addressed, and sealed these letters, Markham
hurried up to his bed-room to select certain articles of clothing and
other necessaries which he should require upon his journey.

He was interrupted in the middle of this occupation, by the entrance of
Whittingham, who came to announce that two persons of somewhat strange
and suspicious appearance desired an immediate interview with him.

Scarcely was this message delivered, when the two men, who had followed
Whittingham up-stairs, walked very unceremoniously into the bed-room.

"This is Richard Markham, 'spose?" said one, advancing towards the young
man.

"Yes--my name is Markham: but what means this insolent and unpardonable
intrusion?"

"Intrusion indeed!" repeated the foremost of the ill-looking strangers.
"However, not to keep you waiting, my young friend, I must inform you
that me and this man here are officers; and we've a warrant to take
you."

"A warrant!" ejaculated both Richard and Whittingham at the same moment.

"Come, come, now--I dare say you haven't been without your misgivings
since yesterday;--but if young gen'lemen will play such pranks, why,
they must expect some time or another to be wanted--that's all!"

"But what have I done?" demanded Richard. "There must be some mistake. I
cannot be the person whom you require."

"Did you not call at a certain bankers' in the City yesterday?" demanded
the officer.

"Certainly--I had some money to receive, which Mr. Monroe my guardian
had paid into their hands for my use."

"And you changed a five hundred pound note? The clerk did it for your
accommodation."

"I do not deny it: I required change. But how is all this connected with
your visit?"

"That five hundred pound note was a forgery!"

"A forgery! Impossible!" cried Richard.

"A forgery!" said Whittingham: "this is really impudence of too
consummating a nature!"

"Come, there's no mistake, and all this gammon won't do. Me and my
partner came in a hackney-coach, which stands at the corner of the lane
so if you're ready, we'll be off to Bow Street at once."

"I am prepared to accompany you," said Richard, "because I am well
aware that I shall not be detained many minutes at the magistrate's
office."

"That's no business of mine," returned the principal officer: then,
addressing his companion, he said, "Jem, you'll stay here and take a
survey of the premises; while I get off with the prisoner. You can
follow as soon as you've satisfied yourself whether there's any evidence
upon the premises."

It was with great difficulty that Richard over-ruled the desire of
Whittingham to accompany him; but at length the faithful old man was
induced to comprehend the necessity of staying behind, as an officer was
about to exercise a strict search throughout the house, and Markham did
not choose to leave his property to the mercy of a stranger.

This point having been settled, Richard took his departure with the
officer in whose custody he found himself. They entered the
hackney-coach, which was waiting at a little distance, and immediately
proceeded by the shortest cuts towards the chief office in Bow Street.

Upon their arrival at that ominous establishment, Richard's pocket-book
and purse were taken away from him; and he himself was thrust into a
cell until the charge at that moment before the magistrate was disposed
of.

Here must we leave him for the present; as during the night which
followed his arrest, scenes of a terrible nature passed elsewhere.




CHAPTER XVII.

A DEN OF HORRORS.


However filthy, unhealthy, and repulsive the entire neighbourhood of
West Street (Smithfield), Field Lane, and Saffron Hill, may appear at
the present day, it was far worse some years ago. There were then but
few cesspools; and scarcely any of those which did exist possessed any
drains. The knackers' yards of Cow Cross, and the establishments in
Castle Street where horses' flesh is boiled down to supply food for the
dogs and cats of the metropolis, send forth now, as they did then, a
foetid and sickening odour which could not possibly be borne by a
delicate stomach. At the windows of those establishments the bones of
the animals are hung to bleach, and offend the eye as much as the
horrible stench of the flesh acts repugnantly to the nerves. Upwards of
sixty horses a day are frequently slaughtered in each yard; and many of
them are in the last stage of disease when sent to their "long home."
Should there not be a rapid demand for the "meat" on the part of the
itinerant purveyors of that article for canine and feline favourites, it
speedily becomes putrid; and a smell, which would alone appear
sufficient to create a pestilence, pervades the neighbourhood.

As if nothing should be wanting to render that district as filthy and
unhealthy as possible, water is scarce. There is in this absence of a
plentiful supply of that wholesome article, an actual apology for dirt.
Some of the houses have small back yards, in which the inhabitants keep
pigs. A short time ago, an infant belonging to a poor widow, who
occupied a back room on the ground-floor of one of these hovels, died,
and was laid upon the sacking of the bed while the mother went out to
make arrangements for its interment. During her absence a pig entered
the room from the yard, and feasted upon the dead child's face!

In that densely populated neighbourhood that we are describing, hundreds
of families each live and sleep in one room. When a member of one of
these families happens to die, the corpse is kept in the close room
where the rest still continue to live and sleep. Poverty frequently
compels the unhappy relatives to keep the body for days--aye, and weeks.
Rapid decomposition takes place--animal life generates quickly; and in
four-and-twenty hours myriads of loathsome animalculæ are seen crawling
about. The very undertakers' men fall sick at these disgusting--these
revolting spectacles.

The wealthy classes of society are far too ready to reproach the
miserable poor for things which are really misfortunes and not faults.
The habit of whole families sleeping together in one room destroys all
sense of shame in the daughters: and what guardian then remains for
their virtue? But, alas! a horrible--an odious crime often results from
that poverty which thus huddles brothers and sisters, aunts and nephews,
all together in one narrow room--the crime of incest!

When a disease--such as the small-pox or scarlatina--breaks out in one
of those crowded houses, and in a densely populated neighbourhood, the
consequences are frightful: the mortality is as rapid as that which
follows the footsteps of the plague!

These are the fearful mysteries of that hideous district which exists in
the very heart of this great metropolis. From St. John-street to Saffron
Hill--from West-street to Clerkenwell Green, is a maze of narrow lanes,
choked up with dirt, pestiferous with nauseous odours, and swarming with
a population that is born, lives, and dies, amidst squalor, penury,
wretchedness, and crime.

Leading out of Holborn, between Field Lane and Ely Place, is Upper Union
Court--a narrow lane forming a thoroughfare for only foot passengers.
The houses in this court are dingy and gloomy: the sunbeams never linger
long there; and should an Italian-boy pass through the place, he does
not stop to waste his music upon the inhabitants. The dwellings are
chiefly let out in lodgings; and through the open windows upon the
ground-floor may occasionally be seen the half-starved families of
mechanics crowding round the scantily-supplied table. A few of the lower
casements are filled with children's books, pictures of actors and
highwaymen glaringly coloured, and lucifer-matches, twine, sweet-stuff,
cotton, &c. At one door there stands an oyster-stall, when the
comestible itself is in season: over another hangs a small board with a
mangle painted upon it. Most of the windows on the ground-floors
announce rooms to let, or lodgings for single men; and perhaps a notice
may be seen better written than the rest, that artificial-flower makers
are required at that address.

It was about nine o'clock in the evening when two little children--a boy
of seven and a girl of five--walked slowly up this court, hand in hand,
and crying bitterly. They were both clothed in rags, and had neither
shoes nor stockings upon their feet. Every now and then they stopped,
and the boy turned towards his little sister, and endeavoured to console
her with kind words and kisses.

"Don't cry so, dear," he said: "I'll tell mother that it was all my
fault that we couldn't bring home any more money; and so she'll beat me
worst. Don't cry--there's a good girl--pray don't!"

And the poor little fellow endeavoured to calm his own grief in order to
appease the fears of his sister.

Those children had now reached the door of the house in which their
mother occupied an attic; but they paused upon the step, evincing a
mortal repugnance to proceed any farther. At length the little boy
contrived by promises and caresses to hush the violence of his sister's
grief; and they entered the house, the door of which stood open for the
accommodation of the lodgers.

Hand in hand these poor children ascended the dark and steep staircase,
the boy whispering consolation in the girl's ears. At length they
reached the door of the attic: and there they stood for a few moments.

"Now, Fanny dear, don't cry, there's a good girl; pray don't now--and
I'll buy you some nice pears to-morrow with the first halfpenny I get,
even if I shouldn't get another, and if mother beats me till I'm dead
when we come home."

The boy kissed his sister once more, and then opened the attic-door.

A man in a shabby black coat, and with an immense profusion of hair
about his hang-dog countenance, was sitting on one side of a good fire,
smoking a pipe. A thin, emaciated, but vixenish looking woman was
arranging some food upon the table for supper. The entire furniture of
the room consisted of that table, three broken chairs, and a filthy
mattress in one corner.

As soon as the boy opened the door, he seemed for a moment quite
surprised to behold that man at the fireside: then, in another instant,
he clapped his little hands joyously together, and exclaimed, "Oh! how
glad I am: here's father come home again!"

"Father's come home again!" echoed the girl; and the two children rushed
up to their parent with the most pure--the most unfeigned delight.

"Curse your stupidity, you fools," cried the man, brutally repulsing his
children; "you've nearly broke my pipe."

The boy fell back, abashed and dismayed: the little girl burst into
tears.

"Come, none of this humbug," resumed the man; "let's know what luck
you've had to-day, since your mother says that she's been obliged to
send you out on the tramp since I've been laid up for this last six
months in the jug."

"Yes, and speak out pretty plain, too, Master Harry," said the mother in
a shrill menacing tone; "and none of your excuses, or you'll know what
you have got to expect."

"Please, mother," said the boy, slowly taking some halfpence from his
pocket, "poor little Fanny got all this. I was so cold and hungry I
couldn't ask a soul; so if it ain't enough, mother, you must beat
me--and not poor little Fanny."

As the boy uttered these words in a tremulous tone, and with tears
trickling down his face, he got before his sister, in order to shield
her, as it were, from his mother's wrath.

"Give it here, you fool!" cried the woman, darting forward, and seizing
hold of the boy's hand containing the halfpence: then, having hastily
glanced over the amount, she exclaimed, "You vile young dog! I'll teach
you to come home here with your excuses! I'll cut your liver out of ye,
I will!"

"How much has he brought?" demanded the man.

"How much! Why not more than enough to pay for the beer," answered the
woman indignantly. "Eightpence-halfpenny--and that's every farthing! But
won't I take it out in his hide, that's all?"

The woman caught hold of the boy, and dealt him a tremendous blow upon
the back with her thin bony fist. He fell upon his knees, and begged for
mercy. His unnatural parent levelled a volley of abuse at him, mingled
with oaths and filthy expressions, and then beat him--dashed him upon
the floor--kicked him--all but stamped upon his poor body as he writhed
at her feet.

His screams were appalling.

Then came the turn of the girl. The difference in the years of the
children did not cause any with regard to their chastisement; but while
the unnatural mother dealt her heavy blows upon the head, neck, breast,
and back of the poor little creature, the boy clasped his hands
together, exclaiming, "O mother! it was all my fault--pray don't beat
little Fanny--pray don't!" Then forgetting his own pain, he threw
himself before his sister to protect her--a noble act of self-devotion
in so young a boy, and for which he only received additional punishment.

At length the mother sate down exhausted; and the poor lad drew his
little sister into a corner, and endeavoured to soothe her.

The husband of that vile woman had remained unmoved in his seat, quietly
smoking his pipe, while this horrible scene took place; and if he did
not actually enjoy it, he was very far from disapproving of it.

"There," said the woman, gasping for breath, "that'll teach them to mind
how they come home another time with less than eighteenpence in their
pockets. One would actually think it was the people's fault, and not the
children's: but it ain't--for people grows more charitable every day.
The more humbug, the more charity."

"Right enough there," growled the man. "A reg'lar knowing beggar can
make his five bob a day. He can walk through a matter of sixty streets;
and in each street he can get a penny. He's sure o' that. Well, there's
his five bob."

"To be sure," cried the woman: "and therefore such nice-looking little
children as our'n couldn't help getting eighteen-pence if they was to
try, the lazy vagabonds! What would ha' become of me all the time that
you was in the Jug this last bout, if they hadn't have worked better
than they do now? As it is, every thing's up the spout--all made away
with----"

"Well, we'll devilish soon have 'em all down again," interrupted the
man. "Dick will be here presently; and he and I shall soon settle some
job or another. But hadn't you better give them kids their supper, and
make 'em leave off snivellin' afore Dick comes?"

"So I will, Bill," answered the woman; and throwing the children each a
piece of bread, she added, in a cross tone, "And now tumble into bed,
and make haste about it; and if you don't hold that blubbering row I'll
take the poker to you this time."

The little boy gave the larger piece of bread to his sister; and, having
divested her of her rags, he made her as comfortable as he could on the
filthy mattress, covering her over not only with _her_ clothes but also
with _his own_. He kissed her affectionately, but without making any
noise with his lips, for fear that _that_ should irritate his mother;
and then lay down beside her.

Clasped in each other's arms, those two children of poverty--the victims
of horrible and daily cruelties--repulsed by a father whose neck they
had longed to encircle with their little arms, and whose hand they had
vainly sought to cover with kisses; trembling even at the looks of a
mother whom they loved in spite of all her harshness towards them, and
from whose lips one word--one single word of kindness would have
gladdened their poor hearts;--under such circumstances, we say, did
these persecuted but affectionate infants, still smarting with the pain
of cruel blows, and with tears upon their cheeks,--thus did they sink
into slumber in each other's arms!

Merciful God! it makes the blood boil to think that this is no
over-drawn picture--that there is no exaggeration in these details; but
that there really exist monsters in a human form--wearing often, too,
the female shape--who make the infancy and early youth of their
offspring one continued hell--one perpetual scene of blows, curses, and
cruelties! Oh! for how many of our fellow-creatures have we to
blush:--how many demons are there who have assumed our mortal
appearance, who dwell amongst us, and who set us examples the most
hideous--the most appalling!

As soon as the children were in bed, the woman went out, and returned in
a few minutes with two pots of strong beer--purchased with the alms that
day bestowed by the charitable upon her suffering offspring.

She and her husband then partook of some cold meat, of which there was a
plentiful provision--enough to have allowed the boy and the girl each a
good slice of bread.

And the bread which this man and this woman ate was new and good; but
the morsels thrown to the children were stale and mouldy.

"I tell you what," said the woman, whispering in a mysterious tone to
her husband, "I have thought of an excellent plan to make Fanny useful."

"Well, Polly, and what's that?" demanded the man.

"Why," resumed his wife, her countenance wearing an expression of
demoniac cruelty and cunning, "I've been thinking that Harry will soon
be of use to you in your line. He'll be so handy to shove through a
window, or to sneak down a area and hide himself all day in a cellar to
open the door at night,--or a thousand things."

"In course he will," said Bill, with an approving nod.

"Well, but then there's Fanny. What good can she do for us for years and
years to come? She won't beg--I know she won't. It's all that boy's lies
when he says she does: he is very fond of her, and only tells us that to
screen her. Now I've a very great mind to do someot that will make her
beg--aye, and be glad to beg--and beg too in spite of herself."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"Why, doing _that_ to her which will put her entirely at our mercy, and
at the same time render her an object of such interest that the people
_must_ give her money. I'd wager that with my plan she'd get her five
bob a day; and what a blessin' that would be."

"But how?" said Bill impatiently.

"And then," continued the woman, without heeding this question, "she
wouldn't want Henry with her; and you might begin to make him useful
some how or another. All we should have to do would be to take Fanny
every day to some good thoroughfare, put her down there of a mornin',
and go and fetch her agen at night; and I'll warrant she'd keep us in
beer--aye, and in brandy too."

"What the devil are you driving at?" demanded the man.

"Can't you guess?"

"No--blow me if I can."

"Do you fancy the scheme?"

"Am I a fool? Why, of course I do: but how the deuce is all this to be
done? You never could learn Fanny to be so fly as that?"

"I don't want to learn her anything at all. What I propose is to force
it on her."

"And how is that?" asked the man.

"By putting her eyes out," returned the woman.

Her husband was a robber--yes, and a murderer: but he started when this
proposal met his ear.

"There's nothin' like a blind child to excite compassion," added the
woman coolly. "I know it for a fact," she continued, after a pause,
seeing that her husband did not answer her. "There's old Kate Betts, who
got all her money by travelling about the country with two blind girls;
and she made 'em blind herself too--she's often told me how she did it;
and that has put the idea into my head."

"And how did she do it?" asked the man, lighting his pipe, but not
glancing towards his wife; for although her words had made a deep
impression upon him, he was yet struggling with the remnant of a
parental feeling, which remained in his heart in spite of himself.

"She covered the eyes over with cockle shells, the eye-lids, recollect,
being wide open; and in each shell there was a large black beetle. A
bandage tied tight round the head, kept the shells in their place; and
the shells kept the eyelids open. In a few days the eyes got quite
blind, and the pupils had a dull white appearance."

"And you're serious, are you?" demanded the man.

"Quite," returned the woman, boldly: "why not?"

"Why not indeed?" echoed Bill, who approved of the horrible scheme, but
shuddered at the cruelty of it, villain as he was.

"Ah! why not?" pursued the female: "one must make one's children useful
somehow or another. So, if you don't mind, I'll send Harry out alone
to-morrow morning and keep Fanny at home. The moment the boy's out of
the way, I'll try my hand at Kate Betts's plan."

The conversation was interrupted by a low knock at the attic-door.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE BOOZING-KEN.


"Come in," exclaimed Bill: "I des say it's Dick Flairer."

"Well, Bill Bolter, old fellow--here you are at last," cried the new
comer. "I s'pose you knowed I should come here this evenin'. If you
hadn't sent me that message t'other day by the young area-sneak[15] what
got his discharge out o' Coldbath Jug,[16] I should ha' come all the
same. I remembered very well that you was sentenced to six months on it;
and I'd calkilated days and weeks right enough."

"Sit down, Dick, and blow a cloud. Wot news since I see you last?"

"None. You know that Crankey Jem is nabbed. He and the Resurrection Man
did a pannie[17] together somewhere up Soho way. They got off safe with
the swag; and the Resurrection Man went on to the Mint. Jem took to the
Old House in Chick Lane,[18] and let me in for my reglars.[19] But after
a week or ten days the Resurrection Man nosed[20] upon him, and will
turn King's Evidence afore the benks. So Jem was handed over to the
dubsman;[21] and this time he'll get lagged for life."

"In course he will. He has been twice to the floating academy.[22] There
ain't no chance this time."

"But as for business," said Dick Flairer, after a pause, during which he
lighted his pipe and paid his respects to the beer, "my gropus is as
empty as a barrister's bag the day after sessions. I have but one bob
left in my cly;[23] and that we'll spend in brandy presently. My
mawleys[24] is reg'larly itching for a job."

"Someot must be done--and that soon too," returned Bill Bolter.
"By-the-by, s'pose we try that crib which we meant to crack four year or
so ago, when you got nabbed the very next mornin' for faking a blowen's
flag from her nutty arm."[25]

"What--you mean Markham's up between Kentish Town and Lower Holloway?"
said Dick.

"The same. Don't you recollect--we settled it all the wery night as we
threw that young fellow down the trap in Chick Lane? But, by
goles--Dick--what the deuce is the matter with you?"

Dick Flairer had turned deadly pale at the mention of this circumstance:
his knees shook; and he cast an uneasy and rapid glance around him.

"Come, Dick--don't be a fool," said the woman: "you don't think there is
any ghosts here, do you?"

"Ghosts!" he exclaimed, with a convulsive start; then, after a moment's
silence, during which his two companions surveyed him with curiosity and
fear, he added in a low and subdued tone, "Bill, you know there wasn't a
man in all the neighbourhood bolder than me up to the time when you got
into trouble: you know that I didn't care for ghosts or churchyards, or
dark rooms, or anything of that kind. Now it's quite altered. If even a
man seed speret of a person, that man was me about two months ago!"

"What the devil does this mean?" cried Bolter, looking uneasily around
him in his turn.

"Two months ago," continued Dick Flairer, "I was up Hackney way,
expecting to do a little business with Tom the Cracksman,[26] which
didn't come off; for Tom had been at the boozing-ken[27] all the night
before, and had blowed his hand up in a lark with some davy's-dust.[28]
Well, I wus coming home again, infernal sulky at the affair's breaking
down, when just as I got to Cambridge-Heath-gate I heerd the gallopin'
of horses. I looks round, nat'rally enough;--but who should I see upon a
lovely chestnut mare----"

"Who?" said Bill anxiously.

"The speret of that wery same young feller as you and I threw down the
trap at the old house in Chick Lane four year and some months ago!"

"Mightn't it have been a mistake, Dick?" demanded Bill.

"Why, of course it was," exclaimed the woman.

"No, it warn't," said Dick very seriously. "I never tell a lie to a
pal,[29] Bill--and that you knows well enough. I seed that young man as
plain as I can now see you, Bill--as plain as I see you, Polly Bolter. I
thought I should have dropped: I fell right against a post in the
footpath; but I took another good long look. There he was--the same
face--the same hair--the same dress--everything the same! I couldn't be
mistaken: I'd swear to it."

"And would you tell this story to the parish-prig,[30] if so be as you
was going to Tuck-up Fair[31] to-morrow morning?" demanded Bill.

"I would, by G--d!" cried Dick solemnly, striking his hand upon the
table at the same time.

There was a long pause. Even the woman, who was perhaps more hardened in
vice and more inaccessible to anything in the shape of sentiment than
her male companions, seemed impressed by the positive manner in which
the man told his story.

"Well--come, this won't do!" ejaculated Dick, after the lapse of some
minutes. "Ghost or no ghost, we can't afford to be honest."

"No--we must be up to someot," returned Bill; "if we went and offered
ourselves to the parish prig he wouldn't take us as his clerk and
sexton; so if he won't give us a lift, who the devil will? But, about
that Markham's place?"

"The old fellow died a few months ago, I heard," said Dick; "the eldest
son run away; and that brought about the father's death. As for the
young 'un, he was grabbed this arternoon for smashing queer
screens.[32]"

"The devil he was! Well, there ain't no good to be done in that quarter,
then? Do you know any other spekilation?"

"Tom the Cracksman and me was going to do a pannie in a neat little crib
up by Clapton, that time when he blowed his hand nearly off, larking
with his ben-culls.[33] I don't see why it shouldn't be done now. Tom
told me about it. A young swell, fond of horses and dogs--lives
exceeding quiet--never no company scarcely--but plenty of tin."

"Servants?" said Bill, interrogatively.

"One man--an old groom; and two women--three in all," replied Dick.

"That'll do," observed the woman, approvingly.

"Must we speak to the Cracksman first?" demanded Bill.

"Yes--fair play's a jewel. I don't believe the Resurrection Man would
ever have chirped[34] if he had been treated properly. But if this thing
is to be done, let it be done to-morrow night; and now let us go to the
boozing-ken and speak to the Cracksman."

"I'm your man," said Bill; and the two thieves left the room together.

At the top of Union Court is Bleeding Hart Yard, leading to Kirby
Street, at right angles to which is a narrow alley terminating on Great
Saffron Hill. This was the road the burglars took.

It was now eleven o'clock, and a thick fog--so dense that it seemed as
if it could be cut with a knife--prevailed. The men kept close together,
for they could not see a yard before them. Here and there lights
glimmered in the miserable casements; and the fog, thus faintly
illuminated at intervals, appeared of a dingy copper colour.

The burglars proceeded along Saffron Hill.

The streets were nearly empty; but now and then the pale, squalid, and
nameless forms of vice were heard at the door-ways of a few houses,
endeavouring to lure the passers-by into their noisome abodes. A great
portion of the unwholesome life of that district had sought relief from
the pangs of misery and the remorse of crime, in sleep. Alas! the
slumbers of the poor and of the guilty are haunted by the lean, lank,
and gaunt visages of penury, and all the fearful escort of turpitude!

Through the broken shutters of several windows came the sounds of
horrible revelry--ribald and revolting; and from others issued cries,
shrieks, oaths, and the sounds of heavy blows--a sad evidence of the
brutality of drunken quarrels. Numerous Irish families are crowded
together in the small back rooms of the houses on Saffron Hill; and the
husbands and fathers gorge themselves, at the expense of broken-hearted
wives and famishing children, with the horrible compound of spirit and
vitriol, sold at the low gin-shops in the neighbourhood. Hosts of
"Italian masters" also congregate in that locality; and the screams of
the unfortunate boys, who writhe beneath the lash of their furious
employers on their return home after an unsuccessful day with their
organs, monkies, white mice, or chalk images, mingle with the other
appalling or disgusting sounds, which make night in that district truly
hideous.

Even at the late hour at which the two burglars were wending their way
over Saffron Hill, boys of ages ranging from seven to fifteen, were
lurking in the courts and alleys, watching for any decently dressed
persons, who might happen to pass that way. Those boys had for the most
part been seduced from the control of their parents by the receivers of
stolen goods in Field Lane, or else had been sent into the streets to
thieve by those vile parents themselves.

Thus, as the hulks, the convict-ships, the penitentiaries, and the
gallows, relieve society of one generation of villains, another is
springing up to occupy the vacancy.

And this will always be the case so long as laws tend only to
punish--and aim not to reform.

Dick Flairer and Bill Bolter proceeded, without exchanging many words
together, through the dense fog, until they reached a low public-house,
which they entered.

Nothing could be more filthy nor revolting than the interior of this
"boozing-ken." Sweeps, costermongers, Jews, Irish bricklayers, and women
of the town were crowding round the bar, drinking various malt and
spirituous liquors fearfully adulterated. The beer, having been
originally deluged with water to increase the quantity, had been
strengthened by drugs of most deleterious qualities--such as
tobacco-juice and _cocculus-indicus_. The former is a poison as subtle
as that of a viper: the latter is a berry of such venomous properties,
that if thrown into a pond, it will speedily send the fish up to the
surface to gasp and die. The gin was mixed with vitriol, as hinted
above; and the whiskey, called "Paddy's Eye-Water," with spirits of
turpentine. The pots and glasses in which the various beverages were
served up, were all stood upon double trays, with a cavity between, and
numerous holes in the upper surface. The overflowings and drainings were
thus caught and saved; and the landlord dispensed the precious compound,
which bore the name of "all sorts," at a halfpenny a glass.

The two burglars nodded familiarly to the landlord and his wife, as they
passed the bar, and entered a little, low, smoky room, denominated "the
parlour." A tremendous fire burnt in the grate, at which a short, thin,
dark man, with a most forbidding countenance, was sitting, agreeably
occupied in toasting a sausage. The right hand of this man had lost the
two middle fingers, the stumps of which were still covered with plaster,
as if the injury had been recent. He was dressed in a complete suit of
corduroy: the sleeves of his jacket, the lower part of his waistcoat,
and the front of his trousers, were covered with grease. On the table
near him stood a huge piece of bread and a pot of beer.

This individual was Tom the Cracksman--the most adroit and noted burglar
in the metropolis.

He kept a complete list of all the gentlemen's houses in the environs of
London, with the numbers of servants and male inhabitants in each. He
never attempted any dwelling within a circuit of three miles of the
General Post Office: his avocation was invariably exercised in the
suburbs of London, where the interference of the police was less
probable.

At the moment when we introduce him to our readers, he was somewhat
"down in his luck," as he himself expressed it, the accident which had
happened to his hand, through playing with gunpowder, having completely
disabled him for the preceding two months, and the landlord of the
"boozing-ken" having made it an invariable rule never to give credit.
Thus, though the Cracksman had spent hundreds of pounds in that house,
he could not obtain so much as a glass of "all sorts" without the money.

The Cracksman was alone in the parlour when Dick Flairer and Bill Bolter
entered. Having toasted his sausage, the renowned burglar placed it upon
the bread, and began eating his supper by means of a formidable
clasp-knife, without deigning to cast a glance around.

At length Bill Bolter burst out into a loud laugh, and exclaimed, "Why,
Tom, you're getting proud all on a sudden: you won't speak to your
friends."

"Halloo, Bill, is that you?" ejaculated the burglar. "When did they turn
you out of the jug?"

"This mornin' at twelve; and with never a brown in my pocket. Luckily
the old woman had turned the children to some use during the time I was
at the stepper, or else I don't know what would have become on us."

"And I'm as completely stitched up as a man could be if he'd just come
out o' the workus," said Tom. "I just now spent my last tanner[35] for
this here grub. Ah! it's a d----d hard thing for a man like me to be
brought down to cag-mag,[36]"--he added, glancing sulkily at the
sausage, which he was eating half raw.

"We all sees ups and downs," observed Dick Flairer. "My opinion is that
we are too free when we have the blunt."

"And there's them as is too close when we haven't it," returned the
Cracksman bitterly. "There's the landlord of this crib won't give a
gen'leman like me tick not for one blessed farden. But things can't go
on so: I'm blowed if I won't do a crack that shall be worth while; and
then I'll open a ken in opposition to this. You'd see whether I'd refuse
a pal tick in the hour of need."

"Well, you don't suppose that we are here just to amuse ourselves," said
Dick: "we come to see you."

"Is anythink to be done?" demanded the Cracksman.

"First answer me this," cried Dick: "has that crib at Upper Clapton been
cracked yet?"

"What, where there's a young swell----"

"I don't know nothing more about it than wot you told me," interrupted
Dick. "Me and you was to have done it; and then you went larking with
the davy's-dust----"

"I know the crib you mean," said the Cracksman hastily: "that job is yet
to be done. Are you the chaps to have a hand in it."

"That's the very business that we're come for," answered Bill.

"Well," resumed the Cracksman, "it seems we're all stumped up, and
can't hold out no longer. We won't put this thing off--it shall be done
to-morrow night. Eleven's the hour. I will go Dalston way--you two can
arrange about the roads you'll take, so long as you don't go together;
and we'll all three meet at the gate of Ben Price's field at eleven
o'clock."

"So far, so good," said Dick Flairer. "I've got a darkey:[37] but we
want the kifers[38] and tools."

"And a sack," added Bill.

"We must get all these things of old Moses Hart, the fence;[39] and give
him a share of the swag," exclaimed the Cracksman. "Don't bother
yourselves about _that_; I'll make it all right."

"Well, now that's settled," said Dick. "I've got a bob in my pocket, and
we'll have a rinse of the bingo."

The burglar went out to the bar, and returned with some brandy, which he
and his companions drank pure.

"So Crankey Jem's in quod?" observed the Cracksman, after a pause.

"Yes--and the Resurrection Man too: but he has chirped, and will be let
out after sessions."

"You have heard of his freak over in the Borough I s'pose," said the
Cracksman.

"No I haven't," answered Bill. "What was it?"

"Oh! a capital joke. The story's rather long; but it will bear telling.
There's a young fellow of the name of Sam Chisney; and his father died
about two year ago leaving two thousand pounds in the funds. The widder
was to enjoy the interest during _her_ life; and then it was to come,
principal and interest both, to Sam. Well, the old woman gets into debt,
and is arrested. She goes over to the Bench, takes the Rules, and hires
a nice lodging on the ground floor in Belvidere Place. The young feller
wants his money very bad, and doesn't seem at all disposed to wait for
the old lady's death, particklar as she might live another ten years.
Well, he comes across the Resurrection Man, and tells him just how he's
sitivated. The Resurrection Man thinks over the matter; and, being a bit
of a scholar, understands the business. Off they goes and consults a
lawyer named Mac Chizzle, who lives up in the New Road, somewhere near
the _Servants' Arms_ there."

"I know that crib well," observed Bill. "It's a were tidy and
respectable one."

"So Mac Chizzle, Sam Chisney, and the Resurrection Man lay their heads
together, and settle the whole business. The young chap then goes over
to the old woman, and tells her what is to be done. She consents: and
all's right. Well, that very day the old lady is taken so bad--so very
bad, she thinks she's a goin' to die. She won't have no doctor; but she
sends for a nurse as she knows--an old creatur' up'ards of seventy and
nearly in her dotage. Then Sam comes; and he's so sorry to see his poor
dear mother so ill; and she begins to talk very pious, and to bless him,
and tell him as how she feels that she can't live four-and-twenty hours.
Sam cries dreadful, and swears he won't leave his poor dear mother--no,
not for all the world. He sits up with her all night, and is to
exceedin' kind; and he goes out and gets a bottle of medicine--which
arter all worn't nothink but gin and peppermint. The old nurse is quite
pleased to think that the old woman has got such a attentive son; and he
sends out to get a little rum; and the old nurse goes to bed blind
drunk."

"What the devil was all that for?" demanded Dick.

"You'll see in a moment," resumed the Cracksman. "Next night at about
ten o'clock the young fellow says to the nurse--'Nurse, my poor dear
mother is wasting away: she can't last out the night. I do feel so
miserable; and I fancy a drop of the rum that they sell at a partickler
public, close up by Westminster Bridge.' 'Well, my dear,' says the
nurse, 'I'll go and get a bottle there; for I feel that we shall both
want someot to cheer us through this blessed night.' So the old nurse
toddles off to the rum at the place Sam told her. He had sent her away
to a good long distance on purpose. The moment she was gone, Mrs.
Chisney gets up, dresses herself as quick as she can, and is all ready
just as a hackney-coach drives up to the door. Sam runs down: all was as
right as the mail. There was the Resurrection Man in the coach, with the
dead body of a old woman that had only been buried the day before, and
that he'd had up again during the night. So Sam and the Resurrection Man
they gets the stiff 'un up stairs, and Mrs. Chisney she jumps into the
coach and drives away to a comfortable lodging which Mac Chizzle had got
for her up in Somers Town."

"Now I begin to twig," exclaimed Dick Flairer.

"Presently the old nurse comes back; and Sam meets her on the stairs,
whimpering as hard as he could; and says, 'Oh! nurse--your poor dear
missus is gone: your poor dear missus is gone!' So she was; no mistake
about that. Well, the nurse begins to cry; but Sam gets her up stairs,
and plies her so heartily with the rum that she got blind drunk once
more, without ever thinking of laying the body out; so she didn't find
out it was quite cold. Next day she washed it, and laid it out properly;
and as she was nearly blind, she didn't notice that the features wasn't
altogether the same. The body, too, was a remarkable fresh un; and so
everything went on as well as could be wished. Sam then stepped over to
the Marshal of the Bench, and give him notice of his mother's death; and
as she died in the Rules, there must be an inquest. So a jury of
prisoners was called: and the old nurse was examined; and she said how
exceedin' attentive the young man had been, and all that; and then Sam
himself was called. Of course he told a good tale; and then the Coroner
says, 'Well, gentlemen, I s'pose you'll like to look at the body.' So
over they all goes to Belvidere Place, and the foreman of the Jury just
pokes his nose in at the door of the room where the corpse was lying;
and no one else even went more than half up the staircase. After this,
the jury is quite satisfied, and return a verdict of '_Died from Natural
Causes, accelerated by confinement in the Rules of the King's Bench
Prison_;' and to this--as they were prisoners themselves--they added
some very severe remarks upon '_the deceased's unfeeling and remorseless
creditors_.' Then comes the funeral, which was very respectable; and Sam
Chisney was chief mourner; and he cried a good deal. All the people who
saw it said they never saw a young man so dreadful cut up. In this way
they killed the old woman: the son proved her death, got the money, and
sold it out every farden; and he and his mother is keeping a
public-house together somewhere up Spitalfields way. The Resurrection
Man and Mac Chizzle each got a hundred for their share in the business;
and the thing passed off as comfortable as possible."

[Illustration]

"Well, I'm blowed if that isn't the best lark I ever heard," ejaculated
Dick, when the Cracksman had brought his tale to an end.

"So it is," added Bill.

The parlour of the "boozing-ken" now received some additional
guests--all belonging to the profession of roguery, though not all
following precisely the same line. Thus there were Cracksmen,
Magsmen,[40] Area-Sneaks, Public Patterers,[41] Buzgloaks,[42]
Dummy-Hunters,[43] Compter-Prigs,[44] Smashers,[45] Flimsy-Kiddies,[46]
Macers,[47] Coiners, Begging-Letter Impostors, &c., &c.

The orgies of that motley crew soon became uproarious and revolting.
Those who had money lavished it with the most reckless profusion; and
thus those who had none were far from being in want of liquor.

The Cracksman was evidently a great man amongst this horrible
fraternity: his stories and songs invariably commanded attention.

It is not our purpose to detain the reader much longer in the parlour of
the "boozing-ken," we have doubtless narrated enough in this and the
preceding chapter to give him a faint idea of some of the horrors of
London. We cannot, however, allow the morning scene to pass unnoticed.




CHAPTER XIX.

MORNING.


The orgie lasted throughout the night in the "boozing-ken." There were
plenty of kind guests who, being flush of money, treated those that had
none; and thus Tom the Cracksman, Dick Flairer, and Bill Bolter, were
enabled to indulge, to their heart's content, in the adulterated liquors
sold at the establishment.

The cold raw November morning was ushered in with a fine mizzling rain.
The gas-lights were extinguished in the parlour; and the dawn of day
fell upon countenances inflamed with debauchery, and rendered hideous by
dirt and dark bristling beards.

That was a busy hour for the landlord and landlady of the "boozing-ken."
The neighbours who "used the house," came in, one after another--male
and female, to take their "morning." This signified their first dram.

Then was it that the "all sorts" was in great demand. Old clothesmen,
sweeps, dustmen, knackers, crimps, and women of the town, crowded round
the bar, imbibing the strange but potent compound. Even young boys and
girls of tender age seemed as a matter of course to require the morning
stimulant ere they commenced the avocations or business of the day.
Matted hair, blear-eyes, grimy faces, pestiferous breaths, and hollow
cheeks, combined with rags and tatters, were the characteristics of the
wretches that thronged about the bar of that lowest of low
drinking-dens.

Nothing is more revolting to the eye than the unwashed aspect of
dissipation by the dingy light of the early dawn. The women had
evidently jumped from their beds and huddled on their miserable attire
without the slightest regard to decency, in order to lose no time in
obtaining their morning dram. The men appeared as if they had slept in
their clothes all night; and the pieces of straw in the coarse matted
hair of many of them, plainly denoted of what materials their beds were
made.

They all entered shivering, cold, depressed, and sullen. The dram
instantly produced an extraordinary change in each. Artificial gaiety--a
gaiety which developed itself in ribald jokes, profane oaths, and
obscene talk--was diffused around. Those who could afford it indulged in
a second and a third glass; and some tossed for pots of beer. The men
lighted their pipes; and the place was impregnated with the narcotic
fumes of the strongest and worst tobacco--that bastard opium of the
poor.

Presently the policeman "upon that beat" lounged in, and was
complimented by the landlady with a glass of her "best cordial gin." He
seemed well acquainted with many of the individuals there, and laughed
heartily at the jokes uttered in his presence. When he was gone, the
inmates of the "boozing-ken" all declared, with one accord, "that he was
the most niblike[48] blue-bottle in the entire force."

In the parlour there were several men occupied in warming beer, toasting
herrings, and frying sausages. The tables were smeared over with a rag
as black as a hat, by a dirty slip-shod drab of a girl; and with the
same cloth she dusted the frame of wire-work which protected the dingy
face of the huge Dutch clock. Totally regardless of her presence, the
men continued their obscene and filthy discourse; and she proceeded with
her work as coolly as if nothing offensive met her ears.

There are, thank God! thousands of British women who constitute the
glory of their sex--chaste, virtuous, delicate-minded, and pure in
thought and action,--beings who are but one remove from angels now, but
who will be angels hereafter when they succeed to their inheritance of
immortality. It must be to such as these that the eyes of the poet are
turned when he eulogises, in glowing and impassioned language, the
entire sex comprehended under the bewitching name of WOMAN! For, oh! how
would his mind be shocked, were he to wander for a few hours amidst
those haunts of vice and sinks of depravity which we have just
described;--his spirit, towering on eagle-wing up into the sunny skies
of poesy, would flutter back again to the earth, at the aspect of those
foul and loathsome wretches, who, in the female shape, are found in the
dwelling-places of poverty and crime!

But to continue.

Bill Bolter took leave of his companions at about eight o'clock in the
morning, after a night of boisterous revelry; and rapidly retraced his
steps homewards.

Field Lane was now swarming with life. The miserable little shops were
all open; and their proprietors were busy in displaying their
commodities to the best advantage. Here Jewesses were occupied in
suspending innumerable silk handkerchiefs to wires and poles over their
doors: there the "translators" of old shoes were employed in spreading
their stock upon the shelves that filled the place where the windows
ought to have been. In one or two low dark shops women were engaged in
arranging herrings, stock-fish, and dried haddocks: in another, coals,
vegetables, and oysters were exposed for sale; and not a few were hung
with "old clothes as good as new." To this we may add that in the centre
of the great metropolis of the mightiest empire in the world--in a city
possessing a police which annually costs the nation thousands of
pounds--and in a country whose laws are vaunted as being adapted to
reach and baffle all degrees of crime--numbers of receivers of stolen
goods were boldly, safely, and tranquilly exposing for sale the articles
which their agents had "picked up" during the preceding night.

There was, however, nothing in the aspect of Field Lane at all new to
the eyes of Bill Bolter. Indeed he merely went down that Jew's bazaar,
in his way homewards, because he was anxious to purchase certain
luxuries in the shape of red-herrings for his breakfast, he having
borrowed a trifle of a friend at the "boozing-ken" to supply his
immediate necessities.

When he arrived at his lodgings in Lower Union Court, he was assailed
with a storm of reproaches, menaces, and curses, on the part of his
wife, for having stayed all night at the "boozing ken." At first that
cruel and remorseless man trembled--actually turned pale and trembled in
the presence of the virago who thus attacked him. But at length his
passion was aroused by her taunts and threats; and, after bandying some
horrible abuse and foul epithets with the infuriate woman, he was
provoked to blows. With one stroke of his enormous fist, he felled her
to the ground, and then brutally kicked her as she lay almost senseless
at his feet.

He then coolly sate down by the fire to cook his own breakfast, without
paying the least attention to the two poor children, who were crying
bitterly in that corner of the room where they had slept.

In a few minutes the woman rose painfully from the floor. Her features
were distorted and her lips were livid with rage. She dared not,
however, attempt to irritate her furious husband any farther: still her
passion required a vent. She looked round, and seemed to reflect for a
moment.

Then, in the next instant, all her concentrated rage burst upon the
heads of her unhappy offspring.

With a horrible curse at their squalling, the woman leapt, like a
tiger-cat, upon the poor little boy and girl. Harry, as usual, covered
his sister with his own thin and emaciated form as well as he could; and
a torrent of blows rained down upon his naked flesh. The punishment
which that maddened wretch thus inflicted upon him, was horrible in the
extreme.

A thousand times before that day had Polly Bolter treated her children
with demoniac cruelty; and her husband had not attempted to interfere.
On the present occasion, however, he took it into his head to meddle in
the matter--for the simple reason that, having quarrelled with his wife,
he hated her at the moment, and greedily availed himself of any
opportunity to thwart or oppose her.

Starting from his chair, he exclaimed, "Come, now--I say, leave those
children alone. They haven't done nothing to you."

"You mind your own business," returned the woman, desisting for an
instant from her attack upon the boy, and casting a look of mingled
defiance and contempt at her husband.

That woman's countenance, naturally ugly and revolting, was now
absolutely frightful.

"I say, leave them children alone," cried Bill. "If you touch 'em again,
I'll drop down on you."

"Oh, you coward! to hit a woman! I wish I was a man, I'd pay you off for
this: and if I was, you wouldn't dare strike me."

"Mind what you say, Poll; I'm in no humour to be teased this morning.
Keep your mawleys[49] off the kids, or I'm blessed if I don't do for
you."

"Ugh--coward! This is the way I dare you;" and she dealt a tremendous
blow upon her boy's shoulder.

The poor lad screamed piteously: the hand of his mother had fallen with
the weight of a sledge hammer upon his naked flesh.

But that ferocious blow was echoed by another, at scarcely a moment's
interval. The latter was dealt by the fist of Bill Bolter, and fell upon
the back part of the ruthless mother's head with stunning force.

The woman fell forward, and struck her face violently against the corner
of the deal table.

Her left eye came in contact with the angle of the board, and was
literally crushed in its socket--an awful retribution upon her who only
a few hours before was planning how to plunge her innocent and helpless
daughter into the eternal night of blindness.

She fell upon the floor, and a low moan escaped her lips. She
endeavoured to carry her right hand to her now sightless eye; but her
strength failed her, and her arm fell lifeless by her side. She was
dying.

The man was now alarmed, and hastened to raise her up. The children were
struck dumb with unknown fears, and clasped each other in their little
arms.

The woman recovered sufficient consciousness, during the two or three
seconds which preceded the exhalation of her last breath, to glance with
her remaining eye up into her husband's face. She could not, however,
utter an articulate sound--not even another moan.

But no pen could depict, and no words describe, the deadly--the
malignant--the fiendish hatred which animated her countenance as she
thus met her husband's gaze.

The tigress, enveloped in the folds of the boa-constrictor, never darted
such a glance of impotent but profound and concentrated rage upon the
serpent that held it powerless in its fatal clasp.

She expired with her features still distorted by that horrible
expression of vindictive spite.

A few moments elapsed before the man was aware that his wife was
dead--that he had murdered her!

He supported her mechanically, as it were; for he was dismayed and
appalled by the savage aspect which her countenance had assumed--that
countenance which was rendered the more hideous by the bleeding eye-ball
crushed in its socket.

At length he perceived that she was no more; and, with a terrible oath,
he let her head drop upon the floor.

For a minute he stood and contemplated the corpse:--a whirlwind was in
his brain.

The voices of his children aroused him from his reverie.

"Father, what's the matter with mother?" asked the boy, in a timid and
subdued tone.

"Mother's hurt herself," said Fanny: "poor mother!"

"Look at mother's eye, father," added the boy: "do look at it! I'm sure
something dreadful is the matter."

"Damnation!" ejaculated the murderer: and, after another minute's
hesitation, he hurried to the door.

"O, father, father, don't leave us--don't go away from us!" cried the
little boy, bursting into an agony of tears: "pray don't go away,
father! I think mother's dead," added he with a glance of horror and
apprehension towards the corpse: "so don't leave us, father--and I and
Fanny will go out and beg, and do anything you like; only pray don't
leave us; don't, don't, leave us!"

With profound anguish in his heart, the little fellow clung to his
father's knees, and proffered his prayer in a manner the most
ingenuous--the most touching.

The man paused, as if he knew not what to do.

His hesitation lasted but a moment. Disengaging himself from the arms of
his child, he said in as kind a tone as he could assume--and that tone
was kinder than any he had ever used before--"Don't be foolish, boy; I
shall be back directly. I'm only going to fetch a doctor--I shan't be a
minute."

"Oh, pray don't be long, father!" returned the boy, clasping his little
hands imploringly together.

In another moment the two children were alone with the corpse of their
mother; while the murderer was rapidly descending the stairs to escape
from the contemplation of that scene of horror.




CHAPTER XX.

THE VILLA.


Again the scene changes. Our readers must accompany us once more to the
villa in the neighbourhood of Upper Clapton.

It was the evening of the day on which was perpetrated the dreadful deed
related in the preceding chapter. The curtains were drawn over the
dining-room windows; a cheerful fire burned in the grate; and a lamp,
placed in the middle of the table, diffused a pleasant and mellowed
light around. An air of comfort, almost amounting to luxury, pervaded
that apartment; and its general temperature was the better appreciated,
as the wind whistled without, and the rain pattered against the windows.

At the table, on which stood a dessert of delicious fruits, conserves,
cakes, and wines, sate Walter Sydney and George Montague.

They had now been acquainted nearly three months; and during that period
they had met often. Montague had, however, seldom called at the villa,
save when expressly invited by his friend Stephens: still, upon those
occasions, he and Walter were frequently alone for some time together.
Thus, while Stephens was examining into the economy of the stables, or
superintending improvements in the garden, Montague and that mysterious
lady in man's attire, were thrown upon their own resources to entertain
each other.

The reader cannot be surprised if an attachment sprung up between them.
So far as that lovely woman was concerned, we can vouch that her
predilection towards George Montague was the sincere and pure sentiment
of a generous and affectionate heart. How worthy of such a passion his
own feelings on the subject might have been, must appear hereafter.

The masculine attire and habits which the lady had assumed, had not
destroyed the fine and endearing characteristics of her woman's heart.
She was at first struck by Montague's handsome person;--then his varied
conversation delighted her;--and, as he soon exerted all his powers to
render himself agreeable to the heroine of the villa, it was not long
before he completely won her heart.

The peculiarity of her position had taught her--and necessarily so--to
exercise an almost complete command over the expression of her feelings.
Thus, though an explanation had taken place between herself and
Montague, and a mutual avowal of affection made, Stephens remained
without a suspicion upon the subject.

On the evening when we again introduce our readers to the villa,
Montague was there by the express desire of Mr. Stephens; but this
latter individual had been detained by particular business elsewhere.
Walter--for so we must continue to call that mysterious being--and
Montague had therefore dined _tête-à-tête_; and they were now enjoying
together the two or three pleasant hours which succeed the most
important meal of the day.

The plans of the lovers will be comprehended by means of the ensuing
conversation, better than if drily detailed in our own narrative
style:--

"Another fortnight--two short weeks only," said the lady, "and the end
of this deception will have arrived."

"Yes--another fortnight," echoed Montague; "and everything will then be
favourable to our wishes. The 26th of November----"

"My poor brother, were he alive, would be of age on the 25th," observed
the lady, mournfully.

"Of course--precisely!" ejaculated Montague.

"On the 26th, as I was saying, Stephens's plans will be realized; and
you will be worth ten thousand pounds."

"Oh! it is not so much for the money that I shall welcome that day: but
chiefly because it will be the last on which I shall be doomed to wear
this detestable disguise."

"And shall not I be supremely happy to leave this land with you--to call
you my own dear beloved wife--and to bear you away to the sunny climes
of the south of Europe, where we may live in peace, happiness, and
tranquillity to the end of our days?"

"What a charming--what a delicious picture!" ejaculated the lady, her
bosom heaving with pleasurable emotions beneath the tight frock which
confined it. "But----oh! if the plans of Mr. Stephens should fail;--and
that they _might_ fail, I am well assured, for he has often said to me,
'_Pray be circumspect, Walter: you know not how much depends upon your
discretion!_'"

"Those plans _will_ not--_cannot_ fail!" cried Montague emphatically.
"He has told me all--and everything is so well arranged, so admirably
provided for!"

"He has told you everything," said the lady, reproachfully; "and he has
told me nothing."

"And I dare not enlighten you."

"Oh! I would not hear the secret from your lips. I have a confidence the
most blind--the most devoted in Mr. Stephens; and I feel convinced that
he must have sound reasons for keeping me thus in the dark with
reference to the principal motives of the deception which I am
sustaining. I know, moreover--at least, he has declared most solemnly to
me, and I believe his word--that no portion of his plan militates
against honour and integrity. He is compelled to meet intrigue with
intrigue; but all his proceedings are justifiable. There can be no loss
of character--no danger from the laws of the country. In all this I am
satisfied--because a man who has done so much for me and my poor
deceased mother, would not lead me astray, nor involve me either in
disgrace or peril."

"You are right," said Montague. "Stephens is incapable of deceiving
you."

"And more than all that I have just said," continued Walter, "I am aware
that there is an immense fortune at stake; and that should the plans of
Mr. Stephens fully succeed, I shall receive ten thousand pounds as a
means of comfortable subsistence for the remainder of my life."

"And that sum, joined to what I possess, and to what _I shall have_,"
added Montague, "will enable us to live in luxury in a foreign land. Oh!
how happy shall I be when the time arrives for me to clasp you in my
arms--to behold you attired in the garb which suits your sex, and in
which I never yet have seen you dressed--and to call you by the sacred
and endearing name of WIFE! How beautiful must you appear in those
garments which----"

"Hush, George--no compliments!" cried the lady, with a smile and a
blush. "Wait until you see me dressed as you desire; and, perhaps,
then--_then_, you may whisper to me the soft and delicious language of
love."

The time-piece upon the mantel struck eleven; and Montague rose to
depart.

It was an awful night. The violence of the wind had increased during the
last hour; and the rain poured in torrents against the windows.

"George, it is impossible that you can venture out in such weather as
this," said the lady, in a frank and ingenuous manner: "one would not
allow a dog to pass the door on such a night. Fortunately there is a
spare room in my humble abode; and that chamber is at your service."

Walter rang the bell, and gave Louisa the necessary instructions.

In another half-hour Montague was conducted to the apartment provided
for him, and Walter retired to the luxurious and elegant boudoir which
we have before described.

The satin curtains were drawn over the casement against which the rain
beat with increasing fury: a cheerful fire actually roared in the grate;
and the thick carpet upon the floor, the inviting lounging-chair close
by the hearth, and the downy couch with its snow-white sheets and warm
clothing, completed the air of comfort which prevailed in that delicious
retreat. The vases of sweet flowers were no longer there, it was true;
but a fragrant odour of bergamot and lavender filled the boudoir.
Nothing could be more charming than this warm, perfumed, and voluptuous
chamber--worthy of the lovely and mysterious being who seemed the
presiding divinity of that elysian bower.

Walter threw herself into the easy-chair, and dismissed her attendant,
saying, "You may retire, Louisa,--I will undress myself without your aid
to-night; for as yet I do not feel inclined to sleep. I shall sit here,
before this cheerful fire, and indulge in the luxury of hopes and future
prospects, ere I retire to rest."

Louisa withdrew, and Walter then plunged into a delicious reverie. The
approaching emancipation from the thraldom of an assumed sex--her
affection for George Montague--and the anticipated possession of an
ample fortune to guard against the future, were golden visions not the
less dazzling for being waking ones.

Half an hour had passed away in this manner, when a strange noise
startled Walter in the midst of her meditations. She thought that she
heard a shutter close violently and a pane of glass smash to pieces
almost at the same moment. Alarm was for an instant depicted upon her
countenance: she then smiled, and, ashamed of the evanescent fear to
which she had yielded, said to herself, "It must be one of the shutters
of the dining-room or parlour down stairs, that has blown open."

Taking the lamp in her hand she issued from the boudoir, and hastily
descended the stairs leading to the ground floor. In her way thither she
could hear, even amidst the howling of the wind, the loud barking of the
dogs in the rear of the villa.

The hall, as she crossed it, struck piercing cold, after the genial
warmth of the boudoir which she had just left. She cautiously entered
the parlour on the left hand of the front door: all was safe. Having
satisfied herself that the shutters in that apartment were securely
closed and fastened, she proceeded to the dining-room.

She opened the door, and was about to cross the threshold, when--at that
moment--the lamp was dashed from her hand by some one inside the room;
and she herself was instantly seized by two powerful arms, and dragged
into the apartment.

A piercing cry issued from her lips; and then a coarse and hard hand was
pressed violently on her mouth. Further utterance was thus stopped.

"Here--Bill--Dick," said a gruff voice; "give me a knife--I must settle
this feller's hash--or I'm blessed if he won't alarm the house."

"No more blood--no more blood!" returned another voice, hastily, and
with an accent of horror. "I had enough of that this mornin'. Gag him,
and tie him up in a heap."

"D--n him, do for him!" cried a third voice. "Don't be such a cursed
coward, Bill."

"Hold your jaw, will ye--and give me a knife, Dick," said the first
speaker, who was no other than Tom the Cracksman. "The fellow struggles
furious--but I've got hold on him by the throat."

Scarcely had these words issued from the lips of the burglar, when the
door was thrown open, and Montague entered the room.

He held a lamp in one hand, and a pistol in the other; and it was easy
to perceive that he had been alarmed in the midst of his repose, for he
had nothing on save his trousers and his shirt.

On the sudden appearance of an individual thus armed, Tom the Cracksman
exclaimed, "At him--down with him! We must make a fight of it."

The light of the lamp, which Montague held in his hand, streamed full
upon the countenance and person of Walter Sydney, who was struggling
violently in the suffocating grasp of the Cracksman.

"Hell and furies!" ejaculated Dick Flairer, dropping his dark lantern
and a bunch of skeleton keys upon the floor, while his face was suddenly
distorted with an expression of indescribable horror; then, in obedience
to the natural impulse of his alarm, he rushed towards the window, the
shutters and casement of which had been forced open, leapt through it,
and disappeared amidst the darkness of the night.

Astonished by this strange event, Bill Bolter instantly turned his eyes
from Montague, whom he was at that moment about to attack, towards the
Cracksman and Walter Sydney.

The colour fled from the murderer's cheeks, as if a sudden spell had
fallen upon him: his teeth chattered--his knees trembled--and he leant
against the table for support.

There was the identical being whom four years and five months before,
they had hurled down the trap-door of the old house in Chick Lane:--and
who, that had ever met that fate as yet, had survived to tell the tale?

For an instant the entire frame of the murderer was convulsed with
alarm: the apparition before him--the vision of his assassinated
wife--and the reminiscences of other deeds of the darkest dye, came upon
him with the force of a whirlwind. For an instant, we say, was he
convulsed with alarm;--in another moment he yielded to his fears, and,
profiting by his companion's example, disappeared like an arrow through
the window.

Amongst persons engaged in criminal pursuits, a panic-terror is very
catching. The Cracksman--formidable and daring as he was--suddenly
experienced an unknown and vague fear, when he perceived the horror and
unassumed alarm which had taken possession of his comrades. He loosened
his grasp upon his intended victim: Walter made a last desperate effort,
and released himself from the burglar's power.

"Approach me, and I will blow your brains out," cried Montague, pointing
his pistol at the Cracksman.

Scarcely were these words uttered, when the burglar darted forward,
dashed the lamp from the hands of Montague, and effected his escape by
the window.

Montague rushed to the casement, and snapped the pistol after him: the
weapon only flashed in the pan.

Montague closed the window and fastened the shutters. He then called
Walter by name; and, receiving no answer, groped his way in the dark
towards the door.

His feet encountered an obstacle upon the carpet: he stooped down and
felt with his hands;--Walter Sydney had fainted.

Scarcely two minutes had elapsed since Montague had entered the room;
for the confusion and flight of the burglars had not occupied near so
much time to enact as to describe. The entire scene had moreover passed
without any noise calculated to disturb the household.

There were consequently no servants at hand to afford Walter the succour
which he required.

For a moment Montague hesitated what course to pursue; but, after one
instant's reflection, he took her in his arms, and carried her up into
her own enchanting and delicious boudoir.




CHAPTER XXI.

ATROCITY.


George Montague placed his precious burden upon the bed, and for a
moment contemplated her pale but beautiful countenance with mingled
feelings of admiration, interest, and desire. The lips were apart, and
two rows of pearl glittered beneath. The luxuriant light chesnut hair
rolled over his arm, on which he still supported that head of perfect
loveliness: his hand thus played with those silken, shining tresses.

Still she remained motionless--lifeless.

Gently withdrawing his arm, Montague hastened to sprinkle her
countenance with water. The colour returned faintly, very faintly to her
cheeks; and her lips moved gently; but she opened not her eyes.

For a moment he thought of summoning Louisa to her assistance; then,
obedient to a second impulse, he hastily loosened the hooks of her
semi-military frock-coat.

Scarcely had his hand thus invaded the treasures of her bosom, when she
moved, and unclosed the lids of her large melting hazel-eyes.

"Where am I?" she exclaimed, instinctively closing her coat over her
breast.

"Fear not, dearest," whispered Montague; "it is I--I who love you."

The scene with the burglars instantly flashed to the mind of the lady;
and she cried in a tone rendered tremulous by fear--"And those horrible
men--are they all three gone?"

"They are gone--and you are safe."

"Oh! you will pardon me this weakness," continued Walter, hastily moving
from the bed to a chair; "but two of those villains--I recognised them
but too well--were the men who threw me down the trap-door in the old
house near Smithfield."

"Hence their alarm--their panic, when they saw you," exclaimed Montague:
"they fancied that they beheld a spirit instead of a reality. This
accounts for their sudden and precipitate flight, till this moment
unaccountable to me."

"And you, George," said the lady, glancing tenderly toward the young
man--"you are my saviour from a horrible death! Another moment, and it
would have been too late--they were going to murder me! Oh! how can I
sufficiently express my gratitude."

She tendered him her hand, which he pressed rapturously to his
lips;--and she did not withdraw it.

"I heard a noise of a shutter closing violently, and of a pane of glass
breaking," said Montague: "I started from my bed and listened. In a few
moments afterwards I heard footsteps on the stairs----"

"Those were mine, as I descended," interrupted Walter; "for I was
alarmed by the same disturbance."

"And, then, while I was hastily slipping on my clothes," added Montague,
"I heard a scream. Not another moment did I wait; but----"

"You came in time, I repeat, to save my life. Never--never shall I
sufficiently repay you."

Again did Montague press the fair hand of that enchanting woman to his
lips; and then, as he leant over her, their eyes met, and they exchanged
glances of love--hers pure and chaste, his ardent and brimful of desire.
He was maddened--he was emboldened by those innocent tokens of affection
upon her part; and, throwing his arms around her, he imprinted hot and
burning kisses upon her lips.

With difficulty did she disengage herself from his embrace; and she cast
upon him a look of reproach mingled with melancholy.

"Pardon me, dearest one," he exclaimed, seizing her hand once more and
pressing it to his lips; "is it a crime to love you so tenderly--so
well?"

"No, George--no: you are my saviour--you soon will be my husband--you
need not ask for my forgiveness. But now leave me--retire to your own
room as noiselessly as you can; and to-morrow--to-morrow," she added
with a blush, "it is not necessary that Louisa should know that you were
_here_."

"I understand you, dearest," returned Montague; "your wishes shall ever
be my commands. Good night, beloved one!"

"Good night, dear George," said the lady;--and in another moment she was
again alone in the boudoir.

Montague returned to his apartment, full of the bliss which he had
derived from the caresses enjoyed in a chamber that seemed sacred to
mystery and love. He paced his own room with hasty and agitated steps:
his brain was on fire.

His own loose ideas of morality induced him to put but little faith in
the reality of female virtue. He moreover persuaded himself that the
principles of rectitude--supposing that they had ever existed--in the
bosom of the enchanting creature he had just left, had been undermined
or destroyed by the cheat which she was practising with regard to her
sex. And, lastly, he fancied that her affections were too firmly
rivetted on him to refuse him anything.

Miserable wretch! he was blinded by his own mad desires. He knew not
that woman's virtue is as real, as pure, and as precious as the diamond;
he remembered not that the object of his licentious passion was innocent
of aught criminal in the disguise which she had assumed;--he reflected
not that the caresses which she had ere now permitted him to snatch,
were those which the most spotless virgin may honourably award to her
lover.

He paced his room in a frenzied manner--allowing his imagination to
picture scenes and enjoyments of the most voluptuous kind. By degrees
his passion became ungovernable: he was no longer the cool, calculating
man he hitherto had been;--a new chord appeared to have been touched in
his heart.

At that moment he would have signed a bond, yielding up all hopes of
eternal salvation to the Evil One, for a single hour of love in the arms
of that woman whom he had left in the boudoir!

His passion had become a delirium:--he would have plunged into the
crater of Vesuvius, or thrown himself from the ridge of the Alpine
mountain into the boiling torrent beneath, had she gone before him.

An hour thus passed away, and he attempted not to subdue his feelings:
he rather encouraged their wild and wayward course by recalling to his
imagination the charms of her whose beauty had thus strangely affected
him,--the endearing words which she had uttered,--the thrilling effect
of the delicious kisses he had received from her moist vermilion
lips,--and the voluptuous contours of that snowy bosom which had been
for a moment revealed to his eyes.

An hour passed: he opened the door of his chamber and listened.

A dead silence prevailed throughout the house.

He stole softly along the passage and through the anteroom which led to
the boudoir.

When he reached the door of that chamber he paused for a moment. What
was he about to do? He waited not to answer the question, nor to reason
within himself: he only chose to remember that a thin partition was all
that separated him from one of the most beauteous creatures upon whom
the sun ever shone in this world.

His fingers grasped the handle of the door: he turned it gently;--the
door was not locked!

He entered the boudoir as noiselessly as a spectre. The lamp was
extinguished; but the fire still burnt in the grate; and its flickering
light played tremulously on the various objects around, bathing in a
rich red glare the downy bed whereon reposed the heroine of the villa.

The atmosphere was warm and perfumed.

The head of the sleeper was supported upon one naked arm, which was
round, polished, and of exquisite whiteness. The other lay outside the
clothes, upon the coverlid. Her long hair flowed in undulations upon the
snowy pillows. The fire shone with Rembrandt effect upon her
countenance, one side of which was completely irradiated, while the
other caught not its mellow light. Thus the perfect regularity of the
profile was fully revealed to him who now dared to intrude upon those
sacred slumbers.

"She shall be mine! she shall be mine!" murmured Montague; and he
advanced toward the bed.

At that moment--whether aroused by a dream, or startled by the almost
noiseless tread of feet upon the carpet, we cannot say--the lady awoke.

She opened her large hazel eyes; and they fell upon a figure to whom her
imagination, thus suddenly surprised, and the flickering light of the
fire, gave a giant stature.

Her fears in one respect were, however, immediately relieved; for the
voice of Montague fell upon her ears almost as soon as her eyes caught
sight of him.

"Pardon--pardon, dearest one!" he said in a harried and subdued tone.

"Ah! is it so?" quickly ejaculated the lady, who in a moment
comprehended how her privacy had been outraged; and passing her arm
beneath the pillow, she drew forth a long, sharp, shining dagger.

Montague started back in dismay.

"Villain, that you are--approach this bed, and, without a moment's
hesitation, I will plunge this dagger into your heart!"

"Oh! forgive me--forgive me!" ejaculated the young man, cruelly
embarrassed. "Dazzled by your beauty--driven mad by your
caresses--intoxicated, blinded with passion--I could not command
myself--I had no power over my actions."

"Attempt no apology!" said the lady, with a calm and tranquil bitterness
of accent that showed how profoundly she felt the outrage--the atrocity,
that he, whom she loved so tenderly, had dared to meditate against her:
"attempt no apology--but leave this room without an instant's delay, and
without another word. Within my reach is a bell-rope--one touch of my
finger and I can call my servants to my assistance. Save me that
exposure--save yourself that disgrace. To-morrow I will tell you my
opinion of your conduct."

There was something so determined--so cool--so resolute in the manner
and the matter of this address, that Montague felt abashed--humbled--beaten
down to the very dust. Even his grovelling soul at that moment
comprehended the Roman mind of the woman whom he would have disgraced: a
coward when burglars menaced her life, she was suddenly endowed with
lion-daring in defence of her virtue.

The crest-fallen young man again attempted to palliate his intrusion:
with superb scorn she waved her hand imperiously, as a signal to leave
the room.

Tears of vexation, shame, and rage, started into his eyes, as he obeyed
that silent mandate which he now dared no longer to dispute.

The moment the wretch had left the boudoir, the lady sprang from the bed
and double-locked the door.

She then returned to her couch, buried her head in the pillow, and burst
into an agony of tears.




CHAPTER XXII.

A WOMAN'S MIND.


When Louisa entered the boudoir on the morning which succeeded this
eventful night, nothing in Walter's countenance denoted the painful
emotions that filled her bosom. She narrated the particulars of the
burglarious entry of the dwelling, and Montague's opportune arrival upon
the scene of action, with a calmness which surprised her faithful
attendant. The truth was, that the attempt of the robbers upon the
house, and even the danger in which her own life had been placed, had
dwindled, in her own estimation, into events of secondary importance,
when compared with that one atrocity which had suddenly wrecked all her
hopes of love and happiness for ever.

The usual mysterious toilet was speedily performed; and, with a firm
step and a countenance expressive of a stern decision, she descended to
the breakfast-parlour.

Montague was already there--pale, haggard, abashed, and trembling. He
knew that the chance of possessing a lovely woman and ten thousand
pounds was then at stake; and, in addition to this perilous predicament
of his nearest and dearest hopes, his position was embarrassing and
unpleasant in the extreme. Had he succeeded in his base attempt, he
would have been a victor flushed with conquest, and prepared to dictate
terms to a woman entirely at his mercy:--but he had been foiled, and he
himself was the dejected and baffled being who would be compelled to
crave for pardon.

As Louisa entered the room close upon the heels of Walter, the latter
greeted George Montague with a most affable morning's welcome, and
conversed with him in a manner which seemed to say that she had totally
forgotten the occurrence of the night.

But the moment that Louisa had completed the arrangements of the
breakfast table, and had left the room, Walter's tone and manner
underwent an entire and sudden change.

"You must not think, sir," she said, while a proud smile of scorn and
bitterness curled her lips, "that I have this morning tasted of the
waters of oblivion. To save you, rather than myself, the shame of being
exposed in the presence of my servant, I assumed that friendly and
familiar air which appears to have deceived you."

"What! then you have not forgiven me?" exclaimed Montague, profoundly
surprised.

"Forgive you!" repeated the lady, almost indignantly: "do you suppose
that I think so little of myself, or would give you such scope to think
so little of me, as to pass by in silence a crime which was atrocious in
a hundred ways? I loved you sincerely--tenderly--oh! God only knows how
I loved you; and you would have taken advantage of my sincere and
heartfelt affection. The dream in which I had indulged is now dispelled;
the vision is over; the illusion is dissipated. Never would I accompany
to the altar a man whom I could not esteem; and I can no longer esteem
you. Then again, I offered you the hospitality of my abode; and that
sacred rite you would have infamously violated. I cannot, therefore,
even retain you as a friend. In another sense, too, your conduct was
odious. You saved my life--and for that I shall ever remember you with
gratitude: but you nevertheless sought to avail yourself of that service
as a means of robbing me of my honour. Oh! all this was
abominable--detestable on your part; and what is the result? My love can
never avail you now; I will crush it--extinguish it in my bosom first.
My friendship cannot be awarded; my gratitude alone remains. That shall
accompany you; for we must now separate--and for ever."

"Separate--and forever!" ejaculated Montague, who had listened with deep
interest and various conflicting emotions to this strange address:
"no--you cannot mean it? you will not be thus relentless?"

"Mr. Montague," returned the lady, with great apparent coolness--though
in reality she was inflicting excruciating tortures upon her own heart;
"no power on earth can alter my resolves. We shall part--here--now--and
for ever and may happiness and prosperity attend you."

"But Mr. Stephens?" cried Montague: "what can you say to him? what will
he think?"

"He shall never know the truth from _me_," answered Walter solemnly.

"This is absurd!" ejaculated Montague, in despair at the imminent ruin
of all his hopes. "Will not my humblest apology--my sincerest excuses--my
future conduct,--will nothing atone for one false step, committed under
the influence of generous wines and of a passion which obtained a
complete mastery over me? Will nothing move your forgiveness?"

"Nothing," answered Walter, with unvaried coolness and determination.
"Were I a young girl of sixteen or seventeen, it might be different:
_then_ I might be deceived by your sophistry. _Now_ it is impossible! I
am five and twenty years old; and circumstances," she added, glancing
over her male attire, "have also tended to augment my experience in the
sinuosities of human designs and the phases of the human heart."

"Yes--you are twenty-five, it is true," cried Montague; "but that age
has not robbed your charms of any of the grace and freshness of youth.
Oh! then let your mind be cautious how it adopts the severe notions of
riper years!"

"I thank you for the compliment which you pay me," said Walter,
satirically; "and I can assure you that it does not prove a welcome
preface to the argument which you would found upon it. Old or
young--experienced or ignorant in the ways of the world--a woman were a
fool to marry where she could not entertain respect for her husband. I
may be wrong: but this is my conviction;--and upon it will I act."

"This is but an excuse to break with me," said Montague: "you no longer
love me."

"No--not as I did twelve hours ago."

"You never loved me! It is impossible to divest oneself of that passion
so suddenly as this."

"Love in my mind is a species of worship or adoration, and can be
damaged by the evil suspicions that may suddenly be thrown upon its
object."

"No--that is not love," exclaimed Montague, passionately: "true love
will make a woman follow her lover or her husband through all the most
hideous paths of crime--even to the scaffold."

"The woman who truly loves, will follow her husband as a duty, but not
her lover to countenance him in his crimes. We are not, however, going
to argue this point:--for my part, I am not acting according to the
prescribed notions of romances or a false sentimentality, but strictly
in accordance with my own idea of what is suitable to my happiness and
proper to my condition. I repeat, I am not the heroine of a novel in her
teens--I am a woman of a certain age, and can reflect calmly in order to
act decidedly."

Montague made no reply, but walked towards the window. Strange and
conflicting sentiments were agitating in his brain.

'Twas thus he reasoned within himself.

"If I use threats and menaces, I shall merely open her eyes to the real
objects which Stephens has in view; and she will shrink from the fearful
dangers she is about to encounter. Whether she changes her mind or not
with regard to me, and whether I proceed farther in the business or not,
the secret is in my hands; and Stephens will pay me handsomely to keep
it. Perhaps I had even better stop short where I am: I am still in a
position to demand hush-money, and avoid the extreme peril which must
accrue to all who appear prominently in the affair on the 26th of the
month."

The selfish mind of George Montague thus revolved the various phases of
his present position: and in a few moments he was determined how to act.

Turning towards Walter Sydney, he exclaimed, "You are decided not to
forgive me?"

"I have made known to you my resolution--that we should now part, for
ever."

"How can we part for ever, when your friend and benefactor, Mr.
Stephens, requires my services?"

"Mr. Stephens informed me '_that a third person was necessary to the
complete success of his designs, and that he had fixed upon you_.'
Consequently, another friend may fill the place which he intended you to
occupy."

"You seem to have well weighed the results of your resolution to see me
no more," said Montague bitterly.

"There is time for thought throughout the live-long night, when sleep is
banished from the pillow," returned the lady proudly.

"I can scarcely comprehend your conduct," said Montague, after another
pause. "You do not choose that your servants should know what occurred
last night: is it your intention to acquaint Mr. Stephens with the real
truth?"

"That depends entirely upon yourself. To speak candidly, I do _not_ wish
to come to any explanation with Mr. Stephens upon the subject. He will
blame me for having concealed from him the attachment which has
subsisted between us; and he will imagine that some levity on my part
must have encouraged you to violate the sanctity of my chamber. If you,
sir, are a man of honour," added the lady emphatically,--"and if you
have a spark of feeling and generosity left, you will take measures with
Mr. Stephens to spare me that last mortification."

[Illustration]

"I will do as you require," returned Montague, well pleased with this
arrangement. "This very day will I communicate to Mr. Stephens my desire
to withdraw from any further interference in his affairs; and I will
allege the pressing nature of my own concerns as an excuse."

"Act as you will," said the lady; "but let there remain behind no motive
which can lead you to repeat your visits to this house. You comprehend
me?"

"Perfectly," replied Montague. "But once more let me implore you--"

"Enough--enough!" exclaimed Walter. "You know not the firmness of the
female mind: perhaps I have this morning taught you a lesson in that
respect. We must now part, Mr. Montague; and believe me--believe me,
that, although no power on earth can alter the resolution to which I
came during the long and painful vigil of the past night, I still wish
you well;--and, remember, my gratitude accompanies you!"

Walter hesitated for a moment, as if another observation were trembling
upon her tongue: then stifling her emotions with a powerful effort, she
waved her hand to the delinquent, and abruptly left the room.

"Is this a loftiness of mind of which not even the greatest of men often
afford example? or is it the miserable caprice of a vacillating woman?"
said Montague to himself, as he prepared to take his departure from the
villa in which he had spent some happy hours. "I must candidly admit
that this time I am at fault. All appears to be lost in this
quarter--and that, too, through my own confounded folly. But Stephens's
secret still remains to me; and that secret shall be as good as an
annuity for years to come. Let me see--I must have money now to insure
my silence, upon breaking off all further connexion with the business.
Then I must keep an eye upon him; and should he succeed on the 26th of
this month--and he _must_ succeed, if this punctilious lady does not see
through his designs in the meantime--then can I step forward and demand
another sum under a threat of exposing the entire scheme. And then,
too," he added, while his countenance wore an expression of mingled
revenge and triumph,--"then, too, can I appear before this vain, this
scrupulous, this haughty woman, and with one word send her on her knees
before me! Then will she stoop her proud brow, and her prayers and
intercessions upon that occasion shall be expressed as humbly as her
reproaches and her taunts were tyrannically levelled at me to-day!
Yes--I will keep my eye upon Walter Sydney and her benefactor Stephens,"
he said, with an ironical chuckle: "they may obtain their princely
fortune, but a due share shall find its way into my pocket!"

These or similar reflections continued to occupy the mind of George
Montague, after he had left the villa, and while he was on his way to
the nearest point where he could obtain a conveyance to take him into
the City.




CHAPTER XXIII.

THE OLD HOUSE IN SMITHFIELD AGAIN.


The visitor to the Polytechnic Institution or the Adelaide Gallery, has
doubtless seen the exhibition of the microscope. A drop of the purest
water, magnified by that instrument some thousands of times, appears
filled with horrible reptiles and monsters of revolting forms.

Such is London.

Fair and attractive as the mighty metropolis may appear to the
superficial observer, it swarms with disgusting, loathsome, and venomous
objects, wearing human shapes.

Oh! London is a city of strange contrasts!

The bustle of business, and the smile of pleasure,--the peaceful
citizen, and the gay soldier,--the splendid shop, and the itinerant
pastry-stall,--the gorgeous equipage, and the humble market-cart,--the
palaces of nobles, and the hovels of the poor,--the psalm from the
chapel, and the shout of laughter from the tavern,--the dandies lounging
in the west-end streets, and the paupers cleansing away the mud,--the
funeral procession, and the bridal cavalcade,--the wealthy and high-born
lady whose reputation is above all cavil, and the lost girl whose shame
is below all notice,--the adventurer who defends his honour with a duel,
and the poor tradesman whom unavoidable bankruptcy has branded as a
rogue,--the elegantly-clad banker whose insolvency must soon transpire,
and the ragged old miser whose wealth is not suspected,--the monuments
of glory, and the hospitals of the poor,--the temples where men adore a
God with affectation, and the shrines at which they lose their gold to a
deity whom they adore without affectation,--in a word, grandeur and
squalor, wealth and misery, virtue and vice,--honesty which has never
been tried, and crime which yielded to the force of irresistible
circumstances,--all the features, all the characteristics, all the
morals, of a great city, must occupy the attention of him who surveys
London with microscopic eye.

And what a splendid subject for the contemplation of the moralist is a
mighty city which, at every succeeding hour, presents a new phase of
interest to the view;--in the morning, when only the industrious and the
thrifty are abroad, and while the wealthy and the great are sleeping off
the night's pleasure and dissipation:--at noon, when the streets are
swarming with life, as if some secret source without the walls poured at
that hour myriads of animated streams into the countless avenues and
thoroughfares;--in the evening, when the men of pleasure again venture
forth, and music, and dancing, and revelry prevail around;--and at
night, when every lazar-house vomits forth its filth, every den lets
loose its horrors, and every foul court and alley echoes to the
footsteps of crime!

It was about two o'clock in the morning, (three hours after the
burglarious attempt upon the villa,) that a man, drenched by the rain
which continued to pour in torrents, with his hat drawn over his eyes,
and his hands thrust in his pockets to protect them against the cold,
crept cautiously down West Street, from Smithfield, dodged past the
policeman, and entered the old house which we have described at the
opening of our narrative.

Having closed and carefully bolted the front door, he hastily ascended
to the room on the first floor where Walter Sydney had seen him and his
companion conceal their plunder four years and four months previously.

This man--so wet, so cold, and so miserable--was Bill Bolter, the
murderer.

Having groped about for a few moments, he found a match, struck it, and
obtained a light. One of the secret recesses furnished a candle; and the
flickering glare fell upon the haggard, unshaven, and dirty countenance
of the ruffian.

Scarcely had he lighted the candle, when a peculiar whistle was heard in
the street, just under the window. The features of Bolter became
suddenly animated with joy; and, as he hastily descended the stairs, he
muttered to himself, "Well, at all events here's one on 'em."

The individual to whom he opened the door was Dick Flairer--in no better
plight, mentally and bodily, than himself.

"Is there any bingo, Bill?" demanded Dick, the moment he set foot in the
up-stairs room.

"Not a drain," answered Bolter, after a close inspection of the cupboard
in the wall between the windows; "and not a morsel of grub neither."

"Blow the grub," said Dick. "I ain't in no humour for eating; but I
could drink a gallon. I've been thinking as I come along, and after the
first shock was over, wot cursed fools you and me was to be humbugged in
this here affair. Either that young feller was the brother of the one
which we threw down the trap----"

"No: I could swear that he is the same," interrupted Bill.

"Well--then he must have made his escape--and that's all," added Dick
Flairer.

"That must be it," observed Bolter, after a long pause. "But it was so
sudden upon us--and then without no time to think--and all that----"

"You may say what you like, Bill--but I shall never forgive myself. I
was the first to bolt; and I was a coward. How shall I ever be able to
look the Cracksman in the face again, or go to the parlour of the
boozing-ken?"

"It's no use complaining like this, Dick. You was used to be the bold
'un--and now it seems as if it was me that must say 'Cheer up.' The
fact is, someot must be done without delay. I told you and Tom what had
happened at my crib; and so, lay up for some time I must. Come,
now--Dick, you won't desert a pal in trouble?"

"There's my hand, Bill. On'y say wot you want done, and I'm your man."

"In the first place, do you think it's safe for me to stay here? Won't
that young feller give the alarm, and say as how his house was attempted
by the same cracksmen that wanted to make a stiff 'un of him between
four and five years ago at this old crib; and then won't the
blue-bottles come and search the place from chimley-pot down to
foundation-stone?"

"Let 'em search it," ejaculated Flairer: "they'll on'y do it once; and
who cares for that? You can lie as snug down stairs for a week or so as
if you was a thousand miles off. Besides, who'd think for a instant that
you'd hide yourself in the wery spot that the young feller could point
out as one of our haunts? Mark me, Bill--if yer goes up to Rat's Castle
in Saint Giles's, you would find too many tongues among them cursed
Irishers to ask '_Who is he?_' and '_What is he?_' If you goes over to
the Mint, you'll be sure to be twigged by a lot o' them low buzgloaks
and broken-down magsmen as swarms there; and they'll nose upon you for a
penny. Whitechapel back-slums isn't safe; for the broom-gals, the
blacks, and the ballad singers which occupies all that district, is
always a quarrelling; and the blue-bottles is constantly poking their
nose in every crib in consekvence. Here you are snug; and I can bring
you your grub and tell you the news of an evenin' arter dark."

"But to be penned up in that infernal hole for a fortnit or three weeks,
till the storm's blowed over, is horrible to think on," said Bill.

"And scragging[50] more horrible still," said Dick, significantly.

Bill Bolter shuddered; and a convulsive motion agitated his neck, as if
he already felt the cord around it. His countenance became ashy pale;
and, as he glanced fearfully around, he exclaimed, "Yes, you're right,
Dick: I'll take myself to the hiding-crib, and you can give me the
office[51] at any moment, if things goes wrong. To-morrow you must try
and find out whether there's much of a row about the affair in the
Court."

The ruffian never expressed the least anxiety relative to the fate of
his children.

"To-morrow!" exclaimed Dick: "to-day you mean--for it can't be far off
from three o'clock. And now talking about grub is all very easy; but
getting it is quite another thing. Neither you nor me hasn't got a
scurrick; and where to get a penny loaf on tick I don't know."

"By hell, I shall starve, Dick!" cried the murderer, casting a glance of
alarm and horror upon his companion.

"Whatever I get shall be for you first, Bill; and to get anythink at all
I must be wide awake. The grass musn't grow under my feet."

At that moment a whistle, similar to the sound by which Dick Flairer had
notified his approach to Bill Bolter, emanated from the street and fell
upon the ears of those worthies.

Dick hastened to respond to this summons, and in a short time introduced
the Cracksman.

The moment this individual entered the room, he demanded if there were
anything to eat or to drink upon the premises. He of course received a
melancholy negative: but, instead of being disheartened, his countenance
appeared to wear a smile of pleasure.

"Now, you see, I never desert a friend in distress," he exclaimed; and,
with these words, he produced from his pocket a quantity of cold
victuals and a large flask of brandy.

Without waiting to ask questions or give explanations, the three thieves
fell tooth and nail upon the provender.

"I knowed you'd come to this here crib, because Bill don't dare go to
the boozing-ken till the affair of the Court's blowed over," said the
Cracksman, when his meal was terminated; "and so I thought I'd jine you.
Arter I left the place out by Clapton----"

"And how the devil did you get away?" demanded Dick.

"Just the same as you did. It would have sarved you right if I'd never
spoke to you agin, and blowed you at the ken into the bargain; but I
thought to myself, thinks I, 'It must be someot very strange that made
the Flairer and the Bolter cut their lucky and leave their pal in the
lurch; so let's hear wot they has to say for themselves fust.' Then, as
I come along, I found a purse in a gentleman's pocket just opposite
Bethnal Green New Church; and that put me into good humour. So I looked
in at the ken, got the grub and the bingo, and come on here."

"You're a reg'lar trump, Tom!" ejaculated Dick Flairer; "and I'll stick
to you like bricks from this moment till I die. The fact is--me and Bill
has told you about that young feller which we throwed down the trap some
four or five year back."

"Yes--I remember."

"Well--we seed him to-night."

"To-night! What--at the crib up there?"

"The swell that you got a grip on in the dark, was the very self-same
one."

"Then he must have got clear off--that's all!" cried the Cracksman. "It
was no ghost--but rale plump flesh and hot blood, I'll swear."

"So we both think now, to be sure," said Dick: "but you don't bear any
ill-will, Tom?"

"Not a atom. Here's fifteen couters[52] which was in the purse of the
swell which I met at Bethnal-Green; and half that's yourn. But, about
Bill there--wot's he a-going to do?"

Dick pointed with his finger downwards: Tom comprehended the signal, and
nodded approvingly.

The brandy produced a cheering effect upon the three ruffians: and pipes
and tobacco augmented their joviality. Their discourse gradually became
coarsely humorous; and their mirth boisterous. At length Bill Bolter,
who required every possible means of artificial stimulant and excitement
to sustain his spirits in the fearful predicament in which he was
placed, called upon the Cracksman for a song.

Tom was famous amongst his companions for his vocal qualifications; and
he was not a little proud of the reputation he had acquired in the
parlours of the various "boozing-kens" and "patter-cribs"[53] which he
was in the habit of frequenting. He was not, therefore, backward in
complying with his friend's request; and, in a somewhat subdued tone,
(for fear of making _too much noise_--a complaint not often heard in
Chick Lane), he sang the following lines:--

          THE THIEVES' ALPHABET.

    A was an Area-sneak leary and sly;
    B was a Buzgloak, with fingers so fly;
    C was a Cracksman, that forked all the plate;
    D was a Dubsman, who kept the jug-gate.
                For we are rollicking chaps,
                    All smoking, singing, boozing;
                We care not for the traps,
                    But pass the night carousing!

    E was an Efter,[54] that went to the play;
    F was a Fogle he knapped on his way;
    G was a Gag, which he told to the beak;
    H was a Hum-box,[55] where parish-prigs speak.
                              CHORUS.

    I was an Ikey,[56] with swag all encumbered;
    J was a Jug, in whose cell he was lumbered;
    K was a Kye-bosh,[57] that paid for his treat;
    L was a Leaf[58] that fell under his feet.
                              CHORUS.

    M was a Magsman, frequenting Pall-Mall;
    N was a Nose that turned chirp on his pal;
    O was an Onion,[59] possessed by a swell;
    P was a Pannie, done niblike and well.
                              CHORUS.

    Q was a Queer-screen, that served as a blind;[60]
    R was a Reader.[61] with flimsies well lined;
    S was a Smasher, so nutty and spry;
    T was a Ticker,[62] just faked from a cly.
                              CHORUS.

    U was an Up-tucker,[63] fly with the cord;
    V was a Varnisher,[64] dressed like a lord;
    Y was a Yoxter[65] that eat caper sauce:[66]
    Z was a Ziff[67] who was flashed on the horse.[68]
                    For we are rollicking chaps
                        All smoking, singing, boozing:
                    We care not for the traps,
                        But pass the night carousing.[69]

In this manner did the three thieves pass the first hours of morning at
the old house in Chick Lane.

At length the heavy and sonorous voice of Saint Paul's proclaimed six
o'clock. It still wanted an hour to sun-rise; but they now thought it
prudent to separate.

Tom the Cracksman and Dick Flairer arranged together a "little piece of
business" for the ensuing night, which they hoped would prove more
fortunate than their attempt on the villa at Upper Clapton; but Dick
faithfully promised Bill Bolter to return to him in the evening before
he set out on the new expedition.

Matters being thus agreed upon, the moment for the murderer's
concealment arrived. We have before stated that the entire grate in the
room which the villains frequented, could be removed; and that, when
taken out of its setting, it revealed an aperture of considerable
dimensions. At the bottom of this square recess was a trap-door,
communicating with a narrow and spiral staircase, that led into a vault
adjoining and upon the same level with the very cellar from which Walter
Sydney had so miraculously escaped.

The possibility of such an architectural arrangement being fully carried
out, with a view to provide a perfect means of concealment, will be
apparent to our readers, when we state that the side of the house
farthest from the Fleet Ditch was constructed with a double brick wall,
and that the spiral staircase consequently stood between those two
partitions. The mode in which the huge chimneys were built, also tended
to ensure the complete safety of that strange hiding-place, and to avert
any suspicion that might for a moment be entertained of the existence of
such a retreat in that old house.

Even in case the secret of the moveable grate should be discovered, the
eye of the most acute thief-taker would scarcely detect the trap-door at
the bottom of the recess, so admirably was it made to correspond with
the brick-work that formed its frame.

The vault with which the spiral staircase corresponded, was about
fourteen feet long by two-and-a-half wide. An iron grating of eight
inches square, overlooking the Fleet Ditch, was all the means provided
to supply that living tomb with fresh--we cannot say pure--air. If the
atmosphere of the hiding-place were thus neither wholesome nor pleasant,
it did not at least menace existence; and a residence in that vault for
even weeks and weeks together was deemed preferable to the less
"cribbed, cabined, and confined" sojourn of Newgate.

But connected with the security of this vault was one fearful condition.
The individual who sought its dark solitude, could not emancipate
himself at will. He was entirely at the mercy of those confederates who
were entrusted with his secret. Should anything happen to these
men,--should they be suddenly overtaken by the hand of death, then
starvation must be the portion of the inmate of that horrible vault: and
should they fall into the hands of justice, then the only service they
could render their companion in the living tomb, would be to reveal the
secret of his hiding-place.

Up to the time of which we are writing, since the formation of that
strange lurking-hole in the days of the famous Jonathan Wild, three or
four persons had alone availed themselves of the vault as a means of
personal concealment. In the first place, the secret existed but with a
very few and secondly, it was only in cases where life and death were
concerned that a refuge was sought in so fearful an abode.

When the grate was removed and the trap-door was opened, the entire
frame of Bill Bolter became suddenly convulsed with horror. He dreaded
to be left to the mercy of his own reflections!

"It's infernally damp," said Bill, his teeth chattering as much with
fear as with the cold.

Fearful, however, of exciting the disgust and contempt of his companions
at what might be termed his pusillanimous conduct, he mustered up all
his courage, shook hands with the Cracksman and Flairer, and then
insinuated his person through the aperture.

"You may as well take the pipes and baccy along with you, old feller,"
returned Dick.

"And here's a thimble-full of brandy left in the flask," added the
Cracksman.

"This evenin' I'll bring you a jolly wack of the bingo," said Flairer.

Provided with the little comforts just specified, the murderer descended
the spiral staircase into the vault.

The trap-door closed above his head; and the grate was replaced with
more than usual care and caution.

The Cracksman and Dick Flairer then took their departure from the old
house, in the foundation of which a fellow-creature was thus strangely
entombed alive!




CHAPTER XXIV.

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.


Let us now return to Mr. Whittingham, whom we left in serious and
unfeigned tribulation at the moment when his young master was taken into
custody upon the charge of passing a forged note.

The Bow Street runner whom the officer had left behind to search the
house, first possessed himself of the two letters which were lying upon
the table in Markham's library, and which were addressed respectively to
Mrs. Arlington and Mr. Monroe. The functionary then commenced a strict
investigation of the entire premises; and, at the end, appeared
marvellously surprised that he had not found a complete apparatus for
printing forged notes, together with a quantity of the false articles
themselves. This search, nevertheless, occupied three hours; and, when
it was over, he took his departure, quite sulky because he had nothing
to offer as evidence save the two sealed letters, which might be
valuable in that point of view, or might not.

The moment this unwelcome guest had quitted the house, the butler,
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour--for it was now dusk--ordered
the market cart to be got ready; and, with the least possible delay, he
proceeded into town.

Upon his arrival in Bow Street, he found the police-office closed: but
upon enquiry he learnt that the investigation of Richard Markham's case
had been postponed until the following morning at eleven o'clock, the
prisoner having declared that he could produce a witness who would
satisfactorily show his (the prisoner's) entire innocence in the
transaction. In the meantime, he had been removed to Clerkenwell Prison.

Without asking another question, Whittingham mounted his cart once more,
and drove away at a rattling pace to Clerkenwell Prison. There he began
to thunder like a madman at the knocker of the governor's private
entrance, and could hardly believe his senses when a servant-girl
informed him that it was past the hours to see the prisoners.
Whittingham would have remonstrated; but the girl slammed the door in
his face. He accordingly had no alternative save to drive direct home
again.

The very next morning at nine o'clock Mr. Whittingham entered the
_Servants' Arms_ Tavern; and with but little of his usual circumlocution
and verbosity, enquired the address of Mr. Mac Chizzle, the lawyer, who
had been one of the party at that house the evening but one before.

"Here is his card," said the landlord. "He uses my house reglar, and is
a out-and-out practitioner."

Whittingham did not wait to hear any further eulogium upon the attorney.
It had struck him that his young master might require a "professional
adviser:" and having the supreme felicity of being totally unacquainted
with the entire fraternity, he had felt himself somewhat puzzled how to
supply the _desideratum_. In this dilemma, he had suddenly bethought
himself of Mac Chizzle; and, without waiting to ponder upon the
propriety of the step he was taking, he rushed off in the manner
described to procure that individual's address.

"Well, what do you want?" cried the lawyer, who was astonished at the
unceremonious manner in which Whittingham suddenly rushed into his
office: "what do you want?"

"Law," was the laconic answer.

"Well, you can have plenty of that here," said Mr. Mac Chizzle. "But--I
think you are the gentleman with whom I had the pleasure of passing a
pleasant evening at the _Servants' Arms_, a day or two ago."

"The indentical same," returned Whittingham, flinging his hat upon the
floor and himself into a chair.

"Take time to breathe, sir," said the lawyer. "If you're come for advice
you couldn't have selected a better shop; but I must tell you
before-hand that mine is quite a ready money business."

"Very good, sir. I'll tell you my story first and foremost; and you can
then explain the most legible means of preceeding. I want law and
justice."

"_Law_ you can have in welcome; but whether you will obtain _justice_ is
another consideration."

"I'm bewildered in a labyrinth of mazes, sir," said the butler. "I
always opiniated that law and justice was the same thing."

"Quite the reverse, I can assure you. Law is a human invention: justice
is a divine inspiration. What is law to-day, is not law to-morrow; and
yet everything is still denominated _justice_. A creditor asks for
justice when he appeals to a tribunal against his debtor; and how is
that justice awarded? Why--if a man can't pay five pounds, the law
immediately makes his debt ten pounds; and if he can't live out of
doors, the law immediately shuts him up in prison by way of helping him
out of his difficulties. That is law, sir; but it is not justice."

"Right, sir--very right."

"_Law_, you see, sir," continued Mac Chizzle, who was particularly fond
of hearing himself talk,--"_law_ is omnipotent, and beats _justice_ to
such an extreme, that justice would be justified in bringing an action
of assault and battery against law. Law even makes religion, sir; and
gives the attributes of the Deity; for no one dares assert that God
possesses a quality or a characteristic, unless in conformity with the
law. And as these laws are always changing, so of course does the nature
of the deity, as established by the law, vary too; so that men may be
said to go to heaven or to another place by the turnpike-roads laid down
by the law."

"I like your reasonable powers amazingly," said the butler, somewhat
impatiently; "and I will now proceed to unfold the momentary object of
my visit."

"Give yourself breathing time, my dear sir. As I was observing, _Law_ is
more powerful than even _Justice_ and _Religion_; and I could now show
that it exercises the same predominating influence over _Morality_ also.
For instance, Law, and not Conscience, defines virtues and vices. If I
murder you, I commit a crime; but the executioner who puts me to death
for the action, does _not_ commit a crime. Neither does the soldier who
kills his fellow-creature in battle. Thus, murder is only a crime when
it is not legalised by human statutes,--or, in plain terms, when it is
not according to law."

"I comprehend, sir," said Whittingham; and, seeing that Mr. Mac Chizzle
now paused at length, he narrated the particulars of his master's arrest
upon an accusation of passing a forged note for five hundred pounds.

"This is an ugly case, Mr. Whittingham."

"You must go down to him at Bow-Street: his case comes on at eleven
o'clock."

"Well, there is plenty of time: it is only half-past nine o'clock. I
think we had better instruct counsel."

"Construct counsel!" ejaculated Whittingham; "I want you to get him
liberated at once."

"Ah! I dare say you do," said the lawyer, coolly. "That is often more
easily said than done. From what you have told me I should not wonder if
your master was committed for trial."

"But he is innocent, sir--he is innocent--as the young lamb in the
meadows which is unborn!" cried Whittingham. "Master Richard would no
more pass a fictious note than I should endeavour to pass a race-horse
if I was mounted on a donkey."

Mr. Mac Chizzle smiled, and summoned his clerk by the euphonious name of
"Simcox." Mr. Simcox was somewhat slow in making his appearance; and
when he did, a very comical one it was--for his hair was red, his eyes
were green, his countenance was studded with freckles, and his
eye-lashes were white.

"Simcox," said Mr. Mac Chizzle, "I am going out for a few hours. If the
gentleman calls about the thousand pound bill, tell him that I can get
it discounted for him, for fifty pounds in money and eight hundred in
wine--which allows a hundred and fifty for discount and _my_ commission.
If the lady calls whose husband has run away from her, tell her that
I've sent to Paris to make enquiries after him, and that if she'll leave
another fifty pounds, I'll send to Vienna. By-the-bye, that bothering
fellow Smith is certain to call: tell him I'm gone into the country, and
shall be away for a fortnight. If Jenkins calls, tell him I shall be
home at five and he must wait, as I want to see him."

"Very well, sir," said Simcox. "And if the gentleman calls about the
loan."

"Why, that I shall see a party about it this evening. The first party
declines; but I have another party in view."

Somehow or another, men of business have always got a particular "party"
in view to accomplish a particular purpose, and they are always being
disappointed by their "parties"--- whom, by-the-bye, they never
condescended to name. To be "deceived by a party;" or "having a party to
meet;" or "being engaged so long with a particular party," are excuses
which will last as long as business itself shall exist, and will
continue to be received as apologies as long as any apologies are
received at all. They will wear out every other lie.

Whittingham was too much occupied by the affairs of his master, to pay
any attention to the orders which the solicitor gave his clerk; and he
was considerably relieved when he found himself by the side of his
professional adviser, rolling along the streets in a cabriolet.

At length the lawyer and the faithful domestic were set down at the
Police-Office in Bow Street; and in a few moments they were admitted, in
the presence of a policeman, to an interview with Markham in one of the
cells attached to the establishment.

Richard's countenance was pale and care-worn: his hair was dishevelled;
and his attire seemed put on slovenly. But these circumstances scarcely
attracted the eyes of Whittingham:--a more appalling and monstrous
spectacle engrossed all the attention of that faithful old dependant;
and this was the manacle which confined his reverend master's hands
together.

Whittingham wept.

"Oh! Master Richard," he exclaimed in a voice broken by sobs, "what an
unforeseen and perfidious adventure is this! You surely never could--no,
I know you didn't!"

"Do not grieve yourself, my faithful friend," said Richard, deeply
affected: "my innocence will soon be proved. I have sent for Mr.
Chichester, who will be here presently: and he can shew in one moment
how I became possessed of the two notes."

"Two notes!" cried Whittingham.

"Yes--I had another of fifty pounds' value in my purse, which I also
received from Chichester, and which has turned out to be a spurious one.
Doubtless he has been deceived himself----"

"Oh! that ere Winchester, or Kidderminster--or whatever his name may
be," interrupted the butler, a strange misgiving oppressing his mind:
"I'm afeard he won't do the thing that's right. But here is a profound
adwiser, Master Richard, that I've brought with me; and he'll see law
done, he says--and I believe him too."

Markham and Mac Chizzle then entered into conversation together: but
scarcely had the unfortunate young man commenced his account of the
peculiar circumstances in which he was involved, when the jailor entered
to conduct him into the presence of the magistrate.

Markham was placed in the felon's dock; and Mr. Mac Chizzle intimated to
the sitting magistrate, in a simpering tone, that he appeared for the
prisoner.

Now we must inform our readers that Mac Chizzle was one of those low
pettifoggers, who, without being absolutely the black sheep of the
profession, act upon the principle "that all are fish that come to their
net," and practise indiscriminately in the civil and the criminal
courts--conduct a man's insolvency, or defend him before the
magistrate--discount bills and issue no end of writs--act for loan
societies and tally shops--in a word, undertake anything that happens to
fall in their way, so long as it brings grist to the mill.

Mr. Mac Chizzle was not, therefore, what is termed "a respectable
solicitor;" and the magistrate's countenance assumed an appearance of
austerity--for he had previously been possessed in Markham's
favour--when that individual announced that he appeared for the
prisoner. Thus poor Whittingham, in his anxiety to do his beloved master
a great deal of good, actually prejudiced his case materially at its
outset.

Though unhappy and care-worn, Richard was not downcast. Conscious
innocence supported him. Accordingly when he beheld Mr. Chichester enter
the witness-box, he bowed to him in a friendly and even grateful manner;
but, to his ineffable surprise, that very fashionable gentleman affected
not to notice the salutation.

It is not necessary to enter into details. The nature of the evidence
against Markham was that he had called at his guardian's banker's the
day but one previously, to receive a sum of money; that he requested the
cashier to change a five hundred pound Bank of England note; that,
although an unusual proceeding, the demand was complied with; that the
prisoner wrote his name at the back of the note, and that in the course
of the ensuing morning it was discovered that the said note was a
forgery. The prisoner was arrested; and upon his person was found a
second note, of fifty pounds' value, which was also a forgery. Two
letters were also produced--one to Mrs. Arlington, and another to Mr.
Monroe, which not only proved that the prisoner had intended to leave
the country with strange abruptness, but the contents of which actually
appeared to point at the crime now alleged against him, as the motive
of his flight.

Markham was certainly astounded when he heard the stress laid upon those
letters by the solicitor for the prosecution, and the manner in which
their real meaning was made to tell against him.

The Magistrate called upon him for his defence; and Markham, forgetful
that Mac Chizzle was there to represent him, addressed himself in an
earnest tone to Mr. Chichester, exclaiming, "You can now set me right in
the eyes of the magistrate, and in the opinion of even the prosecuting
counsel, who seems so anxious to distort every circumstance to my
disadvantage."

"I really am not aware," said Mr. Chichester, caressing his chin in a
very _nonchalant_ manner, "that I can throw any light upon this
subject."

"All I require is the truth," ejaculated Richard, surprised at the tone
and manner of his late friend. "Did you not give me that note for five
hundred pounds to change for you? and did I not receive the second note
from you in exchange for fifty sovereigns?"

Mr. Chichester replied in an indignant negative.

The magistrate shook his head: the prosecuting solicitor took snuff
significantly;--Mac Chizzle made a memorandum;--and Whittingham
murmured, "Ah! that mitigated villain Axminster."

"What do I hear!" exclaimed Richard: "Mr. Chichester your memory must
fail you sadly. I suppose you recollect the occasion upon which Mr.
Talbot gave you the five hundred pound note?"

"Mr. Talbot never gave me any note at all," answered Chichester, in a
measured and determined manner.

"It is false--false as hell!" cried Markham, more enraged than alarmed;
and he forthwith detailed to the magistrate the manner in which he had
been induced to change the one note, and had become possessed of the
other.

"This is a very lame story, indeed," said the magistrate; "and you must
try and see if you can get a jury to believe it. You stand committed."

Before Richard could make any reply, he was lugged out of the dock by
the jailor; the next case was called on; and he was hurried back to his
cell, whither Mac Chizzle and the butler were permitted to follow him.




CHAPTER XXV.

THE ENCHANTRESS.


"Oh! how can I prove my innocence now?" exclaimed Richard, wringing his
hands, and walking hastily up and down the cell: "how shall I convince
the world that a fearful combination of circumstances has so entangled
me in this net, that never was man so wronged before? how can I
communicate my dread position to Monroe? how ever again look society in
the face? how live after this exposure--this disgrace?"

"Master Richard, Master Richard," cried the poor old butler, "don't take
on so--don't now! Your innocence must conspire on the day of trial, and
the jury will do you justice. Now, don't take on so, Master
Richard--pray don't!"

As the faithful domestic uttered these words, the tears chased each
other so rapidly down his cheeks that he seemed to need consolation
quite as much as his master.

"Oh! that villain Chichester--the wretch--the cheat!" continued Richard;
"and no doubt his vulgar companion Talbot is as bad. And the
baronet--perhaps he also----"

Markham stopped short, and seated himself upon the bench. He suddenly
became very faint and turned ashy pale. Whittingham hastened to loosen
his shirt-collar, and the policeman present humanely procured a glass of
water.

In a few minutes he recovered: and he then endeavoured to contemplate
with calmness the full extent of the perils which environed him. His
opinion of Chichester and Talbot was already formed: but the
baronet--could he have been a party to their scheme of villany? After a
moment's reflection, he answered the question to himself in an
affirmative.

He had, then, fallen into a nest of adventurers and swindlers. But
Diana--oh! no, she could not have been cognizant of the treacherous
designs practised against him: she was doubtless made use of as an
instrument to further the plans of the conspirators!

Such were his convictions. Should he, then, give her due warning in
time, and afford her an opportunity of abandoning, ere it might be too
late, an individual who would doubtless involve her, in the long run, in
infamy and peril?

To pen a hasty note to Mrs. Arlington was now a duty which he conceived
entailed upon him, and which he immediately performed. He then wrote a
letter to Mr. Monroe, detailing the particulars of his unfortunate
position, and beseeching him not to be prejudiced against him by the
report which he might read in the newspapers the following day.

"Whittingham, my old friend," said Markham, when he had disposed of
these matters; "we must now separate for the present. This letter for
Mr. Monroe you will forward by post: the other, to Mrs. Arlington, you
will take yourself to Bond Street, and deliver into her own hand." Then,
addressing himself to Mac Chizzle, he observed, "I thank you, sir, for
your attendance here to-day. Whittingham will give you the address of my
guardian, Mr. Monroe; and that gentleman will consult with you upon the
proper course to be pursued. He will also answer any pecuniary demands
you may have occasion to make upon him."

Richard had preserved an unnatural degree of calmness as he uttered
these words; and Whittingham was himself astonished at the coolness with
which his young master delivered his instructions. The old butler wept
bitterly when he took leave of "Master Richard;" and it cost the young
man himself no inconsiderable effort to restrain his own tears.

"What is raly your inferential opinion in this matter?" demanded the
butler of the lawyer, as they issued from the door of the police-office
together.

"Why, that it was a capital scheme to raise the wind, and a very great
pity that it did not succeed to a far greater extent," cried the
professional adviser.

"Well, if you put that opinion down in your bill and charge
six-and-eightpence for it," said Whittingham, with a very serious
countenance, "I shall certainly dispute the item, and computate it, when
I audit the accounts."

"I am really at a loss to comprehend you," said the lawyer. "Of course
there are no secrets between you and me: indeed, you had much better
tell me the whole truth----"

"Truth!" ejaculated Whittingham: "of course I shall tell you the truth."

"Allow me to ask a question or two, then," resumed the lawyer. "I
suppose that you were in the plant, and divided the swag?"

Mr. Whittingham stared at the professional man with the most unfeigned
astonishment, which, indeed, was so great that it checked all reply.

"Well," proceeded the shrewd Mr. Mac Chizzle, "it wasn't a bad dodge
either. And I suppose that this Monroe is a party to the whole concern?"

"Is it possible, Mr. Mac Chizzle," exclaimed the butler, "that ----"

"But the business is awkward--very awkward," added the solicitor,
shaking his head. "It was however fortunate that nothing transpired to
implicate you also. When one pal is at large, he can do much for another
who is in lavender. It would have been worse if you had been lumbered
too--far worse."

"Plant--pal--lumbered--lavender!" repeated Whittingham, with
considerable emphasis on each word as he slowly uttered it. "I suppose
you raly think my master is guilty of the crime computed to him?"

"Of course I do," replied Mac Chizzle: "I can see as far into a brick
wall as any one."

"Well, it's of no use argufying the pint," said the butler, after a
moment's pause. "Here is Mr. Monroe's address: perhaps when you have
seen him, you will arrive at new inclusions."

Mr. Whittingham then took leave of the solicitor, and proceeded to Bond
Street.

Within a few yards of the house in which Mrs. Arlington resided, the
butler ran against an individual who, with his hat perched jauntily on
his right ear, was lounging along.

"Holloa, you fellow!" ejaculated Mr. Thomas Sugget--for it was he--"what
do you mean by coming bolt agin a gen'leman in that kind of way?"

"Oh! my dear sir," cried Whittingham, "is that you? I am raly perforated
with delight to see you."

Mr. Suggett gave a good long stare at Mr. Whittingham, and then
exclaimed "Oh! it is you--is it? Well, I must say that your legs are in
a very unfinished condition."

"How, sir--how?" demanded the irritated butler.

"Why, they want a pair of fetters, to be sure," said Suggett; and
breaking into a horse-laugh, he passed rapidly on.

Whittingham felt humiliated; and the knock that he gave at the door of
Diana's lodgings was sneaking and subdued. In a few minutes, however, he
was ushered into a back room on the first floor, where Mrs. Arlington
received him.

"Here is a letter, ma'am, which I was to deliver only into your own
indentical hand."

"Is it--is it from your master?" demanded the Enchantress.

"It is, ma'am."

"Where _is_ Mr. Markham?" asked Diana, receiving the letter with a
trembling hand.

"He is now in Bow-street Police-Office, ma'am: in the course of the day
he will be in Newgate;"--and the old butler wiped away a tear.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Diana; "then it is really too true!"

She immediately tore open the letter, and ran her eye over the contents,
which were as follow:--

     "The villany of one of the individuals with whom you are constantly
     associating, and in whom it has been my misfortune to place
     unlimited confidence, will perhaps involve you in an embarrassment
     similar to the one in which I am now placed. I cannot, I do not for
     one moment imagine that you are in any way conversant with their
     vile schemes:--I can read your heart; I know that you would scorn
     such a confederacy. Your frankness, your candour are in your
     favour: your countenance, which is engraven upon my memory, and
     which I behold at this moment as if it were really before me,
     forbids all suspicions injurious to your honour. Take a timely
     warning, then: take warning from one who wishes you well: and
     dissolve the connexion ere it be too late.

"R. M."



"When shall you see your master again?" enquired Diana of the butler,
after the perusal of this letter.

"To-morrow, ma'am--with the blessing of God."

"My compliments to him--my very best remembrances," said Mrs. Arlington;
"and I feel deeply grateful for this communication."

Whittingham bowed, and rose to depart.

"And," added Diana, after a moment's pause, "if there be anything in
which my humble services can be made available, pray do not hesitate to
come to me. Indeed, I hope you will call--often--and let me know how
this unfortunate business proceeds."

"Then you don't believe that Master Richard is capable of this
obliquity, madam?" cried the butler.

"Oh! no--impossible!" said Diana emphatically.

"Thank 'ee, ma'am, thank 'ee," exclaimed Whittingham: "you have done my
poor old heart good. God bless you, ma'am--God bless you!"

And with these words the faithful dependant took his departure, not a
little delighted to think that there was at least one person in the
world who believed in the innocence of "Master Richard." In fact, the
kindness of Diana's manner and the sincerity with which she had
expressed herself on that point, effectually wiped away from the mind of
the butler the reminiscences of Mac Chizzle's derogatory suspicions, and
Suggett's impertinence.

After a few minutes' profound reflection, Diana returned to the
drawing-room, where Sir Rupert Harborough, Mr. Chichester, and Talbot
were seated.

Her fine countenance wore an expression of melancholy seriousness; and
there was a nervous movement of the under lip that denoted the existence
of powerful emotions in her bosom.

"Well, Di.," exclaimed the baronet; "you seem annoyed."

"You will be surprised, gentlemen, when I inform you who has been here,"
she said, resuming her seat upon the sofa.

"Indeed!" cried Chichester, turning pale: "who could it be?"

"Not an officer, I hope?" exclaimed the baronet.

"The chimley-sweeps, perhaps," suggested Mr. Talbot.

"A person from Mr. Markham," said Diana, seriously. "By his appearance I
should conceive him to be the faithful old servant of his family, of
whom I have heard him speak."

"Whittingham, I'll be bound!" ejaculated Chichester. "And what did he
want?"

"He brought me a letter from his master," returned Diana. "You may read
it, if you please."

And she tossed it contemptuously towards Chichester.

"Read out," cried Talbot.

Mr. Chichester read the letter aloud, as he was requested.

"And what makes the young spark write to you in that d----d impudent
and familiar style?" demanded the baronet, angrily.

[Illustration]

"You cannot but admit that his letter is couched in a most friendly
manner," said the lady, somewhat bitterly.

"Friendly be hanged!" cried the baronet. "I dare say you feel a most
profound and sisterly sympathy for the young gaol-bird. After all, your
profuse expenditure and extravagance helped to involve me in no end of
pecuniary trouble; and I was compelled to have recourse to any means to
obtain money. Somebody must suffer;--better Markham than any one of us."

"You do well, sir, to reproach me for being the cause of your
embarrassments," answered Diana, her countenance becoming almost purple
with indignation. "Have I not basely lent these rooms to your purposes,
and acted as an attraction to the young men whom you have inveigled here
to plunder at cards? I have never forgiven myself for the weakness which
prompted me thus far to enter into your schemes. But when you informed
me of your plans relative to the forged notes, I protested vehemently
against so atrocious a measure. Indeed, had it not been for your solemn
assurance that you had abandoned the idea--at all events so far as it
concerned Markham--I would have placed him upon his guard--in spite of
your threats, your menaces, your remonstrances!"

Diana had warmed as she proceeded; and by the time she reached the end
of her reply to the baronet's villanous speech, she had worked herself
up almost into a fury of rage and indignation. Her bosom heaved
convulsively--her eyes dilated; and her lips expressed ineffable scorn.

"Perdition!" exclaimed the baronet: "the world is coming to a pretty
pass when one's own mistress undertakes to give lessons in morality."

"A desperate necessity, sir," retorted Diana, "made me your
mistress;--but I would sooner seek an asylum at the workhouse this
moment, than become a partner in villany of this stamp."

"And, as far as I care," said the baronet, "you may go to the workhouse
as soon as you choose."

With these words he rose and put on his hat.

Diana was about to answer this last brutal speech; but she determined
not to provoke a discussion which only exposed her to the insolence of
the man who was coward enough to reproach her with a frailty which had
ministered to his pleasures. She bit her lips to restrain the burst of
emotions which struggled for vent; and at that moment her bearing was as
haughty and her aspect as proud as the superb dignity of incensed Juno.

"Come, Chichester," said the baronet, after a pause of a few minutes; "I
shall be off. Talbot--this is no longer a place for any one of us.
Madam," he added, turning with mock ceremony to Diana, "I wish you a
very good afternoon. This is the last time you will ever see me in these
apartments."

"I wish it to be so," said Diana, still stifling her rage with
difficulty.

"And I need scarcely observe," exclaimed the baronet, "that after all
that has passed between us----"

"Oh! I comprehend you, sir," interrupted the Enchantress, scornfully:
"you need not fear me--your secrets are safe in my possession."

The baronet bowed and strode out of the room followed by Chichester and
Talbot.

The Enchantress was then alone.

She threw herself at full length upon the sofa, and remained for a long
time buried in profound thought. A tear started into her large blue eye;
but she hastily wiped it away with her snowy handkerchief. From time to
time her lips were compressed with scorn; and then a prolonged sigh
would escape her breast.

Had she given a free vent to her tears, she would have experienced
immediate relief: she endeavoured to stifle her passion--and it nearly
suffocated her.

But how beautiful was she during that painful and fierce struggle with
her feelings! Her countenance was flushed; and her eyes, usually so mild
and melting, seemed to burn like two stars.

"No," she exclaimed, after a long silence, "I must not revenge myself
that way! Up to the present moment, I have eaten _his_ bread and have
been to him as a wife; and I should be guilty of a vile deed of
treachery were I to denounce him and his companions. Besides--who would
believe my testimony, unsupported by facts, against the indignant denial
of a man of rank, family, and title? I must stifle my resentment for the
present. The hour of retribution will no doubt arrive, sooner or later;
and Harborough shall yet repent the cruel--the cowardly insults he has
heaped on my head this day!"

She paused, and again appeared to reflect profoundly. Suddenly a gleam
of satisfaction passed over her countenance, and she started up to a
sitting posture upon the sofa. The ample skirts of her dress were partly
raised by her attitude, and revealed an exquisitely turned leg to the
middle of the swell of the calf. The delicate foot, imprisoned in the
flesh-coloured stocking of finest silk, tapped upon the carpet, in an
agitated manner, with the tip of the glossy leather shoe.

That gleam of satisfaction which had suddenly appeared upon her
countenance, gradually expanded into a glow of delight, brilliant and
beautiful.

"Perhaps he thinks that I shall endeavour to win him back again to my
arms," she said, musing aloud;--"perhaps he imagines that his
countenance and support are imperatively necessary to me? Oh! no--Sir
Rupert Harborough," she exclaimed, with a smile of triumph; "you may
vainly await self-humiliation from me! To-morrow--yes, so soon as
to-morrow shall you see that I can command a position more splendid than
the one in which you placed me!"

Obeying the impulse of her feelings, she hastened to unlock an elegant
rosewood writing-desk, edged with silver; and from a secret drawer she
took several letters--or rather notes--written upon paper of different
colours. Upon the various envelopes were seals impressed with armorial
bearings, some of which were surmounted by coronets.

She glanced over each in a cursory manner, which shewed she was already
tolerably familiar with their contents. The greater portion she tossed
contemptuously into the fire;--a few she placed one upon the other,
quite in a business-like way, upon the table.

When she had gone through the entire file, she again directed her
attention to those which she had reserved; and as she perused them one
after the other, she mused in the following manner:--

"Count de Lestranges is brilliant in his offers, and immensely rich--no
doubt; but he is detestably conceited, and would think more of himself
than of his mistress. His appeal must be rejected;" and she threw the
French nobleman's perfumed epistle into the fire.

"This," she continued, taking up another, "is from Lord Templeton. Five
thousand a-year is certainly handsome; but then he himself is so old and
ugly! Away with this suitor at once." The English Peer's _billet-doux_
followed that of the French Count.

"Here is a beautiful specimen of calligraphy," resumed Diana, taking up
a third letter; "but all the sentiments are copied, word for word, out
of the love-scenes in Anne Radcliffe's romances. Never was such gross
plagiarism! He merits the punishment I thus inflict upon him;"--and her
plump white hand crushed the epistle ere she threw it into the fire.

"But what have we here? Oh! the German baron's killing
address--interspersed with remarks upon the philosophy of love. Ah! my
lord, love was not made for philosophers--and philosophers are incapable
of love; so we will have none of you."

Another offering to the fire.

"Here is the burning address of the Greek _attaché_ with a hard name. It
is prettily written;--but who could possibly enter upon terms with an
individual of the name of Thesaurochrysonichochrysides?"

To the flames went the Greek lover's note also.

"Ah! this seems as if it were to be the successful candidate," said
Diana, carefully perusing the last remaining letter. "It is written upon
a plain sheet of white paper and without scent. But then the style--how
manly! Yes--decidedly, the Earl of Warrington has gained the prize. He
is rich--unmarried--handsome--and still in the prime of life! There is
no room for hesitation."

The Enchantress immediately penned the following note:

     "I should have replied without delay to your lordship's letter of
     yesterday week, but have been suffering severely from cold and bad
     spirits. The former has been expelled by my physician: the latter
     can only be forced to decamp by the presence of your lordship.

"DIANA ARLINGTON."



Having despatched this note to the Earl of Warrington, the Enchantress
retired to her bed-room to prepare her toilette for the arrival of the
nobleman around whom she had thus suddenly decided upon throwing her
magic spells.

At eight o'clock that evening, a brilliant equipage stopped at the door
of the house in which Mrs. Arlington resided.

The Earl of Warrington alighted, and was forthwith conducted into the
presence of the Enchantress.

And never was she more bewitching:--never had she appeared more
transcendently lovely.

A dress of the richest black velvet, very low in the _corsage_, set off
her voluptuous charms and displayed the pure and brilliant whiteness of
the skin to the highest advantage. Her ears were adorned with pendants
of diamonds; and a tiara glittering with the same precious stones,
encircled her brow. There was a soft and languishing melancholy in her
deep blue eyes and in the expression of her countenance, which formed an
agreeable contrast to the dazzling loveliness of her person and the
splendour of her attire.

She was enchanting indeed.

Need we say that the nobleman, who had already been introduced to her
and admired her, was enraptured with the prize that thus surrendered
itself to him?

Diana became the mistress of the Earl of Warrington, and the very next
day removed to a splendid suite of apartments in Albemarle Street, while
his lordship's upholsterers furnished a house for her reception.




CHAPTER XXVI.

NEWGATE.


NEWGATE! what an ominous sound has that word.

And yet the horror exists not in the name itself; for it is a very
simple compound, and would not grate upon the ear nor produce a shudder
throughout the frame, were it applied to any other kind of building.

It is, then, its associations and the ideas which it conjures up that
render the word NEWGATE fearful and full of dark menace.

At the mere mention of this name, the mind instantaneously becomes
filled with visions of vice in all its most hideous forms, and crime in
all its most appalling shapes;--wards and court-yards filled with a
population peculiar to themselves,--dark gloomy passages, where the gas
burns all day long, and beneath the pavement of which are interred the
remains of murderers and other miscreants who have expiated their crimes
upon the scaffold,--shelves filled with the casts of the countenances of
those wretches, taken the moment after they were cut down from the
gibbet,--condemned cells,--the chapel in which funeral sermons are
preached upon men yet alive to hear them, but who are doomed to die on
the morrow,--the clanking of chains, the banging of huge doors, oaths,
prayers, curses, and ejaculations of despair!

Oh! if it were true that the spirits of the departed are allowed to
revisit the earth for certain purposes and on particular occasions,--if
the belief of superstition were well founded, and night could be peopled
with the ghosts and spectres of those who sleep in troubled
graves,--what a place of ineffable horrors--what a scene of terrible
sights, would Newgate be at midnight! The huge flag-stones of the
pavement would rise, to permit the phantoms of the murderers to issue
from their graves. Demons would erect a gibbet at the debtor's door;
and, amidst the sinister glare of torches, an executioner from hell
would hang these miscreants over again. This would be part of their
posthumous punishment, and would occur in the long--long nights of
winter. There would be no moon; but all the windows of Newgate looking
upon the court-yards (and there are none commanding the streets) would
be brilliantly lighted with red flames, coming from an unknown source.
And throughout the long passages of the prison would resound the orgies
of hell; and skeletons wrapped in winding sheets would shake their
fetters; and Greenacre and Good--Courvoisier and Pegsworth--Blakesley
and Marchant, with all their predecessors in the walks of murder, would
come in fearful procession from the gibbet, returning by the very
corridors which they traversed in their way to death on the respective
mornings of their execution. Banquets would be served up to them in the
condemned cells; demons would minister to them; and their food should be
the flesh, and their drink the gore, of the victims whom they had
assassinated upon earth!

All would be horrible--horrible!

But, heaven be thanked! such scenes are impossible; and never can it be
given to the shades of the departed to revisit the haunts which they
loved or hated--adored or desecrated, upon earth!

NEWGATE!--fearful name!

And Richard Markham was now in Newgate.

He found, when the massive gates of that terrible prison closed behind
him, that the consciousness of innocence will not afford entire
consolation, in the dilemma in which unjust suspicions may involve the
victim of circumstantial evidence. He scarcely knew in what manner to
grapple with the difficulties that beset him;--he dared not contemplate
the probability of a condemnation to some infamous punishment;--and he
could scarcely hope for an acquittal in the face of the testimony that
conspired against him.

He recalled to mind all the events of his infancy and his boyish years,
and contrasted his present position with that which he once enjoyed in
the society of his father and Eugene.

His brother?--aye--what had become of his brother?--that brother, who
had left the paternal roof to seek his own fortunes, and who had made so
strange an appointment for a distant date, upon the hill-top where the
two trees were planted? Four years and four months had passed away since
the day on which that appointment was made; and in seven years and eight
months it was to be kept.

They were then to compare notes of their adventures and success in life,
and decide who was the more prosperous of the two,--Eugene, who was
dependent upon his own resources, and had to climb the ladder of fortune
step by step;--or Richard, who, placed by his father's love half-way up
that ladder, had only to avail himself, it would have seemed, of his
advantageous position to reach the top at his leisure?

But, alas! probably Eugene was a miserable wanderer upon the face of the
earth; perhaps he was mouldering beneath the sod that no parental nor
fraternal tears had watered;--or haply he was languishing in some
loathsome dungeon the doors of which served as barriers between him and
all communion with his fellow-men!

It was strange--passing strange that Eugene had never written since his
departure; and that from the fatal evening of his separation on the
hill-top all traces of him should have been so suddenly lost.

Peradventure he had been frustrated in his sanguine expectations, at his
very outset in life;--perchance he had terminated in disgust an
existence which was blighted by disappointment?

Such were the topics of Markham's thoughts as he walked up and down the
large paved court-yard belonging to that department of the prison to
which he had been consigned;--and, of a surety, they were of no
pleasurable description. Uncertainty with regard to his own
fate--anxiety in respect to his brother--and the dread that his
prospects in this life were irretrievably blighted--added to a feverish
impatience of a confinement totally unmerited--all these oppressed his
mind.

That night he had nothing but a basin of gruel and a piece of bread for
his supper. He slept in the same ward with a dozen other prisoners, also
awaiting their trials: his couch was hard, cold, and wretched; and he
was compelled to listen to the ribald talk and vaunts of villany of
several of his companions. Their conversation was only varied by such
remarks as these:--

"Well," said one, "I hope I shan't get before the Common-Serjeant: he's
certain to give me toko for yam."

"I shall be sure to go up the first day of sessions, and most likely
before the Recorder, as mine is rather a serious matter," observed a
second. "He won't give me more than seven years of it, I know."

"For my part," said a third, "I'd much sooner wait till the Wednesday,
when the Judges come down: they never give it so severe as them City
beaks."

"I tell you what," exclaimed a fourth, "I shouldn't like to have my meat
hashed at evening sittings before the Commissioner in the New Court.
He's always so devilish sulky, because he has been disturbed at his
wine."

"Well, you talk of the regular judges that come down on the Wednesday,"
cried a fifth; "I can only tell you that Baron Griffin and Justice
Spikeman are on the rota for next sessions; and I'm blowed if I wouldn't
sooner go before the Common-Serjeant a thousand times, than have old
Griffin meddle in my case. Why--if you only look at him, he'll transport
you for twenty years."

At this idea all the prisoners who had taken part in this conversation,
burst out into a loud guffaw--but not a whit the more hearty for being
so boisterous.

"Is it possible," asked Markham, who had listened with some interest to
the above discourse,--"is it possible that there can be any advantage to
a prisoner to be tried by a particular judge?"

"Why, of course there is," answered one of the prisoners. "If a swell
like you gets before Justice Spikeman, he'll let you off with half or a
quarter of what the Recorder or Common-Serjeant would give you: but
Baron Griffin would give you just double, because you happened to be
well-dressed."

"Indeed!" ejaculated Markham, whose ideas of the marvellous equality and
admirable even-handedness of English justice, were a little shocked by
these revelations.

"Oh! yes," continued his informant, "all the world knows these things.
If I go before Spikeman, I shall plead Guilty and whimper a bit, and
he'll be very lenient indeed; but if I'm heard by Griffin I'll let the
case take its chance, because he wouldn't be softened by any show of
penitence. So you see, in these matters, one must shape one's conduct
according to the judge that one goes before."

"I understand," said Markham: "even justice is influenced by all kinds
of circumstances."

The conversation then turned upon the respective merits of the various
counsel practising at the Central Criminal Court.

"I have secured Whiffins," said one: "he's a capital fellow--for if he
can't make anything out of your case, he instantly begins to bully the
judge."

"Ah! but that produces a bad effect," observed a second; "and old
Griffin would soon put him down. I've got Chearnley--he's such a capital
fellow to make the witnesses contradict themselves."

"Well, I prefer Barkson," exclaimed a third; "his voice alone frightens
a prosecutor into fits."

"Smouch and Slike are the worst," said a fourth: "the judges always read
the paper or fall asleep when they address them."

"Yes--because they are such low fellows, and will take a brief from any
one," exclaimed a fifth; "whereas it is totally contrary to etiquette
for a barrister to receive instructions from any one but an attorney."

"The fact is that such men as Smouch and Slike do a case more harm than
good, with the judges," observed a sixth. "They haven't the ear of the
Court--and that's the real truth of it."

These remarks diminished still more the immense respect which Markham
had hitherto entertained for English justice; and he now saw that the
barrister who detailed plain and simple facts, did not stand half such a
good chance of saving his client as the favoured one "who possessed the
ear of the Court."

By a very natural transition, the discourse turned upon petty juries.

"I think it will go hard with me," said one, "because I am tried in the
City. I wish I had been committed for the Middlesex Sessions at
Clerkenwell."

"Why so!" demanded another prisoner.

"Because, you see, I'm accused of robbing my master; and as all the
jurymen are substantial shopkeepers, they're sure to convict a man in my
position,--even if the evidence isn't complete."

"I'm here for swindling tradesmen at the West-End of the town," said
another.

"Well," exclaimed the first speaker, "the jury will let you off if
there's the slightest pretence, because they're all City tradesmen, and
hate the West-End ones."

"And I'm here for what is called '_a murderous assault upon a
police-constable_,'" said a third prisoner.

"Was he a Metropolitan or a City-Policeman?"

"A Metropolitan."

"Oh! well--you're safe enough; the jury are sure to believe that he
assaulted you first."

"Thank God for that blessing!"

"I tell you what goes a good way with Old Bailey Juries--a good
appearance. If a poor devil, clothed in rags and very ugly, appears at
the bar, the Foreman of the Jury just says, '_Well, gentlemen, I think
we may say_ GUILTY; _for my part I never saw such a hang-dog countenance
in my life_.' But if a well-dressed and good-looking fellow is placed in
the dock, the Foreman is most likely to say, '_Well, gentlemen, far my
part I never can nor will believe that the prisoner could be guilty of
such meanness: so I suppose we may say_ NOT GUILTY, _gentlemen_.'"

"Can this be true?" ejaculated Markham.

"Certainly it is," was the reply. "I will tell you more, too. If a
prisoner's counsel don't tip the jury plenty of soft sawder, and tell
them that they are enlightened Englishmen, and that they are the main
prop, not only of justice, but also of the crown itself, they will be
certain to find a verdict of _Guilty_."

"What infamy!" cried Markham, perfectly astounded at these revelations.

"Ah! and what's worse still," added his informant, "is that Old Baily
juries always, as a matter of course, convict those poor devils who have
no counsel."

"And this is the vaunted palladium of justice and liberty!" said
Richard.

In this way did the prisoners in Markham's ward contrive to pass away an
hour or two, for they were allowed no candle and no fire, and had
consequently been forced to retire to their wretched couches immediately
after dusk.

The night was thus painfully long and wearisome.

Markham found upon enquiry that there were two methods of living in
Newgate. One was to subsist upon the gaol allowance: the other to
provide for oneself. Those who received the allowance were not permitted
to have beer, nor were their friends suffered to add the slightest
comfort to their sorry meals; and those who paid for their own food,
were restricted as to quantity and quality.

Such is the treatment prisoners experience _before_ they are tried;--and
yet there is an old saying _that every one must be deemed innocent until
he be proved guilty_. The old saying is a detestable mockery!

Of course Markham determined upon paying for his own food; and when
Whittingham called in the morning, he was sent to make the necessary
arrangements with the coffee-house keeper in the Old Bailey who enjoyed
the monopoly of supplying that compartment of the prison.

The most painful ordeal which Richard had to undergo during his
captivity in Newgate, was his first interview with Mr. Monroe. This
gentleman was profoundly affected at the situation of his youthful ward,
though not for one moment did he doubt his innocence.

And here let us mention another revolting humiliation and unnecessary
cruelty to which the _untried_ prisoner is compelled to submit. In each
yard is a small enclosure, or cage, of thick iron bars, covered with
wire-work; and beyond this fence, at a distance of about two feet, is
another row of bars similarly interwoven with wire. The visitor is
compelled to stand in this cage to converse with his relative or friend,
who is separated from him by the two gratings. All private discourse is
consequently impossible.

What can recompense the prisoner who is acquitted, for all the
mortifications, insults, indignities, and privations he has undergone in
Newgate previous to that trial which triumphantly proclaims his
innocence?

Relative to the interview between Markham and Monroe, all that it is
necessary to state is that the young man's guardian promised to adopt
all possible means to prove his innocence, and spare no expense in
securing the most intelligent and influential legal assistance. Mr.
Monroe moreover intimated his intention of removing the case from the
bands of Mac Chizzle to those of a well-known and highly respectable
solicitor. Richard declared that he left himself entirely in his
guardian's hands, and expressed his deep gratitude for the interest thus
demonstrated by that gentleman in his behalf.

Thus terminated the first interview in Newgate between Markham and his
late father's confidential friend.

He felt somewhat relieved by this visit, and entertained strong hopes of
being enabled to prove his innocence upon the day of trial.

But it then wanted a whole month to the next sessions--thirty horrible
days which he would be compelled to pass in Newgate!




CHAPTER XXVII.

THE REPUBLICAN AND THE RESURRECTION MAN.


As Richard was walking up and down the yard, an hour or two after his
interview with Mr. Monroe, he was attracted by the venerable appearance
of an elderly gentleman who was also parading that dismal place to and
fro.

This individual was attired in a complete suit of black; and his pale
countenance, and long grey hair flowing over his coat-collar, were
rendered the more remarkable by the mournful nature of his garb. He
stooped considerably in his gait, and walked with his hands joined
together behind him. His eyes were cast upon the ground; and his
meditations appeared to be of a profound and soul-absorbing nature.

Markham immediately experienced a strange curiosity to become acquainted
with this individual, and to ascertain the cause of his imprisonment. He
did not, however, choose to interrupt that venerable man's reverie.
Accident presently favoured his wishes, and placed within his reach the
means of introduction to the object of his curiosity. The old gentleman
changed his line of walk in the spacious yard, and tripped over a loose
flagstone. His head came suddenly in contact with the ground. Richard
hastened to raise him up, and conducted him to a bench. The old
gentleman was very grateful for these attentions; and, when he was
recovered from the effects of his fell, he surveyed Markham with the
utmost interest.

"What circumstance has thrown you into this vile den?" he inquired, in a
pleasant tone of voice.

Richard instantly related, from beginning to end, those particulars with
which the reader is already acquainted.

The old man remained silent for some minutes, and then fixed his eyes
upon Markham in a manner that seemed intended to read the secrets of his
soul.

Richard did not quail beneath that eagle-glance; but a deep blush
suffused his countenance.

"I believe you, my boy--I believe every word you have uttered," suddenly
exclaimed the stranger: "you are the victim of circumstances; and deeply
do I commiserate your situation."

"I thank you sincerely--most sincerely for your good opinion," said
Richard. "And now, permit me to ask you what has plunged you into a
gaol? No crime, I feel convinced before you speak!"

"Never judge hastily, young man," returned the old gentleman. "My
conviction of your innocence was principally established by the very
circumstance which would have led others to pronounce in favour of your
guilt. You blushed--deeply blushed; but it was not the glow of shame: it
was the honest flush of conscious integrity unjustly suspected. Now,
with regard to myself, I know why you imagine me to be innocent of any
crime; but, remember that a mild, peaceable and venerable exterior
frequently covers a heart eaten up with every evil passion, and a soul
stained with every crime. You were however right in your conjecture
relative to myself. I am a person accused of a political offence--a
libel upon the government, in a journal of considerable influence which
I conduct. I shall be tried next session: my sentence will not be
severe, perhaps; but it will not be the less unjust. I am the friend of
my fellow-countrymen and my fellow-creatures: the upright and the
enlightened denominate me a philanthropist: my enemies denounce me as a
disturber of the public peace, a seditious agitator, and a visionary.
You have undoubtedly heard of Thomas Armstrong?"

"I have not only heard of you, sir," said Richard, surveying the great
Republican writer with profound admiration and respect, "but I have read
your works and your essays with pleasure and interest."

"In certain quarters," continued Armstrong, "I am represented as a
character who ought to be loathed and shunned by all virtuous and honest
people,--that I am a moral pestilence,--a social plague; and that my
writings are only deserving of being burnt by the hands of the common
hangman. The organs of the rich and aristocratic classes, level every
species of coarse invective against me. And yet, O God!" he added
enthusiastically, "I only strive to arouse the grovelling spirit of the
industrious millions to a sense of the wrongs under which they labour,
and to prove to them that they were not sent into this world to lick the
dust beneath the feet of majesty and aristocracy!"

"Do you not think," asked Richard, timidly, "that you are somewhat in
advance of the age? Do you not imagine that a republic would be
dangerously premature?"

"My dear youth, let us not discuss this matter in a den where all our
ideas are concentrated in the focus formed by our misfortunes. Let me
rather assist you with my advice upon the mode of conduct you should
preserve in this prison, so that you may not become too familiar with
the common herd, nor offend by being too distant."

Mr. Armstrong then proffered his counsel upon this point.

"I feel deeply indebted to you for your kindness," exclaimed Markham:
"very--very grateful!"

"Grateful!" cried the old man, somewhat bitterly. "Oh! how I dislike
that word! The enemies who persecute me now, are those who have received
the greatest favours from me. But there is one--one whose treachery and
base ingratitude I never can forget--although I can forgive him! Almost
four years ago, I accidentally learnt that a young man of pleasing
appearance, genteel manners, and good acquirements, was in a state of
the deepest distress, in an obscure lodging in Hoxton Old Town. I called
upon him: the account which had reached my ears was too true. He was
bordering upon starvation; and--although he assured me that he had
relations and friends moving in a wealthy sphere--he declared that
particular reasons, which he implored me not to dive into, compelled him
to refrain from addressing them. I relieved his necessities; I gave him
money, and procured him clothes. I then took him as my private
secretary, and soon put the greatest confidence in him. Alas! how was I
recompensed? He betrayed all my political secrets to the government: he
literally sold me! At length he absconded, taking with him a
considerable sum of money, which he abstracted from my desk."

"How despicable!" ejaculated Richard.

"That is not all, I met him afterwards, and forgave him!" said
Armstrong.

"Ah! you possess, sir, a noble heart," cried Richard: "I hope that this
misguided young man gave sincere proofs of repentance!"

"Oh! he was very grateful!" ejaculated Mr. Armstrong, with a satirical
smile: "when he heard that there was a warrant issued for my
apprehension, upon a charge of libel on the government, he secretly
instructed the officers relative to my private haunts, and thus sold me
again!"

"The villain!" cried Markham, with unfeigned indignation. "Tell me his
name, that I may avoid him as I would a poisonous viper!"

"His name is George Montague," returned Mr. Armstrong.

"George Montague!" cried Richard.

"Do you know him? have you heard of him before? If you happen to be
aware of his present abode--"

"You would send and have him arrested for the robbery of the money in
your desk?"

"No--write and assure him of my forgiveness once more," replied the
noble-hearted republican. "But how came you acquainted with his name?"

"I have heard of that young man before, but not in a way to do him
honour. A tale of robbery and seduction--of heartless cruelty and vile
deceit--has been communicated to me relative to this George Montague.
Can you forgive such a wretch as he is?'

"From the bottom of my heart," answered the republican.

Markham gazed upon that venerable gentleman with profound respect. He
remembered to have seen the daily Tory newspapers denounce that same old
man as "an unprincipled agitator--the enemy of his country--the foe to
morality--a political ruffian--a bloody-minded votary of Robespierre and
Danton:"--and he now heard the sweetest and holiest sentiment of
Christian morality emanate from the lips of him who had thus been
fearfully represented. And that sentiment was uttered without
affectation, but with unequivocal sincerity!

For a moment Richard forgot his own sorrows and misfortunes, as he
contemplated the benign and holy countenance of him whom a certain class
loved to depict as a demon incarnate!

The old man did not notice the interest which he had thus excited, for
he had himself fallen into a profound reverie.

Presently the conversation was resumed; and the more that Markham saw of
the Republican, the more did he respect and admire him.

In the course of the afternoon Markham was accosted by one of his
fellow-prisoners, who beckoned him aside in a somewhat mysterious
manner. This individual was a very short, thin, cadaverous-looking man,
with coal-black hair and whiskers, and dark piercing eyes half concealed
beneath shaggy brows of the deepest jet. He was apparently about
five-and thirty years of age. His countenance was downcast; and when he
spoke, he seemed as if he could not support the glance of the person
whom he addressed. He was dressed in a seedy suit of black, and wore an
oil-skin cap with a large shade.

This person, who was very reserved and retired in his habits, and seldom
associated with his fellow-prisoners, drew Markham aside, and said,
"I've taken a liberty with your name; but I know you won't mind it. In a
place like this we must help and assist each other."

"And in what way--" began Markham.

"Oh! nothing very important; only it's just as well to tell you in case
the turnkey says a word about it. The fact is, I haven't half enough to
eat with this infernal gruel and soup that they give those who, like me,
are forced to take the gaol allowance, and my old mother--who is known
by the name of the Mummy--has promised to send me in presently a jolly
good quartern loaf and three or four pound of Dutch cheese."

"But I thought that those who took the gaol allowance were not permitted
to receive any food from outside?" said Markham.

"That's the very thing," said the man: "so I have told the Mummy to
direct the parcel to you, as I know that you grub yourself at your own
cost."

"So long as it does not involve me----"

"No--not in the least, my good fellow," interrupted the other. "And, in
return," he added, after a moment's pause, "if I can ever do you a
service, outside or in, you may reckon upon the Resurrection Man."

"The Resurrection Man!" ejaculated Richard, appalled, in spite of
himself, at this ominous title.

"Yes--that's my name and profession," said the man. "My godfathers and
godmothers called me Anthony, and my parents had previously blessed me
with the honourable appellation of Tidkins: so you may know me as
Anthony Tidkins, the Resurrection Man."

"And are you really----" began Richard, with a partial shudder; "are you
really a----"

"A body-snatcher?" cried Anthony; "of course I am--when there's any work
to be done; and when there isn't, then I do a little in another line."

"And what may that be?" demanded Markham.

This time the Resurrection Man _did_ look his interlocutor full in the
face; but it was only for a moment; and he again averted his glance in a
sinister manner, as he jerked his thumb towards the wall of the yard,
and exclaimed, "Crankey Jem on t'other side will tell you if you ask
him. They would not put us together: no--no," he added, with a species
of chuckle; "they know a trick worth two of that. We shall both be tried
together: fifteen years for him--freedom for me! That's the way to do
it."

With these words the Resurrection Man turned upon his heel, and walked
away to the farther end of the yard.

We shall now take leave of Markham for the present: when we again call
the reader's attention to his case, we shall find him standing in the
dock of the Central Criminal Court, to take his trial upon the grave
accusation of passing forged notes.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE DUNGEON.


Return we now to Bill Bolter, the murderer, who had taken refuge in the
subterranean hiding-place of the Old House in Chick Lane.

Heavily and wearily did the hours drag along. The inmate of that
terrible dungeon was enabled to mark their lapse by the deep-mouthed
bell of St. Sepulchre's Church, on Snow Hill, the sound of which boomed
ominously at regular intervals upon his ear.

That same bell tolls the death-note of the convict on the morning of his
execution at the debtors' door of Newgate.

The murderer remembered this, and shuddered.

A faint--faint light glimmered through the little grating at the end of
the dungeon; and the man kept his eyes fixed upon it so long, that at
length his imagination began to conjure up phantoms to appal him. That
small square aperture became a frame in which hideous countenances
appeared; and then, one gradually changed into another--horrible
dissolving views that they were!

But chiefly he beheld before him the tall gaunt form of his murdered
wife--with one eye smashed and bleeding in her head:--the other glared
fearfully upon him.

This phantasmagoria became at length so fearful and so real in
appearance, that the murderer turned his back towards the little grating
through which the light struggled into the dungeon in two long, narrow,
and oblique columns.

But then he imagined that there were goblins behind him; and this idea
soon grew as insupportable as the first;--so he rose, and groped his way
up and down that narrow vault--a vault which might become his tomb!

This horrible thought never left his memory. Even while he reflected
upon other things,--amidst the perils which enveloped his career, and
the reminiscences of the dread deeds of which he had been
guilty,--amongst the reasons which he assembled together to convince
himself that the hideous countenances at the grating did not exist in
reality,--there was that one idea--unmixed--definite--standing boldly
out from all the rest in his imagination,--_that he might be left to die
of starvation!_

At one time the brain of this wretch was excited to such a pitch that he
actually caught his head in his two hands, and pressed it with all his
force--to endeavour to crush the horrible visions which haunted his
imagination.

Then he endeavoured to hum a tune; but his voice seemed to choke him. He
lighted a pipe, and sate and smoked; but as the thin blue vapour curled
upwards, in the faint light of the grating, it assumed shapes and forms
appalling to behold. Spectres, clad in long winding sheets--cold grisly
corpses, dressed in shrouds, seemed to move noiselessly through the
dungeon.

He laid aside the pipe; and, in a state of mind bordering almost upon
frenzy, tossed off the brandy that had remained in the flask.

But so full of horrible ideas was his mind at that moment, that it
appeared to him as if he had been drinking blood!

He rose from his seat once more, and groped up and down the dungeon,
careless of the almost stunning blows which he gave his head, and the
violent contusions which his limbs received, against the uneven walls.

Hark! suddenly voices fell upon his ears.

He listened with mingled fear and joy,--fear of being discovered, and
joy at the sound of human tones in the midst of that subterranean
solitude.

Those voices came from the lower window of the dwelling on the other
side of the ditch.

"How silent and quiet everything has been lately in the old home
opposite," said a female.

"Last night--or rather early this morning, I heard singing there,"
replied another voice, which was evidently that of a young woman.

Oh! never had the human tones sounded so sweet and musical upon the
murderer's ears before!

"It is very seldom that any one ever goes into that old house now," said
the first speaker.

"Strange rumours are abroad concerning it: I heard that there are
subterranean places in which men can conceal themselves, and no power on
earth could find them save those in the secret."

"How absurd! I was speaking to the policeman about that very thing a
few days ago; and he laughed at the idea. He says it is impossible; and
of course he knows best."

"I am not so sure of that. Who knows what fearful deeds have those old
walls concealed from human eye? For my part, I can very well believe
that there are secret cells and caverns. Who knows but that some poor
wretch is hiding there this very moment?"

"Perhaps the man that murdered his wife up in Union Court."

"Well--who knows? But at this rate we shall never get on with our work."

The noise of a window being shut down fell upon the murderer's ears: and
he heard no more.

But he had heard enough! Those girls had spoken of him:--they had
mentioned him as _the man who had murdered his wife_.

The assassination, then, was already known: the dread deed was bruited
abroad:--thousands and thousands of tongues had no doubt repeated the
tale here and there--conveying it hither and thither--far and wide!

And throughout the vast metropolis was he already spoken of as the _man
who had murdered his wife_!

And in a few hours more, would millions in all parts hear of _the man
who had murdered his wife_!

And already were the officers of justice actively in search of _the man
who had murdered his wife_!

Heavily--heavily passed the hours.

At length the dungeon became pitch dark; and then the murderer saw
sights more appalling than when the faint gleam stole through the
grating.

In due time the sonorous voice of Saint Sepulchre proclaimed the hour of
nine.

Scarcely had the last stroke of that iron tongue died upon the breeze,
when a noise at the head of the spiral staircase fell upon the
murderer's ears. The trap-door was raised, and the well-known voice of
Dick Flairer was heard.

"Well, Bill--alive or dead, eh--old fellow!" exclaimed the burglar.

"Alive--and that's all, Dick," answered Bill Bolter, ascending the
staircase.

"My God! how pale you are, Bill," said Dick, the moment the light of the
candle fell upon the countenance of the murderer as he emerged from the
trap-door.

"Pale, Dick!" ejaculated the wretch, a shudder passing over his entire
frame; "I do not believe I can stand a night in that infernal hole."

"You must, Bill--you must," said Flairer: "all is discovered up in Union
Court there, and the police are about in all directions."

"When was it found out? Tell me the particulars--speak!" said the
murderer, with frenzied impatience.

"Why, it appears that the neighbours heard a devil of a noise in your
room, but didn't think nothink about it, cos you and Polly used to spar
a bit now and then. But at last the boy--Harry, I mean--went down stairs
and said that his mother wouldn't move, and that his father had gone
away. So up the neighbours went--and then everything was blown. The
children was sent to the workus, and the coroner held his inquest this
afternoon at three. Harry was had up before him; and--"

"And what?" demanded Bolter, hastily.

"And, in course," added Dick, "the Coroner got out of the boy ull the
particklars: so the jury returned a verdict----"

"Of _Wilful Murder_, eh?" said Bill, sinking his voice almost to a
whisper.

"_Wilful Murder against William Bolter_," answered Dick, coolly.

"That little vagabond Harry!" cried the criminal--his entire countenance
distorted with rage; "I'll be the death on him!"

"There's no news at all about t'other affair up at Clapton, and no stir
made in it at all," said Dick, after a moment's pause: "so that there
business is all right. But here's a lot of grub and plenty of lush,
Bill: that'll cheer ye, if nothink else will."

"Dick!" exclaimed the murderer, "I cannot go back into that hole--I had
rather get nabbed at once. The few hours I have already been there have
nearly drove me mad; and I can't--I won't attempt the night in that
infernal cold damp vault. I feel as if I was in my coffin."

"Well, you know best," said Dick, coolly. "A hempen neckcloth at Tuck-up
fair, and a leap from a tree with only one leaf, is what you'll get if
you're perverse."

"My God--my God!" ejaculated Bolter, wringing his hands, and throwing
glances of extreme terror around the room: "what am I to do? what am I
to do?"

"Lie still down below for a few weeks, or go out and be scragged," said
Dick Flairer. "Come, Bill, be a man; and don't take on in this here way.
Besides, I'm in a hurry, and must be off. I've brought you enough grub
for three days, as I shan't come here too often till the business has
blowed over a little."

Bill Bolter took a long draught from a quart bottle of rum which his
friend had brought with him; and he then felt his spirits revive.
Horrible as the prospect of a long sojourn in the dungeon appeared, it
was still preferable to the fearful doom which must inevitably follow
his capture; and, accordingly, the criminal once more returned to his
hiding-place.

Dick Flairer promised to return on the third evening from that time; and
the trap-door again closed over the head of the murderer.

Bolter supped off a portion of the provisions which his friend had
brought him, and then lay down upon the hard stone bench to sleep. A
noisome stench entered the dungeon from the Ditch, and the rats ran over
the person of the inmate of that subterranean hole. Repose was
impossible; the miserable wretch therefore sate up, and began to smoke.

By accident he kicked his leg a little way beneath the stone bench: the
heel of his boot encountered something that yielded to the touch; and a
strange noise followed.

That noise was like the rattling of bones!

The pipe fell from the man's grasp; and he himself was stupefied with
sudden terror.

At length, exercising immense violence over his feelings, he determined
to ascertain whether the horrible suspicions which had entered his mind,
were well-founded or not.

He thrust his hand beneath the bench, and encountered the mouldering
bones of a human skeleton.

With indescribable feelings of agony and horror he threw himself upon
the bench--his hair on end, and his heart palpitating violently.

Heaven only can tell how he passed that long weary night--alone, in the
darkness of the dungeon, with his own thoughts, the skeleton of some
murdered victim, and the vermin that infected the subterranean hole.

[Illustration]

He slept not a wink throughout those live-long hours, the lapse of which
was proclaimed by the voice of Saint Sepulchre's solemn and deep toned
bell.

And none who heard the bell during that night experienced feelings of
such intense anguish and horror as the murderer in his lurking-hole. Not
even the neighbouring prison of Newgate, nor the hospital of Saint
Bartholomew, nor the death-bed of a parent, knew mental suffering so
terrible as that which wrung the heart of this guilty wretch.

The morning dawned; and the light returned to the dungeon.

The clock had just struck eight, and the murderer was endeavouring to
force a mouthful of food down his throat, when the voice of a man in the
street fell upon his ear. He drew close up to the grating, and clearly
heard the following announcement:--

"_Here is a full and perfect account of the horrible assassination
committed by the miscreant William Bolter, upon the person of his wife;
with a portrait of the murderer, and a representation of the room as it
appeared when the deed was first discovered by a neighbour. Only one
Penny! The fullest and most perfect account--only one Penny!_"

A pause ensued, and then the voice, bawling more lustily than before,
continued thus:--

"_A full and perfect account of the bloody and cruel murder in Upper
Union Court; showing how the assassin first dashed out one of his
victim's eyes, and then fractured her skull upon the floor. Only one
Penny, together with a true portrait of the murderer, for whose
apprehension a reward of One Hundred Pounds is offered! Only one
Penny!_"

"A reward of one hundred pounds!" cried another voice: "my eye! how I
should like to find him!"

"Wouldn't I precious soon give him up!" ejaculated a third.

"I wonder whereabouts he is," said a fourth. "No doubt that he has run
away--perhaps to America--perhaps to France."

"That shews how much you know about such things," said a fifth speaker.
"It is a very strange fact, that murderers always linger near the scene
of their crime; they are attracted towards it, seemingly, as the moth is
to the candle. Now, for my part, I shouldn't at all wonder if the
miscreant was within a hundred yards of us at the present moment."

"_Only one Penny! The fullest and most perfect account of the horrible
and bloody murder_----"

The itinerant vender of pamphlets passed on, followed by the crowd which
his vociferations had collected; and his voice soon ceased to break the
silence of the morning.

Bolter sank down upon the stone bench, a prey to maddening feelings and
fearful emotions.

A hundred pounds were offered for his capture! Such a sum might tempt
even Dick Flairer or Tom the Cracksman to betray him.

Instinctively he put his fingers to his neck, to feel if the rope were
there yet, and he shook his head violently to ascertain if he were
hanging on a gibbet, or could still control his motions.

The words "miscreant," "horrible and bloody murder," and "portrait of
the assassin," still rang in his ears--loud--sonorous--deep--and with a
prolonged echo like that of a bell!

Already were men speculating upon his whereabouts, and anxious for his
apprehension--some for the reward, others to gratify a morbid curiosity:
already were the newspapers, the cheap press, and the pamphleteers busy
with his name.

None now mentioned him save as _the miscreant William Bolter_.

Oh! if he could but escape to some foreign land,--if he could but avoid
the ignominious consequences of his crime in this,--he would dedicate
the remainder of his days to penitence,--he would toil from the dawn of
morning till sunset to obtain the bread of honesty,--he would use every
effort, exert every nerve to atone for the outrage he had committed upon
the laws of society!

But--no! it was too late. The blood-hounds of the law were already upon
his track.

An hour passed away; and during that interval the murderer sought to
compose himself by means of his pipe and the rum-bottle: but he could
not banish the horrible ideas which haunted him.

Suddenly a strange noise fell upon his ear.

The blood appeared to run cold to his very heart in a refluent tide; for
the steps of many feet, and the sounds of many voices, echoed through
the old house.

The truth instantly flashed to his mind: the police had entered the
premises.

With hair standing on end, eye-balls glaring, and forehead bathed in
perspiration, the murderer sate motionless upon the cold stone
bench--afraid even to breathe. Every moment he expected to hear the
trap-door at the head of the spiral staircase move: but several minutes
elapsed, and his fears in this respect were not accomplished.

At length he heard a sound as of a body falling heavily; and then a
voice almost close to him fell upon his ear.

The reader will remember that the vault in which he was concealed,
joined the cellar from whence Walter Sydney had escaped. The officers
had entered that cellar by means of the trap-door in the floor of the
room immediately above it. Bolter could overhear their entire
conversation.

"Well, this is a strange crib, this is," said one. "Show the bull's-eye
up in that farther corner: there may be a door in one of them dark
nooks."

"It will jist end as I said it would," exclaimed another: "the feller
wouldn't be sich a fool as to come to a place that's knowed to the Force
as one of bad repute."

"I didn't think, myself, there was much good in coming to search this
old crib: but the inspector said _yes_, and so we couldn't say _no_."

"Let's be off: the cold of this infernal den strikes to my very bones.
But I say--that there shelving board that we first lighted on in getting
down, isn't made to help people to come here alive."

"Turn the bull's-eye more on it."

"Now can you see?"

"Yes--plain enough. It leads to a hole that looks on the ditch. But the
plank is quite old and rotten; so I dare say it was put there for some
purpose or another a long time ago. Pr'aps the thieves used to convey
their swag through that there hole into a boat in the ditch, and----"

"No, no," interrupted the other policeman: "it wasn't swag that they
tumbled down the plank into the Fleet: it was stiff 'uns."

"Very likely. But there can't be any of that kind of work ever going on
now: so let's be off."

The murderer in the adjoining vault could hear the policemen climb up
the plank towards the trap-door; and in a few minutes profound silence
again reigned throughout the old house.

This time he had escaped detection; and yet the search was keen and
penetrating.

The apparent safety of his retreat restored him to something like good
spirits; and he began to calculate the chances which he imagined to
exist for and against the probability of his escape from the hands of
justice.

"There is but five men in the world as knows of this hiding-place," he
said to himself; "and them is myself, Dick Flairer, Crankey Jem, the
Resurrection Man, and Tom the Cracksman. As for me, I'm here--that's one
what won't blab. Dick Flairer isn't likely to sell a pal: Tom the
Cracksman I'd rely on even if he was on the rack. Crankey Jem is staunch
to the backbone; besides, he's in the Jug: so is the Resurrection Man.
They can't do much harm there. I think I'm tolerably safe; and as for
frightening myself about ghosts and goblins----"

He was suddenly interrupted by the rattling of the bones beneath the
stone-bench. He started; and a profuse perspiration instantly broke out
upon his forehead.

A huge rat had disturbed those relics of mortality; but this little
incident tended to hurl the murderer back again into all that appalling
gloominess of thought from which he had for a moment seemed to be
escaping.

Time wore on: and heavily and wearily still passed the hours. At length
darkness again came down upon the earth: the light of the little grating
disappeared; and the vault was once more enveloped in the deepest
obscurity.

The murderer ate a mouthful, and then endeavoured to compose himself to
sleep, for he was worn out mentally and bodily.

The clock of Saint Sepulchre's proclaimed the hour of seven, as he awoke
from a short and feverish slumber.

He thought he heard a voice calling him in in his dreams; and when he
started up he listened with affright.

"Bill--are you asleep?"

It was not, then, a dream: a human voice addressed him in reality.

"Bill--why don't you answer?" said the voice. "It's only me!"

Bolter suddenly felt relieved of an immense load; it was his friend Dick
who was calling him from the little trap-door. He instantly hurried up
the staircase, and was surprised to find that there was no light in the
room.

"My dear feller," said Dick, in a hurried tone, "I didn't mean to come
back so soon again, but me and Tom is a-going to do a little business
together down Southampton way--someot that he has been told of; and as
we may be away a few days, I thought I'd better come this evenin' with a
fresh supply. Here's plenty of grub, and rum, and bakker."

"Well, this is a treat--to hear a friendly voice again so soon," said
Bill;--"but why the devil don't you light the candle?"

"I'm a-going to do it now," returned Dick; and he struck a lucifer-match
as he spoke. "I thought I wouldn't show a light here sooner than was
necessary; and we must not keep it burning too long; cos there may be
chinks in them shutters, and I des say the blue-bottles is on the
scent."

"They come and searched the whole place this mornin'," said Bill: "but
they didn't smell me though."

"Then you're all safe now, my boy," cried Dick. "Here, look alive--take
this basket, and pitch it down the stairs: it's well tied up, and chock
full of cold meat and bread. Put them two bottles into your pocket:
there--that's right. Now--do you want anythink else?"

"Yes--a knife. I was forced to gnaw my food like a dog for want of one."

"Here you are," said Dick; and, taking a knife from the secret cupboard
between the windows, he handed it to his friend. "Now are you all
right?"

"Quite--that is, as right as a feller in my sitivation can be. You won't
forget to come----"

Bolter was standing within two or three steps from the top of the
staircase; and the greater part of his body was consequently above the
trap-door.

He stopped suddenly short in the midst of his injunction to his
companion, and staggered in such a way that he nearly lost his footing.

His eye had caught sight of a human countenance peering from behind the
half-open door of the room.

"Damnation!" exclaimed the murderer: "I'm sold at last!"--and, rushing
up the steps, he fell upon Dick Flairer with the fury of a tiger.

At the same moment four or five officers darted into the room:--but they
were too late to prevent another dreadful deed of blood.

Bolter had plunged the knife which he held in his hand, into the heart
of Dick Flairer, the burglar.

The blow was given with fatal effect: the unfortunate wretch uttered a
horrible cry, and fell at the feet of his assassin, stone dead.

"Villain! what have you done?" ejaculated the serjeant who headed the
little detachment of police.

"I've drawn the claret of the rascal that nosed upon me," returned
Bolter doggedly.

"You were never more mistaken in your life," said the serjeant.

"How--what do you mean? Wasn't it that scoundrel Dick that chirped
against me?"

"No--ten thousand times _No_!" cried the officer: "it was a prisoner in
Newgate who split upon this hiding place. Somehow or another he heard of
the reward offered to take you; and he told the governor the whole
secret of the vault. Without knowing whether we should find you here or
not, we came to search it."

"Then it was the Resurrection Man who betrayed me after all!" exclaimed
Bolter; and, dashing the palms of his two hands violently against his
temples, he added, in a tone of intense agony, "I have murdered my best
friend--monster, miscreant that I am!"

The policeman speedily fixed a pair of manacles about his wrists; and in
the course of a quarter of an hour he was safely secured in one of the
cells at the station-house in Smithfield.

On the following day he was committed to Newgate.




CHAPTER XXIX.

THE BLACK CHAMBER.


Once more does the scene change.

The reader who follows us through the mazes of our narrative, has yet to
be introduced to many strange places--many hideous haunts of crime,
abodes of poverty, dens of horror, and lurking-holes of perfidy--as well
as many seats of wealthy voluptuousness and aristocratic dissipation.

It will be our task to guide those who choose to accompany us, to scenes
and places whose very existence may appear to belong to the regions of
romance rather than to a city in the midst of civilisation, and whose
characteristic features are as yet unknown to even those that are the
best acquainted with the realities of life.

About a fortnight had elapsed since the events related in the preceding
chapter.

In a small, high, well-lighted room five individuals were seated at a
large round oaken table. One of these persons, who appeared to be the
superior, was an elderly man with a high forehead, and thin white hair
falling over the collar of his black coat. He was short and rather
corpulent: his countenance denoted frankness and good-nature; but his
eyes, which were small, grey, and sparkling, had a lurking expression of
cunning, only perceptible to the acute observer. The other three
individuals were young and gentlemanly-looking men, neatly dressed, and
very deferential in their manners towards their superior.

The door of this room was carefully bolted. At one end of the table was
a large black tray covered with an immense quantity of bread-seals of
all sizes. Perhaps the reader may recall to mind that, amongst the
pursuits and amusements of his school-days, he diverted himself with
moistening the crumb of bread, and kneading it with his fingers into a
consistency capable of taking and retaining an accurate impression of a
seal upon a letter. The seals--or rather blank bread-stamps--now upon
the tray, were of this kind, only more carefully manufactured, and well
consolidated with thick gum-water.

Close by this tray, in a large wooden bowl were wafers of all sizes and
colours; and in a box also standing on the table, were numbers of
wafer-stamps of every dimension used. A second box contained thin blades
of steel, set fast in delicate ivory handles, and sharp as razors. A
third box was filled with sticks of sealing-wax of all colours, and of
foreign as well as British manufacture. A small glass retort fixed over
a spirit-lamp, was placed near one of the young men. A tin-box
containing a little cushion covered with printer's red ink in one
compartment, and several stamps such as the reader may have seen used in
post-offices, in another division, lay open near the other articles
mentioned. Lastly, an immense pile of letters--some sealed, and others
wafered--stood upon that end of the table at which the elderly gentleman
was seated.

The occupations of these five individuals may be thus described in a few
words.

The old gentleman took up the letters one by one, and bent them open, as
it were, in such a way, that he could read a portion of their contents
when they were not folded in such a manner as effectually to conceal all
the writing. He also examined the addresses, and consulted a long paper
of official character which lay upon the table at his right hand. Some
of the letters he threw, after as careful a scrutiny as he could devote
to them without actually breaking the seals or wafers, into a large
wicker basket at his feet. From time to time, however, he passed a
letter to the young man who sate nearest to him.

If the letters were closed with wax, an impression of the seal was
immediately taken by means of one of the bread stamps. The young man
then took the letter and held it near the large fire which burnt in the
grate until the sealing-wax became so softened by the heat that the
letter could be easily opened without tearing the paper. The third clerk
read it aloud, while the fourth took notes of its contents. It was then
returned to the first young man, who re-sealed it by means of the
impression taken on the bread stamp, and with wax which precisely
matched that originally used in closing the letter. When this ceremony
was performed, the letter was consigned to the same basket which
contained those that had passed unopened through the hands of the
Examiner.

If the letter were fastened with a wafer, the second clerk made the
water in the little glass retort boil by means of the spirit-lamp; and
when the vapour gushed forth from the tube, the young man held the
letter to its mouth in such a way that the steam played full upon the
identical spot where the wafer was placed. The wafer thus became
moistened in a slight degree; and it was only then necessary to pass one
of the thin steel blades skilfully beneath the wafer, in order to open
the letter. The third young man then read this epistle, and the fourth
took notes, as in the former instance. The contents being thus
ascertained, the letter was easily fastened again with a very thin wafer
of the same colour and size as the original; and if the job were at all
clumsily done, the tin-box before noticed furnished the means of
imprinting a red stamp upon the back of the letter, in such a way that a
portion of the circle fell precisely over the spot beneath which the
wafer was placed.

These processes were accomplished in total silence, save when the
contents of the letters were read; and then, so accustomed were those
five individuals to hear the revelations of the most strange secrets and
singular communications, that they seldom appeared surprised or
amused--shocked or horrified, at anything which those letters made known
to them. Their task seemed purely of a mechanical kind: indeed,
automatons could not have shewn less passion or excitement.

Oh! vile--despicable occupation,--performed, too, by men who went forth,
with heads erect and confident demeanour, from their atrocious
employment--after having violated those secrets which are deemed most
sacred, and broken the seals which merchants, lovers, parents, relations,
and friends, had placed upon their thoughts!

Base and diabolical outrage--perpetrated by the commands of the
Ministers of the Sovereign!

Reader, this small, high, well-lighted room, in which such infamous
scenes took place with doors well secured by bolts and bars, was the
_Black Chamber of the General Post-Office, Saint Martin's-le-Grand_.

And now, reader, do you ask whether all this be true;--whether, in the
very heart of the metropolis of the civilized world, such a system and
such a den of infamy can exist;--whether, in a word, the means of
transferring thought at a cheap and rapid rate, be really made available
to the purposes of government and the ends of party policy? If you ask
these questions, to each and all we confidently and boldly answer "YES."

The first letter which the Examiner caused to be opened on the occasion
when we introduce our readers to the Black Chamber, was from the State
of Castelcicala, in Italy, to the representative of that Grand-Duchy at
the English court. Its contents, when translated, ran thus:--

City of Montoni, Castelcicala.

     "I am desired by my lord the Marquis of Gerrano, his Highness's
     Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, to inform your Excellency
     that, in consequence of a general amnesty just proclaimed by His
     Serene Highness, and which includes all political prisoners and
     emigrants, passports to return to the Grand Duchy of Castelcicala,
     may be accorded to his Highness Alberto Prince of Castelcicala,
     nephew of his Serene Highness the Reigning Grand Duke, as well as
     to all other natives of Castelcicala now resident in England, but
     who may be desirous of returning to their own country,

     "I have the honour to renew to your Excellency assurances of my
     most perfect consideration.

"BARON RUPERTO,
"Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, &c. &c.



The second letter perused upon this occasion, by the inmates of the
Black Chamber, was from a famous London Banker to his father at
Manchester:--

     "You will be astounded, my dear father, when your eye meets the
     statement I am now at length compelled to make to you. The world
     believes my establishment to be as firmly based as the rocks
     themselves: my credit is unlimited, and thousands have confided
     their funds to my care. Alas, my dear father, I am totally
     insolvent: the least drain upon the bank would plunge me into
     irredeemable ruin and dishonour. I have, however, an opportunity of
     retrieving myself, and building up my fortunes: a certain
     government operation is proposed to me; and if I can undertake it,
     my profits will be immense. Fifty thousand pounds are absolutely
     necessary for my purposes within six days from the present time.
     Consider whether you will save your son by making him this advance;
     or allow him to sink into infamy, disgrace and ruin, by withholding
     it. Whichever way you may determine breathe not a word to a soul.
     The authorities in the Treasury have made all possible inquiries
     concerning me, and believe me to be not only solvent, but immensely
     rich. I expect your answer by return of post.

"Your affectionate but almost heart-broken son,
"JAMES TOMLINSON."



The writer of this letter flattered himself that the government had
already made "all possible enquiries:"--he little dreamt that his own
epistle was to furnish the Treasury, through the medium of the Post
Office, with the very information which he had so fondly deemed unknown
to all save himself.

When the third letter was opened, the clerk whose duty it was to read
it, looked at the signature, and, addressing himself to the Examiner,
said, "From whom, sir, did you anticipate that this letter came?"

"From Lord Tremordyn. Is it not directed to Lady Tremordyn?" exclaimed
the Examiner.

"It is, sir," answered the clerk. "But it is written by that lady's
daughter Cecilia."

"I am very sorry for that. The Home Office," said the Examiner, "is
particularly anxious to ascertain the intention of Lord Tremordyn in
certain party matters; and it is known," he added, referring to the
official paper beside him, "that his lordship communicates all his
political sentiments to her ladyship, who is now at Bath."

"Then, sir, this letter need not be read?" cried the clerk
interrogatively.

"Not read, young man!" ejaculated the Examiner, impatiently. "How often
am I to tell you that every letter which is once opened, is to be
carefully perused? Have we not been able to afford the government and
the police some very valuable information at different times, by noting
the contents of letters which we have opened by mistake?"

"Certainly," added the first clerk. "There is that deeply-planned and
well-laid scheme of Stephens, and his young lady disguised as a man, who
lives at Upper Clapton, which we discovered by the mere accident of
opening a wrong letter."

"I beg your pardon, sir," said the clerk whose duty it was to read the
epistles, and whose apology to the Examiner was delivered in a most
deferential manner. "I will now proceed with the letter of the
Honourable Miss Cecilia Huntingfield to her mother Lady Tremordyn."

The young clerk then read as follows:--

     "Oh! my dear mother, how shall I find words to convey to you the
     fearful tale of my disgrace and infamy of which I am the unhappy
     and guilty heroine? A thousand times before you left London, I was
     on the point of throwing myself at your feet and confessing all!
     But, no--I could not--I dared not. And now, my dear parent, I can
     conceal my shame no longer! Oh! how shall I make you comprehend me,
     without actually entrusting this paper with the fearful secret! My
     God! I am almost distracted. Surely you can understand my meaning?
     If not, learn the doleful tidings at once, my dearest and most
     affectionate parent: I AM ABOUT TO BECOME A MOTHER! Oh! do not
     spurn me from you--do not curse your child! It has cost me pangs of
     anguish ineffable, and of mental agony an idea of which I could not
     convey to you, to sit down and rend your heart with this avowal.
     But, O heavens! what am I to do? Concealment is no longer possible:
     IN THREE MONTHS MORE I SHALL BE A MOTHER! That villain
     Harborough--the friend of our family, Sir Rupert Harborough,--the
     man in whom my dear father put every confidence,--that wretch has
     caused my shame! And yet there are times, my dear mother, when I
     feel that I love him;--for he is the father of the child which must
     soon publish my disgrace! And now, my fond--confiding--tender
     parent, you know all. Oh! come to my rescue: adopt some means to
     conceal my shame;--shield me from my father's wrath! I can write no
     more at present: but my mind feels relieved now I have thus opened
     my heart to my mother.

"Your afflicted and almost despairing daughter,
"CECILIA HUNTINGFIELD."



Thus was a secret involving the honour of a noble family,--a secret
compromising the most sacred interests--revealed to five men at one
moment, by means of the atrocious system pursued in the Black Chamber of
the General Post Office.

The fourth letter was from Mr. Robert Stephens of London to his brother
Mr. Frederick Stephens of Liverpool:--

"MY DEAR BROTHER,

     "I write you a few hasty instructions, to which I solicit your
     earnest attention. You are well aware that the 26th instant is my
     grand day--the day to which I have been so long and so anxiously
     looking forward. All my schemes are so well organised that
     detection is impossible. That fellow Montague gave me a little
     trouble a fortnight or so ago, by suddenly and most unexpectedly
     declaring that he would not act as the witness of identity; and I
     was actually compelled to give him five hundred pounds to silence
     him. What could have been his motive for shirking out of the
     affair, I cannot tell. Be that as it may, I have supplied his place
     with another and better man--a lawyer of the name of Mac Chizzle.
     But now for my instructions. The grand blow will be struck soon
     after mid-day on the 26th instant. Immediately it is done, I shall
     give Walter (I always speak of HER as a man) the ten thousand
     pounds I have promised him; and then off to Liverpool in a
     post-chaise and four. Now, if there be a packet for America on the
     27th, secure me a berth; if not, ascertain if there be a vessel
     sailing for Havre or Bordeaux on that day, and then secure me a
     berth in such ship:--but should there be none in this instance
     also, then obtain a list of all the ships which, according to
     present arrangements, are to leave Liverpool on the 27th, with
     their places of destination and all other particulars.

     "Burn this letter the moment you have read it: we then know that it
     cannot possibly have told tales.

"Your affectionate brother,
"ROBERT STEPHENS."



Poor deluded man! he believed that letters confided to the General Post
Office administration could "tell no tales" during their progress from
the sender to the receiver:--how miserably was he mistaken!

And here we may observe that if the system of opening letters at the
General Post Office were merely adopted for the purpose of discovering
criminals and preventing crime, we should still deprecate the
proceeding, although our objections would lose much of their point in
consideration of the motive: but when we find--and know it to be a
fact--that the secrets of correspondence are flagrantly violated for
political and other purposes, we raise our voice to denounce so
atrocious a system, and to excite the indignation of the country against
the men who can countenance or avail themselves of it!

Numerous other letters were read upon the occasion referred to in this
chapter; and their contents carefully noted down. The whole ceremony was
conducted with so much regularity and method, that it proceeded with
amazing despatch; and the re-fastening of the letters was managed with
such skill that in few, if any instances, were the slightest traces left
to excite suspicion of the process to which those epistles had been
subjected.

It was horrible to see that old man forgetting the respectability of his
years, and those four young ones laying aside the fine feelings which
ought to have animated their bosoms,--it was horrible to see them
earnestly, systematically, and skilfully devoting themselves to an
avocation the most disgraceful, soul-debasing, and morally execrable!

When the ceremony of opening, reading, and re-sealing the letters was
concluded, one of the clerks conveyed the basket containing them to that
department of the establishment where they were to undergo the process
of sorting and sub-sorting for despatch by the evening mails; and the
Examiner then proceeded to make his reports to the various offices of
the government. The notes of the despatch from Castelcicala were
forwarded to the Foreign Secretary: the contents of the Banker's letter
to his father were copied and sent to the Chancellor of the Exchequer:
the particulars of Miss Cecilia Huntingfield's affecting epistle to her
mother were entered in a private book in case they should be required at
a future day;--and an exact copy of Robert Stephens' letter to his
brother was forwarded to the Solicitor of the Bank of England.




CHAPTER XXX.

THE 26TH OF NOVEMBER.


As soon as the first gleam of morning penetrated through the curtains of
the boudoir in the Villa near Upper Clapton, Walter leapt from her
couch.

Conflicting feelings of joy and sorrow filled her bosom. The day--the
happy day had at length arrived, when, according to the promise of the
man on whom she looked as her benefactor, that grand event was to be
accomplished, which would release her from the detestable disguise which
she had now maintained for a period of nearly five years. The era had
come when she was again to appear in the garb that suited alike her
charms and her inclinations. This circumstance inspired her with the
most heartfelt happiness.

But, on the other hand, she loved--tenderly loved one who had meditated
against her an outrage of a most infamous description. Instead of
hailing her approaching return to her female attire as the signal for
the consummation of the fond hopes in which she had a few weeks before
indulged,--hopes which pictured to her imagination delicious scenes of
matrimonial bliss in the society of George Montague,--she was compelled
to separate that dream of felicity from the fact of her emancipation
from a thraldom repulsive to her delicacy and her tastes.

It was, therefore, with mingled feelings of happiness and melancholy,
that she commenced her usual toilette--that masculine toilette which she
was that day to wear for the last time.

"You ought to be in good spirits this morning, my dearest mistress,"
said Louisa, as she entered the room: "the period so anxiously looked
forward to by you has at length arrived."

"And to-morrow--to-morrow," exclaimed Walter, her hazel eyes lighting up
with a brilliant expression of joy, "you, my excellent Louisa, will
assist me to adorn myself with that garb which I have neglected so of
late!"

"I shall be happy both for your sake and mine," returned Louisa, who was
indeed deeply attached to her mistress; "and when I see you recovering
all your usual spirits, in a foreign land----"

"In Switzerland," hastily interrupted Walter; "in Switzerland--whither
you will accompany me, my good and faithful Louisa; and to which
delightful country we will proceed without delay! There indeed I shall
be happy--and, I hope, contented!"

"Mr. Stephens is to be here at ten, is he not?" said Louisa, after a
short pause.

"At ten precisely; and we then repair forthwith to the West End of the
town, where certain preliminaries are requisite previously to receiving
an immense sum of money which will be paid over to us at the Bank of
England. This much Mr. Stephens told me yesterday. He had never
communicated so much before."

"And this very afternoon it is your determination to leave London?" said
Louisa.

"I am now resolved upon that step," replied the lady. "You alone shall
accompany me: Mr. Stephens has promised to provide for the groom and the
old cook. Therefore, while I am absent this morning about the momentous
business--the real nature of which, by-the-bye, has yet to be explained
to me--you will make all the preparations that may be necessary for our
journey."

This conversation took place while Louisa hastily lighted the fire in
the boudoir. In a few minutes the grate sent up a cheering and grateful
heat; and the flames roared up the chimney. The lady, with an elegant
dressing-gown folded loosely around her, and her delicate white feet
thrust into red morocco slippers, threw herself into her luxurious
easy-chair while Louisa hastened to serve up breakfast upon a little
rose-wood table, covered with a napkin as white as snow. But the meal
passed away almost untouched: the lady's heart was too full of hope and
tender melancholy to allow her to experience the least appetite.

The mysterious toilette was completed: and Walter descended to the
parlour, attired in masculine garments for the last time!

At ten o'clock precisely Mr. Stephens arrived. He was dressed with
peculiar neatness and care; but his countenance was very pale, and his
eyes vibrated in a restless manner in their sockets. He, however,
assumed a bold composure; and thus the profound anxiety to which he was
at that moment a prey, was unnoticed by Walter Sydney.

They seated themselves upon the sofa, and looked at each other for an
instant without speaking. Those glances on either side expressed, in the
ardent language of the eye, the words--"This is the day!"

"Walter," said Mr. Stephens, at length breaking the silence which had
prevailed, "your conduct to-day must crown my designs with glorious
success, or involve me in irretrievable ruin."

"You may rely with confidence upon my discretion and prudence," answered
Walter. "Command me in all respects--consistently with honour."

"Honour!" exclaimed Stephens impatiently: "why do you for ever mention
that unmeaning word? _Honour_ is a conventional term, and is often used
in a manner inconsistently with common sense and sound judgment.
_Honour_ is all very well when it is brought in contact with _honour_
only; but when it has to oppose fraud and deceit, it must succumb if it
trust solely to its own force. The most honest lawyer sets chichanery
and quibble to work, to counteract the chichanery and quibble of his
pettifogging opponent: the politician calls the machinery of intrigue
into play, in order to fight his foeman with that foeman's own
weapons:--if the French employ the aid of riflemen concealed in the
thicket while the fair fight takes place upon the plain, the English
must do the same."

"I certainly comprehend the necessity of frequently fighting a man with
his own weapons," said Walter; "but I do not see to what point in our
affairs your reasoning tends."

"Suppose, Walter," resumed Stephens, speaking very earnestly, and
emphatically accentuating every syllable,--"suppose that you had a
friend who was entitled to certain rights which were withheld from him
by means of some detestable quibble and low chicanery; suppose that by
stating that your friend's name was George instead of William, for
instance, you could put him in possession of what is justly and
legitimately his due, but which, remember, is shamefully and most
dishonestly kept away from him;--in this case, should you hesitate to
declare that his name was George, and not William?"

"I think that I should be inclined to make the statement, to serve the
cause of justice and to render a friend a signal service," answered
Sydney, after a moment's hesitation.

"I could not have expected a different reply," exclaimed Stephens, a
gleam of joy animating his pale countenance: "and you would do so with
less remorse when you found that you were transferring property from one
individual who could well spare what he was never justly entitled to, to
a person who would starve without the restoration of his legitimate
rights."

"Oh! certainly," said Walter; and this time the reply was given without
an instant's meditation.

"Then," continued Stephens, more and more satisfied with the influence
of his sophistry, "you would in such a case eschew those maudlin and
mawkish ideas of _honour_, which arbitrarily exact that a falsehood must
never be told for a good purpose, and that illegitimate means must
never--never be adopted to work out virtuous and profitable ends?"

"My conduct in assuming this disguise," returned Sydney, with a smile
and a blush, "has proved to you, I should imagine, that I should not
hesitate to make use of a deceit comparatively innocent, with a view to
oppose fraud and ensure permanent benefit to my friend and myself."

"Oh! Walter, you should have been a man in person as well as in mind!"
cried Stephens, enthusiastically. "Now I have no fears of the result of
my plans; and before sun-set you shall be worth ten thousand pounds!"

"Ten thousand pounds!" repeated Walter, mechanically. "How much can be
done with such a sum as that!"

"You expressed a wish to leave this country, and visit the south of
Europe," said Stephens: "you will have ample means to gratify all your
tastes, and administer to all your inclinations. Only conceive a
beautiful little cottage on the shore of the lake of Brienz--that pearl
of the Oberland; the fair boat-women--the daughters of Switzerland--passing
in their little shallops beneath your windows, and singing their
national songs, full of charming tenderness, while the soft music
mingles with the murmuring waves and the sounds of the oars!"

"Oh! what an enchanting picture!" cried Walter. "And have you ever seen
such as this?"

"I have; and I feel convinced that the existence I recommend is the one
which will best suit you. To-day," continued Stephens, watching his
companion's countenance with a little anxiety, "shall you recover your
rights;--to-day shall you oppose the innocent deceit to the enormous
fraud;--to-day shall you do for _yourself_ what you ere now stated you
would do for a _friend_!"

"If you have drawn my own case in putting those queries to me,--if
immense advantages will be derived from my behaviour in this affair,--if
I am merely wresting from the hands of base cupidity that which is
justly mine own,--and if the enemy whom we oppose can well afford to
restore to me the means of subsistence, and thus render me independent
for the remainder of my days,--oh! how can I hesitate for a moment? how
can I refuse to entrust myself wholely and solely--blindly and
confidently--in your hands,--you who have done so much for me, and who
have taught me to respect, honour, and obey you?"

The lady uttered these words with a species of electric enthusiasm,
while her eyes brightened, and her cheeks were suffused with the purple
glow of animation. The specious arguments and the glowing description of
Swiss life, brought forward by Stephens with admirable dexterity,
awakened all the ardour of an impassioned soul; and the bosom of that
beauteous creature palpitated with hope, with joy, and with excitement,
as she gazed upon the future through the mirror presented by Stephens to
her view.

She was now exactly in a frame of mind suited to his purpose. Without
allowing her ardour time to abate, and while she was animated by the
delicious aspirations which he had conjured up, as it were by an
enchanter's spell, in her breast, he took her by he hand, and led her up
to the mantelpiece; then, pointing to the portrait of her brother, he
said in a low, hurried, and yet solemn tone,--"The fortune which must be
wrested from the grasp of cupidity this day, would have belonged to your
brother; and no power on earth could have deprived him of it; for, had
he lived, he would yesterday have attained his twenty-first year! His
death is unknown to him who holds this money: but, by a miserable legal
technicality, you--_you_, his sister, and _in justice_ his
heiress--_you_ would be deprived of that fortune by the man who now
grasps it, and who would chuckle at any plan which made it his own. Now
do you comprehend me? You have but to say that your name is _Walter_,
instead of _Eliza_,--and you will recover your just rights, defeat the
wretched chicanery of the law, and enter into possession of those
resources which belong to you in the eyes of God, but which, if you
shrink, will be for ever alienated from you and yours!"

"In one word," said the lady, "I am to personate my brother?"

"Precisely! Do you hesitate?" demanded Stephens: "will you allow the
property of your family to pass into the hands of a stranger, who
possesses not the remotest right to its enjoyment? or will you by one
bold effort--an effort that cannot fail--direct that fortune into its
just, its proper, and its legitimate channel?"

"The temptation is great," said the lady, earnestly contemplating the
portrait of her brother; "but the danger--the danger?" she added
hastily: "what would be the result if we were detected?"

"Nothing--nothing, save the total loss of the entire fortune,"
answered Stephens: "and, therefore, you perceive, that want of
nerve--hesitation--awkwardness--blushes--confusion on your part, would
ruin all. Be firm--be collected--be calm and resolute--and our plans
_must_ be crowned with unequivocal success!"

"Oh! if I proceed farther, I will pass through the ordeal with ease and
safety," exclaimed the lady: "I can nerve my mind to encounter any
danger, when it is well defined, and I know its extent;--it is only when
it is vague, uncertain, and indistinct, that I shrink from meeting it.
Yes," she continued, after a few moments' reflection, "I will follow
your counsel in all respects: you _do_ know--you _must_ know how much we
risk, and how far we compromise ourselves;--and when I see you ready to
urge on this matter to the end, how can I fear to accompany you? Yes,"
she added, after another pause, much longer than the preceding one,--"I
will be Walter Sydney throughout this day at least!"

"My dear friend," ejaculated Stephens, in a transport of joy, "you act
in a manner worthy of your noble-hearted brother, I see--he smiles upon
you even in his picture-frame."

"I will retrieve from the hands of strangers that which is thine, dear
brother," said the lady, addressing herself to the portrait as if it
could hear the words which she pronounced with a melancholy solemnity:
then, turning towards Stephens, she exclaimed, "But you must acquaint me
with the ceremonies we have to fulfil, and the duties which I shall have
to perform, in order to accomplish the desired aim."

"I need not instruct you now," returned Stephens: "the forms are
nothing, and explain themselves, as it were;--a few papers to sign at a
certain person's house in Grosvenor Square--then a ride to the Bank--and
all is over. But we must now take our departure: the hackney-coach that
brought us hither is waiting to convey us to the West End."

Stephens and Sydney issued from the house together. The former gave
certain directions to the coachman; and they then commenced their
memorable journey.

Mr. Stephens did not allow his companion a single moment for calm and
dispassionate reflection. He continued to expatiate upon the happiness
which was within her reach amidst the rural scenery of Switzerland: he
conjured up before her mental vision the most ravishing and delightful
pictures of domestic tranquillity, so congenial to her tastes:--he fed
her imagination with all those fairy visions which were calculated to
attract and dazzle a mind tinged with a romantic shade;--and then he
skilfully introduced those specious arguments which blinded her as to
the real nature of the deceit in which she was so prominent an agent. He
thus sustained an artificial state of excitement, bordering upon
enthusiasm, in the bosom of that confiding and generous-hearted woman;
and not for one moment during that long ride, did she repent of the step
she had taken. In fact, such an influence did the reasoning of Stephens
exercise upon her mind, that she ceased to think of the possibility of
either incurring danger or doing wrong;--she knew not how serious might
be the consequences of detection;--she believed that she was combating
the chicanery of the law with a similar weapon, the use of which was
justified and rendered legitimate by the peculiar circumstances of the
case.

The hackney-coach proceeded by way of the New Road, and stopped to take
up Mr. Mac Chizzle at his residence near Saint Pancras New Church. The
vehicle then proceeded to Grosvenor Square, where it stopped opposite
one of those princely dwellings whose dingy exteriors afford to the eye
of the foreigner accustomed to the gorgeous edifices of continental
cities, but little promise of the wealth, grandeur, and magnificence
which exist within.

The door was opened by a footman in splendid livery.

This domestic immediately recognised Mr. Stephens, and said, "His
lordship expects you, sir."

The three visitors alighted from the coach: and as Stephens walked with
the disguised lady into the hall of the mansion, he said in a hurried
whisper, "Courage, my dear Walter: you are now about to appear in the
presence of the Earl of Warrington!"

The servant led the way up a wide staircase, and conducted the visitors
into a library fitted up in the most luxurious and costly manner. Cases
filled with magnificently bound volumes, statues of exquisite sculpture,
and pictures of eminent artists, denoted the taste of the aristocratic
possessor of that lordly mansion.

Two individuals were seated at a table covered with papers and legal
documents. One was a fine, tall, middle-aged man, with a noble and
handsome countenance, polished manners, and most kind and affable
address:--the other was an old gentleman with a bald head, sharp
features, and constant smile upon his lips when he addressed the
personage just described.

The first was the Earl of Warrington; the other was his solicitor, Mr.
Pakenham.

The Earl rose and greeted Mr. Stephens cordially; then, turning towards
Walter, he shook her kindly by the hand, and said, "I need not ask if
you are the young gentleman to whom I am to be introduced as Mr. Walter
Sydney."

"This is my ward, your lordship," said Mr. Stephens, smiling. "I think
it is scarcely necessary to call your lordship's attention to the
striking resemblance which he bears to his lamented father."

"Yes--it would be impossible to mistake him," said his lordship hastily,
while a cloud passed over his brow. "But sit down--pray sit down; and we
will proceed to business. I presume that gentleman is your professional
adviser?"

"Mr. Mac Chizzle," observed Stephens, introducing the lawyer. "Mr.
Pakenham, I have had the pleasure of seeing you before," he added,
addressing the nobleman's attorney with a placid smile.

Mr. Pakenham acknowledged the salutation with a bow; and his eye
wandered for a moment, with some surprise, towards Mac Chizzle,--as much
as to say, "I am astonished to see a person like you employed in so
important an affair."

When every one was seated, the Earl of Warrington referred to some
papers placed before him, and said, "The object of this meeting is known
to every one present. The duty that devolves upon me is to transfer to
Walter Sydney, the only son and heir of the late Stanford Sydney, upon
being satisfied with respect to the identity of the claimant, the sum of
forty-one thousand pounds now invested in certain stocks in the Bank of
England."

"It is needless, I presume," said Mr. Pakenham, "to enter into the
particulars of this inheritance. We on our side admit our liability to
pay the amount specified by his lordship, to the proper claimant."

"Quite satisfactory," observed Mac Chizzle, to whom these observations
were addressed.

"The proofs of identity are, then, all that your lordship now requires?"
said Mr. Stephens.

"And I only require them as a mere matter of necessary form and
ceremony, Mr. Stephens," returned the Earl of Warrington. "I am well
aware of your acquaintance with the late Mrs. Sydney, and of the fact
that the deceased lady left her children to your care."

"My lord, here are the various certificates," said Stephens, placing a
small packet of papers before the Earl. "In the first instance you have
the marriage certificate of Stanford Sydney and Letitia Hardinge, the
natural daughter of the late Earl of Warrington, your lordship's uncle."

"Well--well," exclaimed the nobleman, somewhat impatiently, as if he
were anxious to get rid as soon as possible of a business by no means
pleasant to him. "That certificate is beyond all dispute."

"Here," continued Stephens, "is the certificate of the birth of Eliza
Sydney, born October 12th, 1810; and here is the certificate of her
death, which took place on the 14th of February, 1831."

"This certificate is not necessary," observed Mr. Pakenham; "as in no
case, under the provisions of these deeds," he added, pointing to a pile
of documents before him, "could that young lady have instituted even a
shadow of a claim to this money."

[Illustration]

"We had better possess one deed too many, than one too few," said Mr.
Stephens, with another bland smile.

"Oh! certainly," exclaimed the Earl. "And this precaution shows the
exact condition of the late Mr. Stanford Sydney's family. The daughter
is no more: the son lives, and is present."

"Here, then, my lord," continued Stephens, "is the certificate of the
birth of Walter Sydney, on the 25th day of November, 1814."

The nobleman examined this document with far more attention than he had
devoted to either of the former. He then handed it to Mr. Pakenham, who
also scrutinized it narrowly.

"It is quite correct, my Lord," said this gentleman. "We now require two
witnesses as to identity."

"I presume his Lordship will receive me as one," observed Mr. Stephens,
"considering my intimate acquaintance with all--"

"Oh certainly--certainly," interrupted the Earl hastily.

"And Mr. Mac Chizzle will tender his evidence in the other instance,"
said Stephens.

"I have known this young gentleman for the last six years," exclaimed
Mac Chizzle, pointing towards Walter, "and I knew his mother also."

"Is your Lordship satisfied?" enquired Mr. Pakenham, after a short
pause.

"Perfectly," answered the nobleman, without hesitation. "I am, however,
in your hands."

"Oh! as for me," returned Mr. Pakenham, "I have no objection to offer.
Your Lordship is acquainted with Mr. Stephens."

"Yes--yes," again interrupted the Earl; "I have known Mr. Stephens for
some years--and I know him to be a man of honour."

"Then there is nothing more to be said," observed Pakenham.

"No--nothing," added Mac Chizzle; "but to complete the business."

"I will now read the release," said Mr. Pakenham.

The solicitor settled himself in a comfortable manner in his chair, and
taking up a deed consisting of several folios, proceeded to make his
hearers as much acquainted with its contents as the multifarious
redundancies of law terms would allow.

The disguised lady had now time for reflection. She had been more or
less prepared for the assertion of Mr. Stephens that Eliza Sydney was
dead, and that Walter was living:--but the bare-faced falsehood uttered
by Mac Chizzle (who, so far from having been acquainted with her for
years, had never seen her until that morning), shocked and astounded
her. She had also just learnt for the first time, that her late mother
was the natural daughter of an Earl; and she perceived that she herself
could claim a distant kinship with the nobleman in whose presence she
then was. This circumstance inspired her with feelings in his favour,
which were enhanced by the urbanity of his manners, and the readiness
with which he admitted all the proofs submitted to him by Mr. Stephens.
She had expected, from the arguments used by this gentleman to convince
her that she should not hesitate to fight the law with its own weapons,
&c., that every obstacle would be thrown in the way of her claims by him
on whom they were to be made;--and she was astonished when she compared
all the specious representations of Stephens with the readiness,
good-will, and alacrity manifested by the Earl in yielding up an
enormous sum of money. Now also, for the first time, it struck her as
remarkable that Stephens had promised her ten thousand pounds only--a
fourth part of that amount to which, according to his own showing, she
alone was justly entitled.

All these reflections passed rapidly through her mind while the lawyer
was reading the deed of release, not one word of which was attended to
by her. She suddenly felt as if her eyes were opened to a fearful
conspiracy, in which she was playing a conspicuous part:--she trembled,
as if she were standing upon the edge of a precipice;--and yet she knew
not how to act. She was bewildered: but the uppermost idea in her mind
was that she had gone too far to retreat.

This was the impression that ruled her thoughts at the precise moment
when Mr. Pakenham brought the reading of the long wearisome document to
a termination. The buzzing, droning noise which had filled her ears for
upwards of twenty minutes, suddenly ceased;--and she heard a voice say
in a kind tone. "Will you now please to sign this?"

She started--but immediately recovered her presence of mind, and, taking
the pen from the lawyer's hand, applied the signature of _Walter Sydney_
to the document. It was next witnessed by Pakenham, Stephens, and Mac
Chizzle, and handed to the Earl.

The nobleman then took several papers--familiar to all those who have
ever possessed Bank Stock--from an iron safe in one corner of the
library, and handing them to the disguised lady, said, "Mr. Walter
Sydney, I have much pleasure in putting you in possession of this
fortune; and I can assure you that my best--my very best wishes for your
health and prosperity, accompany the transfer."

Walter received the documents mechanically as it were, and murmured a
few words of thanks and gratitude.

"Perhaps, Mr. Stephens," said the Earl, when the ceremony was thus
completed, "you and your friends will do me the honour to accept of a
slight refreshment in an adjoining room. You will excuse my absence; but
I have a few matters of pressing importance to transact with my
solicitor, and which cannot possibly be postponed. You must accept this
as my apology; and believe in my regret that I cannot keep you company."

The Earl shook hands with both Stephens and Sydney, and bowed to Mac
Chizzle. These three individuals then withdrew.

An elegant collation was prepared for them in another apartment; but Mac
Chizzle was the only one who seemed inclined to pay his respects to it.
Walter, however, gladly swallowed a glass of wine; for she felt
exhausted with the excitement she had passed through. Stephens was too
highly elated either to eat or drink, and too anxious to complete the
business in the City, to allow Mac Chizzle to waste much time over the
delicacies of which the collation consisted.

They were, therefore, all three soon on their way to the Bank of
England.

"Well, I think we managed the job very correctly," said Mac Chizzle.

"Everything passed off precisely as I had anticipated," observed Mr.
Stephens. "But you, Walter--you are serious."

"I do not look upon the transaction in the same light as I did a couple
of hours since," answered she coldly.

"Ah! my dear friend," cried Stephens, "you are deceived by the apparent
urbanity of that nobleman, and the mildness of his solicitor. They
assumed that appearance because there was no help for them;--they had no
good to gain by throwing obstacles in our way."

"But the certificate of _my_ death was a forgery," said Walter,
bitterly.

"A necessary alteration of names--without which the accomplishment of
our plan would have been impossible," answered Stephens. "But let me
ease your mind in one respect, my dear Walter. That nobleman is a
relation of yours--and yet until this day his name has never been
mentioned to you. And why? Because he visits upon you the hatred which
he entertained for your deceased mother! Did you not observe that he
interrupted me when I spoke of her? did you not notice that he touched
with extreme aversion upon the topics connected with your revered
parents?"

"I did!--I did!" exclaimed Walter.

"He hates you!--he detests you!" continued Stephens, emphatically; "and
he will not countenance any claim which you might advance towards
kinship with him. His duties as a nobleman and a gentleman dictated the
outward civility with which he treated you; but his heart gave no echo
to the words of congratulation which issued from his lips."

"I believe you--I know that you are speaking the truth," cried Walter.
"Pardon me, if for a moment I ceased to look upon you as a friend."

Stephens pressed the hand of the too-confiding being, over whom his
dangerous eloquence and subtle reasoning possessed an influence so
omnipotent for purposes of evil; and he then again launched out into
glowing descriptions of the sources and means of happiness within her
reach. This reasoning, aided by the hope that in a few hours she should
be enabled to quit London for ever, restored the lady's disposition to
that same easy and pliant state, to which Stephens had devoted nearly
five years to model it.

At length the hackney-coach stopped at the Bank of England. Stephens
hurried to the rotunda to obtain the assistance of a stock-broker, for
the purpose of transferring and selling out the immense sum which now
appeared within his reach, and to obtain which he had devoted his time,
his money, and his tranquillity!

Walter and the lawyer awaited his return beneath the porch of the
entrance. After the lapse of a few moments he appeared, accompanied by a
broker of his acquaintance. They then all four proceeded together to the
office where the business was to be transacted.

The broker explained the affair to a clerk, and the clerk, after
consulting a huge volume, received the documents which Lord Warrington
had handed over to Sydney. Having compared those papers with the entries
in the book, the clerk made a sign to three men who were lounging at the
upper end of the office, near the stove, and who had the appearance of
messengers, or porters.

These men moved hastily forward, and advanced up to Stephens, Mac
Chizzle, and Walter Sydney.

A deadly pallor spread over the countenance of Stephens; Mac Chizzle
appeared alarmed; but Walter remained still unsuspicious of danger.

"Those are the persons," said the clerk, significantly, as he pointed to
the three conspirators, to whom he observed, almost in the same breath,
"Your plans are detected--these men are officers!"

"Officers!" ejaculated Sydney; "What does this mean?"

"We are here to apprehend you," answered the foremost of those
functionaries. "Resistance will be vain: there are others outside in
readiness."

"Merciful heavens!" cried Walter, joining her hands in agony: "Oh!
Stephens, to what have you brought me!"

That unhappy man hung down his head, and made no reply. He felt crushed
by this unexpected blow, which came upon him at the very instant when
the object of his dearest hopes seemed within his reach.

As for Mac Chizzle, he resigned himself with dogged submission to his
fate.

The officers and their prisoners now proceeded to the Mansion House,
accompanied by the clerk and the stock-broker.

Sydney--a prey to the most dreadful apprehensions and painful
remorse--was compelled to lean for support upon the arm of the officer
who had charge of her.

Sir Peter Laurie sat for the Lord Mayor.

The worthy knight is the terror of all swindlers, mock companies, and
bubble firms existing in the City of London: wherever there is fraud,
within the jurisdiction of the civic authorities, he is certain to root
it out. He has conferred more benefit upon the commercial world, and has
devoted himself more energetically to protect the interests of the
trading community, than any other alderman. Unlike the generality of the
city magistrates, who are coarse, vulgar, ignorant, and narrow-minded
men, Sir Peter Laurie is possessed of a high range of intellect, and is
an enlightened, an agreeable, and a polished gentleman.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, when Stephens, Mac Chizzle,
and Sydney were placed in the dock of the Mansion House Police-office.

The solicitor of the Bank of England attended for the prosecution.

"With what do you charge these prisoners?" demanded the magistrate.

"With conspiring to obtain the sum of forty-one thousand pounds from the
hands of the Earl of Warrington, and the Governor and Company of the
Bank of England."

"Is his lordship present?"

"Your worship, he is, at this moment, unaware of the diabolical fraud
that has been contemplated, and in part perpetrated upon him. He has
given up to the prisoners certain documents, which constituted their
authority for transferring and selling out the sum I have mentioned. By
certain means the intentions of the prisoners were discovered some time
ago; and secret information was given to the Bank directors upon the
subject. The directors were not, however, permitted to communicate with
the Earl of Warrington, under penalty of receiving no farther
information from the quarter whence the original warning emanated. Under
all circumstances, I shall content myself with stating sufficient to
support the charge to-day, so that your worship may remand the prisoners
until a period when the attendance of the Earl of Warrington can be
procured."

"State your case."

"I charge this prisoner," said the solicitor, pointing towards Sydney,
"with endeavouring to obtain the sum of forty-one thousand pounds from
the Governor and Company of the Bank of England, under pretence of being
one Walter Sydney, a man--whereas the prisoner's name is Eliza Sydney,
and she is a woman!"

An immense sensation prevailed in the justice-room at this announcement.

The disguised lady moaned audibly, and leant against the bar of the dock
for support.

"And I charge the other prisoners, Robert Stephens and Hugh Mac Chizzle,
with aiding and abetting in the crime," added the solicitor, after a
pause.

The unhappy lady, yielding to emotions and feelings which she was now no
longer able to control, threw herself upon her knees, clasped her hands
together in an agony of grief, and exclaimed, "It is true! I am not what
I seem! I have been guilty of a fearful deception--a horrible cheat: but
it was he--he," she cried, pointing to Stephens, "who made me do it!"

There was an universal sentiment of deep sympathy with the female
prisoner, throughout the court; and the worthy alderman himself was
affected.

"You must remember," he said, in a kind tone, "that anything which you
admit here, may be used against you elsewhere."

"I am anxious to confess all that I have done, and all that I know,"
cried the lady; "and in so doing, I shall in some measure atone for the
enormity of my guilt, which I now view in its true light!"

"Under these circumstances," said the alderman, "let the case stand over
until to-morrow."

The prisoners were then removed.

In another hour they were inmates of the Giltspur-street Compter.

And how terminated the 26th of November for Walter Sydney? Instead of
being in possession of an ample fortune, and about to visit a clime
where she hoped to enjoy all the blessings of domestic tranquillity, and
the charms of rural bliss, she found herself a prisoner, charged with a
crime of deep dye!

Oh! what a sudden reverse was this!

Still, upon that eventful day, there was one hope of hers fulfilled. She
threw aside her masculine attire, and assumed the garb adapted to her
sex. A messenger was despatched to the villa, to communicate the sad
tidings of the arrest to Louisa, and procure suitable clothing for her
wretched mistress.

But, alas! that garb in which she had so ardently desired to appear
again, was now doomed to be worn, for the first time, in a prison:--the
new epoch of her life, which was to be marked by a return to feminine
habits, was commenced in a dungeon!

Still that new period had begun; and from henceforth we shall know her
only by her real name of Eliza Sydney.




CHAPTER XXXI.

EXPLANATIONS.


With the greatest forethought and the best taste, Louisa had forwarded
to her mistress the most simple and unassuming garb which the boudoir
contained, amongst its miscellaneous articles of female attire.

Dressed in the garments which suited her sex, Eliza was a fine and
elegant woman--above the common female height, yet graceful in her
deportment, and charming in all her movements. Her shoulders possessed
that beautiful slope, and the contours of her bust were modelled in that
ample and voluptuous mould, which form such essential elements of superb
and majestic loveliness.

Although so long accustomed to masculine attire, there was nothing
awkward--nothing constrained in her gait; her step was free and light,
and her pace short, as if that exquisitely turned ankle, and long narrow
foot had never known aught save the softest silken hose, and the most
delicate prunella shoes.

In a word, the beauty of Eliza Sydney was of a lofty and imposing
order;--a pale high brow, melting hazel eyes, a delicately-chiselled
mouth and nose, and a form whose matured expansion and height were
rendered more commanding by its exquisite symmetry of proportions.

The morning journals published an account of the extraordinary attempt
at fraud detected at the Bank on the previous day; and the utmost
curiosity was evinced by an immense crowd that had collected to obtain a
view of the prisoners, especially the female one, as they alighted from
the separate cabs in which they were conveyed to the Mansion House for
re-examination. Eliza's countenance was flushed and animated, and the
expression of her eyes denoted profound mental excitement: Stephens was
ghastly pale:--the lawyer maintained a species of sullen and reserved
composure.

The police-office at the Mansion House was crowded to excess. Sir Peter
Laurie presided; and on his right hand was seated the Earl of
Warrington. Mr. Pakenham was also present, in company with the solicitor
of the Bank of England.

The moment the prisoners appeared in the dock, Eliza in a firm tone
addressed the magistrate, and intimated her intention of making the most
ample confession, in accordance with her promise of the preceding day.
She was accommodated with a chair, and the chief clerk proceeded to take
down the narrative which detailed the origin and progress of this most
extraordinary conspiracy.

Alas! that so criminal a tale should have been accompanied by the music
of that flute-like voice; and that so foul a history should have
emanated from so sweet a mouth. Those words of guilt which trembled upon
her lips, resembled the slime of the snail upon the leaf of the rose.

When the confession of Eliza Sydney was fully taken down, and signed by
her, the Earl of Warrington's solicitor entered into a statement which
placed the magistrate in full possession of the facts of the case.

We shall now proceed to acquaint our readers with the complete history
formed by these revelations.

"The late Earl of Warrington was a man of eccentric and peculiar habits.
An accident in his infancy had rendered his person deformed and stunted
his growth; and, being endowed with tender feelings and acute
susceptibilities, he could not bear to mingle in that society where his
own physical defects were placed in strong contrast with the fine
figures, handsome countenances, and manly forms of many of his
aristocratic acquaintances. He possessed a magnificent estate in
Cambridgeshire; and in the country seat attached to that domain did he
pass the greater portion of his time in solitude.

"The bailiff of the Warrington estate was a widower, and possessed an
only child--a daughter. Letitia Hardinge was about sixteen years of age
when the Earl first took up his abode in Cambridgeshire, in the year
1790. She was not good looking; but she possessed a mild and melancholy
expression of countenance, and an amiability of disposition, which
rendered her an object of interest to all who knew her. She was fond of
reading; and the library at the neighbouring mansion was always open to
her inspection.

"The reserved and world-shunning Earl soon became attracted towards
Letitia Hardinge. He found that she possessed a high order of intellect;
and he delighted to converse with her. By degrees he experienced a deep
attachment towards a being whose society often relieved the monotonous
routine of his life; and the gratitude which Letitia entertained towards
the Earl for his kindness to her, soon partook of a more tender feeling.
She found herself interested in a nobleman of high rank and boundless
wealth, who was compelled to avoid the great world where the homage
shown to his proud name appeared to him to be a mockery of his physical
deformity; she ministered to him with all a woman's devotedness, during
a tedious and painful malady which seized upon him shortly after his
arrival in Cambridgeshire; and at length her presence became as it were
necessary to him.

"They loved: and although no priest blessed their union, they
entertained unalterable respect and affection for each other. That dread
of ridicule which had driven the Earl from society, and which with him
was a weakness amounting almost to folly, prevented the solemnization of
his nuptials with the woman he loved. She became pregnant: and the day
that made the Earl the father of a daughter, robbed him of the mother of
that innocent child who was thus born in sin!

"Letitia Hardinge, the Earl's natural child, grew up in health and
beauty. The father was dotingly attached to her, and watched her growth
with pride and adoration. She was sixteen years of age, when Frederick,
the Earl's nephew and heir presumptive to the title and vast estates of
the family, arrived in Cambridgeshire to pay his respects to his uncle,
on his emancipation from college. The young man's parents had both died
in his infancy, and he was entirely dependant upon the Earl.

"Letitia Hardinge passed as the niece of the Earl of Warrington.
Frederick was acquainted with the real history of the young lady; and,
previous to his arrival at the mansion of his uncle, he was not prepared
to treat her with any excess of civility. He was brought up in that
aristocratic school which looks upon pure blood as a necessary element
of existence, and as alone entitled to respect. But he had not been many
days in the society of Miss Hardinge, before his ideas upon this subject
underwent a complete change, and he could not help admiring her.
Admiration soon led to love:--he became deeply enamoured of her!

"The Earl beheld this attachment on his part, and was rejoiced. An union
between the two cousins would secure to his adored daughter that rank
and social position, which he was most anxious for her to occupy. As the
wife of the heir presumptive to the richest Earldom in the realm, her
origin would never be canvassed nor thought of. But Letitia herself
returned not the young man's love. By one of those extraordinary
caprices, which so often characterise even the strongest female minds,
she had taken a profound aversion to her suitor; and being of a high and
independent disposition, not even the dazzling prospect of wealth and
title could move her heart in his favour.

"There was a farmer upon the Earl's estate, of the name of Sydney. He
had a son whose Christian name was Stanford--a handsome but sickly
youth, and by no means comparable to the polished and intellectual
Frederick. Nevertheless, Letitia entertained for this young man an
affection bordering upon madness. The Earl discovered her secret, and
was deeply afflicted at his daughter's predilection. He remonstrated
with her, and urged the necessity of conquering her inclinations in this
respect. It was then that she showed the temper and the spirit of _a
spoiled child_, and declared that she would follow the dictates of her
own mind in preference to every other consideration. The Earl swore a
most solemn oath, _that if she dared marry Stanford Sydney, neither she
nor her husband should ever receive one single shilling from him_!

"Reckless of this threat--indifferent to the feelings of that father who
had cherished her so fondly, the perverse girl one morning abandoned the
paternal home, and fled with Stanford Sydney, on whom she bestowed her
hand. The blow came like a thunderbolt upon the head of the old Earl. He
was naturally of a delicate and infirm constitution; and this sudden
misfortune proved too much for his debilitated frame. He took to his
bed; and a few hours before his death he made a will consistent with his
oath. He left all his property to his nephew, with the exception of
forty-one thousand pounds--the amount of his savings since he had
inherited the title. This will ordained that his nephew should enjoy the
interest of this sum; but that, should Letitia bear a male child to
Stanford Sydney, such issue should, upon attaining the age of twenty-one
years, receive as his portion the above sum of forty-one thousand
pounds. Such was the confidence which the old Earl possessed in his
nephew, that he left the execution of this provision to him. It was also
enacted by that will, that should the said Letitia die without bearing a
son to the said Stanford Sydney; or should a son born of her die
previously to attaining his twenty-first year, then the sum alluded to
should become the property of Frederick.

"The old man died, a prey to the deepest mental affliction--indeed,
literally heart-broken--shortly after making this will. Frederick, who
was honour and integrity personified, determined upon fulfilling all the
instructions of his uncle to the very letter.

"The fruits of the union of Stanford Sydney and Letitia Hardinge were a
daughter and a son. The name of the former was Eliza: that of the latter
was Walter. Eliza was a strong and healthy child; Walter was sickly and
ailing from his birth. Shortly after the birth of Walter, the father,
who had long been in a deep decline, paid the debt of nature. Letitia
was then left a widow, with two young children, and nothing but a small
farm for her support. Her high spirit prevented her from applying to the
Earl of Warrington--the man whose love she had slighted and scorned; and
thus she had to struggle with poverty and misfortune in rearing and
educating her fatherless progeny. The farm which she tenanted was
situated in Berkshire, whither she and her husband had removed
immediately after the death of the father of Stanford. This farm
belonged to a gentleman of the name of Stephens--a merchant of
respectability and property, in the City of London.

"It was in the year 1829 that Robert Stephens appeared at the
farm-house, to announce the death of his father and his inheritance of
all the landed property which had belonged to the deceased. The widow
was considerably in arrears of rent: Stephens inquired into her
condition and prospects, and learnt from her lips her entire
history--that history which, from motives of disappointed pride, she had
religiously concealed from her children. She was well aware of the
provisions of the late Earl's will; but she had determined not to
acquaint either Eliza or Walter with the clause relative to the fortune,
until the majority of the latter. Towards Stephens she did not manifest
the same reserve, the revelation of that fact being necessary to
convince him that she possessed good perspective chances of settling
those long arrears, which she was in the meantime totally unable to
liquidate.

"Robert Stephens was immediately attracted towards that family. It was
not the beauty of Eliza which struck him:--he was a cold, calculating
man of the world, and considered female loveliness as mere dross
compared to sterling gold. He found that Walter was an amiable and
simple-hearted youth, and he hoped to turn to his own advantage the
immense inheritance which awaited the lad at his majority. He
accordingly treated Mrs. Sydney with every indulgence, forgiving her the
arrears already accumulated, and lowering her rent in future. He thus
gained an immense influence over the family; and when a sudden malady
threw the widow upon her death-bed, it was to Stephens that she
recommended her children.

"Stephens manifested the most paternal attention towards the orphans,
and secured their unbounded gratitude, attachment, and confidence. But
his designs were abruptly menaced in an alarming manner. The seeds of
consumption, which had been sown by paternal tradition in the
constitution of Walter, germinated with fatal effect; and on the 14th of
February, 1831, he surrendered up his spirit.

"Scarcely had the breath left the body of the youth, when Stephens, by
that species of magic influence which he had already begun to exercise
over Eliza, induced her to assume her brother's garb; and she was taught
to believe, even by the very side of his corpse, that immense interests
were connected with her compliance with his wish. An old woman was the
only female attendant at the farm-house; and she was easily persuaded to
spread a report amongst the neighbours that it was the daughter who was
dead. Eliza did not stir abroad: Stephens managed the funeral, and gave
instructions for the entry in the parish register of the burial of Eliza
Sidney; and, as Eliza immediately afterwards repaired to the Villa at
Clapton, the fraud was not suspected in the neighbourhood of the
Berkshire farm.

"Stephens duly communicated the deaths of Mrs. Sydney and Eliza to the
Earl of Warrington, and obtained an introduction to this nobleman. He
called occasionally in Grosvenor Square, during this interval of four
years and nine months which occurred between the reported death of Eliza
and the 26th of November, 1835; and invariably took care to mention not
only that Walter was in good health, but that he was residing at the
Villa. His lordship, however, on no occasion expressed a wish to see the
young man; for years had failed to wipe away the impression made upon
Frederick's mind by the deceased Letitia Hardinge!

"When Stephens introduced the disguised Eliza to the nobleman, as Walter
Sydney, upon the morning of the 26th of November, the Earl entertained
not the least suspicion of fraud. He knew that Stephens was the son of
an eminent merchant, and that he was well spoken of in society; and he
was moreover anxious to complete a ceremony which only recalled painful
reminiscences to his mind. Thus, so far as his lordship was concerned,
the deceit was managed with the most complete success; and there is no
doubt that the entire scheme might have been carried out, and the secret
have remained for ever undiscovered, had not a private warning been
communicated in time to the Bank of England."

Such was the complete narrative formed by the statement of the Earl of
Warrington, through his solicitor, and the confession of Eliza Sydney.
The history excited the most extraordinary interest in all who heard it;
and there was a powerful feeling of sympathy and commiseration in favour
of Eliza. Even Lord Warrington himself looked once or twice kindly upon
her.

The examination which elicited all the facts detailed in the narrative,
and the evidence gone into to prove the attempt to obtain possession of
the money at the Bank of England, occupied until four o'clock in the
afternoon; when the magistrate committed Robert Stephens, Hugh Mac
Chizzle, and Eliza Sydney to Newgate, to take their trials at the
approaching session of the Central Criminal Court.




CHAPTER XXXII.

THE OLD BAILEY.


The sessions of the Central Criminal Court commenced.

The street of the Old Bailey was covered with straw; and the pavement in
the neighbourhood of the doors of the court on one side, and of the
public-houses on the other, was crowded with policemen, the touters of
the barristers and attornies practising criminal law, and the friends of
the prisoners whose trials were expected to come on that day.

The press-yard, which is situate between the solid granite wall of
Newgate and the Court-house, was also flooded with living waves, which
rolled onwards from the street to the flight of steps leading into the
gallery of the Old Court. In former times, prisoners who refused to
plead, were pressed beneath immense weights, until they would consent to
declare themselves guilty or not guilty. This odious punishment was
inflicted in that enclosure: hence its name of the press-yard.

It cannot be necessary to describe the court-house, with its dark sombre
walls, and its huge ventilator at the top. Alas! the golden bowl of hope
has been broken within those walls, and the knell of many a miserable
wretch has been rung upon its tribunals from the lips of the judge!

The street of the Old Bailey presents quite an animated appearance
during the sessions;--but it is horrible to reflect that numbers of the
policemen who throng in that thoroughfare upon those occasions, have
trumped up the charges for which prisoners have been committed for
trial, in order to obtain a holiday, and extort from the county the
expenses of attending as witnesses.

At the time of which our tale treats, the sheriffs were accustomed to
provide two dinners for the judges every day; one at three, and the
other at five o'clock, so that those who could not attend the first,
were enabled to take their seats at the second. Marrow puddings,
beef-steaks, and boiled rounds of beef, invariably formed the staple
commodities of these repasts; and it was the duty of the ordinary
chaplains of Newgate to act as vice-presidents at both meals. This
ceremony was always performed by those reverend gentlemen: the
ecclesiastical gourmands contrived, during sessions, to eat two dinners
every day, and wash each down with a very tolerable allowance of wine.

We said that the Sessions commenced. On the Monday and Tuesday, the
Recorder in the Old Court, and the Common Sergeant in the New, tried
those prisoners who were charged with minor offences: on the Wednesday
the Judges upon the _rota_ took their seats on the bench of the Old
Court.

Richard Markham's name stood first for trial upon the list on that day.
He was conducted from Newgate by means of a subterraneous passage,
running under the Press-yard, into the dock of the Court.

The Hall was crowded to excess, for the case had produced a profound
sensation. The moment Markham appeared in the dock, every eye was fixed
upon him. His countenance was very pale; but his demeanour was firm. He
cast one glance around, and then looked only towards the twelve men who
were to decide upon his fate. Close by the dock stood Mr. Monroe:
Whittingham was in the gallery;--the Baronet, Chichester, and Talbot
lounged together near the reporters' box.

The Jury were sworn, and the counsel for the prosecution stated the
case. He observed that the prisoner at the bar was a young man who, upon
his majority, would become possessed of a considerable fortune; but
that in the mean time he had no doubt fallen into bad company, for it
would be proved that he was arrested by the police at a common gambling
house in the evening of the very same day on which he had committed the
offence with which he was now charged. It was but natural to presume
that this young man had imbibed the habit of gaming, and, having thereby
involved himself in pecuniary embarrassments, had adopted the desperate
and fatal expedient of obtaining money by means of forged Bank-notes,
rather than communicate his situation to his guardian. Where he procured
these forged notes, it was impossible to say: it would, however, be
satisfactorily proved to the jury that he passed a forged note for five
hundred pounds at the banking-house of Messrs. ----, and that when he was
arrested a second note for fifty pounds was found upon his person.
Several concurrent circumstances established the guilt of the prisoner.
On the evening previous to his arrest, the prisoner dined with Sir
Rupert Harborough, Mr. Chichester, and Mr. Talbot; and when these
gentlemen proposed a walk after dessert, the prisoner requested them to
accompany him to a common gaming-house in the Quadrant. They refused;
but finding him determined to visit that den, they agreed to go with
him, with the friendly intention of taking care that he was not
plundered of his money, he being considerably excited by the wine he had
been drinking. Ere he set out, the prisoner enquired if either of his
companions could change him a fifty pound note; but neither gentleman
had sufficient gold to afford the accommodation required. Now was it not
fair to presume that the prisoner intended to pass off upon one of his
friends the very forged fifty-pound note subsequently found upon him? On
the following day, the prisoner--the moment he was released from custody
on the charge of being found in a common gaming-house--hurried home, and
ordered his servants to prepare for his immediate departure for the
continent. He moreover wrote two letters, which would be read to the
jury,--one to a lady, and the other to his guardian,--and both
containing unequivocal admission of his guilt. The learned counsel then
read the letters, and commented upon their contents at some length.
There were several expressions (he said) which clearly tended to
self-crimination.--"_Circumstances of a very peculiar nature, and which
I cannot at present explain, compel me to quit London thus abruptly._"
"_I could not have remained in London another minute with safely to
myself._" "_I conceive it to be my duty--in consequence of rumours which
may shortly reach you concerning me--to inform you that I have this
moment only awoke to the fearful perils of the career in which I have
for some weeks past been blindly hurrying along, till at length
yesterday----._" "_I am penitent, deeply penitent: let this statement
induce you to defend and protect my reputation._" The last paragraph but
one, which concluded so abruptly with the words, "_till at length
yesterday---- _" clearly pointed to the crime with which the prisoner
was now charged; and the last paragraph of all undeniably implored Mr.
Monroe, the young man's guardian, to hush up the matter the moment it
should reach his ears.

The clerk at the banking-house, who changed the five hundred pound note
for the prisoner, then gave his evidence.

At length Sir Rupert Harborough was called into the witness-box; and he
deposed that the prisoner had dined with him on the evening previous to
his arrest; that he very pressingly solicited him (Sir Rupert), and Mr.
Chichester, and Mr. Talbot, to accompany him to the gambling-house; and
that he moreover, enquired if either of them could accommodate him with
change for a fifty pound note.

Mr. Chichester was called next. He stated the line of defence adopted by
the prisoner at Bow-street, and positively denied having ever given the
prisoner any notes to change for him.

Markham's counsel cross-examined this witness with great severity.

"What are you, sir?"

"A private gentleman."

"What are your means of subsistence?"

"I receive an allowance from my father."

"Who is your father? Now, take care, sir, how you answer that question."

"He is a commercial man, sir."

"Is he not a tradesman?"

"Well,--he is a tradesman, then--if you like it."

"Yes,--I do like it. Now--upon your oath--is he not a pawnbroker in
Brick-lane, Bethnal Green?"

"He is a goldsmith in a large way of business, and lends money
occasionally----"

"Ha!" complacently observed the counsel for the defence. "Go on, sir:
_lends money occasionally_--"

"Upon real security, I suppose," added Chichester, taken considerably
aback by these questions.

"Upon deposits; let us give things their proper names. He lends money
upon flannel petticoat--watches--flat-irons, &c.," observed the
barrister, with withering sarcasm. "But I have not done with you yet,
sir. Was your father--this very respectable pawnbroker--ever elevated to
the peerage?"

"He was not, sir."

"Then how come you by the distinction of _Honourable_ prefixed to your
name?"

Mr. Chichester hung down his head, and made no reply. The counsel for
the prisoner repeated the question in a deliberate and emphatic matter.
At length, Mr. Chichester was fairly bullied into a humble
acknowledgment "that he had no right to the distinction, but that he had
assumed it as a convenient West-End appendage." The cross examination
then proceeded.

"Did you not travel under the name of Winchester?"

"I did--in Germany."

"With what motive did you assume a false name?"

"I had no particular motive."

"Did you not leave England in debt? and were you not afraid of your
bills of exchange following you abroad?"

"There is some truth in that; but the most honourable men are frequently
involved in pecuniary difficulties."

"Answer my questions, sir, and make no observations. You will leave me
to do that, if you please. Now sir--tell the jury whether you were not
accompanied by a valet or coachman in your German trip?"

"I am always accustomed to travel with a domestic."

"A man who runs away from his creditors, should have more delicacy than
to waste his money in such a manner. When you were at Baden-baden, were
you not involved in some gambling transactions which compelled you to
quit the Grand-Duchy abruptly?"

"I certainly had a dispute with a gentleman at cards: and I left the
town next morning."

"Yes--and you left your clothes and your servant behind you--and your
bill unpaid at the hotel?"

"But I have since met my servant, and paid him more than double the
wages then due."

"You may stand down, sir," said the counsel for the defence--a
permission of which the witness availed himself with surprising
alacrity.

The counsel for the prosecution now called Mr. Whittingham. The poor
butler ascended the witness-box with a rueful countenance; and, after an
immense amount of badgering and baiting, admitted that his young master
had meditated a sudden and abrupt departure from England, the very day
upon which he was arrested. In his cross-examination he declared that
the motives of the journey were founded upon certain regrets which
Richard entertained at having permitted himself to be led away by
Messrs. Chichester and Talbot, and Sir Rupert Harborough.

"And, my Lords," ejaculated the old domestic, elevating his voice,
"Master Richard is no more guilty of this here circumwention than either
one of your Lordships; but the man that did it all is that there
Chichester, which bilked his wally-de-shamble, and that wulgar fellow,
Talbot, which called me _a tulip_."

This piece of eloquence was delivered with much feeling; and the Judges
smiled--for, they appreciated the motives of the honest old domestic.

The officer who arrested Markham, proved that he found upon his person,
when he searched him at Bow Street, a pocket-book, containing between
thirty and forty pounds, in notes and gold, together with a note for
fifty pounds.

A clerk from the Bank of England proved that both the note for five
hundred pounds changed at the bankers, and the one for fifty just
alluded to, were forgeries.

The case for the prosecution here closed; and the Judges retired to
partake of some refreshment.

Markham had leisure to think over the proceedings of the morning. He was
literally astounded when he contemplated the diabolical perjury
committed by Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester; but he
entertained the most sanguine hope that the discredit thrown upon the
character of the latter would render his testimony worthless. He
shuddered when he reflected how ingeniously the counsel for the
prosecution had grouped together those circumstances which told against
him; and then again a ray of satisfaction animated his countenance, when
he remembered that his counsel would speedily show those circumstances
in a new light.

The Judges returned: silence prevailed throughout the hall; and the
prisoner's counsel rose for the defence. Richard seated himself in the
dock, and prepared to listen with the greatest attention to the speech
of his advocate; and Whittingham placed his hand in a curved position
behind his ear, in order to assist that organ on the present important
occasion.

The counsel for the defence began by giving some account of the family
and social position of the prisoner, who was born of parents accustomed
to move in the first rank of life, and who was the heir to a fortune of
no inconsiderable amount. During his minority, his guardian, who was
then present, had promised to allow the prisoner six hundred pounds
a-year. With these pecuniary advantages, it was absurd to suppose that a
young man of education--a young man whose noble and honourable feelings
had been the object of remark on the part of all his friends, and who
had only to express a want to his guardian, in order to receive its
immediate gratification--it was absurd to imagine that such an
individual would either enter into a conspiracy with others, or plan by
himself, for the purpose of raising money upon forged notes. No--this
young man was one of a most generous and confiding disposition; and, as
he had seen but little of the world, he was totally unacquainted with
its wiles and artifices. Thus was he made the dupe of some designing
villains, at his very outset upon life. The whole history of the present
transaction was to be summed up in a few words. A gang of conspirators
had hit upon the desperate mode of passing forged notes, in order to
retrieve their ruined fortunes. Not as magnanimous as the highwayman who
perils his own existence while he perpetrates a crime, these men
required a tool of whom they might make use, and who could be at any
time sacrificed to save them. This instrument--this scapegoat, was the
prisoner at the bar. The witness, whose real name was Chichester, but
who, by his own confession, had travelled on the Continent under another
denomination, was not a person on whom the Jury could place any
reliance. He had assumed a distinction to which he was by no means
entitled--he had affected all the arrogance and importance of a man of
rank and fashion,--whereas he was the son of a pawnbroker in the refined
locality of Brick-Lane, Bethnal Green! Endowed with much impudence,
clever in imitating the manners of his superiors, and well versed in all
the intricacies and subtleties of the world, this possessor of assumed
distinctions--this swaggering imitator of a class far above him--this
adventurer, with fascinating conversation, ready wit, amusing anecdote,
and fashionable attire,--this _roué_ of the present day, with jewellery
about his person, and gold in his pocket--allowing ever an engaging
smile to play upon his lips, and professing unmitigated disgust at the
slightest appearance of vulgarity in another,--this individual--this Mr.
Chichester was the principal witness whom the counsel for the
prosecution had brought forward. But no English Jury would condemn a
fellow creature upon such testimony--the testimony of one who was
compelled to fly ignominiously and precipitately from Baden, on account
of some rascality at cards, and who left his domestic in a strange land,
pennyless, ignorant of the language, and surrounded by the odium which
also attached itself to the name of his master. The prisoner had no
motive in passing forged notes, because he was wealthy;--but Mr.
Chichester had a motive, because he evidently lived far beyond the means
which his father could allow him.

The learned counsel here related the manner in which Richard had been
induced to change the larger note, and had become possessed of the
smaller.

[Illustration]

He then proceeded to observe, that the letters addressed to Mrs.
Arlington and Mr. Monroe related to the fact that the prisoner's eyes
had been suddenly opened to the characters of his associates, and to the
career of dissipation in which they were leading him. The phrase upon
which so much stress had been laid--"_till at length yesterday_----"
alluded to the suicide of a young officer, which had taken place while
the prisoner was at the gambling-house, whither he had been inveigled
instead of inveigling others. "_He could not have remained in London
another minute with safety to himself._" And why? because these
associates whom he had accidently picked up, would not leave him quiet.
They regularly beset him. "_He was penitent_;" and he hoped that Mr.
Monroe would "_defend and protect his reputation_." Yes--when the
newspaper reports conveyed to the knowledge of that gentleman the fact
that his ward had been arrested in a common gambling-house, and fined
for being there. The letters were written hurriedly, and were ambiguous:
thus they were susceptible of more than one interpretation. Let the jury
interpret them in favour of the prisoner. It was better to send a dozen
guilty men back again into society, terrible as that evil would be, than
to condemn _one_ innocent person. Then, with regard to the precipitate
departure: the witness Whittingham had shown, in his cross-examination,
that the prisoner's object was to escape from the three men whose
characters were suddenly unveiled to him. It was said, that the prisoner
had requested those three individuals to accompany him to the
gaming-house, and that they at first refused. Oh! amazing
fastidiousness--especially on the part of Chichester, who had been
compelled to decamp from Baden, for cheating at cards! Then it was
stated that the prisoner asked for change for a fifty-pound note; and it
was said, that he would have availed himself of that accommodation to
pass a forged note. Why--he (the learned counsel) had already explained
how that fifty-pound note came into the prisoner's possession--his own
gold having been transferred by Mr. Chichester to Sir Rupert
Harborough's writing-desk! The learned counsel concluded, by asking how
it happened that no other forged Bank of England notes--no copper-plates
to print them with--no materials for such a fraud, were found at the
prisoner's house? Could it be supposed that a young man with his
prospects would risk his reputation and his safety for a few hundreds of
pounds? The idea was preposterous. The prisoner's counsel entered into a
few minute points of the evidence which told in favour of his client,
and wound up with a powerful appeal to the jury in his behalf.

Richard followed, with absorbing interest, the able defence made for him
by his counsel; and his soul was filled with hope as each fact and
argument in his favour was divested of all mystery, and lucidly
exhibited to the consideration of the court.

Mr. Monroe was summoned to the witness box, and he proved the statements
made by the prisoner's counsel relative to the pecuniary position of his
ward. Snoggles, the ostler, followed, and very freely stated all the
particulars of his late master's precipitate decampment from Baden.

Thus terminated the case for the defence.

The counsel of the prosecution--according to that odious right which
gives the accusing party the last word in those instances where the
defendant has called witnesses--rose to reply. He stated that neither
the wealth nor the social position of an individual afforded a certain
guarantee against crime. Besides, the law must not always be swayed by
the apparent absence of motives; because some of the most extraordinary
deeds of turpitude upon record had never been traced to a source which
could satisfactorily account for their origin. The _perpetration_ was
the object which the jury had to keep in view; and the use of evidence
was to prove or deny that perpetration by some particular individual. A
forgery had been committed, and money obtained by the prisoner at the
bar through the agency of that forgery. The defence had not attempted to
deny that the prisoner was the individual who had thus obtained the
money. The point to be considered was, whether the prisoner knew the
note to be a forged one; and he (the learned counsel) considered that an
assemblage of circumstances of a most unequivocal nature stamped the
prisoner with that guilt. Mr. Chichester's evidence went to show that he
himself never gave any notes to the prisoner. Even if Chichester were
proved to be a disreputable person, there was nothing beyond the
prisoner's mere assertion (made through his counsel) to prove that he
had received the two notes from Chichester. Mr. Chichester had certainly
assumed another name during his German tour, but it was for the purpose
of avoiding arrest in a foreign land upon bills of exchange which might
have been sent from England after him. He had, moreover, assumed the
distinction of _Honourable_--a foolish vanity, but by no means a crime;
for half the Englishmen who were called _Captain_, were no more captains
than he (the learned counsel) was.

The senior judge now summoned up the evidence to the jury; and the most
profound interest was still manifested by all present in the
proceedings. The learned judge occupied nearly two hours in his charge
to the jury, whom he put in possession of all the points of the case
which it was necessary to consider.

The jury retired, and debated for a considerable time upon their
verdict.

This was the dread interval of suspense. Richard's countenance was
deadly pale; and his lips were firmly compressed in order to prevent any
sudden ebullition of feeling--a weakness to which he seemed for a moment
inclined to yield. Mr. Monroe did not entertain much hope; the summing
up of the judge had been unfavourable to Markham. As for Whittingham, he
shook his head dolefully from time to time, and murmured, loud enough to
be heard by those near him, "Oh! Master Richard, Master Richard! who
would ever have propulgated an opinion that you would have been brought
into such a fixture as this? It's all along of them fellers which call
butlers _tulips_!"

How singularly reckless is the mind of man with regard to the destinies
of those to whom he is not connected by any ties of blood or friendship!
While the jury were absent, discussing their verdict, the various
barristers, assembled round the table, began chattering together, and
laughing, and telling pleasant anecdotes, as if the fate of a
fellow-creature was by no means compromised at that moment. The counsel
for the prosecution, who had done his duty by exerting all his talents,
all his energies, and all his eloquence, to obtain the conviction of a
youth who had never injured him, and whom he had never seen before,
coolly took up a newspaper and perused it with evident gratification;
while, at a little distance from him, stood the individual whom he had
so zealously and earnestly sought to render miserable for life!

How strange!--how horribly depraved and vitiated must be that state of
society in which hundreds of talented men are constantly employed, with
large recompense, in procuring the condemnation of their
fellow-creatures to the scaffold, the hulks, or eternal banishment! And
what an idea must we entertain of our vaunted condition of consummate
civilization, when we behold these learned men calling to their aid
every miserable chicanery, every artificial technicality, and every
possible exaggeration, to pursue the accused prisoner either to the
platform of the gibbet, to loathsome dungeons, or to the horrors of
Norfolk Island. Does society avenge?--or does it merely make examples of
the wicked to warn others from sin? If the enquirer who asks himself or
us these questions, would only attend the Central Criminal Court, he
would hear the barristers for the prosecution imploring, coaxing, and
commanding the jury to return such a verdict as will either condemn a
human being to the scaffold, or separate him for ever from home, wife,
children, kindred, and friends! He would find men straining every nerve,
availing themselves of every miserable legal quirk and quibble,
torturing their imaginations to find arguments, calling subtlety and
mystification to their aid, shamefully exaggerating trivial incidents
into important facts, dealing in misrepresentation and false deduction,
substituting and dovetailing facts to suit their purposes, omitting
others which tell against their own case, almost falling upon their
knees to the jury, and staking their very reputation on the
results,--and all these dishonourable, disgraceful, vile, and inhuman
means and efforts exerted and called into action for the sake of sending
a fellow-creature to the scaffold, or separating him for ever from the
family that is dependant upon him, and that will starve without him!

O God! is it possible that man can have been made for such sad purposes?
is it possible that the being _whom thou hast created after thine own
image_, should be so demon-like in heart?

Oh! if the prisoner standing in the dock had inflicted some terrible
injury upon the honour or the family of the barrister who holds a brief
against him, then were it easy to comprehend that profound anxiety on
the part of this barrister, to send the trembling criminal to the
gallows! But, no--that barrister has no revenge to gratify--no hatred to
assuage--no malignity to appease; he toils to take away that man's life,
with all his strength, with all his talent, and with all his energy,
because he has received gold to do his best to obtain a conviction!

Ah! what a hideous traffic in flesh and blood!

And if any one were to say to that barrister, "Thou art a blood-thirsty
and merciless wretch," he would answer coolly and confidently, "No: on
the other hand, I subscribe to philanthropic institutions!"

The jury returned; and the feeling uppermost in their minds was
satisfaction at the prospect of being so speedily dismissed, to their
respective homes, where they would pursue their efforts after wealth,
and speedily forget the youth whom they had condemned to punishment, and
whose prospects they had blasted.

For their verdict was _Guilty_!

And the judges hastened to terminate the proceedings.

Richard was commanded to rise, and receive the sentence of the court. He
obeyed with a kind of mechanical precision--for his mental energies were
entirely prostrated. The voice of the judge addressing him rang like the
chimes of distant bells in his ears;--the numerous persons whom he
beheld around, appeared to be all moving and agitating like an immense
crowd assembled to witness an execution.

He stood up as he was commanded; and the Judge proceeded to pass
sentence upon him. He said that the court took his youth into
consideration, and that there were circumstances which would render a
very lenient sentence satisfactory to that society which had been
outraged. The court accordingly condemned him to two years' imprisonment
in the Giltspur Street Compter, without hard labour.

"That's all!" said the spectators to each other; and they appeared
disappointed!

The audience then separated.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

ANOTHER DAY AT THE OLD BAILEY.


Richard was conveyed back to Newgate in a state of mind which can be
more easily imagined than described. The Judges returned in their
handsome carriages, to their splendid abodes;--the prosecuting
barrister, that zealous and enthusiastic defender of social morality,
hastened to the Temple to entertain a couple of prostitutes in his
chambers;--and the various lawyers engaged about the court, hurried to
their respective homes to prepare writs relating to fresh cases of
turpitude and crime for the morrow.

Richard had shaken hands with Monroe and Whittingham over the parapet of
the dock--he would not be allowed to see them again for three months!
They still believed in his innocence--although twelve men that afternoon
had declared their conviction of his guilt!

On the ensuing morning the trial of Eliza Sydney, Robert Stephens, and
Hugh Mac Chizzle took place. As on the preceding day, the court was
crowded from floor to roof. The bench was filled with the ladies and
daughters of the aldermen; there was a full attendance of barristers;
and extra reporters occupied the box devoted to the gentlemen of the
press. The case had created an extraordinary sensation, not only in
consequence of the immensity of the stake played for by the prisoners,
but also on account of the remarkable fraud practised by one of the most
lovely women that had ever breathed the air of this world.

Eliza was dressed with extreme simplicity, but great taste. A straw
bonnet with a plain riband, enclosed her pale but charming countenance:
there was a soft and bewitching melancholy in her eyes; and her moist
red lips were slightly apart as if she breathed with difficulty. She was
a woman of a strong mind, as we have said before; and she endeavoured to
restrain her emotions to the utmost of her power. She did not condescend
to cast a look upon her fellow prisoners; nor during the trial were her
glances once turned towards them.

Stephens appeared to be suffering with acute mental pain: his
countenance was cadaverous, so pale and altered was it;--even his very
lips were white. Mac Chizzle still retained an air of dogged sullenness,
approaching to brutal indifference.

The earl of Warrington was in attendance.

When called upon to plead, Stephens and the lawyer replied _Not Guilty_;
Eliza answered _Guilty_ in a firm and audible voice.

As the entire facts of the case are known to the readers, we need not
enter into any fresh details. Suffice it to say, that when the Jury had
delivered their verdict of _Guilty_ against the two male prisoners, the
earl of Warrington rose, and in a most feeling and handsome manner
interceded with the court in behalf of Eliza Sydney. Eliza herself was
quite overcome with this unexpected generosity, and burst into a flood
of tears.

The foreman of the jury also rose and observed that, though the female
prisoner had taken her case out of their hands by pleading guilty, the
jury were nevertheless unanimous in recommending her to the favourable
consideration of the court.

The Judge proceeded to pass sentence. He said, "Robert Stephens, you
have been guilty of one of the most serious attempts at fraud, which, in
a commercial country and a civilised community, could be perpetrated.
You have moreover availed yourself of your influence over a young and
confiding woman--an influence obtained by a series of kind actions
towards her mother, her late brother, and herself--to convert her into
the instrument of your guilty designs. The court cannot pass over your
case without inflicting the severest penalty which the law allows. The
sentence of the Court is that you be transported beyond the seas for the
term of your natural life."

The culprit staggered, and leant against the dock for support. A
momentary pause ensued, at the expiration of which he partially
recovered himself and said, "My Lord, I acknowledge the justice of my
sentence: but permit me to observe that the female prisoner Eliza Sydney
is innocent of any attempt to defraud. Up to a few hours before we
called upon the Earl of Warrington to sign the release and obtain the
bank receipts, she was ignorant of the real object which I had in view.
Even then, when I unveiled my designs, she shrank from the part she had
to perform; and I was compelled to make use of all the specious
arguments and all the sophistry I could call to my aid, to blind her as
to the real nature of the transaction. My Lord, I make these few
observations in justice to her; I have nothing now to lose or gain by
this appeal in her behalf."

Stephens sank back exhausted in a chair which had been placed in the
dock for the accommodation of Eliza Sydney; and the lady herself was
melted to fresh tears by this proof of latent generosity on the part of
the man who had been the means of placing her in her present sad
position.

The Judge continued: "Hugh Mac Chizzle, you have been found guilty of
aiding and abetting, at the last moment, in the consummation of a deed
of almost unpardonable fraud. You have taken advantage of a profession
which invests him who practises it with an appearance of respectability,
and gives him opportunities of perpetrating, if he be so inclined,
enormous breaches and abuses of confidence: You stand second in degree
of culpability to the prisoner Stephens. The sentence of the court,
therefore, is, that you be transported beyond the seas for the term of
fifteen years."

There was another momentary pause; and the Judge then proceeded as
follows, while the most breathless silence prevailed:--

"Eliza Sydney, your share in this unfortunate and guilty business has
been rather that of an instrument than a principal. Still you had
arrived, when you first assumed a masculine disguise, at the years of
discretion, which should have taught you to reflect that no deceit can
be designed for a good purpose. Your readiness to confess your
guilt--the testimony of your fellow prisoner in your behalf--the
recommendation of the jury--and the intercession of the prosecutor,
however, weigh with the court. Still a severe punishment must be awarded
you; for if we were to admit the plea that a person between twenty and
thirty is not responsible for his or her actions, justice would in
numerous cases be defeated, and crime would find constant apologies and
extenuation. The sentence of the court is that you be imprisoned for the
space of two years in her Majesty's gaol of Newgate."

Eliza had anticipated transportation: she had made up her mind to
banishment for at least seven years, from her native clime. The
observation of the Judge that "a severe punishment must be awarded her,"
had confirmed her in that impression. The concluding words of that
functionary had therefore taken her by surprise--a surprise so sudden
that it overcame her. She tottered, and would have fallen; but she felt
herself suddenly supported in the arms of a female, who conducted her to
a seat in the dock, and whispered kind and consolatory words in her ear.

Eliza raised her eyes towards the countenance of this unexpected friend;
and, to her astonishment, encountered the soft and sympathising glance
of Diana Arlington.

"Do not be alarmed, Miss Sydney," whispered the Enchantress: "the Earl
of Warrington will do more for you than you may anticipate. He will use
his influence with the Home Secretary, and obtain a mitigation of your
sentence."

"Oh! how kind in him thus to interest himself in my behalf," murmured
Eliza; "and I--who am so unworthy of his commiseration!"

"Do not say that! we have made enquiries, and we have found how you have
been deceived. We have seen your faithful servant Louisa; and she has
told us enough to convince us that you was more to be pitied than
blamed. One thing I have to communicate which will console you--I have
taken Louisa into my service!"

"A thousand thanks, my dear madam," said Eliza. "The thought of what was
to become of her has made me very unhappy. This is indeed one subject of
comfort. But I saw Louisa yesterday: why did she keep me in the dark in
this respect?"

"We enjoined her to maintain the strictest silence," returned Mrs.
Arlington. "We were determined to see how you would act up to the very
last moment in this distressing business, ere we allowed you to know
that you had friends who cared for you."

"And how have I obtained this generous sympathy?" enquired Eliza,
pressing Diana's hand with an effusion of gratitude.

"The Earl loved your mother, and blames himself for his neglect of her
children, whose welfare would have been dear to his deceased uncle,"
said Diana gravely. "And for myself," she added, blushing--"anything
which interests the Earl, also interests me."

"Believe me, I shall never forget this kindness on your part:--neither
shall I ever be able to repay it," observed Eliza. "I am now going to a
protracted incarceration, in a terrible prison," she continued
mournfully,--"and God only knows whether I may survive it. But until the
day of my death shall I pray for you and that good nobleman who
forgives, pities, and consoles me."

"He does--he does," said Mrs. Arlington, deeply affected: "but fancy not
that your confinement will pass without being relieved by the visits of
friends. I shall call and see you as often as the regulations of the
prison will permit; and I again renew the promise which the Earl has
authorised me to make relative to his intercession with the Secretary of
State in your favour."

Eliza again poured forth her gratitude to Diana, and they then
separated. The former was conveyed back to Newgate: the latter hastened
to the humble hackney-coach which she had purposely hired to take her to
the Old Bailey.

As soon as the case of Stephens, Mac Chizzle, and Eliza Sydney was
disposed of, William Bolter was placed at the bar to take his trial for
the murder of his wife.

"The miscreant"--as the newspapers had called him all along--wore a
sullen and hardened appearance; and pleaded _Not Guilty_ in a brutal and
ferocious manner. The only feature of interest in the case was the
examination of his son--his little son--as a witness against him. The
poor boy seemed to comprehend the fearful position in which his father
was placed; for he gave his evidence with the utmost reluctance. There
was, however, a sufficiency of testimony, direct and circumstantial, to
induce the jury to find the prisoner guilty without a moment's
hesitation.

The Judge put on the black cap, and proceeded to pass upon the culprit
the awful sentence of the law. Having expatiated upon the enormity of
the prisoner's guilt, and admonished him to use the little time that
remained to him in this world for the purpose of making his peace with
heaven, he sentenced William Bolter _to be taken back again to the place
from whence he came, and thence to a place of execution, where he was to
be hanged by the neck until he should be dead_. "And may the Lord,"
added the Judge solemnly, "have mercy upon your soul."

There was some years ago, amongst ruffians of the very worst
description, a custom of abusing the Judge, or "blackguarding the Beak,"
as it was called, when they received the award due to their crimes, in
the felon's dock. This miserable and vain bravado--an affectation of
recklessness which even the most hardened could scarcely feel--was
revived by Bill Bolter upon the present occasion. "Taking a sight" at
the Judge, the murderer commenced a string of horrible abuse--laden with
imprecations and epithets of a most shocking and filthy nature. A
shudder passed through the audience as if it were one man, at that
revolting display on the part of a wretch who stood upon the edge of the
tomb!

The officers of the court speedily interfered to put an end to the sad
scene; and the convict, after a desperate resistance, was carried back
to Newgate, where he was lodged in one of the condemned cells.

While these important cases were being disposed of in the Old Court, two
others, which it is necessary to notice, were adjudicated upon in the
New Court before the Recorder. The first was that of Thomas Armstrong,
who was fortunate enough to be acquitted for want of evidence, George
Montague, a principal witness against him, not appearing;--the other was
that of Crankey Jem and the Resurrection Man. It is needless to enter
into particulars in this matter: suffice it to say that the former was
convicted of a daring burglary, upon the testimony of the latter who
turned King's evidence. Crankey Jem was sentenced to transportation for
life, he having been previously convicted of serious offences; and the
Resurrection Man was sent back to Newgate to be discharged at the
termination of the sessions.

The business of the Court was concluded in a few days; and Richard was
removed to the Giltspur Street Compter. There he was dressed in the
prison garb, and forced to submit to a _régime_ peculiarly trying to the
constitution of those who have been accustomed to tender nurture. The
gruel, which constituted his principal aliment, created a nausea upon
his stomach; the thin and weak soup was far from satisfying the cravings
of the appetite; the bread was good, but doled out in miserably small
quantities; and the meat seemed only offered to tantalise or provoke
acuteness of hunger.

The Resurrection Man was set at liberty.

Stephens, Mac Chizzle, and Crankey Jem were removed to the hulks at
Woolwich, previous to the sailing of a convict-ship for New South Wales.

Eliza Sydney remained in Newgate.

Bill Bolter, the murderer, also stayed for a short season in the
condemned cell of that fearful prison.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE LESSON INTERRUPTED.


The moment the trial of Richard Markham was concluded, Sir Rupert
Harborough and Mr. Chichester bade a cold and hasty adieu to Mr. Talbot,
and left the court together.

They wended their way up the Old Bailey, turned into Newgate Street, and
thence proceeded down Butcher-hall Lane towards Bartholomew Close; for
in that large dreary Square did Mr. Chichester now occupy a cheap
lodging.

This lodging consisted of a couple of small and ill-furnished rooms on
the second floor. When the two gentlemen arrived there, it was past five
o'clock--for the trial had lasted the entire day; and a dirty cloth was
laid for dinner in the front apartment. Black-handled knives and forks,
a japanned pepper-box, pewter saltcellar and mustard pot, and common
white plates with a blue edge, constituted the "service." The dinner
itself was equally humble--consisting of mutton-chops and potatoes,
flanked by a pot of porter.

The baronet and the fashionable gentleman took their seats in silence,
and partook of the meal without much appetite. There was a damp upon
their spirits: they were not so utterly depraved as to be altogether
unmindful of the detestable part they had played towards Markham; and
their own affairs were moreover in a desperate condition.

A slip-shod, dirty, familiar girl cleared away the dinner things; and
the gentlemen then took to gin-and-water and cigars. For some minutes
they smoked in silence; till at length the baronet, stamping his foot
impatiently upon the floor, exclaimed, "My God! Chichester, is nothing
to be done?"

"I really don't know," answered that individual. "You heard how deucedly
I got exposed to-day in the witness-box; and after that I should not
dare show up at the west-end for weeks and months to come--even if the
sheriff's officers weren't looking out for me."

"Well, something must be done," observed the baronet. "Here am I,
playing at hide-and-seek as well as you--all my horses sold--my
furniture seized--my carriages made away with--my plate pawned--and not
a guinea--not a guinea left!"

"What should you say to a trip into the country?" demanded Chichester,
after a pause. "London is too hot for both of us--at least for the
present; indeed my surprise is that we were not arrested on those
infernal bills, coming out of the court. But, as I was saying--a trip
into the country might do more good. To be sure, this is no time for the
watering places: we might, however, pay a visit to Hastings, Bath, and
Cheltenham on a venture."

"And what could we do for ourselves there?"

"Why--pick up flats, to be sure!"

"You know, Chichester, that I am not able to work the cards and dice as
you can."

"Then you must learn, as I did."

"And who will teach me?"

"Why--myself, to be sure! Could you have a better master than Arthur
Chichester?"

"But it would take so long to understand all these manoeuvres--I
should never have the patience."

"Oh! nonsense, Harborough. Come--what do you say? Three days' practice,
and we will be off?"

"But the money--the funds to move with?" cried the baronet, impatiently.
"I am literally reduced to my last guinea."

"Oh! as for that," returned Chichester, "I will engage to get a twenty
pound note from my father to-morrow; and with that supply we can safely
start off on our expedition."

"Well--if you can rely upon doing this," observed the baronet, "we will
put your plan into execution. So let us lose no time; but please to give
me my first lesson."

"That's what I call business," cried Chichester, rising from his seat
and drawing the curtains, while the baronet lighted the two tallow
candles that adorned the wooden mantel-piece.

Chichester locked the door of the room, and then produced from his
writing-desk the necessary implements of a gambler--packs of cards,
dice-boxes, and dice.

Having reseated himself, he took up a pair of dice and a box, and said,
"Now, my dear fellow, be a good boy, and learn your lesson well. You
will soon meet with your reward."

"I am all attention," observed the baronet.

"In the first place I shall show you how to _secure_," continued
Chichester; "and as you know the game of _Hazard_ well enough, I need
say but little more on that head. There are two ways of _securing_. The
first is to hold one of the dice between the fore and middle fingers, or
the middle and third fingers, against the side of the box, so that one
finger must cover the top of the die--in this way, you see."

[Illustration]

"I understand," said the baronet, attentively watching the proceedings
of his companion, who by certain clever and adroit manipulations with
the dice-box, illustrated his oral descriptions.

"This system is not so easy as the second, which I shall presently show
you," continued Chichester; "because the die must be kept cleverly
inside the box, so as not to be seen. The second way of _securing_ is by
taking hold of one of the dice by the little finger, and keeping it firm
against the palm of the hand while you shake the box, so as to be able
to drop it skilfully upon the table at the proper moment, when it will
seem as if it came from the box along with the other. This is the way."

[Illustration]

"I shall soon understand," said the baronet. "Of course by being able to
_secure_ one die, you may make it turn up any number you choose."

"When you mean to practise this dodge," continued Chichester, "call five
for _a main_; because you can _secure_ the four, and there is only the
six on the loose die that can come up against you. If you have a good
stake to get, _secure_ a five every time; because when the _main_ is six
to five, or seven to five, or eight to five, or nine to five, or ten to
five, you _must_ win every time, because you can't possibly throw out
while the five is _secured_."

"But will not the ear tell the _pigeon_ that there is only one die
rattling in the box?" demanded the baronet.

"Look at this box," exclaimed Chichester. "It has two rims cut inside,
near the bottom: the one die shaking against them produces the sound of
two dice."

"Are there not some peculiarities about these dice?" asked Sir Rupert,
pointing to a pair which Chichester had placed apart from the rest.

"Yes--those are _unequal dice_, and are so well made that no one, except
a regular sharper, could detect them. They are bigger at one end than
the other, and the sixes are placed on the smaller squares, because you
must play with these dice to win upon high numbers, which are on those
smaller squares. The dice will in nine cases out of ten fall upon the
larger squares, and thus show the high numbers uppermost."

[Illustration]

"And these dice?" enquired the baronet, taking up two others.

"Loaded ones," replied Chichester. "These are to throw low; and so the
two sides which have got four and five on them are loaded."

[Illustration]

"How are they loaded?" asked Sir Rupert.

"The corner pip of the four side, next to the five side, is bored very
neatly to a certain depth: the same is done to the corner pip of the
five side, adjoining the four side. Thus the two holes, so bored, meet
each other at right angles. One of the holes is covered over with some
strong cement: quicksilver is then poured in; and the other hole is
covered over with the cement. The spots are blackened; and your dice are
ready for use. These being intended to throw low, you must call a main,
and take the odds accordingly."

"Well," said the baronet, "I think I can now safely say that I know
enough of the elements of your grammar to enable me to practise myself.
Let us devote half an hour to the working of cards."

"The ways of managing the cards," said Chichester, taking up a pack, and
shuffling them, "are numerous. These, for instance, are _Longs and
Shorts_. All the cards above the eight, are the least thing longer than
those below it. I have a machine which was invented on purpose to cut
them accurately. Nothing under an eight can be cut, you see, with these
cards, lengthways."

"And that pack so carefully wrapped up in the paper?"

"Oh! these are my _Concaves_ and _Convexes_. All from the two to the
seven are cut concave; and all from the eight to the king are cut
convex. By cutting the pack breadthways a convex card is cut; by
cutting it lengthways, a concave one is secured."

[Illustration]

"I have often heard of _the bridge_," said Sir Rupert; "what does that
mean?"

"Oh! _the bridge_ is simply and easily done," replied Chichester,
shuffling the pack which he held in his hand. "You see it is nothing but
slightly curving a card, and introducing it carelessly into the pack.
Shuffle the cards as your opponent will, you are sure to be able to cut
the bridged one."

[Illustration]

"I could do that without study," observed Sir Rupert Harborough. "Is my
initiation now complete?"

"There are several other schemes with the cards," answered Chichester,
"but I think that I have taught you enough for this evening. One famous
device, however, must not be forgotten. You have heard of the way in
which Lord de Roos lately attempted to cheat his noble companions at the
club? The plan practised by him is called _sauter la coupe_, and enables
the dealer to do what he chooses with one particular card, which of
course he has selected for this purpose. Now look how it is done; for I
can better show practically than explain verbally."

[Illustration]

Scarcely was this portion of the lesson accomplished, when steps were
heard ascending the stairs; and immediately afterwards a heavy fist
knocked with more violence than courtesy at the parlour door.

The baronet and Chichester both turned pale.

"They can't have found us out here?" murmured the one to the other in a
hoarse and tremulous tone.

"What shall we do?"

"We must open--happen what will."

Chichester unlocked the door: two ill-looking men entered the room.

"Mr. Arthur Chichester?" said one.

"He isn't here--we don't know him. My name is Davis--ask the landlady if
it is not," cried Chichester hurriedly, and in a manner which only
served to convince the officer that he was right.

"Come--come, none of that there gammon," said the bailiff. "I knows you
well enough: my name's Garnell; and I'll stand the risk of your being
Chichester. Here's execution out against you for four hundred and
forty-seven pounds. I don't suppose that you can pay--so you'd better
come off at once."

"Where to?" demanded Chichester, seeing that it was no use disputing his
own identity any longer.

"Where to!" cried the officer; "why--to Whitecross, to be sure! Where
the devil would you go to?"

"Can I not be allowed to sleep in a sponging-house?"

"No--this is an execution, and a large sum, mind. I don't dare do it."

"Well, then--here goes for Whitecross Street!" said Chichester; and
after exchanging a few words in a whisper with the baronet, he left the
house with the sheriff's officers.




CHAPTER XXXV.

WHITECROSS-STREET PRISON.


A cold drizzling rain was falling, as Chichester proceeded along the
streets leading to the debtors' prison. The noise of pattens upon the
pavement; the numbers of umbrellas that were up; the splashing of
horses' feet and carriage-wheels in the kennels; the rush of cabs and
the shouting of omnibus-cads, were all characteristic of a wet night in
a crowded metropolis.

Chichester shivered--more through nervousness than actual cold; and he
felt an oppressive sensation at the bottom of his stomach, as well as at
the chest.

The officer endeavoured to console him, by observing that "it was lucky
he had been taken so close to the prison on such a rainy night."

The ruined young man envied many a poor wretch whom he passed on his
way; for he knew that it was far easier to get into a debtors' gaol than
to get out of it.

At length they arrived at the prison.

It was now nine o'clock; and the place, viewed by the flickering light
of the lamp at the gate of the governor's house, wore a melancholy and
sombre appearance. The prisoner was introduced into a small lobby, where
an elderly turnkey with knee-breeches and gaiters, thrust a small loaf
of bread into his hand, and immediately consigned him to the care of
another turnkey, who led him through several alleys to the staircase
communicating with the Receiving Ward.

The turnkey pulled a wire, which rang a bell on the first floor.

"Who rings?" cried a voice at the top of the stairs.

"Sheriffs debtor--Arthur Chichester--L. S.," replied the turnkey, in a
loud sing-song voice.

Chichester afterwards learnt that he was mentioned as a sheriff's
prisoner, in contra-distinction to one arrested by a warrant from the
Court of Requests; and that L. S. meant _London side_--an intimation
that he had been arrested in the City of London, and not in the County
of Middlesex.

Having ascended a flight of stone steps, Chichester was met at the door
of the Receiving Ward by the steward thereof. This steward was himself a
prisoner, but was considered a trustworthy person, and had therefore
been selected by the governor to preside over that department of the
prison.

The Receiving Ward was a long low room, with windows secured by bars, at
each end. There were two grates, but only one contained any fire. The
place was remarkably clean--the floor, the deal tables, and the forms
being as white as snow.

The following conversation forthwith took place between the new prisoner
and the steward:--

"What is your name?"

"Arthur Chichester."

"Have you got your bread?"

"Yes."

"Well--put it in that pigeon-hole. Do you choose to have sheets to-night
on your bed?"

"Certainly."

"Then that will be a shilling the first night, and sixpence every night
after, as long as you remain here. You can, moreover, sleep in the inner
room, and sit up till twelve o'clock. Those who can't afford to pay for
sheets sleep in a room by themselves, and go to bed at a quarter to ten.
You see we know how to separate the gentlemen from the riff-raff."

"And how long shall I be allowed to stay up in the Receiving Ward?"

"That depends. Do you mean to live at my table? I charge sixpence for
tea, the same for breakfast, a shilling for dinner, and four-pence for
supper."

"Well--I shall be most happy to live at your table."

"In that case, write a note to the governor, to say you are certain to
be able to settle your affairs in the course of a week; and I will take
care he shall have it the very first thing to-morrow morning."

"But I am sure of not being able to settle in a week."

"Do as you like. You won't be allowed to stay up here unless you do."

"Oh! in that case I will do so at once. Can you oblige me with a sheet
of writing-paper?"

"Certainly. Here is one. A penny, if you please."

Chichester paid for the paper, wrote the letter, and handed it to the
Steward.

He then cast a glance round the room; and saw three or four tolerably
decent-looking persons warming themselves at the fire, while fifteen or
sixteen wretched-looking men, dressed for the most part as labourers,
were sitting on the forms round the walls, at a considerable distance
from the blazing grate.

The Steward, perceiving that the new prisoner threw a look of inquiry
towards him, said,--"Those _gentlemen_ at the fire are Sheriff's
Debtors, and live at my table: those _chaps_ over there are Court of
Requests' Men, and haven't a shilling to bless themselves with. So, of
course, I can't allow them to associate with the others."

"How many prisoners, upon an average, pass through the Receiving Ward in
the course of one year?"

"About three thousand three hundred as near as I can guess. All the
Debtors receive each so much bread and meat a-week. The prison costs the
City close upon nine thousand pounds a year."

"Nine thousand a-year, spent to lock men up, away from their families!"
exclaimed Chichester. "That sum would pay the debts of the greater
portion of those who are unfortunate enough to be brought here."

"You may well say _that_," returned the Steward. "Why, half the
prisoners who come here are poor working-men, snatched away from their
labour, and obliged to know that their wives and children will starve
during their absence. That man over there, with the little bundle tied
up in a blue cotton handkerchief, is only arrested for 8d. The costs are
three and sixpence."

"He is actually a prisoner, then, for four and two-pence."

"Exactly. The man next to him is arrested for 3d., the balance of a
chandler's shop debt; his costs are five shillings. But the case of that
poor devil who is crying so up in the corner, is the worst. It appears
that he had an account at a tally-shop, and paid one shilling a-week
towards its liquidation. He was in full work, and earned eighteen
shillings a week; and so he regularly gave his wife the money every
Saturday night to put away for the tally-man. But the woman is fund of
tippling, and she spent the money in gin. Well, the tally-man takes out
a _summons_ from the Court of Requests: the wife receives it, and is
afraid to tell her husband. Next week comes the _Rule_: this the woman
also hides, hoping, somehow or another, to get together the debt and
costs, and settle it unknown to her husband. But no such thing: so this
morning, as the poor fellow was going home to dinner, he was arrested
for four shillings debt, and six shillings costs."

"This was cruel indeed," observed Chichester, to whom all these details
were perfectly new.

"Yes," continued the Steward; "but that is nothing to the things that I
have heard men tell up in this room. Loan-Societies, Tally-Shops, and
the low pettifogging lawyers, keep this place well-filled."

It was now a quarter to ten; and the poor wretches who could not afford
to pay for sheets, were huddled off to bed. Chichester, and the
"_gentlemen who boarded at the Steward's table_," remained up, smoking
cigars and drinking ale, until twelve.

Chichester was then introduced into a large room, containing ten or a
dozen beds, whose frame-work was made of iron. One miserably thin
blanket, a horse-cloth, and a straw mattress and pillow, were all
provided for each couch, by the Corporation of the City of London!

Oh! how generous--how philanthropic--how noble; to tear men away from
their homes and give them straw, wrapped up in coarse ticking, to sleep
upon!

On the following morning Chichester awoke early, and rose with every
bone aching from the hardness of his bed. He performed his toilette in a
species of scullery attached to the Receiving Ward; and the enjoyment
of this luxury was attended with the following disbursements:--Towel.
2d.; Use of Soap, 1d.; Loan of Razor and Lather-box, 1d.

[Illustration]

Breakfast, consisting of coffee and dry toast, was then served up.

Those who boarded with the steward sate down and commenced a desperate
assault upon the provisions: and those who fancied an egg or a rasher of
bacon with their meal, paid twopence extra. The conversation was
entirely associated with the prison affairs; it appeared as if those men
when once they set foot in the prison, discarded all thoughts of the
great world without, from which they have been snatched away. Even when
the morning newspaper came in, attention was first directed, by a
strange kind of sympathy, to the list of Bankrupts and to the Law
Notices, the latter of which afforded them the pleasing and interesting
intelligence of who were that day to appear before the Commissioners of
the Insolvent Court.

At five minutes past nine, a violent ring at the bell called the Steward
in haste to the door. This was the summons of a turnkey who came to
remove the new prisoners to the respective departments of the
establishment to which they belonged. Thus they were classified into
Middlesex Sheriffs' Debtors, London Sheriffs' Debtors, and City Freemen
who were also Sheriffs' Debtors; and London Court of Requests' Debtors,
and Middlesex Court of Requests' Debtors.

Chichester was ordered to remove to the Poultry Ward, on the London
side, the governor declining to comply with the request contained in his
letter.

It will be seen from what we have already said, that Whitecross-street
prison is essentially different from the Bench, descriptions of which
have been given in so many different works, and the leading features of
which are so familiar to a large portion of the community, either from
hearsay or experience. If a man cannot muster four or five pounds to
transfer himself from the custody of the Sheriffs to that of the Judges,
by a _habeas corpus_ writ, he must remain in Whitecross-street prison,
while the more wealthy debtor enjoys every luxury and privilege in the
Bench. And yet, we are constantly assured that there is the same law for
the poor as there is for the rich!

The system of imprisonment for debt is in itself impolitic, unwise, and
cruel in the extreme:--it ruins the honest man, and destroys the little
remnant of good feeling existing in the heart of the callous one. It
establishes the absurd doctrine, that if a man _cannot_ pay his debts
while he is allowed the exercise of his talents, his labour, and his
acquirements, he _can_ when shut up in the narrow compass of a prison,
where his talents, his labours, and his acquirements are useless. How
eminently narrow-sighted are English legislators! They fear totally to
abolish this absurd custom, because they dread that credit will suffer.
Why--credit is altogether begotten in confidence, and never arises from
the preconceived intention on the part of him who gives it, to avail
himself of this law against him who receives it. Larceny and theft are
punished by a limited imprisonment, with an allowance of food; but
debtors, who commit no crime, may linger and languish--and _starve in
gaol_.

The Poultry Ward was a long, dark, low room, with seven or eight barred
windows on each side, sawdust upon the stone floor, and about a dozen or
fourteen small tables arranged, like those of a coffee-house, around the
walls. The room was full of debtors of all appearances--from the
shabby-genteel down to the absolutely ragged. Here a prisoner was
occupied in drawing up his schedule for the Insolvent Debtors'
Court;--there an emaciated old man was writing a letter, over which he
shed bitter and scalding tears;--at another table a young farmer's
labourer-looking man was breakfasting off bread and cheese and onions,
which he washed down with porter;--close by was a stout seedy-looking
person with grey hair, who did not seem to have any breakfast at
all;--in this nook a poor pale wretch was reading a newspaper;--in that
corner another individual was examining a pile of letters;--several were
gathered round the fire in the scullery or kitchen attached to the Ward,
preparing their breakfasts;--and others were lounging up and down the
room, laughing and talking over the amusements of the preceding night up
in the sleeping rooms.

The steward of the Poultry Ward had just finished his breakfast when the
turnkey introduced Mr. Chichester.

"Well, Mr. Thaynes," said the Steward, quite delighted to see the new
prisoner, "I began to think we should have had none down this morning.
Pray take a seat, sir."

This invitation was addressed to Chichester, who sat down accordingly.

The Steward, after exchanging a few observations with the turnkey,
produced a book from a drawer in the table, and, addressing himself in a
semi-mysterious tone to Mr. Chichester, said--"These are our rules and
regulations. Every new member is required to pay an entrance fee of one
pound and sixpence; and this goes towards the fund for paying the
officers and servants of the ward, providing coals, and administering
generally to the comforts of the place."

"I am quite satisfied with the justice of the charge," said Chichester;
and he paid it accordingly.

"I suppose you will live at my table?" enquired the Steward. "Same
charges as upstairs in the Receiving Ward."

"Oh! certainly," answered Chichester. "Have you any body here of any
consequence at all?"

"Not particularly at this moment. Lord William Priggins stayed a couple
of days with us, and went over to the Bench yesterday morning."

"Who is that gentleman walking up and down the narrow court outside?"
enquired Chichester, glancing towards the window, through which might be
seen a tall slim young man, with black moustachios, a long faded cotton
dressing gown, a dingy velvet skull cap, and pantaloons hanging low and
loose, because the owner had forgotten his braces.

"Oh! that is Count Pichantoss--a celebrated Russian nobleman, who was
cleaned out some weeks since at a West-end Hell, and got put into prison
for his hotel bill."

"And who is that respectable old gentleman with the bald head, and
dressed in black?"

"That is a clergyman, the Rev. Henry Sharpere: he is an excellent
preacher, they say--and the best securer of a die that I ever saw in my
life."

"And that very sickly pale-faced youth, who seems to be scarcely
twenty?"

"He is only twenty-one and a month. He was arrested the day after he
came of age for blank acceptances which he had given, during his
minority, to the tune of three thousand pounds, and for which he never
received more than three hundred."

"And that quiet-looking old gentleman, at the table opposite?"

"He is a Chancery prisoner--committed for contempt. It appears that he
was one morning walking by the Auction Mart, and saw large posting-bills
announcing the immediate sale of an estate, consisting of thirteen
houses, somewhere in Finsbury, under a decree of the Court of Chancery.
My gentleman hadn't a guinea in his pocket, nor the means of raising one
at the time. Nevertheless he walked into the Mart as bold as brass,
strode up stairs to the auctioneer's rooms, and bid for the estate.
There were plenty of competitors; but he didn't care--he bid away; and
at last the estate was knocked down to him for four thousand three
hundred pounds. When sales are effected under an order of the
Chancellor, no deposit-money is required. This may seem strange to you;
but it is not the less a fact. So off walks my gentleman, quite rejoiced
at his bargain. The first thing he does is to go and collect all the
arrears of rent he can from the tenants of the houses, and to distrain
upon those who couldn't or wouldn't pay. Lord! what a game he did play,
to be sure! He called into request the services of half the brokers in
Finsbury, and made the tenants cash up to the very last farthing that
was due. Well, the lawyers employed for the sale of the estate, drew up
the deeds of conveyance and the abstract of the title; but my gentleman
never meant paying--so at last, the Chancery Court, getting tired of his
excuses, and finding that he would not disgorge the amount he had
already received for rents, nor yet come down with a shilling towards
the purchase-money, clapt him into limbo under some form or
another;--and so here he is."

In this manner did the steward of the Poultry Ward render the new
prisoner familiar with the leading characters of that department of the
prison. In addition to the few instances of flagrant dishonesty, or
culpable extravagance which were pointed out to Chichester, information
was given him of many--very many cases of pure and unadulterated
misfortune. The churchyard has known no sorrow--the death-chamber has
known no anguish equal to that acute and poignant suffering which many
an inmate endures within the walls of that prison. If he be an
affectionate father, he thinks of his absent little ones, and he feels
shocked at the cold cruelty of the rules which only permit children to
visit their incarcerated sire twice a-week--on Wednesday and Sunday--and
then only for three hours each time. If he be a kind husband, and
possess a tender and a loving wife, he dreads the fatal hour of five of
the evening, which is the signal for all strangers and visitors to leave
these walls. Misery--lank, lean, palpable misery--is the characteristic
of Whitecross Street prison.

The legislature says--"We only allow men to be locked up in order to
prevent them from running away without paying the debts they owe."--Then
why treat them as felons? Why impose upon them rules and regulations,
the severity of which is as galling to their souls as the iron chains of
Newgate are to the felons' flesh? Why break their spirits and crush
their good and generous feelings, by compelling them all to herd
together--the high and the low--the polite and the vulgar--the temperate
and the drunkard--the cleanly and the filthy--the religious and the
profane--the sedate and the ribald?

O excellent legislators! do you believe that a man ever went out of the
debtor's gaol more moral and better disposed than he was when he went
in? The answer to this question will, in one word, teach you the
efficacy of Imprisonment for Debt.

Chichester walked out into a large stone-paved court attached to his
ward, and bearing the attractive but somewhat illusive name of the
"Park." At twelve o'clock the beer men from the public-houses in
Whitecross Street were allowed admittance; and then commenced the
debauchery of the day. The seats round the "Park" were soon crowded with
prisoners and visitors, drinking, smoking, laughing, and swearing.

Many poor wretches, who could not boast of much strength of mind, but
who were in reality well disposed, took to this occupation to _kill
care_.

And who will blame them? Not you, proud peer, who bury your vexations in
crystal goblets sparkling with the choicest juice of Epernay's
grape--nor you, fine gentleman, who seek in gaming at your club a relief
from the anxieties and petty troubles which now and then interrupt the
otherwise even tenure of your way!

In the course of the day Mr. Chichester wrote a very penitent letter to
his father, the pawnbroker, lamenting past follies, and promising future
good conduct. The postscript contained an intimation that prison was bad
enough when one possessed plenty of money; but that it was ten thousand
times worse when associated with empty pockets.

This precious epistle succeeded in inducing the "old gentleman," as
Chichester denominated his father, to loosen his purse strings, and
remit a few pounds to supply immediate wants.

Chichester was thus enabled to live at the Steward's table, and smoke
his cigars and drink his ale to his heart's content. In a small
community like that of a ward in Whitecross Street, as well as in the
great world without, he who has the most money is the most "looked up
to"--which is a phrase perfectly understood, and almost synonymous with
"respected;" and thus Mr. Chichester very speedily became the "star" of
that department of the prison to which he had been assigned.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE EXECUTION.


From the moment that Bill Bolter had been removed to the condemned cell,
after his trial at the Old Bailey for the murder of his wife, he
preserved a sullen and moody silence.

Two turnkeys sat up with him constantly, according to the rules of the
prison; but he never made the slightest advances towards entering into
conversation with them. The Chaplain was frequent in his attendance upon
the convict; but no regard was paid to the religious consolations and
exhortations of the reverend gentleman.

The murderer ate his meals heartily, and enjoyed sound physical health:
he was hale and strong, and might, in the common course of nature, have
lived until a good old age.

By day he sate, with folded arms, meditating upon his condition. He
scarcely repented of the numerous evil deeds of which he had been
guilty: but he trembled at the idea of a future state!

One night he had a horrid dream. He thought that the moment had arrived
for his execution, and that he was standing upon the drop. Suddenly the
board gave way beneath his feet--and he fell. An agonising feeling of
the blood rushing with the fury of a torrent and with a heat of molten
lead up into his brain, seized upon him: his eyes shot sparks of fire;
and in his ears there was a loud droning sound, like the moan of the
ocean on a winter's night. This sensation, he fancied, lasted about two
minutes--a short and insignificant space to those who feel not pain, but
an age when passed in the endurance of agony the most intense. Then he
died: and he thought that his spirit left his body with the last
pulsation of the lungs, and was suddenly whirled downwards, with fearful
rapidity, upon the wings of a hurricane. He felt himself in total
darkness; and yet he had an idea that he was plunging precipitately into
a fearful gulf, around the sides of which hideous monsters, immense
serpents, formidable bats, and all kinds of slimy reptiles were
climbing. At length he reached the bottom of the gulf; and then the
faculty of sight was suddenly restored to him. At the same moment he
felt fires encircling him all around; and a horrible snake coiled itself
about him. He was in the midst of a boundless lake of flame; and far as
his eyes could reach, he beheld myriads of spirits all undergoing the
same punishment--writhing in quenchless fire and girt by hideous
serpents. And he thought that neither himself nor those spirits which he
beheld around, wore any shape which he could define; and yet he saw
them plainly--palpably. They had no heads--no limbs; and yet they were
something more than shapeless trunks,--all naked and flesh-coloured, and
unconsumed and indestructible amidst that burning lake, which had no
end. In a few moments this dread scene changed, and all was again dark.
The murderer fancied that he was now groping about in convulsive agonies
upon the bank of a river, the stream of which was tepid and thick like
blood. The bank was slimy and moist, and overgrown with huge osiers and
dark weeds, amidst which loathsome reptiles and enormous alligators were
crowded together. And it was in this frightful place that the murderer
was now spiritually groping his way, in total and coal-black darkness.
At length he slipped down the slimy bank--and his feet touched the
river, which he now knew to be of blood. He grasped convulsively at the
osiers to save himself from falling into that horrible stream: a huge
serpent sprung from the thicket, and coiled itself about his arms and
neck;--and at the same moment an enormous alligator rose from the river
of blood, and seized him in the middle between its tremendous jaws. He
uttered a fearful cry--and awoke.

This dream made a deep impression upon him. He believed that he had
experienced a foretaste of Hell--of that hell, with all its horrors, in
which he would be doomed for ever and ever--without hope, without end.

And yet, by a strange idiosyncrasy of conduct, he did not court the
consolation of the clergyman: he breathed no prayer, gave no outward and
visible sign of repentance: but continued in the same sullen state of
reserve before noticed.

Still, after that dream, he dreaded to seek his bed at night. He was
afraid of sleep; for when he closed his eyes in slumber, visions of
hell, varied in a thousand horrible ways, presented themselves to his
mind.

He never thought of his children: and once when the clergyman asked him
if he would like to see them, he shook his head impatiently.

Death! he shuddered at the idea--and yet he never sought to escape from
its presence by conversation or books. He sate moodily brooding upon
death and what would probably occur hereafter, until he conjured up to
his imagination all the phantasmagorical displays of demons, spectres,
and posthumous horrors ever conceived by human mind.

On another occasion--the Friday before the Monday on which he was
executed--he dreamt of heaven. He thought that the moment the drop had
fallen from beneath his feet, a brilliant light, such as he had never
seen on earth, shone all around him:--the entire atmosphere was
illuminated as with gold-dust in the rays of a powerful sun. And the sun
and moon and stars all appeared of amazing size--immense orbs of
lustrous and shining metal. He fancied that he winged his way upwards
with a slow and steady motion, a genial warmth prevailing all around,
and sweet odours delighting his senses. In this manner he soared on
high--until at length he passed sun, moon, and stars, and beheld them
all shining far, far beneath his feet. Presently the sounds of the most
ravishing sacred music, accompanied by choral voices hymning to the
praise of the Highest, fell upon his ear. His soul was enchanted by
these notes of promise, of hope, and of love; and, raising his eyes, he
beheld the shining palaces of heaven towering above vast and
awe-inspiring piles of clouds. He reached a luminous avenue amidst these
clouds, which led to the gates of paradise. He was about to enter upon
that glorious and radiant path, when a sudden change came over the
entire spirit of his dream; and in a moment he found himself dashing
precipitately downwards, amidst darkness increasing in intensity, but
through which the sun, moon, and planets might be seen, at immense
distances, of a lurid and ominous red. Down--down he continued falling,
until he was pitched with violence upon the moist and slimy bank of that
river of tepid blood, whose margin was crowded with hideous reptiles,
and whose depths swarmed with wide-mouthed alligators.

Thus passed the murderer's time--dread meditations by day, and appalling
dreams by night.

Once he thought of committing suicide, and thus avoiding the ignominy of
the scaffold. He had no shame; but he dreaded hanging on account of the
pain--whereof he had experienced the dread sensations in his dreams.
Besides, death is not quite so terrible when inflicted by one's own
hand, as it is when dealt by another. He was, however, closely watched;
and the only way in which he could have killed himself was by dashing
the back of his head violently against the stone-wall. Then he reflected
that he might not do this effectually;--and so he abandoned the idea of
self-destruction.

On the last Sunday of his life he attended the Chapel. A condemned
sermon was preached according to custom. The sacred fane was filled with
elegantly dressed ladies--the wives, daughters, and friends of the City
authorities. The Clergyman enjoined the prisoner to repentance, and
concluded by assuring him _that it was not even then too late to
acknowledge his errors and save his soul. God would still forgive him_!

If God could thus forgive him,--why could not Man? Oh! wherefore did
that preacher confine his observations to the mercy of the Almighty? why
did he not address a terrible lecture to blood-thirsty and avenging
mortals? Of what use was the death of that sinner? Surely there is no
moral example in a public execution? "There is," says the Legislature.
We will see presently.

Oh! why could not the life of that man--stained with crime and red with
blood though it were--have been spared, and he himself allowed to live
to see the horror of his ways, and learn to admire virtue? He might have
been locked up for the remainder of his existence: bars and bolts in
English gaols are very strong; there was enough air for him to be
allowed to breathe it; and there was enough bread to have spared him a
morsel at the expense of the state!

We cannot give life: we have no right to take it away.

On the Sunday afternoon, the murderer's children were taken to see him
in the condemned cell. He had not asked for them: but the authorities
considered it proper that _they_ should take leave of _him_.

The poor little innocents were dressed in the workhouse garb. The boy
understood that his father was to be hanged on the following morning;
and his grief was heart-rending. The little girl could not understand
why her parent was in that gloomy place, nor what horrible fate awaited
him:--but she had an undefined and vague sense of peril and misfortune;
and she cried also.

The murderer kissed them, and told them to be good children;--but he
only thus conducted himself because he was _ashamed_ to appear so
unfeeling and brutal as he knew himself to be, in the presence of the
Ordinary, the Governor, the Sheriffs, and the ladies who were admitted
to have a glimpse of him in his dungeon.

       *       *       *       *       *

The morning of the second Monday after the Sessions dawned.

This was the one fixed by the Sheriffs for the execution of William
Bolter, the murderer.

At four o'clock on that fatal morning the huge black stage containing
the drop, was wheeled out of a shed in the Press Yard, and stationed
opposite the debtors' door of Newgate. A carpenter and his assistant
then hastily fitted up the two perpendicular spars, and the one
horizontal beam, which formed the gibbet.

There were already several hundreds of persons collected to witness
these preliminary arrangements; and from that hour until eight o'clock
multitudes continued pouring from every direction towards that spot--the
focus of an all-absorbing interest.

Man--that social, domestic, and intelligent animal--will leave his child
crying in the cradle, his wife tossing upon a bed of pain and sickness,
and his blind old parents to grope their way about in the dark, in order
to be present at an exhibition of a fellow creature's disgrace, agony,
or death. And the law encourages this morbid taste in all countries
termed civilised,--whether it be opposite the debtors' door of Newgate,
or around the guillotine erected at the Barriere Saint Jacques of
Paris,--whether it be in the midst of ranks of soldiers, drawn up to
witness the abominable infliction of the lash in the barracks of Charing
Cross, or the buttons cut off a deserter's coat in the Place
Vendome,--whether it be to see a malefactor broken on the wheel in the
dominions of the tyrant who is called "Europe's Protestant Sovereign,"
or to behold the military execution of a great general at
Madrid,--whether it be to hear an English Judge in the nineteenth
century, unblushingly condemn a man to be hanged, drawn, and quartered,
and his dissected corpse disposed of according to the will of our
Sovereign Lady the Queen; or to witness some miserable peasant expire
beneath the knout in the territories of the Czar.

But the Law is vindictive, cowardly, mean, and ignorant. It is
_vindictive_ because its punishments are more severe than the offences,
and because its officers descend to any dirtiness in order to obtain a
conviction. It is _cowardly_, because it cuts off from the world, with a
rope or an axe, those men whose dispositions it fears to undertake to
curb. It is _mean_, because it is all in favour of the wealthy, and
reserves its thunders for the poor and obscure who have no powerful
interest to protect them; and because itself originates nearly half the
crimes which it punishes. And it is _ignorant_, because it erects the
gibbet where it should rear the cross,--because it makes no allowance
for the cool calculating individual who commits a crime, but takes into
its consideration the case of the passionate man who assassinates his
neighbour in a momentary and uncontrollable burst of rage,--thus
forgetting that the former is the more likely one to be led by
reflection to virtue, and that the latter is a demon subject to impulses
which he can never subdue.

From an early hour a glittering light was seen through the small grated
window above the debtors' door; for the room to which that door belongs,
is now the kitchen.

There was something sinister and ominous in that oscillating glare,
breaking through the mists of the cold December morning, and playing
upon the black spars of the gibbet which stood high above the already
dense but still increasing multitudes.

Towards eight o'clock the crowd had congregated to such an extent, that
it moved and undulated like the stormy ocean. And, oh! what characters
were collected around that gibbet. Every hideous den, every revolting
hole--every abode of vice, squalor, and low debauchery, had vomited
forth their horrible population. Women, with young children in their
arms,--pickpockets of all ages,--swell-mobsmen,--prostitutes, thieves,
and villains of all degrees and descriptions, were gathered there on
that fatal morning.

And amidst that multitude prevailed mirth, and laughter, and gaiety.
Ribald language, obscene jokes, and filthy expressions, were heard
around, even to the very foot of the gallows; and even at that early
hour intoxication was depicted upon the countenances of several whom the
Law had invited thither to derive an example from the tragedy about to
be enacted!

Example, indeed! Listen to those shouts of laughter: they emanate from a
group collected round a pickpocket only twelve years old, who is giving
an account of how he robbed an elderly lady on the preceding evening.
But, ah! what are those moans, accompanied with horrible oaths and
imprecations? Two women fighting: they are tearing each other to
pieces--and their husbands are backing them. In another direction, a
simple-looking countryman suddenly discovers that his handkerchief and
purse are gone. In a moment his hat is knocked over his eyes; and he
himself is cuffed, and kicked, and pushed about in a most brutal manner.

Near the scaffold the following conversation takes place:--

"I wonder what the man who is going to be hanged is doing at this
moment."

"It is now half-past seven. He is about now receiving the sacrament."

"Well--if I was he, I'd send the old parson to the devil, and pitch into
the sheriffs."

"Yes--so would I. For my part, I should like to live such a life as Jack
Sheppard or Dick Turpin did, even if I did get hanged at last."

"There is something noble and exciting in the existence of a highwayman:
and then--at last--what admiration on the part of the crowd--what
applause when he appears upon the drop!"

"Yes. If this fellow Bolter had contented himself with being a burglar,
or had only murdered those who resisted him, I should have cheered him
heartily;--but to kill his wife--there's something cowardly in that; and
so I shall hiss him."

"And so shall I."

"A quarter to eight! The poor devil's minutes are pretty well numbered."

"I wonder what he is about now."

"The pinioning will begin directly, I dare say."

"That must be the worst part."

"Oh! no--not a bit of it. You may depend upon it that he is not half so
miserable as we are inclined to think him. A man makes up his mind to
die as well as to anything else. But what the devil noise is that?"

"Oh! only some fool of a fellow singing a patter song about a man
hanging, and imitating all the convulsions of the poor wretch. My eyes!
how the people do laugh!"

"Five minutes to eight! They won't be long now."

At this moment the bell of Saint Sepulchre's church began to toll the
funeral knell--that same bell whose ominous sound had fallen upon the
ears of the wretched murderer, when he lay concealed in the vault of the
Old House.

The laughing--the joking--the singing--and the fighting now suddenly
subsided; and every eye was turned towards the scaffold. The most
breathless curiosity prevailed.

Suddenly the entrance of the debtor's door was darkened by a human form:
the executioner hastily ascended the steps, and appeared upon the
scaffold.

He was followed by the Ordinary in his black gown, walking with slow and
measured pace along, and reading the funeral service--while the bell of
Saint Sepulchre continued its deep, solemn, and foreboding death-note.

The criminal came next.

His elbows were bound to his sides, and his wrists fastened together,
with thin cord. He had on a decent suit of clothes, supplied by the
generosity of Tom the Cracksman; and on his head was a white night-cap.

The moment he appeared upon the scaffold, a tremendous shout arose from
the thousands and thousands of spectators assembled to witness his
punishment.

He cast a hurried and anxious glance around him.

The large open space opposite the northern wing of Newgate seemed
literally paved with human faces, which were continued down the Old
Bailey and Giltspur Street, as far as he could see. The houses facing
the prison were crammed with life--roof and window.

It seemed as if he were posted upon a rock in the midst of an ocean of
people.

Ten thousand pairs of eyes were concentrated in him. All was animation
and interest, as if some grand national spectacle were about to take
place.

"Hats off!" was the universal cry: the multitudes were determined to
lose nothing! The cheapness of an amusement augments the pleasure
derived from it. We wonder that the government has never attempted to
realise funds by charging a penny a-piece for admission to behold the
executions at Newgate. In such a country as England, where even religion
is made a compulsory matter of taxation, the dues collected at
executions would form a fund calculated to thrive bravely.

While the executioner was occupied in fixing the halter round the
convict's neck, the Ordinary commenced that portion of the Burial
Service, which begins thus:--

"_Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full
of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down like a flower: he fleeth as it
were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay._"

The executioner having attached the rope, and drawn the nightcap over
the criminal's face, disappeared from the scaffold, and went beneath the
platform to draw the bolt that sustained the drop.

"_In the midst of life we are in death; of whom may we seek for succour,
but of thee, O Lord, who_--"

Here the drop fell.

A dreadful convulsion appeared to pass through the murderer's frame; and
for nearly a minute his hands moved nervously up and down. Perhaps
during those fifty seconds, the horrors of his dream were realised, _and
he felt the blood rushing with the fury of a torrent and with a heat of
molten lead up into his brain; perhaps his eyes shot sparks of fire; and
in his ears was a loud droning sound, like the moan of the ocean on a
winter's night!_

But the convulsive movement of the hands soon ceased, and the murderer
hung a lifeless corpse.

The crowd retained its post till nine o'clock, when the body was cut
down: then did that vast assemblage of persons, of both sexes and all
ages, begin to disperse.

The public-houses in the Old Bailey and the immediate neighbourhood
drove a roaring trade throughout that day.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE LAPSE OF TWO YEARS.


Shakspeare said, "All the world is a _stage_:" we say, "All the world is
an _omnibus_."

The old and young--the virtuous and wicked--the rich and the poor, are
invariably thrown and mixed up together; and yet their interests are
always separate. Few stretch out a hand to help a ragged or a decrepit
man into the vehicle; and the well-dressed draw back and avert their
heads as the impoverished wretch forces his way with difficulty past
them up to the vacant seat in the farthest corner. The moment a
well-dressed individual mounts the steps of the omnibus, every hand is
thrust out to help him in, and the most convenient seat is
instantaneously accorded to him. And then the World's omnibus hurries
along, stopping occasionally at the gates of a church-yard to put down
one of its passengers, and calling at some palace or some cottage
indiscriminately to fill up the vacant seat.

Away--away thunders the World's omnibus again, crushing the fairest
flowers of the earth in its progress, and frequently choosing rough,
dreary, and unfrequented roads in preference to paths inviting, even,
and pleasant. Sometimes, by the caprice of the passengers, or by the
despotic commands of the masters of the World's omnibus, the beggar and
the rich man change garments and places; and the former then becomes the
object of deference and respect, while the latter is treated with
contempt and scorn. In the World's omnibus _might_ makes _right_;--but
_cunning_ frequently secures a more soft and comfortable seat than
either.

If a dispute ensues, and the question at issue is referred to the
conductor for arbitration, he glances at the personal appearance of the
complainant and defendant, and decides in favour of him who wears the
better coat. When stones or other impediments obstruct the way of the
World's omnibus, the poor and the ragged passengers are commanded to
alight and clear them away; and yet, when the vehicle stops for dinner
at the inn by the way side, the well-dressed and the affluent
appropriate to themselves the luxuries, while those who cleared away the
stones and who grease the wheels, get only a sorry crust--and sometimes
nothing at all.

And then, away--away the World's omnibus goes again, amidst noise, dust,
and all variations of weather. In the inclement seasons extra garments
are given to the well-dressed and the rich, but none to the ragged and
the poor:--on the contrary, their very rags and tatters are frequently
taken from them to pay the prices of the hard crusts at the road-side
inns. So goes the World's omnibus; and the moment the driver and
conductor, who are its masters and owners, are deposited in their turns
at the gates of some cemetery, their sons succeed them, whether
competent or not--whether infants in swaddling clothes, or old men in
their dotage. And few--very few of those drivers know how to hold the
reins;--and thus is it that the World's omnibus is frequently hurried at
a thundering rate over broken ground, even unto the very verge of some
precipice, down which it would be inevitably dashed, did not some bold
intrepid passenger emerge from his obscurity in the corner, rush upon
the box, hurl the incompetent driver from his seat, and assume the reins
in his stead. But mark the strange opinions of those who journey in the
World's omnibus! The passengers, instead of being grateful to him who
has thus rescued them from ruin, pronounce him the usurper of a seat to
which he has no hereditary claim, and never rest till they have
succeeded in displacing him, and restoring the incompetent driver to his
functions.

So goes the World's omnibus! None of the passengers are ever contented
with their seats, even though they may have originally chosen those
seats for themselves. This circumstance leads to a thousand quarrels and
mean artifices; and constant shiftings of positions take place. One
passenger envies the seat of another; and, when he has succeeded in
working his way into it, he finds to his surprise that it is not so
agreeable as he imagines, and he either wishes to get back to his old
one or to shove himself into another. The passengers in the World's
omnibus are divided into different sects and parties, each party
professing certain opinions for the authority of which they have no
better plea than "the wisdom of their forefathers." Thus one party hates
and abhors another; and each confidently imagines itself to be in the
right, and all other parties to be in the wrong. And for those
differences of opinion the most sanguinary broils ensue; and friendship,
honour, virtue, and integrity are all forgotten in the vindictive
contention.

But the World's omnibus rolls along all the same; and the Driver and
Conductor laugh at the contests amongst the passengers, which they
themselves have probably encouraged, and which somehow or another always
turn to their individual benefit in the long run.

So goes the World's omnibus;--so it has always hurried onwards;--and in
like manner will it ever go!

Oh! say not that Time has a leaden wing while it accompanies the World's
omnibus on its way!

Two years elapsed from the date of the Old Bailey trials described in
preceding chapters.

It was now the beginning of December, 1837.

The morning was dry, fine, and bright: the ground was as hard as
asphalte; and the air was pure, cold, and frosty.

From an early hour a stout, elderly man--well wrapped up in a large
great coat, and with a worsted "comforter" coming up to his very nose,
which was of a purple colour with the cold--was seen walking up and down
the front of the Giltspur Street Compter, apparently dividing his
attention between the prison entrance and the clock of Saint Sepulchre's
church.

At a quarter to ten o'clock, on that same morning, a private carriage,
without armorial bearings upon the panels, and attended by two
domestics, whose splendid liveries were concealed beneath drab
great-coats, drove up to the door of the house inhabited by the Governor
of Newgate. Inside that carriage was seated a lady--wrapped up in the
most costly furs, and with a countenance whose beauty was enhanced by
the smile of pleasure and satisfaction which illuminated it.

Precisely as the clock of Saint Sepulchre's church struck ten, the doors
of the Compter and Newgate opened simultaneously, and with a similar
object.

From the Compter issued Richard Markham:--the portal of Newgate gave
freedom to Eliza Sydney.

They were both restored to liberty upon the same day--the terms of their
imprisonment dating from the commencement of the sessions during which
they were tried.

The moment Richard set foot in the street, he was caught in the arms of
the faithful Whittingham, who welcomed him with a kind of paternal
affection, and whimpered over him like a child.

Eliza Sydney entered the carriage awaiting her at the door of Newgate,
and was clasped to the bosom of Mrs. Arlington. The vehicle immediately
drove rapidly away in a north-easterly direction.

"Mr. Monroe is waiting for you at your own house at Holloway," said
Whittingham to his young master, when the first ebullition of joy was
over. "He has been ailing lately--and he thought that this happy and
fortitudinous event would be too much for his nerves."

"Let us make haste home, my excellent friend," observed Markham. "I am
dying to behold once more the haunts of my childhood."

Whittingham summoned a cab; and he and his young master were soon
rolling along the road which led to _home_.

Two years' imprisonment had produced a great effect upon Richard
Markham. The intellectual cast and faultless beauty of his countenance
still remained; but the joyous expression, natural to youth, had fled
for ever; and in its place was a settled melancholy which proclaimed an
early and intimate acquaintance with misfortune. His spirit was broken;
but his principles were not undermined:--his heart was lacerated to its
very core,--but his integrity remained intact. Even though the gate of
his prison had closed behind him, he could not shake off the idea that
his very countenance proclaimed him to be a _Freed Convict_.

At length the cab reached Markham Place.

Richard glanced, with a momentary gleam of satisfaction upon his pale
countenance, towards the hill on which stood the two trees--the rallying
point for the brothers who had separated, more than six years back,
beneath their foliage. Tears started to his eyes; and the ray of
sunshine upon his brow gave place to a cloud of deep and sombre
melancholy. He thought of what he was when he bade adieu to his brother
at that period, and what he was at the present moment. _Then_ all was
blooming and encouraging in his path; and _now_ he felt as if the mark
of Cain were upon him!

He alighted from the vehicle, and entered the library, where Mr. Monroe
awaited him. He and his guardian were at length alone together.

But how altered was Monroe since Richard had last seen him! His form was
bowed down, his countenance was haggard, his eyes were sunken, and his
brow was covered with wrinkles. He glanced furtively and anxiously
around him the instant the young man entered the room; and, instead of
hastening forward to welcome him, he sank upon a chair, covering his
face with his hands. The tears trickled through his fingers; and his
breast was convulsed with deep sobs.

"In the name of heaven, what ails you, sir?" demanded Richard.

"My boy--you have come back at last," exclaimed the old gentleman,
scarcely able to articulate a word, through the bitterness of his
grief;--"and this much-dreaded day has at length arrived!"

"Much-dreaded day," repeated Markham, in unfeigned astonishment. "I
should have thought, sir," he added coldly, "that _you_, who professed
yourself so convinced of my innocence, would have received me with a
smile of welcome!"

"My dear--dear boy," gasped the old man, "God knows I am rejoiced to
hail your freedom; and that same Almighty power can also attest to my
sincere conviction of your innocence. Believe me, I would go through
fire and water to serve you,--I would lay down my life, miserable and
valueless as it is, to benefit you;--but, oh! I cannot--cannot support
your presence!"

And the old gentleman seemed absolutely convulsed with agony as he
spoke.

"I presume," said Richard, leaning over him, so as to be enabled to
whisper in his ear, although there was none else at hand to listen,--"I
presume that you scorn the man who has been convicted of felony? It is
natural, sir--it is natural; but such a demonstration of aversion is not
the less calculated to wound one who never injured you."

"No--no, Richard; you never injured me; and that makes me feel the more
acutely now. But--hear me. I take God to witness that I love you as my
own son, and that I am above such unnatural conduct as that which you
would impute to me."

"My God!" cried Markham, impatiently, "what does all this mean? Are you
ill? Has anything unpleasant occurred? If so, we will postpone all
discussion upon my affairs until a period more agreeable to yourself."

As Markham uttered these words, he gently disengaged the old man's hands
from his countenance, and pressed them in his own. He was then for the
first time struck by the altered and care-worn features of his guardian;
and, without thinking of the effect his words might produce, he
exclaimed, "My dear sir, you have evidently been very--very ill!"

"Ill!" cried the old man, bitterly. "When the mind suffers, the body is
sympathetically affected; and this has been my case! If you have
suffered much, Richard, during the last two years--so have I; and we
have both only the same consolation--our innocence!"

"You speak in enigmas," ejaculated Markham. "What can you have to do
with innocence or guilt--you who never wronged a human being?"

So strange became the expression of the old man's countenance, as
Richard uttered these words, that the young man was perfectly
astonished, and almost horrified; and undefined alarms floated through
his brain. He was in a painful state of suspense; and yet he was afraid
to ask a question.

"Richard!" suddenly exclaimed the old man, now looking our hero fixedly
and fearlessly in the face, "I have a terrible communication to make to
you."

"A terrible communication!" repeated Markham; "is it in respect to my
brother? If so, do not keep me in suspense--let me know the worst at
once--I can bear anything but suspense!"

"I have never heard _from_ nor _of_ your brother," answered Mr. Monroe;
"and cannot say whether he be dead or living."

"Thank God, you have nothing terrible to communicate relative to _him_,"
exclaimed Markham; for he always had, and still entertained a
presentiment that the appointment on the hill, beneath the two trees,
would be punctually kept;--and this hope had cheered him during his
horrible imprisonment.

"But I will not keep you in suspense, Richard," said the old man; "it is
better for me to unburthen my mind at once. You are ruined!"

"Ruined!" said Markham, starting as that dread word fell upon his ears;
for the word _ruin_ does not express one evil, like other words, such as
sickness, poverty, imprisonment; but it comprises and expresses an awful
catalogue of all the miseries which can be supposed to afflict humanity.
"Ruined!" he cried;--then catching at a straw, he added, "Aye! ruined in
reputation, doubtless; but rich in the possessions which this world
principally esteems. My property was all vested in you by my deceased
father--I was not of age when I was condemned--and consequently the law
could not touch my fortune when it filched from me my good name!"

"Ruined--ruined in property and all!" returned Mr. Monroe, solemnly.
"Unfortunate speculations on _my_ part, but in _your_ interest, have
consumed the vast property entrusted to me by your father!"

Markham fell into an arm chair; and for a moment he thought that every
fibre in his heart would break. A terrible load oppressed his chest and
his brain;--he was the victim of deep despair. As one looks forth into
the darkness of midnight, and sees it dense and motionless, so did he
now survey his own prospects. The single consolation which, besides the
hope of again meeting his brother,--the real, the present, the tangible
consolation, as it might be called, which would have enabled him to
forget a portion of his sufferings and his wrongs,--this was now gone;
and, a beggar upon the face of the earth, he found that he had not even
the advantage of a good name to help him onwards in his career. Hope was
quenched within him!

A long pause ensued.

At its expiration Markham suddenly rose from the arm-chair, approached
his guardian, and said in a low and hollow voice. "Tell me how all this
has happened; let me know the circumstances which led to this calamity."

"They are brief," said Monroe, "and will convince you that I am more to
be pitied than blamed. Long previous to your unfortunate trial I
commenced a series of speculations with my own property, all of which
turned out unhappily. The year 1832 was a fatal one to many
old-established houses; and mine was menaced with absolute ruin. In an
evil hour I listened to the advice of a Mr. Allen, a merchant who had
been reduced by great losses in America trading; and by his counsel, I
employed a small portion of _your_ property with the view of recovering
my own, and augmenting your wealth at the same time. Allen acted as my
agent in these new speculations. At first we were eminently successful;
I speedily released myself from difficulty, and doubled the sum that I
had borrowed from your fortune. At the beginning of 1836 Mr. Allen heard
of a gentleman who required the loan of a considerable sum of money to
work a patent which was represented to be a perfect mine of gold. Mr.
Allen and I consulted upon the eligibility of embarking money in this
enterprise: in a word, we were dazzled by the immense advantages to be
derived from the speculation. At that time--it was shortly after your
trial and sentence, Richard--I was ill and confined to my bed. Mr. Allen
therefore managed this for me; and it is an extraordinary fact that I
have never once seen the individual to whom I lent an enormous sum of
money--for I _did_ advance the sum required by that person; and I drew
largely upon your fortune to procure it! Oh! Richard--had this
speculation succeeded, I should have been a wealthy man once more, and
your property would have been more than doubled. But, alas! this
individual to whom I advanced that immense amount, and whose securities
I had fancied unexceptionable, defrauded me in the most barefaced
manner! And yet the law could not touch him, for he had contrived to
associate Allen's name with his own as a partner in the enterprise.
Rendered desperate by this appalling loss, I embarked in the most
extravagant speculations with the remainder of your money. The
infatuation of the gambler seized upon me: and I never stopped until the
result was ruin--total ruin to me, and comparative ruin to you!"

[Illustration]

"Comparative ruin--only _comparative_ ruin!" ejaculated Markham, his
countenance suddenly brightening up at these words: "is there any thing
left from the wrecks of my property--is there any thing available still
remaining? Speak;--and if you answer me in the affirmative--if you
announce the existence of never so small a pittance, I will yet forgive
you all!"

"This house and the small estate attached to it are left," answered the
old man, "and totally unincumbered. I neither could nor would touch your
paternal possessions."

Markham felt indescribable relief from this statement; and he wrung his
guardian's hand with the same gratitude which he would have shown had he
that day received his inheritance entire.

"Thank God, I am not totally ruined!" cried Markham. "I can at least
bury myself in this retreat;--I can daily ascend that hill where the
memorials of fraternal affection stand;--and I can there hope for the
return of my brother! My dear sir, what has been done cannot be
recalled: reproaches, even were I inclined to offer any, would be
useless; and regrets would be equally unavailing. This estate will
produce me a small income--but enough for my wants. Two hundred pounds
a-year are certainly a beggar's pittance, when compared with the
inheritance which my father left me;--but I am still grateful that even
the means of subsistence are left. And you, Mr. Monroe--upon what are
you subsisting?"

"I still attend to the wrecks of my affairs," replied the old man; "and
then I have my daughter Ellen--who earns a little with her needle----"

"You shall come and take up your abode with me--you and your
daughter--and share my income," interrupted the generous young man, who
saw not before him an individual that had deprived him of a large
fortune, but an old--old man, bent down by the weight of numerous and
deep afflictions.

Monroe wept at this noble conduct on the part of his ward, and
strenuously refused to accept the proffered kindness and hospitality.
Markham urged, begged, and entreated;--but the old man would not accede
to his wish.

"You have not told me what became of your friend Mr. Allen," said
Richard, after a pause.

"He was an honourable and an upright man," was the reply; "and the ruin
which he had been the means of entailing, though innocently, upon me,
broke his heart, he died three months ago."

"And what became of the infamous cheat whose schemes have thus killed
one person and ruined two others?"

"I know not," answered Mr. Monroe. "I never saw him myself; nor did he
even know that there was such a person as myself connected with the loan
which he received. Certain commercial reasons--too long to be explained
now--made me put forward Allen as the person who advanced the money, and
conducted the entire business as a principal, and not as an agent. Thus
no communication ever took place between me and this George Montague."

"George Montague!" ejaculated Richard.

"Yes--he was the villain who has plundered us."

"George Montague again!" murmured Richard, as he paced the room with
hurried and uneven steps. "Why is it that this name should constantly
obtrude itself upon my notice? wherefore should I be perpetually
condemned to hear it uttered, and always coupled with epithets of
abhorrence and reproach? and why should I be amongst the number of that
miscreant's victims? Strange combination of circumstances!"

"Are you acquainted with this Montague?" demanded his guardian: "the
name seemed to produce a singular effect upon you."

"I am not acquainted with him: like you, I have never even seen him,"
said Markham. "But I have heard much concerning him; and all that I
_have_ heard is evil. Surely--surely justice will some day overtake a
miscreant who is constantly preying upon society, and who enriches
himself at the expense of his fellow-creatures' happiness!"

Some time longer was devoted to conversation upon topics of interest to
Markham and his guardian; and when the former had partially succeeded in
tranquillising the mind of the latter, the old man was suffered to take
his departure.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE VISIT.


We purpose to follow the history of Richard Markham a little farther,
ere we return to Eliza Sydney, whose adventures, after her release from
Newgate, will, it is believed, excite the liveliest interest in the
minds of the readers.

As soon as Mr. Monroe had taken his departure, Richard made Whittingham
acquainted with his altered prospects; and they two together settled
certain economical alterations in the establishment at the Place which
were calculated to meet the limited means of its master, who, it will be
remembered, was now of age, and, consequently invested with the control
of the little property that the villany of George Montague had left him.

Markham then proceeded, attended by Whittingham, to visit the various
apartments of the old mansion from which he had been so long absent: and
each recalled to his mind reminiscences that circumstances had made
painful. In one apartment he had been wont to sit with his revered
father of an evening, and survey the adjacent scenery and the mighty
city from the windows. In another he had pursued his studies with the
dearly loved brother whom he had lost: whichever way he turned, visions
calculated to oppress his mind rose before him. He felt like a criminal
who had disgraced an honourable name; and even the very pictures of his
ancestors appeared to frown upon him from their antique and dust-covered
frames.

But when he entered the room where the spirit of his father had taken
its leave of this world, his emotions almost overpowered him. He wept
aloud; and even the old butler did not now endeavour to comfort him. He
had returned, branded with shame, to a house where he had received an
existence that was full of hope and honour:--he had come back to a
dwelling in the rooms of which were hung the portraits of many great and
good men, who were his ancestors, but amongst whom his own likeness
could never take a place, for fear that some visitor to that mansion
should write the words "_Freed Convict_" upon the frame.

For though conscience reproached him not for guilt, the world would not
believe his innocence.

That night he could not sleep; and he hailed the dawn of morning as the
shipwrecked mariner upon the raft beholds the signal of assistance in
the horizon. He rose, and hastened to the hill, where he seated himself
upon the bench between the two trees. There he gave free vent to his
tears; and he was relieved.

Suddenly his eye caught sight of letters carved upon the bark of his
brother's tree. He looked closer; and, to his indescribable joy, he
beheld these characters rudely but deeply cut on the tree:--

EUGENE.

Dec. 25, 1836.

"Thank God! my brother lives!" exclaimed Richard, clasping his hands
together. "This is an intimation of his remembrance of me! But--oh! why
did he desert me in my need? wherefore came he not to see me in my
prison? Alas! years must yet elapse ere I clasp him to my heart! Let me
not repine--let me not reproach him without hearing his justification!
He has revisited the hill; and he chose a sacred day for what he no
doubt deemed a sacred duty! It was on the anniversary of the nativity of
the Saviour that he came back to the scenes of his youth! Oh, Eugene! I
thank thee for this: it is an assurance that the appointment on the 10th
of July, 1843, will be punctually kept!"

From the moment when his eyes rested upon the memorial of his lost
brother thus carved upon the bark of the tree, Richard's mind became
composed, and, indeed, comparatively happy. His habits, however, grew
more and more secluded and reserved; and he seldom ventured into that
mighty Babylon whose snares had proved so fatal to his happiness.

One day--it was about the middle of March, 1838--Richard was surprised
by the arrival of a phaeton and pair at his abode; and he eagerly
watched from the window to ascertain who could have thought of paying
him a visit. In a few minutes he was delighted to see Mr. Armstrong, the
political martyr with whom he had become acquainted in Newgate, alight
from the vehicle.

Richard hastened to welcome him with the most unfeigned sincerity.

"You see I have found you out, my dear young friend," said Armstrong. "I
miscalculated the date of your release from that abominable hole, and a
few weeks ago was waiting for hours one day in Giltspur Street to
welcome you to freedom. At length I did what I ought to have done at
first--that is, inquired of the turnkeys whether you were to be released
that day or not: and, behold--I found that the bird had flown."

"I should have written to you," said Richard, "for you were kind enough
to give me your address; but really my mind has been so bent upon
solitude----"

"From which solitude," interrupted Armstrong, smiling, "I am come to
drag you away. Will you allow me to dispose of the next ten days for
you?"

"How do you mean, my good friend?" inquired Markham.

"I mean that you shall pass that time with me at the house of a friend
at Richmond. Solitude and seclusion will never wean you from the
contemplation of your past sorrows."

"But you know that I cannot go into society again," said Richard.

"This is absurd, Markham. I will hear no apologies: you must and shall
place yourself at my disposal," returned the old gentleman, in a kind
and yet positive manner.

"But to whom do you wish to introduce me?" inquired Markham.

"To an Italian emigrant, who has only just arrived in this country, with
his family, but the honour of whose friendship I have enjoyed for many,
many years. I must tell you that I have travelled much; and that Italy
has always been a country which has excited my warmest sympathy. It was
at Montoni, the capital of the Grand Duchy of Castelcicala that I first
met Count Alteroni; and his extremely liberal political opinions, which
completely coincide with my own, were the foundation of a staunch
friendship between us. Ten years ago he was compelled to fly from his
native land; and he sought refuge in England. His only child--a
beautiful girl of the name of Isabella--thus obtained an English
education and speaks the language with fluency. Two years ago, he was
allowed to return to Castelcicala; but a few months back fresh political
events in that state forced him once more to become an exile. He arrived
in England a month ago, and has taken a small but commodious and
picturesque residence at Richmond. His means are ample, but not vast;
and he therefore lives in comparative seclusion--other reasons,
moreover, inducing him to avoid the pomp and ostentation which noblemen
of his rank usually maintain. Thus, in addressing him, you must drop the
formality of _My Lord_; and remember also that his daughter chooses to
be called simply, _Miss Isabella_, or the _Signora Isabella_."

"And how can I venture to present myself to this nobleman of high rank,
and his wife and daughter, knowing that but a few weeks ago I was
liberated from a gaol?" demanded Richard, somewhat bitterly.

"The count has not heard of your misfortune, and is not likely to do
so," answered Armstrong. "He pressed me yesterday to pass a few days
with him; and I happened to mention that I was about to visit a young
friend--meaning yourself--in whom I felt a deep interest. I then gave
him such an account of you that he expressed a desire to form your
acquaintance. Thus, you perceive, that I am taking no unwarranted
liberty in introducing you to his house. As for the danger which you
incur of your history being known, that cannot be avoided; and it is a
point which you may as well risk now as upon any future occasion. A man
of the world must always be prepared for reverses of this kind, and I
think that I am not mistaken in you, Markham, when I express my opinion
that you would know how to vindicate your character and assert your
innocence in a manner which would disarm resentment and conquer
prejudice. At least, assume as cheerful an appearance as possible; and,
believe me, you will find yourself right welcome at the dwelling of
Count Alteroni."

Reassured by remarks of this nature, and warmed by the generous
friendship displayed towards him by the Republican writer, Markham's
countenance again wore a smile; and he felt more at ease than he had
done ever since his misfortune. The presence of one who took an interest
in his welfare--the prospect of enjoying pleasant society--and the idea
of change of scene, combined to elevate his spirits and create new hopes
in his breast. He began to think that he was not altogether the
solitary, deserted, and sorrow-doomed being he had so lately considered
himself.

It was about four o'clock in the afternoon that the phaeton, in which
rode Markham and his friend the Republican, entered a spacious
shrubbery, through which a wide avenue led to the front-door of a very
beautiful country residence near Richmond. The dwelling was not large;
but its external appearance seemed to bear ample testimony to its
interior comfort.

A domestic, in a plain and unpretending livery, appeared at the door the
moment the phaeton stopped; and the count himself met his visitors in
the hall, to welcome their arrival.

The nobleman shook hands with Armstrong in the most cordial manner; and,
when Richard was introduced to him, he received him with a courtesy and
warm affability which showed how much any friend of Armstrong's was
valued by the Italian exile.

The guests were ushered into the drawing-room, where the countess and
her daughter, and two gentlemen who were also visitors, were seated.

But while we allow Richard time to get acquainted with the family of the
Italian noble, we must give the reader a brief description of the new
characters now introduced upon the stage.

Count Alteroni was about forty years of age. His hair and whiskers,
originally of a deep black, were tinged prematurely with grey; but his
moustachios were of the darkest jet. His complexion was of a clear
olive. In figure he was tall, well formed, and muscular, though slight.
His countenance was expressive of great dignity--one would almost say of
conscious superiority; but this softness of aspect and the nobility of
demeanour which distinguished him, failed to produce any unpleasant
impression, inasmuch as every one who approached the count was charmed
by the affability of his manners and the condescending kindness of his
tone.

The countess was about two years younger than her husband, and was of a
complexion and cast of countenance which denoted her northern origin. In
fact, she was a German lady of high birth; but she spoke Italian,
French, and English with as much facility as her own tongue.

But what of Isabella? To say that she was beautiful were to say nothing.
Her aspect was resplendent with all those graces which innocence
lavishly diffuses over the lineaments of loveliness. She was sixteen
years old; and her dark black eyes were animated with all the fire of
that impassioned age, when even the most rugged paths of life seem
adorned and strewed with flowers. Her mouth was small; but the lips were
full and pouting, and revealed, when she smiled, a set of beautifully
white and even teeth. Her hair was dark as the raven's wing, and was
invariably arranged in the most natural and simple manner. Her brows
were exquisitely pencilled; and as her large black eyes were the mirror
of her pure and guileless soul, when she glanced downwards, and those
expressive orbs were concealed by their long black fringes, it seemed as
if she were drawing a veil over her thoughts. Her complexion was that of
a brunette; but the pure, red blood shone in her vermilion lips and her
rose-tinted nostrils, and mantled her pure brow with a crimson hue when
any passion was excited. Her sylph-like figure was modelled with the
most perfect symmetry. Her waist was so delicate, and her hands and feet
so small, that it was easy to perceive she came of patrician blood; and
the swell of her bosom gave a proper roundness to her form, without
expanding into proportions that might be termed voluptuous.

In manners, disposition, and accomplishments Isabel was equally
calculated to charm all her acquaintances. Having finished her education
in England, she had united all the solid morality of English manners,
with the sprightliness and vivacity of her native clime; and as she was
without levity and frivolity, she was also entirely free from any
insipid and ridiculous affectations. She was artlessness itself; her
manners commanded universal respect; and her bearing alone repressed the
impertinence of the libertine's gaze. With a disposition naturally
lively, she was still attached to serious pursuits; and her mind was
well stored with all useful information, and embellished with every
feminine accomplishment.

The two gentlemen who were present in the drawing room when Armstrong
and Richard arrived, were two young _beaux_--members of the aristocracy;
and this was their only recommendation. It was not however, on this
account that they had obtained a footing in the count's abode; but
because they were nearly related to a deceased English general who had
taken part with the Italians against the French, during the career of
Napoleon, and had been of essential service to the family to which the
count belonged. With regard to their exterior, suffice it to say, that
they were dressed in the extreme of fashion one was very effeminate in
appearance, having neither whiskers nor the slightest appearance of a
beard; and the other was rather good-looking, sported an incipient
moustachio, and wore an undress military uniform.

The effeminate young gentleman was introduced to Armstrong and Markham
by the name of Sir Cherry Bounce, and the moustachioed one as the
Honourable Smilax Dapper, a captain (at the age of twenty) in His
Majesty's--th Regiment of Hussars.

During the hour which intervened between the arrival of the new guests
and the announcement of dinner, a conversation ensued which will serve
to throw some light upon the characters of those inmates of the
hospitable abode, whom we have as yet only partially introduced to our
readers.

"You reside in a very pleasant and healthy part of London, Mr. Markham,"
said the count; "I am well acquainted with the situation of your mansion
and grounds, from the description which my friend Armstrong has given
me. The house stands close by a hill, on the summit of which there are
two trees."

"Ah, indeed!" ejaculated Sir Cherry Bounce. "The other day I wode by
there for the firtht time in my life; and I remember the houth ith veway
beautifully thithuate in the neighbourwood of the bill dethwibed by the
count, and with two ath tweeth on the top."

"That is my house," said Richard. "But it is an antiquated,
gloomy-looking pile; but----"

"Oh! I beg your pardon, thir; it is the thweeteth little plaith I ever
thaw. I never thaw it but that time, and wath thwuck with the weway
wemarkable appearanth of the hill and the tweeth."

"Those trees were planted many years ago by my brother and myself," said
Markham, a deep shade of melancholy suddenly overclouding his
countenance; "and they yet remain there as the trysting-mark for a
strange appointment."

"Indeed!" said the count; and as Richard saw that Isabella was also
interested in his observations, he determined to gratify the sentiment
of curiosity which he had excited.

"It is nearly seven years since that event took place. My elder brother
disputed with my father, and determined to leave home and choose some
career for himself, which he hoped might lead to fortune. He and I
parted upon that hill, beneath those trees, with the understanding that
in twelve years we were to meet again upon that same spot, and then
compare our respective fortunes and worldly positions. On the 10th of
July, 1843, that appointment is to be kept."

"And during the seven years which have already elapsed, have you
received no tidings of your brother?" inquired Isabella.

"None direct," answered Markham. "All that I know is that on
Christmas-day, 1836, he was alive; for he went to the hill, while I was
absent from home, and carved his name upon the tree that he himself
planted."

"Strike me stupid, if that isn't the most romantic thing I ever heard
of!" exclaimed Captain Dapper, caressing his moustachio.

"You ought to wite a copy of vertheth upon the wemarkable inthident, in
Mith Ithabella'th _Album_," observed Sir Cherry Bounce.

"So I would, strike me! if I was half such a good poet as you, Cherry,"
returned the captain.

"You wote thum veway pwetty poetry the other day upon the _Gweat Thea
Therpenth_, Thmilackth," said the effeminate baronet: "and I don't know
why you thouldn't do the thame by the two ath tweeth."

"Yes; but--strike me ugly! Miss Isabella would not let me insert them in
her _Album_," observed the captain; "and that was very unkind."

"Bella says that you undertook to finish a butterfly and spoilt it,"
exclaimed the count laughing.

"And now it theemth for all the world like an enormouth fwog," said Sir
Cherry.

"Now, really, Bounce, that is too bad!" drawled the captain, playing
with his moustachio. "I appeal to the signora herself, whether the
butterfly was so very--very bad?"

"Considering it to be your first attempt," said the young lady, "it was
not so very much amiss; and I must say that I preferred the butterfly to
the lines upon the Sea Serpent."

"Well, may I perish," cried the hussar, "if I think the lines were so
bad. But we will refer them to Mr. Markham;--not that I dispute Miss
Isabella's judgment: I'd rather have my moustachios singed than do that!
But----"

"The vertheth! the vertheth!" cried Sir Cherry.

"I am afraid that my talent does not justify such a reference to it,"
said Markham; "and I should rather imagine that Miss Isabella's decision
will admit of no appeal."

"My dear thir, we will have your opinion. The vertheth were compothed in
a hurway; and they may not be quite tho ekthellent and faultleth ath
they might be."

"I only devoted half an hour to them, strike me if I did!"

"Let'th thee--how do they begin?" continued the effeminate young baronet
of nineteen. "Oh! I wemember--the opening ith thimple but ekpwethive:

    "Thwough the thea the therpenth wollth,
     Moving ever 'thwixth the polth,
     Fwightning herwinth, pwath, and tholth,
         In hith pwogweth wapid;--
     Thwallowing up the mighty thipth,
     By the thuction of hith lipth,
     Onward thill the monthtwer twipth,
         Like----"

"Well, strike me!" interrupted the captain, "if ever I heard poetry
spouted like that before. Please listen to me, Mr. Markham. This is the
way the poem opens:--

    "Through the sea the serpent rolls
     Moving ever 'twixt the poles,
     Fright'ning herrings, sprats, and soles,
         In his progress rapid;--
     Swallowing up the mighty ships,
     By the motion of his lips,
     Onward still the monster trips,
         Like----"

"No, that ithn't the way," cried Sir Cherry.

"Well, strike me, if I'll say another word more then," returned the
captain of hussars, apparently very much inclined to cry.

"I am sure Miss Isabella was wrong not to have inserted these verses in
her album," said Armstrong, with a smile of good-natured satire. "But I
know that my young friend, Mr. Markham, has a more refined taste with
regard to poetry than he chose just now to admit."

"Indeed!" said the beautiful Isabella; "I should be delighted to hear
Mr. Markham's sentiments upon the subject of poetry; for I confess that
I myself entertain very singular notions in that respect. It is
difficult to afford a minute definition of what poetry is; for, like the
unearthly visitants which the fears of superstition have occasionally
summoned to the world, poetry fascinates the senses, but eludes the
grasp of the beholder, and stands before him visible, powerful, and yet
impalpable!"

"I concur with your views, Miss Isabella," said Markham, delighted to
hear, amidst the frivolity of the conversation, remarks which exhibited
sound sense and judgment. "It is impossible to set forth, in any array
of words, the subtlety and peculiarity of poetry, which soars above the
powers of language and defies the reach of description."

"Yes," said Isabella; "the painter cannot place the rainbow or the
glittering dew-drop upon his canvass; the sculptor cannot invest his
image with a soul; and it seems equally difficult to define poetry."

"We know of what we are speaking when we allude to it; but there are no
definitions which give us views of it sufficiently comprehensive."

"Well, strike me! if I didn't think that every thing with rhymes, or in
lines of a certain length, was poetry," observed the captain of hussars.

"My daughter can explain the mystery to you," said the countess,
surveying Isabella with pride and maternal enthusiasm.

Isabella blushed deeply. She feared that she had intruded her remarks on
the company, and dreaded to be considered vain or anxious for display.
Markham immediately perceived the nature of her thoughts, and skilfully
turned the conversation to the poetry of her native land, and thence to
the leading characteristics and features of Italian life.

Dinner was at length announced, and Richard had the felicity of
conducting the lovely daughter of the count to the dining-room, and of
occupying a seat by her side during the banquet.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE DREAM.


Three weeks passed away in a most agreeable manner, and Richard
frequently expressed his gratitude to Armstrong for the pleasure he had
procured him by this visit.

The more he saw of Count Alteroni's daughter, the more he was compelled
to admire her personal and mental qualifications. But he felt somewhat
annoyed when he discovered that Captain Smilax Dapper was paying his
addresses to her: for he was interested in so charming a young lady, and
would have regretted to see her throw herself away on such a coxcomb. He
did not however find that Isabella gave the captain any encouragement:
on the contrary he had frequently seen an erratic smile of contempt upon
her lips when the military aspirant to her hand uttered an absurdity or
indulged in an air of affectation.

By the constant and unvaried respect, and the absence of all familiarity
on the part of Dapper towards the lovely Italian, Markham also argued
that he had not as yet declared his sentiments, because had he been a
favoured suitor, the truth would have betrayed itself in some trifling
manner or another. Moreover, as Isabella conducted herself in only just
the same friendly way towards Captain Dapper as she manifested towards
her father's other guests, Richard saw no reason to believe that this
passion was reciprocal.

Markham was thrown much in the signora's society during his visit at her
father's house. He soon perceived that she preferred a conversation upon
edifying and intellectual subjects to the frivolous chit-chat of Sir
Cherry Bounce and Captain Dapper; and he frequently found himself
carrying on a lengthened discourse upon music, poetry, painting and
Italian literature, while the others were amusing themselves in the
billiard or smoking-rooms. But Isabel was no blue-stocking; she was full
of vivacity and life, and her conversation was sprightly and agreeable,
even when turning upon those serious subjects.

In a few days after Richard's arrival, it was always he who turned the
leaves of Isabella's music-book, "because Captain Dapper didn't know
when;" she always took his arm when they walked round the shrubbery and
garden after breakfast, "because Captain Dapper was constantly leaving
her to play Sir Cherry some trick;" and somehow or another at
meal-times, Richard and Isabella were invariably seated next to each
other.

Such was the state of things at the expiration of three weeks, to which
extent, although contrary to the original proposal of Armstrong, the
visit had already extended; and Captain Smilax Dapper more than once
fancied that he saw a rival in Richard Markham. At length he determined
to communicate his suspicions to his friend Sir Cherry Bounce--a
resolution which he carried into effect in the following manner.

"Cherry, my dear fellow," said he, one morning, taking the effeminate
young baronet with him into the garden, up the gravel walks of which he
walked in a very excited state; "Cherry, my dear fellow, I have
something upon my mind, strike me! and I wish to unburden myself to
you."

"Do you, Thmilackth? What can pothibly be the matter?" demanded the
youth, turning very pale. "Ith it veway terwible? becauth if it ith, I
had better call the count, and he will bwing hith blunderbuth."

"Strike me an idiot, Cherry, if you ain't a fool with your counts and
blunderbusses. Now listen to me! I love Isabella, and have been doing
the agreeable to her----"

"On my thoul I never could thee it!"

"I dare say not! strike me, if I didn't keep it so precious snug and
quiet! However I love the girl; and curse me if I don't have her
too--that's more! She shall be Mrs. Smilax Dapper, as sure as she's
born, and I hope the mother of a whole regiment of little Smilaxes. And
then Cherry, you shall stay a month or six weeks with us at a time, and
fondle the little ones on your knees, you shall, and every thing will go
on comfortable and smooth."

"Oh! veway thmooth!" cried Sir Cherry Bounce, making a slight grimace at
the pleasing prospect of fondling the Little Dappers upon his knees.

"And I suppose I am not presumptuous in aspiring to the hand of
Isabella? My father is a peer--and my uncle is a peer--and I have three
thousand a-year of my own, beside expectations. Strike me, if I'm a man
to be sneezed at!"

"Who thinkth of thneething at you?"

"I don't know exactly. And then I am not such a very bad looking fellow
either. You are not ugly, Cherry, you are not--that is, not particularly
ugly, although you have got pink eyes, and white lashes, and a pug
nose;--but I'm more athletic, strike me!"

"I'm thure I don't dithpute what you thay."

"Well then--acknowledging all this," proceeded the captain, "how should
I treat a fellow who endeavours to cut me out?"

"Thallenge him to fight with thword and pithtol," answered Sir Cherry.
"But who ith he?"

"That upstart fellow, Markham, who was brought here by that odious,
republican, seditious, disloyal scoundrel Armstrong, and who talks all
day about poetry and music, and God knows what. However, I can't say I
admire that plan of yours," continued the hussar; "swords and pistols,
you know are so very dangerous; and--and--"

"And what elth?"

"Why, you're a fool, Cherry. I thought you would have hit upon some plan
to enable me to secure the prize."

"Well then--thuppothing we carwy the girl off, to Wochethter for
inthanth."

"Deuce take Rochester! my regiment is quartered at Chatham."

"Well--to Canterbury then?"

"Yes--that will do--strike me blind if it won't!" ejaculated the
captain. "But if I could only get rid of this Markham somehow or
another, I should prefer it. The fellow----"

Captain Smilax Dapper stopped short: for at that moment, as he and his
companion were turning the angle of a summer-house, they ran against
Richard Markham.

"It wath'nt me--it wath'nt me who thpoke!" ejaculated Sir Cherry Bounce;
and having uttered these words, he very fairly took to his heels,
leaving his friend the captain to settle matters as best he might.

"Who was taking a most unwarrantable liberty with my name?" demanded
Richard, walking straight up to Captain Smilax Dapper.

"I certainly made an observation," answered the captain, turning mighty
pale, "and I do not hesitate to say, sir----"

"What, sir?"

"Why, sir--that I feel, sir--that strike me, sir!"

"Yes, sir--I _shall_ strike you," very coolly answered Markham; "and
that will teach you not to speak lightly of one, who is a comparative
stranger to you, on another occasion."

As he uttered these words, he seized the captain by the collar, and gave
him a couple of boxes on the ears. Dapper endeavoured to pluck up a
spirit and resist; but the ceremony was performed before he could
release himself from his assailant's clutches and he then returned to
the house, muttering threats of vengeance.

That same afternoon Markham took leave of his new friends.

On his return home, he found his dwelling more lonely and cheerless than
ever. He felt that he was isolated in the world; and his heart seemed to
be pierced with a red-hot iron when the remembrance of all his wrongs
returned to his imagination.

Oh! if we would but study the alphabet of fate, and remember that each
leaf which falls, each flower that dies, is but the emblem of man's
kindred doom, how much of the coldness, the selfishness, the viciousness
of life would be swept away, and earth would be but a proof-sheet of
heaven's fairer volume--with errors and imperfections, it is true, but
still susceptible of correction and amendment, ere its pages be unfolded
before the High Chancery of heaven!

Spring now asserted its tranquil reign once more; and May strewed the
earth with flowers, and covered the trees with foliage.

One evening Richard sate in his library reading until a very late hour.
Night came, and found him at his studies; and the morning dawned ere he
thought of retiring to slumber.

He hastened to his bed-room, with the intention of seeking his couch;
but he felt no inclination to sleep. He walked up to the window, drew
aside the curtain, and gazed forth into the open air. The partial
obscurity seemed to hang like a dusky veil against the windows: but by
degrees the darkness yielded to the grey light of the dawn.

He glanced in the direction of the hill upon the summit of which stood
the two trees; and he thought of his brother. He wondered, for the
thousandth time, whether the appointment would be eventually kept, and
why Eugene came not to revisit the home of his birth.

He was in the midst of cogitations like these, when his eyes were
suddenly struck by an object which seemed to be moving between the trees
upon the top of the hill. A superstitious fear seized upon Richard's
mind. In the first moment of his surprise he imagined that the
apparition of his brother had been led back to the trysting-place by
those leafy banners that proclaimed the covenant of the heart. But he
speedily divested himself of that momentary alarm, and smiled at his
folly in believing it to be extraordinary that any one should visit the
hill at that early hour.

The object was still there--it was a human being--and, as the morning
gradually grew brighter, he was enabled to distinguish that it was a
man.

But that was the hour at which labourers went to their daily
toils:--still, why should one of those peasants linger upon the top of
the hill, to reach which he must have gone out of his way?

Markham felt an indescribable curiosity to repair to the hill;--but he
was ashamed to yield to the superstitious impulse under the influence of
which he still more or less laboured;--and the sudden disappearance of
the object of his anxiety from the hill confirmed him in his resolution
to remain in his chamber. He accordingly closed the blind, and retired
to his couch, where he shortly sank into a deep slumber.

Markham was now plunged into the aërial world of dreams. First he saw
himself walking by the side of Isabella in a cool and shady grove, where
the birds were singing cheerily in the trees; and it seemed to him that
there reigned a certain understanding between himself and his fair
companion which allowed him to indulge in the most delightful and tender
hopes. He pressed her hand--she returned the token of affection and
love. Suddenly this scene was rudely interrupted. From a deep recess in
the grove appeared a wretch, covered with rags, dirty and revolting in
appearance, with matted hair, parched and cracked lips, wild and
ferocious eyes, and a demoniac expression of countenance. Isabella
screamed: the wretch advanced, grasped Richard's hand, gave utterance to
a horrible laugh, and claimed his friendship--the friendship of Newgate!
It seemed to Richard that he made a desperate effort to withdraw his
hand from that rude grasp;--and the attempt instantly awoke him.

He opened his eyes;--but the horror experienced in his dream was now
prolonged, for a human countenance was bending over him!

It was not, however, the distorted, hideous, and fearful one which he
had seen in his vision,--but a countenance handsome, though very pale,
and whose features were instantly familiar to him.

"Eugene, my brother--Eugene, dearest Eugene!" ejaculated Richard; and he
stretched out his arms to embrace him whom he thus adjured.

But scarcely had his eyes opened upon that countenance, when it was
instantly withdrawn; and Richard remained for a few moments in his bed,
deprived of all power of motion, and endeavouring to assure himself
whether he was awake or in a vision.

A sudden impulse roused him from his lethargy;--he sprang from his
couch, rushed towards the door, and called aloud for his brother.

The door was closed when he reached it; and no trace seemed to denote
that any visitor had been in that chamber.

He threw on a dressing-gown, hurried down stairs, and found all the
doors fast closed and locked as usual at that hour. He opened the
front-door, and looked forth,--but no one was to be seen. Bewildered and
alarmed, he returned to his bed-chamber, and once more sought his couch.
He again fell asleep, in the midst of numerous and conflicting
conjectures relative to the incident which had just occurred; and when
he awoke two hours afterwards, he was fain to persuade himself that it
was all a dream.

He dressed himself, and walked towards the hill. On his arrival at the
top, he instinctively cast his eyes upon the name and date carved in the
bark of his brother's tree. But how great was his surprise--how
ineffable his joy, when he beheld fresh traces of the same hand
imprinted on that tree. Beneath the former memento--and still fresh and
green, as if they had only been engraved a few hours--were the words--

EUGENE.

_May 17th, 1838._

"My God!" exclaimed Richard, "it was then no dream!"

He threw himself upon the seat between the two trees and wept
abundantly.




CHAPTER XL.

THE SPECULATION.--AN UNWELCOME MEETING.


Five months elapsed; and in the middle of October Richard received an
invitation to pass a few days at the abode of Count Alteroni.

He contemplated change of scene with unfeigned delight, and lost no time
in repairing to Richmond.

The count received him with the utmost cordiality: the countess
expressed a regret that he should wait to be solicited to honour them
with his company; and Isabella's countenance wore a smile and a blush as
she extended her hand towards him.

"I was anxious to see you again," said the count, after dinner, before
the ladies had retired, "if it were only to joke you about the fright
into which you threw poor Bounce the last time you were here. Isabel
apprehended a duel between you and Dapper; but we never could learn the
origin of your dispute."

"Indeed, I scarcely dreaded such an event," said Isabella; "for however
capable Mr. Markham may be of fighting, I felt perfectly well convinced
that Captain Dapper would not be induced to commit such a breach of the
peace."

"Our dispute was a mere trifle," said Markham; "and I am sorry it should
have reached your ears."

"The Trojan war sprung from a trifle," cried the count: "but these
trifles are frequently very interesting."

"The truth is," said Richard, "that I overheard Captain Dapper abuse me
to his companion, heaven only knows why! Sir Cherry Bounce started away;
and I was compelled to give the young officer a couple of boxes upon the
ears to teach him courtesy in future."

Isabella laughed heartily at this anecdote; and Markham felt
indescribably happy when he thus received a convincing proof that the
lovely Italian was in no way interested in that aspirant to her hand.

"I shall not invite those gentlemen here very readily again," observed
the count. "I thought that they would have helped to pass away the time
agreeably; but one was such a fool, and the other such a fop, that I was
really glad to get rid of them. However, I have now something else to
occupy my attention."

"The count is going to speculate in an English Company," said the
countess. "We foreigners, you know, Mr. Markham, are struck with the
facility with which enormous fortunes are built up in your country."

"Italy has lost all her commerce," added the count, with a sigh: "poor
Italy!"

"With all due deference to your experience," said Markham, "I should
counsel you to be particularly careful how you allow yourself to be
deluded by visionaries and adventurers."

"Oh! the gentleman who has proposed to me certain schemes for the
realization of an immense fortune, is a man of probity and honour. The
truth is, that the political condition of Italy may possibly compel me
to remain an exile from my native land for the rest of my existence; and
I am anxious to turn the means now within my reach to the best advantage
for my daughter."

"You know, my dear father," said Isabella, her eyes filling with tears,
"that I can be contented with a little--a very little."

"I think I have before informed you that I lost a considerable portion
of my own property through the nefarious speculations of an adventurer,"
observed Richard; "and I must confess that I look with a suspicious eye
upon all schemes which induce us to change realities for chances. You
possess, count, all that you require to make you happy during your
exile;--why should you sigh and languish after immense wealth?"

The signora bestowed a glance of gratitude upon Markham, who also rose
considerably in the estimation of the countess. Indeed, both the ladies
were very much averse to the count's ideas of speculating; and they were
delighted to find in their visitor so able an advocate of their
opinions.

"I consider," resumed the count, "that a man is bound to do the best he
can to increase the property he has to leave his offspring; and as my
own estate in Castelcicala is confiscated, and I have nothing to rely
upon but a certain sum of ready-money, I am determined to vest the
greater portion of it in an enterprize which will produce immense
returns."

"And what may the nature of the undertaking be?" inquired Markham.

"A line of steam-packets between London and Montoni, the capital of
Castelcicala. Such an enterprize would absorb all the commerce now
enjoyed by Leghorn and Civita Vecchia; and Montoni would be the great
mercantile port of Italy."

"The scheme certainly seems plausible," observed Richard; "and, guided
by your experience, may realize your expectations. I would rather see
you embarking money in such an undertaking than in those desperate and
outrageous ones which have nothing but their originality to recommend
them."

The count smiled with triumph and satisfaction at having thus disarmed
the opposition of his young friend to the projected speculation.

On the following day Count Alteroni repaired to London, and did not
return home until dinner-time.

After dinner, when he and Richard were sitting alone together, sipping
their claret, the count said in a semi-mysterious and confidential
manner, "I have this morning broken the ice: indeed, I have made the
first plunge. I have confided the necessary funds to Mr. Greenwood--that
is the name of the gentleman with whom I am to co-operate:--and he will
immediately busy himself with the foundation of the enterprize. I shall
not, however, mention this to the countess and Isabella for a few days;
for in commercial matters ladies always entertain apprehensions which
give one what you English call the 'blue-devils.'"

Richard made no observation. The evil--if evil it were--was done; and he
did not choose to fill the count with apprehensions which might
eventually prove to be unfounded. The conversation upon the subject
accordingly dropped for the present; and the two gentlemen joined the
ladies in the drawing-room.

Several weeks glided away; and Markham still remained at Richmond. His
acquaintance with the count's family rapidly expanded into an intimacy
which gave him unfeigned pleasure. The count treated him as a near
relative--almost as a son; the countess was charmed with him because he
could converse upon German literature and history;--and where the
parents were so encouraging, how could the daughter be reserved?
Isabella was naturally of a frank and confiding disposition; and she
soon learned to consider Markham as a very intimate friend of the
family. Whenever he hinted at the necessity of returning to his own
home, he expressed his fears that he was intruding upon the hospitality
of his kind hosts, Isabella always had some cause ready to delay his
departure, as soon as her father and mother had concluded their own
entreaties for him to prolong his visit. Markham had nothing to occupy
his attention elsewhere; and he was thus easily induced to remain in a
mansion where he received so much kindness, and where there was an
attraction that daily disclosed new charms and revealed fresh spells.

It was in the middle of December that Markham was walking, on a fine
frosty morning, with Isabella along the high road in the immediate
vicinity of the count's dwelling, when he noticed a strange and
repulsive looking individual following them at a short distance. At
first he supposed that the man's way lay in the same direction which he
and his fair companion were pursuing; he accordingly turned with
Isabella into another path, and, to his misfortune and annoyance, found
that he was still followed by the stranger whose dilapidated appearance,
long black matted hair, week's beard, filthy person, and sinister
expression of countenance, filled him with alarming suspicions.

He remembered his dream; and a shudder passed through his frame.

Determined to ascertain the motive of this man's perseverance in dogging
him thus, he conducted Isabella by a short cut back to the house, and
retraced his steps to encounter the person who was still following him.

The man advanced towards him with a dogged and determined air, and yet
downcast eyes, which were buried beneath his projecting temples and
shaggy brows.

"Holloa, my fine fellow!" he exclaimed, when he came within a few yards
of Richard; "you don't mean to say that you have forgotten an old pal?"

"What, Anthony--is this you?" said Markham, turning deadly pale as he
recognised one of his fellow-prisoners in Newgate.

It was the Resurrection Man.

"Yes--it is me--poor Tony Tidkins. But now permit me to ask you a
question or two. What are you doing now? Who lives there? And what young
girl was that you were walking about with?"

"And by what right do you dare put those insolent queries to me?" cried
Markham, surveying the ruffian with mingled indignation and disgust.

"Oh! if you don't choose to answer my questions, I can precious soon
ascertain all the truth for myself," coolly replied the Resurrection
Man, who never once looked Markham in the face--then, having uttered
these words, he advanced a few paces as if he were about to seek the
count's dwelling.

"Wretch! what do you mean to do?" ejaculated Richard, hurrying after
him and detaining him by the arm: "you do not know that that abode is
sacred--that it is the residence of probity, innocence, and honour--that
if you were to breathe a hint who and what you are, you would be spurned
from the door?"

[Illustration]

"Ah! I am accustomed to _that_ in this Christian land--in this land of
Bibles and Missionary Societies," said the Resurrection Man bitterly:
then, resuming his dogged surliness of tone, he added, "But at all
events I can first ask for alms and a morsel of bread at that house, and
thereupon state that the gentleman who was just now walking with the
young lady belonging to the house, was a companion of mine in Newgate--a
communication which will tend to preserve the innocence, honour,
probity, and all the rest of it, of that family."

With these words he again set off in the direction of the count's abode.

"Confusion!" exclaimed Markham: "this man will now effect my ruin!"

A second time did he stop the Resurrection Man as he advanced towards
the residence of the Italians.

"Well--what now? isn't a man at liberty to walk which way he chooses?"

"You cannot be so base as to betray me? you would not ruin my happiness
for ever?" said Richard, in whose mind the particulars of his dream were
now uppermost.

"And why should I have any regard for you, since you receive and treat
me as if I was a dog?"

"I really did not mean----"

"Oh! bother to all apologies," cried the Resurrection Man ferociously.

"My God! what do you want of me? what can I do for you?" exclaimed
Richard, uncertain how to act, and his mind a prey to the most painful
emotions; for he already fancied that he saw himself exposed--banished
from the count's hospitable roof--separated from Isabella, without a
chance of reconciliation--and reproached for having intruded himself
upon the society of a virtuous and untainted family.

The mere anticipation of such an afflicting series of incidents was more
than he could bear; and he was prepared to make any sacrifices to avert
so terrible an occurrence.

"I may obtain from your fears what I should not have got from your
generosity," exclaimed the Resurrection Man: "but it doesn't matter what
motive produces it, so long as I get it."

"And what is it that you require?" asked Richard hastily. "But let us
walk aside--they may see us from the windows."

"And what do I care it they do?" brutally demanded the Resurrection Man.
"I suppose I shan't suffer in character by talking to a companion in
former misfortunes?" he added, in a sarcastic tone.

There was something peculiarly revolting about that man;--his death-like
countenance, jet-black whiskers, shaggy brows, averted glances, and
horrible nick-name, all combined to render him a loathsome and
disgusting object.

The contact of such a wretch was like plunging one's hand amidst the
spawn of toads.

But the savage irony of this monster--oh! that was utterly intolerable.
Richard writhed beneath it.

"Now I tell you what it is," said the Resurrection Man, who probably by
this time saw that he had reduced the young man to a pliability suitable
to his purposes; "if you will only be civil I'll accommodate you to the
utmost of my power. Let us walk away from the house--we can then talk
more at our ease."

Richard accompanied the miscreant a short distance; and then they again
stopped, but no longer within view of the count's residence.

"You can, doubtless, suppose what I want!" said the Resurrection Man,
turning suddenly round upon Markham, and looking him full in the face
for the first time.

"Money, I presume," replied Richard.

"Yes--money. I know that you were in expectation of a great fortune when
you were in Newgate; and I suppose you have not run through it all yet."

"I was almost totally ruined, during my imprisonment, by the unfortunate
speculations in which my guardian engaged," answered Markham mournfully.

"That's all my eye! Nevertheless, I won't be hard upon you: I know that
you have got a splendid house and a grand estate close by----"

"A few acres of land, as heaven is my witness!"

"Well--you may try it on as much as you like; but I tell you plainly it
won't do for me. Let us cut this matter devilish short, and come to some
understanding at once. I am hard up--I don't know what to turn my hand
to for a moment; and I can't get orders for the stiff'uns as I used to
do."

"All that I have told you about the loss of my property is quite true,"
said Markham; "and I have now but little more than a bare two hundred
a-year to live upon."

"Well, I will be generous and let you off easy," said the Resurrection
Man. "You shall give me for the present----"

"For the present!" repeated Markham, all the terror of his mind again
betraying itself; "if I make any arrangement with you at all, it would
be upon the express condition that you would never molest me more."

"Be it so," said the Resurrection Man, whom the promise cost nothing,
and who knew that there was nothing to bind him to its implicit
performance; "give me five hundred pounds, and I will never seek you out
again."

"Five hundred pounds!" exclaimed Richard: "I cannot command the money!"

"Not a mag less will I take," said the extortioner with a determined air
and voice.

"I really cannot comply with the proposal--I have not the money--I do
not know where to get it. Why do you persecute me in this way? what harm
have I ever done to you? why should you seek to ruin me, and to
annihilate all my hopes of again establishing myself in an honourable
position in society? Tell me--by what right, by what law, do you now
endeavour to extort--vilely, infamously extort--this money from me?"

No pen could describe--no painter depict the singular expression of
countenance which the Resurrection Man wore as these words fell upon his
ears. He knew not whether to burst out into a fit of laughter, or to
utter a volley of imprecations against his former companion in Newgate;
and so, not to be wrong by doing one and omitting the other, he did
both. His ironical and ferocious laugh fell horribly upon the ears of
Markham, who was at the same time assailed by such a string of oaths and
blasphemies, that he trembled.

"You want to know by what law and right I demand money of you," cried
the wretch, when he had indulged in this out-pouring of laughter and
imprecations to his heart's content: "well--I will tell you. My law is
that practised by all the world--_the oppression of the weak by the
strong_; and my right is also that of universal practice--_the right of
him who takes what will not dare to be refused_. Now, then, you
understand me; and if not, hear my resolution."

"Speak," said Richard, now thoroughly cooled and disarmed; "and let me
know the worst at once."

"You have confirmed my suspicion that you are courting the young girl I
saw you walking with: you have confirmed that suspicion by your manner
and your words. Now, I require five hundred pounds; and if you are
anxious that your fair one should remain in ignorance of your Old Bailey
adventures, you had better comply with my terms."

"I positively declare that I have not the money," said Richard.

"Make it."

"But how?"

"Borrow it of the young lady's father or mother, or uncle, or aunt."

"Never--impossible!"

"You say that you have a few acres of land left. I believe you have
more; but let's take your own statement. Upon those few acres you can
easily borrow the money I require."

"And diminish my miserable income still more?"

"Yes--or no, without further wrangling? You must be well aware that this
sacrifice is necessary if the girl is worth having."

"In the name of heaven, allude not to--to--to Miss---- to the young lady
with whom you saw me ere now;--allude not to her in this disgraceful
manner!" cried Markham; for when the lips of that horrible man framed a
sentiment which bore reference to Isabella, it seemed to Richard as if a
loathsome serpent was pouring its slimy venom upon a sweet and blooming
flower.

"Will you give me the money?" demanded the Resurrection Man.

"I will give you two hundred pounds--I have no more--I can get no
more--I will not raise any more upon my property."

"Can't be done," returned the ruffian. "I will have the five hundred, or
nothing."

"It will take some days to procure the money," said Markham, yielding
gradually.

"Never mind. Give me what you have about you for my present purposes,
and name the day and place for me to receive the rest."

Markham took his purse from his pocket, and examined its contents. There
were seventeen sovereigns at that moment at his command. He retained
two, and handed fifteen to the Resurrection Man, who pocketed them with
savage glee.

"Now this looks like business," said he, "and is an earnest that you
will do the thing that's right. Where and when for the remainder?"

"In a fortnight I will meet you at any place you may name in London,"
answered Markham.

"Well, make it a fortnight. Do you know the _Dark House_, in Brick Lane,
Bethnal Green?"

"What is it?" asked Richard, shuddering at the name.

"A public-house. Any one will tell you where it is. This day fortnight I
shall expect to find you there at eight o'clock in the evening. If I
don't happen to be punctual, you can wait for me; and if I don't come
that night, I shall the next. Remember how much depends upon your
fulfilment of the contract."

"I shall not fail," answered Richard, with a sinking of the heart which
none can understand who have not been placed in a similar position. "And
you, on your part, will adhere to your side of the agreement?"

"Mute as a mouse," said the Resurrection Man; "and should I afterwards
meet you by accident, I shall not know you. Farewell."

With these words the Resurrection Man turned away, and pursued his
course towards London.

Markham followed him with his eyes until he turned an angle of the road
and was no longer to be seen.

Then only did Richard breathe freely.




CHAPTER XLI.

MR. GREENWOOD.


About six o'clock in the evening--ten days after the incident which
concluded the preceding chapter,--a handsome cabriolet drove up to the
door of a house in Spring Gardens.

Down jumped the tiger--an urchin not much bigger than a walking
stick--and away went the knocker, rat-tat-tat, for upwards of fifteen
seconds. A servant in livery opened the door, and an elegantly-dressed
gentleman, about six or seven and twenty years of age, alighted from the
vehicle.

This gentleman rushed up stairs to his study, drew forth his
cheque-book, wrote an order upon his banker for a thousand pounds,
enclosed it in an envelope, and immediately despatched the letter to
Lord Tremordyn by one of his numerous domestics. He had that afternoon
lost the money to his lordship in some sporting-bet; and, "as it was a
debt of honour," he could not possibly think of sitting down to dinner,
or even pulling off his boots (which, being fashionable, pinched him
excessively) without settling it.

As soon as he had done this, another servant entered the room, and said,
"If you please, sir, Mrs. Mangles has called, and is waiting below to
see you. She has been here these three hours, and wishes very much to
say a few words to you, sir."

"What! that bothering upholsterer's wife!" ejaculated the gentleman, in
a tone of indignation which would have induced a stranger to believe
that he was the most persecuted man in the world. "Why--her husband's
account hasn't been owing quite a year yet; and here she is boring from
morning to night."

"Please, sir, she says that her husband is locked up in a
spunging-house."

"Serve him right!"

"But he is a hard-working sober man----"

"He shouldn't run into debt."

"And he has five children."

"It is really disgusting! these lower orders literally swarm with
children!"

"And if you would only pay a quarter of the money, he would get out
to-night."

"I won't pay a sixpence till January."

"Then he will be totally ruined, sir, his wife says."

"Well--he must be ruined, then. Go and turn her out, and send up
Lafleur."

And the fashionable gentleman, who would not owe a _debt of honour_ for
half an hour, thought no more of the sum which was due to a tradesman,
which had been already owing for nearly a year, and which he could have
immediately settled without the slightest inconvenience to himself.

For this man was rich; and, having got his money in the City (God knows
how), had now come to the West End to make the most of it.

"Lafleur," said the fashionable gentleman to the French valet, "you must
dismiss that fellow John to-morrow morning."

"Yes, sir."

"He actually had the impertinence to bring me a message from a dun,
while I was in a hurry to get dressed for dinner."

"Indeed, sir--you don't say so sir!" ejaculated the valet, who had as
much horror of a dun as an overseer has of a pauper. "Yes, sir--I will
dismiss him to-morrow, sir--and without a character too."

"Do, Lafleur. And now to dress. Are the company come?"

"Mr. Chichester and Sir Rupert Harborough are in the drawing-room, sir."

"Oh!" said Mr. Greenwood--for such was the gentleman's name--"very
well!"

Having carelessly perused three or four letters which he found upon his
table, he repaired to his dressing-room, where he washed his hands in a
silver basin, while the poor upholsterer's wife returned to her husband
in the lock-up house, to say that their last hope had failed, and that
nothing but a debtor's gaol awaited them. Accordingly, while the poor
man was being carried off to Whitecross Street Prison, Mr. Greenwood
repaired to his elegantly furnished drawing-room to welcome the guests
whom he had invited that day to dinner.

"My dear Sir Rupert," said Mr. Greenwood, "I am delighted to see you.
Chichester, how are you? Where have you both been for the last six
months? Scarcely had I the pleasure of forming your acquaintance, when
you were off like shots: and I have never seen nor heard of you till
this morning."

"Upon my honour, I hardly know what we have been doing--or indeed, what
we have _not_ been doing," ejaculated the baronet. "We have been in
Paris and Brussels, and enjoyed all the pleasures of the Continent."

"And we found our way into the good graces of the Parisian ladies, and
the purses of their husbands," observed Chichester, with a complacent
smile.

"Ah! ah!" said Mr. Greenwood, laughing. "Trust you both for allowing
yourselves to starve in a land of plenty."

"And so here we are, come back to England quite fresh and ready for new
sport," said Chichester. "You see that it is useful to go abroad for a
season every now and then. Immediately after I passed through the
Insolvents' Court, two years ago, I went to Paris for six months, and
came home again with a new reputation, as it were."

"By the bye, Sir Rupert," exclaimed Mr. Greenwood, "I lost a cool
thousand to your father-in-law this afternoon at Tattersall's."

"What! does the old lord do things in so spirited a way as that?" cried
the baronet.

"Yes--now and then. I believe you and he are not on very good terms?
When I asked him after you a month or two ago, he appeared to evade the
conversation."

"The fact is," said the baronet, "old Lord and Lady Tremordyn pretend
that I treat their daughter with neglect--just because I cannot and will
not be tied to my wife's apron strings. I did not want to marry her; but
Lady Tremordyn intrigued to catch me; and the old lord came down
handsome--and so the match was made up."

The baronet did not think of informing his friend that he had stipulated
for twenty thousand pounds to pay his debts, ere he would do justice to
the young and beautiful creature whom he had seduced, and whose pathetic
appeal to her mother has been already laid before the reader in the
chapter which treats of the _Black Chamber_ of the General Post Office.

"Do you know what has become of your old flame Diana Arlington?"
inquired Mr. Greenwood of the baronet, after a pause.

"And was she not _your_ old flame too?" said Sir Rupert, laughing. "I
believe that when you were plain Mr. George Montague, instead of Mr.
Montague Greenwood----"

"Oh! I have assumed the name of Greenwood, remember, because a relation
of that name has left me a considerable fortune."

"Well--that is a very good story to tell the world, but not friends, my
dear fellow," said the baronet, coolly. "But we were talking of the
Enchantress. I presume she is still under the protection of the Earl of
Warrington?"

"So I understand," replied Greenwood.

"Well--I must say," continued the baronet, "I always liked Diana; and I
dare say we should have been together up to the present moment, if it
had not been for that infernal affair of Markham's."

"Ah! Richard Markham!" ejaculated Mr. Greenwood hastily. "I have heard
of him--but never seen him."

"I and Chichester were compelled to sacrifice him to save ourselves,"
observed Harborough.

"Yes--yes--it was a pity--a great pity," cried Greenwood, poking the
fire violently.

"I wonder what has become of that same Markham?" said Chichester.

"I understand that he lost the greater portion of his property by some
unfortunate speculation or another, but the nature of which I have never
learnt," replied Greenwood.

"And what about this Steam-Packet Company of which you were speaking
this morning?" inquired Sir Rupert Harborough.

"The fact is, I have got a certain Italian count in tow, and I intend to
make him useful. He is an emigrant from the Grand Duchy of Castelcicala,
having been concerned in some treasonable proceedings with Prince
Alberto, who is the Grand Duke's nephew, and who has also been compelled
to fly to some other country. Be it as it may, this Count Alteroni and I
became acquainted; and, in the course of conversation, he observed that
a fortune might be made by the establishment of a line of steam-packets
between London and Montoni, the capital of Castelcicala. He added that
he should be very willing to embark his own capital in such an
enterprise. '_How extraordinary!_' I immediately exclaimed: '_I had
myself entertained the very same idea!_' The count was enchanted; and he
has already advanced a considerable sum."

At this moment dinner was announced; and the three gentlemen proceeded
to the apartment in which it was served up. The repast consisted of all
the luxuries in season, and many _out_ of season: the choicest wines
were produced; and justice was done to each and all, while wit and
humour flowed as freely, and sparkled as brightly as the juice of the
grape itself. The baronet was more affable than ever;--Mr. Chichester
related several amusing anecdotes of midnight sprees, policemen,
knockers, station-houses, and magistrates;--and Mr. Greenwood explained
his plans relative to the steam-packets.

"I should very much like to have you both in the Direction," said Mr.
Montague Greenwood, when he had terminated his elucidations: "but I have
learnt that this Richard Markham, of whom we have been talking, is
acquainted with the count; and if he saw your names connected with the
affair, he would instantly blow upon it. I should then have the count
upon me for the fifteen thousand pounds he has already lodged in my
hands."

"Let us write an anonymous letter to the count, and inform him that
Markham has been convicted at the Old Bailey," suggested Chichester.

"No--no," ejaculated Greenwood emphatically: "you have injured that
young man enough already."

"And what do you care about him?" cried Chichester. "You said just now
that you had never seen him."

"I did--and I repeat the assertion," answered Greenwood; then, in a very
serious tone, he added, "and I will beg you both to remember, gentlemen,
that if you wish to co-operate with me in any of those speculations
which I know so well how to manage, you will leave Mr. Richard Markham
alone; for I have certain private reasons for being rather anxious to do
him a service than an injury."

"Well, I will not in any way interfere with your good intentions," said
the baronet.

"Nor I," observed Chichester.

"And as it is impossible for you to enter my Steam-Packet Company,"
added Mr. Greenwood, "I will let you into another good thing which I
have in view, and in which a certain banker is concerned. To tell you
the real truth, this banker has been insolvent for some time; and if his
father had not advanced him about fifty thousand pounds three years ago,
he would have gone to smash. As it was, the Lords of the Treasury got
hold of his real position, by some means or another--he never could
divine how; and they refused a tender which he sent in for a certain
money contract--I don't know exactly what. _Now_ his petition is more
desperate than ever, and he and I are going to do an admirable stroke of
business. I will let you both into it."

We need scarcely remind the reader that the banker now alluded to was
the writer of one of the letters perused by the Examiner's clerks in the
_Black Chamber_.

The conversation between the three gentlemen was proceeding very
comfortably, when a servant entered the room, and, handing his master a
card upon a silver tray, said, "This gentleman, sir, requests to be
allowed to see you, if perfectly convenient."

"The Count Alteroni!" exclaimed Mr. Greenwood. "What the devil could
have brought him to London at this time of night? John--show him into
the study--there is a good fire for him; and if that won't warm his
heart, perhaps a bottle of Burgundy will."

The servant left the room; and in a few moments Mr. Greenwood hastened
to join the count in the elegant apartment which was denominated "the
study."

"My dear sir, I have to apologise for calling thus late," said the
count; "but the truth is that I had a little business which brought me
up to town to-day, and in this neighbourhood too; and I thought----"

"Pray offer no excuses, my dear count," interrupted Mr. Greenwood. "The
truth is, I wished to see you very particularly--upon a matter not
altogether connected with our enterprise----"

"Indeed," said the count; "you interest me. Pray explain yourself."

"In the first place, allow me to ask whether the ladies are yet
acquainted with the undertaking in which you have embarked?"

"Yes--I acquainted them with the fact this very morning."

"And do they approve of it?"

"They approve of every thing of which I think well, and disapprove of
all that I abhor."

"And do they know that I am the projector and principal in the
enterprise?" demanded Greenwood.

"They are acquainted with every thing," answered the count. "Indeed,
they have formed of you the same exalted opinion which I myself
entertain. It would be strange if they had not. We met you at the house
of Lord Tremordyn; and that nobleman spoke in the highest possible terms
of you. But what connection exists between all those questions which you
have put to me, and the matter concerning which you desired to see me?"

"I am not sure that I ought to explain myself at present, nor to _you_
in the first instance," was the answer, delivered with some
embarrassment of manner: "at all events I should wish you to know a
little more of me, and to have some reason to thank me for the little
service which I shall have the means of rendering you, in enabling you
to treble your capital."

The count appeared mystified; and Mr. Greenwood continued:--

"I had the pleasure of seeing the amiable countess and her lovely
daughter many times last summer at the house of Lord Tremordyn; and no
one could know the Signora Isabella without being forcibly struck by her
personal and mental qualifications. To render myself agreeable to Miss
Isabella would be the height of my earthly happiness. You will pardon my
presumption; but----"

Mr. Greenwood ceased, and looked at the count to ascertain the effect
which his words had produced.

The honourable and open-hearted Italian was not averse to this
proposition. He considered his own affairs and prospects in Castelcicala
to be so desperate that he was bound to make the best provision he could
for his daughter in a free, enlightened, and hospitable nation. Mr.
Greenwood was good looking, moving in the best society, well spoken of
by a peer of the realm (who, by the way, merely judged of Greenwood's
character by the punctuality with which he paid his gambling debts), and
evidently immensely rich;--his manners were elegant, and his taste
refined;--and, in a word, he might be called a most eligible suitor for
the hand of the count's daughter. Not being over-well skilled in affairs
of the heart himself, the count had not noticed the attachment which
decidedly existed between Isabella and Richard Markham; and it never for
a moment struck him that his daughter might manifest the most powerful
repugnance to Mr. Greenwood.

"I have no doubt," said he, after a long pause, "that Isabella will feel
highly flattered by your good opinion of her. Indeed, I shall inform her
without delay of the manner in which you have expressed yourself."

"My dear sir," interrupted Greenwood hastily, "in the name of heaven
tell the signora nothing at all about our present conversation. Her
delicacy would be offended. Rather give me an opportunity of making
myself better known to your daughter."

"I understand you. Come and pass a week or two with us at Richmond. We
have not a soul staying with us at the present moment, Mr. Markham, who
was our last guest, having returned to his own abode about ten days
ago."

"This is a busy time with me," began Mr. Greenwood; "and I could
scarcely spare a week with justice to yourself and my own interests----"

"True," interrupted the count. "I will bring the ladies up to town at
the beginning of the new year. We have a very pressing invitation from
the Tremordyns, and I will avail myself of it."

Mr. Greenwood expressed his gratitude to the count for the favour which
his suit thus received; and in a few minutes the Italian noble took his
leave, more than ever convinced of the honour, wealth, and business-like
habits of Mr. Greenwood.

"There," said the man of the world, as he once more seated himself at
the table in the dining-room, where he had left the baronet and
Chichester, "I have not passed the last hour unprofitably. I have not
only demanded the hand of the count's lovely daughter, but have also
persuaded the count to pay a few weeks' visit to your father-in-law,
Lord Tremordyn," he added, addressing Sir Rupert.

"And what good do you propose by the latter arrangement?" demanded the
baronet.

"I shall get the count's family at a house which Richard Markham stands
no chance of visiting: for even if the count asked him to call upon him
there, Markham would refuse, because he is sure to have read or heard
that you, Sir Rupert, have married Lady Cecilia Huntingfield, and he
would be afraid of meeting _you_ at Lord Tremordyn's residence."

"And why should you be so anxious to separate the count from Markham,
since Chichester and I are not to be in the Steam-packet concern?"

"Because I myself could not, for certain reasons, visit the count's
family if I stood the chance of meeting that same Richard Markham."

Mr. Greenwood then immediately changed the conversation, and pushed the
bottle briskly about.




CHAPTER XLII.

"THE DARK HOUSE."


Markham did not forget his appointment with the Resurrection Man. Having
obtained the necessary sum from his solicitor, he determined to
sacrifice it in propitiating a miscreant who possessed the power of
wounding him in a tender and almost vital point. Accordingly we find
him, on the evening agreed upon, threading his way on foot amidst the
maze of narrow streets and crooked alleys which lie in the immediate
neighbourhood of Spitalfields Church.

There is not probably in all London--not even in Saint Giles's nor the
Mint--so great an amount of squalid misery and fearful crime huddled
together, as in the joint districts of Spitalfields and Bethnal Green.
Between Shoreditch Church and Wentworth Street the most intense pangs of
poverty, the most profligate morals, and the most odious crimes, rage
with the fury of a pestilence.

Entire streets that are nought but sinks of misery and vice,--dark
courts, foetid with puddles of black slimy water,--alleys, blocked up
with heaps of filth, and nauseating with unwholesome odours, constitute,
with but little variety, the vast district of which we are speaking.

The Eastern Counties' Railway intersects Spitalfields and Bethnal Green.
The traveller upon this line may catch, from the windows of the carriage
in which he journeys, a hasty, but alas! too comprehensive glance of the
wretchedness and squalor of that portion of London. He may actually
obtain a view of the interior and domestic misery peculiar to the
neighbourhood;--he may penetrate, with his eyes, into the secrets of
those abodes of sorrow, vice, and destitution. In summer time the poor
always have their windows open, and thus the hideous poverty of their
rooms can be readily descried from the summit of the arches on which the
railroad is constructed.

And in those rooms may be seen women half naked,--some employed in
washing the few rags which they possess,--others ironing the linen of a
more wealthy neighbour,--a few preparing the sorry meal,--and numbers
scolding, swearing, and quarrelling. At many of the windows, men out of
work, with matted hair, black beards, and dressed only in filthy shirts
and ragged trousers,--lounge all the day long, smoking. From not a few
of the open casements hang tattered garments to dry in the sun. Around
the doors children, unwashed, uncombed, shoeless, dirty, and uncared
for--throng in numbers,--a rising generation of thieves and vagabonds.

In the districts of Spitalfields and Bethnal Green the police are but
little particular with regard to street-stalls. These portable shops are
therefore great in number and in nuisance. Fish, fresh and
fried,--oysters, sweet-stuff, vegetables, fruit, cheap publications,
sop-in-the-pan, shrimps and periwinkles, hair-combs, baked potatoes,
liver and lights, curds and whey, sheep's heads, haddocks and
red-herrings, are the principal comestibles which find vendors and
purchasers in the public street. The public-houses and the pawnbrokers
also drive an excellent trade in that huge section of London.

In a former chapter we have described the region of Saffron Hill: all
the streets and courts of that locality are safe and secure when
compared with many in Bethnal Green and Spitalfields. There are lanes
and alleys between Shoreditch and Church Street, and in the immediate
neighbourhood of the Railway east of Brick Lane, through which a
well-dressed person would not wander with a gold chain round his neck,
at night, were he prudent.

Leading from the neighbourhood of Church Street up into the Hackney
Road, is a sinuous thoroughfare, composed of Tyssen Street, Turk Street,
Virginia Street, and the Bird-cage Walk; and in the vicinity of these
narrow and perilous ways are the Wellington Road (bordered by a ditch of
black mud), and several vile streets, inhabited by the very lowest of
the low, the most filthy of the squalid, and the most profligate of the
immoral.

We defy any city upon the face of the earth to produce a district equal
in vice, dirt, penury, and fear-inspiring dens, to these which we are
now describing.

The _Dark House_ was a tavern of the lowest description in Brick Lane, a
little north of the spot where the railway now intersects the street.
The parlour of the _Dark House_ was dirty and repulsive in all respects;
the gas-lights formed two enormous black patches upon the ceiling; the
tables were occupied by ill-looking men, whose principal articles of
consumption were tobacco and malt liquor, and the atmosphere was filled
with a dense volume of smoke. Markham was ashamed to be seen in such a
place and in such society; but he consoled himself with the idea that
neither he nor his business was known to those present; and as very
little notice was taken of him as he proceeded to seat himself in the
most retired and obscure corner, he speedily divested himself of the
momentary embarrassment which had seized upon him.

Having satisfied himself by a glance that the Resurrection Man was not
there, Richard ordered a glass of spirits and water, and resolved to
await with patience the arrival of the extortioner.

By degrees he fell into a train of reflections in which he had never
been involved before. He was about to purchase the silence of a villain
who had menaced him with exposure to a family whose good opinion he
valued. We have said elsewhere that he was a young man of the strictest
honour, and that he was ever animated with the most scrupulous integrity
of purpose. He could no longer conceal from himself the fact that he
entertained a sincere and deep attachment for the Signora Isabella, and
he flattered himself that he was not disagreeable to her in return. His
transient passion for Mrs. Arlington had faded away with reflection, and
he now comprehended the immense difference between an evanescent flame
of that nature,--a flame kindled only by animal beauty, and unsustained
by moral considerations,--and the pure, chaste, and sacred affection he
experienced towards the charming Isabella. From the moment of his
release from confinement, he had never inquired after Diana--much less
sought after her; he knew not where she was, nor what had become of her,
and his heart was totally independent of any inclination in her favour.
He now asked himself whether he was pursuing an honourable part in
concealing the antecedent adventures of his life from her whose pure and
holy love he was so anxious to retain, whose confidence he would not
lose for worlds, and whose peace of mind he would not for a moment
sacrifice to his own passion or interest?

He had not satisfactorily answered the question which he had thus put to
himself, when he was aroused from his reverie by the sound of a voice at
the further end of the room, which appeared familiar to him.

Glancing in that direction, he immediately recognised the well-known
form and features of Mr. Talbot, the vulgar companion of Sir Rupert
Harborough and Mr. Chichester.

But how had the mighty fallen! The charitable gentleman now seemed to
require the aid of charity himself. His hat, which was originally a
gossamer at four-and-nine, was now so fully ventilated about the crown,
that it would have fetched nothing at a Jews' auction, even though
George Robins himself had put it up for sale. His coat was out at the
elbows, his trousers out at the knees, and his shoes out at the toes; he
was out of _cash_ and out of _spirits_; and as he had none of the
former, he trusted to the kindness of the frequenters of the _Dark
House_ parlour to supply him with some of the latter, diluted with hot
water, and rendered more agreeable by means of sugar. Indeed, at the
moment when his voice fell upon Markham's ear, he was just about to
apply his lips to a tumbler of gin-punch which a butcher had ordered for
his behoof.

"Well, Mr. Pocock," (this was Talbot's real name), said the butcher,
"how does the world use you now?"

"Very bad, indeed, Mr. Griskin," was the reply. "For the last three
year, come Janivary, I havn't known, when I got up in the morning, where
the devil I should sleep at night;--and that is God Almighty's truth."

"I'm sorry to hear your affairs don't mend," said the butcher. "For my
part, I'm getting on blooming. I was a bankrupt only seven weeks ago."

"A strange manner of being successful in business," thought Markham.

"But all my goods was seized by the landlord," added the butcher, in a
triumphant tone of voice; "and so they was saved from the messenger of
the Court, when he come down to take possession."

"Ah! I suppose your bankruptcy has put you all right again," said
Pocock. "Nothing like a bankruptcy now-a-days--it makes a man's
fortune."

"Yes--and no going to quod neither. I made a lot of friends of mine
creditors, and so I got my certificate the wery same day as I passed my
second examination; and now I'm as right as a trivet. But what ails you,
though, old feller, that you can't contrive to get on?"

"The fact is," said Pocock, sipping his gin-and-water, "I was led into
bad company about three or four years ago, and I don't care before who I
say it, or who knows what infernal scrapes I was partly the means of
getting a nice young fellow into."

"I suppose you fell in with flash company?" observed the butcher.

"I did indeed! I went out of my element--out of my proper sphere, as I
may say; and when a man does that without the means of keeping in it,
he's d----d and done for at once. I fell in with a baronet and a swell
cove of the name of Chichester, or Winchester, and who after all turned
out to be the son of old Chichester the pawnbroker down the street here.
They made a perfect tool of me. I was fed and pampered, and lived on the
fat of the land; and then, when the scheme fell through, I was trundled
off like a hoop of which a charity schoolboy is tired. I fell into
distress; and though I've met this here baronet and that there
Chichester riding in their cabs, with tigers behind and horses before,
they never so much as said, '_Talbot_,' or '_Pocock, my tulip, here is a
quid for you_.'"

"Willanous," ejaculated the butcher. "But of what natur' was the scheme
you talk of?"

"Why, I'll tell you that too. I shall certainly proclaim my own crimes;
but I don't hesitate to say that I was led away by those two thieves. My
name, as you well know, is Bill Pocock, and they made me take the name
of Talbot. I was brought up as an engraver, and did pretty well until
some four years ago, when I lost my wife and got drinking, and then
every thing went wrong. One day I fell in with this Chichester, and he
lent me some money. He then began telling me how he knew the way of
making an immense fortune with very little trouble, and no risk or
expense to myself."

"So far, so good," said the butcher.

"I was hard up--I was rendered desperate by the death of my wife, and,
to tell the truth, I wanted to live an idle life. I had got attached to
public-house parlours, and couldn't sit down to work with the graver. So
I bit at Chichester's proposal, and he introduced me to the baronet."

"Another glass, Pocock," interrupted the butcher, winking to the other
inmates of the parlour, who were now all listening with the greatest
attention to this narrative--but none with more avidity nor with deeper
interest than Richard Markham, who sate unperceived by Pocock in his
obscure corner.

"The scheme was certainly a very ingenious one," continued Talbot, "and
deserved success. It was nothing more nor less than making bank-notes. I
was used to engraving plates of that kind; and so I undertook the job. I
don't care if any one here present goes and informs against me; perhaps
I should be better off in a prison than out of one. But what goes to my
heart--and what I can never forget, and shall reproach myself for as
long as I live, was the getting of a nice young fellow into a scrape,
and making him stand Moses for the punishment, as you do, Griskin, for
the grog."

"And who was this young chap?" demanded the butcher.

"One Markham. You must recollect his case. He was tried just about this
time three years ago, and sentenced to two years' imprisonment."

"Can't say I recollect."

"Well--this Markham was as innocent about the notes, as the child
unborn!" added Pocock emphatically.

"I raly don't see that you need take on so," remarked the butcher, "for
after all, you'd better let another feller get into trouble than be
locked up in lavender yourself."

"It was an unfortunate event," said Pocock, shaking his head solemnly,
"and nothing has prospered with me since. But what vexes me as much as
all the rest, is to think of the conduct of those two chaps, Chichester
and the baronet. They pretended not to know who I was, when I one day
stopped them in Regent Street, and wanted to borrow a few pounds of
them. The baronet turns round, and says to his pal, '_Who the devil is
that fellow?_' and Chichester puts up his eye-glass, stares at me
through it for five minutes, and says, '_My good man, we never give alms
to people unless they have certificates of good character to show_.'

"Perhaps you wasn't over swell in your toggery?" said the butcher.

"Why--no: I don't think I was so well dressed then as I am now."

"The devil you wasn't! Well then, it ain't no wonder if so be they
slighted you; for one wouldn't think as how you was titivated off at
present to go to the Queen's le-vee."

"Come, no joking," exclaimed Pocock, "I have told you my story, and if
you think it is a good one, and are inclined to do me a service, you can
just order in a chop or a steak, for I think I could manage to eat a
bit."

"With all my heart," said the butcher, who was a good-natured man in his
way, and who, having realised a considerable sum by his late
bankruptcy, was disposed to be generous: "you shall have as good a
supper, and as much lush as you can stow away. Here, Dick," he cried,
addressing himself to the waiter, "run round to my shop, and ask the old
'ooman for a nice steak; and then get it fried for me along with some
inguns. And, Dick, let's have some taturs."

The waiter disappeared to execute these orders, and the conversation was
then resumed upon the former topic.

Pocock entered into all the details with which the reader is already
acquainted; and Markham who had made up his mind how to act, was
determined to allow him to disclose spontaneously as much as he thought
fit, before he should reveal himself. He sate in his obscure corner,
shading his face with his hands, and affecting to be deeply interested
in the columns of the _Morning Advertiser_, which lay the wrong way
upwards before him.

The moment Pocock had begun to speak upon matters which so deeply
interested him, Richard had become an attentive listener, and, as that
individual proceeded, and he found within his reach a means of
establishing his innocence, his brain seemed to be excited with
joy--even to delirium. His pulse throbbed violently--his heart
palpitated audibly. Much as he had loathed that den when he first
entered it, he would now have fallen down, and kissed its dirty,
saw-dust covered floor.

Hour after hour had passed away; the clock had struck eleven, and still
the Resurrection Man did not make his appearance.

The butcher and Pocock were discussing their supper, and Markham was
just thinking of accosting the latter, when the door was suddenly opened
with great violence, and two persons muffled up in pea-coats, carrying
enormous sticks, and smoking cigars, precipitated themselves into the
parlour of the _Dark House_.

"D--n me, what a lark!" ejaculated one, flinging himself upon a seat,
and laughing heartily: "but we're quite safe in here. I know this place;
and the policeman lost sight of us, before we reached the door."

"Upon my honour, I cannot say that I admire frolics of this kind,"
observed the other; "it is really ridiculous to break lamps up at this
end of the town. But, my God! what a neighbourhood you have brought me
into! I couldn't have suspected that there was such a district in
London."

"I told you that you would do good if you would come with me to my
father," said the first speaker. "The old boy was quite delighted at the
idea of a baronet condescending to sup with him; and you saw how he
shelled out the blunt to me when he had imbibed his third glass of the
punch."

The latter portion of this conversation was uttered in whispers, and the
two gentlemen again laughed heartily--doubtless because they had
succeeded in the business which had that evening brought them to the
eastern regions of London.

In the midst of that second burst of hilarity, Mr. Pocock rose from his
seat and advanced slowly towards the two new-comers.

"Well, gentlemen," he exclaimed, "this is an honour which you do us poor
folks in Spitalfields. Come--you needn't stare so confounded hard at me.
How are you, Chichester? Been to see the old gentleman at the sign of
the Lombardy Arms--three balls, eh? Two chances to one that the things
put up the spout will never come down again, eh?"

The butcher burst out into a roar of laughter, which was echoed by
several other inmates of the room.

"Who the devil are you?" demanded Chichester, recovering his presence of
mind sooner than the baronet; for both were astounded at this unexpected
and very embarrassing encounter.

"Upon my honour, the man must be mistaken," murmured Sir Rupert
Harborough.

"So far from being mistaken," cried Pocock, "you were the very fellows I
was talking about just now. Gentlemen," he added, turning towards the
people seated at the various tables, "these are the two swells that led
me into the scrape I told you about just now. And now they pretend not
to know me!"

"What does the fellow mean?" said Chichester, in an impudent tone: "do
you know, Harborough?"

"'Pon my honour, not I!"

"Then I will tell you who I am," ejaculated the engraver. "I am the man
who forged the plates from which the bank-notes were struck, that got
poor Richard Markham condemned to two years' imprisonment in the
Compter; and you know as well as possible that _he_ suffered for _our_
crime."

Chichester and the baronet were stupefied by this sudden and unexpected
exposure.

They knew not what to say or do; and their countenances betrayed their
guilt.

"Yes, gentlemen," resumed Pocock, growing excited, "these are the men
whom some extraordinary chance--some providential or devilish
design--has brought here this evening to confirm all I have told you."

"Devil take this impudence!" cried Chichester, now once more recovering
his wonted self-possession, and determining to brave the accusation out:
"my name isn't Chichester--you're quite mistaken, my good fellow--I can
assure you that you are."

"Liar!" cried the engraver, furiously: "I should know you both amongst a
million!"

"And so should I," calmly observed Markham, now advancing from his
obscure corner, and appearing in the presence of those who so little
expected to see him there.

A tremendous sensation now prevailed in the room, and those who were
spectators anxiously awaited the result of this strange drama.

"Yes--there are indeed the villains to whom I am indebted for all the
miseries I have endured," continued Markham. "But say not that a lucky
accident brought _us_ all here together this night,--think not that a
mere chance occasioned the present meeting of the deceivers and the
deceived:--no; it was the will of the Almighty, to establish the
innocence of an injured man!"

A solemn silence succeeded these words, which were delivered in a tone
which produced an impression of awe upon all who heard them. Even the
depraved and hardened men that were present on this occasion, in the
parlour of the _Dark House_, gazed with respect upon the young man who
dared to speak of the Almighty in that den of dissipation.

Markham continued after a short pause:--

"Were it not that I should be involving in ruin a man who has
spontaneously come forward to proclaim his own guilt, to declare his
repentance, and to assert my innocence--without hope of reward from me,
and even without knowing that God had sent me hither to overhear every
word he uttered--were it not that I should be inflicting upon _him_ the
deepest injury, I would this moment assign you to the custody of the
police, as the instigators of the diabolical fraud in which Talbot was
your tool, and I your scape-goat. But though I shall take no steps to
punish you, heaven will not allow you to triumph in your career of
turpitude!"

[Illustration]

"Well spoken," said Mr. Chichester, perceiving that he was in no danger,
and therefore assuming an air of bravado.

"Upon my honour, I can't comprehend all this," muttered the baronet.
"Let us go, my dear fellow--I do not admire your Spitalfields'
riff-raff."

"Yes--go--depart!" cried Markham; "or else I shall not be able to
restrain my indignation."

"They shan't go without a wolloping, however," said the butcher, very
coolly taking off his apron, and turning up the sleeves of his blue
stuff jacket. "I'll take one--who'll tackle the other?"

"I will," cried a barber's boy, laying aside his pipe, taking a long
pull at the porter, and then advancing towards the two adventurers with
clenched fists.

"Stop--stop, I implore you!" ejaculated Markham. "I ask not for such
vengeance as this--no violence, I beseech you."

"Let's give it 'em in true John Bull style, and knock all that cursed
dandy nonsense out of 'em," cried the butcher; and before Richard could
interfere farther, he felled the baronet with one blow of his tremendous
fist.

The barber forthwith pitched into the fashionable Mr. Chichester, who
struggled in vain to defend himself. The baronet rose; and the butcher
instantly took his head "into chancery," and pummelled him to his
heart's content.

As soon as Chichester and Sir Rupert were so severely thrashed that they
were covered all over with bruises, and could scarcely stand upon their
legs, the butcher and the barber kicked them into the open air, amidst
the shouts and acclamations of all the inmates of the _Dark House_
parlour.

When order was once more restored, Markham addressed himself to the two
champions who had avenged him in their own peculiar style, and not only
thanked them for their well-meant though mistaken kindness, but also
gave them munificent proofs of his bounty.

"And now," said Richard, turning towards Pocock, "are you willing to
sign a declaration of my innocence?"

"On condition that the paper shall never be used against me," answered
the engraver.

"Could I not this moment give you into custody to the police, upon your
own confession of having forged the plate from which the bank-notes were
printed?"

"Certainly: I was wrong to make any conditions. You are a man of
honour."

Markham proceeded to draw up the declaration referred to; and Pocock
signed it with a firm and steady hand.

This ceremony being completed, Richard placed Bank of England notes for
fifty pounds in the engraver's hand.

"Accept this," he said, "as a token of my gratitude and a proof of my
forgiveness; and, believe me, I regret that my means do not allow me to
be more liberal. Endeavour to enter an honest path; and should you ever
require a friend, do not hesitate to apply to me."

Pocock wept tears of gratitude and repentance--the only acknowledgment
he could offer for this sudden and most welcome aid. His emotions choked
his powers of utterance.

Markham hurried from the room, and took his departure from the
establishment which possessed such an ominous name, but which had proved
the scene of a great benefit to him that evening.

He was hurrying up Brick Lane in a northerly direction--that is to say,
towards Church Street, when he was suddenly stopped by an individual
whom he encountered in his way, and who carried a large life-preserver
in his hand.

"I suppose you were tired of waiting for me," said the Resurrection
Man--for it was he.

"I certainly imagined you would not come to-night," answered Richard.

"Well, better late than never. It is fortunate that we met: it will save
you another journey to-morrow night, you know."

"Yes--I am glad that we have met, as my time is now too valuable to
waste."

"In that case, we can either return to the _Dark House_, which is open
all night; or you can give me the money in the street. You don't require
any receipt, I suppose?"

"No: neither will you require to give me any."

"So I thought: honour among thieves, eh? Excuse the compliment. But, in
the first place, have you got the tin?"

"I had the whole amount just now, in my pocket, when I first went to the
_Dark House_."

"Then I suppose it is all there still?"

"Not all. I have parted with fifty pounds out of it."

"The deuce you have! And how came you to do that?" demanded the
Resurrection Man gruffly. "I gave you fair warning that I would take
nothing less than the entire sum."

"I obtained, in a most extraordinary manner, a proof of my innocence;
and I think I purchased it cheaply at that rate. I would have given all
I possessed in the world," added Markham, "to procure it."

"The devil!" cried the Resurrection Man, who grew uneasy at the cold and
indifferent way in which Markham spoke. "Well, I suppose I must take
what you have got left. You can easily leave the remainder for me at the
_Dark House_."

"Not a shilling will you now obtain from me," ejaculated Richard firmly;
"and I have waited to tell you so. I have made up my mind to reveal the
entire truth, without reserve, to those from whom I was before foolishly
and dishonourably anxious to conceal it."

"This gammon won't do for me," cried the Resurrection Man. "You want to
stall me off; but I'm too wide awake. Give me the tin, or I'll start off
to-morrow morning to Richmond, and see the count upon--_you_ know what
subject. Before I left that neighbourhood the other day, I made all the
necessary inquiries about the people of the house which the young lady
went into."

"You may save yourself that trouble also," said Markham; "for I shall
reveal all that you would unfold. But, in a word, you may do what you
choose."

"Come now," ejaculated the Resurrection Man, considerably crest-fallen;
"assist an old companion in difficulties: lend me a hundred or so."

"No," returned Richard in a resolute manner; "had you asked me in the
first instance to assist you, I would have done so willingly;--but you
have endeavoured to extort a considerable sum of money from me--much
more than I could spare; and I should not now be justified in yielding
to the prayers of a man who has found that his base menaces have
failed."

"You do not think I would have done what I said?" cried the Resurrection
Man.

"I believe you to be capable of any villany. But we have already
conversed too long. I was anxious to show you how a virtuous resolution
would enable me to triumph over your base designs;--and I have now
nothing more to say to you. Our ways lie in different directions, both
at present and in future. Farewell."

With these words Markham continued his way up Brick Lane; but the
Resurrection Man was again by his side in a moment.

"You refuse to assist me?" he muttered in a hoarse and savage tone.

"I do. Molest me no further."

"You refuse to assist me?" repeated the villain, grinding his teeth with
rage: "then you may mind the consequences! I will very soon show you
that you will bitterly--bitterly repent your determination. By God, I
will be revenged!"

"I shall know how to be upon my guard," said Markham.

He then walked rapidly on, without looking behind him.

The Resurrection Man stood still for a moment, considering how to act:
then, apparently struck by a sudden idea, he hastened stealthily after
Richard Markham.




CHAPTER XLIII.

THE MUMMY.


The district of Spitalfields and Bethnal Green was totally unknown to
Markham. Indeed, his visit upon the present occasion was the first he
had ever paid to that densely populated and miserable region.

It was now midnight; and the streets were nearly deserted. The lamps,
few and far between, only made darkness visible, instead of throwing a
useful light upon the intricate maze of narrow thoroughfares.

Markham's object was to reach Shoreditch as soon as possible; for he
knew that opposite the church there was a cab-stand where he might
procure a vehicle to take him home. Emerging from Brick Lane, he crossed
Church Street, and struck into that labyrinth of dirty and dangerous
lanes in the vicinity of Bird-cage Walk, which we alluded to at the
commencement of the preceding chapter.

He soon perceived that he had mistaken his way; and at length found
himself floundering about in a long narrow street, unpaved, and here and
there almost blocked up with heaps of putrescent filth. There was not a
lamp in this perilous thoroughfare: no moon on high irradiated his
path;--black night enveloped every thing above and below in total
darkness.

Once or twice he thought he heard footsteps behind him; and then he
stopped, hoping to be overtaken by some one of whom he might inquire his
way. But either his ears deceived him, or else the person whose steps he
heard stopped when he did.

There was not a light in any of the houses on either side; and not a
sound of revelry or sorrow escaped from the ill-closed casements.

Richard was bewildered; and--to speak truly--he began to be alarmed. He
remembered to have read of the mysterious disappearance of persons in
the east end of the metropolis, and also of certain fell deeds of crime
which had been lately brought to light in the very district where he was
now wandering;--and he could not help wishing that he was in some more
secure and less gloomy region.

He was groping his way along, feeling with his hands against the houses
to guide him,--now knee-deep in some filthy puddle, now stumbling over
some heap of slimy dirt, now floundering up to his ankles in the
mud,--when a heavy and crushing blow fell upon his hat from behind.

He staggered and fell against the door of a house. Almost at the same
instant that door was thrust open, and two powerful arms hurled the
prostrate young man down three or four steps into a passage. The person
who thus ferociously attacked him leapt after him, closing the door
violently behind him.

All this occupied but a couple of seconds; and though Markham was not
completely stunned by the blow, he was too much stupefied by the
suddenness and violence of the assault to cry out. To this circumstance
he was probably indebted for his life; for the villain who had struck
him no doubt conceived the blow to have been fatal; and therefore,
instead of renewing the attack, he strode over Markham and entered a
room into which the passage opened.

Richard's first idea was to rise and attempt an escape by the front
door; but before he had time to consider it even for a moment, the
murderous ruffian struck a light in the room, which, as well as a part
of the passage, was immediately illuminated by a powerful glare.

Markham had been thrown upon the damp tiles with which the passage was
paved, in such a manner that his head was close by the door of the room.
The man who had assailed him lighted a piece of candle in a bright tin
shade hanging against the wall; and the reflection produced by the metal
caused the strong glare that fell so suddenly upon Richard's eyes.

Markham was about to start from his prostrate position when the interior
of that room was thus abruptly revealed to him; but for a few moments
the spectacle which met his sight paralyzed every limb, and rendered him
breathless, speechless, and motionless with horror.

Stretched upon a shutter, which three chairs supported, was a
corpse--naked, and of that blueish or livid colour which denotes the
beginning of decomposition!

Near this loathsome object was a large tub full of water; and to that
part of the ceiling immediately above it were affixed two large hooks,
to each of which hung thick cords.

In one corner of the room were long flexible iron rods, spades,
pickaxes, wooden levers, coils of thick rope, trowels, saws, hammers,
huge chisels, skeleton-keys, &c.

But how great was Richard's astonishment when, glancing from the objects
just described towards the villain who had hurled him into that den of
horrors, his eyes were struck by the sombre and revolting countenance of
the Resurrection Man.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he could thus banish both thought
and danger.

"Now, then, Mummy," ejaculated the Resurrection Man; "come and hold this
light while I rifle the pockets of a new subject."

Scarcely had he uttered these words, when a low knock was heard at the
front door of the house.

"D--n the thing!" cried the Resurrection Man, aloud; "here are these
fellows come for the stiff 'un."

These words struck fresh dismay into the soul of Richard Markham; for it
instantly occurred to him that any friends of the Resurrection Man, who
were thus craving admittance, were more likely to aid than to frustrate
that villain's designs upon the life and property of a fellow-creature.

"Here, Mummy," cried the Resurrection Man, once more; and, hastily
returning into the passage, he reiterated his summons at the bottom of a
staircase at the further end; "here, Mummy, why the hell don't you come
down?"

"I'm a comin', I'm a comin'," answered a cracked female voice from the
top of the staircase; and in another moment an old, blear-eyed,
shrivelled hag made her appearance.

She was so thin, her eyes were so sunken, her skin was so much like
dirty parchment, and her entire appearance was so horrible and
repulsive, that it was impossible to conceive a more appropriate and
expressive nickname than the one which had been conferred upon her.

"Now come, Mummy," said the ruffian, in a hasty whisper; "help me to
drag this fellow into the back room; there's good pickings here, and the
chaps have come for the stiff 'un."

Another knock was heard at the door.

Markham, well aware that resistance was at present vain, exercised
sufficient control over himself to remain motionless, with his eyes
nearly closed, while the Resurrection Man and the Mummy dragged him
hastily into the back room.

The Mummy turned the key in the lock, while the Resurrection Man hurried
to the street door, and admitted two men into the front apartment.

One was Tom the Cracksman; the other was a rogue of the same stamp, and
was known amongst his confederates in crime by the name of the Buffer.
It was this man's boast that he never robbed any one without stripping
him to the very skin; and as a person in a state of nudity is said to be
"in buff," the origin of his pseudonym is easily comprehended.

"Well," said the Cracksman, sulkily, "you ain't at all partikler how you
keep people at your door--you ain't. For twopence, I'd have sported
it[70] with my foot."

"Why, the old Mummy was fast asleep," returned the Resurrection Man;
"and I was up stairs trying to awake her. But I didn't expect you till
to-morrow night."

"No; and we shouldn't have come either," said the Cracksman, "if there
hadn't been thirty quids to earn to-night."

"The devil there is!" cried the Resurrection Man. "Then you ain't come
for the stiff 'un to-night?"

"No sich a thing; the Sawbones[71] that it's for don't expect it till
to-morrow night; so its no use taking it. But there's t'other Sawbones,
which lives down by the Middlesex Hospital, will meet us at half-past
one at the back of Shoreditch church----"

"What, to-night!" ejaculated the Resurrection Man.

"To-night--in half an hour--and with all the tools," returned the
Cracksman.

"Work for the inside of the church, he says," added the Buffer. "Thirty
quids isn't to be sneezed at; that's ten a-piece. I'm blowed if I don't
like this here resurrection business better than cracking cribs. What do
you say, Tom?"

"Anythink by vay of a change; partikler as when we want a stiff 'un by
a certain day, and don't know in which churchyard to dive for one, we
hit upon the plan of catching 'em alive in the street."

"It was my idea, though," exclaimed the Buffer. "Don't you remember when
we wanted a stiff 'un for the wery same Sawbones which we've got to meet
presently, we waited for near two hours at this house-door, and at last
we caught hold of a feller that was walking so comfortable along,
looking up at the moon?"

"And then I thought of holding him with his head downwards in a tub of
water," added the Cracksman, "till he was drownded. That way don't tell
no tales;--no wound on the skin--no pison in the stomach; and there
ain't too much water inside neither, cos the poor devils don't swaller
with their heads downwards."

"Ah! it was a good idea," said the Buffer; "and now we've reduced it to
a reg'lar system. Tub of water all ready on the floor--hooks and cords
to hold the chaps' feet up to the ceiling; and then, my eye! there they
hangs, head downwards, jest for all the world like the carcasses in the
butchers' shops, if they hadn't got their clothes on."

[Illustration]

"And them we precious soon takes off. But I say, old feller," said the
Cracksman, turning to the Resurrection Man, who had remained silent
during the colloquy between his two companions; "what the devil are you
thinking of?"

"I was thinking," was the answer, "that the Sawbones that you've agreed
to meet to-night wants some particular body."

"He does," said the Cracksman; "and the one he wants is buried in a
vault."

"Well and good," exclaimed the Resurrection Man; "he is too good a
customer to disappoint. We must be off at once."

The Resurrection Man did not for a moment doubt that Richard Markham had
been killed by the blow which he had inflicted upon him with his
life-preserver; and he therefore did not hesitate to undertake the
business just proposed by his two confederates. He knew that, whatever
Richard's pockets might contain, he could rely upon the _honesty_ of the
Mummy, who--horrible to relate--was the miscreant's own mother. Having
therefore given a few instructions, in a whisper, to the old woman, he
prepared to accompany the Cracksman and the Buffer.

The three worthies provided themselves with some of the long flexible
rods and other implements before noticed; and the Resurrection Man took
from a cupboard two boxes, each of about six inches square, and which he
gave to his companions to carry. He also concealed the tin shade which
held the candle, about his person; and, these preliminaries being
settled, the three men left the house.

Let us now return to Richard Markham.

The moment he was deposited in the back room, and the door had closed
behind the occupants of that fearful den, he started up, a prey to the
most indescribable feelings of alarm and horror.

What a lurking hole of enormity--what a haunt of infamy--what a scene of
desperate crime--was this in which he now found himself! A feculent
smell of the decomposing corpse in the next room reached his nostrils,
and produced a nauseating sensation in his stomach. And that corpse--was
it the remains of one who had died a natural death, or who had been most
foully murdered? He dared not answer the question which he had thus put
to himself; he feared lest the solution of that mystery might prove
ominous in respect to his own fate.

Oh! for the means of escape! He must fly--he must fly from that horrible
sink of crime--from that human slaughter-house! But how? the door was
locked--and the window was closed with a shutter. If he made the
slightest noise, the ruffians in the next room would rush in and
assassinate him!

But, hark! those men were talking, and he could overhear all they said.
Could it be possible? The two who had just come, were going to take the
third away with them upon his own revolting business! Hope returned to
the bosom of the poor young man: he felt that he might yet be saved!

But--oh, horror! on what topic had the conversation turned? Those men
were rejoicing in their own infernal inventions to render murder
unsuspected. The object of the tub of water, and the hooks and cords
upon the ceiling, were now explained. The unsuspecting individual who
passed the door of that accursed dwelling by night was set upon by the
murderers, dragged into the house, gagged, and suspended by his feet to
these hooks, while his head hung downwards in the water. And thus he
delivered up his last breath; and the wretches kept him there until
decomposition commenced, that the corpse might not appear too fresh to
the surgeon to whom it was to be sold!

Merciful heavens! could such things be? could atrocities of so appalling
a nature be perpetrated in a great city, protected by thousands of a
well-paid police? Could the voice of murder--murder effected with so
much safety, cry up to heaven for vengeance through the atmosphere of
London?

At length the three men went out, as before described; and Markham felt
an immense weight suddenly lifted from off his mind.

Before the Resurrection Man set out upon his excursion with the
Cracksman and the Buffer, he had whispered these words to the Mummy:
"While I'm gone, you can clean out the swell's pockets in the back
room. He has got about four or five hundred pounds about him--so mind
and take care. When you've searched his pockets, strip him, and look at
his skull. I'm afraid I've fractured it, for my life-preserver came down
precious heavy upon him; and he never spoke a word. If there's the
wound, I must bury him to-morrow in the cellar: if not, wash him clean,
and I know where to dispose of him."

It was in obedience to these instructions that the Mummy took a candle
in her hand, and proceeded to the back-room, as soon as her son and his
two companions had left the house.

The horrible old woman was not afraid of the dead: her husband had been
a resurrection man, and her only son followed the same business,--she
was therefore too familiar with the sight of death in all its most
fearful as well as its most interesting shapes to be alarmed at it. The
revolting spectacle of a corpse putrid with decomposition produced no
more impression upon her than the pale and beautiful remains of any
lovely girl whom death had called early to the tomb, and whose form was
snatched from its silent couch beneath the sod ere the finger of decay
had begun its ravages. That hideous old woman considered corpses an
article of commerce, and handled her wares as a trader does his
merchandize. She cared no more for the sickly and fetid odour which they
sent forth, than the tanner does for the smell of the tan-yard, or the
scourer for the fumes of his bleaching-liquid.

The Mummy entered the back-room, holding a candle in her hand.

Markham started forward, and caught her by the wrist.

She uttered a sort of growl of savage disappointment, but gave no sign
of alarm.

"Vile wretch!" exclaimed Richard; "God has at length sent me to discover
and expose your crimes!"

"Don't do me any harm--don't hurt me," said the old woman; "and I will
do any thing you want of me."

"Answer me," cried Markham: "that corpse in the other room----"

"Murdered by my son," replied the hag.

"And the clothes? where are the clothes? They may contain some papers
which may throw a light upon the name and residence of your victim."

"Follow me--I will show you."

The old woman turned and walked slowly out of the room. Markham went
after her; for he thought that if he could discover who the unfortunate
person was that had met his death in that accursed dwelling, he might be
enabled to relieve his family at least from the horrors of suspense,
although he should be the bearer of fatal news indeed.

The Mummy opened the door of a cupboard formed beneath the staircase,
and holding forward the light, pointed to some clothes which hung upon a
nail inside.

"There--take them yourself if you want them," said the old woman; "I
won't touch them."

With these words she drew back, but still held the candle in such a way
as to throw the light into the closet.

Markham stepped forward to reach the clothes, and, in extending his hand
to take them from the peg, he advanced one of his feet upon the floor of
the closet.

A trap-door instantly gave way beneath his foot: he lost his balance,
and fell precipitately into a subterranean excavation.

The trap-door, which moved with a spring, closed by itself above his
head, and he heard the triumphant cackling laugh of the old hag, as she
fastened it with a large iron bolt.

The Mummy then went and seated herself by the corpse in the front room;
and, while she rocked backwards and forwards in her chair, she crooned
the following song:--

           THE BODY-SNATCHER'S SONG.

    In the churchyard the body is laid,
    There they inter the beautiful maid:
      "Earth to earth" is the solemn sound!
    Over the sod where their daughter sleeps,
    The father prays, and the mother weeps:
      "Ashes to ashes" echoes around!

    Come with the axe, and come with the spade;
    Come where the beautiful virgin's laid:
      Earth from earth must we take back now!
    The sod is damp, and the grave is cold:
    Lay the white corpse on the dark black mould,
      That the pale moonbeam may kiss its brow!

    Throw back the earth, and heap up the clay;
    This cold white corpse we will bear away,
      Now that the moonlight waxes dim;
    For the student doth his knife prepare
    To hack all over this form so fair,
      And sever the virgin limb from limb!

    At morn the mother will come to pray
    Over the grave where her child she lay,
      And freshest flowers thereon will spread:
    And on that spot will she kneel and weep,
    Nor dream that we have disturbed the sleep
      Of her who lay in that narrow bed.

We must leave the Mummy singing her horrible staves, and accompany the
body-snatchers in their proceedings at Shoreditch Church.




CHAPTER XLIV.

THE BODY-SNATCHERS.


The Resurrection Man, the Cracksman, and the Buffer hastened rapidly
along the narrow lanes and filthy alleys leading towards Shoreditch
Church. They threaded their way in silence, through the jet-black
darkness of the night, and without once hesitating as to the particular
turnings which they were to follow. Those men were as familiar with that
neighbourhood as a person can be with the rooms and passages in his own
house.

At length the body-snatchers reached the low wall surmounted with a high
railing which encloses Shoreditch churchyard. They were now at the back
part of that burial ground, in a narrow and deserted street, whose dark
and lonely appearance tended to aid their designs upon an edifice
situated in one of the most populous districts in all London.

For some minutes before their arrival an individual, enveloped in a long
cloak, was walking up and down beneath the shadow of the wall.

This was the surgeon, whose thirst after science had called into action
the energies of the body-snatchers that night.

The Cracksman advanced first, and ascertained that the surgeon had
already arrived, and that the coast was otherwise clear.

He then whistled in a low and peculiar manner; and his two confederates
came up.

"You have got all your tools?" said the surgeon in a hasty whisper.

"Every one that we require," answered the Resurrection Man.

"For opening a vault inside the church, mind?" added the surgeon,
interrogatively.

"You show us the vault, sir, and we'll soon have out the body," said the
Resurrection Man.

"All right," whispered the surgeon; "and my own carriage will be in
this street at three precisely. We shall have plenty of time--there's no
one stirring till five, and its dark till seven."

The surgeon and the body-snatchers then scaled the railing, and in a few
moments stood in the churchyard.

The Resurrection Man addressed himself to his two confederates and the
surgeon, and said, "Do you lie snug under the wall here while I go
forward and see how we must manage the door." With these words he crept
stealthily along, amidst the tomb-stones, towards the church.

The surgeon and the Cracksman seated themselves upon a grave close to
the wall; and the Buffer threw himself flat upon his stomach, with his
ear towards the ground. He remained in this position for some minutes,
and then uttered a species of low growl as if he were answering some
signal which caught his ears alone.

"The skeleton-keys won't open the side-door, the Resurrection Man says,"
whispered the Buffer, raising his head towards the surgeon and the
Cracksman.

He then laid his ear close to the ground once more, and resumed his
listening posture.

In a few minutes he again replied to a signal; and this time his answer
was conveyed by means of a short sharp whistle.

"It appears there is a bolt; and it will take a quarter of an hour to
saw through the padlock that holds it," observed the Buffer in a
whisper.

Nearly twenty minutes elapsed after this announcement. The surgeon's
teeth chattered with the intense cold; and he could not altogether
subdue certain feelings of horror at the idea of the business which had
brought him thither. The almost mute correspondence which those two men
were enabled to carry on together--the methodical precision with which
they performed their avocations--and the coolness they exhibited in
undertaking a sacrilegious task, made a powerful impression upon his
mind. He shuddered from head to foot:--his feelings of aversion were the
same as he would have experienced had a loathsome reptile crawled over
his naked flesh.

"It's all right now!" suddenly exclaimed the Buffer, rising from the
ground. "Come along."

The surgeon and the Cracksman followed the Buffer to the southern side
of the church where there was a flight of steps leading up to a
side-door in a species of lobby, or lodge. This door was open; and the
Resurrection Man was standing inside the lodge.

As soon as they had all entered the sacred edifice, the door was
carefully closed once more.

We have before said that the night was cold: but the interior of the
church was of a chill so intense, that an icy feeling appeared to
penetrate to the very back-bone. The wind murmured down the aisle; and
every footstep echoed, like a hollow sound in the distance, throughout
the spacious pile.

"Now, sir," said the Resurrection Man to the surgeon, "it is for you to
tell us whereabouts we are to begin."

The surgeon groped his way towards the communion-table, and at the
northern side of the railings which surrounded it he stopped short.

"I must now be standing," he said, "upon the very stone which you are to
remove. You can, however, soon ascertain; for the funeral only took
place yesterday morning, and the mortar must be quite soft."

The Resurrection Man stooped down, felt with his hand for the joints of
the pavement in that particular spot, and thrust his knife between them.

"Yes," he said, after a few minutes' silence: "this stone has only been
put down a day or two. But do you wish, sir, that all traces of our work
should disappear?"

"Certainly! I would not for the world that the family of the deceased
should learn that this tomb has been violated. Suspicion would
immediately fall upon me; for it would be remembered how earnestly I
desired to open the body, and how resolutely my request was refused."

"We must use a candle, then, presently," said the Resurrection Man; "and
that is the most dangerous part of the whole proceeding."

"It cannot be helped," returned the surgeon, in a decided tone. "The
fact that the side-door has been opened by unfair means must transpire
in a day or two; and search will then be made inside the church to
ascertain whether those who have been guilty of the sacrilege were
thieves or resurrection-men. You see, then, how necessary it is that
there should remain no proofs of the violation of a tomb."

"Well and good, sir," said the Resurrection Man. "You command--we obey.
Now, then, my mates, to work."

In a moment the Resurrection Man lighted a piece of candle, and placed
it in the tin shade before alluded to. The glare which it shed was
thereby thrown almost entirely downwards. He then carefully, and with
surprising rapidity, examined the joints of the large flag-stone which
was to be removed, and on which no inscription had yet been engraved. He
observed the manner in which the mortar was laid down, and noticed even
the places where it spread a little over the adjoining stones: or where
it was slightly deficient. This inspection being completed, he
extinguished the light, and set to work in company with the Cracksman
and the Buffer.

The eyes of the surgeon gradually became accustomed to the obscurity;
and he was enabled to observe to some extent the proceedings of the
body-snatchers.

These men commenced by pouring vinegar over the mortar round the stone
which they were to raise. They then took long clasp-knives, with very
thin and flexible blades, from their pockets; and inserted them between
the joints of the stones. They moved these knives rapidly backwards and
forwards for a few seconds, so as effectually to loosen the mortar, and
moistened the interstices several times with the vinegar.

This operation being finished, they introduced the thin and pointed end
of a lever between the end of the stone which they were to raise and the
one adjoining it. The Resurrection Man, who held the lever, only worked
it very gently; but at every fresh effort on his part, the Cracksman and
the Buffer introduced each a wedge of wood into the space which thus
grew larger and larger. By these means, had the lever suddenly given
way, the stone would not have fallen back into its setting. At length it
was raised to a sufficient height to admit of its being supported by a
thick log about three feet in length.

While these three men were thus proceeding as expeditiously as possible
with their task, the surgeon, although a man of a naturally strong mind,
could not control the strange feelings which crept upon him. It suddenly
appeared to him as if he beheld those men for the first time. That
continuation of regular and systematic movements--that silent
perseverance, faintly shadowed forth amidst the obscurity of the night,
at length assumed so singular a character, that the surgeon felt as if
he beheld three demons disinterring a doomed one to carry him off to
hell!

He was aroused from this painful reverie by the Resurrection Man, who
said to him, "Come and help us remove the stone."

The surgeon applied all his strength to this task; and the huge
flag-stone was speedily moved upon two wooden rollers away from the
mouth of the grave.

"You are certain that this is the place?" said the Resurrection Man.

"As certain as one can be who stood by the grave for a quarter of an
hour in day-light, and who has to recognise it again in total darkness,"
answered the surgeon. "Besides, the mortar was soft----"

"There might have been another burial close by," interrupted the
Resurrection Man; "but we will soon find out whether you are right or
not, sir. Was the coffin a wooden one?"

"Yes! an elm coffin, covered with black cloth," replied the surgeon. "I
gave the instructions for the funeral myself, being the oldest friend of
the family."

The Resurrection Man took one of the long flexible rods which we have
before noticed, and thrust it down into the vault. The point penetrated
into the lid of a coffin. He drew it back, put the point to his tongue,
and tasted it.

"Yes," he said, smacking his lips, "the coffin in this vault is an elm
one, and is covered with black cloth."

"I thought I could not be wrong," observed the surgeon.

The body-snatchers then proceeded to raise the coffin, by means of ropes
passed underneath it. This was a comparatively easy portion of their
task; and in a few moments it was placed upon the flag-stones of the
church.

The Resurrection Man took a chisel and opened the lid with considerable
care. He then lighted his candle a second time; and the glare fell upon
the pale features of the corpse in its narrow shell.

"This is the right one," said the surgeon, casting a hasty glance upon
the face of the dead body, which was that of a young girl of about
sixteen.

The Resurrection Man extinguished the light; and he and his companions
proceeded to lift the corpse out of the coffin.

The polished marble limbs of the deceased were rudely grasped by the
sacrilegious hands of the body-snatchers; and, having stripped the
corpse stark naked, they tied its neck and heels together by means of a
strong cord. They then thrust it into a large sack made for the purpose.

The body-snatchers then applied themselves to the restoration of the
vault to its original appearance.

The lid of the coffin was carefully fastened down; and that now
tenantless bed was lowered into the tomb. The stone was rolled over the
mouth of the vault; and one of the small square boxes previously alluded
to, furnished mortar wherewith to fill up the joints. The Resurrection
Man lighted his candle a third time, and applied the cement in such a
way that even the very workman who laid the stone down after the funeral
would not have known that it had been disturbed. Then, as this mortar
was a shade fresher and lighter than that originally used, the
Resurrection Man scattered over it a thin brown powder, which was
furnished by the second box brought away from his house on this
occasion. Lastly, a light brush was swept over the scene of these
operations, and the necessary precautions were complete.

The clock struck three as the surgeon and the body-snatchers issued from
the church, carrying the sack containing the corpse between them.

They reached the wall at the back of the churchyard, and there deposited
their burden, while the Cracksman hastened to see if the surgeon's
carriage had arrived.

In a few minutes he returned to the railing, and said in a low tone,
"All right!"

The body was lifted over the iron barrier and conveyed to the vehicle.

The surgeon counted ten sovereigns into the hands of each of the
body-snatchers; and, having taken his seat inside the vehicle, close by
his strange freight, was whirled rapidly away towards his own abode.

The three body-snatchers retraced their steps to the house in the
vicinity of the Bird-cage Walk; and the Cracksman and Buffer, having
deposited the implements of their avocation in the corner of the front
room, took their departure.

The moment the Resurrection Man was thus relieved from the observation
of his companions, he seized the candle and hastened into the back room,
where he expected to find the corpse of Richard Markham stripped and
washed.

To his surprise the room was empty.

"What the devil has the old fool been up to?" he exclaimed: then,
hastening to the foot of the stairs, he cried, "Mummy, are you awake?"

In a few moments a door on the first floor opened, and the old woman
appeared in her night gear at the head of the stairs.

"Is that you, Tony?" she exclaimed.

"Yes! who the hell do you think it could be? But what have you done with
the fresh 'un?"

"The fresh 'un came alive again----"

"Gammon! Where is the money? how much was there? and is his skull
fractured?" demanded the Resurrection Man.

"I tell you that he came to his senses," returned the old hag: "and that
he sprung upon me like a tiger when I went into the back room after you
was gone."

"Damnation! what a fool I was not to stick three inches of cold steel
into him!" ejaculated the Resurrection Man, stamping his foot. "So I
suppose he got clear away--money and all?--gone, may be, to fetch the
traps!"

"Don't alarm yourself, Tony," said the old hag, with a horrible cackling
laugh; "he's safe enough, I'll warrant it!"

"Safe! where--where?"

"Where his betters have been 'afore him," answered the Mummy.

"What!--in the well in the yard?" exclaimed the Resurrection Man, in a
state of horrible suspense.

"No--in the hole under the stairs."

"Wretch!--drivelling fool!--idiot that you are!" cried the Resurrection
Man in a voice of thunder: "you decoyed him into the very place from
which he was sure to escape!"

"Escape!" exclaimed the Mummy, in a tone of profound alarm.

"Yes--escape!" repeated the Resurrection Man. "Did I not tell you a
month or more ago that the wall between the hole and the saw-pit in the
empty house next door had given way!"

"No--you never told me! I'll swear you never told me!" cried the old
hag, now furious in her turn. "You only say so to throw all the blame on
me: it's just like you."

"Don't provoke me, mother!" said the Resurrection Man, grinding his
teeth. "You know that I told you about the wall falling down; and you
know that I spoke to you about not using the place any more!"

"It's false!" exclaimed the Mummy.

"It's true; for I said to you at the time that I must brick up the wall
myself some night, before any new people take the carpenter's yard, or
they might wonder what the devil we could want with a place under ground
like that; and it would be the means of blowing us!"

"It's a lie! you never told me a word about it," persisted the old
harridan doggedly.

"Perdition take you!" cried the man. "The affair of this cursed Markham
will be the ruin of us both!"

The Resurrection Man still had a hope left: the subterranean pit beneath
the stairs was deep, and Markham might have been stunned by the fall.

He hastened to the trap-door, and raised it. The vivid light of his
candle was thrown to the very bottom of the pit by means of the bright
reflector of tin.

The hole was empty.

Maddened by disappointment--a prey to the most terrible
apprehensions--and uncertain whether to flee or remain in his den, the
Resurrection Man paced the passage in a state of mind which would not
have been envied by even a criminal on his way to execution.




CHAPTER XLV.

THE FRUITLESS SEARCH.


When Richard Markham was precipitated into the hole beneath the stairs,
by the perfidy of the Mummy, he fell with his head against a stone, and
became insensible.

He lay in this manner for upwards of half an hour, when a current of air
which blew steadily upon his face, revived him; and he awoke to all the
horrors of his situation.

He had seen and passed through enough that night to unhinge the
strongest mind. The secrets of the accursed den in a subterranean
dungeon of which he now lay,--the atrocious mysteries revealed by the
conversation of the body-snatchers ere they set out on their expedition
to Shoreditch Church,--the cold corpse of some unfortunate being most
inhumanly murdered, and all the paraphernalia of a hideous death, in the
front-room of that outpost of hell,--haunted his imagination, and worked
him up to a pitch of excitement bordering upon frenzy.

He felt that if he did not escape from that hole, he should dash his
head against the wall, or go raving mad.

He clenched his fists and struck them against his forehead in an access
of despair.

And then he endeavoured to reason with himself, and to look the perils
that beset him, in the face.

But he could not remain cool--he could not control his agonising
emotions.

"O God!" he exclaimed aloud; "what have I done to be thus afflicted?
What sin have I committed to be thus tortured? Have I not served
thee in word and deed to the best of my ability? Do I not
worship--venerate--adore thee? O God! why wilt thou that I should die
thus early--and die, too, so cruel a death? Is there not room on earth
enough for a worm like me? Have I not been sufficiently tried, O my God?
and in the hour of my deepest--bitterest anguish, did I ever deny thee?
Did I repine against thy supreme will when false men encompassed me to
destroy me in the opinion of the world? Hear me, O God--hear me! and let
me not die this time;--let me not perish, O Lord, thus miserably!"

Such was the fervent, heart-felt prayer which Markham breathed to
heaven, in the agony and despair of his soul.

He extended his arms, with his hands clasped together, in the ardour of
his appeal; and they encountered an opening in the wall.

A ray of hope penetrated to his heart; and when upon further search, he
discovered an aperture sufficiently wide for him to creep through, he
exclaimed, "O Lord! I thank thee, thou hast heard my prayer! Pardon--oh!
pardon my repinings;--forgive me that I dared to question thy sovereign
will!"

At all risks he determined to pass through the opening--lead
whithersoever it might; for he knew that he could scarcely be worse off;
and he felt a secret influence which prompted him thus to act, and for
which he could not wholly account.

He crept through the hole in the partition-wall, and found himself upon
a soft damp ground.

Every thing was veiled in the blackest obscurity.

He groped about with his hands, and stepped cautiously forward, pausing
at every pace.

Presently his foot encountered what appeared to be a step: to his
infinite joy he ascertained, in another moment, that he was at the
bottom of a flight of stone stairs.

He ascended them, and came to a door, which yielded to his touch. He
proceeded slowly and cautiously along a passage, groping his way with
his hands; and, in a few moments he reached another door, which opened
with a latch.

He was now in the open street!

Carefully closing the door behind him, he hurried away from that
accursed vicinity as if he were pursued by blood-hounds.

He ran--he ran, reckless of the deep pools of stagnant water, careless
of the heaps of thick mud through which he passed,--indifferent to the
bruises which he sustained against the angles of houses, the corners of
streets, and the stone-steps of doors,--unmindful of the dangers which
he dared in threading thus wildly those rugged and uneven thoroughfares
amidst the dense obscurity which covered the earth.

He ran--he ran, a delirium of joy thrilling in his brain, and
thanksgiving in his soul; for now that he had escaped from the peril
which so lately beset him, it appeared to his imagination a thousand
times more frightful than when it actually impended over him. Oh! he was
happy--happy--thrice happy, in the enjoyment of liberty, and the
security of life once more;--and he began to look upon the scenes of
that eventful night as an accumulation of horrors which could have
possibility only in a dream!

He ran--he ran, amidst those filthy lanes and foul streets, where a
nauseating atmosphere prevailed;--but had he been threading a labyrinth
of rose-trees, amongst the most delicious perfumes, he could not have
experienced a more burning--ardent--furious joy! Yes--his delight was
madness, frenzy! On, on--splashed with mud--floundering through black
puddles--knee-deep in mire,--on, on he went--reckless which direction he
pursued, so long as the rapidity of his pace removed him afar from the
accursed house that had nearly become his tomb!

For an hour did he thus pursue his way.

At length he stopped through sheer exhaustion, and seated himself upon
the steps of a door over which a lamp was flickering.

He collected his scattered ideas as well as he could, and began to
wonder whither his wild and reckless course had led him: but no
conjecture on his part furnished him with any clue to solve the mystery
of his present whereabouts. He knew that he must be somewhere in the
eastern district of the metropolis; but in what precise spot it was
impossible for him to tell.

[Illustration]

While he was thus lost in vain endeavours to unravel the tangled
topographical skein which perplexed his imagination, he heard footsteps
advancing along the street.

By the light of the lamp he soon distinguished a policeman, walking with
slow and measured steps along his beat.

"Will you have the kindness to tell me where I am?" said Richard,
accosting the officer: "I have lost my way. What neighbourhood is this?"

"Ratcliff Highway," answered the policeman: "in the middle of Wapping,
you know."

"In the midst of Wapping?" ejaculated Markham, in a tone of surprise and
vexation.

And, truly enough, there he was in the centre of that immense assemblage
of dangerous streets, cutthroat lanes, and filthy alleys, which swarm
with crimps ever ready to entrap the reckless and generous-hearted
sailor; publicans who farm the unloading of the colliers, and compel
those whom they employ to take out half their wages in vile adulterated
beer; and poor half-starved coal-heavers whose existence alternates
between crushing toil and killing intoxication. It was in this
neighbourhood that Richard Markham now was!

Heaven alone can tell what tortuous paths and circuitous routes he had
been pursuing during the hour of his precipitate flight; but his feet
must have passed over many miles of ground from the instant that he
emerged from the murderers' den until he sank exhausted on the steps of
a house in Ratcliff Highway.

He was wet and covered with mud, and very cold. But he suddenly
remembered that there was a duty which he owed to society--an imperative
duty which he dared not neglect. He was impressed with the idea that
Providence had that night favoured his escape from the jaws of death, in
order that he might become the means of rooting up a den of horrors.

There was not a moment to be lost: the three miscreants, unconscious of
peril, had repaired to Shoreditch Church to exercise the least terrible
portion of their avocations in that sacred edifice:--it might yet be
time to secure them there!

The policeman was still standing near him.

"Which is the way to the station-house?" suddenly exclaimed Markham. "I
have matters of the deepest importance to communicate to the police,--I
can place them upon the scent of three miscreants--three demons in human
form----"

"And how came you to know about them?" asked the officer.

"Oh! it is too long to tell you now--we shall only be wasting time; and
the villains may escape," cried Richard, in a tone of excitement and
with a wildness of manner which induced the officer to fancy that his
brain was turned.

"Well, come along with me," said the policeman; "and you can tell all
you know to the Superintendent."

Markham signified his readiness to accompany the officer; and they
proceeded to the station-house in the neighbourhood.

There Richard was introduced to the Superintendent.

"I have this night," said the young man, "escaped from the most fearful
perils. I was proceeding along a dark, narrow, and dirty street
somewhere in the neighbourhood of Shoreditch Church, when I was knocked
down, and carried into a house where murder--yes, murder," added
Markham, in a tone of fearful excitement, "seems to be committed At this
moment there is a corpse--the corpse of some unfortunate man who has
been assassinated in a most inhuman manner--lying stretched out in that
house! I could tell you how the miscreants who frequent that den dispose
of their victims,--how they pounce upon those who pass their door, and
drag them into that human slaughter-house,--and how they make away with
them;--I could tell you horrors which would make your hair stand on
end;--but we should lose time; for you may yet capture the three
wretches whose crimes have been this night so providentially revealed to
me!"

"And where can we capture these men?" inquired the Superintendent,
surveying Markham from head to foot in a strange manner.

"They are at this moment at Shoreditch Church," returned the young man;
"they are engaged in exhuming a corpse for a surgeon whom they were to
meet at half-past one at the back of the burial-ground."

"And it is now three o'clock," said the Superintendent. "I dare say they
have got over their business by this time. You had much better sit down
here by the fire and rest yourself; and when it is daylight some one
shall see you home to your friends."

"Sit here tranquilly, when justice claims its due!" ejaculated Markham;
"impossible! If you will not second my endeavours to expose a most
appalling system of wholesale murder----"

"My dear sir," interrupted the Superintendent, "do compose yourself, and
get such horrid thoughts out of your head. Come--be reasonable. This is
London, you know--and it is impossible that the things you have
described could be committed in so populous a city."

"I tell you that every word I have uttered is the strict truth," cried
Markham emphatically.

"And how came you to escape from such a place?" demanded the
Superintendent.

"The villain who attacked me thought me dead--he fancied that I was
killed by the blow; but it had only stunned me for a few moments----"

"Just now there were three murderers," whispered one policeman to
another: "now there is only one. He is as mad as a March-hare."

"Then I was decoyed into a deep pit," continued Markham; "and I escaped
through an aperture opening into another pit, with stone steps to it, in
the next house."

The two policemen turned round to conceal their inclination to laugh;
and the Superintendent could scarcely maintain a serious countenance.

"And now will you come with me to Shoreditch Church, and capture the
villains?" cried Markham.

"We had better wait till morning. Pray sit down and compose yourself.
You are wet and covered with mud--you have evidently been walking a
great distance."

"Oh! now I understand the cause of your hesitation," ejaculated Markham:
"you do not believe me--you fancy that I am labouring under a delusion.
I conjure you not to suffer justice to be defeated by that idea! The
tale is strange; and I myself, had it been communicated to me as it now
is to you, should look upon it as improbable. No doubt, too, my
appearance is strange; and my manner may be excited, and my tone
wild;--but, I swear to you by the great God who hears us, that I am
sane--in the possession of my reason,--although, heaven knows! I have
this night passed through enough to unhinge the strongest intellects!"

"Can you lead us to the house where you allege that these enormities are
committed?" demanded the Superintendent, moved by the solemnity and
rationality with which Markham had uttered this last appeal to him.

"No, I cannot," was the reply: "I had lost my way amongst those streets
with which I was totally unacquainted: the night was dark--dark as it is
now;--and therefore I could not guide you to that den of such black
atrocities. But, I repeat the murderers left that house a little after
one to commit a deed of sacrilege in Shoreditch Church. You say that it
is now three: perhaps their resurrection-labours are not terminated yet;
and you might then capture them in the midst of their unholy pursuits."

"And if we do not find that Shoreditch Church has been broken open?"
said the Superintendent; "you will admit----"

"Admit that I am mad--that I have deceived you--that I deserve to be
consigned to a lunatic asylum," exclaimed Markham, in a tone which
inspired the Superintendent with confidence.

That officer accordingly gave instructions to four constables to
accompany Markham to Shoreditch Church.

The little party proceeded thither with all possible expedition; but the
clock struck four just as they reached the point of destination.

They hastily scaled the railings around the burial-ground, and proceeded
to the very door from which the body-snatchers had emerged an hour
previously.

One of the policemen tried the door; and it immediately yielded to his
touch. At the same moment his foot struck against something upon the top
step. He picked it up:--it was a padlock with the semicircular bolt
sawed through.

The policemen and Markham entered the church; and the former commenced a
strict search by means of their bull's-eye lanterns.

"There's no doubt that the gentleman was right, and all he said was
true," observed one of the officers; "but the birds have flown--that's
clear."

"Well--they must have done their work pretty cleverly if they haven't
left a trace," said another.

"I have heard it stated," remarked Richard, "that resurrection-men are
so expert at their calling, that they can defy the most acute eye to
discover the spot upon which they have been operating."

"Well, if we don't find out which vault they have opened, it's no
matter. We have seen enough to convince us that you were right, sir, in
all you told us."

"And as the body-snatchers are not here," added another police-officer,
"we had better get back as quick as we can and report the church's
having been broke open to our Superintendent."

"And I will return with you," said Markham; "for when it is light I may
perhaps be enabled to conduct you to within a short distance of the
street--even if not into the very street itself--where the den is
situated which those monsters frequent or inhabit."

The officers and Richard accordingly returned to the station-house
whence they came; and as soon as the Superintendent heard that the
church had really been broken open, he apologised to Markham for his
former incredulity.

"You will, however, admit, sir," said this functionary, "that your
narrative was calculated to excite strange suspicions relative to the
condition of the intellects of the person who told it."

"I presume you fancied that I had escaped from a madhouse?" observed
Markham.

"To tell you the truth, I did," answered the Superintendent: "you were
in such a dreadful condition! And that reminds me that you are all wet
and covered with mud: please to step into my private room, and you will
find every thing necessary to make you clean and comfortable."

       *       *       *       *       *

Day dawned shortly after seven; and at that time might be seen Richard
Markham, accompanied by an officer in plain clothes, and followed by
others at a distance, threading the streets and alleys in the
neighbourhood of the Bird-cage Walk.

The sun rose upon that labyrinth of close, narrow, and wretched
thoroughfares, and irradiated those sinks of misery and crime as well as
the regal palace and the lordly mansion at the opposite end of London.

But the search after the house in which Markham had witnessed such
horrors and endured such intense mental agony on the preceding night,
was as vain and fruitless as if its existence were but a dream.

There was not a street which Markham could remember having passed
through; there was not a house to which even his suspicions attached.

And yet, may be, he and his official companions proceeded up the very
street, and went by the door of the very house, which they sought.

After a useless search throughout that neighbourhood for nearly four
hours, Markham declared that he was completely at fault.

The police accordingly abandoned any further proceedings on that
occasion. It was however agreed between them and Markham that the
strictest secresy should be preserved relative to the entire business,
in order that the measures to be subsequently adopted with a view to
discover the den of the murderers, might not be defeated by the tattle
of busy tongues.




CHAPTER XLVI.

RICHARD AND ISABELLA.


Richard Markham had determined to lose no time in revealing to Count
Alteroni those adventures which had rendered him an inmate of the
Giltspur Street Compter for two years.

And yet it was hard to dare the destruction of the bright visions which
had dawned upon him in respect to the Signora Isabella: it was cruel to
dash away from his lips the only cup of enjoyment which he had tasted
for a long time.

He knew not how the count would receive such a narrative as he had to
tell. Doubtless it would alarm him: "for society," thought Richard, "was
too apt to judge rashly by outward appearances." Should the count,
however, nobly and generously rise above the prejudices of the world,
and believe the statement of Markham's innocence, corroborated as it was
by the document signed by Talbot, _alias_ Pocock, much would have been
gained by a candid and honourable confession. But if the reverse ensued,
and the count banished Richard from his friendship, the young man felt
that he himself would only have performed a melancholy duty, and broken
asunder of his own accord those bonds which, were he to remain silent,
an accident might one day snap abruptly and rudely.

"I feel happy," said Markham to himself, as he arose in the morning
after the day on which the fruitless search mentioned in the preceding
chapter took place,--"I feel happy even while about to consummate a
sacrifice which may destroy the most golden of my dreams! The Infinite
Being has declared that the days of our life shall be marked with
sorrow; and they are--as I can well testify! But the afflictions to
which we are subject are attended with blessed antidotes;--moral sources
of enjoyment are given to us, as fruits and flowers for the soul; and
the teachings of interest, as well as the impulses of gratitude, should
lead us to consider with attention those duties we owe each other, for
the sake of the bounties the Almighty showers upon us."

So reasoned Richard Markham.

That evening he arrived at the count's abode near Richmond, a few
minutes before dinner.

A kind welcome awaited him on the part of the count and countess; and
the eyes of Signora Isabella expressed the satisfaction she experienced
at his return.

When Markham was seated with the count after dinner, he determined to
commence the explanation which he had resolved to give.

He was just about to broach the subject, when the count observed, "By
the bye, I am happy to inform you that I received letters from Greenwood
this morning; and he assures me that the speculation looks admirably."

"I am delighted to hear it," returned Richard. "But the chief object of
my present visit----"

"Was to speak about this Steam Packet business, no doubt," interrupted
the count. "Well, if you like to take shares in it, it is not too late.
But what do you think? I am going to tell you a secret. You know that I
look upon you as a friend of the family; besides, I am well aware that
you respect Isabel and love her like a brother----"

"What did you say, count?" stammered Markham.

"I was going to tell you that Mr. Greenwood--who is immensely rich--has
taken a liking to Isabella----"

"Indeed!"

"Yes--and I gave him some little encouragement."

"What! without previously ascertaining whether the Signora's feelings
are reciprocal?" cried Richard.

"As for that, my dear Markham, remember that a dutiful daughter knows no
will and no inclination save those of her parents."

"This is not an English doctrine," said Markham, "so far as the
principle applies to affairs of the heart."

"It is nevertheless an Italian doctrine," exclaimed the count, somewhat
haughtily; "and I have no doubt that Isabella will ever recognise the
authority of her parents in this as in all other matters."

As the count uttered these words, he rose and led the way to the
drawing-room; and thus deprived Markham of that opportunity of making
the confession he had intended.

Richard was unhappy and dispirited. He perceived that the count was
inclined to favour Mr. Greenwood's suit; and he now felt how dear
Isabella was to him--how profoundly seated was his love for the
beauteous Italian!

Misfortunes never come alone. Richard was destined to receive a crushing
blow, although innocently inflicted, the moment he entered the
drawing-room.

The countess was conversing with her daughter upon her own family
connections.

"Do not let us interrupt your conversation," said the count, as he took
his seat upon the sofa near his wife.

"We were only talking about the Chevalier Guilderstein, whose death was
mentioned in yesterday's newspaper," observed the countess. "I was
saying that I remembered how delighted I was when I discovered a few
years ago that the chevalier was not related to our family, as he had
always pretended to be."

"And why so?" inquired the count.

"Because the father of the chevalier was put to death in Austria for
coining--or rather upon a charge of coining," answered the countess;
"and although his innocence was discovered and proclaimed a few years
after his death, I should not like to have amongst my ancestors a man
who had been criminally convicted, however innocent he may in reality
have been."

"Certainly not," said the count. "I should be very sorry for any one
whose character had ever been tainted with suspicion, to have the
slightest connection with our family."

"I cannot say that I agree with you," observed Isabel. "There can be no
disgrace attached to one who has suffered under a false accusation: on
the contrary--such a person is rather deserving of our deepest sympathy
and----"

"Heavens, Mr. Markham!" ejaculated the countess; "are you ill? Bella,
dear--ring the bell--get Mr. Markham a glass of water----"

"It is nothing--nothing, I can assure you," stammered Richard, whose
countenance was as pale as that of a corpse. "Miss Isabella, do not give
yourself any trouble! It was only a sudden faintness--a spasm: but it is
over now."

With these words Markham hurried to the bed-chamber which was always
allotted to him when he visited the count's residence.

All the horrible tortures which man can conceive, harassed him at that
moment. He threw himself upon his couch--he writhed--he struggled, as if
against a serpent which held him in its embraces. His eyes seemed as if
they were about to start from their sockets; his teeth were fast
closed--he wrung his hair--he beat his breast--and low moans escaped
from his bosom. The _fiat_ of the count had gone forth. He who would
claim or aspire to connection with his family must be like the wife of
Cæsar--beyond all suspicion. It was not enough that such an one should
be innocent of any crime: he must never have even been accused of one.
Such was the disposition of the count--elicited by an accident, and
unexpectedly; and Markham could now divine the nature of the treatment
which he would be likely to experience, were he to reveal his
misfortunes to a nobleman who entertained such punctilious and extremely
scrupulous notions!

"But I was mad to imagine that Isabella would ever become mine," thought
Markham within himself, as soon as he became somewhat more
tranquillised. "It was folly--supreme folly--rank, idiotic,
inconceivable folly, in me to have cherished a hope which could never be
realised! All that now remains for me to do, is to abandon myself to my
adverse fate--to attempt no more struggles against the destinies that
await me,--to leave this house without delay--to return home, and bury
myself in a solitude from which no persuasions nor attractions shall
henceforth induce me to emerge! Would that I could leave this house this
very evening;--but appearances compel me to remain at least until
to-morrow! I must endeavour to assume that ease of manner--that friendly
confidence, which is reciprocal here:--for a few hours I must consent to
act the hypocrite; and to-morrow--to-morrow, I shall be relieved from
that dread necessity,--I shall be compelled to bid adieu to Isabella for
ever! No avowal of my past sufferings is now required--since I shall
to-morrow leave this hospitable mansion, never to return!"

A flood of tears relieved the unfortunate young man; and he descended
once more to the drawing-room--very pale, but as calm and tranquil as
usual. Isabella glanced towards him from time to time with evident
anxiety; and, in spite of all his endeavours to appear cheerful and at
his ease, he was embarrassed, cool, and reserved. Isabella was wounded
and mortified by his conduct:--she attempted to rally him, and to
ascertain whether he was really chilling in his manners on purpose, or
only melancholy against his will: but she received frigid and laconic
replies, which annoyed and disheartened the poor girl to such an extent
that she could scarcely refrain from tears. Markham felt that, as an
honourable man, he could no longer aspire to the hand of the signora,
after the expression of opinion accidentally conveyed to him by the
count and countess; and he therefore forbore from any attempt to render
himself agreeable, or to afford the slightest testimony of his passion.
Acting with these views, and endeavouring to seem only properly polite,
he fell into the opposite extreme, and grew cold and reserved. The count
and countess imagined that he was unwell, and were not therefore annoyed
by his conduct;--but poor Isabella, who was deeply attached to him, set
down his behaviour to indifference. This idea on her part was confirmed,
when Markham, in the course of conversation, intimated his intention of
returning home on the following day.

"Return home! and what for?" ejaculated the count. "You have no society
there, and here you have some--unamusing and tedious though it may be."

"Never did I pass a happier period of my existence than that which I
have spent in your hospitable abode," said Richard.

"Then remain with us at least ten days or a fortnight," cried the count.
"We shall then be visiting London ourselves, for we have promised to
pass a few weeks with Lord and Lady Tremordyn."

"Lord Tremordyn!" exclaimed Richard.

"Yes--do you know him?"

"Only by name. But did not his daughter marry Sir Rupert Harborough?"
said Markham, shuddering as he pronounced the abhorred name.

"The same. Sir Robert treats her shamefully--neglects her in every way,
and passes whole months away from his home. He has, moreover, expended
all the fortune she brought him, and is again, I understand, deeply
involved in debt."

"Poor Lady Cecilia!" ejaculated Isabella. "She is deeply to be pitied!"

"But to return to this sudden resolution of yours to depart to-morrow,"
said the count.

"Which resolution is very suddenly taken," added the signora, affecting
to be engaged in contemplating a book of prints which lay upon the table
before her, while her beautiful countenance was suffused with a deep
blush.

"My resolution is sudden, certainly," observed Richard. "Circumstances
over which I have no control, and which it would be useless to
communicate to you, frequently compel me to adopt sudden resolutions,
and act up to them. Be assured, however, that the memory of your
kindness will always be dear to me."

"You speak as if we were never to meet again," exclaimed the count.

"We cannot dispose of events in this world according to our own will,"
said Markham, emphatically. "Would to God we could!"

"But there are certain circumstances in which we seem to be free
agents," said Isabella, still holding down her head; "and remaining in
one place, or going to another, appears to be amongst those actions
which depend upon our own volition."

At this moment a servant entered the room and informed the count that
the private secretary of the envoy of the Grand Duke of Castelcicala to
the English court desired to speak with him in another apartment.

"Oh! I am interested in this," exclaimed the countess; and, upon a
signal of approval on the part of her husband, she accompanied him to
the room where the secretary was waiting.

Markham was now alone with Isabella.

This was a probable occurrence which he had dreaded all that evening. He
felt himself cruelly embarrassed in her presence; and the silence which
prevailed between them was awkward to a degree.

At length the signora herself spoke.

"It appears that you are determined to leave us, Mr. Markham?" she said,
without glancing towards him, and in a tone which she endeavoured to
render as cool and indifferent as possible.

"I feel that I have been too long here already, signora," answered
Richard, scarcely knowing what reply to make.

"Do you mean to tax us with inattention to your comfort, Mr. Markham?"

"God forbid, signora! In the name of heaven do not entertain such an
idea!"

"Mr. Markham has been treated as well as our humble means would admit;
and he leaves us with an abruptness which justifies us in entertaining
fears that he is not comfortable."

"How can I convince you of the injustice of your suspicions?" ejaculated
Markham. "You would not wantonly wound my feelings, Miss Isabella, by a
belief which is totally unfounded? No! that is not the cause of my
departure. My own happiness--my own honour--every thing commands me to
quit a spot where--where I shall, nevertheless, leave so many
reminiscences of joy and tranquil felicity behind me! I dare not explain
myself farther at present; perhaps _never_ will you know the cause--but,
pardon me, signora--I am wandering--I know not what I say!"

"Pray compose yourself, Mr. Markham," said Isabella, now raising her
head from the book, and glancing towards him.

"Compose myself, Isabella--signora, I mean," he exclaimed: "_that_ is
impossible! Oh! if you knew _all_, you would pity me! But I dare not now
reveal to you what I wish. A word which this day dropped from your
father's lips has banished all hope from my mind. Now I am wandering
again! In the name of heaven, take no notice of what I say; I am mad--I
am raving!"

"And what was it that my father said to annoy you?" inquired Isabella
timidly.

"Oh! nothing--nothing purposely," answered Markham. "He himself was
unaware that he fired the arrow from his bow."

"Am I unworthy of your confidence in this instance?" asked Isabella;
"and may I not be made acquainted with the nature of the annoyance which
my father has thus unintentionally caused you to experience?"

"Oh! why should I repeat words which would only lead to a revelation of
what it is now useless to reveal. Your father and mother both delivered
the same sentiment--a sentiment that destroys all hope. But, oh! you
cannot understand the cause of my anxiety--my grief--my disappointment!"

"And why not entrust me with that cause? I could sympathise with you as
a friend."

"As a friend! Alas, Isabella, is it useless for me now to deplore the
visions which I had conjured up, and which have been so cruelly
destroyed? You yourself know not what is in store for you--what plans
your father may have formed concerning you!"

"And are you acquainted with those plans?" asked the beauteous Italian,
in a tone of voice rendered almost inaudible by a variety of
emotions--for the heart of that innocent and charming being fluttered
like a bird in the net of the fowler.

"Do not question me on that head, Isabella! Let me speak of myself--for
it is sweet to be commiserated by such as you! My life for some time
past has been a scene of almost unceasing misery. When I came of age I
found my vast property dissipated by him to whom it was entrusted. And
other circumstances gave a new and unpleasant aspect to those places
which were dear to me in my childhood. What wild hopes, in early life,
had I there indulged,--what dreams for the future had there visited my
mind in its boyhood!--what vain wishes, what strong yearnings, what
ambitious aspirations had there first found existence! When I returned
to those spots, after an absence of two years, and thought of the
feelings that there once agitated my bosom, and contrasted them with
those which had displaced them,--when I traced the history of each hope
from its inception there, and followed it through the vista of years
until its final extinction,--when I thought how differently my course in
life had been shaped from that career which I had there marked out, and
how vain and futile were all the efforts and strivings which I exerted
against the tide of events and the force of circumstances,--I awoke, as
it were from a long dream,--I opened my eyes upon the path which I
should thenceforth have to pursue, and judged of it by the one I had
been pursuing;--I saw the nothingness of men's lives in general, and the
utter vanity of the main pursuits which engross their minds, and waste
their energies;--and I then felt convinced that I was indeed but an
instrument in the hands of another, and that the ends which I had
obtained had not been those for which I had striven, but which the
Almighty willed! So is it with me now, Isabella. I had planned a
dream--a dream of Elysium, with which to cheer and bless the remainder
of my existence; and, behold! like all the former hopes and aspirations
of my life, this one is also suddenly destroyed!"

"How know you that it is destroyed?" inquired Isabella, casting down her
eyes.

"Oh! I am unworthy of you, Isabella--I do not deserve you; and yet it
was to your hand that I aspired;--you were the star that was to
irradiate the remainder of my existence! Oh! I could weep--I could weep,
Isabella, when I think of what I might have been, and what I am!"

"You say that you aspired to my hand," murmured the lovely Italian
maiden, casting down her large dark eyes and blushing deeply; "you did
me honour!"

"Silence, Isabella--silence!" interrupted Richard. "I dare not now hear
the words of hope from _your_ lips! But I love thee--I love thee--God
only knows how sincerely I love thee!"

"And shall I conceal my own feelings with regard to you, Richard?" said
Isabella, approaching him and laying her delicate and beautifully
modelled hand lightly upon his wrist.

"She loves me in return--she loves me!" ejaculated Markham, half wild
with mingled joy and apprehensions;--and, yielding to an impulse which
no mortal under such circumstances could have conquered, he caught her
in his arms.

He kissed her pure and chaste brow--he felt her fragrant breath upon his
cheek--her hair commingled with his own--and he murmured the words, "You
love me?"

A gentle voice breathed an affirmative in his ear; and he pressed his
lips to hers to ratify that covenant of two fond hearts.

Suddenly he recollected that Count Alteroni had declared that no one
against whom there was even a suspicion of crime should ever form a
connection with his family. Markham's high sense of honour told him in a
moment that he had no right to secure the affections of a confiding and
gentle girl whose father would never yield an assent to their union: his
brain, already excited, now became inflamed almost to madness;--he
abruptly turned aside from her who had just avowed her attachment to
him,--he muttered some incoherent words which she did not comprehend,
and rushed out of the room.

He hurried to the garden at the back of the house, and walked rapidly up
and down a shady avenue of trees which ran along the wall that bounded
the enclosure on the side of the public road.

By degrees he grew calm and relaxed the speed of his pace. He then fell
into a long and profound meditation upon the occurrences of the last
half hour.

He was beloved by Isabella, it was true;--but never might he aspire to
her hand;--never could it be accorded to him to lead her to the altar
where their attachment might be ratified and _his_ happiness confirmed!
An inseparable barrier seemed to oppose itself to his wishes; and he
felt that no alternative remained to him but to put his former
resolution into force, and take his departure homewards on the ensuing
morning.

Thus was it that he now reasoned.

The moon shone brightly; and the heavens were studded with stars.

As Markham was about to turn for the twentieth time at that end of the
avenue which was the more remote from the house, the beams of the moon
suddenly disclosed to him a human face peering over the wall at him.

He started, and was about to utter an exclamation of alarm, when a
well-known voice fell upon his ears.

"Hush!" was the word first spoken; "I have just one question to ask you,
and then one thing to tell you; and the last will just depend upon the
first."

"Wretch--miscreant--murderer!" exclaimed Richard; "nothing shall now
prevent me from securing you on the behalf of justice."

"Fool!" coolly returned the Resurrection Man--for it was he; "who can
catch me in the darkness and the open fields?"

"True!" cried Markham, stamping his foot with vexation. "But God grant
that the day of retribution may come!"

"Come, come--none of this nonsense, my dear boy," said the Resurrection
Man, with diabolical irony. "Now, answer me--will you give me a cool
hundred and fifty? If not, then I will get swag in spite of you."

"Why do you thus molest and persecute me? I would sooner handle the most
venomous serpent, than enter into a compromise with a fiend like you!"

"Then beware of the consequences!"

The moon shone full upon the cadaverous and unearthly countenance of the
Resurrection Man, and revealed the expression of ferocious rage which it
wore as he uttered these words. That vile and foreboding face then
suddenly disappeared behind the wall.

"Who are you talking to, Markham?" cried the voice of the count, who was
now advancing down the avenue.

"Talking to?" repeated Richard, alarmed and confused.

"Yes--I heard your voice, and another answering you," said the count.

"It was a man in the road," answered Markham.

"I missed you from the drawing-room on my return; and Bella said she
thought you were unwell, and had gone to walk in the garden for the
fresh air. The news I have received from Castelcicala, through the
Envoy's secretary, are by no means favourable to my hopes of a speedy
return to my native land. You therefore see that I have done well to lay
out my capital in this. But we will not discuss matters of business now;
for there is company up stairs, and we must join them. Who do you think
have just made their appearance?"

"Mr. Armstrong and other friends?" said Markham inquiringly.

"No--Armstrong is on the Continent. The visitors are Sir Cherry Bounce
and Captain Smilax Dapper; and I am by no means pleased with their
company. However, my house _must_ always remain open to them in
consequence of the services rendered to me by their deceased relative."

Markham accompanied the count back to the drawing-room, where Captain
Smilax Dapper had seated himself next to the signora; and Sir Cherry
Bounce was endeavouring to divert the countess with an account of their
journey that evening from London. They both coloured deeply and bowed
very politely when Richard entered the apartment.

"Well, ath I wath thaying," continued Sir Cherry, "one of the twatheth
bwoke at the bottom of the hill, and the hortheth took to fwight.
Thmilakth thwore like a twooper; but nothing could thwop the thaithe
till it wolled thlap down into a dwy dith. Dapper then woared like a
bull; and I----"

"And Cherry began to cry, strike me if he didn't!" ejaculated the
gallant hussar, caressing his moustache. "A countryman who passed by
asked him if his mamma knew he was out: Cherry thought that the fellow
was in earnest, and assured him that he had her permission to undertake
the journey. I never laughed so much in my life!"

"Oh! naughty Dapper to thay that I cwied! That really ith too cwuel.
Well, we got the thaithe lifted out of the dith, and the twathe mended."

"You are the heroes of an adventure," said the count.

"I intend to put it into verse, strike me ugly if I don't!" cried the
young officer; "and perhaps the signora will allow me to copy it into
her _Album_?"

"Oh! I must read it first," said Isabella, laughing. "But since you
speak of my _Album_, I must show you the additions I have received to
its treasures."

"This is really a beautiful landscape," observed Captain Dapper, as he
turned over the leaves of the book which the beautiful Italian presented
to him. "The water flowing over the wheel of the mill is quite natural,
strike me! And--may I never know what fair woman's smiles are again, if
those trees don't seem actually to be growing out of the paper!"

"Thuperb?" ejaculated Sir Cherry Bounce. "The wiver litewally wollth
along in the picthure. The cowth and the theepe are walking in the gween
fieldth. Pway who might have been the artitht of thith mathleth
producthion?"

"That is a secret," said the signora. "And now read these lines."

"Read them yourself, Bella," said the count. "No one can do justice to
them but you."

Isabella accordingly read the following stanzas in a tone of voice that
added a new charm to the words themselves:--

                    LONDON.

    'Twas midnight--and the beam of Cynthia shone
      In company with many a lovely star,
    Steeping in silver the huge Babylon
      Whose countless habitations stretch afar,
    Plain, valley, hill, and river's bank upon,
      And in whose mighty heart all interests jar!--
    O sovereign city of a thousand towers,
    What vice is cradled in thy princely bowers!

    If thou would'st view fair London-town aright,
      Survey her from the bridge of Waterloo;
    And let the hour be at the morning's light,
      When the sun's earliest rays have struggled through
    The star-bespangled curtain of the night,
      And when Aurora's locks are moist with dew:
    Then take thy stand upon that bridge, and see
    London awake in all her majesty!

    Then do her greatest features seem to crowd
      Down to the river's brink:--then does she raise
    From off her brow the everlasting cloud,
      (Thus with her veil the coquette archly plays)
    And for a moment shows her features, proud
      To catch the Rembrandt light of the sun's rays:--
    Then may the eye of the beholder dwell
    On steeple, column, dome, and pinnacle.

    Yes--he may reckon temple, mart, and tower--
      The old historic sites--the halls of kings--
    The seats of art--the fortalice of power--
      The ships that waft our commerce on their wings--
    All these commingle in that dawning hour;
      And each into one common focus brings
    Some separate moral of life's scenes so true,
    As all those objects form one point of view!

    The ceaseless hum of the huge Babylon
      Has known no silence for a thousand years;
    Still does her tide of human life flow on,
      Still is she racked with sorrows, hopes, and fears;
    Still the sun sets, still morning dawns upon
      Hearts full of anguish, eye-balls dimmed with tears:--
    Still do the millions toil to bless the few--
    And hideous Want stalks all her pathways through!

"Beautiful--very beautiful!" exclaimed Captain Dapper. "Strike me if I
ever heard more beautiful poetry!"

"Almotht ath good ath your lineth on the Thea Therpent. Wath the poem
witten by the thame perthon that painted the landthcape?"

"The very same," answered Isabella. "His initials are in the corner."

"R. M. Who can that be?" exclaimed Dapper.

"Robert Montgomery, perhaps?" said Isabella, smiling with a charmingly
arch expression of countenance.

"No--Wichard Markham!" cried Sir Cherry; and then he and his friend the
hussar captain were excessively annoyed to think that they had been
extolling to the skies the performances of an individual who had
frightened the one out of his wits, and boxed the ears of the other.

Thus passed the evening; but Markham was reserved and melancholy. It was
in vain that Isabella exerted herself to instil confidence into his
mind, by means of those thousand little attentions and manifestations of
preference which lovers know so well how to exhibit, but which those
around perceive not. Richard was firm in those resolutions which he
deemed consistent with propriety and honour; and he deeply regretted the
explanation and its consequences into which the enthusiasm of the moment
had that evening led him.

At length the hour for retiring to rest arrived.

Richard repaired to his chamber--but not to sleep. His mind was too much
harassed by the events of the evening--the plans which he had pursued,
and those which he intended to pursue--the love which he bore to Isabel,
and the stern opposition which might be anticipated from her father--the
persecution to which he was subject at the hands of the Resurrection
Man--and the train of evil fortune which appeared constantly to attend
upon him;--of all these he thought; and his painful meditations defied
the advance of slumber.

The window of his bed-chamber overlooked the garden at the back of the
house; from which direction a strange and alarming noise suddenly broke
in upon his reflections. He listened--and all was quiet: he therefore
felt convinced that his terror was unfounded. A few moments elapsed; and
he was again alarmed by a sound which seemed like the jarring of an
unfastened shutter. A certain uneasiness now took possession of him; and
he was determined to ascertain whether all was safe about the premises.
He leapt from his bed, raised the window, and looked forth. The night
was now pitch dark; and he could distinguish nothing. Not even were the
outlines of the trees in the garden discernible amidst that profound and
dense obscurity. Markham held his breath; and the whispering of voices
met his ears. He could not, however, distinguish a word they uttered:--a
low hissing continuous murmur, the nature of which it was impossible to
mistake, convinced him that some persons were talking together
immediately beneath his window. In a few moments the jarring of a door
or shutter, which he had before heard, was repeated; and then the
whispering ceased.

By this time his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness; and he
could now faintly discern the outlines of three human forms standing
together at the back door of the house. He could not, however,
distinguish the precise nature of their present employment. It was,
nevertheless, evident to him that they were not there with any honest
intention in view; and he resolved to adopt immediate measures to defeat
their burglarious schemes. He hastily threw on his clothes, struck a
light, and issued from his room.

Cautiously advancing along a passage was the count, only half-dressed,
with a pistol in each hand and a cutlass under his arm.

"This is fortunate!" whispered the count: "I was coming to alarm you:
there are thieves breaking in. You and I can manage them; it is of no
use to call Bounce or Dapper. Take this cutlass, and let us descend
gently. Here come the men-servants."

The count hurried down stairs, followed by Markham, and the three male
domestics of the household.

A noise was heard in the pantry, which was situate at the back of the
house on the same level with the hall.

"Douse the darkey, blow the glim, and mizzle," cried a hoarse gruff
voice, as the count, Richard, and the servants approached the pantry:
"there's five on 'em--it's no use----"

The count rushed forward, and burst open the door of the pantry, closely
followed by Markham, holding the candle.

Two of the burglars made a desperate push down the kitchen stairs and
escaped: the third was captured in an attempt to follow his companions.

The light of the candle fell upon the villain's countenance, which was
literally ghastly with a mingled expression of rage and alarm.

Richard shuddered: for the captured burglar was no other than the
Resurrection Man.

"Wretch!" exclaimed Markham, recovering his self-command: "the law will
at length reach you."

"What! do you know this fellow?" demanded the count, somewhat surprised
by the observation.

"Know me!" cried the Resurrection Man: "of course he does. But supposing
someone was to tell you a piece of valuable information, count--about a
matter closely concerning yourself and family--would you be inclined to
be merciful?"

"Of what nature is that information? It must be very valuable indeed, if
you think that I will enter into any compromise with such as you."

"Pledge me your word that you will let me go scot free, and I will tell
you something that concerns the peace and happiness--perhaps the honour
of your daughter."

"Miscreant!" cried Markham: "profane not that lady by even alluding to
her!"

"Stay--curse the fellow's impudence," said the count: "perhaps he may
really have somewhat worth communicating. At all events, I will try him.
Now, then, my man, what is it that you have to say? If your statement be
worth hearing, I swear that I will neither molest you, nor suffer you to
be molested."

"Hold, count," exclaimed Markham: "make no rash vow--you know not what a
wretch----"

"Silence, my dear friend," said the count authoritatively: "I will hear
the man, let him be who or what he may!"

"And you will do well to hear me, sir," continued the Resurrection Man.
"You harbour a villain in your house; and that villain is now before
you. He boasts of having secured the affections of your daughter, and
hopes to gull you into allowing him to marry her."

"Miscreant--murderer!" exclaimed Markham, no longer able to contain his
indignation: "pollute not innocence itself by these allusions to a lady
whose spotless mind----"

"Hush!" said the count. "Let us hear patiently all this man has to say.
I can soon judge whether he be speaking the truth; and if he deceives
me, I will show him no mercy."

"But, count--allow me one word--I myself will unfold----"

"Excuse me, Markham," interrupted the Italian noble, with dignified
firmness: "I will hear this man first. Proceed!"

"The villain I allude to is of course that Markham," continued the
Resurrection Man. "It was him, too, that induced me and my pals, the
Cracksman and the Buffer, to make this attempt upon your house
to-night."

"What foul--what hideous calumny is this!" almost screamed the
distracted Markham, as this totally unexpected and unfounded accusation
met his ears.

The count himself was shocked at this announcement; for he suddenly
recollected Richard's moody, embarrassed, and thoughtful manner the
whole evening, and his sudden intention of departing the next day.

"Go on," said the count.

"I met that man," continued the body-snatcher, pointing contemptuously
towards Markham, "a little more than a fortnight ago in this
neighbourhood: he was walking with your daughter; and it was in
consequence of certain little arrangements with me that he went back to
London next day. Oh! I am well acquainted with all his movements."

"And you sought my life in a manner the most base----" began Markham,
unable to restrain his feelings.

"Silence, Markham!" exclaimed the count, still more authoritatively than
before. "Your time to speak will come."

"We planned this work while he was in London," continued the
Resurrection Man; "and this very evening he told me over the garden wall
that all was right."

"Merciful God!" cried the count: "this is but too true!"

"Yes, sir--I certainly spoke to him," said Richard,--"and from the
garden too----"

"Mr. Markham, this continued interruption is indecent," exclaimed the
count emphatically, while a cold perspiration burst out upon his
forehead; for he had recalled to mind the incident respecting the
garden.

"I have little more to add, count," said the Resurrection Man. "This
Markham told me that you had plenty of plate and money always in the
house; and as he had lost nearly all his property, he should not be
displeased at an opportunity of getting hold of a little swag. It was
agreed that we should meet in London to arrange the business; and so we
did meet at the _Dark House_ in Brick Lane, where we settled the affair
along with the Cracksman and the Buffer, who have just made off. This is
all I have to say--unless it is that me and your friend Markham first
got acquainted in Newgate----"

"Newgate!" ejaculated the count, with a thrill of horror.

"Yes--Newgate; where he was waiting to be tried for forgery, for which
he got two years in the Compter. And that's all. Let him deny it if he
can."

Scarcely were these terrible words uttered by the Resurrection Man, when
a loud--long--and piercing scream was heard, coming from the direction
of the staircase; and then some object instantly fell with violence upon
the marble floor of the hall.

"Isabella! Isabella!" ejaculated Markham, turning hastily round to hurry
to her assistance.

"Stop, sir--seek not my daughter," cried the count, in a stern voice, as
he caught Richard's arm and held him back. "Let not a soul stir until my
return!"

There was a noble and dignified air of command about Count Alteroni, as
he uttered these words, which could not escape the notice of Richard
Markham, even amidst the crushing and overwhelming circumstances that
surrounded him.

[Illustration]

The count took the candle from Markham's hand, and hastened to the aid
of his daughter, who, half-dressed, was lying upon the cold marble of
the hall. He hastened to raise her; and at that moment the countess
appeared upon the stairs, followed by a lady's-maid bearing a lamp.

The count reassured her in respect to the safety of the house, consigned
Isabella to her care, and then returned to the pantry, where his
presence was awaited in silence.

"Have you any thing more to say?" demanded the count of the Resurrection
Man.

"Nothing. Have not I said enough?"--and he glanced with fiendish triumph
towards Markham.

"Now, sir," said the count, turning to Richard; "is the statement of
this man easy to be refuted?"

"Alas! I am compelled to admit that, the victim of the most
extraordinary circumstantial evidence ever known to fix guilt upon an
innocent man, I was a prisoner in Newgate and the Compter; but----"

"Say no more! say no more! God forgive me, that I should have allowed
such a man to become the friend of my wife and daughter!"

The count uttered these words in a tone of intense agony.

"Count Alteroni, allow me one word of explanation," said Richard. "Only
cast your eyes over this paper, and you will be convinced of my
innocence!"

Markham handed the document signed by Talbot, _alias_ Pocock, to the
count; but the nobleman tossed it indignantly on the floor.

"You have confessed that you have been an inmate of the felons' gaols:
what explanation can you give that will wipe away so foul a stain?
Depart--begone! defile not my house longer with your presence!"

Vainly did Markham endeavour to obtain a hearing. The count silenced him
with an air of command and an imposing dignity of manner that struck him
with awe. Never did the Italian nobleman appear more really noble than
when he was thus performing that which he considered to be an imperious
duty. His fine form was drawn up to its full height--his chest
expanded--his cheeks were flushed--and his eyes flashed fire. Yes--even
beneath his dark complexion was the rich Italian blood seen mantling his
countenance.

"Go, sir--hasten your departure--stay not another minute here! A man
accused of forgery--condemned to an infamous punishment,--a liberated
felon--a freed convict in my family dwelling---- Holy God! I can
scarcely restrain myself within the bounds of common patience when I
think of the indignity that myself, my wife, and my innocent daughter
have endured."

With these words the colonel pushed Markham rudely from the pantry, and
ordered a servant to conduct him to the front door.

The blood of the young man boiled in his veins at this ignominious
treatment;--and yet he dared not rebel against it!

The Resurrection Man took his departure at the same time by the garden
at the back of the house.

As Markham turned down the shrubbery, a window on the third floor of the
count's dwelling was thrown open; and the voices of Sir Cherry Bounce
and the Honourable Captain Dapper were heard loading him with abuse.

Bowed down to the earth by the weight of the misfortune which had just
fallen upon his head,--crushed by unjust and unfounded suspicions,--and
sinking beneath a sense of shame and degradation, which all his
innocence did not deprive of a single pang,--Markham dragged himself
away from the house in which he had passed so many happy hours, and
where he left behind him all that he held dear in this life.

He seated himself upon a mile-stone at a little distance from the
count's mansion, to which he turned his eyes to take a last farewell of
the place where Isabella resided.

Lights were moving about in several rooms;--perhaps she was ill?

Most assuredly she had heard the dread accusations which had issued from
the lips of the Resurrection Man against her lover;--and she would haply
believe them all?

So thought Richard. Human language cannot convey an adequate idea of the
heart-rending misery which the poor oppressed young man endured as he
sate by the road-side, and pondered upon all that had just occurred.

Shame upon shame--degradation upon degradation--mountain upon mountain
rolled on his breast, as if he were a modern Titan, to crush him and
keep him down--never more to rise;--this was now _his_ fate!

At length, afraid of being left alone with his own thoughts, which
seemed to urge him to end his earthly woes in the blood of a suicide, he
rose from the cold stone, turned one last sorrowful and lingering glance
towards the mansion in the distance, and then hurried along the road to
Richmond as if he were pursued by bloodhounds.

And not more fearful nor more appalling would those bloodhounds have
been than the horrible and excruciating thoughts which haunted him upon
his way, and of which he could not divest himself; so that at length a
species of delirium seized upon him as he ran furiously onward, the mark
of Cain appearing to burn like red-hot iron upon his brow, and a
terrible voice thundering in his ear--"FREED CONVICT!"




CHAPTER XLVII.

ELIZA SYDNEY.


The reader will remember that the events already related have brought us
up to the close of 1838.

Thus three years had elapsed since the memorable trial which resulted in
the condemnation of Eliza Sydney to an imprisonment of twenty-four long
months in Newgate; and a year had passed since her release from that
dread abode.

We therefore return to her again in December, 1838--about the same time
that those incidents occurred which we detailed in the last few
chapters.

Probably to the surprise of the reader, we again find Eliza Sydney the
mistress of the beautiful villa at Upper Clapton.

Yes: on the evening when we once more introduce ourselves to her, she
was sitting alone in the drawing-room of that home, reading by the side
of a cheerful fire.

She was now twenty-eight years of age; and, although somewhat more
inclining to _embonpoint_ than when we first described her, she was
still a lovely and fascinating woman. That slightly increased roundness
of form had given her charms a voluptuousness the most ravishing and
seductive, but the effects of which upon the beholder were attempered by
the dignity that reigned upon her high and noble brow, and the chaste
expression of her melting hazel eyes.

She was one of those fine creatures--one of those splendid specimens of
the female sex, which are alone seen in the cold climates of the north;
for it appears to be a rule in nature that the flowers of our species
expand into the most luscious loveliness in the least genial latitudes.

There was a soft melancholy in the expression of her countenance, which
might have been mistaken for languor, and which gave an additional charm
to her appearance; for it was easy to perceive her mind was now at ease,
that delicate shade of sadness being the indelible effect of the
adventures of the past.

Her mind was at ease, because she was pure in heart and virtuous in
intention,--because she knew that she had erred innocently when she lent
herself to the fraud for which she had suffered,--because she possessed
a competency that secured her against care for the present and fear for
the future,--and because she dwelt in that strict solitude and
retirement which she loved, and which was congenial to a soul that had
seen enough of the world to learn to dread its cruel artifices and
deceptive ways.

We said that it was evening when we again introduce Eliza to the
readers. A cold wind whistled without; and a huge Christmas log burnt at
the back of the grate, giving an air of supreme comfort to that
tastefully-furnished room.

The French porcelain time-piece upon the mantel proclaimed the hour of
eight.

Scarcely had the silvery chime ceased, when Louisa entered the room in
great haste and excitement.

"Oh, ma'am! who do you think is here?" she cried, closing the door
carefully behind her.

"It is impossible for me to guess, Louisa," said Eliza, smiling.

"Mr. Stephens!" exclaimed the servant: "and he earnestly implores to see
you!"

"Mr. Stephens!" echoed Eliza. "Impossible!"

"It is him, flesh and blood: but so pale--so ghostly pale--and so
altered!"

"Mr. Stephens!" repeated Eliza. "You must be mistaken--you must be
dreaming; for you are well aware that, in accordance with his sentence,
he most be very--very far from England."

"He is here--he is in London--he is at your door!" said Louisa
emphatically; "and as far as I could see by the light of the candle that
I had with me when I answered his knock, he is in rags and tatters."

"And he wishes to see me?" said Eliza, musing.

"Yes, ma'am."

There was a pause of a few moments.

"I will see him," exclaimed Eliza, in a decided tone, after some
consideration. "He may be in want--in distress; and I cannot forget that
he proclaimed my innocence in the dock of the Old Bailey."

Louisa left the room: and in another minute the convict Stephens stood
in the presence of Eliza Sydney.

Altered! he was indeed altered. His eyes were sunken and lustreless--his
cheeks wan and hollow--his hair prematurely tinged with grey--and his
form thin and emaciated. He was moreover clad in rags--absolute rags.

"My God!" ejaculated Eliza: "in what a condition do you return to your
native land!"

"And heaven alone knows what sacrifices I have made, and what hardships
I have undergone to come back!" said Stephens in a hollow voice.

"You are pardoned, then?"

"Oh, no! crimes like mine are not so readily forgiven. I escaped!"

"Escaped!" exclaimed Eliza: "and are you not afraid of being
recaptured?"

"I must run that risk," replied Stephens, sorrowfully. "But give me
food--I am hungry--I am starving!"

The unhappy man sank upon a chair as he uttered these words; and Eliza
summoned Louisa to bring refreshments.

The servant placed a tray laden with provisions upon the table, and
retired.

Stephens then fell ravenously upon the food thus set before him; while
tears stood in Eliza's eyes when she thought that the miserable wretch
had once commanded in that house where he now craved a morsel of bread!

At length the convict terminated his meal.

"I had eaten nothing," he said, "since yesterday afternoon, when I spent
my last penny to procure a roll. Last night I slept in a shed near the
docks, a large stone for my pillow. All this day I have been wandering
about the most obscure and wretched neighbourhoods of London--not
knowing whither to go, and afraid to be seen by any one who may
recognise me. Recognise me!" he added, in a strange satirical manner:
"that would perhaps be difficult;" then, linking his voice almost to a
whisper, he said in a tone of profound and touching melancholy, "Do you
not find me much--very much altered?"

"You have doubtless suffered deeply," said Eliza, wiping away the tears
from her eyes; for at that moment she remembered not the injury brought
by that man upon herself--she saw and knew of nought save the misery of
the hapless being before her.

"You weep, Eliza," exclaimed Stephens, "you weep for me who am unworthy
even of your notice!"

"Forget the past: I prefer dwelling upon the kindnesses rather than the
injuries I have experienced at your hands."

"Excellent woman!" cried the convict, deeply affected. "Oh! you know not
what I have endured--what dangers I have incurred--what hardships I have
undergone--what privations I have experienced! Compelled to work my
passage back to England as a common sailor--a prey to the brutality of a
tyrannical and drunken captain--exposed to all the inclemencies of the
weather,--no tongue can tell what I have gone through! But I will not
weary you with my complaints. Rather let me hear how you yourself have
fared."

"My tale is short," answered Eliza. "The two years in Newgate passed
away. God knows how they passed away--but they _did_ pass! Of that I
will say no more--save that the most powerful interest was exerted to
obtain a mitigation of my sentence--but in vain! The Secretary of State
assured the Earl of Warrington that he could not interfere with the very
lenient judgment awarded by the court relative to myself. One more
circumstance I must mention. Every three months, when the prison
regulations allowed the admission of the friends of those confined, a
lady visited me; and though that lady be the mistress of the Earl of
Warrington, I would rejoice to call her _sister_."

"Oh! how rejoiced I am to know that you were not without friends!"
exclaimed Stephens.

"The Earl of Warrington sent me by this lady assurances of his
forgiveness, and even of his intention to befriend me, for the sake of
my dear departed mother. But, oh! who could have anticipated the
noble--the generous conduct pursued towards me by that nobleman? The day
of my liberation dawned. Mrs. Arlington came in the earl's private
travelling carriage, and received me at the door of the prison. The
carriage rolled away; and, when I had recovered from the first emotions
of joy at leaving that horrible place, I found we were proceeding along
the Hackney Road. I cast a glance of surprise at Mrs. Arlington; she
only smiled, and would not gratify my curiosity. At length we came in
sight of the villa, and my astonishment increased. Still Mrs. Arlington
only smiled. In a few minutes more the carriage entered the enclosure,
and drove up to this door. Mrs. Arlington seemed to enjoy my
surprise--and yet tears glistened in her eyes. Oh! the admirable woman:
they were tears of joy at the grateful task which the earl had imposed
upon her. The front door opened, and Louisa ran forward to welcome me.
Mrs. Arlington took my hand, and led me into the dining-room. The
furniture was all entirely new. She conducted me over the house: every
room was similarly renovated. At length I felt exhausted with pleasure,
hope, and alarm, and sank upon the sofa in this apartment. 'My dear
Eliza,' said Mrs. Arlington, 'all that you survey is yours. The very
house itself is your own property. The Earl of Warrington has purchased
it, for you; and his solicitor, Mr. Pakenham, will call upon you
to-morrow with the title-deeds.'----I fainted through excess of
happiness and gratitude."

"How noble!" exclaimed Stephens. "I knew that the Earl of Warrington had
purchased this estate; for I had already mortgaged it to its full value
previous to that fatal epoch when all my hopes failed! My brother, who
resided in Liverpool, left England six months after my departure, and
went out to settle in New South Wales. He told me that the person who
had lent me the money upon this property, had disposed of it to the
earl. My brother's object was to settle at Sydney, and procure me to be
allotted to him as his servant. I should then have been free. But, alas!
scarcely had he set foot in the island, when he was seized with a
malignant fever, which proved fatal."

"Misfortunes never come singly," said Eliza. Then, after a pause, she
added, "Neither do blessings! And if I have been greatly afflicted--I
have also enjoyed some happiness. In reference to my own narrative, I
must add that Mr. Pakenham called on the following day, as Mrs.
Arlington had promised; and he placed the deeds in my hand. I desired
him to retain them in his care for me. He then informed me that the Earl
of Warrington had purchased for me an annuity of four hundred pounds
a-year. Oh! such generosity overwhelmed me. I begged to be allowed to
hasten and throw myself at the feet of that excellent nobleman; but Mr.
Pakenham intimated that his lordship was averse to an interview. In a
word, he made me understand that I might never hope to thank my
benefactor to his face, and that a letter expressing my feelings would
be equally unwelcome. The good lawyer, however, tranquillised my mind on
one point: the earl has no aversion to me--entertains no animosity
against me; but he cannot bear to contemplate the offspring of the woman
whom he himself loved so madly!"

"Thus you are happy, and blest with kind friends; and I---- I am an
outcast!" said Stephens, in a tone of bitter remorse. "Oh! what would I
give to be able to recall the past! Blessed, however, be that strange
and unaccountable curiosity which led me into this neighbourhood
to-night! I say, blessed be it--since it has been the unexpected means
for me to hear and know that you at least are happy. Oh! conceive my
astonishment when, on approaching the villa, I inquired of a peasant,
'_Who dwells there now?_' and he replied, '_Miss Sydney!_' I could not
mistake that announcement: I was already prepared by it for the
narrative which you have given me of the Earl of Warrington's
generosity."

"Without him, what should I be at this moment?" said Eliza. "He has been
more than a friend to me,--his kindness was rather that of a father or a
brother! And that angel Mrs. Arlington, who visited me in prison--who
poured consolation into my soul, and sustained me with hopes that have
been more than realised,--oh! how deep a debt of gratitude do I owe to
her also. She did not conceal from me her true position in reference to
the Earl of Warrington: she detailed to me the narrative of her sorrows;
and I learnt that George Montague was the base deceiver who first taught
her to stray from the paths of virtue."

"George Montague!" exclaimed Stephens. "What has become of that man? He
is artful, talented, designing, and might perhaps be able to serve me if
he would."

"He has assumed, I am told, the name of Greenwood, and dwells in a
magnificent house in Spring Gardens. This I learnt from Mrs. Arlington,
who called here a few days ago. She also informed me that Montague had
circulated a report amongst his acquaintances, that the death of a
distant relation had put him in possession of considerable property, and
rendered the assumption of the name of Greenwood an indispensable
condition of its enjoyment."

"And thus has Montague risen," said Stephens; "while I am humbled to the
dust! His intrigues and machinations have enriched him; and the story of
the death of a wealthy relation is no doubt the apology for the sudden
display of the treasures he has been amassing for the last four or five
years. Have you seen him lately?"

"He called here a few days after my release from imprisonment," said
Eliza, with a slight blush; "but I did not choose to see him. I love
solitude--I prefer retirement."

"And my visit has most disagreeably intruded upon your privacy,"
observed Stephens.

"I could have wished to have seen you in a more prosperous state, for
your own sake," answered Eliza; "but as I observed just now, I would
rather remember the kindnesses I have received at your hands, than the
miseries which have resulted from your guilty deception. If with my
modest and limited means I can assist you, speak! What do you propose to
do?"

"My object is to proceed to America, where I might be enabled to obtain
an honest livelihood by my mercantile experience and knowledge. Every
moment that I prolong my stay in England is fraught with increased peril
to my safety; for were I captured, I should be sent back to that far-off
clime where so many of my fellow-countrymen endure inconceivable
miseries, and where my lot would become terrible indeed."

"I will assist you in your object," said Eliza. "Mr. Pakenham, who acts
as my banker, has a hundred pounds of mine in his hands: to-morrow I
will draw that amount; and if it will be of any service towards the
accomplishment of your plans----"

"Oh, Eliza! how can I sufficiently express my gratitude?" interrupted
Stephens, joy and hope animating his care-worn countenance and firing
his sunken eyes.

"Do not thank me," said Eliza. "I shall be happy if I can efface one
wrinkle from the brow of a fellow-creature. For your present necessities
take this,"--and she handed him her purse. "To-morrow evening I shall
expect you to call again; and I will then provide you with the means to
seek your fortune in another quarter of the world."

Stephens shed tears as he received the purse from the fair hand of that
noble-hearted woman.

He then took his departure with a heart far more light than when he had
knocked humbly and timidly at the door of that villa an hour before.




CHAPTER XLVIII.

MR. GREENWOOD'S VISITORS.


Mr. Greenwood was seated in his study the morning after the event which
occupied the last chapter.

He was dressed _en negligé_.

A French velvet skull-cap, embroidered with gold, sate upon his curled
and perfumed hair: a sumptuous brocade silk dressing-gown was confined
around the waist by a gold cord with large tassels hanging almost to his
feet: his shirt collar was turned down over a plain broad black riband,
the bow of which was fastened with a diamond broach of immense value;
and on his fingers were costly rings, sparkling with stones of
corresponding kind and worth.

On the writing-table an elegant French watch attached to a long gold
chain, lay amidst a pile of letters, just as if it had been carelessly
tossed there. A cheque, partly filled up for a thousand
guineas,--several bank-notes, and some loose gold, were lying on an open
writing-desk; and, at one end of the table lay, in seeming confusion, a
number of visiting cards bearing the names of eminent capitalists,
wealthy merchants, peers, and members of Parliament.

All this pell-mell assemblage of proofs of wealth and tokens of high
acquaintance, was only apparent--and not real. It was a portion of Mr.
Greenwood's system--one of the principles of the art which he practised
in deceiving the world. He knew none of the capitalists, and few of the
aristocrats whose cards lay upon his table: and his own hand had
arranged the manner in which the watch, the cheque-book, and the money
were tossing about. Never did a coquet practise a particular glance,
attitude, or mannerism, more seriously than did Mr. Greenwood these
little artifices which, however trifling they may appear, produced an
immense effect upon those with whom he had to deal, and who visited him
in that study.

Every thing he did was the result of a calculation, and had an aim:
every word he spoke, however rapid the utterance, was duly weighed and
measured.

And yet at this time the man who thus carried his knowledge of human
nature even to the most ridiculous niceties, was only in his
twenty-eighth year. How perverted were great talents--how misapplied an
extraordinary quickness of apprehension in this instance!

Mr. Greenwood contemplated the arrangements of his writing-table with
calm satisfaction; and a smile of triumph curled his lip as he thought
of the position to which such little artifices as those had helped to
raise him. He despised the world: he laughed at society; and he cared
not for the law--for he walked boldly up to the extreme verge where
personal security ceased and peril began; but he never over-stepped the
boundary. He had plundered many--he had enriched himself with the wealth
of others--he had built his own fortunes upon the ruins of his fellow
men's hopes and prospects: but still he had so contrived all his schemes
that the law could never reach him, and if one of his victims accused
him of villany he had a plausible explanation to offer for his conduct.

If a person said to him, "Your schemes have involved me in utter ruin,
and deprived me of every penny I possessed,"--he would unblushingly
reply, "What does the man mean? He forgets that I suffered far more than
he did; and that where he lost hundreds I lost thousands! It is
impossible to control speculations: some turn up well, some badly; and
this man might as well blame the keeper of a lottery-office because his
ticket did not turn up a prize, as attempt to throw any odium upon me!"

And this language would prove satisfactory and seem straight-forward to
all by-standers, save the poor victim himself, who nevertheless would be
struck dumb by the other's assurance.

Greenwood had commenced his ways of intrigue and pursuits of duplicity
in the City, where he was known as George Montague. The moment he had
obtained a considerable fortune, he repaired to the West End, added the
name of Greenwood to his other appellations, and thus commenced, as it
were, a new existence in a new sphere.

He possessed the great advantage of exercising a complete control over
all his feelings, passions, and inclinations--save with respect to
women. In this point of view he was a complete sensualist--a heartless
voluptuary. He would spare neither expense nor trouble to gratify his
amorous desires, where he formed a predilection; and if in any case he
would run a risk of involving himself in the complexities of civil or
criminal law, the peril would be encountered in an attempt to satisfy
his lustful cravings. There are many men of this stamp in the
world,--especially in great cities--and, more especially still, in
London.

Mr. Greenwood, having completed the arrangements of his study in the
manner described, rang the bell.

His French valet Lafleur made his appearance in answer to the summons.
Mr. Greenwood then threw himself negligently into the arm-chair at his
writing-table, and proceeded to issue his instructions to his dependant.

"Lafleur, the Count Alteroni will call this morning. When he has been
here about ten minutes, bring me in this letter."

He handed his valet a letter, sealed, and addressed to himself.

"At about twelve o'clock Lord Tremordyn will call. Let him remain
quietly for a quarter of an hour with me; and then come in and say,
'_The Duke of Portsmouth has sent round, sir, to know whether he can
positively rely upon your company to dinner this evening._' Do you
understand?"

"Perfectly, sir," answered Lafleur, without the slightest variation of
countenance; for he was too politic and too _finished_ a valet to
attempt to criticise his master's proceedings by means of even a look.

"So far, so good," resumed Mr. Greenwood. "Sir Rupert Harborough will
call this morning: you will tell him I am not at home."

"Yes, sir."

"Lady Cecilia Harborough will call at one precisely: you will conduct
her to the drawing-room."

"Yes, sir."

"And all the time she is here I shall not be at home to a soul."

"No, sir."

"At four o'clock I shall go out in the cab: you can then pay a visit to
Upper Clapton and ascertain by any indirect means you can light upon,
whether Miss Sydney still inhabits the villa, and whether she still
pursues the same retired and secluded mode of existence as when you last
made inquiries in that quarter."

"Yes, sir."

"And you can ride round by Holloway and find out--also by indirect
inquiries, remember--whether Mr. Markham is at home, and any other
particulars relative to him which you can glean. I have already told you
that I have the deepest interest in being acquainted with all that that
young man does--his minutest actions even."

"I will attend to your orders, sir."

"To-night, you will dress yourself in mean attire and repair to a low
public-house on Saffron-hill, known by the name of the _Boozing Ken_ by
the thieves and reprobates of that district. You will inquire for a man
who frequents that house, and who is called Tom the Cracksman. No one
knows him by any other name. You will tell him who your master is, and
that I wish to see him upon very particular business. He must be here
to-morrow night at nine o'clock. Give him this five-pound note as an
earnest of good intentions."

"Yes, sir."

"And now take these duplicates and that bank-note for five hundred
pounds, and just go yourself to V----'s the pawnbroker's in the Strand,
and redeem the diamonds mentioned in these tickets. You will have time
before any one comes."

"Yes, sir."

"And should Lord Tremordyn happen to be here when you return, hand me
the packet, which you will have wrapped up in white paper, saying '_With
the Duke's compliments, sir._'"

"Yes, sir."

Thus ended the morning's instructions.

The valet took the letter (which Mr. Greenwood had written to himself,)
the duplicates, and the bank notes; and retired.

In half an hour he returned with a small purple morocco case containing
a complete set of diamonds, worth at least twelve hundred guineas.

He again withdrew, and returned in a few minutes;--but this time it was
to usher in Count Alteroni.

Mr. Greenwood received the Italian noble with more than usual affability
and apparent friendship.

"I am delighted to inform you, my dear count," he said, when they were
both seated, "that our enterprise is progressing well. I yesterday
received a letter from a certain capitalist to whom I applied relative
to the loan of two hundred thousand pounds which I informed you it was
necessary to raise to carry out our undertaking, in addition to the
capital which you and I have both subscribed; and I have no doubt that I
shall succeed in this point. Indeed, he is to send me his decision this
very morning."

"Then I hope that at length the Company is definitively formed?" said
the count.

"Definitively," answered Mr. Greenwood.

"And the deed by which you guarantee to me the safety of the money I
have embarked, let the event be what it may?" said the count.

"That will be ready to-morrow evening. Can you dine with me to-morrow,
and terminate that portion of the business after dinner? My solicitor
will send the deed hither by one of his clerks at half-past eight
o'clock."

"With pleasure," said the count, evidently pleased at this arrangement.

"There has been some delay," said Mr. Greenwood; "but really the fault
has not existed with me."

"You will excuse my anxiety in this respect: indeed, I have probably
pressed you more than I ought for the completion of that security; but
you will remember that I have embarked my all in this enterprise."

"Do not attempt an apology. You have acted as a man of prudence and
caution; and you will find that I shall behave as a man of business."

"I am perfectly satisfied," said the count. "I should not have advanced
my money unless I had been so perfectly satisfied with your
representations; for--unless events turn up in my favour in my own
country, I must for ever expect to remain an exile from Castelcicala.
And that good fortune will shine upon me from that quarter, I can
scarcely expect. My liberal principles have offended the Grand-Duke and
the old nobility of that state; and now that the aristocracy has there
gained the ascendancy, and is likely to retain it, I can hope for
nothing. I would gladly have aided the popular cause, and obtained for
the people of Castelcicala a constitution; but the idea of
representative principles is odious to those now in power."

"I believe that you were a staunch adherent of the Prince of
Castelcicala, who is the nephew of the reigning Grand-Duke and the
heir-apparent to the throne?" said Mr. Greenwood.

"You have been rightly informed; but if the Pope and the Kings of Naples
and Sardinia support the aristocracy of Castelcicala, that prince will
be excluded from his inheritance and a foreigner will be placed upon the
grand-ducal throne. In this case, the prince will be an exile until his
death--without even a pension to support him; so irritated are the old
aristocracy against him."

"I believe that Castelcicala is a fine state?"

"A beautiful country--extensive, well-cultivated, and productive. It
contains two millions of inhabitants. The capital, Montoni, is a
magnificent city, of a hundred thousand souls. The revenues of the
Grand-Duke are two hundred thousand pounds sterling a-year; and yet he
is not contented! He does not study his people's happiness."

"And where at the present moment is that gallant prince who has thus
risked his accession to the throne, for the welfare of his
fellow-countrymen?" inquired Greenwood.

"That remains a secret," answered the count. "His partisans alone know."

"Of course I would not attempt to intrude upon matters so sacred," said
Greenwood, "were I not deeply interested in yourself, whom I know to be
one of his most staunch adherents."

At that moment the door opened; and Lafleur entered, bearing a letter,
which he handed to Mr. Greenwood. He then retired.

"Will you excuse me?" said Greenwood to the count; then, opening the
letter, he appeared to read it with attention.

At the expiration of a few moments, he said, "This letter is from my
capitalist. He gives me both good and bad news. He will advance the
loan; but he cannot command the necessary amount for three months."

"Then there will be three months' more delay?" exclaimed the count in a
tone of vexation.

"Three months! and what is that? A mere nothing!" cried Mr. Greenwood.
"You can satisfy yourself of my friend's sincerity."

With these words he handed to the count the letter which he had written
to himself in a feigned hand, and to which he had affixed a fictitious
name and address.

The count read the letter and was satisfied.

He then rose to depart.

"To-morrow evening, at seven o'clock punctually, I shall do myself the
pleasure of waiting upon you. In a few days, you remember, I and my
family are coming up to town to pass some time with Lord Tremordyn."

"And I shall then be bold and presumptuous enough," said Greenwood, "to
endeavour to render myself acceptable to the Signora Isabella."

"By the bye," exclaimed the count, "I forgot to inform you of the
villany of that Richard Markham, whom I received into the bosom of my
family, and treated as a son, or a brother."

"His villany!" ejaculated Greenwood, in a tone of unfeigned surprise.

"Villany the most atrocious!" cried the count. "He is a man branded with
the infamy of a felon's gaol!"

"Impossible!" said Greenwood, this time affecting the astonishment
expressed by his countenance.

"It is, alas! too true. The night before last, he invited thieves to
break into my dwelling: and to those miscreants had he boasted of his
intentions to win the favour of my daughter!"

"Oh! no--no," said Greenwood emphatically; "you must have been
misinformed!"

"On the contrary, I have received evidence only too corroborative of
what I tell you. But when I come to-morrow evening, I will give you the
details."

The count then took his departure.

"Thank God!" said Mr. Greenwood to himself, the moment the door had
closed behind the Italian nobleman: "I have succeeded in putting off
that bothering count for three good months. Much may be done in the mean
time; and if I can secure his daughter--all will be well! I can then
pension him off upon a hundred and fifty pounds a year--and retain
possession of his capital. But this deed--he demands the deed of
guarantee: he presses for that! I must give him the security to show my
good-will; and then neutralise that concession on my part, in the manner
already resolved upon. How strange was the account he gave me of Richard
Markham! That unhappy young man appears to be the victim of the most
wonderful combination of suspicious circumstances ever known; for guilty
he could not be--oh! no--impossible!"

Mr. Greenwood's meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Lord
Tremordyn.

This nobleman was a short, stout, good-tempered man. Being a large
landholder, he exercised considerable influence in his county, of which
he was lord-lieutenant; and he boasted that he could return six members
to parliament in spite of the Reform-bill. His wife was moreover allied
to one of the richest and most important families in the hierarchy of
the aristocracy; and thus Lord Tremordyn--with no talent, no knowledge,
no acquirements to recommend him, but with certain political tenets
which he inherited along with the family estate, and which he professed
for no other reason than because they were those of his ancestors,--Lord
Tremordyn, we say, was a very great man in the House of Lords. He seldom
spoke, it is true; but then he _voted_--and dictated to others _how to
vote_; and in this existed his power. When he _did_ speak, he uttered an
awful amount of nonsense; but the reporters were very kind--and so his
speeches read well. Indeed, he did not know them again when he perused
them in print the morning after their delivery. Moreover, his wife was a
blue-stocking, and dabbled a little in politics; and she occasionally
furnished her noble husband with a few hints which might have been
valuable had he clothed them in language a little intelligible. For the
rest, Lord Tremordyn was a most hospitable man, was fond of his bottle,
and fancied himself a sporting character because he kept hounds and
horses, and generally employed an agent to "make up a book" for him at
races, whereby he was most amazingly plundered.

"My dear lord," exclaimed Mr. Greenwood, conducting his noble visitor to
a seat; "I am delighted to see your lordship look so well. So you have
parted with _Electricity_? I heard of it yesterday at Tattersalls'."

"Yes--and a good price I had for him. But, by the way, my dear
Greenwood, I must not forget to thank you for the Hock you sent me. It
is superb!"

"I am delighted that your lordship is pleased with it. Have you seen Sir
Rupert Harborough lately?"

"My scapegrace son-in-law? I wish I had never seen him at all!"
ejaculated his lordship. "He is over head and ears in debt again: and I
swear most solemnly that I will do nothing more for him--not to the
amount of a penny-piece! Cecilia, too, has quarrelled with her mother;
and, even if she had not, Lady Tremordyn is the last woman on earth to
advance them a shilling."

"It is a pity--a great pity!" said Mr. Greenwood, apparently musing;
then, after a brief pause, he added, "You never can guess, my dear lord,
why I wished to see your lordship so particularly this morning?"

"About the match between _Electricity_ and _Galvanism_? The odds are
three to four."

"That was not exactly my business," said Greenwood, with a bland smile:
"the fact is, the representation of Rottenborough will be vacant in a
few weeks. I know positively, that the present member intends to accept
the Chiltern Hundreds."

"I have received a similar intimation," observed his lordship.

"At present the matter is a profound secret."

"Yes--a profound secret: known only to the member's friends, and me and
my friends, and you and your friends," added the nobleman, seriously
meaning what he said without any attempt at irony or satire.

"Of course there will be an election in February, shortly after the
Houses meet," continued Greenwood. "I was going to observe to your
lordship that I should be most happy to offer myself as a candidate----"

"You, Greenwood! What--are you a politician?"

"Not so profound nor so well versed as your lordship; but I flatter
myself that, aided by your lordship's advice----"

"Lady Tremordyn would never consent to it!"

"And by Lady Tremordyn's suggestions----"

"It would never do! She _will_ have a man of rank and family;
and--excuse me, Greenwood--although you are no doubt rich enough far a
lord, and well educated, and clever, and so on--the deuce of it is that
we don't know who the devil you are!"

"An excellent family--an excellent family, my dear lord," exclaimed Mr.
Greenwood; "and although nothing equal to your own, which I know to be
the most ancient in England----"

"Or Scotland, or Ireland, either."

"Or Scotland, or Ireland, or even Europe--still----"

"No--it cannot be done, Greenwood;--it cannot be done," interrupted the
nobleman. "I would do any thing to oblige you;--but----"

At that moment the door opened, and Lafleur entered the study.

"If you please, sir," said the French valet, "the Duke of Portsmouth has
sent round to know whether he can positively rely upon your company to
dinner this evening?"

"My best compliments to his grace, Lafleur," said Mr. Greenwood,
affecting to meditate upon this message for a moment, "and I will do
myself the honour of waiting on his grace at the usual hour."

"Very good, sir."

And Lafleur retired.

"Well, after all," resumed Lord Tremordyn, who had not lost a word of
this message and the answer, "I think I might undertake to arrange the
Rottenborough business for you. You have high acquaintances--and they
often do more good than high connexions. So we will consider that matter
as settled."

"I am deeply obliged to your lordship," said Greenwood, with the
calmness of a man who had never entertained a fear of being ultimately
enabled to carry his point: "you will see that I shall imitate in the
Lower House your lordship's admirable conduct in the Upper, to the very
best of my ability."

"Of course you will always support the measures I support, and oppose
those which I may oppose?"

"Oh! that is a matter of course! What would become of society--where
should we be, if the Commons did not obey the great landholders who
allow them to be returned?"

"Ah! what indeed?" said the nobleman, shaking his head ominously. "But
really, Greenwood, I wasn't at all aware that you were half so clever a
politician as I see you are."

"Your lordship does me honour. I know how to value your lordship's good
opinion," said Greenwood, in a meek and submissive manner: then, after a
moment's silence, he added, "By the bye, I understand that our mutual
friend Alteroni, and his amiable wife, and beautiful daughter, are going
to pass the first few weeks of the new year with your lordship and Lady
Tremordyn?"

"Yes: we shall be very gay. The signora must pick up a husband amongst
the young nobles or scions of great families whom she will meet this
winter in London."

"Do you not know, my lord," said Greenwood, sinking his voice to a
mysterious whisper, "that Count Alteroni detests gaiety? are you not
aware that he and the ladies have accepted your kind invitation under
the impression that they will enjoy the pleasing society of your
lordship and Lady Tremordyn, and a few select friends only?"

"I am glad you have told me that!" exclaimed the nobleman "We will have
no gaiety at all."

"The count has honoured me with his utmost confidence, and his sincere
friendship," said Greenwood.

"Oh! of course you will be welcome on all occasions: do not wait for
invitations--I give you a general one."

"I am more than ever indebted to your lordship."

After a little more conversation in the same strain, the nobleman took
his leave, more pleased with Mr. Greenwood than ever.

This gentleman, the moment he was alone, threw himself into his chair,
and smiled complacently.

"Gained all my points!" he said, musing. "I shall be a member of
parliament--the fair Isabella will stand no chance of captivating some
wealthy and titled individual who might woo and win her--and, I have
obtained a general invitation to Lord Tremordyn's dwelling! I alone
shall therefore have an opportunity of paying court to this Italian
beauty."

The French valet entered the room.

"Lady Cecilia Harborough is in the drawing-room, sir."

Mr. Greenwood thrust the morocco case containing the diamonds into the
pocket of his dressing-gown; and then proceeded to the apartment where
the lady was waiting.

Lady Cecilia Harborough was about two-and-twenty, and very beautiful.
Her hair was auburn, her eyes blue, and her features regular. Her figure
was good; but she was very slightly made--a perfect sylph in symmetry
and model. Nursed amidst fashionable pleasure and aristocratic
dissipation, she was without those principles which are the very basis
of virtue. If she were true and faithful to her husband, it was only
because she had not been strongly tempted to prove otherwise: if she had
never indulged in an intrigue, it was simply because one to her taste
had never come in her way. Her passions were strong--her disposition
decidedly sensual. Thus was it that she had become an easy prey to Sir
Rupert Harborough; and when she had discovered that she was in a way to
become a mother in consequence of that amour, she only repented of her
conduct through dread of shame, and not for the mere fact of having
deviated from the path of virtue. Her disgrace was concealed by a
patched-up marriage with her seducer, a trip to the Continent, and the
death of the child at its birth; and thus there was no scandal in
society attached to the name of Lady Cecilia Harborough.

Mr. Greenwood had not made her wait many moments when he entered the
drawing-room.

Lady Cecilia rose, and hastening towards him, said, "Oh! Mr. Greenwood,
what can you think of me after the imprudent step I have taken in coming
alone and unattended?"

"I can only think, Lady Cecilia," said Greenwood, handing her to a seat,
and taking a chair near her, "that you have done me an honour, the
extent of which I can fully appreciate."

"But why insist upon this visit to you? why could you not have called
upon me?" inquired the lady impatiently.

"Your ladyship wishes to consult with me upon financial affairs: and
every capitalist _receives_ visits, and does not _pay_ them, when they
refer to business only."

"Thank you for this apology for my conduct. I fancied that I was guilty
of a very great imprudence; you have reassured me upon that head;"--and
a smile played upon the fair patrician's lips.

"In what manner can I be of service to your ladyship? You perceive that
I will save you the trouble of even introducing a disagreeable subject."

"Well, Mr. Greenwood," said Lady Cecilia, with that easy familiarity
which is always shown towards those who are confidants in cases of
pecuniary embarrassment,--"you are well aware of Sir Rupert's
unfortunate situation; and of course his position is also mine. We are
literally without the means of paying the common weekly bills of the
house, and the servants' wages. I have quarrelled with my mother; and my
father will not advance another sixpence."

"Your ladyship is well aware that Sir Rupert Harborough has no security
to offer; and if he had, I would scarcely advance money to _him_--since
I know that _your ladyship_ seldom profits by any funds which he may
possess."

"Oh! that is true, Mr. Greenwood!" ejaculated Lady Cecilia,
emphatically. "Would you believe it--even my very diamonds are gone? Sir
Rupert has made away with them!"

"In plain terms he pawned them."

"He did:--but that is such a horrid avowal to make! When one thinks that
it is generally supposed that the poor alone have recourse to such
means, and that _we_ in the upper class do not even know what is meant
by a pawnbroker's---- Oh! how false is that idea! how erroneous is that
impression!"

"It is, indeed," said Greenwood. "The jewels of half the high-born
ladies in London have been deposited at different times in the hands of
the very pawnbroker where yours were."

Lady Cecilia stared at Mr. Greenwood in profound astonishment: then, as
a sudden idea seemed to flash across her brain, she added, "But Sir
Rupert must have told you of this?"

"He did."

"Do you know," continued the lady, "that I have actually lost the
receipts or duplicates--or whatever you call them--which the pawnbroker
gave when Harborough sent the diamonds by a trusty servant of ours."

"Those duplicates Sir Rupert Harborough handed over to me," said
Greenwood. "I lent him a hundred pounds upon them yesterday morning!"

"Oh! how ungrateful he is--how unworthy of one particle of affection!"
exclaimed Lady Cecilia. "He knew how distressed--literally distressed I
was for ready money; and he never offered me a guinea!"

"Are you so distressed as that?" inquired Mr. Greenwood, drawing his
chair closer to that of his fair visitor.

[Illustration]

"Why should I conceal any thing from you, when I come to consult you
upon my embarrassments?" said Lady Cecilia, tears starting into her
eyes. "I am literally disgraced! I cannot go to court, nor appear at any
grand _réunion_, for the want of my jewels; and I am indebted to old
Lady Marlborough to the amount of two hundred pounds which she lent me.
Yesterday she wrote for the sixth time for the money, and actually
observed in her letter that she considered my conduct unlady-like
in the extreme. If I do not pay her this day, I shall be
ruined--exposed--ashamed to show my face in any society whatever!"

"You would therefore make any sacrifice to relieve yourself from these
embarrassments?" said Greenwood interrogatively.

"Oh! any sacrifice! To obtain about eight hundred or a thousand pounds,
to redeem my jewels and pay my most pressing debts--Lady Marlborough's,
for instance--I would do any thing!"

"You would make any sacrifice? You would do any thing, Lady Cecilia?"
repeated Greenwood emphatically. "That is saying a great deal; and an
impertinent coxcomb--like me, for instance--might perhaps construe your
words literally, and be most presumptuous in his demands."

"My God, Mr. Greenwood--what do you mean?" exclaimed the lady, a slight
flush appearing upon her cheeks. "My case is so very desperate--I have
no security to offer at present--and yet I require money,--money I must
have! Tell me to throw myself into the Thames a year hence, so that I
have money to-day, and I would willingly subscribe to the contract. I
could even sell myself to the Evil One, like Dr. Faustus--I am so
bewildered--so truly wretched!"

"Since you have verged into the regions of romance and mentioned
improbabilities, or impossibilities," said Mr. Greenwood, "suppose
another strange case;--suppose that a man threw himself at your
feet--declared his love--sought yours in return--and proffered you his
fortune as a proof of the sincerity of his heart?"

"Such generous and noble-minded lovers are not so easily found
now-a-days," returned Lady Cecilia: "but, if I must respond to your
question, I am almost inclined to think that I should not prove very
cruel to the tender swain who would present himself in so truly romantic
a manner."

Greenwood caught hold of Lady Cecilia's hand, fell at her feet, and
presented her with the purple morocco case containing the diamonds.

"Heavens!" she exclaimed, half inclined to suppose that this proceeding
was a mere jest,--"what do you mean, Mr. Greenwood? Surely you were not
supposing a case in which you yourself were to be the principal actor?"

"Permit me to lay my heart and fortune at your feet!" said Greenwood.
"Nay--you cannot repulse me now: you accepted the alternative; your own
words have rendered me thus bold, thus presumptuous!"

"Ah! Mr. Greenwood," exclaimed the fair patrician lady, abandoning her
left hand to this bold admirer, and receiving the case of diamonds with
the right; "you have spread a snare for me--and I have fallen into the
tangled meshes!"

"You can have no compunction--you can entertain no remorse in
transferring your affections from a man who neglects you, to one who
will study your happiness in every way."

"But--merciful heavens! you would not have me leave my husband
altogether? Oh! I could not bear the _éclat_ of an elopement:
no--never--never!"

"Nor would I counsel such a proceeding," said Greenwood, who was himself
astonished at the ease with which he had obtained this victory: "you
must sustain appearances in society; but when we _can_ meet--and when we
are together--oh! then we can be to each other as if we alone existed in
the world--as if we could indulge in all the joys and sweets of love
without fear and without peril!"

"Yes--I will be yours upon these terms--I will be yours!" murmured
Cecilia. "And--remember--you must be faithful towards me; and you must
never forget the sacrifice I make and the risk I run in thus responding
to your attachment! But--above all things--do not think ill of me--do
not despise me! I want something to love--and some one to love me;--and
you sympathise with my distress--you feel for my unhappiness--you offer
me your consolations: oh! yes--it is you whom I must love--and you will
love me!"

"Forever," answered the libertine; and he caught that frail but
beauteous lady in his arms.

       *       *       *       *       *

An hour elapsed: Lady Cecilia had taken her departure, richer in purse
but poorer in honour;--and Greenwood had returned to his study.

The flush of triumph was upon his brow; and the smile of satisfaction
was upon his lip.

Lafleur entered the room.

"While you were engaged, sir," said the valet, "Sir Rupert Harborough
called. He was most anxious to see you. I assured him that you were not
at home. He said he would call again in an hour."

"You can then admit him."

The valet bowed and withdrew.

Mr. Greenwood then wrote several letters connected with the various
schemes which he had in hand. His occupation was interrupted by the
entrance of Sir Rupert Harborough.

With what ease and assurance--with what unblushing confidence did the
libertine receive the man whose wife he had drawn into the snares of
infamy and dishonour!

"You really must excuse my perseverance in seeing you this day," said
Sir Rupert, who perceived by Greenwood's attire that he had not been out
of the house that morning; "but I am in such a mess of difficulties and
embarrassments, I really know not which way to turn."

"I was particularly engaged when you called just now," said Greenwood;
"and you are aware that one's valet always answers '_Not at home_' in
such cases."

"Oh! deuce take ceremony," exclaimed Sir Rupert. "See if you can do any
thing to assist me. Lord Tremordyn has literally cut me; and Lady
Tremordyn is as stingy as the devil. Besides, she and Lady Cecilia have
quarrelled; and so there is no hope in that quarter."

"I really cannot assist you any farther--at present," observed
Greenwood. "In a short time I shall be enabled to let you into a good
thing, as I told you a little while ago: but for the moment--"

"Come, Greenwood," interrupted the baronet; "do not refuse me. I will
give you a _post-obit_ on the old lord: he is sure to leave me something
handsome at his death."

"Yes--but he may settle it upon your wife in such a manner that you will
not be able to touch it."

"Suppose that Lady Cecilia will join me in the security?"

"Insufficient still. Lord Tremordyn may bequeath her ladyship merely a
life interest, without power to touch the capital."

"Well--what the devil can I do?" exclaimed the baronet, almost
distracted. "Point out some means--lay down some plan--do any thing you
like--but don't refuse some assistance."

Mr. Greenwood reflected for some minutes; and this time his thoughtful
manner was not affected. It struck him that he might effect a certain
arrangement in this instance by which he might get the baronet
completely in his power, and lay out some money at an enormous interest
at the same time.

"You see," said Mr. Greenwood, "you have not an atom of security to
offer me."

"None--none," answered Sir Rupert: "I know of none--if you will not have
the _post-obit_."

"The only means I can think of for the moment," pursued Mr. Greenwood,
"is this:--Get me Lord Tremordyn's acceptance to a bill of fifteen
hundred pounds at three months, and I will lend you a thousand upon it
without an instant's delay."

"Lord Tremordyn's acceptance! Are you mad. Greenwood?"

"No--perfectly sane and serious. Of course I shall not call upon him to
ask _if it be his acceptance_--neither shall I put the bill into
circulation. It will be in my desk until it is due; and then--if you
cannot pay it--"

"What then?" said the baronet, in a subdued tone, as if he breathed with
difficulty.

"Why--you must get it renewed, that's all!" replied Mr. Greenwood.

"I understand you--I understand you," exclaimed Sir Rupert Harborough:
"it shall be done! When can I see you again?"

"I shall not stir out for another hour."

"Then I shall return this afternoon."

And the baronet departed to forge the name of Lord Tremordyn to a bill
of exchange for fifteen hundred pounds.

"I shall hold him in iron chains," said Greenwood to himself, when he
was again alone. "This bill will hang constantly over his head. Should
he detect my intrigue with his wife, he will not dare open his mouth;
and when I am tired of that amour, and care no more for the beautiful
Cecilia, I can obtain payment of the entire amount, with interest, from
Lord Tremordyn himself; for his lordship will never allow his
son-in-law to be ruined and lost for fifteen or sixteen hundred pounds."

Again the study door opened; and again did Lafleur make his appearance.

"A person, sir, who declines to give his name," said the valet,
"solicits an interview for a few minutes."

"What sort of a looking person is he?"

"Very pale and sallow; about the middle height; genteel in appearance;
respectably clad; and I should say about forty years of age."

"I do not recollect such a person. Show him up."

Lafleur withdrew, and presently introduced Stephens.

For a few moments Greenwood surveyed him in a manner as if he were
trying to recollect to whom that pale and altered countenance belonged;
for although Stephens had made considerable improvement in his attire,
thanks to the contents of Eliza's purse, he still retained upon his
features the traces of great suffering, mental and bodily.

"You do not know me?" he said, with a sickly smile.

"Stephens! is it possible?" exclaimed Greenwood, in an accent of the
most profound surprise.

"Yes--it is I! No wonder that you did not immediately recognise me: were
I not fearfully altered I should not dare thus to venture abroad by
daylight."

"Ah! I understand. You have escaped?"

"I have returned from transportation. That is the exact truth. Had it
not been for an angel in human shape, I should have died last night of
starvation. That generous being who relieved me was Eliza Sydney."

"Eliza Sydney!" cried Greenwood. "She received you with kindness?"

"She gave me food, and money to obtain clothes and lodging. She moreover
promised to supply me with the means to reach America. I am to return to
her this evening, and receive a certain sum for that purpose."

"And she told you that I was residing here?" said Greenwood inquiringly.

"Yes. I thought that you might be enabled to assist me in my object of
commencing the world anew in another quarter of the globe. I shall
arrive there with but little money and no friends;--perhaps you can
procure me letters of introduction to merchants in New York."

"I think I can assist you," said Greenwood, musing upon a scheme which
he was revolving in his mind, and which was as yet only a few minutes
old: "yes--I think I can. But, would it not be better for you to take
out a few hundred pounds in your pocket? How can you begin any business
in the States without capital?"

"Show me the way to procure those few hundreds," said Stephens, "and I
would hold myself ever your debtor."

"And perhaps you would not be very particular as to the way in which you
obtained such a sum?" demanded Greenwood, surveying the returned convict
in a peculiar manner.

"My condition is too desperate to allow me to stick at trifles,"
answered Stephens, not shrinking from a glance which seemed to penetrate
into his very soul.

"We understand each other," said Greenwood. "I have money--and you want
money: you are a returned transport, and in my power. I can serve and
save you; or I can ruin and crush you for ever."

"You speak candidly, at all events," observed Stephens, somewhat
bitterly. "Try promises first; and should they fail, essay threats."

"I merely wished you to comprehend your true position with regard to
me," said Greenwood, coolly.

"And now I understand it but too well. You require of me some service of
a certain nature--no matter what: in a word, I agree to the bargain."

"The business regards Eliza Sydney," proceeded Greenwood.

"Eliza Sydney!" exclaimed Stephens, in dismay.

"Yes; I love her--and she detests me. I must therefore gratify two
passions at the same moment--vengeance and desire."

"Impossible!" cried Stephens. "You can never accomplish your schemes
through my agency!"

"Very good:" and Mr. Greenwood moved towards the bell.

"What would you do?" demanded Stephens, in alarm.

"Summon my servants to hand a returned convict over to justice,"
answered Greenwood, coolly.

"Villain! you could not do it!"

"I _will_ do it:" and Greenwood placed his hand upon the bell-rope.

"Oh! no--no--that must not be!" exclaimed Stephens. "Speak--I will do
your bidding."

Mr. Greenwood returned to his seat.

"I must possess Eliza Sydney--and you must be the instrument," he said
in his usual calm and measured tone. "You are to return to her this
evening?"

"I am. But I implore you--"

"Silence! This evening I am engaged--and to-morrow evening also. The day
after to-morrow I shall be at liberty. You will invent some excuse which
will enable you to postpone your departure; and you will contrive to
pass the evening after to-morrow with Eliza Sydney. Can you do this?"

"I can, no doubt: but, again, I beg--"

"No more of this nonsense! You will adopt some means to get her faithful
servant Louisa out of the way; and you will open the front-door of the
villa to me at midnight on the evening appointed."

"You never can effect your purpose!" cried Stephens emphatically. "Were
you to introduce yourself to her chamber, she would sooner die herself,
or slay you, than submit to your purpose!"

"_She must sleep--sleep profoundly!_" said Greenwood, sinking his voice
almost to a whisper, and regarding his companion in a significant
manner.

"My God! what an atrocity!" ejaculated Stephens, with horror depicted
upon his countenance.

"Perhaps you prefer a return to the horrors of transportation,--the
miseries of Norfolk Island?" said Greenwood satirically.

"No--death, sooner!" cried Stephens, striking the palm of his right hand
against his forehead.

Greenwood approached him, and whispered for some time in his ear.
Stephens listened in silence; and when the libertine had done, he
signified a reluctant assent by means of a slight nod.

"You understand how you are to act?" said Greenwood aloud.

"Perfectly," answered Stephens.

He then took his departure.

Scarcely had he left the house when Sir Rupert Harborough returned.

The baronet was deadly pale, and trembled violently. Greenwood affected
not to observe his emotions, but received the bill of exchange which the
baronet handed to him, with as much coolness as if he were concluding a
perfectly legitimate transaction.

Having read the document, he handed a pen to the baronet to endorse it.

Sir Rupert affixed his name at the back of the forged instrument with a
species of desperate resolution.

Mr. Greenwood consigned the bill to his desk, and then wrote a cheque
for a thousand pounds, which he handed to the baronet.

Thus terminated this transaction.

When the baronet had taken his departure, Mr. Greenwood summoned
Lafleur, and said, "You need not institute any inquiries relative to
Miss Sydney, at Upper Clapton. My orders relative to Mr. Markham remain
unchanged; and mind that the fellow known as Tom the Cracksman is here
to-morrow evening at nine o'clock."

Mr. Greenwood having thus concluded his morning's business, partook of
an elegant luncheon, and then proceeded to dress for his afternoon's
ride in the Park.




CHAPTER XLIX.

THE DOCUMENT.


The more civilization progresses, and the more refined becomes the human
intellect, so does human iniquity increase.

It is true that heinous and appalling crimes are less frequent;--but
every kind of social, domestic, political, and commercial intrigue grows
more into vogue: human ingenuity is more continually on the rack to
discover the means of defrauding a neighbour or cheating the world;--the
sacred name of religion is called in to aid and further the nefarious
devices of the schemer;--hypocrisy is the cloak which conceals modern
acts of turpitude, as dark nights were trusted to for the concealment of
the bloody deeds of old: mere brute force is now less frequently
resorted to; but the refinements of education or the exercise of
duplicity are the engines chiefly used for purposes of plunder. The
steel engraver's art, and the skill of the caligrapher, are mighty
implements of modern misdeed:--years and years are expended in
calculating the chances of cards and dice;--education, manners, and good
looks are essential to the formation of the adventurers of the present
day;--the Bankruptcy Court itself is a frequent avenue to the temple of
fortune;--and, in order to suit this new and refined system of things,
the degrees of vices themselves are qualified by different names, so
that he who gambles at a gaming-table is a scamp, and he who propagates
a lie upon the Exchange and gambles accordingly, and with success, is a
respectable financier. Chicanery, upon a small scale, and in a miserable
dark office, is a degradation;--but the delicate and elaborate chicanery
of politics, by which a statesman is enabled to outwit parties, or
deceive whole nations, is a masterpiece of human talent! To utter a
falsehood in private life, to suit a private end, is to cut one's-self
off from all honourable society:--but to lie day and night in a public
journal--to lie habitually and boldly in print--to lie in a manner the
most shameless and barefaced in the editorial columns of a newspaper, is
not only admissible, but conventional, and a proof of skill, tact, and
talent.

Thus is modern society constituted:--let him deny the truth of the
picture who can!

London is filled with Mr. Greenwoods: they are to be found in numbers at
the West End. Do not for one moment believe, reader, that our portrait
of this character is exaggerated.

In pursuing the thread of a narrative like this, there will naturally be
found much to alarm, to astonish, and to shock: but however appalling
the picture, it teaches lessons which none can regret to learn. The
chart that would describe the course to virtue must point out and lay
bare the shoals, the quicksands, and the rocks of vice which render the
passage perilous and full of terrors.

With these few remarks, we pursue our history. At seven o'clock in the
evening of the day following the one on which we have seen Mr. Greenwood
conducting his multifarious schemes and transactions with the precision
of a minister of state, Count Alteroni arrived at that gentleman's house
in Spring Gardens. He was shown into the elegantly furnished
drawing-room, where Mr. Greenwood received him. The count was, however,
the only one of all the financier's visitors who did not seem dazzled by
the proofs of wealth and luxury that prevailed around. The Italian
nobleman remarked these indications of great riches, and considered them
the guarantees of Mr. Greenwood's prosperous position in the world: but,
apart from this view of the splendour and sumptuousness of the mansion,
he neither appeared astonished nor struck with admiration. The truth
was, that Mr. Greenwood's abode, with all its magnificent decorations
and ornaments, its costly furniture, and its brilliant display of plate,
was a mere hovel compared to the count's own palace at Montoni, the
capital city of Castelcicala.

Mr. Greenwood and the count had not exchanged many words, ere dinner was
announced. The banquet, although only provided for the founder of the
feast and his one guest, was of a most magnificent description, every
luxury which London could produce appearing upon the table.

At half-past eight o'clock, the clerk of Mr. Greenwood's solicitor
arrived, and was introduced into the dining-room. He had brought with
him a deed by which Greenwood bound himself to be answerable to Count
Alteroni for the sum of fifteen thousand pounds, which the latter had
placed in the hands of the former for the purpose of speculation in a
certain Steam-packet Company, Greenwood recognising his responsibility
towards the count to the above extent whether the company should succeed
or not, it having been originally agreed that he (Greenwood) should
incur all risks, as he had undertaken the sole direction of the
enterprise. This deed was signed by George M. Greenwood, witnessed by
the attorney's clerk, and handed to Count Alteroni.

The clerk then withdrew.

Mr. Greenwood ordered a bottle of the very best Burgundy to be opened,
and drank a bumper to the health of the Signora Isabella.

Scarcely was this toast disposed of, when Lafleur entered the room, and
said, "A courier with despatches from your correspondents in Paris, sir,
has just arrived, and requests to see you instantly. I have shown him
into the study."

"Very good," exclaimed Mr. Greenwood, suddenly assuming a business air.
"Will you excuse me, count, for a few minutes?"

"I shall take my leave, since you are likely to be much occupied," said
the nobleman.

"On the contrary--pray remain--I insist upon it! I shall not be long
with this messenger," cried Mr. Greenwood: "and we must empty another
bottle before I allow you to take your departure."

The count suffered himself to be over-ruled; and Mr. Greenwood repaired
to his study, well-knowing that, instead of a courier from Paris, he
should there find Tom the Cracksman.

Nor was he mistaken. That individual was sitting very comfortably in an
arm-chair near the fire, gazing around him, and wondering, amongst other
things, where the master of the house kept his strong-box.

"You are known, I believe," said Greenwood, carefully closing the door,
"as the Cracksman?"

"That's my title, sir--for want of a better," answered the villain.

"You are, perhaps, astonished that I have sent for you here," continued
Greenwood: "but I wish a certain service performed this very night, and
for which I will pay you liberally."

"What's the natur' of the sarvice?" demanded the Cracksman, darting a
keen and penetrating glance at Greenwood.

"A highway robbery," coolly answered this individual.

"Well, that's plain enow," said the Cracksman. "But first tell me how
you come to know of me, and where I was to be seen: because how can I
tell but what this is all a plant of yours to get me into trouble?"

"I will answer you candidly and fairly. A few years ago, when I first
entered on a London life, I determined to make myself acquainted with
all the ways of the metropolis, high or low, virtuous or vicious. I
disguised myself on several occasions, in very mean clothes, and visited
all the flash houses and patter-cribs--amongst others, the boozing-ken
on Great Saffron-hill. There you were pointed out to me; and your skill,
your audacity, and your extraordinary luck in eluding the police, were
vaunted by the landlord of that place in no measured terms."

"Well--this is singular:--blow me if it ain't!" cried the Cracksman.
"Another person found me out jist in the same way this wery morning,
only, and he wants a little private job done for him. But that's for
to-morrow night. Howsomever, I never blab to one, of what I have done or
am going to do for another. You to-night--him to-morrow night! Arter
all, the landlord's a fool to talk so free: how did he know you wasn't a
trap in disguise?"

"Because I told him that my object was merely to see life in all its
shapes: and I was then so very young I could scarcely have been
considered dangerous. However, I have occasionally indulged in such
rambles, even very lately; and only a few weeks ago I looked in at the
boozing-ken dressed as a poor countryman. There I saw you again; and I
overheard you say to a friend of yours whom you called the Buffer, that
you were generally there every evening to see what was going on."

"All right!" cried the Cracksman. "Now what's the robbery, and what's
the reward?"

"Are you man enough to do it alone?"

"I'm man enow to try it on; but if so be the chap is stronger than
me----"

"He is a tall, powerful person, and by no means likely to surrender
without a desperate resistance."

"Well, all that can be arranged," said the Cracksman, coolly. "Not
knowing what you wanted with me, I brought two of my pals along with me,
and they're out in the street, or in the alley leading into the park. If
there'd been anythink wrong on your part, they would either have rescued
me, or marked you and your house for future punishment."

"I am glad that you have your companions so near. Of course they will
assist you?"

"In anythink. The Resurrection Man and the Buffer will stick to me like
bricks."

"Very good. I will now explain to you what I want done. Between eleven
and twelve o'clock a gentleman will leave London for Richmond. He will
be in his own cabriolet, with a tiger, only twelve years old, behind.
The cab is light blue--the wheels streaked with white. This is peculiar,
and cannot be mistaken. The horse is a tall bay, with silver-mounted
harness. This gentleman must be stopped; and every thing his pockets
contain--every thing, mind--must be brought to me. Whatever money there
may be about him shall be yours; and I will add fifty guineas to the
amount:--but all that you find about his person, save the money, must be
handed over to me."

"I understand," said the Cracksman. "Does he carry pistols?"

"I should imagine not."

"Never mind: the Resurrection Man has got couple of barkers. But
supposing he shouldn't come at all--what then?"

"You shall have twenty guineas for your loss of time. Here are ten as an
earnest."

"That's business," said the Cracksman. "Any more instructions?"

"No. I need scarcely say that no unnecessary violence is to be used?"

"Leave all that to me. You will sit up and wait for me?"

"Yes. Give a low single knock at the door, and the same servant who
sought you out last night, and let you in just now, will admit you
again."

The Cracksman gave a significant nod and took his departure.

Mr. Greenwood returned to the dining-room, where he had left the count.

"My news from Paris is of the most satisfactory nature," he observed.
"My correspondents in that city, moreover, promise me their best support
in our new enterprise."

"I am delighted to hear that your letters have pleased you," said the
count.

The two gentlemen then broached another bottle of Burgundy; and Mr.
Greenwood conversed with even more sprightliness than usual. Indeed, the
count fancied that he had never found his host so agreeable and
entertaining.

At eleven o'clock precisely, the count's cabriolet was announced; and
the nobleman took his departure, with the conviction, that, under his
present circumstances, Mr. Greenwood was the most eligible suitor for
the hand of Isabella that was likely to present himself.

As soon as the count had taken his departure, Mr. Greenwood rang for his
slippers and dressing-gown, drew close to the cheerful fire that burnt
in the grate, and ordered Lafleur to make him a tumbler of the best
pine-apple rum-punch. This exhilarating beverage and a fragrant Havannah
cigar enabled Mr. Greenwood to pass the time away in a most comfortable
and soul-soothing manner.

And it was thus that he mused as he watched the pale blue transparent
smoke of his cigar wreathing upwards to the ceiling:--

"I began the world without a shilling, and at an age when I had no
experience in the devious ways of society;--and what am I now? The
possessor of sixty thousand pounds! A few years ago I slept in
coffee-houses, paying eight-pence a night for my bed: I breakfasted for
three-pence halfpenny; dined for ten-pence; and supped for two-pence.
Now the luxuries of the four quarters of the world tempt my palate at
every meal. At the outset of my career, my transactions were petty
rogueries: now I play my false cards to produce me thousands at a
stake. I once purchased my coat for twelve shillings in Holywell-street;
there is not now a tailor at the west-end who will not give credit to
George Greenwood. My wealth purchases me every kind of pleasure. I can
afford to bestow a thousand guineas upon the woman, who, daughter of a
peer, and wife of a baronet, throws herself into my arms. One single
scheme produces me ten times that amount. And Isabella--beauteous
Isabella shall be my wife. I shall receive no dowry with her, it is
true--because I have obtained all her father's fortune in advance;--but
I shall be proud to introduce a lovely wife--the daughter of a count,
and descended from a long line of ancestry, in that fashionable sphere
to which I must henceforth belong. I shall be a member of parliament:
Lord Tremordyn can easily obtain for me a baronetcy in due time;--and
then, the peerage is not a height _too_ difficult to aspire to! Oh! if
with a coronet upon my brow, and Isabella by my side, I can drive in my
chariot to----"

Lafleur entered the room at this moment, and handed a letter to his
master. Greenwood opened it, and read as follows:--

     "I have done your bidding in every particular up to the present
     moment. Louisa set off this afternoon for Birmingham, having
     received a letter stating that her only sister is at the point of
     death in that town. You will of course understand by whom that
     letter was written. I have, moreover, invented an excuse, relative
     to the date of the departure of the New York packets from
     Liverpool, by which means I am enabled to remain in London without
     exciting the suspicions of Eliza. I shall pass to-morrow evening
     with her. You may rely upon being admitted at midnight."

Greenwood full well understood the meaning of this note without a
signature; and its contents tended to augment that happiness which the
success of his schemes infused into his breast.

Hour after hour passed away;--at length midnight sounded; and all the
servants, save Lafleur, were dismissed to their sleeping apartments.

The cigars, the rum-punch, and the pleasurable reflections into which
the financier plunged, made the time elapse rapidly. One o'clock struck;
and he had not found a single moment tedious. He was not anxious, nor a
prey to suspense, as other men would have been; he felt certain that his
wishes would be accomplished, and he was therefore as composed as if he
had already been assured of their success.

The clock struck two; and a low knock was heard at the front door.
Lafleur answered the summons; and in a few moments introduced the
Cracksman to the room where his master was sitting.

"All right, sir," said that worthy, the moment Lafleur had withdrawn.

"And no violence, I hope?" cried Greenwood.

"Not a bit," returned the Cracksman. "We was as gentle as lambs. We on'y
pitched the small boy into a dry ditch that was by the side of the road;
and as for the gentleman, I just tapped him over the head with the butt
of a pistol to keep him quiet; but I did it myself to make sure that it
wasn't done too hard."

"You surely have not murdered him?" said Greenwood, his whole
countenance suddenly convulsed with horror.

"Don't be afeard; he was on'y stunned--you may take my word for that,"
returned the Cracksman, coolly. "But here's all the papers we found in
his pocket; and as for his purse--it had but a few pounds in it."

Mr. Greenwood received the papers from the hands of the Cracksman, and
observed with a glance that amongst them was the document which he had
given a few hours previously to guarantee the safety of the fifteen
thousand pounds placed in his hands by Count Alteroni.

"You are sure," he said, with some uneasiness depicted upon his
countenance, "that there is no danger to be apprehended from the
blow----"

"Danger be d----d!" cried the Cracksman; "I know from experience
exactly what kind o' blow will stun, or break a limb, or kill outright.
I'll forfeit my reputation if there's any harm in that there whack which
I gave to-night."

"We must hope that you are right in your conjecture," said
Greenwood;--then, taking his purse from his pocket, he counted down
forty-two sovereigns upon the table, adding, "That will make up the
fifty guineas promised."

The Cracksman consigned the money to his fob, and then took leave of his
employer, hoping "_that he should have his custom in future_."

The moment he was gone, Greenwood thrust the document, which he had thus
got back by a crime of an infamous nature, into the fire. When it was
completely consumed, he proceeded to examine the other papers. These
consisted chiefly of letters written in cypher, addressed to Count
Alteroni, and bearing the post-mark of Montoni, Castelcicala: the rest
were notes and memoranda of no consequence whatever.

Mr. Greenwood, being unable to unriddle the letters written in cypher,
and considering that they were upon political subjects with which he had
little or no interest, consigned the entire packet of papers to the
flames.

He then retired to rest, and slept as soundly as if his entire day had
been passed in virtuous deeds.

At about ten o'clock in the morning he received the following letter
from Richmond:--

"MY DEAR MR. GREENWOOD,

     "As I was on my way home last evening, I was suddenly attacked by
     three villains in a dark and lonely part of the road. One of the
     miscreants stunned me with the blow of a pistol, and threw the
     little jockey into a ditch. Fortunately we are neither of us
     seriously injured. The robbers plundered me of every thing I had
     about my person--my purse containing thirty-four sovereigns, and
     all my papers, amongst which was the security I had received from
     your hands a few hours before. You will perhaps have another drawn.

     "I do not think it is worth while to make any disturbance relative
     to the matter, as, in consequence of the darkness of the night, I
     should be totally unable to recognise the miscreants.

"Yours faithfully,
"ALTERONI."



"Thank heavens, there is no danger in that quarter!" exclaimed Mr.
Greenwood, when he had perused this letter. "He is not hurt--and he will
not adopt any means to detect the culprits. As for having another
document drawn up--I can take my time about that, and he will not dare
press me for it as he did for the first. Besides, he will consider my
honourable intentions in the matter fully proved by having given the one
which he has lost! Thus have I obtained fifteen thousand pounds without
much trouble--thus have I thrown dust into the eyes of this count, and
still do I retain his confidence. And his lovely daughter--the beautiful
Isabella, with her large black eyes, her raven hair, her sweet red lips,
and her sylph-like form,--she shall be mine! I shall lead her to the
altar--that charming Italian virgin, whose very looks are heaven. Every
thing progresses well: success attends all my plans;--and
to-night--to-night," he added, in a tone of triumph, "to-night will
ensure me the gratification of my desires and my vengeance with regard
to that haughty fair one of the villa!"




CHAPTER L.

THE DRUGGED WINE-GLASS.


Return we once more to the villa at Upper Clapton.

Eliza Sydney's household consisted only of Louisa and a peasant girl of
about fifteen. She no longer kept horses and dogs, as she was compelled
by Stephens to do during the time of her disguise, previously to her
imprisonment. She therefore required no male retainers, save an old
gardener who lived in one of the out-houses.

A fictitious letter had caused the faithful Louisa to set out on a long
journey; and thus the principal obstacle to the atrocious scheme of the
conspirators against Eliza's peace and honour was removed.

At ten o'clock on the evening fixed for the perpetration of the foul
deed, the servant-girl carried the supper-tray to the dining-room where
Eliza and Stephens were seated. The domestic spread the table with the
materials for the most sociable of all meals, and, having placed two
decanters upon the hospitable board, withdrew.

The countenance of Stephens was particularly calm, considering the part
he had undertaken to play towards a woman whose loveliness alone was
sufficient to disarm the hand of enmity, and obtain the friendship of
the most lawless. She had, moreover, already suffered so much through
him,--she had extended towards him the hand of forgiveness and succour
in his dire need,--and she possessed the most generous, the most noble,
and the most confiding of dispositions. Oh! should not all these
considerations have moved that man in her favour?

He had received from Eliza the hundred pounds which she had promised
him. With that sum he might have found his way to America, and still had
a considerable balance in his pocket. But he had determined to add to it
the two hundred pounds more which Greenwood had promised him.

Although calm, he was very thoughtful.

"You seem unhappy?" said Eliza, observing the pensive air of her guest.
"Surely you cannot regret your approaching departure from a land where
your safety is so fearfully compromised?"

"And yet the land of which you speak is the one of my birth; and when
once I have left it, I may reckon upon being destined to see it never
again."

"Yes--it is hard to bid an eternal adieu to one's native country. And
yet," continued Eliza, "there is but little to wed the sensitive mind to
England. Since my release I have passed nearly all my time in reading;
and I am shocked to perceive, from the information I have gleaned, that
England is the only civilized country in the world where death from
starvation--literal starvation, is common. Indeed, it is an event of
such frequent occurrence, that it actually ceases to create
astonishment, and almost fails to excite dismay. There must be something
radically wrong in that system of society where all the wealth is in the
hands of a few, and all the misery is shared by millions."

"You would then, quit England without much regret?" said Stephens.

"For myself," answered Eliza, "I abhor a country in which poverty and
destitution prevail to such a fearful extent, while there is so much to
spare in the hands of the favoured few. I sometimes look forth from the
window, and survey that mighty city which stretches over plain, hill,
and valley, and which is ever extending its mighty arms--as if in time
it would embrace the entire island:--I gaze upon it at that hour in the
morning when the eternal cloud is raised for a little space from its
brow; and, as I mark the thousand spires which point up into the cool
clear sky, I tremble--I feel oppressed as with a weight, when I reflect
upon the hideous misery, the agonising woe, the appalling sorrow that
want entails upon the sons and daughters of toil in that vast Babylon."

"And do you not suppose that the same destitution prevails in the other
great cities of Europe?"

"Certainly not. Were a person to die of actual starvation in Paris, the
entire population would rise up in dismay. With all our immense and
cumbersome machinery of Poor Laws, there is more real wretchedness in
these islands than in any other country upon the face of the earth, not
even excepting the myriads who dwell upon the rivers in China."

"The topic is calculated to distress you, because you enter so deeply
and feelingly into it," said Stephens. "Take a glass of wine--it will
compose you."

Stephens filled two glasses with Port wine; and almost at the same
moment he exclaimed, "What a bad light the lamp gives this evening."
Then, in a feigned attempt to raise the wick, he turned the screw the
wrong way, and extinguished the light.

"How awkward I am!" he cried; and, while Eliza hastened to re-light the
lamp, he poured a few drops from a phial into one of the glasses of
wine.

The lamp was lighted once more; and Eliza had resumed her seat.

Stephens handed her the fatal glass.

"May all health and happiness attend you," he said: "and may God reward
you for your generosity towards me."

The words did not stick in his throat as he gave them utterance.

"And may you prosper in another clime," exclaimed Eliza in a tone which
proved that the wish came from the bottom of her heart.

She then drank a portion of the wine in her glass.

The countenance of Stephens did not change as Eliza imbibed the
soporific fluid. He contemplated her beauteous face with as much
calmness as if he had just administered to her a potion calculated to
embellish her charms, and add to her health and happiness.

"Either my taste deceives me," said Eliza, placing the half-emptied
glass upon the table; "or this wine has some defect which I cannot
understand."

"No--it is excellent," returned Stephens.

"I drink so little that I scarcely know the proper taste," observed
Eliza. "The pure spring water is my favourite beverage."

"It is considered an unlucky omen to leave unfinished the glass in which
you pledge the health of one who is about to traverse the ocean," said
Stephens.

"In that case," answered Eliza, with a smile, "I will relieve your
superstitious fears;" and she drained her glass.

Half an hour passed in conversation; and Eliza felt an irresistible
drowsiness coming over her. She endeavoured to rally against it--but in
vain; and at length she would have fallen from her chair fast asleep,
had not Stephens rushed forward and caught her.

He then rang the bell for the servant.

"Your mistress is unwell--she has been complaining all the evening; and
she has now fallen into a profound sleep. I will assist you to convey
her up stairs to her chamber."

Stephens and the servant carried the entranced lady to the boudoir.

Having placed her upon the bed, Stephens left the servant to undress
her, and hastily descended to the hall. He opened the front door with
caution, and whistled.

Two men emerged from the total darkness without, and glided into the
hall. Stephens conducted them into a back parlour, and gave them the key
to lock themselves in.

He himself then returned to the dining-room, where he tranquilly awaited
the arrival of Mr. Greenwood.

Midnight was proclaimed at length.

A low knock at the front door fell upon Stephens's ear.

He hastened to obey the summons, and admitted Greenwood into the house.

They repaired to the dining-room together.

"Your wishes have been obeyed in all respects," said Stephens. "Eliza is
in your power: the servant has retired to her own room. Give me my
reward--for I am in a hurry to leave a dwelling to which my presence
will have brought so much misery."

And yet this man did not seem appalled nor horror-struck at the infernal
nature of the crime for which he thus demanded the recompense.

"You will await me here five minutes," said Greenwood; and he left the
room.

At the expiration of that interval he returned, the fire of triumph and
lust flashing from his eyes.

"It is all well--you have not deceived me," he observed in a tone of joy
and exultation; "I have seen her, buried in a profound sleep--stretched
like a beauteous statue in her voluptuous bed! The light of a lamp plays
upon her naked bosom; the atmosphere of her chamber is soft, warm, and
perfumed. Such charms are worth a kingdom's purchase! She is mine--she
is mine: here is your reward!"

Greenwood handed a bank-note to his accomplice--or rather instrument in
this atrocious proceeding; and Stephens then took his departure.

But as he passed through the hall, he thrust a letter, addressed to
Eliza Sydney, beneath the carpet that covered the stairs.

The moment Greenwood was alone, he paced the dining-room for a few
minutes, to feast his imagination with the pleasures of love and triumph
which he now beheld within his reach.

"Yes--she is mine," he said: "she is mine--no power on earth can now
save her! Oh! how will I triumph over the proud and haughty beauty, when
to-morrow she awakes and finds herself in my arms. She will thrust her
hand beneath the pillow for her long sharp dagger; it will not be there!
She will extend her arm towards the bell-rope; it will be cut! And then
she may rave--and weep--and reproach--and pray; I shall smile at her
grief--her eyes will be more beautiful when seen through her tears! I
shall compel her then to crave to be my mistress--she who refused to be
my wife! Oh! what a triumph is within my reach!"

He paused; filled a tumbler half full of wine--and drank the contents at
a draught.

"Now for my victory--now for the fruits of my intrigues!" he resumed.
"But let me wait one moment longer! let me ask myself whether it be
really true that the lovely Eliza Sydney will shortly bless my
arms--that she is at this moment in my power. It is--it is; and I shall
now no longer delay the enjoyment of that terrestrial paradise!"

With these words, he left the dining-room, and crossed the hall towards
the staircase.

He was now about to ascend to the boudoir.

His foot was upon the first step, when he was rudely seized from behind,
and instantly gagged with a pocket-handkerchief.

Turning his head partially round, in a vain effort to escape from the
powerful grasp in which he found himself, he encountered, by the light
of the lamp that hung in the hall, the glance of the Cracksman.

"The deuce!" exclaimed the burglar in a low and subdued tone: "this is a
rum go! Working _for_ you last night, and _against_ you to-night! But,
never mind: we must fulfil our agreement, let it be what it will. I can
however tell you for your satisfaction that we don't mean to hurt you.
So come along quiet; and all will be right."

"What's the meaning of this, Tom?" said the Cracksman's companion, who
was no other than the Resurrection Man: "you don't mean to say that you
know this fellow?"

"He's the one that we did the job for last night on the Richmond road,"
answered the Cracksman.

"And he's got plenty of tin," added the Resurrection Man significantly.
"We can perhaps make a better bargain with him than what Stephens has
promised us for this night's business."

"Yes--but we can't talk here," returned the Cracksman: "so come along.
I've got my plan all cut and dry."

Greenwood conveyed several intimations, by means of signs, that he
wished to speak; but the two ruffians hurried him out of the house.

They conducted him across the fields to an empty barn at a distance of
about a mile from the villa. During the journey thither they conversed
together in a flash language altogether unintelligible to their captive,
who was still gagged. A difference of opinion evidently seemed to
subsist between the two men, relative to the plan which they should
pursue with regard to Greenwood; but they at length appeared to agree
upon the point.

With regard to Greenwood himself, he was a prey to a variety of painful
feelings,--disappointment in his designs upon Eliza at the moment when
he appeared to stand upon the threshhold of success,--bitter malignity
against Stephens who had thus duped him,--and alarm at the uncertainty
of the fate which might await him at the hands of the villains in whose
power he thus strangely found himself.

The night was pitch-dark; but the moment the two ruffians with their
captive entered the barn, a lantern in the hands of the Cracksman was
suddenly made to throw a bright light forwards.

That light fell upon the countenance of Stephens, who was standing in
the middle of the shed.

"All right," said the Cracksman. "We pinioned the bird without trouble;
and he ain't a strange one, neither."

"What! do you mean that you know him?" demanded Stephens.

"That's neither here nor there," replied the Cracksman. "We don't tell
secrets out of school, 'cos if we did, there'd be no reliance put in us;
and we does a great many pretty little jobs now and then for the swell
folks. But here is your bird--delivered at this werry spot, accordin' to
agreement."

[Illustration]

"Well and good," said Stephens. "Tie him hand and foot."

The Cracksman and the Resurrection Man instantly obeyed this command:
they threw Greenwood upon a truss of straw, and fastened his hands
together, and then his feet, with strong cord.

"Here is your reward," said Stephens, as soon as this was accomplished.
"I have now no more need of your services."

He handed them some money as he thus spoke; and, having counted it, the
two villains bade him good night and left the barn, which was now
enveloped in total darkness.

"Montague Greenwood," said Stephens, as soon as he was alone with his
prisoner, "your design upon Eliza Sydney was too atrocious for even a
man who has been knocked about in the world, as I have, to permit. You
dazzled me with the promise of a reward which my necessities did not
permit me to refuse;--and you moreover secured my co-operation by means
of menaces. But I was determined to defeat your treacherous designs--to
avenge myself for the threats which you uttered against me--and to
obtain the recompense you had promised me, at the same time. How well I
have succeeded you now know. The whole of yesterday morning did I wander
amongst the sinks of iniquity and haunts of crime in Clerkenwell, and
the neighbourhood of Saffron Hill; and accident led me into a low public
house where I encountered two men who agreed to do my bidding. I tell
you all this to convince you that never for a moment was I villain
enough--bad though I may be--to pander to infamy of so deep a dye as
that which you meditated. I have taken measures to acquaint the
noble-hearted woman whose ruin you aimed at, with the entire history of
this transaction, so that she may be upon her guard in future. With
reference to you, here I shall leave you: in a few hours the labourers
of the farm will no doubt discover you, and you will be restored to
liberty when Eliza has awakened from her torpor, and I shall be far
beyond the danger of pursuit."

Stephens ceased; and taking a long rope from a comer of the barn where
he had concealed it, he fastened it to the cord which already confined
the hands and feet of Greenwood. He then attached the ends firmly to one
of the upright beams of the barn, so as to prevent the captive from
crawling away from the place.

This precaution being adopted, Stephens took his departure.

It would be impossible to describe the rage, vexation, and
disappointment which filled the breast of Greenwood while Stephens
addressed him in the manner described, and then bound him with the cord.
Yet during this latter process he lay perfectly quiet--well aware that
any attempt at escape on his part would at that moment be totally
unavailing.

Five minutes elapsed after Stephens had left the barn, and Greenwood was
marvelling within himself how long he should have to remain in that
unpleasant position--bound with cords, and gagged in such a way that he
could only breathe through his nostrils,--when the sounds of footsteps
fell upon his ear, and the light of the Cracksman's lantern again
flashed through the barn.

"Well, sir," said the Cracksman, "your _friend_ is gone now; and so we
can have a word or two together. You see, we couldn't help you afore,
'cos we was obliged to fulfil our agreement with the man which hired us
for the evening. Now it is just likely that you may have to remain here
for some hours if so be we don't let you loose; so tell us what you'll
give us for cutting them cords."

The Cracksman removed the gag from Greenwood's mouth, as he uttered
these words.

"I will give you my purse," exclaimed the discomfited financier, "if you
will release me this moment. It contains ten or a dozen guineas."

"Thank'ee kindly," said the Cracksman, drily; "we've got that already.
We helped ourselves to it as we came across the fields. Don't you see,
we always make it a rule to have the plucking of all pigeons which we're
hired to snare. You told us we might take all we found on the swell in
the sky-blue cab; and that man with the sallow complexion that hired us
to do this here business to-night, said, 'I will give you twenty pounds,
and you can help yourselves to all you find about the gentleman you're
to operate on.'"

"Call upon me to-morrow, and I will give you another twenty pounds to
free me from these bonds," said Greenwood.

"That's only the price of a good corpse," said the Resurrection Man.
"Make it thirty."

"Yes--make it thirty," added the Cracksman.

"Well--I will give you thirty guineas," cried Greenwood: "only delay not
another instant. My limbs are stiffening with the cold and with the
confinement of these accursed cords."

"Let it be thirty, then," said the Cracksman. "Here, Tony," he added,
turning towards his companion, "hold this here light while I cut the
cords. And while I think of it, Mr. Greenwood, I shan't call upon you
for the money; but you'll send it to the landlord of the Boozing-ken,
where your servant came and found me. Mind it's there by to-morrow
night, or else you'll repent it--that's all. Blowed if we haven't had
two good nights' work on it, Tony. But, my eye! wasn't I surprised
yesterday when the man with the sallow face which hired us for to-night,
told me that we was to come to that there villa yonder, and I found out
as how it was the same that I'd cracked three year ago along with Bill
Bolter and Dick Flairer. Arter all, there's been some curious things
about all these matters--partickler our having to tackle to-night the
wery gentleman which we served last night."

"Come--don't talk so much, Tom," said the Resurrection Man; "but let's
make haste and be off."

"There--it's done," exclaimed the Cracksman, "the cords is all cut: you
can get up, sir."

Greenwood arose from the straw upon which he had been lying, and
stretched his limbs with as much pleasure as if he had just recovered
from a severe cramp.

He then reiterated his promise to the two men relative to the reward to
be paid for the service just rendered him; and, having inquired of them
which was the nearest way to the West End, he set out upon his long and
lonely walk home, depressed, disappointed, and hesitating between plans
of vengeance against Stephens and fears of exposure in his own vile and
defeated machinations with regard to the beautiful Eliza Sydney.




CHAPTER LI.

DIANA AND ELIZA.


On the morning following the events just narrated, Mrs. Arlington was
seated at breakfast in a sweet little parlour of the splendid mansion
which the Earl of Warrington had taken and fitted up for her in Dover
Street, Piccadilly.

It was about eleven o'clock; and the Enchantress was attired in a
delicious _deshabillé_. With her little feet upon an ottoman near the
fender, and her fine form reclining in a luxurious large arm-chair, she
divided her attention between her chocolate and the columns of the
_Morning Herald_. She invariably prolonged the morning's repast as much
as possible, simply because it served to wile away the time until the
hour for dressing arrived. Then visits received, filled up the interval
till three or four o'clock, when the carriage came round to the door. A
drive in the park, or shopping (according to the state of the weather)
occupied the time until six or seven. Then another toilet in preparation
for dinner. In the evening a _tête-à-tête_ with the Earl of Warrington,
who had, perhaps, arrived in time for dinner,--or a visit to a theatre,
the Opera, or a concert,--and to bed at midnight, or frequently much
later.

Such was the routine of the Enchantress's existence.

The Earl of Warrington behaved most liberally towards her. On the first
day of every month he enclosed her a cheque upon his banker for two
hundred guineas. He supplied her cellar with wine, and frequently made
her the most splendid presents of jewellery, plate, cachmeres, &c. The
furniture for her mansion had cost fifteen hundred pounds; and all the
bills were paid in her name. She was not extravagant, as women in her
situation usually are; and therefore, so far from incurring debts, she
saved money.

We cannot say that the Earl of Warrington positively _loved_ her. His
first affections in life had experienced such a blight, that they might
almost be said to have been interred in the grave of defeated hopes and
aspirations. He could therefore never _love_ again. But he _liked_ Mrs.
Arlington; and he had every reason to believe that she was faithful to
him. He was charmed with her conversation and her manners: he saw in her
a woman who gave herself no airs, but, on the contrary, exerted herself
in every way to please him;--she never attempted to excite his jealousy,
nor affected gusts of passion merely for the sake of asserting her
independence or of proving the hold which she possessed over him;--and
in her society he forgot the cares of politics (in which he was
profoundly interested) and all those other little annoyances, real or
imaginary, to which every one in this world is subject, be his condition
never so prosperous!

And Diana _was_ faithful to him. She was a woman naturally inclined to
virtue:--circumstances had made her what she was. She looked upon the
Earl of Warrington as a benefactor; and, although she did not actually
_love_ him more than he loved her, she _liked_ him upon pretty nearly
the same principles that he liked her. Her vanity was flattered by
having captivated and being able to retain a handsome man, whose wealth
and high rank rendered him an object of desire on the part of all ladies
situated as was Diana;--she moreover found him an agreeable companion,
kind, and indulgent;--and thus their _liaison_ continued upon a basis
which nothing appeared to threaten, nor even to weaken.

They never spoke of love in reference to their connection. The earl was
never upon his knees at the feet of his mistress; nor did he repeat vows
of constancy and fidelity every time he saw her. She acted on the same
principle towards him. There was a great amount of real friendship and
good feeling between those two;--but not an atom of mawkish
sentimentality. The earl could _trust_ Diana: he consulted her upon many
of his plans and proceedings, whether in regard to his political career
or the management of his estate; and she invariably tendered him the
advice which appeared most consistent with his interests. He therefore
placed the fullest confidence in her;--and hence have we seen her
carrying out all his generous plans with reference to Eliza Sydney.

But to continue.

Mrs. Arlington was seated at breakfast, as we have before stated, when a
servant entered and informed her that Miss Sydney requested a few
minutes' conversation with her. Diana immediately ordered Eliza to be
admitted.

"Pardon this early and unceremonious visit, my dear friend," said Eliza,
affectionately grasping the hand that was stretched out to welcome her.

"I am always at home to you, Eliza," answered the Enchantress. "But how
pale you are! Come--sit down here--close by me--and tell me in what way
I can be of service to you."

"My dear friend," continued Eliza, "I have a secret to reveal to
you--and a deed of infamy to narrate----"

"Oh! you alarm me, Eliza! Has any harm happened to yourself?"

"No, thank heavens! The compunction of one man saved me from disgrace
and ruin. But read this--it will explain all."

With these words, Eliza handed to Mrs. Arlington the letter which
Stephens had thrust under the stair-carpet at the villa on the preceding
evening.

Diana perused the letter with attention; and a flash of indignation
animated her fine countenance, as she thus made herself acquainted with
the atrocious plot contrived by Greenwood against the honour of Eliza
Sydney.

"Such is the villany of George Montague!" cried Diana at the termination
of the perusal of that letter.

"Forgive me, dearest friend," said Eliza, taking the hand of Mrs.
Arlington and pressing it between her own;--"forgive me if I have kept
back one secret of my life from your knowledge. That George Montague--I
once loved him!"

"You!" exclaimed Mrs. Arlington in surprise.

"Yes, Diana--I once loved that man--before the fatal exposure which led
to my imprisonment;--but he behaved like a villain--he endeavoured to
take advantage of my affection;--and I smothered the feeling in my
bosom!"

"Oh! you did well--you did well thus to triumph over a passion which
would have been fatal to your happiness;--for never would your hopes
have been fulfilled--with honour to yourself," added Mrs. Arlington,
sinking her voice almost to a whisper.

"Alas! you are right! I stood upon the brink of a precipice--I
escaped;--but Montague, or Greenwood,--whichever he may choose to call
himself,--pursues me with a view of accomplishing my dishonour."

"The crimes of that man are unlimited, and his perseverance is
unwearied," said Diana.

"What plan can I adopt," demanded Eliza, "to escape his machinations?
What system can I pursue to avoid his persecution? Conceive my affright
when upon awaking this morning, I remembered that I had not retired to
bed last evening of my own accord--that I could think of nothing that
had occurred since supper-time! Then I found that the bell-rope in my
sleeping-room was cut, and that a weapon which I have been in the habit
of keeping beneath my pillow ever since I first dwelt in the villa, had
disappeared! Oh! I was alarmed--I shuddered, although it was broad
day-light, and every thing was calm and silent around. At length I
summoned the servant--and she entered, bearing a letter which she had
discovered a few moments before beneath the stair-carpet. That letter is
the one you read ere now;--and it explained all. Tell me--tell me,
Diana, how am I to avoid the persecution, and combat the intrigues of
this man?"

"Alas! my dear friend," replied Mrs. Arlington, after a few minutes'
consideration, "I know of no effectual method save that of leaving
London."

"And if I leave London, I will leave England," said Miss Sydney. "But I
can do nothing without the consent of him to whom I am under such deep
obligations."

"You mean the Earl of Warrington," observed Mrs. Arlington. "I admire
the sentiment of gratitude which animates you. The earl will do all he
can to forward your views and contribute to your happiness. You shall
pass the day with me, Eliza; here at least you are safe;--and I will
immediately write a note to the earl, and request him to call upon me
without delay."

"His lordship will be perhaps annoyed----"

"Fear nothing, Eliza. I will see the earl in another room. And let not
this disinclination to meet you on his part, cause you pain: you well
know the motive of his conduct. The memory of your mother----"

"I am well aware he can have no antipathy towards me, on my own
account," interrupted Eliza; "else he could not have acted towards me in
a way which claims all my gratitude!"

Mrs. Arlington dispatched the note to Lord Warrington, and then hastened
to dress to receive him.

In an hour the earl arrived.

He and Mrs. Arlington were then closeted together for a considerable
time.

It was four o'clock when the nobleman took his departure, and Diana
returned to the room where she had left Eliza Sydney.

"The Earl of Warrington," said the Enchantress, whose countenance was
animated with joy, "has listened with attention to the tale of atrocity
which I have related to him in respect to George Montague Greenwood. His
lordship and myself--for he does me the honour to consult me--have
debated upon the best means of ensuring your tranquillity and safety;
and we have decided that you had better quit England for a time. The
perseverance of that bold bad man, backed by his wealth, may succeed in
effecting your ruin--you yourself remaining innocent of guilty
participation! The earl has recommended Italy as the country most likely
to please you--and the more so because he himself possesses a charming
villa in the State of Castelcicala."

"How kind of his lordship!" exclaimed Eliza, tears of gratitude starting
into her eyes.

"Some years ago," continued Diana, "the earl set out upon a continental
tour, and passed two years at Montoni, the capital of the Grand Duchy of
Castelcicala. So charmed was he with that delightful city, that he
purchased a small estate in the suburbs, with the idea of spending the
summer from time to time amidst Italian scenery and beneath an Italian
sky. The idea has, however, been displaced by others arising from new
occupations and fresh interests; and for a long period has the villa at
Montoni remained uninhabited, save by an old porter and his wife. The
house is situate upon the banks of the river which flows through
Montoni, and commands the most delicious views. That villa is to be your
residence so long as it may be agreeable; and the earl will make
arrangements with his London bankers so that your income may be
regularly paid you by their agents at Montoni. His lordship has moreover
instructed me to supply you with the necessary funds for your travelling
expenses."

"Oh! my dearest friend, how can I ever testify my gratitude----"

"Not a word--not a word!" interrupted Mrs. Arlington, playfully closing
Eliza's lips with her hand. "The earl conceives that he is performing a
duty, sacred to the memory of his deceased uncle, in thus caring for
you, who are the offspring of that uncle's daughter; and, on my part,
Eliza--on my part, it is a pleasure to do you a service. But I have not
yet finished. The earl has gone straight to Richmond, to call upon a
certain Count Alteroni--a noble exile from the Grand Duchy of
Castelcicala--with whom it appears the earl was acquainted in Italy. His
object is to obtain for you a few letters of introduction to some of the
best families of Montoni, so that you may not want society."

"I shall live in so retired a manner," said Eliza, "that this additional
act of kindness was scarcely necessary."

"The earl will have his own way; and perhaps those letters may prove
useful to you--who can tell?" exclaimed Mrs. Arlington. "But I must
observe that I cannot think of parting with you any more until you leave
England altogether. In three or four days the necessary preparations for
your journey will be completed: meantime you must remain here as my
guest. The earl himself recommended this step; that is," added Mrs.
Arlington, "if my house be agreeable to you, and my society----"

"Oh! how can you entertain a doubt on that head?" cried Eliza, embracing
Diana with the most grateful fervour. "Ah! it is but a few hours since I
said how happy I should be to call you by the endearing name of
_Sister_!"

"And would you not blush, Eliza, to call me your sister?" said Mrs.
Arlington, in a tone deeply affected.

"Blush to call you my sister!" exclaimed Miss Sydney, as if she repelled
the idea with indignation: "Oh! no--never, never! You are the most
noble-hearted of women, and as such, I love--I revere you!"

"We will then be sisters in heart, although not in blood," said Diana,
warmly returning her friend's embrace; "and perhaps our affection
towards each other will be more sincere than that existing between many
who are really the offspring of the same parents."

Mrs. Arlington gave directions to her servants that she was not "at
home" to a soul, save the Earl of Warrington; and the ride in the
park--the shopping--the theatre in the evening--all were sacrificed by
Diana to the pleasure of Eliza's society.

Miss Sydney dispatched a note to the villa at Upper Clapton, announcing
her intention of staying a few days with Mrs. Arlington. In the evening,
Louisa, who had just returned from the journey on which the fictitious
letter written by Stephens had sent her, made her appearance in Dover
Street, with clothes, &c. for her mistress, and she then received
instructions relative to the intended departure for the Continent.




CHAPTER LII.

THE BED OF SICKNESS.


Return we to the dwelling of Richard Markham on the same day that Eliza
Sydney sought her friend Mrs. Arlington, as related in the preceding
chapter.

Richard awoke as from a long and painful dream.

He opened his eyes, and gazed vacantly around him. He was in his own
bed, and Whittingham was seated by his side.

"The Lord be praised!" ejaculated the faithful old domestic;--and
conceiving it necessary to quote Scripture upon the occasion of this
happy recovery, he uttered, in a loud and solemn voice, the first
sentence which presented itself to his memory,--"My tongue is the pen of
a ready writer!"

"How long have I been ill, Whittingham?" demanded our hero, in a faint
tone.

"Four blessed days have you been devoided of your sensations, Master
Richard," was the reply; "and most disastrous was my fears that you
would never be evanescent no more. I have sustained my vigils by day and
my diaries by night at your bed-side, Master Richard; and I may say,
without mitigating against truth, that I haven't had my garments off my
back since you was first brought home."

"Indeed, Whittingham, I am deeply indebted to you, my good friend," said
Richard, pressing the faithful old domestic's hand. "But have I really
been so very ill?"

"Ill!" exclaimed Whittingham; "for these four days you have never opened
your eyes, save in delirium, until this moment. But you have been a
ravaging in your dreams--and sobbing--and moaning so! I suppose, Master
Richard, you haven't the most remotest idea of how you come home again?"

"Not in the least, Whittingham. All I recollect was, running along the
Richmond Road, in the middle of the night--with a whirlwind in my
brain--"

"And you must have fallen down from sheer fatigue," interrupted the
butler; "for two drovers picked you up, and took you to a cottage close
by. The people at the cottage searched your pockets and found your card,
so they sent off a messenger to your own house, and I went in a po-shay,
and fetched you home."

"And I have been ill four whole days!" cried Markham.

"Yes, but you don't know yet what has happened during that period," said
the butler, with a solemn shake of the head.

"Tell me all the news, Whittingham: let me know what has passed during
my illness."

"I'll repeat to you allegorically all that's incurred," resumed
Whittingham, preparing to enumerate the various incidents upon his
fingers. "In the first place--let me see--yes, it _was_ the first
incurrence of any consequence--the old sow littered. That's annygoat the
first. Then come a terrible buffoon--a tifoon, I mean--and down tumbled
the eastern stack of chimbleys. That's annygoat the second. Third, the
young water-cress gal was confined with a unlegitimated child; and so I
told her mother never to let her call here again, as we didn't encourage
immoral karikters. That's annygoat the third. Next, there's poor Ben
Halliday, who wouldn't pay the pavement rate at Holloway, 'cause he
hasn't got any pavement before his house, sold up, stick and stock; and
so I gave him a couple of guineas. Annygoat the fourth. And last of all,
a gentleman's livery servant--not that villain Yorkminster's, or
whatever his name was--come with a horse and shay and left your
pokmanty, without saying a word. That's anny--"

"My portmanteau!" exclaimed Richard, whose countenance was now suddenly
animated with a ray of hope: "and have you unpacked it?"

"Not yet: I haven't had no time."

"Bring it to the bed-side, place it upon a couple of chairs, and open it
at once," said Markham hastily. "Bestir yourself, good Whittingham: I am
anxious to see if there be any note--any letter--any--"

While Richard uttered these words with a considerable degree of
impatience, the butler dragged the portmanteau from beneath the bed,
where he had deposited it, and placed it close to his master's right
hand. It was speedily opened, unpacked, and examined throughout; the
clothes and linen were unfolded; and Richard's eyes followed the
investigation with the most painful curiosity. But there was no
letter--no note from any inmate of the count's abode.

A sudden reminiscence entered his mind. Was the document signed at the
_Dark House_ amongst his papers? He recollected having handed it to the
count; but he could not call to mind what had afterwards become of it. A
moment's examination convinced him that it had not been returned to him.
At first he was grievously annoyed by this circumstance;--in another
minute he was pleased, for it struck him that, after all, its contents
might have been perused by the count and his family when the excitement
of that fatal night had worn off. But how to wipe away the dread
suspicion raised by the Resurrection Man, relative to the burglary--oh!
that was the most painful, and yet the most necessary task of all!

Markham sank back upon his pillow, and was lost in thought, when a low
knock was heard at the door of his chamber. Whittingham answered it, and
introduced Mr. Monroe.

The old man was the very picture of care and wretchedness:--the mark of
famine was, moreover, upon his sunken cheeks. His eyes were dead and
lustreless;--his neck, his wrists, and his hands seemed nothing but skin
and bone. In spite of the cleanliness of his person, the thread-bare
shabbiness of his clothes could not escape the eye of even the most
superficial observer.

Markham had not seen him for some months; and now, forgetting his own
malady and his own cares, he felt shocked at the dreadful alteration
wrought upon the old man's person during that interval. On his part, Mr.
Monroe was not less surprised to find Richard upon a bed of sickness.

"My dear sir," said Markham, "you are ill--you are suffering--and you do
not come to me to--"

"What! you have penetrated my secret, Richard!" exclaimed the old man
bitterly. "Well--I will conceal the truth no longer: yes--myself and my
poor daughter--we are dying by inches!"

"My God! and you were too proud to come to me! Oh! how sincerely--how
eagerly would I have offered you the half of all I possess--"

"How could I come to you, Richard," interrupted the old man, bursting
into tears, "when I had already ruined you?"

"No--not you--not you," said Markham: "you were the victim of a
scoundrel; and, in acting for the best, you lost all!"

"God knows how truly you speak!" cried the old man fervently. "But tell
me--what ails you? and how long have you been upon a bed of sickness?"

"A day or two;--it is nothing! Never mind me--I am now well--at all
events, much better:--let us talk of yourself and your own affairs."

"My fate, Richard, is a melancholy one--my destiny is sad, indeed! From
the pinnacle of wealth and prosperity I have been dashed down to the
lowest abyss of destitution and misery! But it is not for myself that I
complain--it is not for myself that I suffer! I am by this time inured
to every kind of disappointment and privation:--but my daughter--my poor
Ellen! Oh! my God--it was for her sake that I came to you this morning
to implore the wherewith to purchase a loaf of bread!"

"Merciful heavens, Mr. Monroe! are you reduced to this?" cried Richard,
horror-struck at the piteous tale thus conveyed to him in a few words.

"It is true:--we are starving!" answered the old man, sinking into a
chair, and sobbing bitterly.

Whittingham walked towards the window, and wiped his eyes more than
once.

"Ah! I am glad you have come to me at last," said Markham. "I will
assist you to the utmost of my power--I will never let you want again!
Oh! that villain Montague! how many hearts has he already broken--how
many more will he yet break!"

"He is the cause of all this deep--deep misery," observed Monroe. "But
not alone by me is his name mentioned with loathing and horror: others
have doubtless been, and will yet be, his victims. I have learnt--by the
merest accident--that he has changed his name, and is now pursuing at
the West End, the same course he so successfully practised in the City."

"Changed his name!" ejaculated Markham. "And what does he call himself
now?"

"Greenwood," answered Mr. Monroe.

"Greenwood! George Montague and Greenwood one and the same person!"
cried Richard, suddenly recalling to mind the name of the individual to
whom the count had entrusted his capital. "Ah! you talk of new
victims--I know one, whose ruin is perhaps by this time consummated.
Quick--quick, Whittingham, give me writing materials: I will send a
warning--although I am afraid it is already too late!"

While Whittingham was arranging his master's portfolio upon the coverlid
of the bed, Markham reflected upon the best means of communicating to
Count Alteroni the character of the man to whom he had confided his
fortune, and whom he thought of favourably as a suitor for his
daughter's hand. Anonymous letters were detestable to the honourable and
open disposition of Richard, and he hesitated at the idea of sending a
note direct from himself, fearing that it might be thrown into the fire
the moment its signature should be perceived, and thus fail in its
proposed aim. To call upon the count was impossible: to send Mr. Monroe
was disagreeable. To communicate the important intelligence was
imperiously necessary. But how was it to be conveyed? An idea struck
across his brain in this perplexity:--he would write to the countess,
and trust to the natural curiosity of the female disposition to ensure
the perusal of his letter. He accordingly penned the ensuing epistle:--

     "MADAM,

     "Although calumniated in the presence of Count Alteroni, without
     being permitted to justify myself; and although ruined in your
     estimation, without the freedom of explanation,--believe me, I have
     still the welfare of your family most sincerely at heart. As a
     proof of this assertion, allow me to inform you that the Mr.
     Greenwood, to whom Count Alteroni has entrusted his capital, is an
     adventurer and a villain. I on several occasions casually mentioned
     to you that I was plundered of all my property, before I became of
     an age entitled to enjoy it. My guardian Mr. Monroe, employed a
     certain Mr. Allen to speculate for him; and this Mr. Allen was
     mercilessly robbed of all he possessed, and all he could raise, and
     all his friends who backed him could provide him with, by a
     miscreant of the name of Montague. These particulars, which I never
     mentioned to you before, I now deem it requisite to acquaint you
     with. Madam, that same George Montague is your Mr. Greenwood!

"I remain, Madam, your obedient servant,
"RICHARD MARKHAM."



This letter was dispatched that same evening to Richmond.




CHAPTER LIII.

ACCUSATIONS AND EXPLANATIONS.


It was seven o'clock in the evening.

Count Alteroni was sipping his claret; the countess was reading a new
German novel; and the Signora Isabella was sitting in a pensive and
melancholy mood, apparently occupied with some embroidery or other
fancy-work, but in reality bent only upon her own painful reflections.

The air of this charming girl was languishing and sorrowful; and from
time to time a tear started into her large black eye. That crystal drop
upon the jet fringe of her eye-lid, seemed like the dew hanging on the
ebony frame of a window.

The delicate hue of the rose which usually coloured her cheeks, and
appeared as it were beneath the complexion of faint bistre which denoted
her Italian origin, had fled; and her sweet vermilion lips were no
longer wreathed in smiles.

"Isabel, my love," said the count, "you are thoughtful this evening.
What a silly girl you are to oppose that tyrannical little will of your
own to my anxious hopes and wishes for your welfare--especially as I
must know so much better than you what is for your good and what is
not."

"I think," answered Isabella, with a deep sigh, "that I oppose no
tyrannical will to your lordship's commands."

"Lordship's commands!" repeated the count, somewhat angrily. "Have I not
ordered our rank and station to be forgotten here--in England? And as
for commands, Bella," added the nobleman, softening, "I have merely
expressed my wish that you should give Mr. Greenwood an opportunity of
proving his disinterested affection and securing your esteem--especially
on the occasion of our approaching visit to our friends the Tremordyns."

"My dear papa," answered the signora, "I have faithfully promised you
that if Mr. Greenwood should gain my affections, he shall not sue in
vain for my hand."

"That is a species of compromise which I do not understand," exclaimed
the count. "Have you any particular aversion to him?"

"I have no aversion--but I certainly have no love," replied Isabella
firmly; "and where there is not love, dear father, you would not have me
wed?"

"Oh! as for love," said the count, evading a direct reply to this query,
"time invariably thaws away those stern resolves and objections which
young ladies sometimes choose to entertain, in opposition to the wishes
of their parents."

"My lord, I have no power over volition," exclaimed Isabella, with
difficulty restraining her tears.

"This is very provoking, Isabella--very!" said the count, drinking his
claret with rapidity. "This man is in every way worthy of you--rich,
genteel, and good-looking. As for his rank--it is true that he has no
title: but of what avail to us are rank and title--exiled as we are from
our native land--"

"Oh! my dear father!" cried Isabella, wiping her eyes; "do not fancy so
ill of me as to suppose that I languish for rank, or care for honour!
No--let me either possess that title which is a reflection of your own
when in Castelcicala;--or let me be plain Signora Isabella in a foreign
land. Pomp and banishment--pride and exile, are monstrous
incongruities!"

"That is spoken like my own dear daughter," exclaimed the count. "The
sorrows of my own lot are mitigated by the philosophy and firmness with
which you and your dear mother support our change of fortunes;--and,
alas! I see but little chance of another re-action in our favour. O my
dear country! shall I ever see thee more? Wilt thou one day recognise
those who really love thee?"

A profound silence ensued: neither of the ladies chose to interrupt the
meditations of the patriot; and he himself rose and paced the room with
agitated steps.

"And it is this despair when I contemplate my future prospects,"
continued the nobleman, after a long pause, "that induces me to wish to
see you speedily settled and provided for, my dearest Isabella. What
other motive can I have but your good?"

"Oh! I know it--I know it, my dear father," cried the charming girl;
"and it is that conviction which makes me wretched when I think how
reluctant I am to obey you in this instance. But do not grieve yourself,
my dear father--and do not be angry with me! I will be as civil and
friendly as I can to this Mr. Greenwood; and if--and if----"

The beautiful Italian could say no more: her heart was full--almost to
bursting; and throwing herself into her mother's arms, she wept
bitterly.

The count, who was passionately attached to his daughter, was deeply
affected and greatly shocked by this demonstration of her feelings. He
had flattered himself that her repugnance to Mr. Greenwood was far from
being deeply rooted, and was merely the result of a young girl's fears
and anxieties when she found that she was not romantically attached to
her suitor. But he little suspected that she cherished a sincere and
tender passion for another--a passion which she might essay in vain to
conquer.

"Bella, my darling," he exclaimed, "do not give way to grief: you cannot
think that I would sacrifice you to gold--mere gold? No--never, never!
Console yourself--you shall never be dragged a victim to the altar!"

"My dearest father," cried Isabella, turning towards the count and
embracing him fondly,--"God, who reads all my actions, knows that I
would make any sacrifice to please you--to spare you one pang--to
forward your views! Oh! believe me, I am too well aware of the deep
responsibility under which I exist towards my parents--too deeply imbued
with gratitude for all your kindness towards me, not to be prepared to
obey your wishes!"

"I will exact no sacrifice, dearest girl," said the count. "Compose
yourself--and do not weep!"

At that moment a loud double knock at the front door resounded through
the house; and scarcely had Isabella, recovered her self-possession,
when Mr. Greenwood was announced.

"Ladies, excuse this late visit," said the financier, sailing into the
room with his countenance wreathed into the blandest smiles; "but the
truth is, I had business in the neighbourhood, and I could not possibly
pass without stopping for a few moments at a mansion where there are
such attractions."

These last words were addressed pointedly to Isabella, who only replied
to the compliment by a cold bow.

"Count," said Mr. Greenwood, now turning towards the nobleman, "I have
not seen you since your adventure upon the highway! But I was delighted
to learn that you had received no injury."

"My only regret is that I did not shoot the villains," answered the
count. "Have you had another deed prepared, to replace the one stolen
from me on that occasion?"

"I have given my solicitors the necessary instructions," answered
Greenwood. "In a few days----"

"Every thing with you is in a few days, Greenwood," interrupted the
count, somewhat pointedly. "That deed would not occupy one day to
engross, now that the copy is at your attorney's office; and it would
have been a mark of goodwill on your part--"

"Pray do not blame me!" exclaimed the financier, smiling so as to
display his very white teeth, of which he seemed not a little proud. "I
believe that for a man who has so much business upon his hands, and the
interests of so many to watch and care for, I am as punctual to my
appointments as most people."

"I do not speak of want of punctuality in keeping appointments," said
the nobleman: "but I allude to the neglect of a matter which to you may
appear trivial, but which to me is of importance."

"Oh! my dear count--we will repair this little error the day after
to-morrow--or the next day," answered Mr. Greenwood: "I wish that every
body was as regular and as punctual with me, as I endeavour to be with
others; and that punctuality on my part, my dear sir, has been the
origin of my fortune. I do not like to speak of myself, ladies--I hate
egotism--but really," he added with another smile, "when one is
attacked, you know----"

At that moment a domestic entered the room, and handed a letter to the
countess, who immediately opened it, glanced towards the signature, and
exclaimed almost involuntarily, "From Richard Markham!"

"Richard Markham!" cried Mr. Greenwood: "I thought I understood you that
that gentleman had ceased to visit or correspond with you?"

"So I said--and so I shall maintain!" exclaimed the count. "My dear, we
will return that letter without reading it."

"But I have already commenced the perusal of it," said the countess,
without taking her eyes off the paper: "and----"

"Then read no more," cried the count, angrily.

"Excuse me--I shall read it all," answered the countess significantly:
"and so will you."

"What means this?" ejaculated the count. "Have I lost all authority in
my own house? Madam, I command you----"

"There--I have finished it, and I implore you to read it yourself. Its
contents are highly important, and do not in any way relate to certain
recent events. Indeed he has purposely avoided any thing which may
appear obtrusive, either in the shape of explanation or apology."

The count took the letter with a very ill grace, and requested Mr.
Greenwood's permission to read it. This was of course awarded; and the
nobleman commenced the perusal. He had not, however, read many lines,
before he gave a convulsive start, and looked mistrustfully upon Mr.
Greenwood (who noticed his emotion), and hastily ran his eye over the
remainder of the letter's contents.

He then folded up the letter, and appeared to be absorbed in deep
thought for several moments. Mr. Greenwood saw that the note bore some
allusion to himself, and prepared his mind for any explanation, or any
storm.

The countess sate, pale and unhappy, in deep meditation; and the eyes of
Isabella wandered anxiously from one to the other.

At length the count, in a tone which showed with how much difficulty he
suppressed an outbreak of his irritated feelings, turned abruptly
towards Mr. Greenwood, exclaiming, "Pray, sir, how long is it since you
were acquainted with one George Montague?"

Mr. Greenwood was not taken at all aback. This was a question to which
he was always liable, and for which he was constantly prepared. He
accordingly answered, with his usual smile of complaisance, in the
following manner:--

"Oh! my dear sir, I presume you are acquainted with the fact that my
name was once Montague, since you ask me that question. I may also
suppose that some one has communicated that circumstance to you with a
desire to prejudice me in your opinion; but I can assure you that I have
not changed my name for any sinister purpose. My only motive was the
request of an old lady, who left me a considerable property some time
ago, upon that condition."

"And you can also explain, perhaps, the nature of your dealings with a
certain Mr. Allen?" demanded the count, staggered at the assurance with
which Mr. Greenwood met an accusation that the nobleman imagined would
have overwhelmed him with confusion.

"My dear sir," replied the financier, very far from betraying any
embarrassment, whatever he might have felt, "I can explain that and
every other action of my life. I was myself misled--I was duped--I was
involved in an enterprise which entailed ruin upon myself and all
connected with me. I suffered along with the others, and gave up all to
the creditors. I have, however, been enabled to build up my fortunes
again by means of the property left to me, and a series of successful
operations. All people in commercial and financial affairs are liable to
disappointment and embarrassment: the most cautious may over-speculate
or miscalculate; and how can I be blamed more than another?"

"I will admit that a particular enterprise may fail," said the count:
"but the writer of this letter explained to me on one or two occasions,
enough to enable me to comprehend the whole machinery of fraud which you
put into motion to obtain money from the public; and though he never
mentioned any names until to-day, in his letter, I might----"

"Every man has his enemies," said Mr. Greenwood, calmly: "I cannot hope
to be without mine. They may assert what they choose: upright and
impartial men never listen to one-sided statements. But perhaps the
writer of that letter----"

"He is the Mr. Markham of whom I have often spoken to you, and
concerning whom you were always asking me questions. I could not
conceive," proceeded the count, "why you were so curious to pry into his
affairs, especially as when I mentioned you to him by the name of
Greenwood, he did not seem to know any thing about you. But I can now
well understand why _you_ should wish to know something of a man whom
you ruined!"

"I ruined!" cried Mr. Greenwood, now excited for the first time since
the commencement of this dialogue, and speaking with an air of unfeigned
astonishment. "There must be some mistake in this! I never had any
dealings with him in my life, which could either cause his ruin or
establish his prosperity."

"You took very good care, it would appear, not to do the latter," said
the count. "But probably Mr. Markham's letter will explain to you that
which you appear to have forgotten."

Count Alteroni handed the letter to Mr. Greenwood, who perused its
contents with intense interest and anxiety.

The count, the countess, and the signora watched his countenance as he
read it. Proficient in the art of duplicity as he was,--skilled in all
the wiles of hypocrisy and deceit, he could not conceal his emotions
now. There was something in that letter which chased the colour from his
cheeks, and convulsed his whole frame with extreme agony.

"This is indeed singular!" he murmured, turning the letter over and over
in his hand. "Who would have suspected that Allen was merely an agent?
who could have foreseen _where that blow was to strike_?
Strange--unaccountable concatenation of unfortunate circumstances!"

"Is the writer of that letter correct in his statement?" demanded the
count imperiously.

"The information given to you by Mr. Markham, relative to the losses
experienced by a certain Mr. Allen, is correct," returned Mr. Greenwood,
apparently labouring under considerable excitement. "But, I take my God
to witness, that, until this moment, I was unaware that either Mr.
Monroe or Mr. Markham were in the remotest way connected with that
affair; and I also solemnly protest that I would have given worlds
sooner than have been the means of injuring either of them!"

"You admit, then, that you defrauded the people who at that time placed
their funds in your hands?" said the count.

"I admit nothing of the kind," returned the financier, now recovering
his presence of mind: "I admit nothing so base as your insinuation
implies."

"Then wherefore were you so agitated when you perused that letter from
Mr. Richard Markham?"

"Count Alteroni, I am not aware that I owe you any explanation of my own
private feelings. It is true, I _was_ agitated--and I am still deeply
grieved, to think that my want of judgment and foresight in a certain
speculation should have involved in ruin those whom I wish well! But I
suffered as well as they--I lost as many thousands as they did,"
continued Mr. Greenwood, passing once more into that system of
plausible, specious, and deceptive reasoning, which lulled so many
suspicions, and closed the eyes of so many persons with regard to his
real character: "and although I have done nothing for which I can be
blamed by the world, I may still reproach myself when I find that others
whom I care for have suffered by my speculations."

The count was staggered at this expression and honourable manifestation
of feeling on the part of one whom he had a few minutes ago begun to
look upon as a selfish adventurer, callous to all humane emotions and
philanthropic sentiments.

Mr. Greenwood continued:--

"When that unfortunate speculation of mine took place, I was not so
experienced in the sinuosities of the commercial and financial worlds as
I am now.--I lost my all, and poverty stared me in the face."

Mr. Greenwood's voice faltered, although he was now once more uttering a
tissue of falsehoods.

"But by dint of some good fortune and much hard toil and unwearied
application to business, I retrieved my circumstances. Now, answer me
candidly, Count Alteroni; is there any thing dishonourable in my career?
Will you judge a man upon an _ex-parte_ statement? Is not one story very
good until another be told? Why, if all persons viewed their affairs
constantly in the same light, would there be any business for the civil
tribunals? Do not plaintiff and defendant invariably survey the point at
issue between them under discrepant aspects? If they did not, wherefore
do they go to law? You may allow Mr. Markham and Mr. Monroe to entertain
their views; you will also permit me to enjoy mine?"

"Mr. Greenwood," said the count, "I am afraid I have been too
severe--nay, even rude in my observations. You will forgive me?"

"My dear sir, say not another word," ejaculated the financier, chuckling
inwardly at the triumphant victory which he had thus gained over the
suspicions of the Italian nobleman.

At that moment a servant entered the room, and informed Count Alteroni
"that the Earl of Warrington was in the drawing-room, and requested an
interview, at which his lordship would not detain the count above ten
minutes."

The count, having desired Mr. Greenwood not to depart until his return,
and apologising for his temporary absence, proceeded to the
drawing-room, where the Earl of Warrington awaited him.

The earl rose when the count entered the apartment; and that proud,
wealthy, and high-born English peer wore an air of profound respect and
deference, as he returned the salutation of the Italian exile.

"Your lordship," said the earl, "will, I hope, pardon this intrusion at
so unseemly an hour----"

"The Earl of Warrington is always welcome," interrupted Count Alteroni;
"and if I cannot give him so princely a reception in England as I was
proud to do in Italy, it is my means and not my will, which is the
cause."

"My lord, I beseech you not to allude to any discrepancy in that
respect--a discrepancy which I can regret for your lordship only, and
not for myself," said the earl. "Indeed, I am so far selfish on the
present occasion, that I am come to ask a favour."

[Illustration]

"Name the matter in which my poor services can avail your lordship,"
returned the count, "and I pledge myself in advance to meet your
wishes."

"My lord," said the Earl of Warrington, "I must inform your lordship
that I am somewhat interested in a cousin of mine of the name of Eliza
Sydney. This lady loved a man who was unworthy of her--a wretch whose
pursuits are villany, and who enriches himself at the expense of the
unwary and confiding. The heartless scoundrel to whom I allude, and the
full measure of whose infamy was only exposed to me this day, has
endeavoured to possess himself of the person of Eliza in a manner the
most atrocious and cowardly. My lord, he employed a confederate to
administer soporific drugs to her; but Providence moved that
confederate's heart, and frustrated the damnable scheme."

"And can such conduct go unpunished in this land of excellent laws and
unerring justice?" inquired the count.

"Ah! my lord," replied the earl, "this man is possessed of great wealth,
and consequently of great influence; for, in England, _money_ is
_power_! Moreover, the complete chain of evidence is wanting; and then
exposure to the female in such a case is almost equal to a stigma and to
shame! To continue my brief tale, my lord--this man, with a demon heart,
is one who will persecute my cousin Eliza to the very death. A lady of
my acquaintance, who can also tell a tale of the unequalled villany of
this George Montague Greenwood----"

"What!" ejaculated the count; "do I hear aright? or do my ears deceive
me? What name did you give the miscreant who administered opiate drugs
to a woman with the foulest of motives?"

"George Montague Greenwood," repeated the earl.

"O God!" ejaculated the count, sinking back in his chair, and covering
his face with his hands; "I thank thee that thou hast intervened, ere it
was too late, to prevent that fearful sacrifice of my daughter!"

"Pardon me, my lord," exclaimed the earl, "if I have awakened any
disagreeable reminiscences, or produced impressions----"

"Your lordship has done me an infinite service, in fully opening my eyes
to the villany of a man whose damnable sophistry glosses over his crimes
with so deceptive a varnish, that the sight is dazzled when
contemplating his conduct."

As the count uttered these words he wrung the hands of the English peer
with the most friendly and grateful warmth.

"Another time, my lord," continued the Italian noble, "I will explain to
you the cause of my present emotions. You will then perceive how
confirmed a miscreant is this Greenwood. In the meantime tell me how I
can aid your lordship?"

"I was about to inform you, my lord," continued the Earl of Warrington,
"that Miss Sydney, alarmed and appalled at the persecution of this man,
who seems to spare neither expense nor crime to accomplish any purpose
upon which he has once set his mind, has determined to sojourn for a
time upon the Continent. Your lordship is aware that I possess a humble
villa in the suburbs of Montoni----"

"A beautiful residence, on the contrary," said the count; "and where,"
he added with a sigh, "in happier times I have partaken of your
hospitality."

"Yes, your lordship has honoured me with your society at that retreat,"
said the earl, with a low and deferential bow. "It is to that villa that
I now propose to despatch my cousin, in order that she may escape the
persecutions and the plots of this vile Greenwood. The object of my
present visit is to solicit your lordship for a few letters of
introduction for Miss Sydney to some of those families in Montoni with
whom she may experience the charms of profitable and intellectual
society."

"With much pleasure," answered the count. "When does Miss Sydney propose
to leave England?"

"The day after to-morrow, my lord."

"To-morrow evening your lordship shall receive the letters which Miss
Sydney requires. They will of course be unsealed--both in observance of
the rules of etiquette, and on account of the custom-house officers in
the continental states; but your lordship will take care that they be
not opened in England."

"I comprehend you, my lord. The incognito which your lordship chooses to
preserve in this country shall not be disturbed by any indiscretion on
the part of myself or of those connected with me."

The Earl of Warrington then took his leave.

The moment he had departed, the count rang the bell, and said to the
servant who answered the summons, "Request Mr. Greenwood to favour me
with his company in this room--_here_!"

In another minute the financier was introduced into the saloon which the
count was pacing with uneven and agitated steps.

"Mr. Greenwood," said the Italian nobleman, "I think you recollect the
subject of our conversation when I was called away by the visit of the
Earl of Warrington?"

"Perfectly," answered the financier, who perceived that there was again
something wrong. "I remember that you made many accusations against me,
all of which I most satisfactorily explained--insomuch that you very
handsomely apologised for the severity of your language."

"Then, sir," continued the count, with difficulty restraining his
impatience while Mr. Greenwood thus delivered himself, "if you be really
such an honourable and such an injured man as you would represent, and
if you be really grieved when you hear that a fellow-creature has been
ruined by the failure of your speculations, have the kindness to return
me the money which I have confided to you, and I shall be inclined to
think of you as you choose to think of yourself. To tell the truth, I am
already sick of the uncertainty of speculation; and would rather
withdraw from the enterprise altogether."

"Really, my dear sir," said Mr. Greenwood, "this demand is so very
irregular--so exceedingly unbusiness-like----"

"We will not place it upon the footing of _business_, sir," interrupted
the count emphatically; "we will place it upon the basis of _honour_."

"Honour and business with me, my dear sir, are synonymous," said the
financier with a smile.

"So much the better!" ejaculated the count: "I see that we shall not
dispute over this matter. The whole is summed up in a few words: return
me the money I have placed in your hands."

"These things cannot be done in a hurry, my dear sir," said Mr.
Greenwood, playing with a very handsome gold guard-chain which festooned
over his waistcoat.

"Either you have made away with my money, or you have it in your
possession still," exclaimed the count. "If you have it, give me a
cheque upon your banker for the amount: if you have placed it out at
interest, give me security.

"I must observe to you that the whole proceeding is most irregular,"
said Mr. Greenwood: "and the business requires mature reflection.
Moreover, all my funds are locked up for the moment."

"Then how would you carry out the enterprise for which I embarked my
capital?" demanded the count.

"You must be aware," replied the financier, "that capitalists--like
me--always lay out their cash to the greatest advantage, and make use of
bills and negotiable paper of various descriptions. Thus, I could build
a dozen steam-packets in a few weeks, and pay for them all without
actually encroaching upon my capital!"

"I understand you, sir," said the count: "and in order to meet your
convenience, I am ready to receive the securities you mention, payable
at early dates, instead of specie."

"Oh! well--that alters the question," cried Mr. Greenwood, an idea
apparently striking him at that moment. "I am acquainted with one of the
richest bankers in London--intimately acquainted with him: would you
have any objection for him to take my place in respect to you, and
become the holder of your capital--say for a period of six months?"

"Who is the banker?" asked the count.

"James Tomlinson," answered the financier.

"I know the name well. Are you serious in your proposal?"

"Call upon me to-morrow at twelve o'clock, and we will proceed together
to Mr. Tomlinson's banking house in the City. I will have the whole
affair arranged for you in the course of an hour after our arrival at
his establishment."

"I rely upon your word, Mr. Greenwood," returned the count.

The financier then took his departure.




CHAPTER LIV.

THE BANKER.


The native of London is as proud of the City as if it were his own
property. He can afford to be called a cockney for having been born
within the sound of Bow bells, for there are merchant-princes, and the
peers and monopolists of the commerce of this world, who bear the
nickname as well as he.

And well may the Londoner be proud of his city in numerous respects. It
is the richest and the most powerful that the world has ever seen! The
dingy back parlours in Lombard Street, the upstairs business rooms in
Cheapside, and the warehouses with shutters half up the windows in Wood
Street and its neighbourhood, are the mysterious places in which the
springs of the finance and trade of a mighty empire are set in motion?
Half a dozen men in the City can command in an hour more wealth than
either Rome or Babylon had to boast of at the respective periods of
their greatest prosperity. And neither Rome nor Babylon possessed
drapers who cleared their fifty thousand a-year by selling gowns and
shawls, nor sugar-bakers with a million in hard cash, nor grocers with a
plum in each hand, nor brewers to whom the rise or fall of one halfpenny
per pot in the price of beer makes a difference of forty thousand pounds
_per annum_! Rome, Babylon, Thebes, and Carthage, could all have been
purchased by the East India Company--with perhaps a mortgage upon the
India Docks!

But the reader must not imagine that all which glitters is gold. Amongst
the most splendid establishments in London, and those most wealthy in
appearance, there are some in a hopeless state of insolvency. To one of
these we shall now introduce those who may choose to accompany us
thither.

The well-known banking-house of James Tomlinson was situated in Lombard
Street. The establishment was not extensive; nor were there a great many
clerks, because it did little agency business for country banks, but was
chiefly a house of deposit. It enjoyed a high reputation, and was
considered as safe as the presumed wealth, integrity, and experience of
its proprietor were likely to render it. It was moreover believed that
the father of James Tomlinson was a sleeping partner; and as the old
gentleman had retired from the business of oilman with an immense
fortune, the bank was presumed to possess every guarantee of stability.
It had existed for upwards of sixty years, having been founded and most
successfully carried on by an uncle of James Tomlinson. James himself
had originally entered the establishment as a clerk, whence he rose to
be a partner, and finally found himself at the head of the concern at
his uncle's death.

James Tomlinson was not an extravagant man; but he was not possessed of
the ability and experience for which the world gave him credit. In the
year 1826, and at the age of forty, he found himself at the head of a
flourishing and respectable establishment. He was indeed the sole
proprietor, for his father was in reality totally unconnected with it as
a partner. James was intimately acquainted with the mechanical routine
of the bank business; but he was deficient in those powers of
combination and faculties of foresight which were necessary to enable
him to lay out to the best advantage the moneys deposited in his hands.
With good intentions, he lacked talent. He was an excellent head clerk
or junior partner; but he was totally unfitted for supreme management.
Thus was it that in two or three years he experienced serious reverses;
and, although he carefully concealed the failure of his operations from
all human eyes, the very safety of his establishment was seriously
compromised. The French Revolution of 1830 ruined a Paris house to which
Tomlinson had advanced a considerable sum; and this blow consummated the
insolvency of his bank.

He was then compelled to make a confidant of his cashier, an old and
faithful servant of his uncle, and of frugal habits, and kind but
eccentric disposition. Michael Martin was this individual's name. He was
of very repulsive appearance, stooping in his gait, blear-eyed, and
dirty in person. He took vast quantities of snuff; but as much lodged
upon his shirt-frill and waistcoat as was thrust up his nose. Thus his
linen was invariably filthy in the extreme. His dress was a suit of
seedy black; and the right thigh of his trousers was brown and grimy
with the marks of snuff--for upon that part of his attire did he
invariably wipe his finger and thumb after taking a pinch of his brown
rappee.

Such was the individual whom Tomlinson took into his confidence, when
the affairs of the bank grew desperate. Old Martin was as close and
reserved as if he were both deaf and dumb; and he was moreover possessed
of a peculiar craftiness and cunning which admirably fitted him for the
part that he was now to enact. Although it was next to impossible to
retrieve the affairs of the bank, so great was the deficiency,--still
Michael Martin assured his master that it was quite probable that they
might be enabled to carry on the establishment for a length of
time--perhaps even many years, the chances that the draughts upon the
bank would not equal the deposits being in their favour.

Thus was this insolvent and ruined establishment carried on, with
seeming respectability and success, by the perseverance of Tomlinson,
and the skill and craft of old Martin.

We shall now introduce our readers into the parlour of the bank, at ten
o'clock in the morning after the incidents related in the preceding
chapter.

James Tomlinson had just arrived, and was standing before the fire,
glancing over the City Article of _The Times_. He was a fine, tall,
good-looking man, plainly dressed, and without the slightest affectation
either in manner or attire. The bluntness and apparent straightforwardness
of his character had won and secured him many friends amongst a class of
men who regard frankness of disposition and plainness of demeanour as
qualities indicative of solidity of position and regular habits of
business. Then he was always at his post--always to be seen; and hence
unlimited confidence was placed in him!

Having glanced over the newspaper which he held in his hand, he rang the
bell. A clerk responded to the summons.

"Is Mr. Martin come yet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell him to step this way."

The clerk withdrew; and the old cashier entered the room, the door of
which he carefully closed.

"Good morning, Michael," said the banker. "What news?"

"Worse and worse," answered the old man, with a species of savage grunt.
"We have had a sad time of it for the last three months."

"For the last seven or eight years, you may say," observed Tomlinson,
with a sigh; and then his countenance suddenly wore an expression of
ineffable despair--as evanescent as it was poignant.

"At first the work was easy enough," said Michael: "a little combination
and tact enabled us to struggle on; but latterly the concern has fallen
into so desperate a condition, that I really fear when I come in the
morning that it will never last through the day."

"My God! my God! what a life!" exclaimed Tomlinson. "And there are
hundreds and thousands who pass up the street every day, and who say
within themselves. '_How I wish I was James Tomlinson!_' Heavens! I
would that I were a beggar in the street--a sweeper of a crossing--a
pauper in a workhouse----"

"Come--this is folly," interrupted the old cashier impatiently. "We must
go on to the end."

"What is the state of your book this morning?" demanded the banker,
putting the question with evident alarm--almost amounting to horror.

"Three thousand four hundred pounds, eighteen shillings, in
specie--sixteen hundred and thirty-five in notes," answered the cashier.

"Is that all!" ejaculated Tomlinson. "And this morning we have to pay
Greenwood the two thousand pounds he lent me six weeks ago."

"We can't part with the money," said the cashier rudely. "Greenwood
knows the circumstances of the bank, and must give time."

"You know what Greenwood is, Michael," exclaimed the banker. "If we are
not punctual with him, he will never lend us another shilling and what
should we have done without him on several occasions?"

"I know all that. But look at the interest be makes you pay," muttered
the cashier.

"And look at the risk he runs," added the banker.

"He finds it worth his while. I calculated the other day that we paid
him three thousand pounds last year for interest only: we can't go on
much longer at that rate."

"I had almost said that the sooner it ends the better," cried Tomlinson.
"What low trickery--what meanness--what abominable craft, have we been
compelled to resort to! Oh! if that affair with the Treasury three years
ago had only turned up well--if we could have secured the operation, we
should have retrieved all our losses, enormous as they are--we should
have built up the fortunes of the establishment upon a more solid
foundation than ever."

"That was indeed a misfortune," observed the cashier, taking a huge
pinch of snuff.

"And how the Chancellor of the Exchequer obtained his information about
me--at the eleventh hour--after all previous inquiries were known to be
satisfactory," continued Tomlinson, "I never could conjecture. At that
time the secret was confined to you and me, and my father, to whom I
communicated it, you remember, in that letter which I wrote to him
soliciting the fifty thousand pounds."

"Which sum saved the bank at that period," observed Michael.

"Never shall I forget the day when I called at the Treasury for the
decision of the government relative to my proposal," returned Tomlinson.
"The functionary who received me, said in so pointed a manner, '_Mr.
Tomlinson, you have not dealt candidly with us relative to your true
position; your secret is known to us; but rest assured that, although we
decline any negotiation with you, we will not betray you._' This
announcement came upon me like a thunder-stroke: I was literally
paralysed. The functionary added with a sort of triumphant and yet
mysterious smile, '_There is not a secret connected with the true
position of any individual of any consequence in the City which escapes
our knowledge. The government, sir, is omniscient!_' God alone can
divine the sources of this intimate acquaintance with things locked up,
as it were, in one's own bosom!" added the banker, thoughtfully.

"And this is not the only case in which such secrets have been discovered
by the government," said the old cashier, again regaling his nose with a
copious pinch of snuff.

"Yes, I myself have heard of other instances," observed the banker, with
a shudder. "I have known great firms expend large sums of money to
obtain particular information from Paris, Frankfort, and Madrid, by
means of couriers; and this information has been despatched by letter to
their agents at Liverpool and Manchester, and elsewhere, to answer
certain commercial or financial purposes. Well, that information has
been known to government within a few hours, and the government broker
has bought or sold stock accordingly!"

"But how _could_ the government obtain that information?" demanded
Martin. "Some treachery----"

"No--impossible! The government has gleaned its knowledge when every
human precaution against treachery and fraud was adopted. Look at my own
case!" continued Tomlinson. "You, my father, and myself alone, knew _my_
secret. On you I can reckon as a man can reckon upon his own self: my
father was incapable of betraying me; and I of course should not have
divulged my own ruin. And yet the secret became known to the government.
I shudder, Michael--oh! I shudder when I think that we dwell in a
country which vaunts its freedom, yet where there exists the secret,
dark, and mysterious element of the most hideous despotism!"

At this moment a clerk entered, and informed the cashier that he was
wanted in the public office.

As soon as Michael had disappeared, the banker walked up and down his
parlour, a prey to the most maddening reflections. There were but five
thousand pounds left in the safe; two thousand were to be paid to
Greenwood; and every minute a cheque, or two or three cheques might be
presented, which would crush the bank at one blow.

"One hundred and eighty thousand pounds of liability," murmured
Tomlinson to himself, "and five thousand pounds to meet it!"

Ah! little thought those who passed by the banking-house at that moment,
what heart-felt, horrible tortures were endured by the master of the
establishment in his own parlour!

At length Martin returned.

His countenance never revealed any emotions; but he took snuff
wholesale--and that was a fearful omen.

"Well?" said Tomlinson, in a hoarse and hollow voice.

"Alderman Phipps just drawn for twelve hundred pounds, and Colonel Brown
for eight hundred," replied the cashier.

"Two thousand gone in a minute!" ejaculated the banker.

"Shall I pay any more?" asked the cashier.

"Yes--pay, pay up to the last farthing!" answered Tomlinson. "An
accident--a chance may save us, as oftentimes before! And yet methinks,
Michael, that we never stood so near the verge of ruin as we do to-day."

"Never," said the old man coldly.

"And is there no expedient by which we can raise a few thousands, or
even a few hundreds, for immediate wants?"

"None that I know of," returned Martin, taking more snuff.

At that moment Mr. Greenwood was announced, and Michael withdrew from
the parlour.

"You have called for your two thousand pounds?" said the banker, after
the usual interchange of civilities.

"Yes: I require that sum particularly this morning," replied the
financier; "for I am pledged to pay fifteen thousand at twelve o'clock
to Count Alteroni."

"This is very unfortunate," observed Tomlinson. "I am literally in this
position--take the money, and I must stop payment the next moment."

"That is disagreeable, no doubt," said Greenwood; "but the count is
urgent, and I cannot put him off."

"My God!" cried Tomlinson; "what can I do? Greenwood--my good friend--I
know you are rich--I know you can raise any amount you choose: pray do
not push me this morning."

"What am I to do, my dear fellow?" said the financier: "I must satisfy
this count--and I really cannot manage without the two thousand. I could
let you have them again in a fortnight."

"A fortnight!" ejaculated the banker, clenching his fists; "to-morrow it
might be too late. Can you suggest no plan? can you devise no scheme?
Let me keep these two thousand pounds for six weeks longer--a month
longer; and ask me--ask me what you will! I am desperate--I will do any
thing you bid me!"

"Tell me how I can satisfy this ravenous Italian," said Greenwood, "and
I will let you keep the money for six months."

"You say you have to settle with this count for fifteen thousand
pounds?" inquired the banker.

Greenwood nodded an affirmative.

"And does he require it all in hard cash?"

"No--he will take the security of any responsible person, or apparently
responsible person," added the financier, with a significant smile,
"payable in six months."

Tomlinson appeared to reflect profoundly.

His reverie was interrupted by the entrance of old Martin, taking snuff
more vehemently than ever.

The cashier whispered something in the banker's ear, and then again
retired.

"Seven hundred and fifty more gone!" cried Tomlinson: "and now,
Greenwood, there remains in the safe but a fraction more than your two
thousand pounds. Dictate your own terms!"

This was precisely the point to which the financier was anxious to
arrive.

"Listen," he said, playing with his watch-chain. "This Count Alteroni
will accept of you as his debtor instead of me. Take the responsibility
off me on to your own shoulders, and I make you a present of the two
thousand pounds!"

"What!" ejaculated Tomlinson; "incur a liability of fifteen thousand to
this count! Greenwood, you never can be serious?"

"I never was more serious in my life," returned the financier coolly.
"If you fail before the six months have elapsed, fifteen thousand more
or less on your books will be nothing: if you contrive to carry on the
establishment until the expiration of that period, I will help you out
of the dilemma."

"You are not reasonable--you are anxious to crush me at once!" cried
Tomlinson. "Well, be it so, Mr. Greenwood! Take your two thousand
pounds----"

"And leave you to put up a notice on your doors--eh?" said Greenwood,
still playing with his watch-chain.

"Ah! my God--has it come to this?" exclaimed the banker.
"Ruin--disgrace--and beggary, all in one day! But better that than
submit to such terms those which you dictate."

With these words he rang the bell violently.

Old Martin immediately made his appearance.

"Mr. Martin," said Tomlinson, affecting a calmness which he was far from
feeling, "bring two thousand pounds for Mr. Greenwood."

"It can't be done," growled Michael, taking a huge pinch of snuff.

"Can't be done?" ejaculated the banker.

"No," answered the old man, doggedly: "just paid away four hundred and
sixty-five more. There is'nt two thousand in the safe."

Tomlinson walked once up the room; then, turning to Greenwood, he said,
"I will accept your proposal. Mr. Martin," he added, addressing the
cashier, "you can retire: I will settle this matter with Mr. Greenwood."

The old man withdrew.

"When, where, and how is this business to be arranged?" demanded
Tomlinson, after a short pause.

"The count is to call at my house at twelve. I have left a note to
request him to come on hither."

"You had, then, already arranged this matter in your mind?" said the
banker, ironically.

"Certainly," answered Greenwood, with his usual coolness. "I knew you
would relieve me of this obligation; because I shall be enabled in
return to afford you that assistance of which you stand so much in
need."

"I must throw myself upon your generosity," said Tomlinson. "It is now
twelve: the count will soon be here."

Half an hour passed away; and the Italian nobleman made his appearance.

"You see that I have kept my word, count," exclaimed Mr. Greenwood, with
an ironical smile of triumph. "Mr. Tomlinson holds in his hands certain
funds of mine, which, according to the terms of agreement between us, he
is to retain in his possession and use for a period of six months and
six days from the present day, at an interest of four per cent. If you,
Count Alteroni, be willing to accept a transfer of fifteen thousand
pounds of such funds in Mr. Tomlinson's hands from my name to your own,
the bargain can be completed this moment."

"I cannot hesitate, Mr. Greenwood," said the count, "to accept a
guarantee of such known stability at the name of Mr. Tomlinson."

"Then all that remains to be done," exclaimed the financier, "is for you
to return me my acknowledgment for the amount specified, and for Mr.
Tomlinson to give you his in its place. Mr. Tomlinson has already
received my written authority for the transfer."

The business was settled as Mr. Greenwood proposed. The count returned
the financier his receipt, and accepted one from the banker.

"Now, that this is concluded, count," said Mr. Greenwood, placing the
receipt in his pocket-book, "I hope that our friendship will continue
uninterrupted."

"Pardon me, sir," returned the count, his features assuming a stern
expression: "although I am bound to admit that you have not wronged me
in respect to money, you have dared to talk to me of my daughter, who is
innocence and purity itself."

"Count Alteroni," began Mr. Greenwood, "I am not aware----"

"Silence, sir!" cried the Italian noble, imperatively: "I have but one
word more to say. Circumstances have revealed to me your profligate
character; and never can I be too thankful that my daughter should have
escaped an alliance with a man who bribes his agents to administer
opiate drugs to an unprotected female for the vilest of purposes. Mr.
Tomlinson," added the count, "pardon me for having used such language
in your apartment, and in your presence."

Count Alteroni bowed politely to the banker, and, darting a withering
glance of mingled contempt and indignation upon the abashed and
astounded Greenwood, took his departure.

"He talks of things which are quite new to me," said Greenwood,
recovering an outward appearance of composure, though inwardly he was
chagrined beyond description.

Tomlinson made no reply: he was too much occupied with his own affairs
to be able to afford attention to those of others.

Greenwood shortly took his leave--delighted at having effectually
settled his pecuniary obligation with the count, in such a manner that
it could never again be the means of molestation in respect to
himself,--but vexed at the discovery which the Italian nobleman had
evidently made in respect to his conduct towards Eliza Sydney.

Immediately after Mr. Greenwood had left the bank-parlour, old Michael
entered. This time he carried his snuff-box open in his left hand; and
at every two paces he took a copious pinch with the fore-finger and
thumb of his right. This was a fearful omen; and Tomlinson trembled.

"Well, Michael--well?"

"Not a deposit this morning. Draughts come in like wild-fire," said the
old cashier. "There is but a hundred pounds left in the safe!"

"A hundred pounds!" ejaculated the banker, clasping his hands together:
"and is it come to this at length, Michael?"

"Yes," said the cashier, gruffly.

"Then let us post a notice at once," cried Tomlinson: "the establishment
must be closed without another moment's delay."

"Will you write out the notice of stoppage of payment, or shall I?"
inquired Michael.

"Do it yourself, my good old friend--do it for me!" said the banker,
whose countenance was ashy pale, and whose limbs trembled under him, as
if he expected the officers of justice to drag him to a place of
execution.

The old cashier seated himself at the table, and wrote out the
announcement that the bank was unfortunately compelled to suspend its
payments. He then read it to the ruined man who was now pacing the
apartment with agitated steps.

"Will that do?"

"Yes," answered the banker; "but, in mercy, let me leave the house ere
that notice be made public."

Tomlinson was about to rush distractedly out of the room, when the
cashier was summoned into the public department of the establishment.

Five minutes elapsed ere his return--five minutes which appeared five
hours to James Tomlinson.

At length the old man came back; and this time he did not carry his
snuff-box in his hand.

Without uttering a word, he took the "notice of stoppage" off the table,
crushed it in his hand, and threw it into the fire.

"Saved once more," he murmured, as he watched the paper burning to
tinder; and when it was completely consumed, he took a long and hearty
pinch of snuff.

"Saved!" echoed Tomlinson: "do you mean that we are saved again?"

"Seven thousand four hundred and sixty-seven pounds just paid in to
Dobson and Dobbins's account," answered the cashier, coolly and
leisurely, as if he himself experienced not the slightest emotion.

In another hour there were fifteen thousand pounds in the safe; and when
the bank closed that evening at the usual time, this sum had swollen up
to twenty thousand and some hundreds.

This day was a specimen of the life of James Tomlinson, the banker.

Readers, when you pass by the grand commercial and financial
establishments of this great metropolis, pause and reflect ere you envy
their proprietors! In the parlours and offices of those reputed
emporiums of wealth are men whose minds are a prey to the most agonising
feelings--the most poignant emotions.

There is no situation so full of responsibility as that of a banker--no
trust so sacred as that which is confided to him. When he fails, it is
not the ruin of one man which is accomplished: it is the ruin of
hundreds--perhaps thousands. The effects of that one failure are
ramified through a wide section of society: widows and orphans are
reduced to beggary--and those who have been well and tenderly nurtured
are driven to the workhouse.

And yet the law punishes not the great banker who fails, and who
involves thousands in his ruin. The petty trader who breaks for fifty
pounds is thrown into prison, and is placed at the tender mercy of the
Insolvents' Court, which perhaps remands him to a debtor's gaol for a
year, for having contracted debts without a reasonable chance of paying
them. But the great banker, who commenced business with a hundred
thousand pounds, and who has dissipated five hundred thousand belonging
to others, applies to the Bankruptcy Court, never sees the inside of a
prison at all, and in due time receives a certificate, which clears him
of all his liabilities, and enables him to begin the world anew. The
petty trader passes a weary time in gaol, and is then merely emancipated
from his confinement--but not from his debts. His future exertions are
clogged by an impending weight of liability. One system or the other is
wrong:--decide, O ye legislators who vaunt "the wisdom of your
ancestors," which should be retained, and which abolished,--or whether
both should be modified!

       *       *       *       *       *

In the course of the evening the Earl of Warrington called upon Mrs.
Arlington, with whom he passed a few minutes alone in the drawing-room.

When his lordship had taken his departure, Diana returned to Eliza whom
she had left in another apartment, and, placing a quantity of letters,
folded, but unsealed, in her hands, said, "These are the means of
introduction to some of the first families in Montoni. They are written,
I am informed, by an Italian nobleman of great influence, and whose name
will act like a talisman in your behalf. They are sent unsealed
according to usage; but the earl has earnestly and positively desired
that their contents be not examined in this country. He gave this
injunction very seriously," added Diana, with a smile, "doubtless
because he supposed that he has to deal with two daughters of Eve whose
curiosity is invincible. He, however, charged me to deliver this message
to you as delicately us possible."

"These letters," answered Eliza, glancing over their superscriptions,
"are addressed to strangers and not to me; and although I know that they
refer to me, I should not think of penetrating into their contents,
either in England or elsewhere. But did you express to the earl all the
gratitude that I feel for his numerous and signal deeds of kindness?"

"The earl is well aware of your grateful feelings," replied Mrs.
Arlington. "Can you suppose that I would forget to paint all you
experience for what he has already done, and what he will still do for
you? He will see you for a moment ere your departure to-morrow, to bid
you farewell."

"I appreciate that act of condescension on his part," observed Eliza,
affected even to tears, "more than all else that he has ever yet done
for me!"

       *       *       *       *       *

On the following day Eliza Sydney, accompanied by the faithful Louisa,
and attended by an elderly valet who had been for years in the service
of the Earl of Warrington, took her departure from London, on her way to
the Grand Duchy of Castelcicala.




CHAPTER LV.

MISERRIMA!!!


We now come to a sad episode in our history--and yet one in which there
is perhaps less romance and more truth than in any scene yet depicted.

We have already warned our reader that he will have to accompany us
amidst appalling scenes of vice and wretchedness:--we are now about to
introduce him to one of destitution and suffering--of powerful struggle
and unavailing toil--whose details are so very sad, that we have been
able to find no better heading for our chapter than _miserrima_, or
"very miserable things."

The reader will remember that we have brought our narrative, in
preceding chapters, up to the end of 1838:--we must now go back for a
period of two years, in order to commence the harrowing details of our
present episode.

In one of the low dark rooms of a gloomy house in a court leading out of
Golden Lane, St. Luke's, a young girl of seventeen sate at work. It was
about nine o'clock in the evening; and a single candle lighted the
miserable chamber, which was almost completely denuded of furniture. The
cold wind of December whistled through the ill-closed casement and the
broken panes, over which thin paper had been pasted to repel the biting
chill. A small deal table, two common chairs, and a mattress were all
the articles of furniture which this wretched room contained. A door at
the end opposite the window opened into another and smaller chamber: and
this latter one was furnished with nothing, save an old mattress. There
were no blankets--no coverlids in either room. The occupants had no
other covering at night than their own clothes;--and those clothes--God
knows they were thin, worn, and scanty enough!

Not a spark of fire burned in the grate;--and yet that front room in
which the young girl was seated was as cold as the nave of a vast
cathedral in the depth of winter.

The reader has perhaps experienced that icy chill which seems to strike
to the very marrow of the bones, when entering a huge stone
edifice:--the cold which prevailed in that room, and in which the young
creature was at work with her needle, was more intense--more
penetrating--more bitter--more frost-like than even that icy chill!

Miserable and cheerless was that chamber: the dull light of the candle
only served to render its nakedness the more apparent, without relieving
it of any of its gloom. And as the cold draught from the wretched
casement caused the flame of that candle to flicker and oscillate, the
poor girl was compelled to seat herself between the window and the
table, to protect her light from the wind. Thus, the chilling December
blast blew upon the back of the young sempstress, whose clothing was so
thin and scant--so very scant!

The sempstress was, as we have before said, about seventeen years of
age. She was very beautiful; and her features, although pale with want,
and wan with care and long vigils, were pleasing and agreeable. The cast
of her countenance was purely Grecian--the shape of her head eminently
classical--and her form was of a perfect and symmetrical mould. Although
clothed in the most scanty and wretched manner, she was singularly neat
and clean in her appearance; and her air and demeanour were far above
her humble occupation and her impoverished condition.

She had, indeed, seen better days! Reared in the lap of luxury by fond,
but too indulgent parents, her education had been of a high order; and
thus her qualifications were rather calculated to embellish her in
prosperity than to prove of use to her in adversity. She had lost her
mother at the age of twelve; and her father--kind and fond, and proud of
his only child--had sought to make her shine in that sphere which she
had then appeared destined to adorn. But misfortunes came upon them like
a thunderbolt: and when poverty--grim poverty stared them in the
face--this poor girl had no resource, save her needle! Now and then her
father earned a trifle in the City, by making out accounts or copying
deeds;--but sorrow and ill-health had almost entirely incapacitated him
from labour or occupation of any kind;--and his young and affectionate
daughter was compelled to toil from sun-rise until a late hour in the
night to earn even a pittance.

One after another, all their little comforts, in the shape of furniture
and clothing, disappeared; and after vainly endeavouring to maintain a
humble lodging in a cheap but respectable neighbourhood, poverty
compelled them to take refuge in that dark, narrow, filthy court leading
out of Golden Lane.

Such was the sad fate of Mr. Monroe and his daughter Ellen.

At the time when we introduce the latter to our readers, her father was
absent in the City. He had a little occupation in a counting house,
which was to last three days, which kept him hard at work from nine in
the morning till eleven at night, and for which he was to receive a
pittance so small we dare not mention its amount! This is how it
was:--an official assignee belonging to the Bankruptcy Court had some
heavy accounts to make up by a certain day: he was consequently
compelled to employ an accountant to aid him; the accountant employed a
petty scrivener to make out the balance-sheet; and the petty scrivener
employed Monroe to ease him of a portion of the toil. It is therefore
plain that Monroe was not to receive much for his three days' labour.

And so Ellen was compelled to toil and work, and work and toil--to rise
early, and go to bed late--so late that she had scarcely fallen asleep,
worn out with fatigue, when it appeared time to get up again;--and thus
the roses forsook her cheeks--and her health suffered--and her head
ached--and her eyes grew dim--and her limbs were stiff with the chill!

And so she worked and tolled, and toiled and worked.

We said it was about nine o'clock in the evening.

Ellen's fingers were almost paralysed with cold and labour; and yet the
work which she had in her hands must be done that night; else no supper
then--and no breakfast on the morrow; for on the shelf in that
cheerless chamber there was not a morsel of bread!

And for sixteen hours had that poor girl fasted already; for she had
eaten a crust at five in the morning, when she had risen from her hard
cold couch in the back chamber. She had left the larger portion of the
bread that then remained, for her father; and she had assured him that
she had a few halfpence to purchase more for herself--but she had
therein deceived him! Ah! how noble and generous was that
deception;--and how often--how very often did that poor girl practise
it!

Ellen had risen at five that morning to embroider a silk shawl with
eighty flowers. She had calculated upon finishing it by eight in the
evening; but, although she had worked, and worked, and worked hour after
hour, without ceasing, save for a moment at long intervals to rest her
aching head and stretch her cramped fingers, eight had struck--and nine
had struck also--and still the blossoms were not all embroidered.

It was a quarter to ten when the last stitch was put into the last
flower.

But then the poor creature could not rest:--not to her was it allowed to
repose after that severe day of toil! She was hungry--she was faint--her
stomach was sick for want of food; and at eleven her father would come
home, hungry, faint, and sick at stomach also!

Rising from her chair--every limb stiff, cramped, and aching with cold
and weariness--the poor creature put on her modest straw bonnet with a
faded riband, and her thin wretched shawl, to take home her work.

Her employer dwelt upon Finsbury Pavement; and as it was now late, the
poor girl was compelled to hasten as fast as her aching limbs would
carry her.

The shop to which she repaired was brilliant with lamps and gas-lights.
Articles of great variety and large value were piled in the windows, on
the counters, on the shelves. Upwards of twenty young men were busily
employed in serving the customers. The proprietor of that establishment
was at that moment entertaining a party of friends up stairs, at a
champagne supper!

The young girl walked timidly into the vast magazine of fashions, and,
with downcast eyes, advanced towards an elderly woman who was sitting at
a counter at the farther end of the shop. To this female did she present
the shawl.

"A pretty time of night to come!" murmured the shopwoman. "This ought to
have been done by three or four o'clock."

"I have worked since five this morning, without ceasing," answered
Ellen; "and I could not finish it before."

"Ah! I see," exclaimed the shopwoman, turning the shawl over, and
examining it critically; "there are fifty or sixty flowers, I see."

"Eighty," said Ellen; "I was ordered to embroider that number."

"Well, Miss--and is there so much difference between sixty and eighty?"

"Difference, ma'am!" ejaculated the young girl, the tears starting into
her eyes; "the difference is more than four hours' work!"

"Very likely, very likely, Miss. And how much do you expect for this?"

"I must leave it entirely to you, ma'am."

The poor girl spoke deferentially to this cold-hearted woman, in order
to make her generous. Oh! poverty renders even the innocence of
seventeen selfish, mundane, and calculating!

"Oh! you leave it to me, do you?" said the woman, turning the shawl over
and over, and scrutinising it in all points; but she could not discover
a single fault in Ellen's work. "You leave it to me? Well, it isn't so
badly done--very tolerably for a girl of your age and inexperience! I
presume," she added, thrusting her hand into the till under the counter,
and drawing forth sixpence, "I presume that this is sufficient."

"Madam," said Ellen, bursting into tears, "I have worked nearly
seventeen hours at that shawl--"

She could say no more: her voice was lost in sobs.

"Come, come," cried the shopwoman harshly, "no whimpering here! Take up
your money, if you like it--and if you don't, leave it. Only decide one
way or another, and make haste!"

Ellen took up the sixpence, wiped her eyes, and hastily turned to leave
the shop.

"Do you not want any more work?" demanded the shopwoman abruptly.

The fact was that the poor girl worked well, and did not "shirk" labour;
and the woman knew that it was the interest of her master to retain that
young creature's services.

Those words, "Do you not want any more work?" reminded Ellen that she
and her father must live--that they could not starve! She accordingly
turned towards that uncouth female once more, and received another
shawl, to embroider in the same manner, and at the same price!

Eighty blossoms for sixpence!

Sixteen hours' work for sixpence!!

A farthing and a half per hour!!!

The young girl returned to the dirty court in Golden Lane, after
purchasing some food, coarse and cheap, on her way home.

On the ground-floor of a house in the same court dwelt an old woman--one
of those old women who are the moral sewers of great towns--the sinks
towards which flow all the impurities of the human passions. One of
those abominable hags was she who dishonour the sanctity of old age. She
had hideous wrinkles upon her face; and as she stretched out her huge,
dry, and bony hand, and tapped the young girl upon the shoulder, as the
latter hurried past her door, the very touch seemed to chill the maiden
even through her clothes.

Ellen turned abruptly round, and shuddered--she scarcely knew why--when
she found herself confronting that old hag by the dim lustre of the
lights which shone through the windows in the narrow court.

That old woman, who was the widow of crime, assumed as pleasant an
aspect as her horrible countenance would allow her to put on, and
addressed the timid maiden in a strain which the latter scarcely
comprehended. All that Ellen could understand was that the old woman
suspected how hardly she toiled and how badly she was paid, and offered
to point out a more pleasant and profitable mode of earning money.

Without precisely knowing why, Ellen shrank from the contact of that
hideous old hag, and trembled at the words which issued from the crone's
mouth.

"You do not answer me," said the wretch. "Well, well; when you have no
bread to eat--no work--no money to pay your rent--and nothing but the
workhouse before you, you will think better of it and come to me."

Thus saying, the old hag turned abruptly into her own den, the door of
which she banged violently.

With her heart fluttering like a little bird in its cage, poor Ellen
hastened to her own miserable abode.

[Illustration]

She placed the food upon the table, but would not touch it until her
father should return. She longed for a spark of fire, for she was so
cold and so wretched--and even in warm weather misery makes one shiver!
But that room was as cold as an ice-house--and the unhappiness of that
poor girl was a burden almost too heavy for her to bear.

She sate down, and thought. Oh! how poignant is meditation in such a
condition as hers. Her prospects were utterly black and hopeless.

When she and her father had first taken those lodgings, she had obtained
work from a "middle-woman." This middle-woman was one who contracted
with great drapery and upholstery firms to do their needle-work at
certain low rates. The middle-woman had to live, and was therefore
compelled to make a decent profit upon the work. So she gave it out to
poor creatures like Ellen Monroe, and got it done for next to nothing.

Thus for some weeks had Ellen made shirts--with the collars, wristbands,
and fronts all well stitched--for four-pence the shirt.

And it took her twelve hours, without intermission, to make a shirt: and
it cost her a penny for needles, and thread, and candle.

She therefore had three-pence for herself!

Twelve hours' unwearied toil for three-pence!!

One farthing an hour!!!

Sometimes she had made dissecting-trousers, which were sold to the
medical students at the hospitals; and for those she was paid two-pence
halfpenny each.

It occupied her eight hours to make one pair of those trousers!

At length the middle-woman had recommended her to the linen-draper's
establishment on Finsbury Pavement; and there she was told that she
might have plenty of work, and be well paid.

Well paid!

At the rate of a farthing and a half per hour!!

Oh! it was a mockery--a hideous mockery, to give that young creature gay
flowers and blossoms to work--she, who was working her own
winding-sheet!

She sate, shivering with the cold, awaiting her father's return. Ever
and anon the words of that old crone who had addressed her in the court,
rang in her ears. What could she mean? How could she--stern in her own
wretchedness herself, and perhaps stern to the wretchedness of
others--how could that old hag possess the means of teaching her a
pleasant and profitable mode of earning money? The soul of Ellen was
purity itself--although she dwelt in that low, obscene, filthy, and
disreputable neighbourhood. She seemed like a solitary lily in the midst
of a black morass swarming with reptiles!

The words of the old woman were therefore unintelligible to that fair
young creature of seventeen:--and yet she intuitively reproached herself
for pondering upon them. Oh! mysterious influence of an all-wise and
all-seeing Providence, that thus furnishes warnings against dangers yet
unseen!

She tried to avert her thoughts from the contemplation of her own
misery, and of the tempting offer made to her by the wrinkled harridan
in the adjoining house; and so she busied herself with thinking of the
condition of the other lodgers in the same tenement which she and her
father inhabited. She then perceived that there were others in the world
as wretched and as badly off as herself; but, in contradiction to the
detestable maxim of Rochefoucauld--she found no consolation in this
conviction.

In the attics were Irish families, whose children ran all day, half
naked, about the court and lane, paddling with their poor cold bare feet
in the puddle or the snow, and apparently thriving in dirt, hunger, and
privation. Ellen and her father occupied the two rooms on the second
floor. On the first floor, in the front room, lived two families--an
elderly man and woman, with their grown-up sons and daughters; and with
one of those sons were a wife and young children. Eleven souls thus
herded together, without shame, in a room eighteen feet wide! These
eleven human beings, dwelling in so swine-like a manner, existed upon
twenty-five shillings a week, the joint earnings of all of them who were
able to work. In the back chamber on the same floor was a tailor, with a
paralytic wife and a complete tribe of children. This poor wretch worked
for a celebrated "Clothing Mart," and sometimes toiled for twenty hours
a-day--never less than seventeen, Sunday included--to earn--what?

Eight shillings a week.

He made mackintoshes at the rate of one shilling and three-pence each;
and he could make one each day. But then he had to find needles and
thread; and the cost of these, together with candles, amounted to
nine-pence a week.

He thus had eight shillings remaining for himself, after working like a
slave, without recreation or rest, even upon the sabbath, seventeen
hours every day.

A week contains a hundred and sixty-eight hours.

And he worked a hundred and nineteen hours each week!

And earned eight shillings!!

A decimal more than three farthings an hour!!!

On the ground floor of the house the tenants were no better off. In the
front room dwelt a poor costermonger, or hawker of fruit, who earned
upon an average seven shillings a week, out of which he was compelled to
pay one shilling to treat the policeman upon the beat where he took his
stand. His wife did a little washing, and perhaps earned eighteen-pence.
And that was all this poor couple with four children had to subsist
upon. The back room on the ground floor was occupied by the landlady of
the house. She paid twelve shillings a week for rent and taxes, and let
the various rooms for an aggregate of twenty-one shillings. She thus had
nine shillings to live upon, supposing that every one of her lodgers
paid her--which was never the case.

Poor Ellen, in reflecting in this manner upon the condition of her
neighbours, found herself surrounded on all sides by misery. Misery was
above--misery below: misery was on the right and on the left. Misery was
the genius of that dwelling, and of every other in that court. Misery
was the cold and speechless companion of the young girl as she sate in
that icy chamber: misery spread her meal, and made her bed, and was her
chambermaid at morning and at night!

Eleven o'clock struck by St. Luke's church; and Mr. Monroe returned to
his wretched abode. It had begun to rain shortly after Ellen had
returned home; and the old man was wet to the skin.

"Oh! my dear father!" exclaimed the poor girl, "you are wet, and there
is not a morsel of fire in the grate!"

"And I have no money, dearest," returned the heart-broken father,
pressing his thin lips upon the forehead of his daughter. "But I am not
cold, Nell--I am not cold!"

Without uttering a word, Ellen hastened out of the room, and begged a
few sticks from one lodger, and a little coal from another. It would
shame the affluent great, did they know how ready are the
miserable--miserable poor to assist each other!

With her delicate taper fingers--with those little white hands which
seemed never made to do menial service, the young girl laid the fire;
and when she saw the flame blazing cheerfully up the chimney, she turned
towards the old man--and smiled!

She would not for worlds have begged any thing for herself--but for her
father--oh! she would have submitted to any degradation!

And then for a moment a gleam of something like happiness stole upon
that hitherto mournful scene, as the father and daughter partook of
their frugal--very frugal and sparing meal together.

As soon as it was concluded, Ellen rose, kissed her parent
affectionately, wished him "good night," and retired into her own
miserable, cold, and naked chamber.

She extinguished her candle in a few moments, to induce her father to
believe that she had sought repose; but when she knew that the old man
was asleep, she lighted the candle once more, and seated herself upon
the old mattress, to embroider a few blossoms upon the silk which had
been confided to her at the establishment in Finsbury.

From the neighbouring houses the sounds of boisterous revelry fell upon
her ears. She was too young and inexperienced to know that this mirth
emanated from persons perhaps as miserable as herself, and that they
were only drowning care in liquor, instead of encountering their
miseries face to face. The din of that hilarity and those shouts of
laughter, therefore made her sad.

Presently that noise grew fainter and fainter; and at length it
altogether ceased. The clock of St. Luke's church struck one; and all
was then silent around.

A lovely moon rode high in the heavens; the rain had ceased, and the
night was beautiful--but bitter, bitter cold.

Wearied with toil, the young maiden threw down her work, and, opening
the casement, looked forth from her wretched chamber. The gentle breeze,
though bearing on its wing the chill of ice, refreshed her; and as she
gazed upwards to the moon, she wondered within herself whether the
spirit of her departed mother was permitted to look down upon her from
the empyrean palaces on high. Tears--large tears trickled down her
cheeks; and she was too much overcome by her feelings even to pray.

While she was thus endeavouring to divert her thoughts from the
appalling miseries of earth to the transcendent glories of heaven, she
was diverted from her mournful reverie by the sound of a window opening
in a neighbouring house; and in a few moments violent sobs fell upon her
ears. Those sobs, evidently coming from a female bosom, were so acute,
so heart-rending, so full of anguish, that Ellen was herself overcome
with grief. At length those indications of extreme woe ceased gradually,
and then these words--"Oh my God! what will become of my starving
babes!" fell upon Ellen's ears. She was about to inquire into the cause
of that profound affliction, when the voice of a man was heard to
exclaim gruffly, "Come--let's have no more of this gammon: we must all
go to the workus in the morning--that's all!" And then the window was
closed violently.

The workhouse! That word sounded like a fearful knell upon Ellen's ears.
Oh! for hours and hours together had that poor girl meditated upon the
sad condition of her father and herself, until she had traced, in
imagination, their melancholy career up to the very door of the
workhouse. And there she had stopped: she dared think no more--or she
would have gone mad, raving mad! For she had heard of the horrors of
those asylums for the poor; and she knew that she should be separated
from her father on the day when their stern destinies should drive them
to that much-dreaded refuge. And to part from him--from the parent whom
she loved so tenderly, and who loved her so well;--no--death were far
preferable!

The workhouse! How was it that the idea of this fearful home--more
dreaded than the prison, less formidable than the grave--had taken so
strong a hold upon the poor girl's mind? Because the former tenant of
the miserable room which now was hers had passed thence to the
workhouse: but ere she went away, she left behind her a record of her
feelings in anticipation of that removal to the pauper's home!

Impelled by an influence which she could not control--that species of
impulse which urges the timid one to gaze upon the corpse of the dead,
even while shuddering at the aspect of death--Ellen closed the window,
and read for the hundredth time the following lines, which were
pencilled in a neat hand upon the whitewashed wall of the naked
chamber:--

   "I HAD A TENDER MOTHER ONCE."

    I had a tender mother once,
      Whose eyes so sad and mild
    Beamed tearfully yet kindly on
      Her little orphan child.
    A father's care I never knew;
      But in that mother dear,
    Was centred every thing to love,
      To cherish, and revere!

    I loved her with that fervent love
      Which daughters only know;
    And often o'er my little head
      Her bitter tears would flow.
    Perhaps she knew that death approached
      To snatch her from my side;
    And on one gloomy winter day
      This tender mother died.

    They laid her in the pauper's ground,
      And hurried o'er the prayer:
    It nearly broke my heart to think
      That they should place her there.
    And now it seems I see her still
      Within her snowy shroud;
    And in the dark and silent night
      My spirit weeps aloud.

    I know not how the years have passed
      Since my poor mother died;
    But I too have an orphan girl,
      That grows up by my side.
    O God! thou know'st I do not crave
      To eat the bread of sloth:
    I labour hard both day and night,
      To earn enough for both!

    But though I starve myself for her,
      Yet hunger wastes her form:--
    My God! and must that darling child
      Soon feed the loathsome worm?
    'Tis vain--for I can work no more--
      My eyes with toil are dim;
    My fingers seem all paralyzed,
      And stiff is every limb!

    And now there is but one resource;
      The pauper's dreaded doom!
    To hasten to the workhouse, and
      There find a living tomb.
    I know that they will separate
      My darling child from me;
    And though 'twill break our hearts, yet both
      Must bow to that decree!

    Henceforth our tears must fall apart,
      Nor flow together more;
    And from to-day our prayers may not
      Be mingled as before!
    O God! is this the Christian creed,
      So merciful and mild?
    The daughter from the mother snatched,
      The mother from her child!

    Ah! we shall ne'er be blessed again
      Till death has closed our eyes,
    And we meet in the pauper's ground
      Where my poor mother lies.--
    Though sad this chamber, it is bright
      To what must be our doom;
    The portal of the workhouse is
      The entrance of the tomb!

Ellen read these lines till her eyes were dim with tears. She then
retired to her wretched couch; and she slept through sheer fatigue. But
dreams of hunger and of cold filled up her slumbers;--and yet those
dreams were light beside the waking pangs which realised the visions!

The young maiden slept for three hours, and then arose, unrefreshed, and
paler than she was on the preceding day. It was dark: the moon had gone
down; and some time would yet elapse ere the dawn. Ellen washed herself
in water upon which the ice floated; and the cold piercing breeze of the
morning whistled through the window upon her fair and delicate form.

As soon as she was dressed, she lighted her candle and crept gently into
her father's room. The old man slept soundly. Ellen flung his clothes
over her arm, took his boots up in her hand, and stole noiselessly back
to her own chamber. She then brushed those garments, and cleaned those
boots, all bespattered with thick mud as they were; and this task--so
hard for her delicate and diminutive hands--she performed with the most
heart-felt satisfaction.

As soon as this occupation was finished, she sate down once more to
work.

Thus that poor girl knew no rest!




CHAPTER LVI.

THE ROAD TO RUIN.


About two months after the period when we first introduced Ellen Monroe
to our readers, the old woman of whom we have before spoken, and who
dwelt in the same court as that poor maiden and her father, was sitting
at work in her chamber.

The old woman was ill-favoured in countenance, and vile in heart. Hers
was one of those hardened dispositions which know no pity, no charity,
no love, no friendship, no yearning after any thing proper to human
fellowship.

She was poor and wretched;--and yet _she_, in all her misery, had a
large easy chair left to sit upon, warm blankets to cover her at night,
a Dutch clock to tell her the hour, a cupboard in which to keep her
food, a mat whereon to set her feet, and a few turves burning in the
grate to keep her warm. The walls of her room were covered with cheap
prints, coloured with glaring hues, and representing the exploits of
celebrated highwaymen and courtezans; scenes upon the stage in which
favourite actresses figured, and execrable imitations of Hogarth's
"Rake's Progress." The coverlid of her bed was of patchwork, pieces of
silk, satin, cotton, and other stuffs, all of different patterns, sizes,
and shapes, being sewn together--strange and expressive remnants of a
vicious and faded luxury! Upon the chimney-piece were two or three
scent-bottles, which for years had contained no perfume; and in the
cupboard was a champagne-bottle, in which the hag now kept her gin. The
pillow of her couch was stuffed neither with wool nor feathers--but with
well-worn silk stockings, tattered lace collars, faded ribands, a piece
of a muff and a boa, the velvet off a bonnet, and old kid gloves.
And--more singular than all the other features of her room--the old hag
had a huge Bible, with silver clasps, upon a shelf!

This horrible woman was darning old stockings, and stooping over her
work, when a low knock at the door of her chamber fell upon her ear.
That knock was not imperative and commanding, but gentle and timid; and
therefore the old woman did not hurry herself to say, "Come in!" Even
after the door had opened and the visitor had entered the room, the old
hag proceeded with her work for a few moments.

At length raising her head, she beheld Ellen Monroe.

She was not surprised: but as she gazed upon that fair thin face whose
roundness had yielded to the hand of starvation, and that blue eye whose
fire was subdued by long and painful vigils, she said, "And so you have
come at last? I have been expecting you every day!"

"Expecting me! and why?" exclaimed Ellen, surprised at these words,
which appeared to contain a sense of dark and mysterious import that was
ominous to the young girl.

"Yes--I have expected you," repeated the old woman. "Did I not tell you
that when you had no money, no work, and no bread, and owed arrears of
rent, you would come to me?"

"Alas! and you predicted truly," said Ellen, with a bitter sigh. "All
the miseries which you have detailed have fallen upon me;--and more! for
my father lies ill upon the _one mattress_ that remains to us!"

"Poor creature!" exclaimed the old woman, endeavouring to assume a
soothing tone; then, pointing to a foot-stool near her, she added, "Come
and sit near me that we may talk together upon your sad condition."

Ellen really believed that she had excited a feeling of generous and
disinterested sympathy in the heart of that hag; and she therefore
seated herself confidently upon the stool, saying at the same time, "You
told me that you could serve me: if you have still the power, in the
name of heaven delay not, for--for--we are starving!"

The old woman glanced round to assure herself that the door of her
cupboard was closed; for in that cupboard were bread and meat, and
cheese. Then, turning her eyes upwards, the hag exclaimed, "God bless us
all, dear child! I am dying of misery myself, and have not a morsel to
give you to eat!"

But when she had uttered these words, she cast her eyes upon the young
girl who was now seated familiarly as it were, by her side, and scanned
her from head to foot, and from foot to head. In spite of the wretched
and scanty garments which Ellen wore, the admirable symmetry of her
shape was easily descried; and the old woman thought within herself how
happy she should be to dress that sweet form in gay and gorgeous
garments, for her own unhallowed purposes.

"You do not answer me," said Ellen. "Do not keep me in suspense--but
tell me whether it is in your power to procure me work?"

The old hag's countenance wore a singular expression when these last
words fell upon her ears. Then she began to talk to the poor starving
girl in a manner which the latter could not comprehend, and which we
dare not describe. Ellen listened for some time, as if she were hearing
a strange language which she was endeavouring to make out; and then she
cast a sudden look of doubt and alarm upon the old hag. The wretch grew
somewhat more explicit; and the poor girl burst into an agony of tears,
exclaiming, as she covered her blushing cheeks with her snow-white
hands--"No: never--never!"

Still she did not fly from that den and from the presence of that
accursed old hag, because she was so very, very wretched, and had no
hope elsewhere.

There was a long pause; and the old hag and the young girl sate close to
each other, silent and musing. The harridan cast upon her pale and
starving companion a look of mingled anger and surprise; but the poor
creature saw it not--for she was intent only on her own despair.

Suddenly a thought struck the hag.

"I can do nothing for you, miss, since you will not follow my advice,"
she said, after a while: "and yet I am acquainted with a statuary who
would pay you well for casts of your countenance for his Madonnas, his
actresses, his Esmeraldas, his queens, his princesses, and his angels."

These words sounded upon the ears of the unhappy girl like a dream; and
parting, with her wasted fingers, the ringlets that clustered round her
brow, she lifted up her large moist eyes in astonishment towards the
face of the aged hag.

But the old woman was serious in her offer.

"I repeat--will you sell your countenance to a statuary?" she said. "It
is a good one; and you will obtain a handsome price for it."

Ellen was literally stupefied by this strange proposal; but when she had
power to collect her ideas into one focus, she saw her father pining
upon a bed of sickness, and surrounded by all the horrors of want and
privation;--and she herself--the unhappy girl--had not tasted food for
nearly thirty hours. Then, on the other side, was her innate
modesty;--but this was nothing in the balance compared to the poignancy
of her own and her parent's sufferings.

So she agreed to accompany the old hag to the house of the statuary in
Leather Lane, Holborn. But first she hurried home to see if her father
required any thing--a vain act of filial tenderness, for if he did she
had nothing to give. The old man slept soundly--worn out with suffering,
want, and sorrowful meditation; and the landlady of the house promised
to attend to him while Ellen was absent.

The young maiden then returned to the old woman and they proceeded
together to the house of the statuary.

Up two flights of narrow and dark stairs, precipitate as ladders, did
the trembling and almost heartbroken girl follow the hag. They then
entered a spacious depository of statues modelled in plaster of Paris. A
strange assembly of images was that! Heathen gods seemed to fraternize
with angels, Madonnas, and Christian saints; Napoleon and Wellington
stood motionless side by side; George the Fourth and Greenacre occupied
the same shelf; William Pitt and Cobbett appeared to be contemplating
each other with silent admiration; Thomas Paine elbowed a bishop; Lord
Castlereagh seemed to be extending his hand to welcome Jack Ketch; Cupid
pointed his arrow at the bosom of a pope; in a word, that strange
pell-mell of statues was calculated to awaken ideas of a most wild and
ludicrous character, in the imagination of one whose thoughts were not
otherwise occupied.

The statuary was an Italian; and as he spoke the English language
imperfectly, he did not waste much time over the bargain. With the cool
criticism of a sportsman examining a horse or a dog, the statuary gazed
upon the young maiden; then, taking a rule in his hand, he measured her
head; and with a pair of blunt compasses he took the dimensions of her
features. Giving a nod of approval, he consulted a large book which lay
open upon a desk; and finding that he had orders for a queen, an
opera-dancer, and a Madonna, he declared that he would take three casts
of his new model's countenance that very morning.

The old woman whispered words of encouragement in Ellen's ear, as they
all three repaired to the workshop, where upwards of twenty men were
employed in making statues. Some were preparing the clay models over
which the plaster of Paris was to be laid: others joined legs and arms
to trunks;--some polished the features of the countenances: others
effaced the seams that betrayed the various joints in the complete
statues. One fixed wings to angels' backs--another swords to warriors'
sides: a third repaired a limb that had been broken; a fourth stuck on a
new nose in the place of an old one knocked off.

Ellen was stretched at full length upon a table; and a wet cloth was
placed over her face. The statuary then covered it with moist clay;--and
the process was only complete when she was ready to faint through
difficulty of breathing. She rested a little while; and then the second
cast was taken. Another interval to recover breath--and the third and
last mould was formed.

The statuary seemed well pleased with this trial of his new model; and
placing a sovereign in the young maiden's hand, he desired her to return
in three days, as he should require her services again. The poor
trembling creature's eyes glistened with delight as she balanced the
gold in her little hand; and she took her departure, accompanied by the
hag, with a heart comparatively light.

"You will have plenty to do there," said the old woman, as they
proceeded homewards: "I have introduced you to a good thing. You must
therefore divide your first day's earnings with me."

Ellen really felt grateful to the selfish harridan; and having changed
her gold for silver coin at a shop where she stopped to buy provisions,
she counted ten shillings in the withered and sinewy hand which the hag
thrust forth.

Thus for three months did Ellen earn the means of a comfortable
subsistence, by selling her countenance to the statuary. And that
countenance might be seen belonging to the statues of Madonnas in
catholic chapels; opera dancers, and actresses in theatrical clubs;
nymphs holding lamps in the halls of public institutions; and queens in
the staircase windows of insurance offices.

She never revealed to her father the secret spring of that improved
condition which soon restored him to health; but assured him that she
had found more needle-work, and was well paid for it. The old man had
too good an opinion of his daughter to suspect her of crime or frailty;
and he believed her innocent and well-meant falsehood the more readily,
inasmuch as he saw her constantly engaged with her needle when he was at
home.

Three months passed away; and already had a little air of comfort
succeeded to the former dismal aspect of those two chambers which the
father and daughter occupied, when the statuary died suddenly.

Ellen's occupation was once more gone; and, after vainly endeavouring to
obtain needle-work--for that which she did in the presence of her father
was merely a pretence to make good her tale to him--she again repaired
to the abode of the old hag who had introduced her to the statuary.

The aged female was, if possible, more wrinkled and hideous than before;
the contrast between her and her fair young visitant was the more
striking, inasmuch as the cheeks of the latter had recovered their
roundness, and her form its plumpness by means of good and sufficient
food.

"You have come to me again," said the hag. "Doubtless I should have
never seen you more if you had not wanted my services."

"The statuary is dead," returned Ellen, "and has left behind him an
immense fortune. His son has therefore declined the business, and has
discharged every one in the employment of his late father."

"And what would you have me do for you, miss?" demanded the old woman.
"I am not acquainted with another statuary."

Ellen heaved a deep sigh.

The hag contemplated her for some time in silence, and then exclaimed,
"Your appearance has improved; you have a tinge of the carnation upon
your cheeks; and your eyes have recovered their brightness. I know an
artist of great repute, who will be glad of you as a copy for his
shepherdesses, his huntresses, his sea-nymphs, and heathen goddesses.
Let us lose no time in proceeding to his residence."

This proposal was far more agreeable to the maiden than the one which
had led her into the service of the statuary; and she did not for a
moment hesitate to accompany the old woman to the abode of the artist.

The great painter was about forty years of age, and dwelt in a splendid
house in Bloomsbury Square. The rooms on the third floor were his
_studio_, as he required a clear and good light. He accepted the
services of Ellen Monroe as a copy, and remunerated the old woman out of
his own pocket, for the introduction. But he required the attendance of
his copy every day from ten till four; and she was accordingly compelled
to tell her father another story to account for these long intervals of
absence. She now assured him that she was engaged to work at the
residence of a family in Bloomsbury Square; and the old man believed
her.

Her countenance having embellished statues, was now transferred to
canvass. Her Grecian features and classic head appeared surmounted with
the crescent of Diana, the helmet of Minerva, and the crown of Juno. The
painter purchased dresses suitable to the characters which he wished her
to adopt; and, although she was frequently compelled to appear before
him, in a state which at first was strongly repugnant to her
modesty--with naked bust, and naked arms, and naked legs--the feeling
of shame gradually wore away. Thus, though in body she remained pure and
chaste, yet in soul was she gradually hardened to the sentiments of
maiden delicacy and female reserve!

It is true that she retained her virtue--because it was not tempted. The
artist saw not before him a lovely creature of warm flesh and blood; he
beheld nothing but a beautiful and symmetrical statue which served as an
original for his heathen divinities and pastoral heroines. And in this
light did he treat her.

He paid her handsomely; and her father and herself were enabled to
remove to better lodgings, and in a more respectable neighbourhood, than
those which had been the scene of so much misery in Golden Lane.

The artist whom Ellen served was a portrait-painter as well as a
delineator of classical subjects. When he was employed to paint the
likeness of some vain and conceited West End daughter of the
aristocracy, it was Ellen's hand--or Ellen's hair--or Ellen's eyes--or
Ellen's bust--or some feature or peculiar beauty of the young maiden, in
which the fashionable lady somewhat resembled her, that figured upon the
canvass. Then when the portrait was finished, the artist would assemble
his friends at the same time that the lady and _her_ friends called to
see it; and the artist's friends--well tutored beforehand--would
exclaim, one, "How like is the eye!" another, "The very mouth!" a third,
"The hair to the life itself!" a fourth, "The exact profile!"--and so
on. And all the while it was Ellen's eye, or Ellen's mouth, or Ellen's
hair, or Ellen's profile, which the enthusiasts admired. Then the lady,
flattering herself that _she_ alone was the original, and little
suspecting that the charms of another had been called in to enhance the
beauty of _her_ portrait, persuaded her fond and uxorious husband to
double the amount of the price bargained for, and had the picture set in
a very costly frame, to hang in the most conspicuous place in her
mansion.

It happened one day that the artist obtained the favour of a marchioness
of forty-six by introducing into her portrait the nose, eyes, and mouth
of that fair young maiden of seventeen. The great lady recommended him
to the Russian Ambassador as the greatest of English painters; and the
ambassador immediately retained him to proceed to St. Petersburgh to
transfer to canvass the physiognomy of the Czar.

Ellen thus lost her employment once more; and again did she repair to
the den of the old hag who had recommended her to the statuary and the
artist.

The step of the maiden was less timid than formerly; and her look was
more confident. She was also dressed in a style which savoured of
coquetry, for her occupation at the artist's had taught her the value of
her charms, and prompted her how to enhance them. She had imbibed the
idea that her beauty was worth much, and should at least produce her a
comfortable livelihood, even if it did not lay the foundation for a
fortune. She therefore occupied all her leisure time in studying how to
set it off to the greatest advantage. Thus dire necessity had compelled
that charming young creature to embrace occupations which awoke all the
latent female vanity that had slumbered in her bosom throughout the
period of her pinching poverty, and that now shone forth in her
manner--her gait--her glance--her speech--and her attire.

The old hag observed this change, and was not surprised--for she was a
woman of the world; but she muttered to herself, "A little while, my
dear, and you will suit my purposes altogether."

"I am come again, you see," said Ellen, seating herself without waiting
to be asked. "My artist has left England suddenly, and I am once more
without occupation."

"Have you any money?" demanded the old hag.

"I have three sovereigns left," replied Ellen.

"You must give me two," said the woman; "and you must promise me half
your first week's earnings, for the new introduction which I shall
presently give you."

Ellen placed two sovereigns in the hand of the beldame; and the old
wretch opened her table drawer to search for something which she
required.

That drawer contained a strange incongruity of articles. Old valentine
letters, knots of faded riband, cards, prophetic almanacs; tooth powder
boxes, and scented oil bottles, all alike empty; the visiting cards of
several noblemen and gentlemen, play-bills, theatrical journals,
masquerade tickets never used, pieces of music, magazines of fashion, a
volume of the "Memoirs of Harriett Wilson," immoral prints, a song book,
some leaves torn from the "Newgate Calendar," medical drugs wrapped up
in papers, a child's caul, pieces of poetry in manuscript, amatory
epistles on sheets of various tints, writs from the Court of Requests,
summonses from police courts, &c. &c. The contents of that filthy drawer
furnished a complete history of that old hag's former life.

The object of the old woman's search was a card, which, having found it,
she handed to the young maiden, saying, "Here is the address of an
eminent sculptor: he requires a model of a bust for the statue of a
great lady who may be said to have no bust at all. You will suit him."

Ellen received the card, and hastened to Halkin Street, Belgrave Square,
where the sculptor resided. She was shown first into a parlour upon the
ground floor, then, when the object of her visit was made known, she was
requested to walk up stairs to the _studio_ of the great man. She found
him contemplating with profound satisfaction a head which he had already
cut from the top part of a block of marble. He was an old man of sixty,
and he stooped in his gait; but his eyes were dark and piercing.

A bargain between the sculptor and Ellen was soon terminated; and the
next morning she entered upon her new employment. Stripped to the waist,
she had to stand in a certain position, for several hours each day, in
the presence of the sculptor. The old man laboured diligently at his
statue, and allowed her little rest; but he paid her munificently, and
she was contented.

The lady, whose statue was thus _supposed_ to be in progress, called
daily, and remained at the sculptor's house for hours. She always came
alone, and sate in the _studio_ the whole time during which her call
lasted: it was therefore imagined by all her friends that she really
formed the model of the statue which was to bear her name. But Ellen's
neck--and Ellen's shoulders--and Ellen's bosom--and Ellen's arms were in
truth the pattern of the bust of that statue which was to be a great
sculptor's masterpiece, and to hand down the name of a great lady to
posterity!

The very day upon which Ellen was to leave the sculptor's employment,
her services as a model being no longer required, this great lady
happened to observe that she was in want of a nursery governess for her
two young daughters. Ellen ventured to offer herself as a candidate for
the situation. The lady raised her eyes and hands to heaven in
astonishment, exclaiming, "_You_, miss, a companion for my children! a
girl who gets her livelihood by standing half naked in the presence of
any body, as a model!" And the lady was compelled to have recourse to
her scent-bottle to save herself from fainting. She forgot that she
would have herself stood to the sculptor if she had possessed a good
bust!

The answer and the behaviour of this lady opened the eyes of Ellen to
the nature of the opinion which the world must now form of her. She
suddenly comprehended the real position which she occupied in
society--about one remove above the unfortunate girls who were the
avowed daughters of crime. Were she now to speak to the world of her
virtue, that world would laugh insultingly in her face. Thus the dire
necessity which had urged her upon this career, began by destroying her
sense of female delicacy and shame: it now destroyed, in her estimation,
every inducement to pursue a virtuous career.

Again she sought the dwelling of the old hag: for the fourth time she
demanded the assistance of the beldame.

"It seems, my child," said the old woman, "that my advice has produced
beneficial consequences. Each time that you cross my threshold I observe
that you are freer and lighter in step, and more choice in your
apparel."

"You know that I am not detestably ugly, mother," answered Ellen, with a
smile of complacence; "and surely it is as cheap to have a gown well
made as badly made, and a becoming bonnet as one altogether out of
date."

"Ah! I see that you study the fashions," exclaimed the old woman with a
sigh--for she recalled to mind the pleasures and pursuits of her own
youthful days, over which she retrospected with regret:--then, after a
pause, she said, "How old are you?"

"Eighteen and a half," replied Ellen.

"And, with all that beauty, is your heart still unoccupied by the image
of some favoured suitor?"

"Oh!" ejaculated Ellen, laughing heartily, so as to display her
brilliant teeth, "I have not thought of _that_ yet. I have lately read a
great deal about love in novels and romances--for I never do any
needle-work now,--but I have not experienced the passion. I dare say my
time will come sooner or later;"--and again she laughed. "But, hasten,
mother--I am losing my time: tell me, do you know of farther employment
for me?"

"I am acquainted with a French gentleman of science at the West End,"
answered the hag, "who has invented a means of taking likenesses by the
aid of the sun. I do not know what the process is: all that concerns me
and you is that the Frenchman requires a beautiful woman to serve as a
pattern for his experiments."

"Give me his address," said Ellen, "and if he engages me I will pay you
liberally. You know that you can rely upon me."

The old woman once more had recourse to her filthy drawer, in which her
present memoranda were mingled with the relics of the luxury of former
days; and taking thence a letter which she had only received that same
morning, she tore off the address for the use of the young maiden.

Ellen, who a few months previously had been accustomed to work for
seventeen or eighteen hours without ceasing, now took a cab to proceed
from the neighbourhood of St. Luke's to Leicester Square. The French
scientific experimentalist was at home; and Ellen was conducted up four
flights of stairs to a species of belvidere, or glass cabinet, built
upon the roof of the house. The windows of this belvidere, and the paper
with which the wood-work of the interior was covered, were of a dark
blue, in order to mitigate the strength of the sun's rays.

Within this belvidere the Frenchman was at work. He was a short,
middle-aged, sallow-faced, sharp-featured person--entirely devoted to
matters of science, and having no soul for love, pleasure, politics, or
any kind of excitement save his learned pursuits. He was now busily
employed at a table covered with copper plates coated with silver,
phials of nitric acid, cotton wool, pounce, a camera obscura, several
boxes, each of about two feet square, and other materials necessary for
photography.

The Frenchman spoke English tolerably well; and eyeing his fair visitant
from head to foot, he expressed himself infinitely obliged to the person
who had sent her. He then entered into particulars; and Ellen found, to
her surprise, that the photographer was desirous of taking full-length
female portraits in a state of nudity. She drew her veil over her
countenance, and was about to retire in disgust and indignation, when
the Frenchman, who was examining a plate as he spoke, and therefore did
not observe the effect his words had produced upon her, mentioned the
price which he proposed to pay her. Now the artist paid better than the
statuary; the sculptor better than the artist; and the photographer
better than the sculptor. She therefore hesitated no longer; but entered
the service of the man of science.

We shall not proceed to any details connected with this new avocation to
which that lovely maiden lent herself. Suffice it to say, that having
sold her countenance to the statuary, her likeness to the artist, and
her bust to the sculptor, she disposed of her whole body to the
photographer. Thus her head embellished images white and bronzed; her
features and her figure were perpetuated in divers paintings; her bust
was immortalized in a splendid statue; and her entire form is preserved,
in all attitudes, and on many plates, in the private cabinet of a
photographer at one of the metropolitan Galleries of Practical Science.

At length the photographer was satisfied with the results of his
experiments regarding the action of light upon every part of the human
frame; and Ellen's occupation was again gone.

A tainted soul now resided in a pure body. Every remaining sentiment of
decency and delicacy was crushed--obliterated--destroyed by this last
service. Pure souls have frequently resided in tainted bodies: witness
Lucretia after the outrage perpetrated upon her:--but here was
essentially a foul soul in a chaste and virgin form.

And what dread cause had consummated this sad result? Not the will of
the poor girl; for when we first saw her in her cold and cheerless
chamber, her mind was spotless at the Alpine snow. But dire
necessity--that necessity which became an instrument in the old hag's
hands to model the young maiden to her purposes. For it was with
ulterior views that the designing harridan had introduced the poor girl
to that career which, without being actually criminal, led step by step
towards criminality. The wretch knew the world well, and was enabled to
calculate the influence of exterior circumstances upon the mind and the
passions. After the first conversation which she had with Ellen, she
perceived that the purity of the virgin was not to be undermined by
specious representations, nor by dazzling theories, nor by delusive
sophistry: and the hag accordingly placed the confiding girl upon a path
which, while it supplied her with the necessaries of life, gradually
presented to her mind scenes which were calculated to destroy her
purity of thought and chastity of feeling for ever!

When Ellen left the service of the photographer, she repaired for the
fifth time to the dwelling of the hag.

The old woman was seated as usual at her work; and she was humming to
herself an opera air, which she remembered to have heard many--many
years back.

"The Frenchman requires my services no longer," said Ellen. "What next
can you do for me?"

"Alas! my poor child," answered the old woman, "the times were never so
bad as they are at present! What is to become of us? what is to become
of us?"

And the hag rocked herself backwards and forwards in her chair, as if
overcome by painful reflections.

"You can, then, do nothing for me?" observed Ellen, interrogatively.
"That is a pity! for I have not a shilling left in the world. We have
lived up to the income which my occupations produced. My poor old father
fancies up to the present moment that I have been working at
dress-making and embroidery at the houses of great families; and he will
wonder how all my engagements should so suddenly cease. Think, mother:
are you not acquainted with another artist or sculptor?"

"Why, my child, do you pitch upon the artist and the sculptor?" inquired
the hag, regarding Ellen fixedly in the face.

"Oh!" answered the young maiden, lightly, "because I do not like to have
my countenance handled about by the dirty fingers of the statuary; and
you cannot suppose that out of the four services I should voluntarily
prefer that of the photographer?"

The old woman looked disappointed, and muttered to herself, "Not quite
yet! not quite yet!"

"What did you say, mother?" inquired Ellen.

"I say," replied the hag, assuming a tone of kindness and conciliation,
"that you must come back to me in ten days; and in the mean time I will
see what is to be done for you."

"In ten days," observed Ellen: "be it so!"

And she took her departure, downcast and disappointed, from the old
hag's abode.




CHAPTER LVII.

THE LAST RESOURCE.


Poverty once again returned--with all its hideous escort of miseries--to
the abode of Monroe and his daughter. The articles of comfort which they
had lately collected around them were sent to the pawnbroker:
necessaries then followed to the same destination.

Ellen no longer sought for needle-work: she had for some time past led a
life which incapacitated her for close application to monotonous toil;
and she confidently reposed upon the hope that the old woman would
procure her more employment with an artist or a sculptor.

But at the expiration of the ten days, the hag put her off for ten days
more; and then again for another ten days. Thus a month passed away in
idleness for both father and daughter, neither of whom earned a
shilling.

They could no longer retain the lodgings which they had occupied for
some time in a respectable neighbourhood; and now behold them returning
to the very same cold, miserable, and cheerless rooms which we saw them
occupying in the first instance, in the court leading out of Golden
Lane!

What ups and downs constitute existence!

Two years had now passed away since we first introduced the reader to
that destitute lodging in Golden Lane. We have therefore brought up this
portion of our narrative, as well as all the other parts of it, to the
close of the year 1838.

Misery, more grinding, more pinching, and more acute than any which they
had yet known, now surrounded the father and daughter. They had parted
with every thing which would produce the wherewith to purchase food.
They lay upon straw at night; and for days and days they had not a spark
of fire in the grate. They often went six-and-thirty hours together
without tasting a morsel of food. They could not even pay the pittance
of rent which was claimed for their two chambers: and if it had not been
for their compassionate neighbours they must have starved altogether.

Monroe could obtain no employment in the City. When he had failed,
during the time of Richard Markham's imprisonment, he lost all his
friends, because they took no account of his misfortunes, and looked
only to the fact that he had been compelled to give up business. Had he
passed through the Bankruptcy Court, and then opened his counting-house
again to commence affairs upon credit, he would have found admirers and
supporters. But as he had paid his creditors every farthing, left
himself a beggar, and spurned the idea of entering upon business without
capital of his own, he had not a friend to whom he could apply for a
shilling.

At length the day came when the misery of the father and the daughter
arrived at an extreme when it became no longer tolerable. They had
fasted for forty-eight hours; and their landlady threatened to turn them
out of their empty rooms into the street, unless they paid her the
arrears of rent which they owed. They had not an article upon which they
could raise the price of a loaf:--it was the depth of a cold and severe
winter, and Ellen had already parted with all her under-garments.

"My dear child," said the heart-broken father, embracing his daughter
affectionately, on the morning when their misery thus reached its utmost
limit, "I have one resource left--a resource to which I should never fly
save in an extreme like this!"

"What mean you?" inquired the daughter, anxiously glancing in the pale
and haggard countenance of her sire.

"I mean that I will apply to Richard Markham," said the old man. "He
does not suspect our appalling state of destitution, or he would seek us
out--he would fly to our succour."

"And you will apply to him who has already suffered so much by you?"
said the daughter, shaking her head. "Alas! he will refuse you the
succour you require!"

"No--no--not he!" ejaculated the old man. "Be of good cheer, Ellen--I
shall not be long absent; and on my return thou shalt have food, and
fire, and clothes!"

"God grant that it may be so!" cried Ellen, clasping her hands together.

"I have moreover a piece of news relative to that villain Montague to
communicate to him," added Monroe; "and for that reason--if for none
other--should I have called at his residence to-day. While I was roving
about in the City yesterday to endeavour to procure employment, I
accidentally learnt that Montague is pursuing his old game, at the West
End, under the name of Greenwood."

[Illustration]

"Ah! why do you not rather call upon this man," cried Ellen, "and
represent to him the misery to which his villany has reduced us? He is
doubtless wealthy, and might be inclined to give a few pounds to one
whom he robbed of thousands."

"Alas! my dear Ellen, you do not know the world as I know it! I have no
means of convincing Montague, or Greenwood, that I lost money by him. He
only knew Allen in the entire transaction: he never saw me in his
life--nor I him,--at least to my knowledge. Allen is dead;--how then can
I present myself to this man, whom villany has no doubt rendered
hard-hearted and selfish, with mere assertions of losses through his
instrumentality? He would eject me ignominiously from his abode! No--I
shall repair to Richard Markham; he is my last and only hope!"

With these words the old man embraced his daughter affectionately, and
left the room.

The moment he was gone Ellen said to herself, "My father has undertaken
a hopeless task! It is not probable that Markham, whom he has reduced to
a miserable pittance, will spare from that pittance aught to relieve our
necessities. What is to be done? There are no more artists or sculptors
who require my services--no more statuaries or photographers who need my
aid. And yet we cannot starve! When I last saw the old woman, she spoke
out plainly--her meaning could not be misunderstood. I rushed away from
her presence, as if she were a venomous reptile! Fool that I was.
Starvation is undermining those charms which I have learnt to value:
hunger is defacing that beauty which gave me bread for nearly two years,
and which may give me bread again in the same way. I am clothed in rags,
and shiver with the cold! My hands, once so white, are becoming red: my
form, lately so round and plump, is losing its fulness and its
freshness; my cheeks grow thin and hollow. And in a few hours my poor
old father will return home, wasted with fatigue, and overwhelmed with
famine and disappointment. O my God!" she continued, clasping her hands
together in an ebullition of intense agony; "pardon--pardon--I can
hesitate no longer!"

And straightway she proceeded to the dwelling of the old hag.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon when Mr. Monroe returned to
the court in Golden Lane.

His countenance was animated with an expression of joy, as he
encountered the landlady upon the threshold of the house in which he
resided.

"Miss Monroe is not come in yet," said the woman roughly. "Here is the
key of your lodgings--_not that I think there is much worth the locking
up._ However, this key you don't have again till my rent is paid."

"Here--pay yourself--pay yourself!" cried the old man, taking a handful
of gold and silver from his pocket.

The woman's manner instantly changed into cringing politeness. She was
not now pressed for the rent. She could wait till it was convenient. She
always knew that she had to deal with a gentleman. What did it matter to
her when she was paid, since she felt convinced the money was safe?

Monroe cut short her compliments by settling the arrears due, and
sending the landlady out to purchase some food. The old man was
determined to be extravagant that day--he was so happy! Markham had
declared that he and his daughter should never know want again;--and
then--he had such a surprise for Ellen. They were to proceed next day to
take up their abode with Richard: the young man had insisted upon
it--Whittingham had supported the proposal;--and so it was all resolved
upon. No more poverty--no more cold--no more hunger!

It was for this that the old gentleman was resolved to be extravagant.
He was anxious to provide a delicate little treat for his daughter;--and
he was glad that she was not at home when he returned. He felt convinced
that she had gone out to seek for work, and hoped that she would not be
long ere she returned.

By means of the landlady he procured a cold fowl, a piece of ham, and a
bottle of cheap wine; and his own thin and meagre hands spread the
dainties upon the table, while the landlady lighted a fire in the grate.

When these arrangements were complete, Monroe dispatched the now
obsequious mistress of the house to redeem from pledge the various
articles which had been pawned during this latter period of destitution;
and when she returned, laden with the necessaries and the comforts which
had thus been temporarily disposed of, Monroe felt pleasure in arranging
them in such a way that they might strike Ellen's eyes the moment she
should return.

The poor old man was so joyful--so happy, as he executed his task, that
he did not observe the lapse of time. Six o'clock struck, and the candle
had been burning for some time upon the mantelpiece, ere Monroe began to
wonder what could keep his daughter so long away.

Another half-hour passed; and her well-known step was heard ascending
the staircase. The door opened; and Ellen rushed into the room,
exclaiming, "My dear father, here is gold! here is gold!"

"This then appears to be a day of good fortune," said the old man,
glancing triumphantly around him. "I also have gold--and these are the
fruits of the first use which I have made of it!"

"What!" exclaimed Ellen, gazing wildly upon the well-spread table and
the various articles redeemed from the pawnbroker; "Richard Markham----"

"Is an angel!" cried Monroe. "He never will let us know want again!"

"Oh! my God!" ejaculated Ellen, throwing herself upon a chair, and
burying her face in her hands: "why did I not wait a few hours? why did
I not have patience and hope until your return?"

"Ellen, what mean those words?" demanded the old man: "speak--tell
me----"

"Simply, my dear father," she answered, raising her head, and at the
same time exercising an almost superhuman control over her inward
emotions, "that I have consented to receive work at a price which will
scarcely find us in bread; and----"

"You shall not hold to your bargain, dearest," interrupted Monroe. "The
money which you may have received in advance,--for you said, I think,
that you had money,--shall be returned to those who would condemn you to
a slavery more atrocious than that endured by the negroes in the West
Indies! Take courage my beloved Ellen--take courage: a brighter day will
yet dawn upon us."

Ellen made no reply: but her countenance wore so singular an expression,
that her father was alarmed.

"My dearest daughter," he exclaimed, "you have no longer any hope! I see
by your looks that you despair! God knows that we have encountered
enough to teach us to place but little reliance upon the smiles of
fortune: nevertheless, let us not banish hope altogether from our
bosoms! To-morrow we shall leave this dismal abode, and repair to the
house of our young benefactor, Markham."

"Markham!" cried Ellen, the very name appearing to arouse agonizing
emotions in her mind: "have you promised Mr. Richard Markham that we
will reside with him?"

"Yes, dearest Ellen; and in so doing I had hoped to give thee pleasure.
You have known each other from infancy. Methinks I see thee now, a
little child, climbing up that hill in company with Richard and his
brother----"

"His brother!" repeated Ellen, a cold shudder passing over her entire
frame.

"My dearest girl, you are not well," said the old man; and, pouring some
wine into a glass, he added, "drink this, Ellen; it will revive thee."

The young lady partook of the exhilarating beverage, and appeared
refreshed. Her father and herself then seated themselves at the table,
and partook of the meal.

Ellen ate but little. She was pensive and melancholy; and every now and
then her countenance wore an expression of supreme horror, which denoted
intense agony of feeling within her bosom. She, however, contrived to
veil from her father's eyes much of the anguish which she thus
experienced; and the old man's features were animated with a gleam of
joy, as he sate by the cheerful fire and talked to his daughter of
brighter prospects and happier days.

On the following morning they took leave of those rooms in which they
had experienced so much misery, and repaired to the dwelling of Richard
Markham.




CHAPTER LVIII.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.


It was the 1st of January, 1839.

The weather was cold and inclement;--Nature in nakedness appeared to
recline upon the turfless grave of summer.

The ancient river which intersects the mightiest city upon the surface
of the earth, was swollen; and in the country through which it wound its
way, the fields were flooded in many parts.

The trees were stripped of their verdure: the singing of birds had
ceased.

Gloomy and mournful was the face of nature; sombre and lowering the
aspect of the proud city.

So pale--so faint were the beams of the mid-day sun, that the summit of
St. Paul's, which a few months back was wont to glitter as if it were
crowned with a diadem of gold, was now veiled in a murky cloud; and the
myriad pinnacles of the modern Babylon, which erst were each tipped as
with a star, pointed upwards to a sky ominous and foreboding.

Nevertheless, the ingenuity and wonderous perseverance of man had
adopted all precautions to expel the cold from the palaces of the rich
and powerful, and to surround the lordly owners of those splendid
mansions with the most delicious wines and the most luxurious food, in
doors, to induce them to forget that winter reigned without.

Soft carpets, thick curtains--satin, and velvet, and silk,--downy beds
beneath gorgeous canopies,--warm clothing, and cheerful fires, combined
to defy the approach of winter, and to render the absence of genial
summer a matter of small regret.

Then, when the occupants of these palaces went abroad, there was no bold
exertion required for them to face the nipping cold, for they stepped
from their thresholds into carriages thickly lined with wool, and
supplied with cushions, soft, luxurious, and warm.

But that cold which was thus expelled from the palaces of the rich took
refuge in the dwellings of the poor; and there it remained, sharp as a
razor, pitiless as an executioner, inexorable as a judge, and keen as
the north-western wind that blows from the ice-bound coasts of Labrador.

No silks, nor satins, nor velvets, nor carpets, nor canopies, nor
curtains, had the dwellings of the poor to defy, or even mitigate the
freezing malignity of that chill which, engendered in the arctic regions
of eternal snow, and having swept over the frozen rivers and the mighty
forests of America, had come to vent its collected spite upon the
islands of Europe.

Shivering, starving, in their miserable hovels, the industrious many, by
the sweat of whose brow the indolent few were supplied with their silks,
and their satins, and their velvets, wept bitter--bitter tears over
their suffering and famished children, and cursed the day on which their
little ones were born.

For the winter was a very hard one; and bread--bread was very dear!

Yes--bread, which thou, Almighty God! hast given to feed those whom thou
didst create after thine own image,--even bread was too dear for the
starving poor to buy!

How long, O Lord! wilt thou permit the few to wrest every thing from the
many--to monopolize, accumulate, gripe, snatch, drag forth, cling to,
the fruits of the earth, for their own behoof alone?

How long shall there exist such spells in the privilege of birth? how
long must all happiness and all misery be summed up in the words--

                        WEALTH | POVERTY.

We said that it was New Year's Day, 1839.

In the palaces of the great were rejoicings, and music, and festivity;
and diamonds glittered--and feathers waved--and silks rustled;--the
elastic floors bent beneath the steps of the dancers; the wine flowed in
crystal cups; and the fruits of summer were amongst the dainties spread
to tempt the appetite of the aristocracy.

Ah! there was happiness indeed, in thus welcoming the new year; for
those who there greeted its presence, were well assured that it would
teem with the joys and blandishments which had characterized the one
that had just sunk into the grave of Time!

And how was it with the poor of this mighty metropolis--the imperial
city, to whose marts whole navies waft the commerce of the world!

The granaries were full; the pastures had surrendered up fat oxen to
commemorate the season; the provision-shops teemed with food of the most
luxurious and of the humblest kinds alike. A stranger walking through
this great city would have wondered where the mouths were that could
consume such vast quantities of food.

And yet thousands famished for want of the merest necessaries of life.

The hovels of the poor echoed not to the sounds of mirth and music--but
to the wail of hunger and the cry of misery. In those sad abodes there
was no joviality to welcome a new year;--for a new year was a curse--a
mere prolongation of the acute and poignant horrors of the one gone by.

Alas! that New Year's Day was one of strange contrasts in the social
sphere of London.

And as London is the heart of this empire, the disease which prevails in
the core is conveyed through every vein and artery over the entire
national frame.

The country that contains the greatest wealth of all the territories of
the universe, is that which also knows the greatest amount of hideous,
revolting, heart-rending misery.

In England men and women die of starvation in the streets.

In England women murder their children to save them from a lingering
death by famine.

In England the poor commit crimes to obtain an asylum in a gaol.

In England aged females die by their own hands, in order to avoid the
workhouse.

There is one cause of all these miseries and horrors--one fatal scourge
invented by the rich to torture the poor--one infernal principle of
mischief and of woe, which has taken root in the land--one element of a
cruelty so keen and so refined, that it outdoes the agonies endured in
the Inquisition of the olden time.

And this fertile source of misery, and murder, and suicide, and crime,
is--

                 THE TREATMENT OF THE WORKHOUSE.

Alas! when the bees have made the honey, the apiarist comes and takes
all away, begrudging the industrious insects even a morsel of the wax!

Let us examine for a moment the social scale of these realms:

[Illustration]

The lowest step in the ladder is occupied by the class which is the most
numerous, the most useful and which ought to be the most influential.

The average annual incomes of the individuals of each class are as
follows:--

  The Sovereign                         £500,000.
  The member of the Aristocracy          £30,000.
  The Priest                              £7,500.
  The member of the middle classes          £300.
  The member of the industrious classes      £20.

Is this reasonable? is this just? is this even consistent with common
sense?

It was New Year's Day, 1839.

The rich man sate down to a table crowded with every luxury: the pauper
in the workhouse had not enough to eat. The contrast may thus be
represented:--

  Turtle, venison, turkey,          |
  hare, pheasant, perigord-pie,     |
  plum-pudding,                     | ½ lb. bread.
  mince-pies, jellies, blancmanger, | 4 oz. bacon.
  trifle, preserves,                | ½ lb. potatoes.
  cakes, fruits of all kinds,       | 1½ pint of gruel.
  wines of every description.       |

And this was New Year's Day, 1839!

But to proceed.

It was five o'clock in the evening. Three persons were conversing
together on Constitution Hill, beneath the wall of the Palace Gardens.

Two of them, who were wrapped up in warm pilot coats, are well known to
our readers: the third was a young lad of about sixteen or seventeen,
and very short in stature. He was dressed in a blue jacket, dark
waistcoat of coarse materials, and corduroy trousers. His countenance
was effeminate and by no means bad-looking; his eyes were dark and
intelligent; his teeth good. The name of this youth was Henry Holford.

"Well, my boy," said the Resurrection Man, for he was one of the lad's
companions, the other being the redoubtable Cracksman,--"well, my boy,
do you feel equal to this undertaking?"

"Quite," answered Holford in a decided tone.

"If we succeed, you know," observed the Cracksman, "it will be a jolly
good thing for you; and if you happen to get nabbed, why--all the beaks
can do to you will be to send you for a month or two upon the stepper.
In that there case Tony and me will take care on you when you come
out--won't we, Tony?"

"Certainly," replied the Resurrection Man.--"But if you get scented,
Harry," he continued, addressing himself to the lad, "as you approach
the big house, you must have a run for it, and we shall stay here and
leave the rope over the wall for two hours. If you don't come back by
that time, we shall suppose that you've either got into some quiet
corner of the palace, or that you're taken; and then, whichever happens
of these two events, we shan't be of any service to you."

"One thing I should like you to bear in mind, youngster," said the
Cracksman, "and that is, that if you don't pluck up your courage well,
and prepare for all kinds of dangers and difficulties, you'd much better
give up the thing at once. We don't want you to run neck and heels into
a business that you are afeard on."

"Afraid!" exclaimed the youth, contemptuously: "I shall not fail for
want of courage. I have made up my mind to risk the venture; and let the
result be what it will, I shall go through with it."

"That's what I call speaking like a man," said the burglar, "though you
are but a boy. Take a drop of brandy before you begin."

"Not a drop," answered Holford: "I require a clear head and a quick eye,
and dare not drink."

"Well, as you will," said the Cracksman; and he took a tolerably long
draught from a case-bottle which he had produced from his pocket.

He then handed the bottle to the Resurrection Man, who also paid his
respects to it with a hearty goodwill.

"I am ready," said Holford; "there is no use in delay."

"Not a bit," observed the Cracksman. "Tony and me will help you over the
wall in a jiffey."

By the aid of the Resurrection Man and the burglar, the youth scaled the
wall of the Palace Gardens, and ere he dropped upon the inner side, he
said in a low but firm tone, "Good night."

Holford was now within the enclosure of the royal demesne. The evening
was very dark; but at a distance the windows of the palace shone with
effulgence.

Thitherward did he proceed, advancing cautiously along, for he knew that
there was a piece of water in the pleasure-grounds. This small lake he
soon left on his right hand; and he was shortly within fifty yards of
the back part of Buckingham Palace.

At that moment he was suddenly startled by hearing voices close to him.
He stood still, and listened. Steps approached, and he heard a gardener
issue some instructions to a subordinate. There was a tuft of trees near
at hand: Holford had not a moment to lose;--he darted into the thicket
of evergreens, where he concealed-himself.

"What was that?" said the gardener, stopping short.

"I heard nothing," answered the man.

"Yes--there was a rustling of those trees."

"A cat, perhaps."

"Or one of the aquatic birds."

All was still, and the gardener, accompanied by his man, proceeded on
his way. The sounds of their footsteps were soon lost in the distance;
and Holford emerged from his hiding-place. Without any farther alarm he
reached the back premises of the palace.

He now became involved in a maze of out-houses and offices, and was at a
loss which direction to take. He was going cautiously along the wall of
one of those buildings, when he suddenly ran against a man who was
advancing rapidly in a contrary direction.

"Holloa! who the devil is this?" cried the man; and clutching hold of
Holford's collar, he dragged him a few paces, until he brought him
beneath a window whence streamed a powerful light. "I suppose you're the
new boy that the head-gardener hired this morning?"

"Yes, sir," answered Holford, gladly availing himself of an excuse thus
so conveniently suggested by the error of the man who had collared him.

"Then mind which way you go in future, young brocoli-sprout," exclaimed
the other; and, dismissing the youth with a slight cuff on the head, he
passed on.

Holford hastened away from the light of the window; and, crossing a
small court, reached a glass door opening into the back part of the
palace. The adventurous lad laid his hand upon the latch: the door was
not locked; and he hesitated not a moment to enter the royal abode.

He was now in a low vestibule, well lighted, and at the extremity of
which there was a staircase. In one corner of the vestibule was a marble
table, on which lay several cloaks, the skirts of which hung down to the
ground. This circumstance was particularly fortunate for the safety of
the intruder, inasmuch as he had scarcely entered the vestibule, when
the sound of footsteps, rapidly descending the staircase, fell upon his
ears. He hastened to conceal himself beneath the table, the cloaks
serving effectually to veil his person.

Two footmen in gorgeous liveries shortly made their appearance in the
vestibule.

"Where did you say her majesty is?" demanded one.

"In the Roman drawing-room," replied the other. "The Sculpture Gallery
is to be lighted up this evening. You can attend to that duty at once,
if you will."

"Very well," said the first speaker; and he left the vestibule by means
of a door on the right-hand side, but which door he neglected to close
behind him.

The other servant advanced straight up to the marble table, and,
sweeping off the cloaks, threw them all over his left arm. Holford's
person was now exposed to the eyes of any one who might happen to glance
beneath that table. The domestic was, however, a tall and stately
individual, and kept his head elevated. Having taken the cloaks from the
table, he slowly retraced his steps up the stairs, and disappeared from
Holford's view.

The young adventurer started from his hiding-place. The door, by which
one of the servants had left the vestibule for the purpose of repairing
to the Sculpture Gallery, was open. It communicated with a long passage,
only feebly lighted. Holford hesitated not a moment, but proceeded in
this direction.

He advanced to the end of the passage, and entered a narrow corridor,
branching off to the right, and lighted by lamps sustained in the hands
of two tall statues. Again the sound of footsteps fell upon Holford's
ears; and he had scarcely time to slip behind one of these statues, when
the domestic whom he had before seen enter that part of the building,
appeared at the end of the corridor. The servant passed without
observing him; and the youthful intruder emerged from his lurking-place.

He now pursued his way, without interruption, through several passages
and rooms, until he reached a magnificent marble hall, at the farther
extremity of which were numerous dependants of the palace, grouped
together, and conversing in a low tone. Holford instantly shrank back
into the passage by which he had reached the hall. Exactly opposite was
the entrance to the Sculpture Gallery. To retrace his steps was useless:
he determined to proceed. But how was he to cross the hall? A few
moments' reflection suggested to him an expedient. He walked boldly
across the hall; and his presence excited no suspicion, it being
impossible for the dependants collected together at the other end to
observe the nature of his garb at that distance.

He now gained access to the Sculpture Gallery; but there he found no
means of concealment. He determined to explore elsewhere, and speedily
found himself in a magnificent saloon, adjoining the library, and where
he beheld sofas, with the drapery hanging down to the carpet.

It was beneath one of these downy sofas that the daring intruder into
the royal dwelling took refuge; and there, comfortably extended at full
length, he chuckled triumphantly at the success which had, up to this
moment, attended his adventurous undertaking. We have before said that
he was of very small stature; he was moreover thin and delicate, and
easily packed away.

Some time passed, and no one appeared to interrupt the reflections of
Henry Holford. Hour after hour glided by; and at length the palace-clock
struck nine. Scarcely had the last chime died away, when the folding
doors were thrown open, and a gorgeous procession of nobles and ladies
entered the apartment. The magnificence of the dresses worn by England's
peeresses and high-born dames--the waving plumes, the glittering jewels,
the sparkling diamonds,--combined with a glorious assemblage of female
loveliness, formed a spectacle, at once awe-inspiring, ravishing, and
delightful. A little in advance of that splendid _cortège_,--conversing
easily with the ladies who walked one pace behind her on either hand,
and embellished with precious stones of regal price,--moved the
sovereign of the mightiest empire in the universe.

Upon her high and polished brow, Victoria wore a tiara of diamonds:
diamonds innumerable, and of immense value, studded her stomacher;
diamond pendants adorned her ears; and diamonds also glistened upon her
wrists. She walked with grace and dignity; and her noble bearing
compensated for the shortness of her stature.

The queen advanced to the very sofa beneath which Holford lay concealed,
and seated herself upon it. The ladies and nobles of the court, together
with the guests present upon the occasion, stood at a respectful
distance from the sovereign. The splendour of the scene was enhanced by
the brilliant uniforms of several military officers of high rank, and
the court-dresses of the foreign ambassadors. The blaze of light in
which the room was bathed, was reflected from the diamonds of the
ladies, and the stars and orders which the nobles wore upon their
breasts.

At that time Victoria was yet a virgin-queen. If not strictly beautiful,
her countenance was very pleasing. Her light brown hair was worn quite
plain; her blue eyes were animated with intellect; and when she smiled,
her lips revealed a set of teeth white as Oriental pearls. Her bust was
magnificent, and her figure good, in spite of the lowness of her
stature. Her manner was distinguished by somewhat of that impatience
which characterised all the family of George the Third, and which seemed
to result from a slightly nervous temperament. She appeared to require
answers to her questions more promptly than court etiquette permitted
those around her to respond to her inquiries. With regard to the
condition of the humbler classes of her subjects, she was totally
ignorant: she knew that they were suffering some distress; but the
fearful amount of that misery was carefully concealed from her. She only
read the journals favourable to the ministry; and they took care to
report nothing which might offend or wound her. Thus, she who should
have known every thing relative to her people, in reality scarcely knew
any thing!

Foremost amid the chiefs of foreign diplomacy was the Ambassador from
the court of Castelcicala. He was a man of advanced years; and on his
breast glittered the stars of all the principal orders of knighthood in
Europe--the Cross and Bath of England, the Legion of Honour of France,
the Golden Fleece of Spain, the Black Eagle of Prussia, the Sword of
Sweden, the Crescent of Turkey, Saint Nepomecenus of Austria, and the
Lion Rampant of Castelcicala. The Ambassadors of France and Austria were
also present upon this occasion,--Count Sebastiani, the representative
of Louis-Philippe, being clad in the splendid uniform of a General in
the French army, and wearing the grand cordon of the Legion of
Honour,--and Prince Esterhazy, the Austrian Minister, and himself the
possessor of estates more extensive than many a German principality,
wearing a court dress covered with lace and glittering with stars.

Several members of the English Cabinet were also present. There was one
whose good-tempered and handsome countenance, gentlemanly demeanour,
stout and sturdy form, and complacent smile, would hardly have induced a
stranger to believe that this was Viscount Melbourne, the Prime Minister
of England. Next was a short personage, with a refined and intelligent,
though by no means an imposing air,--a something sharp and cunning in
the curl of the mouth, and the flash of the eye,--and a weak
disagreeable voice, frequently stammering and hesitating at a long
sentence: this was Lord John Russell, the Secretary for the Home
Department. Near Lord John Russell was a tall man of about fifty,--very
good-looking, with dark and well-curled locks, glossy whiskers, and an
elegant figure,--but excessively foppish in his attire, and somewhat
affected in manner;--and this was Lord Palmerston, Secretary for Foreign
Affairs. Conversing with this nobleman was a personage with pale and
sallow cheeks, luxuriant and naturally-curling locks,--dark and
interesting in appearance, and in the prime of life,--whose conversation
denoted him to be a man of elegant taste, and whose manners were those
of a finished gentleman; but who little suited the idea which a stranger
would have formed of a great viceroy or a responsible minister:--nevertheless,
this was the Marquis of Normanby, lately Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, and
at the time of which we are speaking, Secretary for the Colonies.

The conversation turned upon the specimens of art in the gallery of
sculpture, which the noble company had just visited. In this manner an
hour passed away; and at the expiration of that period, the queen and
her numerous guests repaired to the drawing-rooms on the first floor,
where arrangements had been made for a grand musical entertainment.

The entire pageantry was viewed with ease, and the conversation plainly
heard, by the plebeian intruder upon that scene of patrician splendour,
and glory, and wealth. The musical tones of the queen's voice had fallen
upon his ears: he had listened to the words of great lords and high-born
ladies. At that moment how little, how contemptible did he feel himself
to be! Never had he entertained so humble an opinion of his own worth
and value in society as he did at that period. He--a common pot-boy in a
public-house--had for an hour been the unseen companion of a queen and
her mightiest paladins and loveliest dames;--and had he been discovered
in his retreat, he would have been turned ignominiously forth, like the
man in the parable who went to the marriage-feast without a
wedding-garment.

For two more mortal hours did Holford remain beneath the sofa, crampled
by his recumbent and uneasy position, and already more than half
inclined to regret the adventure upon which he had so precipitately
entered.

At length the palace grew quiet, and servants entered the room in which
Holford was concealed, to extinguish the lights. The moment that this
duty was performed, and the domestics had withdrawn, Holford emerged
from beneath the sofa, and seated himself upon it. He was proud to think
that he now occupied the place where royalty had so lately been. The
voice of the queen still seemed to ring in his ears; and he felt an
unknown and unaccountable species of happiness in recalling to mind and
pondering upon all that had fallen from her lips. At that moment how he
envied those peers and high-born dames who were privileged to approach
the royal presence and bask beneath the smile of the sovereign;--how he
wished that his lot had been cast in a different sphere! But--no! it was
useless to regret what could not be remedied; and, although he was now
in a palace, and seated upon the very cushion which a few hours
previously had been pressed by royalty, he was not one atom less Henry
Holford, the pot-boy!

The reverie of this extraordinary youth was long. Visions the most wild
and fantastical sustained a powerful excitement in his imagination. At
length the clock struck two. Holford awoke from his strange meditations,
and collected his scattered ideas.

He now felt the cravings of hunger, and determined to explore the palace
in search of food. He had already seen enough of its geography to be
enabled to guess the precise position of the servants' offices; and
thither he now directed his steps. He reached the great marble hall,
which was lighted by lamps: there was no one there. He crossed it, and
proceeded along those passages which he had already threaded a few hours
before. After wandering about for some time, and, to his infinite
surprise and joy, without encountering a soul, he reached the servants'
offices. A short search conducted him to a well-stored larder. Some of
the dishes had evidently been put away in a hurry, for silver spoons and
forks had been left in them. Holford might have possessed himself of
property of considerable value: but such an idea never for a moment
entered his head. He moreover contented himself with the simplest food
he could find; then, remembering that four-and-twenty hours might elapse
ere he should be enabled to return to the larder, he supplied himself
with a sufficient amount of provender to last during that interval.

Having adopted this precaution, he stole back again to the room where
the friendly sofa had already afforded a secure hiding-place. He once
more crept beneath the costly drapery, extended himself upon his back,
and fell asleep.




CHAPTER LIX.

THE ROYAL LOVERS.


Holford awoke with a start.

At that moment the time-piece upon the mantel struck five. It was still
quite dark.

The young man felt cold and nervous. He had dreamt that he was
discovered and ejected from the palace amidst the jeers and taunts of
the servants. He now suddenly recollected that the domestics would most
probably soon arrive to cleanse and arrange the apartment; and detection
in that case must be certain.

It struck him that he had better endeavour to escape at once from the
royal dwelling. Then he thought and fondly flattered himself that the
same good fortune which had hitherto attended him in this adventure
would still follow him. This idea has caused many a hesitating mind to
decide upon pursuing a career of crime, or folly, or peril. So was it
with Holford; and he resolved to remain in the palace at least a short
time longer.

But he perceived the absolute necessity of seeking out a secure place of
concealment; and it struck him that the highest storeys of the building
were those best calculated for this purpose. Leaving the apartment in
which he had availed himself of the friendly sofa, and which, as before
stated, was in the immediate vicinity of the Sculpture Gallery upon the
ground-floor, he passed through the Library, and returned to the great
hall. Ascending a magnificent marble staircase, he reached the Picture
Gallery. Every here and there lamps were burning, and thus he was
enabled to inspect all the scenes of magnificence and splendour through
which he passed.

The Picture Gallery in Buckingham Palace is immediately over the
Sculpture Gallery, and forms a wide passage separating the Green Drawing
Room, the Throne Room, and other state apartments from the Roman, the
Yellow, and the little drawing rooms. The Yellow Drawing Room is the
largest and most splendid of the suite. The furniture is all richly
carved, and is overlaid with burnished gilding and covered with yellow
satin. The wall is surrounded by polished pillars of syenite marble; and
on each panel is painted a portrait of some royal personage.

The Dining Room also leads out of the Picture Gallery. This gallery
itself is decorated and adorned upon classic models. The frames of the
pictures are very plain, but neat, and appropriated to the style of the
architecture. There is nothing gorgeous in this gallery: every thing is
in good taste; and yet the mouldings and fret-work of the ceiling are of
the most elaborate description. The pictures in the gallery are all
originals by eminent masters, and are the private property of the
sovereign.

It may be here observed that the queen is passionately attached to the
Fine Arts, in which, indeed, she is a proficient. In every room of the
palace there are some excellent paintings; and in each apartment
occupied by the queen, with the exception of the Throne Room, there is a
grand pianoforte.

With a lamp in his hand, Henry Holford proceeded through those
magnificent apartments which communicated with the Picture Gallery. He
was astonished at the assemblage of wealth and splendour that met his
eyes on every side. From time to time he seated himself upon the softest
ottomans, and in the gilded chairs--in every place where he deemed it
probable that the queen might have rested. At length he reached the
Throne Room. The imperial seat itself was covered over with a velvet
cloth, to protect it against the dust. Holford removed the cloth; and
the splendours of the throne were revealed to him.

He hesitated for a moment: he felt as if he were committing a species of
sacrilege;--then triumphing over this feeling--a feeling which had
appeared like a remorse--he ascended the steps of the throne;--he placed
himself in the seat of England's monarch.

Had the sceptre been there he would have grasped it;--had the crown been
within his reach, he would have placed it upon his head!

But time pressed; and he was compelled to leave those apartments in
which a strange and unaccountable fascination induced him to linger. He
ascended a staircase leading to another storey; and now he proceeded
with extreme caution, for he conceived that he must be in the immediate
vicinity of the royal sleeping apartments. He hastened up to the highest
storey he could reach, and entered several passages from which doors
opened on either side. One of these doors was ajar; the light of a lamp
in the passage enabled him to ascertain that the chamber into which it
led was full of old furniture, trunks, boxes, bedding, and other lumber.
This was precisely the place which suited the adventurous pot-boy; and
he hastened to conceal himself amidst a pile of mattresses which formed
a secure, warm, and comfortable berth.

Here he again fell asleep; and when he awoke the sun was shining
brightly. He partook of his provisions with a good appetite, and then
deliberated within himself what course he should pursue. He felt madly
anxious to be near the person of the queen once more: he longed to hear
her voice again;--he resolved to risk every thing to gratify these
inclinations.

He began to understand that the vast extent of the palace, and the many
different ways of reaching the various floors and suites of apartments,
constituted the elements of his safety, and greatly diminished the risk
of encountering any of the inmates of the royal dwelling. He was insane
enough, moreover, to believe that some good genius or especial favour of
fortune protected him; and these impressions were sufficiently powerful
to induce him to attempt any fresh enterprise within the walls of the
palace.

While he was debating within himself how he should proceed in order to
satisfy his enthusiastic curiosity, the door suddenly opened, and two
female servants of the royal household entered the lumber-room.

Holford's heart sank within him: his limbs seemed paralysed; his breath
failed him.

"The entertainment takes place in the Yellow and Roman Drawing Rooms
this evening," said one.

"The prince is expected at five o'clock," observed the other. "He and
his father the Duke of Saxe Coburg Gotha, are to land at Woolwich
between two and three."

"So I heard. The royal carriages have already left to meet her Majesty's
guests."

"Have you ever seen the prince?"

"Once. He was in England, I remember, a short time previous to the
accession of her Majesty."

"Is he good looking?"

"Very. Of course you believe as I do, and as every one else does that
Prince Albert of Saxe Coburg will----"

"Soon be Prince Albert of England."

"Hush! walls have ears!"

The servants having discovered the article of furniture which was the
object of their search, left the room--greatly to the relief of Henry
Holford, whose presence they never for a moment suspected.

Holford had thus accidentally learnt some information which served to
guide his plans. The evening's entertainment was to take place in the
Yellow Drawing Room--an apartment which he could not fail to recognise
by the colour, as one which he had visited before day-break that
morning. He had heard of Prince Albert, whom rumour had already
mentioned as the happy being who had attracted the queen's favour. Every
circumstance now lent its aid to induce the enthusiastic lad to resolve
upon penetrating into the Yellow Drawing Room, by some means or another,
during the afternoon.

It struck the intruder that if the queen intended to receive company in
the Yellow Drawing-room in the evening, she would most probably welcome
her illustrious guests from Germany in some other apartment. He knew,
from the conversation of the two female servants, that the Grand Duke of
Saxe-Coburg Gotha and Prince Albert, were to arrive at five: he presumed
that the inmates of the palace would assemble in those points where they
could command a view of the ducal _cortège_; and he came to the
conclusion that the coast would be most clear for his purposes, at five
o'clock.

Nor was he wrong in his conjectures; for scarcely had two minutes
elapsed after the clock had proclaimed the hour of five, when Henry
Holford was safely ensconced beneath a sofa in the Yellow Drawing Room.

At eight o'clock the servants entered and lighted the lamps. The colour
of the paper and the satin of the furniture enhanced the splendour of
the effulgence thus created in that magnificent saloon.

At half-past nine the door opened again; and Holford's heart beat
quickly, for he now expected the appearance of the sovereign and her
guests. But, no--not yet. Two ladies attached to the court, entered the
drawing-room, and seated themselves upon the sofa beneath which Holford
lay concealed.

"Well--what think you of the young prince?" said one. "Your grace was
seated next to him."

"Very handsome--and so unassuming," was the reply.

"Does your grace really believe that her Majesty is smitten?"

"No doubt of it. How fortunate for the family of the Grand Duke of
Saxe-Coburg!"

"Yes--fortunate on the score of alliance."

"And in a pecuniary point of view."

"Not so much as your grace thinks. There has been an absurd report in
circulation that the grand duke's revenues are so small, none of his
family could venture to appear at the court of Vienna: and also, that
the means of education for the younger branches were always excessively
restricted."

"And are not these reports correct, countess?"

"By no means. Your grace probably is aware that the earl and myself
visited Germany the year before last; and we remained six weeks at
Gotha. The Duke of Saxe-Coburg possesses a considerable civil list, and
a large private fortune. His brother Ferdinand espoused the wealthy
Princess Kohary of Hungary; and another brother, Leopold, married our
lamented Princess Charlotte. It has been stated that Prince Leopold
himself was a simple major in the Austrian service, with nothing but his
pay, when he was fortunate enough to obtain the favour of the Princess
Charlotte: this is so far from being correct, that he never was in the
Austrian service at all, but was a general officer in the Russian army,
enjoying, in addition to his full pay, a princely allowance from his
country."

"Your ladyship has greatly pleased me with these elucidations."

"Your grace honours me with this mark of satisfaction. Prince Albert was
educated at Bonn, on the Rhine. His mental qualifications are said to be
of a very high order; his disposition is amiable; and he has obtained
the affections of all who know him in Germany."

"It is to be hoped that her most gracious Majesty will enjoy a long,
prosperous, and happy reign," said the duchess, in a tone of unfeigned
sincerity.

"Long and prosperous it may be," returned the countess, with a strange
solemnity of voice and manner; "but happy for her--happy for the
sovereign whom we all so much love,--no--that is impossible!"

"Alas! I know to what you allude," observed the duchess, her tone also
changing. "Merciful heavens! is there, then, no perfect happiness in
this world?"

"Where shall perfect happiness be found?" exclaimed the countess, in a
voice of deep melancholy, and with a profound sigh. "Never did any
sovereign ascend the throne under more favourable circumstances than
Victoria. Enshrined in a nation's heart--beloved by millions of human
beings,--wearing the proudest diadem in the universe, and swaying the
sceptre of a dominion extensive as that of Rome, in her most glorious
days,--oh! why should not Victoria be completely happy? Alas! she can
command the affections of her people by her conduct:--the valour of her
subjects, the prowess of her generals, and the dauntless courage of her
admirals, can preserve her empire from all encroachment--all
peril;--wealth can surround her with every luxury, and all the
potentates of the earth may seek her friendship;--but no power--no
dominion--no wealth--no luxury--no love, can exterminate the seeds----"

"Ah! countess--for God's sake, talk not in this manner!" ejaculated the
duchess: "you make me melancholy--so melancholy, that I shall be
dispirited the entire evening."

"Pardon me, my dear friend; but I know not how our discourse gradually
turned upon so sad a subject. And yet the transition must have been
natural," added the countess, in a mournful and plaintive voice; "for,
most assuredly, I should not have voluntarily sought to converse upon so
sad a theme."

"Sad!" cried the duchess; "'tis sufficient to make one's heart bleed. To
think that a young creature whom millions and millions of beings idolize
and adore--whose name is upon every lip--whose virtues and
qualifications are the theme of every pen--whose slightest wish amounts
to a command,--oh! to think that this envied and amiable being should be
haunted, day and night--alone, or when surrounded by all that is most
noble or most lovely in England's aristocracy,--haunted by that dread
fear--that appalling alarm--that dismal apprehension;--oh! it is
intolerable!"

"Alas!" said the countess; "what poor--what miserable creatures are we!
The hand of the Deity mingles gall with the cup of nectar which is drunk
by his elect! There is no situation in life without its vexations."

"Yes--vexations of all kinds!" echoed the duchess; "for those annoyances
which are mere trifles to the lower classes, are grievous afflictions to
us. But----"

At that moment the time-piece upon the mantel proclaimed the half-hour
after ten; and the two ladies rose from the sofa, observing to each
other, that it was time to hasten to attend upon the person of their
royal mistress. They then withdrew.

It may be supposed that Holford had not lost one word of the above
conversation. He had greedily drunk in every word;--but the concluding
portion of it had filled him with the most anxious curiosity, and with
wonder. To what did those dark, mysterious hints bear reference? And how
could the happiness of the sovereign be incomplete? Those two noble
ladies had detailed all the elements of felicity which formed the basis
of the queen's position; and surely sufficient had been enumerated to
prove the perfection of her happiness. And yet, allusion was made to one
source of perpetual fear--one cause of unmixed alarm--one object of
ever-present dread, by which the queen was haunted on all occasions.
What could this be? Conjecture was vain--imagination could suggest
nothing calculated to explain this strange mystery.

Shortly after eleven o'clock the doors were thrown open, and the royal
train made its appearance. On the queen's right hand walked Prince
Albert, the sovereign leaning gently upon his arm. He was dressed in a
court-garb, and wore a foreign order upon his breast. Of slight form and
slender make, his figure was wanting in manliness; but his deportment
was graceful. His eyes beamed kindness; and there was something
peculiarly sweet and pleasant in his smile. His countenance was
expressive of intellect; his conversation was amusing. He was evidently
a very pleasant companion; and when Victoria and Albert walked down the
saloon together, there appeared a certain fitness in their union which
was calculated to strike the most common beholder.

[Illustration]

The queen and the prince seated themselves upon the sofa beneath which
the pot-boy was concealed; and their conversation was plainly overheard
by him. The noble and beauteous guests--the lords and the ladies of the
court--withdrew to a distance; and the royal lovers--for such already
were Victoria and Albert--enjoyed the pleasures of a _tête-à-tête_. We
shall not record any portion of their discourse--animated, interesting,
and tender though it were: suffice it to say, that for a short time they
seemed to forget their high rank, and to throw aside the trammels of
court etiquette, in order to give vent to those natural feelings which
the sovereign has in common with the peasant.

This _tête-à-tête_ lasted for nearly an hour: music and dancing then
ensued; and the entertainment continued until two o'clock in the
morning.

The company retired--the lights were extinguished in the state
apartments--and profound silence once more reigned throughout the
palace.

Holford paid another visit to the larder, and then retraced his steps
unobserved to the lumber-room, where he slept until a late hour in the
morning.




CHAPTER LX.

REVELATIONS.


From the very first moment that Victoria was called to the throne, she
manifested a strict determination to exact a scrupulous observance of
all the rules, regulations, and precedents which related to
court-etiquette and official dignity. The Presence Chamber is never
entered by any one who is not fully conversant with the laws of the
court, and the mode of conduct and demeanour which they enforce. The
rigid maintenance of these rules is nevertheless calculated to render
the queen an isolated being, as it were, amidst her court; for no one is
permitted to commence a conversation nor make a remark until first
addressed by her Majesty. Then every word must be so measured--every
syllable so weighed, that the mere fact of conversing with royalty would
be deemed a complete labour, and even a perilous undertaking by those
not conversant with the routine of a court.

Holford had seen much to surprise and astonish him. The image of the
queen ever haunted his imagination: her voice ever rang in his ears. He
disliked Prince Albert: that low, vulgar, uneducated, despised, obscure
pot-boy, entertained a feeling of animosity,--he scarcely knew
wherefore--against the young German who was evidently destined to become
the husband of England's queen. Again and again did he ponder upon the
mysterious conversation between the two ladies of the court, which he
had overheard;--and he felt an ardent and insuperable longing to fathom
their meaning to the bottom. But how was this to be done? He determined
to obtain access to the drawing-room once more, and trust to the chapter
of accidents to elucidate the mystery.

Accordingly, he contrived that same afternoon, to obtain access to the
royal apartments, without detection, once more; and once more, also, did
he conceal himself beneath the sofa. Fortune appeared to favour his
views and wishes. Not many minutes had elapsed after he had ensconced
himself in his hiding-place, when the two ladies, whose conversation had
so much interested him on the preceding day, slowly entered the Yellow
Drawing-Room.

The following dialogue then took place:--

"How very awkward the viscount was last evening, my dear duchess. He
would insist upon turning the pages for me when I sate at the grand
pianoforte; and he was always too soon or too late, although he
pretended to read the _fantasia_ which I played, bar by bar."

"That is very provoking!" said the duchess. "I believe there is to be a
Drawing-Room to-morrow, at St. James's?"

"Yes: your grace must have forgotten that her Majesty decided last
evening upon holding one."

"How many a young heart is fluttering now with anxiety and eager
anticipation of to-morrow!" observed the duchess. "A Drawing-Room is
most formidable to the novice in court affairs. But the most
entertaining portion of the embarrassment of the novice, is the fear
that the gentleman who bears the name of the _Court Circular_, and who
is invariably stationed in the Presence Chamber, may omit to mention her
presence in the report which he draws up for the newspapers."

"George the Third and his consort held Drawing-Rooms weekly, for many
years," said the countess. "George the Fourth held Drawing-Rooms but
very seldom. William and Adelaide usually held about five or six in a
season. And, after all, what can be more magnificent--what more
eminently calculated to sustain the honour and dignity of the crown,[72]
than a British Court Drawing-Room? The tasteful dresses of the
ladies--the blaze of diamonds--the waving ostrich plumes and
lappets--the gold net--the costly tulle, constitute rather the
characterstics of an oriental fiction than the reality of the present
day."

"The most magnificent Drawing-Rooms, in my opinion," observed the
duchess, "are those which we call _Collar Days_. The appearance of the
Knights of the Garter, St. Patrick, the Thistle, the Cross and Bath, and
all English orders, in their respective collars and jewels, in the
presence of the sovereign, is splendid in the extreme."

"And how crowded upon Drawing-Room days are all the passages and
corridors of St. James's Palace," continued the countess. "On the last
occasion many of the peers and peeresses of the highest rank were
compelled thus to wait for nearly three hours before their carriages
could reach the palace-gates."

"The most beautiful view of splendid equipages is found in a glance upon
the Ambassador's Court at Saint James's, the carriages of the foreign
ministers being decidedly the finest and most tasteful that are seen in
the vicinity of the palace on those occasions."

"Of a truth, this must be the most splendid court in the world," said
the countess,--"since France became half republican (how I hate the
odious word _Republic_!), and since Spain was compelled to copy France."

"Yes--our court is the most splendid in the world," echoed the duchess,
in a tone of triumph, as if her grace were well aware that of that court
she herself formed a brilliant ornament; "and more splendid still will
it be when the queen shall have conferred her hand upon the interesting
young prince who arrived yesterday."

"Have you heard when the royal intentions to contract an union with his
Serene Highness Prince Albert, will be communicated to the country?"

"Not until the close of the year; and the marriage will therefore take
place at the commencement of 1840. The prince will pay but a short visit
upon this occasion, and then return to Germany until within a short
period of the happy day."

"God send that the union may be a happy one!" ejaculated the countess.
"But----"

"Oh! my dear friend, do not relapse again into those gloomy forebodings
which rendered me melancholy all yesterday evening," interrupted the
duchess.

"Alas! your grace is well aware of my devoted attachment to our royal
mistress; and if there be times when I tremble for the consequences
of----"

"Breathe it not--give not utterance to the bare idea!" cried the
duchess, in a tone of the most unfeigned horror. "Providence will never
permit an entire empire to experience so great a misfortune as this!"

"Maladies of that kind are hereditary," said the
countess, solemnly;--"maladies of that species descend through
generations--unsparing--pitiless--regardless of rank, power, or
position;--oh! it is horrible to contemplate!"

"Horrible--most horrible!" echoed the duchess. "The mind that thus
labours under constant terror of the approach of that fearful malady,
requires incessant excitement--perpetual change of scene; and this
restlessness which we have observed on the part of our beloved
Sovereign--and those intervals of deep gloom and depression of spirits,
when that craving after variety and bustle is not indulged--"

"Are all----"

"Oh! I comprehend you too well."

"And marriage in such a case----"

"Perpetuates the disease! Yes--yes--we must surround our sovereign with
all our love, all our affection, all our devotion--for bitter, bitter
are the moments of solitary meditation experienced at intervals by our
adored mistress."

"Such is our duty--such our desire," said the countess. "The entire
family of George the Third has inherited the seeds of disease--physical
and mental----"

"Scrofula and insanity," said the duchess, with a cold shudder.

"Which were inherent in that monarch," added the countess. "Did your
grace ever hear the real cause and spring of that development of mental
alienation in George the Third?"

"I know not precisely to what incident your ladyship alludes," said the
duchess.

"That unhappy sovereign," resumed the countess, "when Prince of Wales,
fell in love with a beautiful young Quakeress, whose name was Hannah
Lightfoot, and whom he first beheld at the window of a house in Saint
James's Street. For some time his Royal Highness and the young lady met
in secret, and enjoyed each other's society. At length the passion of
the prince arrived at that point when he discovered that his happiness
entirely depended upon his union with Hannah Lightfoot. His Royal
Highness confided his secret to his next brother Edward, to Dr. Wilmot
(who was really the author of the letters of Junius), and to my mother.
Those personages were the only witnesses of the legal marriage of the
Prince of Wales with Hannah Lightfoot, which was solemnized by Dr.
Wilmot, in Curzon Street Chapel, May Fair, in the year 1759."

"I have heard that such a connection existed," said the duchess; "but I
never thought until now that it was of so serious and solemn a nature."

"Your grace may rely upon the truth of what I now tell you. Not long
after the prince came to the throne, the Ministers discovered his
connection with the Quakeress. The 'Royal Marriage Act' was ultimately
framed to prevent such occurrences with regard to future princes; but it
did not annul the union between George the Third and Hannah Lightfoot."

"Was there any issue from this marriage?" inquired the duchess.

"There _was_ issue," answered the countess solemnly, a deep gloom
suddenly passing over her countenance. "At my mother's death I
discovered certain papers which revealed to me many, many strange events
connected with the court of George the Third; and in which she was a
confidant. But the history of Hannah Lightfoot is a sad one--a very
melancholy one; and positively can I assert that it led to the
subsequent mental aberration of the king."

"And there was issue resulting from that union, your ladyship says?"
exclaimed the duchess, deeply interested in these disclosures.

"Yes--there was, there was!" returned the countess. "But do not question
me any more at present--on a future occasion I will place in the hands
of your grace the papers which my deceased mother left behind her, and
which I have carefully treasured up in secret--unknown even to my
husband!"

"And are the revelations so very interesting?" demanded the duchess.

"The events which have taken place in the family of George the Third
would make your hair stand on end," replied the countess, sinking her
voice almost to a whisper. "But, pray--question me no more at present.
Another time--another time," she added hastily, "you shall know all that
I know!"

There was something so exceedingly mysterious and exciting in the tone
and manner of the countess, that the duchess evidently burned with
curiosity to make further inquiries. But her fair companion avoided the
subject with terror and disgust; and the conversation accordingly
reverted to the engagement existing between Prince Albert and Queen
Victoria. Nothing more was, however, said which we deem it necessary to
record;--but when the two ladies had retired from the apartment, Holford
had plenty of food for mental digestion. He had discovered the fatal
drawback to the perfect happiness of his sovereign; and he now perceived
that those who dwell in palaces, and wear diadems upon their brows, are
not beyond the reach of the sharpest arrows of misfortune.

During the remainder of that evening Holford was the uninterrupted
possessor of the Yellow Drawing-Room. There was a grand ball in another
suite of apartments; but it was not until between three and four o'clock
in the morning that the pot-boy considered it safe to quit his
hiding-place.

He was now undecided whether to beat a retreat from the royal dwelling,
or to favour it with his presence a little longer. The last conversation
which he had overheard between the duchess and the countess, had excited
within him the most lively interest; and he was anxious to hear more of
those strange revelations connected with the family of George the Third,
a continuation of which the countess had appeared to promise her noble
friend. He was moreover emboldened by the success which had hitherto
attended his adventures in the palace; and he consequently resolved upon
prolonging his stay in a place where a morbid taste for the romantic
encountered such welcome food.

Upon leaving the Yellow Drawing-Room, at about half-past three in the
morning, as before stated, Holford proceeded to the pantry to lay in a
supply of provender, as usual. He was so pressed with hunger upon this
occasion, that he commenced an immediate attack upon the provisions; and
was thus pleasantly engaged when, to his horror and dismay, he beheld
the shadow of a human form suddenly pass along the wall--for he was
standing with his back to the lamp that was burning in the passage.

He turned round--and his eyes encountered the cadaverous and sinister
countenance of the Resurrection Man.

"Well this _is_ fortunate," said the latter.

"What! you here!" ejaculated Holford, trembling from head to foot.

"Yes--certainly: why not?" said the Resurrection Man. "It struck me that
as you never came near me and the Cracksman, you must be still in the
royal crib; and I considered that to be a sign that all was right. So I
mustered up my courage, and came to look after you. The Cracksman's
waiting on the hill."

"Then let us leave this place immediately," cried Holford. "We can do
nothing at present--I was going to take my departure within an hour.
Come--let us go; and I will tell you every thing when we are in a place
of security."

"What's the meaning of this?" demanded the Resurrection Man. "You can't
have been here all this time without having found out where the plate is
kept."

"Listen for one moment," said Holford, a sudden idea striking him: "the
queen leaves for Windsor the day after to-morrow--then will be the time
to do what you require; and I can give you all the information you will
want. At present nothing can be done--nothing; and if we stay here much
longer we shall be discovered."

"Well," said the Resurrection Man; "provided that some good will result
from your visit----"

"There will--there will."

"Then I must follow your advice; for of course you are better able to
judge of what can be done and what can't be done in this crib, than me."

The Resurrection Man glanced around him; but fortunately there was no
plate left upon the shelves on this occasion. Holford felt inwardly
pleased at this circumstance; for the idea of abstracting anything
beyond a morsel of food from the palace was abhorrent to his mind.

The Resurrection Man intimated that he was ready to depart; and the
pot-boy was only too glad to be the means of hurrying him away.

They left the palace, and entered the gardens, which they threaded in
safety. A profound silence reigned around: the morning air was chill and
piercing. The fresh atmosphere was nevertheless most welcome and
cheering to the young pot-boy, who had passed so many hours in close and
heated rooms.

They reached the wall on Constitution Hill in safety, and in a few
moments were beyond the enclosure of the royal domains.




CHAPTER LXI.

THE "BOOZING KEN" ONCE MORE.


Morning dawned upon the great metropolis.

The landlord and landlady of the "Boozing-Ken" on Saffron Hill were
busily employed, as we have seen them upon a former occasion, in
dispensing glasses of "all sorts" to their numerous customers. The bar
was surrounded by every thing the most revolting, the most hideous, and
the most repulsive in human shape.

"Well, Joe," said the landlord to a man dressed like a butcher, and
whose clothes emitted a greasy and carrion-like smell, "what news down
at Cow Cross?"

"Nothink partikler," answered the man, who followed the pleasant and
agreeable calling of a journeyman-knacker. "We have been precious full
of work lately--and that's all I knows or cares about. Seventy-nine
horses I see knocked down yesterday; and out of them, fifty-three was so
awful diseased and glandered when they was brought in, that we was
obleeged to kill 'em and cut 'em up with masks and gloves on. It was but
three weeks ago that we lost our best man, Ben Biddle:--you recollects
Ben Biddle?"

"I knowed him well," said the landlord. "He took his 'morning' here
reglar for sixteen years, and never owed a penny."

"But do you know how he died?" demanded the knacker, staring the
landlord significantly in the face.

"Can't say that I do."

"He died of a fearful disease which is getting more and more amongst
human creeturs every day," continued the knacker:--"he died of the
glanders!"

"The glanders!" ejaculated the landlady, with a shudder; and all the
persons who were taking their "morning" at the bar crowded around the
knacker to hear the particulars of Ben Biddle's death.

"You see," resumed the knacker, now putting on a very solemn and
important air, "there is more diseased horses sold in Smithfield-Market
than sound 'uns. The art of doctoring a dying horse so that he looks as
lively and sound as possible to any one which ain't wery knowing in them
matters, is come to sich a pitch, that I'm blowed if the wisest ain't
taken in at times. We have horses come into our yard that was bought the
same morning in Smithfield, and seemed slap-up animals; but in a few
hours the effects of the stimulants given to 'em goes off, the plugs
falls out of their noses, and there they are at the point of death.
Why--if a horse has got four white feet, they'll paint three, or perhaps
all on 'em black; and _that part_ of the deception isn't never found out
till they're flayed in our yard."

"But about poor Biddle?" said the landlord.

"Well, in comes a horse one day," continued the knacker; "and although
we saw he was dead lame and altogether done up, we never suspected that
he had the glanders. So Ben Biddle had the killing on him. He drives the
pole-axe into the animal's skull; and he takes the wire and thrusts it
into the brain as business-like as possible. While he was stooping over
the beast, his hat falls off his head, and his handkerchief, which he
always carried in his hat, fell just upon the horse's mouth. The brute
snorted out a last groan at the wery moment that Ben picks up his
handkerchief. So Ben puts the handkerchief again into his hat, and puts
his hat upon his head; and away we all goes to the public-house to have
a drop of half-and-half."

"Very right too," said the landlord who no doubt spoke feelingly.

"Well," proceeded the knacker, "Ben drinks his share, and presently he
takes his handkerchief out of his hat quite permiscuous like, and wipes
his face. In a few minutes he feels a strange pain in the eyes just as
if some dust had got in;--but he did'nt think much on it, and so we all
goes back to the yard. In a few hours Ben was taken so bad he was
obliged to give up work; and by eight or nine o'clock we was forced to
take him to Bartholomew's Hospital. He was seized with dreadful fits of
womiting; and matter come out of his nose, eyes, and month. By the
morning his face was all covered over with sores; holes appeared in his
eyes, just for all the world as if they had got a most tremendous
small-pox in 'em; and his nose fell off. By three o'clock in the
arternoon he was a dead man; and I heerd say that he died in the most
awful agonies."

"And that was the glanders?" said the landlady.

"Yes: he got 'em by wiping his face with the pocket-handkerchief that
had fallen on the horse's nostrils."

"How shocking!" ejaculated several voices.

"And is the glanders increasing?" asked the landlord.

"The glanders _is_ increasing," answered the knacker; "and I feel
convinced that it will soon become a disease as reglar amongst human
beings as the small-pox or measles; 'cos the authorities doesn't do
their duty in preventing the sale of diseased animals."

"And how would you remedy the evil?"

"I would have the Lord Mayor and Corporation appoint a proper veterinary
surgeon as Inspector in Smithfield Market--a man of great experience and
knowledge, who won't let himself be humbugged or gammoned by any of
those infernal thieves that gets a living--aye, and makes fortunes too,
by selling diseased animals doctored up for the occasion."

"Yes--that's certainly a capital plan of your'n," said the landlord
approvingly. "But what becomes of all the flesh of the horses that go to
your yards?"

"You may divide the horses that's killed by the knacker into three
sorts," answered the man: "that is--first, those horses that is quite
healthy but that has met with accidents in their limbs; second, those
that is perhaps the least thing diseased, or in the wery last stage
through old age; and third, those that is altogether rotten. The flesh
of the first is bought by men whose business it is to boil it carefully,
and sell it to the sassage-makers: it makes the sassages firm, and is
much better than beef. There isn't a sassage shop in London that don't
use it. Then the tongues of these first-rate animals goes to the
butchers, who salts and pickles 'em: and I'm blow'd if any one could
tell 'em from the best ox-tongues."

"Well, I'll never eat sassages or tongues again!" cried the landlady.

"Oh! nonsense--it's all fancy!" exclaimed the knacker. "Half the tongues
that is sold for ox-tongues is horses' tongues. A knowing hand may
always tell 'em, 'cos they're rayther longer and thinner: for my part, I
like 'em just as well--every bit."

"And the flesh of the second sort of horses?"

"That goes to supply the cat's-meat men in the swell neighbourhoods; and
the third sort, that is altogether putrid and rotten, is taken up by the
cat's-meat men in the poor neighbourhoods."

"And do you mean to say that there's a difference even in cat's-meat
between the rich and the poor customers?" demanded the landlord.

"Do I mean to say so?" repeated the knacker, in a tone which showed that
he was surprised at the question being asked: "why, of course I do! The
poor may be pisoned--and very often is too--for what the rich cares a
fig. I can tell you more too: some of the first class horses'-meat--the
sound and good, remember--is made into what's called _hung-beef_; some
is potted; some is sold to the boarding-schools round London, where they
takes in young gen'lemen and ladies at a wery low rate; and some is
disposed of--but, no--I don't dare tell you--"

"Yes--do tell us!" said the landlady, in a coaxing tone.

"Do--there's a good fellow," cried the landlord.

"Come, tell us," exclaimed a dozen voices.

"No--no--I can't--I should get myself into a scrape, perhaps," said the
knacker, who was only putting a more keen edge upon the curiosity which
he had excited, for he intended to yield all the time.

"We won't say a word," observed the landlady.

"And I'll stand a quartern of blue ruin," added the landlord, "with
three outs--for you, me, and the missus."

"Well--if I must, I must," said the knacker, with affected reluctance.
"The fact is," he continued slowly, as if he were weighing every word he
uttered, "some of the primest bits of the first-rate flesh that goes out
of the knackers' yards of this wast metropolis is sent to the workuses!"

"The workhouses!" ejaculated the landlady: "oh, what a horror!"

"An abomination!" cried the landlord, filling three wine-glasses with
gin.

"It is God's truth--and now that I've said it, I'll stick to it," said
the knacker.

"It's a shame--a burning shame!" screamed a female voice. "My poor old
mother's in the Union, after having paid rates and taxes for forty-two
year; and if they make her eat horse's flesh, I'd like to know whether
this country is governed by savages or not."

"And my brother's in a workus too," said a poor decrepit old man; "and
he once kept his carriage and dined in company with George the Third at
Guildhall, where he'd no end of turtle and venison. But, lack-a-daisy!
this is a sad falling off, if he's to come down to horse-flesh in his
old age."

"What's the use of all this here whining and nonsense, eh?" exclaimed
the knacker. "Don't I tell you that good horse-flesh answers all the
purposes of beef, and is eaten by the rich in the shape of sassages and
tongues? What's the use, then, of making a fuss about it? How do you
suppose the sassage-shops can afford to sell solid meat, without bone,
at the price they do, if they didn't mix it with horses'-flesh? They
pays two-pence a-pound for the first-class flesh--and so it must be
good."

"Never mind," ejaculated a voice: "it's a shame to give paupers only a
few ounces of meat a-week, and let _that_ be horses'-flesh. It's high
time these things was put an end to. Why don't the people take their own
affairs in their own hands?"

"Come, now," said the knacker, assuming a dictatorial air, and placing
his arms akimbo; "perhaps you ain't aweer that good first-class
horses'-flesh is better than half the meat that is sold in certain
markets--I shan't say which--for the benefit of the poor. Now you toddle
out on Sunday night, on the Holloway, Liverpool, Mile End, and Hackney
roads, and see the sheep, and oxen, and calves, coming into London for
the next morning's market. Numbers of the poor beasts fall down and die
through sheer fatigue. They're flayed and cut up all the same for the
butcher's market. And what do you think becomes of all the beasts that
die of disease and so on, in the fields? Do you suppose they're wasted?
No such a thing! _They_ are all cut up _too_ for consumption. Just take
a walk on a Saturday night through a certain market, _after_ the gas is
lighted--not _before_, mind--and look at the meat which is marked cheap.
You'll see beef at two-pence half-penny a pound, and veal at
three-pence. But what sort of stuff is it? Diseased--rotten! The
butchers rub it over with fresh suet or fat, and that gives it a
brighter appearance and a better smell. Howsomever, they can't perwent
the meat from being quite thin, shrunk, poor, and flabby upon the bone."

"I'll bear witness to the truth of all wot you've been saying this last
time," said a butcher's lad, stepping forward.

"Of course you can," exclaimed the knacker, casting a triumphant glance
around him. "And do you know," he continued, "that half the diseases and
illnesses which takes hold on us without any wisible cause, and which
sometimes puzzles the doctors themselves, comes from eating this bad
meat that I've been talkin' about. Now, tell me--ain't a bit out of a
good healthy horse, that was killed in a reg'lar way, with the blood
flowing, better than a joint off a old cow that dropped down dead of the
yallows in a field during the night, and wasn't found so till the
morning?"

With these words the knacker took his departure, leaving his hearers
disgusted, indignant, and astonished at what they had heard.

As the clock struck nine, the Resurrection Man and the Cracksman entered
the "Boozing Ken." They repaired straight into the parlour, and seemed
disappointed at not finding there some one whom they evidently expected.

"He ain't come yet, the young spark," said the Cracksman. "And yet he's
had plenty of time to go home and get a change o' linen and that like."

"May be he has turned into bed and had a good snooze," observed the
Resurrection Man. "He is not so accustomed to remain up all night as we
are."

"I think his head is rag'lar turned with what he has seen in the great
crib yonder. He seemed to give sich exceeding wague answers to the
questions we put to him as we walked through the park this morning. I've
heerd say that the conwersation of great people is wery gammoning, and
that they can't always understand each other: so, if young Holford has
been listening to their fine talk, it's no wonder he's got crankey."

"Humbug!" ejaculated the Resurrection Man, sulkily. "Let's have some
egg-flip, and we'll wait for him. If he comes he shall give us all the
information we want; and if he doesn't, we will lay wait for him, carry
him off to the crib, and let the Mummy take care of him till he chooses
to speak."

"Yes--that'll be the best plan," said the Cracksman. "But don't you
think it's a wery likely thing he wants to have the whole business to
himself?"

"That's just what I _do_ think," answered the Resurrection Man, "he'll
find himself mistaken, though--I rather fancy."

"So do I," echoed the Cracksman. "But let's have this egg-flip."

With these words he ordered the beverage; and, in due time a quart pot
filled with the inviting compound, with a foaming head, and exhaling a
strong odour of spices, was brought in by a paralytic waiter, who had
succeeded the slip-shod girl mentioned on a former occasion.

"Good stuff this," said the Cracksman, smacking his lips. "I wonder
whether poor Buffer has got anythink half so good this morning."

"What's to-day? Oh! Friday," mused the Resurrection Man, as he sipped
his quantum of flip from a tumbler, with a relish equal to that evinced
by his companion: "let's see--what's the fare to-day in Clerkenwell
Prison?"

"Lord! don't you recollect all that?" cried the Cracksman; and taking a
piece of chalk from his pocket, he wrote the Dietary Table of
Clerkenwell New Prison upon the wall:--

                         |  Soup.  |  Gruel. |   Meat.   |  Bread.
                         +---------+---------+-----------+-----------
                         | _Pint._ | _Pint._ | _Ounces._ | _Ounces._
  Monday                 |   ..    |  2½     |    ..     |    20
  Tuesday                |   ..    |  1½     |     6     |    20
  Wednesday              |   ..    |  2½     |    ..     |    20
  Thursday               |   ..    |  2½     |    ..     |    20
  Friday                 |    1    |  1½     |    ..     |    20
  Saturday               |   ..    |  1½     |     6     |    20
  Sunday                 |    1    |  1½     |    ..     |    20
                         +---------+---------+-----------+-----------
  Total Weekly Allowance |    2    | 13½     |    12     |   140

"That's a nice allowance for a strong healthy fellow!" exclaimed the
Resurrection Man contemptuously. "One month upon that will make his
flesh as soft and flabby as possible. It's a shame, by heavens! to kill
human beings by inches in that way!"

"What a precious fool the Buffer _has_ made of himself!" said the
Cracksman after a pause.

"The Buffer!" ejaculated the paralytic waiter, who had been affecting to
dust a table as an excuse to linger in the room with the chance of
obtaining an invitation to partake of the flip: "is any thing wrong with
the Buffer?"

"Safe in lavender," answered the Cracksman, coolly; "and ten to one
he'll swing for it."

"My eyes! I'm very sorry to hear that," cried the waiter. "He was a
capital fellow, and never took the change when he gave me a joey[73] to
pay for his three-penn'orth of rum of a morning."

"Well, he's done it brown at last, at all events," continued the
Cracksman.

"What _has_ he done?" asked the waiter.

"Why--what he isn't likely to have a chance of doing again," answered
the Cracksman. "I suppose you know that he married Moll Flairer, the
sister of him as was killed by Bill Bolter at the Old House in Chick
Lane, three years or so ago? Well--he had a child by Moll; and a very
pretty little creetur it was. Even a fellow like me that can't be
supposed to have much feeling for that kind of thing, used to love to
play with that little child. It was a girl; and I never did see such
sweet blue eyes, and soft flaxy hair. The moment she was born, off goes
the Buffer and subscribes to half a dozen _burying clubs_. The
secretaries and treasurers was all exceedin' glad to see him, took his
tin, and put down his name. This was about two year ago. He kept up all
his payments reg'lar; and he was also precious reg'lar in keeping up
such a system of ill-treatment, that the poor little thing seemed
sinking under it. Now, as I said before, I'm not the most remarkablest
man in London for feeling; but I'm blow'd if I couldn't have cried
sometimes to see the way in which the Buffer and Moll would use that
child. I've seen it standing in a pail of cold water, stark naked, in
the middle of winter, when the ice was floating on the top; and because
it cried, its mother would take a rope, half an inch thick, and belabour
its poor back. Then they half starved it, and made it sleep on the bare
boards. But the little thing loved its parents for all that; and when
the Buffer beat Moll, I've seen that poor child creep up to her, and say
in such a soft tone, '_Don't cry, mother!_' Perhaps all the reward it
got for that was a good weltering. How the child stood it all so long, I
can't say: the Buffer thought she never would die; so he determined to
put an end to it at once. And yet he didn't want money, for we had had
some good things lately, what with one thing and another. All I know is
that he first takes the little child and flings it down stairs; he then
puts it to bed, and sends his wife to the doctor's for some medicine,
and into the medicine he pours some laudanum. The little creature went
to sleep smiling at him; and never woke no more. This was two days ago.
Yesterday the Buffer goes round to all the _burying clubs_, and gives
notice of the death of the child. But some how or another the thing got
wind; one of the secretaries of a club takes a surgeon along with him to
the Buffer's lodgings, and all's blown."

"Well--I never heard of such a rig as that before," exclaimed the
waiter.

"As for the rig," observed the Cracksman, coolly, "that is common
enough. Ever since the _burial societies_ and _funeral clubs_ came into
existence, nothink has been more common than these child-murders. A man
in full work can very well afford to pay a few halfpence a-week to each
club that he subscribes to, even supposing he puts his name down to a
dozen. Then those that don't kill their children right out, do it by
means of exposure, neglect, and all kinds of horrible treatment; and so
it's easy enough for a man to get forty or fifty pounds in this way at
one sweep."

"So it is--so it is," said the waiter: "_burial clubs_ afford a regular
premium upon the murder of young children. Ah! London's a wonderful
place--a wonderful place! Every thing of that kind is invented and got
up first in London. I really do think that London beats all other cities
in the world for matters of that sort. Look, for instance, what a
blessed thing it is that the authorities seldom or never attempt to
alter what they call the _low neighbourhoods_: why, it's the low
neighbourhoods that make such gentlemen as you two, and affords you the
means of concealment, and existence, and occupation, and every thing
else. Supposing there was no boozing-kens, and patter-cribs like this,
how would such gentlemen as you two get on? Ah! London is a fine
place--a very fine place; and I hope I shall never live to see the day
when it will be spoilt by improvement!"

"Come, there's a good deal of reason in all that," exclaimed the
Resurrection Man. "Here, my good fellow," he added, turning to the
waiter, "drink this tumbler of egg-hot for your fine speech."

The waiter did not require to be asked twice, but imbibed the smoking
beverage with infinite satisfaction to himself.

"I never heard any thing more true than what that fellow has just said,"
observed the Resurrection Man to his companion in iniquity. "Only
suppose, now, that all Saint Giles's, Clerkenwell, Bethnal Green, and
the Mint were _improved_, as they call it, where the devil would crime
take refuge?--for no one knows better than you and me that we should
uncommon soon have to give up business if we hadn't dark and narrow
streets to operate in, cribs like this ken to meet and plan in, and the
low courts and alleys to conceal ourselves in. Lord! what indeed would
London be to us if it was all like the West-End?"

"And so the fact is that the authorities very kindly leave in existence
and undisturbed, those very places which give birth to you gentlemen in
the first instance," said the waiter, "and sustain you afterwards."

"Well, you ain't very far wrong, old feller," exclaimed the Cracksman.
"But, blow me, if this ever struck me before."

"Nor me, neither," said the Resurrection Man, "till the flunkey started
the subject."

"Ah! there's a many things that has struck me since I've been in the
waiter-line in flash houses of this kind," observed the paralytic
attendant, shaking his head solemnly; "but one curious fact I've
noticed,--which is, that in nine cases out of ten the laws themselves
make men take to bad ways, and then punish them for acting under their
influence."

"I don't understand that," said the Cracksman.

"I do, though," exclaimed the Resurrection Man; "and I mean to say that
the flunkey is quite right. We ain't born bad: something then must have
made us bad. If I had been in the Duke of Wellington's place, I should
be an honourable and upright man like him; and if he had been in my
place, he would be--what I am."

"Of course he would," echoed the waiter.

"Now I understand," cried the Cracksman.

"I tell you what we'll do," said the Resurrection Man, after a few
moments' reflection; "this devil of a Holford doesn't appear to hurry
himself, and the rain has just begun to fall in torrents;--so we'll have
another quart of flip, and the flunkey shall sit down with us and enjoy
it; and I will just tell you the history of my own life, by way of
passing away the time. Perhaps you may find," added the Resurrection
Man, "that it helps to bear out the flunkey's remark, _that in nine
cases out of ten the laws themselves make us take to bad ways, and then
punish us for acting under their influence_."

The second supply of flip was procured; the door of the parlour was
shut; room was made for the paralytic waiter near the fire; and the
Resurrection Man commenced his narrative in the following manner.




CHAPTER LXII.

THE RESURRECTION MAN'S HISTORY.


"I was born thirty-eight years ago, near the village of Walmer, in Kent.
My father and mother occupied a small cottage--or rather hovel, made of
the wreck of a ship, upon the sea-coast. Their ostensible employment was
that of fishing: but it would appear that smuggling and body-snatching
also formed a portion of my father's avocations. The rich inhabitants of
Walmer and Deal encouraged him in his contraband pursuits, by purchasing
French silks, gloves, and scents of him: the gentlemen, moreover, were
excellent customers for French brandy, and the ladies for dresses and
perfumes. The clergyman of Walmer and his wife were our best patrons in
this way; and in consequence of the frequent visits they paid our
cottage, they took a sort of liking to me. The parson made me attend the
national school regularly every Sunday; and when I was nine years old he
took me into his service to clean the boots and knives, brush the
clothes, and so forth. I was then very fond of reading, and used to pass
all my leisure time in studying books which he allowed me to take out of
his library. This lasted till I was twelve years old, when my father was
one morning arrested on a charge of smuggling, and taken to Dover
Castle. The whole neighbourhood expressed their surprise that a man who
appeared to be so respectable, should turn out such a villain. The
gentlemen who used to buy brandy of him talked loudly of the necessity
of making an example of him: the ladies, who were accustomed to purchase
gloves, silks, and _eau-de-cologne_, wondered that such a desperate
ruffian should have allowed them to sleep safe in their beds; and of
course the clergyman and his wife kicked me ignominiously out of doors.
As all things of this nature create a sensation in a small community,
the parson preached a sermon upon the subject on the following Sunday,
choosing for his text '_Render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's,
and unto God the things that are God's_,' and earnestly enjoining all
his congregation to unite in deprecating the conduct of a man who had
brought disgrace upon a neighbourhood till then famed for its loyalty,
its morality, and its devotion to the laws of the country.

"My father was acquitted for want of evidence, and returned home after
having been in prison six months waiting for his trial. In the mean time
my mother and myself were compelled to receive parish relief: not one of
the fine ladies and gentlemen who had been the indirect means of getting
my father into a scrape by encouraging him in his illegal pursuits,
would notice us. My mother called upon several; but their doors were
banged in her face. When I appeared at the Sunday School, the parson
expelled me, declaring that I was only calculated to pollute honest and
good boys; and the beadle thrashed me soundly for daring to attempt to
enter the church. All this gave me a very strange idea of human nature,
and set me a-thinking upon the state of society. Just at that period a
baronet in the neighbourhood was proved to be the owner of a smuggling
vessel, and to be pretty deep in the contraband business himself. He was
compelled to run away: an Exchequer process, I think they call it,
issued against his property; and every thing he possessed was swept
away. It appeared that he had been smuggling for years, and had
defrauded the revenue to an immense amount. He was a widower: but he had
three children--two boys and a girl, at school in the neighbourhood. Oh!
then what sympathy was created for these '_poor dear bereaved little
ones_,' as the parson called them in a charity sermon which he preached
for their benefit. And there they were, marshalled into the parson's own
pew, by the beadle; and the parson's wife wept over them. Subscriptions
were got up for them;--the mayor of Deal took one boy, the banker
another, and the clergyman's wife took charge of the girl; and never was
seen so much weeping, and consoling, and compassion before!

"Well, at that time my mother had got so thin, and weak, and ill,
through want and affliction, that her neighbours gave her the name of
the _Mummy_, which she has kept ever since. My father came home, and was
shunned by every body. The baronet's uncle happened to die at that
period, and left his nephew an immense fortune:--the baronet paid all
the fines, settled the Exchequer matters, and returned to Walmer. A
triumphal reception awaited him: balls, parties, concerts, and routs
took place in honour of the event;--and the mayor, the banker and the
clergyman and his wife were held up as the patterns of philanthropy and
humanity. Of course the baronet rewarded them liberally for having taken
care of his children in the hour of need.

"This business again set me a-thinking; and I began to comprehend that
birth and station made an immense difference in the views that the world
adopted of men's actions. My father, who had only higgled and fiddled
with smuggling affairs upon a miserably small scale, was set down as the
most atrocious monster unhung, because he was one of the common herd;
but the baronet, who had carried on a systematic contraband trade to an
immense amount, was looked upon as a martyr to tyrannical laws, because
he was one of the upper classes and possessed a title. So my disposition
was soured by these proofs of human injustice, at my very entrance upon
life.

"Up to this period, in spite of the contemplation of the lawless trade
carried on by my father, I had been a regular attendant at church and at
the Sunday-school; and I declare most solemnly that I never went to
sleep at night, nor commenced my morning's avocations, without saying my
prayers. But when my father got into trouble, the beadle kicked me out
of church, and the parson drove me out of the school; and so I began to
think that if my religion was only serviceable and available as long as
my father remained unharmed by the law, it could not be worth much. From
that moment I never said another prayer, and never opened a bible or
prayer-book. Still I was inclined to labour to obtain an honest
livelihood; and I implored my father, upon my knees, not to force me to
assist in his proceedings of smuggling and body-snatching, to both which
he was compelled by dire necessity to return the moment he was released
from gaol. He told me I was a fool to think of living honestly, as the
world would not let me; but he added that I might make the trial.

"Pleased with this permission, and sincerely hoping that I might obtain
some occupation, however menial, which would enable me to eat the bread
of honest toil, I went round to all the farmers in the neighbourhood,
and offered to enter their service as a plough-boy or a stable-boy. The
moment they found out who I was, they one and all turned me away from
their doors. One said, '_Like father, like son_;'--another asked if I
was mad, to think that I could thus thrust myself into an honest
family;--a third laughed in my face;--a fourth threatened to have me
taken up for wanting to get into his house to commit a felony;--a fifth
swore that there was gallows written upon my countenance;--a sixth
ordered his men to loosen the bulldog at me;--and a seventh would have
had me ducked in his horse-pond, if I had not run away.

"Dispirited, but not altogether despairing, I returned home. On the
following day, I walked into Deal, (which almost joins Walmer) and
called at several tradesmen's shops to inquire if they wanted an
errand-boy. My reception by these individuals was worse than that which
I had met with at the hands of the farmers. One asked me if I thought he
would run the risk of having his house indicted as the receptacle for
thieves and vagabonds;--a second pointed to his children, and said, '_Do
you suppose I want to bring them up in the road to the gallows?_'--a
third locked up his till in affright, and threatened to call a
constable;--and a fourth lashed me severely with a horse-whip.

"Still I was not totally disheartened. I determined to call upon some of
those ladies and gentlemen who had been my father's best customers for
his contraband articles. One lady upon hearing my business, seized hold
of the poker with one hand and her salts-bottle with the other;--a
second was also nearly fainting, and rang the bell for her maid to bring
her some _eau-de-cologne_--the very _eau-de-cologne_ which my father had
smuggled for her;--a third begged me with tears in her eyes to retire,
or my very suspicions appearance would frighten her lap-dog into
fits;--and a fourth (an old lady, who was my father's best customer for
French brandy), held up her hands to heaven, and implored the Lord to
protect her from all sabbath-breakers, profane swearers, and drunkards.

"Finding that I had nothing to expect from the ladies, I tried the
gentlemen who had been accustomed to patronise my father previous to his
_misfortune_. The first swore at me like a trooper, and assured me that
he had always prophesied I should go wrong:--the second spoke civilly,
and regretted that his excellent advice had been all thrown away upon my
father, whom he had vainly endeavered to avert from his wicked courses
(it was for smuggling things for this gentleman that my father had been
arrested);--and the third made no direct answer, but shook his head
solemnly, and wondered what the world was coming to.

"I was now really reduced to despair. I, however, resolved to try some
of the very poorest tradesmen in the town. By these miserable creatures
I was received with compassionate interest; and my case was fully
comprehended by them. Some even gave me a few halfpence; and one made me
sit down and dine with him, his wife, and his children. They, however,
one and all declared _that they could not take me into their service,
for, if they did, they would be sure to offend all their customers_.
Thus was it that the overbearing conduct and atrocious tyranny of the
more wealthy part of the community, compelled the poorer portion to
smother all sympathy in my behalf.

[Illustration]

"A sudden thought now struck me. I resolved to call next day upon the
very baronet who had himself suffered so much in consequence of the
customs-laws. Exhilarated by the new hope awakened within me, I repaired
on the following morning to the splendid mansion which he now inhabited.
I was shown into a magnificent room, where he received me, lounging
before a cheerful fire. He listened very patiently to my tale, and then
spoke, as nearly as I can recollect, as follows:--'My good lad, I have
not the slightest doubt that you are anxious to eat the bread of
honesty, as you very properly express it. But that bread is not within
the reach of every body; and if we were all to pick and choose in this
world, my God! what would become of us? My dear young man, I occupy a
prominent position amidst the gentry of these parts, and I have also a
duty to fulfil towards society. Society has condemned you--unheard, I
grant you: nevertheless, society _has_ condemned you. Under these
circumstances I have no alternative, but to decline taking you into my
service; and I must moreover request you to remember that if you are
ever found loitering upon my grounds, I shall have you put in the
stocks. I regret that my duty to society compels me thus to act.'

"You may conceive with what feelings I heard this long tirade. I was
literally confounded, and retired without venturing upon a remonstrance.
I knew not what course to adopt. To return home and inform my parents
that I could obtain no work, was to lay myself under the necessity of
becoming a smuggler and a body-snatcher at once. As a desperate resource
I thought of calling upon the clergyman, and explaining all my
sentiments to him. I hoped to be able to convince him that although my
father was bad, or supposed to be bad, yet I abhorred vice in all its
shapes, and was anxious only to pursue honest courses. As a Christian
minister, he could not, I imagined, be so uncharitable as to infer my
guilt in consequence of that of my parent; and, accordingly, to him did
I repair. He had just returned to his own house from a funeral, and was
in a hurry to be off on a shooting excursion, for he had on his
sporting-garb beneath his surplice. He listened to me with great
impatience, and asked if my father still pursued his contraband trade.
Seeing that I hesitated how to reply, he exclaimed, turning his eyes up
to heaven, '_Speak the truth, young man, and shame the devil!_' I
answered in the affirmative; and he then said carelessly, 'Well, go and
speak to my wife; she will act in the matter as she chooses.' Rejoiced
at this hopeful turn in the proceeding, I sought his lady, as I was
desired. She heard all that I had to say, and then observed, 'Not for
worlds could I receive you into my house again; but if your father has
any silks and gloves, very cheap and very good, I do not mind purchasing
them. And remember,' she added, as I was about to depart, 'I do not want
these things; I only offer to take them for the purpose of doing you a
service. My motive is purely a Christian one.'

"I returned home. 'Well,' said my father, 'what luck this
morning?'--'None,' I replied.--'And what do you mean to do, lad?'--'To
become a smuggler, a body-snatcher, or any thing else that you choose,'
was my reply; 'and the sooner we begin, the better, for I am sick and
tired of being good.'

"So I became a smuggler and a resurrection man.

"You have heard, perhaps, that Deal is famous for its boatmen and
pilots. It is also renowned for the beauty of the sailors' daughters.
One of those lovely creatures captivated my heart--for I can even talk
sentimentally when I think of those times; and she seemed to like me in
return. Her name was Katharine Price--Kate Price, as she was called by
her acquaintance; and a prettier creature the sun never shone upon. She
was good and virtuous, too--and she alone understood my real
disposition, which, even now that I had embarked in lawless pursuits,
still panted to be good and virtuous also. At this time I was nineteen,
and she was one year younger. We loved in secret--and we met in secret;
for her parents would not for one moment have listened to the idea of
our union. My hope was to obtain a good sum of money by one desperate
venture in the contraband line, and run away with Kate to some distant
part of the country, where we could enter upon some way of business that
would produce us an honest livelihood. This hope sustained us!

"At this time there were a great many sick sailors in Deal Hospital, and
numerous funerals took place in the burial-ground of that establishment.
My father and I determined to have up a few of the corpses, for we
always knew where to dispose of as many _subjects_ as we could obtain.
By these means I proposed to raise enough money to purchase in France
the articles that I meant to smuggle into England and thereby obtain the
necessary funds for carrying out the plans upon which Kate and myself
were resolved.

"Good luck attended upon my father and myself in respect to the
body-snatching business. We raised thirty pounds; and with that we set
sail for France in the boat which we always hired for our smuggling
expeditions. We landed at Calais, and made our purchases. We bought an
immense quantity of brandy at tenpence a quart; gloves at eightpence a
pair; three watches at two pound ten each; and some _eau-de-cologne_,
proportionately cheap. Our thirty pounds we calculated would produce us
a hundred and twenty. We put out to sea again at about ten o'clock at
night. The wind was blowing stiff from the nor'-east; and by the time we
had been an hour at sea it increased to a perfect hurricane. Never shall
I forget that awful night. The entire ocean was white with foam; but the
sky above was as black as pitch. We weathered the tempest until we
reached the shore about a mile to the south'ard of Walmer, at a place
called Kingsdown. We touched the beach--I thought every thing was safe.
A huge billow broke over the stem of the lugger; and in a moment the
boat was a complete wreck. My father leapt on shore from the bow at the
instant this catastrophe took place: I was swallowed up along with the
ill-fated bark. I was, however, an excellent swimmer; and I combated,
and fought, and struggled with the ocean, as a man would wrestle with a
savage animal that held him in his grasp. I succeeded in gaining the
beach; but so weak and enfeebled was I that my father was compelled to
carry me to our hovel, close by.

"I was put to bed: a violent fever seized upon me--I became
delirious--and for six weeks I lay tossing upon a bed of sickness.

"At length I got well. But what hope remained for me? We were totally
ruined--so was the poor fisherman whose boat was wrecked upon that
eventful night. I wrote a note to Kate to tell her all that had
happened, and to make an appointment for the following Sunday evening,
that we might meet and talk over the altered aspect of affairs. Scarcely
had I despatched this letter to the care of Kate's sister-in-law, who
was in our secret, and managed our little correspondence, when my father
came in and asked me if I felt myself well enough to accompany him on a
little expedition that evening. I replied in the affirmative. He then
told me that a certain surgeon for whom we did business, and who resided
in Deal, required a particular subject which had been buried that
morning in Walmer Churchyard. I did not ask my father any more
questions; but that night I accompanied him to the burial-ground between
eleven and twelve o'clock. The surgeon had shown my father the grave in
the afternoon; and we had a cart waiting in a lane close by. The church
is in a secluded part, surrounded by trees, and at some little distance
from any habitations. There was no danger of being meddled
with:--moreover, we had often operated in the same ground before.

"To work we went in the usual manner. We shovelled out the soil, broke
open the coffin, thrust the corpse into a sack, filled up the grave once
more, and carried our prize safe off to the cart. We then set off at a
round pace towards Deal, and arrived at the back door of the surgeon's
house by two o'clock. He was up and waiting for us. We carried the
corpse into the surgery, and laid it upon a table. 'You are sure it is
the right one?' said the surgeon.--'It is the body from the grave that
you pointed out,' answered my father.--'The fact is,' resumed the
surgeon, 'that this is a very peculiar case. Six days ago, a young
female rose in the morning in perfect health; that evening she was a
corpse. I opened her, and found no traces of poison; but her family
would not permit me to carry the examination any further. They did not
wish her to be hacked about. Since her death some love-letters have been
found in her drawer; but there is no name attached to any of them.'--I
began to feel interested, I scarcely knew why; but this was the manner
in which I was accustomed to write to Kate. The surgeon continued: 'I am
therefore anxious to make another and more searching investigation than
on the former occasion, into the cause of death. But I will soon satisfy
myself that this is indeed the corpse I mean.'--With these words the
surgeon tore away the shroud from the face of the corpse. I cast an
anxious glance upon the pale, cold, marble countenance. My blood ran
cold--my legs trembled--my strength seemed to have failed me. Was I
mistaken? could it be the beloved of my heart?--'Yes; that is Miss
Price,' said the surgeon, coolly. All doubt on my part was now removed.
I had exhumed the body of her whom a thousand times I had pressed to my
sorrowful breast--whom I had clasped to my aching heart. I felt as if I
had committed some horrible crime--a murder, or other deadly deed!

"The surgeon and my father did not notice my emotions, but settled their
accounts. The medical man then offered us each a glass of brandy. I
drank mine with avidity, and then accompanied my father from the
spot--uncertain whether to rush back and claim the body, or not. But I
did not do so.

"For some days I wandered about scarcely knowing what I did--and
certainly not caring what became of me. One morning I was roving amidst
the fields, when I heard a loud voice exclaim, 'I say, you fellow there,
open the gate, will you?' I turned round, and recognised the baronet on
horseback. He had a large hunting whip in his hand.--'Open the gate!'
said I; 'and whom for?' 'Whom for!' repeated the baronet; 'why, for me,
to be sure, fellow.'--'Then open it yourself,' said I. The baronet was
near enough to me to reach me with his whip; and he dealt me a stinging
blow across the face. Maddened with pain, and soured with vexation, I
leapt over the gate and attacked the baronet with a stout ash stick
which I carried in my hand. I dragged him from his horse, and thrashed
him without mercy. When I was tired, I walked quietly away, he roaring
after me that he would be revenged upon me as sure as I was born.

"Next day I was arrested and taken before a magistrate. The baronet
appeared against me, and--to my surprise--swore that I had assaulted him
with a view to rob him, and that he had the greatest difficulty in
protecting his purse and watch. I told my story and showed the mark of
the baronet's whip across my face. The justice asked me if I could bring
forward my witnesses to character. The baronet exclaimed, 'How can he?
he has been in Dover Castle for smuggling.'--'Never!' I cried
emphatically.--'Well, your father has, then,' said the baronet. This I
could not deny.--'Oh! that's just the same thing!' cried the magistrate;
and I was committed to gaol for trial at the next Maidstone assizes.

"For three months I lay in prison. I was not, however, completely
hardened yet; nor did I associate with those who drank, and sang, and
swore. I detested vice in all its shapes; and I longed for an
opportunity to be good. It may seem strange to you, who know me _now_,
to hear me speak thus;--but you are not aware what I was _then_!

"I was tried, and found guilty. The next two years of my life I passed
at the hulks at Woolwich, dressed in dark grey, and wearing a chain
round my leg. Even there I did not grow so corrupted, but that I sought
for work the moment I was set at liberty again. I resolved not to return
home to my parents, for I detested the ways into which they had led me.
Turned away from the hulks one fine morning at ten o'clock, without a
farthing in my pocket nor the means of obtaining a morsel of bread, my
prospects were miserable enough. I could not obtain any employment in
Woolwich: evening was coming on--and I was hungry. Suddenly I thought of
enlisting. Pleased with this idea, I went to the barracks, and offered
myself as a recruit. The regiment stationed there was about to embark
for the East Indies in a few days and wanted men. Although certain of
being banished, as it were, to a most unhealthy climate for twenty-one
years, I preferred that to the life of a vagabond or a criminal in
England. The sergeant was delighted with me, because I could read and
write well; but the surgeon would not pass me. He said to me, 'You have
either been half-starved for a length of time, or you have undergone a
long imprisonment, for your flesh is as flabby as possible.' Thus was
this hope destroyed.

"Now what pains had the law taken to make me good--even supposing, that
I was really bad at the time of my condemnation? The law locked me up
for two years, half-starved me, and yet exacted from me as much labour
as a strong, healthy, man could have performed: then the law turned me
out into the wide world, so weak, reduced, and feeble, that even the
last resource of the most wretched--namely, enlisting in a regiment
bound for India--was closed against me!

"Well--that night I wandered into the country and slept under a hedge.
On the following morning I was compelled to satisfy the ravenous
cravings of my hunger with Swedish turnips plucked from the fields. This
food lay so cold upon my stomach that I felt ready to drop with illness,
misery, and fatigue. And yet, in this Christian land, even that morsel,
against which my heart literally heaved, was begrudged me. I was not
permitted to satisfy my hunger with the food of beasts. A constable came
up and took me into custody for robbing the turnip field. I was
conducted before a neighbouring justice of the peace. He asked me what I
meant by stealing the turnips? I told him that I had fasted for
twenty-four hours, and was hungry. 'Nonsense, hungry!' he exclaimed;
'I'd give five pounds to know what hunger is! you kind of fellows eat
turnips by way of luxury, you do--and not because you're hungry.' I
assured him that I spoke the truth.--'Well, why don't you go to work?'
he demanded.--'So I will, sir, with pleasure, if you will give me
employment,' I replied.--'Me give you employment,' he shouted; 'I
wouldn't have such a fellow about me, if he'd work for nothing. Where
did you sleep last night?'--'Under a hedge, sir,' was my answer.--'Ah! I
thought so,' he exclaimed: 'a rogue and vagabond evidently.' And this
excellent specimen of the 'Great unpaid' committed me forthwith to the
treadmill for one month _as a rogue and vagabond_.

"The treadmill is a horrible punishment: it is too bad even for those
that are really rogues and vagabonds. The weak and the strong take the
same turn, without any distinction; and I have seen men fall down
fainting upon the platform, with the risk of having their legs or arms
smashed by the wheel, through sheer exhaustion. Then the miserable fare
that one receives in prison renders him more fit for an hospital than
for the violent labour of the treadmill.

"I had been two years at the hulks, and was not hardened: I had been a
smuggler and a body-snatcher, and was not hardened:--but this one
month's imprisonment and spell at the treadmill _did_ harden me--and
hardened me completely! I could not see any advantage in being good. I
could not find out any inducement to be honest. As for a desire to lead
an honourable life, that was absurd. I now laughed the idea to scorn;
and I swore within myself that whenever I _did_ commence a course of
crime, I would be an unsparing demon at my work. Oh! how I then detested
the very name of virtue. 'The rich look upon the poor as degraded
reptiles that are born in infamy and that cannot possibly possess a good
instinct,' I reasoned within myself. 'Let a rich man accuse a poor man
before a justice, a jury, or a judge, and see how quick the poor wretch
is condemned! The aristocracy hold the lower classes in horror and
abhorrence. The legislature thinks that if it does not make the most
grinding laws to keep down the poor, the poor will rise up and commit
the most unheard-of atrocities. In fact the rich are prepared to
believe any infamy which is imputed to the poor.' It was thus that I
reasoned; and I looked forward to the day of my release with a
burning--maddening--drunken joy!

"That day came. I was turned adrift, as before, without a shilling and
without a crust. That alone was as bad as branding the words _rogue and
vagabond_ upon my forehead. How could I remain honest, even if I had any
longer been inclined to do so, when I could not get work and had no
money--no bread--no lodging? The legislature does not think of all this.
It fancies that all its duty consists in punishing men for crimes, and
never dreams of adopting measures to prevent them from committing crimes
at all. But I now no more thought of honesty: I went out of prison a
confirmed ruffian. I had no money--no conscience--no fear--no hope--no
love--no friendship--no sympathy--no kindly feeling of any sort. My soul
had turned to the blackness of hell!

"The very first thing I did was to cut myself a good tough ash stick
with a heavy knob at one end. The next thing I did was to break into the
house of the very justice who had sentenced me to the treadmill for
eating a raw turnip; and I feasted jovially upon the cold fowl and ham
which I found in his larder. I also drank success to my new career in a
bumper of his fine old wine. This compliment was due to him: he had made
me what I was!

"I carried off a small quantity of plate--all that I could find, you may
be sure--and took my departure from the house of the justice. As I was
hurrying away from this scene of my first exploit, I passed by a fine
large barn, also belonging to my friend the magistrate. I did not
hesitate a moment what to do. I owed him a recompense for my month at
the treadmill; and I thought I might as well add _Incendiary_ to my
other titles of _Rogue_ and _Vagabond_. Besides, I longed for
mischief--the world had persecuted me quite long enough, the hour of
retaliation had arrived. I fired the barn and scampered away as hard as
I could. I halted at a distance of about half a mile, and turned to
look. A bright column of flame was shooting up to heaven! Oh! how happy
did I feel at that moment. Happy! this is not the word! I was
mad--intoxicated--delirious with joy. I literally danced as I saw the
barn burning. I was avenged on the man who would not allow me to eat a
cold turnip to save me from starving:--that one cold turnip cost him
dear! The fire spread, and communicated with his dwelling-house; and
there was no adequate supply of water. The barn--the stacks--the
out-houses--the mansion were all destroyed. But that was not all. The
only daughter of the justice--a lovely girl of nineteen--was burnt to
death. I read the entire account in the newspapers a few days
afterwards!

"And the upper classes wonder that there are so many incendiary fires:
my only surprise is, that there are so few! Ah! the Lucifer-match is a
fearful weapon in the hands of the man whom the laws, the aristocracy,
and the present state of society have ground down to the very dust. I
felt all my power--I knew all my strength--I was aware of all my
importance as a man, when I read of the awful extent of misery and
desolation which I had thus caused. Oh! I was signally avenged!

"I now bethought me of punishing the baronet in the same manner. He had
been the means of sending me for two years to the hulks at Woolwich.
Pleased with this idea, I jogged merrily on towards Walmer. It was late
at night when I reached home. I found my mother watching by my father's
death-bed, and arrived just in time to behold him breathe his last. My
mother spoke to me about a decent interment for him. I laughed in her
face. Had he ever allowed any one to sleep quietly in his grave? No. How
could _he_ then hope for repose in the tomb? My mother remonstrated: I
threatened to dash out her brains with my stout ash stick; and on the
following night I sold my father's body to the surgeon who had
anatomised poor Kate Price! This was another vengeance on my part.

"Not many hours elapsed before I set fire to the largest barn upon the
baronet's estate. I waited in the neighbourhood and glutted myself with
a view of the conflagration. The damage was immense. The next day I
composed a song upon the subject, which I have never since forgotten.
You may laugh at the idea of me becoming a poet; but you know well
enough that I received some trifle of education--that I was not a fool
by nature--and that in early life I was food of reading. The lines were
these:--

          "THE INCENDIARY'S SONG.

    "The Lucifer-match! the Lucifer-match!
      'Tis the weapon for us to wield.
    How bonnily burns up rick and thatch,
      And the crop just housed from the field!
    The proud may oppress and the rich distress,
      And drive us from their door;--
    But they cannot snatch the Lucifer-match
      From the hand of the desperate poor!

    "The purse-proud squire and the tyrant peer
      May keep their Game Laws still;
    And the very glance of the overseer
      May continue to freeze and kill.
    The wealthy and great, and the chiefs of the state,
      May tyrannise more and more;--
    But they cannot snatch the Lucifer-match
      From the hand of the desperate poor!

    "'_Oh! give us bread!_' is the piteous wail
      That is murmured far and wide;
    And echo takes up and repeats the tale--
      But the rich man turns aside.
    The Justice of Peace may send his Police
      To scour the country o'er;
    But they cannot snatch the Lucifer-match
      From the hand of the desperate poor!

    "Then, hurrah! hurrah! for the Lucifer-match;
      'Tis the weapon of despair:--
    How bonnily blaze up barn and thatch--
      The poor man's revenge is there!
    For the _worm_ will turn on the feet that spurn--
      And surely a _man_ is more?--
    Oh! none can e'er snatch the Lucifer-match
      From the hand of the desperate poor!

"The baronet suspected that I was the cause of the fire, as I had just
returned to the neighbourhood; and he had me arrested and taken before a
justice; but there was not a shadow of proof against me, nor a pretence
to keep me in custody. I was accordingly discharged, with an admonition
'_to take care of myself_'--which was as much as to say, '_If I can find
an opportunity of sending you to prison, I will_.'

"Walmer and its neighbourhood grew loathsome to me. The image of Kate
Price constantly haunted me; and I was moreover shunned by every one who
knew that I had been at the hulks. I accordingly sold off all the
fishing tackle, and other traps, and came up to London with the old
Mummy.

"I need say no more."

"And there's enough in your history to set a man a-thinking," exclaimed
the waiter of the boozing-ken; "there is indeed."

"Ah! I b'lieve you, there is," observed the Cracksman, draining the pot
which had contained the egg-flip.

The clock struck mid-day when Holford entered the parlour of the
boozing-ken.




CHAPTER LXIII.

THE PLOT.


"Well, young blade," cried the Cracksman, "you haven't kept us waiting
at all, I suppose?"

"And do you fancy that I could wake myself up again in a minute when I
had once laid down?" demanded the lad, sulkily.

"Oh! bother to the laying down, Harry," said the Cracksman. "Don't you
think me and Tony wants sleep as well as a strong hearty young feller
like you? and we haven't put buff in downy[74] since the night afore
last."

"Well, never mind chaffing about _that_," cried the Resurrection Man
impatiently: then, having dismissed the waiter, he continued, "Now,
about this business at the palace? We must have no delay; and when we
make appointments in future, they must be better kept. But I won't speak
of this one now, because there's some allowance to be made for you, as
you were up the best part of the night, and you ain't accustomed to it
as we are. But to the point. How is this affair to be managed?"

"I don't see how it is to be managed at all," answered Holford, firmly.

"The devil you don't," cried the Cracksman.

"Then what was you doing all that time in the palace?"

"Running a thousand risks of being found out every minute----"

"So we all do at times."

"And sneaking about at night-time to find food."

"I think you managed to discover the right place for the grist," said
the Resurrection Man, his cadaverous countenance wearing an ironical
smile; "for you must recollect that I found you in the pantry."

"And the pantry's a good neighbourhood: it can't be far from where the
plate's kept," observed the Cracksman.

"The plate is kept where no one can get at it," said Holford.

"How do you know that, youngster?"

"I overheard the servants count it, lock it up in a chest, and take it
up to the apartments of--of--the Lord Steward, I think they call him."

"The deuce!" ejaculated the Cracksman, in a tone of deep disappointment.

"Now I tell you what it is, young fellow," said the Resurrection Man; "I
think that for some reason or another you're deceiving us."

"You think so?" cried the lad. "And why should you fancy that I am
deceiving you?"

"Because your manners tell me so."

"In that case," said Holford, rising from his seat, "it is not of any
use for us to talk more upon the subject."

"By G--d, it is of use, though!" exclaimed the Cracksman. "You shall
tell us the truth by fair means or foul;" and he produced from his
pocket a clasp-knife, the murderous blade of which flew open by means of
a spring which was pressed at the back.

Holford turned pale, and resumed his seat.

"Now, you see that it is no use to humbug us," said the Resurrection
Man. "Tell us the whole truth, and you will of course get your reg'lars
out of the swag. You told me that the Queen was going to Windsor in a
day or two; and that was as much as to say that the affair would come
off then."

"I told you the Queen was going to Windsor--and I tell you so again,"
replied Holford. "But I can't help it if they lock up the plate: and I
don't know what else there is for you to carry off."

The Resurrection Man and the Cracksman exchanged glances of mingled rage
and disappointment. They did not precisely believe what the lad told
them, and yet they could not see any motive which he was likely to have
for misleading them--unless it were to retain all the profits of his
discoveries in the palace for his own sole behoof.

"Now, Holford, my good fellow," said the Cracksman, shutting up his
clasp-knife, and returning it to his pocket, "if you fancy that you are
able to go through this business alone, and without any help, you're
deucedly mistaken."

"I imagine no such thing," returned Holford; "and to prove to you that I
am convinced there is nothing to be got by the affair, in any shape or
way, do you and Tidkins attempt it alone together. He found his way to
the pantry as well as I did, and can tell you what he saw there."

"That's true," said the Resurrection Man, apparently struck by this
observation. "So I suppose we must give the thing up as a bad job?"

"I suppose we must," added the Cracksman, grinding his teeth. "But, by
G--d, if I thought this younker was humbugging us, I'd plant three
inches of cold steel in him, come what would."

"Thank you for your kindness," said Holford, not without a shudder.
"Another time, get some person to act for you whose word you will
believe. And now," he continued, turning to the Resurrection Man,
"please to recollect the terms we agreed upon--a third of all we could
get if successful, or five pounds for me in case of failure."

"Well, I shall keep my word," returned the Resurrection Man.

"Blow me if I would, though," exclaimed the Cracksman, fiercely.

"Yes--fair play's a jewel," said the Resurrection Man, darting a
significant glance at his companion; then, feeling in his pocket, he
added, "Holford is entitled to his five pounds, and he shall have them;
but, curse me! if I have enough in my pocket to pay him. I tell you what
it is, my lad," he continued, turning towards the young man, "you must
meet me somewhere this evening, and I'll give you the money."

"That will do," cried Holford. "Where shall I meet you?"

"Where?" repeated the Resurrection Man, affecting to muse upon the
question: "Oh! I will tell you. You know the _Dark-House_ in Brick Lane,
Spitalfields?"

"I have heard of it, but was never there."

"Well--meet me there to-night at nine o'clock, Harry," said the
Resurrection Man, in as kind a tone as he could assume, "and I'll tip
you the five couters."

"At nine punctually," returned Holford. "I would not press you, but I
have lost my place in consequence of being absent all this time without
being able to give any account of myself; and so I am regularly hard up.
I'm going to look after a situation up somewhere beyond Camden Town this
afternoon, that I heard of by accident: but I am afraid I shall not get
it, as I can give no reference for character;--and even if I could, it
would be to the public-house where I was pot-boy, and the place I'm
going to try for is to clean boots and knives, and make myself
generally useful in a gentleman's house. So I am afraid that I am not
likely to get the situation."

"I hope you may, my lad, for your sake," cried the Resurrection Man. "At
all events the five quids will keep you from starving for the next two
months to come; so mind and be punctual this evening at nine."

"I shall not fail," answered Holford; and with these words he departed.

"Well, blow me, if I can make out now what you're up to," exclaimed the
Cracksman, as soon as he and his companion in infamy were alone
together.

"You never thought that I should be fool enough to give him five coolers
for doing nothing but humbug us?" said the Resurrection Man. "No--no:
catch a weasel asleep--but not Tony Tidkins! Don't you see that he has
been making fools of us? I remember what a devil of a hurry he was in to
get me away from the palace, when I lighted upon him in the pantry, and,
altogether, I am convinced he has been doing his best to stall us off
from the business."

"So I think," said the Cracksman.

"Well," resumed the Resurrection Man, "we'll just try what a few days of
the pit under the staircase in my crib will do for him. I have mended up
the hole that opens into the saw-pit next door; and there is no chance
of his escaping. We must make him drink a glass at the _Dark House_, and
drug the grog well, and we needn't fear about being able to get him up
into my street."

"Ah! now I understand you," observed the Cracksman: "only see what it is
to have a head like your'n. The pit will soon make him tell us the real
truth."

"And if not--if he remains obstinate--" mused the Resurrection Man,
aloud;--"why--in that case--"

"We shall know what to do with him," added the Cracksman.

And the two miscreants exchanged glances of horrible significancy.




CHAPTER LXIV.

THE COUNTERPLOT.


On the same day that the above conversation took place in the parlour of
the boozing-ken on Saffron Hill, Markham was seated in his library, with
several books before him. His countenance was pale, and bore the traces
of recent illness; and an air of profound melancholy reigned upon his
handsome features. He endeavoured to fix his attention on the volume
beneath his eyes; but his thoughts were evidently far away from the
subject of his studies. At length, as if to compose his mind, he turned
abruptly towards his writing-desk, and took thence a note which he had
already perused a thousand times, and every word of which was indelibly
stamped upon his memory.

We can suppose a traveller upon Saara's burning desert,--sinking beneath
fatigue, and oppressed by a thirst, the agony of which becomes
maddening. Presently he reaches a well: it is deep and difficult of
access;--nevertheless, the traveller's life or death reposes at the
bottom of that well. In like manner did Markham's only hope lay in that
letter.

No wonder, then, that he read it so often; no marvel that he referred to
it when his mind was afflicted, and when the wing of his spirit was
oppressed by the dense atmosphere of despair.

And yet the contents of that letter were simple and laconic enough:

_Richmond._

     "The Countess Alteroni presents her compliments to Mr. Markham, and
     begs to acknowledge Mr. Markham's letter of yesterday's date.

     "The countess expresses her most sincere thinks for a communication
     which prevented an arrangement that, under the circumstances
     disclosed, would have proved a serious family calamity."

"Yes--Isabella is saved!" said Markham to himself, as his eyes wandered
over the contents of that most welcome note, which he had received some
days previously: "it is impossible to mistake the meaning of that last
sentence. She is saved--and I have been the instrument of her salvation!
I have rescued her from an union with a profligate, an adventurer, a man
of infamous heart! Surely--surely her parents will admit that I have
paid back a portion of the debt of gratitude which their kindness
imposed upon me! Yes--the countess herself seems to hold out a hope of
reconciliation;--that note bids me hope! It is more than coldly
polite--it is confidential:--it gives me to understand the results of my
own letter denouncing the miscreant George Montague Greenwood."

Richard's countenance brightened as he reasoned thus within himself. But
in a few moments, a dark cloud again displaced that gleam of happiness.

"Enthusiastic visionary that I am!" he murmured to himself. "I construe
common politeness into a ground of hope: I fancy that every bird I
see--however ill-omened--is a dove of promise, with an olive-branch in
its mouth! Alas! mine is a luckless fate--and God alone can tell what
strange destinies yet await me."

He rose from his chair, and walked to the window. The rain, which had
poured down in torrents all the morning, had ceased; and the afternoon
was fine and unusually warm for the early part of January. He glanced
towards the hill, whereon the two trees stood, and thought of his
brother--that much-loved brother, of whose fate he was kept so cruelly
ignorant!

While he was standing at the window, buried in profound thought, and
with his eyes fixed upon the hill, he heard a light step near him; and
in a moment Ellen Monroe was by his side.

"Do I intrude, Richard?" she exclaimed. "I knocked twice at the door;
and not receiving any reply, imagined that there was no one here. I came
to change a book. But you--you are thoughtful and depressed."

"I was meditating upon a topic which to me is always fraught with
distressing ideas," answered Markham: "I was thinking of my brother!"

"Your brother!" ejaculated Ellen; and her countenance became ashy pale.

"Yes," continued Richard, not observing her emotion; "I would rather
know the worst--if misfortunes have really overtaken him--than remain in
this painful state of suspense. If he be prosperous, why should he stay
away? if poor, why does he not seek consolation with me?"

"Perhaps," said Ellen, hesitatingly, "perhaps he is--in reality--much
better off than--than--any one who feels interested in him."

"Heaven knows!" ejaculated Markham. "But ere now you observed that I was
melancholy and dispirited; and I have told you wherefore. Ellen, I must
make the same charge against you."

"Against me!" cried the young lady, with a start, while at the same time
a deep blush suffused her cheeks.

"Yes, against you," continued Richard, now glancing towards her. "You
may think that I am joking--but I never was more serious in my life. For
the few days that you have been in this house, you have been subject to
intervals of profound depression."

"I!" repeated Ellen, the hue of her blushes becoming more intensely
crimson, as her glances sank confusedly beneath those of Markham.

"Alas! Ellen," answered Richard, "I have myself been too deeply
initiated in the mysteries of adversity and sorrow,--I have drunk too
deeply of the cup of affliction,--I have experienced too much bitter,
bitter anguish, not to be able to detect the presence of unhappiness in
others. And by many signs, Ellen, have I discovered that you are
unhappy. I speak to you as a friend--I do not wish to penetrate into
your secrets;--but if there be any thing in which I can aid you--if
there be aught wherein my poor services or my counsels may be rendered
available,--speak, command me!"

"Oh! Richard," cried Ellen, tears starting into her eyes, "how kind--how
generous of you thus to think of me--you who have already done so much
for my father and myself!"

"Were you not the companion of my childhood, Ellen? and should I not be
to you as a brother, and you to me as a sister? Let me be your brother,
then--and tell me how I can alleviate the weight of that unhappiness
which is crushing your young heart!"

"A brother!" exclaimed Ellen, almost wildly; "yes--you shall--you must
be a brother to me! And I will be your sister! Ah! there is consolation
in that idea!"--then, after a moment's pause, she added, "But the time
is not yet come when I, as a sister, shall appeal to you as a brother
for that aid which a brother alone can give! And until then--ask me no
more--speak to me no farther upon the subject--I implore you!"

Ellen pressed Richard's hand convulsively, and then hurried from the
room.

Markham had scarcely recovered from the astonishment into which these
last words had thrown him,--words which, coming from the lips of a young
and beautiful girl, were fraught with additional mystery and
interest,--when Whittingham entered the library.

"A young lad, Master Richard," said the old butler, "has called about
the situation which is wacated in our household. I took the percaution
of leaving word yesterday with the people at a public of most dubitable
respectability called the _Servants' Arms_, where I call now and then
when I go into town; and it appears that this young lad having called in
there quite perspicuously this morning heard of the place."

"Let him step in, Whittingham," said Markham. "I will speak to
him--although, to tell you the truth, I do not admire a public-house
recommendation."

Whittingham made no reply, but opening the door, exclaimed, "Step in
here, young man; step in here."

And Henry Holford stood in the presence of Richard Markham.

Whittingham retired.

"I believe you are in want of a young lad, sir," said Holford, "to
assist in the house."

"I am," answered Markham. "Have you over served in that capacity
before?"

"No, sir; but if you would take me and give me a trial, I should feel
very much obliged. I have neither father or mother, and am totally
dependant upon my own exertions."

These words were quite sufficient to command the attention and sympathy
of the generous-hearted Richard. The lad was moreover of superior
manners, and well-spoken; and there was something in his appeal to
Markham which was very touching.

"What have you been before, my good lad?"

"To tell you the truth, sir," was the reply, "I have been a simple
pot-boy in a public-house."

"And of course the landlord will give you a character?"

"Yes--for honesty and industry, sir; but--"

"But what?"

"I do not think it is of any use to apply to the landlord for a
character, because--"

"Because what?" demanded Markham, seeing that the young man again
hesitated. "If you can have a character for honesty and industry, you
need not be afraid of any thing else that could be said of you."

"The truth is, sir," answered Holford, "I absented myself without leave,
and remained away for two or three days: then, when I returned this
morning at a very early hour I refused to give an account of my
proceedings. That is the whole truth, sir; and if you will only give me
a trial--"

"There is something very straightforward and ingenuous about you," said
Markham: "perhaps you would have no objection to tell me how you were
occupied during your absence."

"That, sir, is impossible! But I declare most solemnly that I did
nothing for which I can reproach myself--unless," added Holford, "it was
in leading a couple of villains to believe that I would do a certain
thing which I never once intended to do."

"Really your answers are so strange," cried Richard, "that I know not
what to say to you. It however appears from your last observation that
two villains tempted you to do something wrong--that you lead them to
believe you would fall into their plans--and that you never meant to
fulfil your promise."

"It is all perfectly true, sir. They proposed a certain scheme in which
I was to be an agent: I accepted the office they assigned to me, because
it suited my disposition, and promised to gratify my curiosity in a way
where it was deeply interested."

"And how did you explain your conduct to the two men whom you speak of?"
inquired Richard, not knowing what to think of the young lad, but half
inclining to believe that his bruin was affected.

"I invented certain excuses, sir," was Holford's reply, "which
completely damped their ardour in the matter alluded to. And now, sir,
will you give me a trial? I feel convinced you will: had I not thought
so from the very beginning, I should not have spoken so freely as I have
done."

"I am disposed to assist you--I am desirous to meet your wishes," said
Markham. "Still, your representations are rather calculated to awaken
fears than clear up doubts concerning you. What guarantee can you offer
that you will never see those two villains again? what security--"

"Sir," said Holford, "your own manner is so frank and kind--so very
condescending, indeed, to a poor lad like me--that I would not deceive
you for the world. I _had_ promised to meet those men to-night--for the
last time--"

"To meet them again?"

"Yes, sir--to receive the reward promised for the service which I
undertook--"

"Ah! young man," cried Markham, "this is most imprudent--if not actually
criminal! and where was this precious interview to take place?"

"At the _Dark-House_, sir--"

"The _Dark-House_!" ejaculated Markham: "what--a low tavern in Brick
Lane, Spitalfields?"

"The same, sir."

"And the names of the two men?" demanded Richard hastily.

"Their right names and those by which they are commonly known amongst
their own set, are very different," said Holford.

"How are they known? what are they called in their own infamous sphere?"
cried Markham, his impatience amounting almost to a fever: "speak!"

"I do not know whether I shall be doing right," said Holford,
hesitating,--"perhaps I have already told you too much--"

"Speak, I say!" cried Richard, taking Holford by the collar of his
jacket; "speak. You do not know--you cannot guess how necessary it is
for me to have my present suspicions cleared up! Speak--I swear no harm
shall happen to you: on the contrary--I will reward you, if it should
turn out as I suppose. Once more, who are these villains?"

"They are called--"

"What? speak--speak!"

"The Resurrection Man--"

"Ah!"

"And the Cracksman."

"Then I am right--my suspicions are confirmed!" ejaculated Markham,
relinquishing his hold upon Holford's jacket, and throwing himself upon
a chair. "Sit down, my good lad--sit down: you and I have not done with
each other yet."

The young man appeared alarmed by Richard's exclamations and manners,
and seemed undecided whether to remain where he was or attempt to
escape.

Richard divined what was passing in the lad's bosom, and hastened to
reassure him.

"Sit down--and fear nothing. I swear most solemnly that no harm shall
happen to you, be you who or what you may: for I cannot suppose that you
are a participator in the crimes of these miscreants. You would not have
come to me to tell me all this--Oh! no; Providence has sent you hither
this day."

Holford took a seat, wondering how this extraordinary scene was to
terminate.

"Are you aware of the pursuits of those two men whom you have named--I
mean the full extent of the atrocity of their pursuits?" demanded
Richard, after a few moments' pause.

"I know that they are body-snatchers and burglars, sir," answered
Holford: "indeed it was a burglary of which they would have made me the
instrument; but, oh! sir--believe me, I am incapable of such a crime;
and the representations I have made to them have induced them to abandon
all idea of it."

"And you are not aware, then," continued Richard, "that they are more
than body-snatchers and burglars?"

"More, sir!" repeated Holford in a tone of unfeigned surprise: "Oh! no,
sir--how can they be more than that?"

"They are more--far more," rejoined Markham, with a shudder: "they are
murderers!"

"Murderers!" ejaculated Holford, starting from his chair with mingled
emotions of horror and alarm.

"Yes--murderers of the most diabolical and cold-blooded description,"
said Markham. "But it is too long a tale to tell you now. Let it suffice
for you to know that I was myself upon the point of becoming a victim to
that most infernal of all miscreants, the Resurrection Man; and I should
conceive that the other whom you named is in all respects as bad as he!"

"Murderers!" repeated Holford, his mental eyes fixed, by a horrible and
snake-like fascination, upon the fearful idea now suddenly engendered in
his imagination.

"Murderers," echoed Markham solemnly; "and through you must they be
surrendered up to justice!"

"Through me!" cried Holford.

"Yes--through you. If you be really imbued with such honourable feelings
as you ere now professed, you will not hesitate for one moment in
discharging this duty towards society."

"But it would be an odious act of treachery on my part," said Holford,
"let the men be what they may."

"If you manifest such a reluctance to rid the metropolis of two
murderers," cried Markham angrily, "I shall conceive that you are more
intimately connected with them than you choose to admit. But if you
imagine that these villains are more innocent than I describe them--if
you fancy that some motive prompts me to exaggerate their infamy, I will
tell you that no language can enhance their guilt--no vengeance be too
severe. Have you not heard that men have disappeared in a most strange
and mysterious manner within the last year, at the eastern end of the
metropolis,--disappeared without leaving a trace behind them,--men who
were not in that situation which hurries the despairing wretch on to
suicide? You must have heard of this! If not, learn the dismal fact now
from my lips! But the assassins--the dark and secret assassins of these
numerous victims, are the wretches whom we shall this night lodge in the
grasp of justice!"

"As you will, sir," said Holford, awe-inspired by the solemnity of
Markham's voice, and the impressiveness of his manner. "I was to meet
them at the _Dark-House_ at nine o'clock: do you take measures to secure
them."

"Most assuredly I will," returned Markham emphatically. "And when I
think of all that you have told me, my good lad," continued Richard, "I
am inclined to believe that you yourself would have been a victim to
those wretches."

"Me!" exclaimed Holford, horror-struck at the mere idea.

"Yes--such is now my conviction. They made an appointment with you at
the _Dark-House_, to give you a sum of money you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"Foolish boy! Do such men pay their agents or accomplices who fail to
fulfil their designs, or who deceive them? do such men part with their
money so readily--that money which they encounter so many perils to
obtain? And that _Dark-House_--the place of your appointment,--that
_Dark-House_ is in the immediate neighbourhood of the head-quarters of
their crimes! Yes--there cannot be a doubt: you also were to be a
victim!"

"My God! what a fearful danger have I incurred!" ejaculated Holford,
shuddering from head to foot, as Markham thus addressed him; then, when
he called to mind the ferocity with which the Cracksman menaced him with
his knife, and the coaxing manner in which the Resurrection Man had
engaged him to form the appointment for the evening, he felt convinced
that the dread suspicion was a correct one.

"You say that the hour of meeting is fixed for nine?" cried Markham,
after a few minutes' reflection.

[Illustration]

"Yes, sir; and now let me thank you with the most unfeigned sincerity
for having thus saved me from a dreadful death. Your kindness and
condescension have led to a lengthy conversation between us; and
accident has made me reveal to you those particulars which have led you
to form that conclusion relative to the fate destined for myself. You
must not imagine for a moment that I would league with such villains in
any of their diabolical plans. No, sir--I would sooner be led forth to
the place of execution this minute. Although I consented to do their
bidding in one respect, I repeat that I had mine own curiosity to
gratify--that is, my own inclinations to serve: but when they wished to
make me their instrument and tool in forwarding their unholy motives, I
shrank back in dismay. Oh! yes, sir--now I comprehend the entire infamy
of those men's characters: I see from what a fearful abyss I have
escaped."

There was again something so sincere and so natural in the manner and
emphasis of this young lad, that Markham surveyed him with sentiments of
mingled interest and surprise. Then all the thoughts of our hero were
directed towards the one grand object he had in view--that of delivering
a horde of ruffians over to justice.

"The gang may be more numerous than I imagine," said Markham; "indeed, I
know that there are a third man and hideous woman connected with those
two assassins whom you have already named. It will therefore be
advisable to lay such a trap that will lead to the capture of them all."

"Oh! by all means, sir," exclaimed Holford, enthusiastically: "I do not
wish to show them any mercy now!"

"We have no time to lose: it is now four o'clock," said Markham; "and we
must arrange the plan of proceeding with the police. You will accompany
me on this enterprise."

"Mr. Markham," returned Holford, respectfully but firmly, "I have no
objection to aid you in any shape or way in capturing these miscreants,
and rooting out their head quarters; but I must beg of you not to place
me in a position where I shall be questioned how I came to make this
appointment for to-night with those two wretches. It would compel me to
make a revelation of the manner in which I employed my time during the
last few days; and _that_--for certain reasons--I could not do!"

Markham appeared to reflect profoundly.

"I do not see how your presence can be dispensed with," he observed at
the expiration of some minutes. "In order to discover the exact spot
where the murderers dwell, it will be advisable for you to allow
yourself to be inveigled thither, and myself and the police would be
close behind you."

"Oh! never--never, sir!" cried Holford, turning deadly pale. "Were you
to miss us only for a moment--or were you to force an entrance a single
instant too late--my life would be sacrificed to those wretches."

"True--true," said Markham: "it would be too great a risk in a dark
night--in narrow streets, and with such desperadoes as those. No--I must
devise some other means to detect the den of this vile gang. But first
of all I must communicate with the police. You can remain here until my
return. To-morrow inquiry shall be made relative to your honesty and
industry; and, those points satisfactorily ascertained, I will take you
into my service, without asking any farther questions."

Holford expressed his gratitude for this kindness on the part of
Markham, and was then handed over to the care of Whittingham.

Having partaken of some hasty refreshment, and armed himself with a
brace of pistols, in preparation for his enterprise, Richard proceeded
with all possible speed into London.




CHAPTER LXV.

THE WRONGS AND CRIMES OF THE POOR.


The parlour of the _Dark-House_ was, as usual, filled with a very
tolerable sprinkle of queer-looking customers. One would have thought,
to look at their beards, that there was not a barber in the whole
district of the Tower Hamlets; and yet it appears to be a social
peculiarity, that the lower the neighbourhood, the more numerous the
shaving-shops. Amongst the very rich classes, nobles and gentlemen are
shaved by their valets: the males of the middle grade shave themselves;
and the men of the lower orders are shaved at barbers' shops. Hence the
immense number of party-coloured poles projecting over the pavement of
miserable and dirty streets, and the total absence of those signs in
wealthy districts.

The guests in the _Dark-House_ parlour formed about as pleasant an
assemblage of scamps as one could wish to behold. The establishment was
a notorious resort for thieves and persons of the worst character; and
no one who frequented it thought it worth while to shroud his real
occupation beneath an air of false modesty. The conversation in the
parlour, therefore, usually turned upon the tricks and exploits of the
thieves frequenting the place; and many entertaining autobiographical
sketches were in this way delivered. Women often constituted a portion
of the company in the parlour; and they were invariably the most noisy
and quarrelsome of all the guests. Whenever the landlord was compelled
to call in the police, to have a clearance of the house--a proceeding to
which he only had recourse when his guests were drunk and penniless, and
demanded supplies of liquor upon credit,--a woman was sure to be at the
bottom of the row; and a virago of Spitalfields would think no more of
smashing every window in the house, or dashing out the landlord's brains
with one of his own pewter-pots, than of tossing off a tumbler of raw
gin without winking.

On the evening of which we are writing there were several women in the
parlour of the _Dark-House_. These horrible females were the "blowens"
of the thieves frequenting the house, and the principal means of
disposing of the property stolen by their paramours. They usually ended
by betraying their lovers to the police, in fits of jealousy; and
yet--by some strange infatuation on the part of those lawless men--the
women who acted in this way speedily obtained fresh husbands upon the
morganatic system. For the most part, these females are disfigured by
intemperance; and their conversation is far more revolting than that of
the males. Oh! there is no barbarism in the whole world so truly
horrible and ferocious--so obscene and shameless--as that which is found
in the poor districts of London!

Alas! what a wretched mockery it is to hold grand meetings at Exeter
Hall, and proclaim, with all due pomp and ceremony, how many savages in
the far-off islands of the globe have been converted to Christianity,
when here--at home, under our very eyes--even London itself swarms with
infidels of a more dangerous character:--how detestable is it for
philanthropy to be exercised in clothing negroes or Red Men thousands of
miles distant, while our own poor are cold and naked at our very
doors:--how monstrously absurd to erect twelve new churches in Bethnal
Green, and withhold the education that would alone enable the poor to
appreciate the doctrines enunciated from that dozen of freshly-built
pulpits!

But to return to the parlour of the _Dark-House_.

In one corner sate the Resurrection Man and the Cracksman, each with a
smoking glass of gin-and-water before him. They mingled but little in
the conversation, contenting themselves with laughing an approval of any
thing good that fell upon their ears, and listening to the discourse
that took place around them.

"Now, come, tell us, Joe," said a woman with eyes like saucers, hair
like a bundle of tow, and teeth like dominoes, and addressing herself to
a man who was dressed like a coal-heaver,--"tell us, Joe, how you come
to be a prig?"

"Ah! do, Joe--there's a good feller," echoed a dozen voices, male and
female.

"Lor' it's simple enough," cried the man thus appealed to: "every poor
devil must become a thief in time."

"That's what you say, Tony," whispered the Cracksman to the Resurrection
Man.

"Of course he must," continued the coal-heaver; "more partickler them as
follows my old trade--for though I've got on the togs of a whipper, I
ain't one no longer. The dress is convenient--that's all."

"The Blue-bottles don't twig--eh?" cried the woman with the domino
teeth.

"That's it: but you asked me how I come to be a prig--I'll tell you. My
father was a coal-whipper, and had three sons. He brought us all up to
be coal-whippers also. My eldest brother was drownded in the pool one
night when he was drunk, after only drinking about two pots of the
publicans' beer: my other brother died of hunger in Cold-Bath Fields
prison, where he was sent for three months for taking home a bit of coal
one night to his family when he couldn't get his wages paid him by the
publican that hired the gang in which he worked. My father died when he
was forty--and any one to have seen him would have fancied he was
sixty-five at least--so broke down was he with hard work and drinking.
But no coal-whipper lives to an old age: they all die off at about
forty--old men in the wery prime of life."

"And why's that?" demanded the large-toothed lady.

"Why not?" repeated the man. "Because a coal-whipper isn't a human
being--or if he is, he isn't treated as such: and so I've always thought
he must be different from the rest of the world."

"How isn't he treated like any one else?"

"In the first place, he doesn't get paid for his labour in a proper way.
Wapping swarms with low public-houses, the landlords of which act as
middle-men between the owners of the colliers and the men that's hired
to unload 'em. A coal-whipper can't get employment direct from the
captain of the collier: the working of the collier is farmed by them
landlords I speak of; and the whipper must apply at their houses. Those
whippers as drinks the most always gets employment first; and whether a
whipper chooses to drink beer or not, it's always sent three times a-day
on board the colliers for the gangs. And, my eye! what stuff it is!
Often and often have we throwed it away, 'cos we could'nt possibly drink
it--and it must be queer liquor that a coal-whipper won't drink!"

"I should think so too. But go on."

"Well, I used to earn from fifteen to eighteen shillings a-week; and out
of that, eight was always stopped for the beer; and if I didn't spend
another or two on Saturday night when I received the balance, the
landlord set me down as a stingy feller and put a cross agin my name in
his book."

"What was that for?"

"Why, not to give me any more work till he was either forced to do so
for want of hands, or I made it up with him by standing a crown bowl of
punch. So what with one thing and another, I had to keep myself, my
wife, and three children, on about seven or eight shillings
a-week--after working from light to dark."

"And now your wife and children is better purvided for?" said the woman
with the huge teeth.

"Yes--indeed! in the workus," answered the man, sharply. "So now you see
what a coal-whipper's life is. He can't be a sober man if he wishes
to--because he must pay for a certain quantity of drink; and so of
course he won't throw it away, unless it's so bad he can't keep it on
his stomach."

"And was that often the case?"

"Often and often. Well--he can't be a saving man, because he has no
chance of getting his wages under his own management. He is the
publican's slave--the publican's tool and instrument. Negro slavery is
nothing to it. No tyranny is equal to the tyranny of them publicans."

"And why isn't the plan altered?"

"Ah! why? What do the owners of the colliers, or the people that the
cargo's consigned to, care about the poor devils that unload? The
publicans takes the unloading on contract, and employs the whippers in
such away as to get an enormous profit. Talk of appealing to the
owners--what do they care? There has been meetings got up to change the
system--and what's the consekvence? Why, them whippers as attended them
became marked men, never got no more employment, and drownded themselves
in despair, or turned prigs like me."

"Ah! that's better than suicide."

"Well--I don't know, now! But them meetings as I was a-speaking of, got
up deputations to the Court of Aldermen, and the matter was referred to
the Coal and Corn Committee--and there was, as usual, a great talk, but
nothink done. Then an application was made to some Minister--I don't
know which; and he sent back a letter with a seal as big as a
crown-piece, just to say that he'd received the application, and would
give it his earliest attention. Some time passed away, and no more
notice was ever taken of it in that quarter; and so, I s'pose, a
Minister's earliest attention means ten or a dozen years."

"What a shame to treat people so."

"It's only the poor that's treated so. And now I think I have said
enough to show why I turned prig, like a many more whippers from the
port of London. There isn't a more degraded, oppressed, and brutalized
set of men in the world than the whippers. They are born with examples
of drunken fathers afore their eyes; and drunken fathers makes drunken
mothers; and drunken parents makes sons turn out thieves, and daughters
prostitutes;--and that's the existence of the coal-whippers of Wapping.
It ain't their fault: they haven't edication and self-command to refuse
the drink that's forced upon them, and that they must pay for;--and
their sons and daughters shouldn't be blamed for turning out bad. How
can they help it? And yet one reads in the papers that the upper classes
is always a-crying out about the dreadful immorality of the poor!"

"The laws--the laws, you see, Tony," whispered the Cracksman to his
companion.

"Of course," answered the Resurrection Man. "Here we are, in this room,
upwards of twenty thieves and prostitutes: I'll be bound to say that the
laws and the state of society made eighteen of them what they are."

"Nobody knows the miseries of a coal-whipper's life," continued the
orator of the evening, "but him that's been in it his-self. He is always
dirty--always lurking about public-houses when not at work--always ready
to drink--always in debt--and always dissatisfied with his own way of
living, which isn't, however, his fault. There's no hope for
coal-whippers or their families. The sons that don't turn out thieves
must lead the same terrible life of cart-horse labour and constant
drinking, with the certainty of dying old men at forty;--and the
daughters that don't turn out prostitutes marry whippers, and draw down
upon their heads all the horrors and sorrows of the life I have been
describing."

"Well--I never knowed all this before!"

"No--and there's a deal of misery of each kind in London that isn't
known to them as dwells in the other kinds of wretchedness: and if these
things gets represented in Parliament, the cry is, '_Oh! the people's
always complaining; they're never satisfied_.'"

"Well, you speak of each person knowing his own species of misery, and
being ignorant of the nature of the misery next door," said a young and
somewhat prepossessing woman, but upon whose face intemperance and
licentiousness had made sad havoc; "all I can say is, that people see
girls like us laughing and joking always in public--but they little know
how we weep and moan in private."

"Drink gin then, as I do," cried the woman with the large teeth.

"Ah! _you_ know well enough," continued the young female who had
previously spoken, "that we _do_ drink a great deal too much of that! My
father used to sell _jiggered gin_ in George Yard, Whitechapel."

"And what the devil is jiggered gin?" demanded one of the male guests.

"It's made from molasses, beer, and vitriol. Lor', every one knows what
jiggered gin is. Three wine glasses of it will make the strongest man
mad drunk. I'll tell you one thing," continued the young woman, "which
you do not seem to know--and that is, that the very, very poor people
who are driven almost to despair and suicide by their sorrows, are glad
to drink this jiggered gin, which is all that they can afford. For three
halfpence they may have enough to send them raving; and then what do
they think or care about their miseries?"

"Ah! very true," said the coal whipper. "I've heard of this before."

"Well--my father sold that horrid stuff," resumed the young woman; "and
though he was constantly getting into trouble for it, he didn't mind;
but the moment he came out of prison, he took to his old trade again. I
was his only child; and my mother died when I was about nine years old.
She was always drunk with the jiggered gin; and one day she fell into
the fire and was burnt to death. I had no one then who cared any thing
for me, but used to run about in the streets with all the boys in the
neighbourhood. My father took in lodgers; and sixteen or seventeen of
us, boys and girls all huddled together, used to sleep in one room not
near so big as this. There was fifteen lodging houses of the same kind
in George Yard at that time; and it was supposed that about two hundred
and seventy-five persons need to sleep in those houses every night, male
and female lodgers all pigging together. Every sheet, blanket, and
bolster, in my father's house was marked with STOP THIEF, in large
letters. Well--at eleven years old I went upon the town; and if I didn't
bring home so much money every Saturday night to my father, I used to be
well thrashed with a rope's end on my bare back."

"Serve you right too, a pretty girl like you."

"Ah! you may joke about it--but it was no joke to me! I would gladly
have done anything in an honest way to get my livelihood--"

"Like me, when I was young," whispered the Resurrection Man to his
companion.

"Exactly. Let's hear what the gal has got to say for herself," returned
the Cracksman; "the lush has made her sentimental;--she'll soon be
crying drunk."

"But I was doomed, it seemed," continued the young woman, "to live in
this horrible manner. When I was thirteen or fourteen my father died,
and I was then left to shift for myself. I moved down into Wapping, and
frequented the long-rooms belonging to the public-houses there. I was
then pretty well off; because the sailors that went to these places
always had plenty of money and was very generous. But I was one night
suspected of hocussing and robbing a sailor, and--though if I was on my
death-bed I could swear that I never had any hand in the affair at
all--I was so blown upon that I was forced to shift my quarters. So I
went to a _dress-house_ in Ada Street, Hackney Road. All the
remuneration I received there was board and lodging; and I was actually
a slave to the old woman that kept it. I was forced to walk the streets
at night with a little girl following me to see that I did not run away;
and all the money I received I was forced to give up to the old woman.
While I was there, several other girls were turned out of doors, and
left to die in ditches or on dunghills, because they were no longer
serviceable. All this frightened me. And then I was so ill-used, and
more than half starved. I was forced to turn out in all weathers--wet or
dry--hot or cold--well or ill. Sometimes I have hardly been able to drag
myself out of bed with sickness and fatigue--but, no matter, out I must
go--the rain perhaps pouring in torrents, or the roads knee-deep in
snow--and nothing but a thin cotton gown to wear! Winter and summer,
always flaunting dresses--yellow, green, and red! Wet or dry, always
silk stockings and thin shoes! Cold or warm, always short skirts and a
low body, with strict orders not to fasten the miserable scanty shawl
over the bosom! And then the little girl that followed me about was a
spy with wits as sharp as needles. Impossible to deceive her! At length
I grew completely tired of this kind of life; and so I gave the little
spy the slip one fine evening. I was then sixteen, and I came back to
this neighbourhood. But one day I met the old woman who kept the
dress-house, and she gave me in charge for stealing wearing apparel--the
clothes I had on my back when I ran away from her!"

"Always the police--the police--the police, when the poor and miserable
are concerned," whispered the Resurrection Man to the Cracksman.

"But did the inspector take the charge?" demanded the coal-heaver.

"He not only took the charge," answered the unfortunate girl, "but the
magistrate next morning committed me for trial, although I proved to him
that the clothes were bought with the wages of my own prostitution!
Well, I was tried at the Central Criminal Court--"

"And of course acquitted?"

"No--found _Guilty_----"

"What--by an English jury?"

"I can show you the newspaper--I have kept the report of the trial ever
since."

"Then, by G--d, things are a thousand times worse than I thought they
was!" ejaculated the coal-whipper, striking his clenched fist violently
upon the table at which he was seated.

"But the jury recommended me to mercy," continued the unfortunate young
woman, "and so the Recorder only sentenced me to twenty-one days'
imprisonment. His lordship also read me a long lecture about the errors
of my ways, and advised me to enter upon a new course of life; but he
did not offer to give me a character, nor did he tell me how I was to
obtain honest employment without one."

"That's the way with them beaks," cried one of the male inmates of the
parlour: "they can talk for an hour; but supposing you'd said to the
Recorder, '_My Lord, will your wife take me into her service as
scullery-girl?_' he would have stared in astonishment at your
imperence."

"When I got out of prison," resumed the girl who was thus sketching the
adventures of her wretched life, "I went into Great Titchfield Street.
My new abode was a dress-house kept by French people. Every year the
husband went over to France, and returned with a famous supply of French
girls, and in the mean time his wife decoyed young English women up from
the country, under pretence of obtaining situations as nursery-governesses
and lady's-maids for them. Many of these poor creatures were the
daughters of clergymen and half-pay officers in the marines. The moment
a new supply was obtained by these means, circulars was sent round to
all the persons that was in the habit of using the house. Different
sums, from twenty to a hundred pounds--"

"Ah! I understand," said the coal-whipper. "But did you ever hear say
how many unfortunate gals there was in London?"

"Eighty thousand. From Titchfield Street I went into the Almonry,
Westminster. The houses there are all occupied by _fences_, prigs, and
gals of the town."

"And the parsons of Westminster Abbey, who is the landlords of the
houses, does nothink to put 'em down," said the coal-whipper.

"Not a bit," echoed the young woman, with a laugh. "We had capital fun
in the house where I lived--dog-fighting, badger-baiting, and drinking
all day long. The police never visits the Almonry--"

"In course not, 'cos it's the property of the parsons. They wouldn't be
so rude."

This coarse jest was received with a shout of laughter; and the health
of the Dean and Chapter of Westminster was drunk amidst uproarious
applause, by the thieves and loose women assembled in the _Dark-House_
parlour.[75]

"Well, go on, my dear," said the coal-whipper, when order was somewhat
restored.

"I never was in a sentimental humour before to-night--not for many, many
years," resumed the young woman; "and I don't know what's making me talk
as I am now."

"'Cos you haven't had enough gin, my dear," interrupted a coarse-looking
fellow, winking to his companions.

Scarcely was the laughter promoted by this sally beginning to subside,
when a short, thick-set, middle-aged man, enveloped in a huge
great-coat, with most capacious pockets at the sides, entered the
parlour, took his seat near the door, and called for a glass of hot
gin-and-water.




CHAPTER LXVI.

THE RESULT OF MARKHAM'S ENTERPRISE.


The reader at all acquainted with German literature may probably
remember some of those old tales of demonology and witchcraft, in which
assemblies of jovial revellers are frequently dismayed and overawed by
the sudden entrance of some mysterious stranger--perhaps a knight in
black armour, with his vizor closed, or a monk with his cowl drawn over
his countenance. If the recollection of such an episode in the sphere of
romance recur to the reader's mind, he will have no difficulty in
comprehending us when we state that the presence of the short,
thick-set, middle-aged stranger caused an immediate damp to fall upon
the spirits of the company in the _Dark-House_ parlour.

The stranger seemed to take no notice of any one present, but drank his
grog, lighted his cigar, and settled himself in his seat, apparently
with the view of making himself very comfortable.

Still there was something sinister and mysterious about this man, which
did not exactly please the other inmates of the room; and as we cannot
suppose that the consciences of these persons were over pure, the least
appearance of ambiguity to them was an instantaneous omen of danger.
Like the dog that scents the corpse of the murdered victim, even when
buried deep in the earth, those wretches possessed an instinct
marvellously sensitive and acute in perceiving the approach or presence
of peril.

And yet, to a common beholder, there was nothing very remarkable about
that stranger. He was a plain-looking, quiet, shabbily dressed person,
and one who seemed anxious to smoke his cigar in peace, and neither
speak nor be spoken to.

Good reader--it was the reserve of this man,--his staid and serious
demeanour--his tranquil countenance--and his exclusive manner
altogether, that created the unpleasant impression we have described.
Had he entered the room with a swagger, banged the door behind him,
sworn at the waiter, or nodded to one single individual present, he
would have produced no embarrassing sensation whatever. But he was
unknown:--what, then, could he do there, where all were well known to
each other?

However, he continued to smoke, with his eyes intently fixed upon the
blueish wreaths that ascended slowly and fantastically from the end of
his cigar; and for five minutes after his entrance not a word was
spoken.

At length the coal-whipper broke silence.

"Well, my dear," he said, addressing himself to the unfortunate girl who
had already narrated a portion of her adventures, "you haven't done your
story yet."

"Oh! I do not feel in the humour to go on with it to-night," she
exclaimed, glancing uneasily towards the stranger. "Indeed, I
recollect--I have an appointment--close by--"

She hesitated; then, apparently mustering up her courage, cried
"Good-night, all," and left the room.

"Who the deuce is that feller, Tony?" demanded the Cracksman, in a
whisper, of his companion. "I can't say I like his appearance at all."

"Oh! nonsense," answered the Resurrection Man: "he is some quiet chap
that doesn't like to smoke and talk at the same time."

"But don't it seem as how he'd throwed a damp on the whole party?"
continued the Cracksman, in the same subdued tone.

"Do you take me for a child that's frightened at a shadow?" said the
Resurrection Man savagely. "I suppose you're afraid that this young
Holford will play us false. Why--what could he do to us? Anything he
revealed would only implicate himself. He knows nothing about our games
up by the Bird-cage Walk there."

"I forgot _that_;--no more he doesn't," cried the Cracksman. "There's
nobody can do us any harm, that I know on."

"One--and one only," answered the Resurrection Man, sinking his already
subdued tone to the lowest possible whisper,--"one only, I say, can
injure us; and he will not dare to do it!"

"Who the devil do you mean?" demanded the Cracksman.

"I mean the only man that ever escaped out of the crib up by the walk
after he had received a blow from my stick," answered the Resurrection
Man.

"You don't mean to say, Tony," whispered the Cracksman, his countenance
giving the most unequivocal signs of alarm, "that there's a breathing
soul which ever went in the door of that crib an intended wictim, and
come out alive agin!"

"Never do you mind now. We shall make all the people stare at us if we
go on whispering in this way. Supposing any one _did_ mean to nose upon
us haven't we got our barkers in our pocket?"

"Ah! Tony," said the Cracksman, in whose mind these words of his
companion seemed to arouse a sudden and most disagreeable
idea,--"talking about _nosing_ makes me remember someot that I was told
a few days ago up in Rat's Castle in the Rookery."

"And what was that?" asked the Resurrection Man, surveying his friend
with his serpent-like eyes in a manner that made him actually quail
beneath the glance.

"What was it?" repeated the Cracksman, who appeared to hesitate whether
he should proceed, or not: "why--I heard a magsman say that you nosed
upon poor Crankey Jem, and that was the reason he got lagged and you was
acquitted three year ago at the Old Bailey."

"And what did you say to that?" demanded the Resurrection Man, looking
from beneath his bushy brows at the Cracksman, as the ghole in eastern
mythology may be supposed to gaze on the countenance of him whom he
marks for his victim.

"What did I say?" answered the Cracksman in a hoarse whisper: "why--I
knocked the fellow down to be sure."

"And you did what you ought to do, and what I should have done if any
one had told me _that_ of you," said the Resurrection Man in a tone of
the most perfect composure.

While this conversation took place, hurriedly and in whispers, the
mysterious stranger continued to smoke his cigar without once glancing
around him; and the other inmates of the _Dark-House_ parlour,
recovering a little from their panic at the entrance of that individual,
made a faint attempt to renew the discourse.

But although the eyes of the stranger were apparently occupied in
watching the wreaths of smoke, as they curled upwards to the ceiling,
they were in reality intent upon the parlour window, the lower part of
which alone was darkened by the sliding shutter that lifted up and down.
There was a bright lamp over the front door of the public-house; and
thus the heads of all the passengers in the street might be descried, as
they passed the window, by the inmates of the parlour.

"I say, Ben," exclaimed one reveller to another, "have you heerd that
they're a goin' to lay out a park up by Bonner's Road and Hackney Wick?"

"Yes--the Wictoria Park," was the reply. "On'y fancy giving them poor
devils of Spitalfields weavers a park to walk in instead o' filling
their bellies. But I 'spose they'll make a preshus deep pond in it."

"What for?" demanded the first speaker.

"Why--for the poor creturs to drown theirselves in, to be sure."

At this moment the countenance of a man in the street peered for a
single instant over the shutter, and was then immediately withdrawn; but
not before a significant glance had been exchanged with the stranger
sitting in the neighbourhood of the door.

All this, however, remained entirely unnoticed by the male and female
revellers in the parlour.

"Well, it's gone nine," whispered the Cracksman to his companion, "and
this fellow Holford don't come. It's my opinion he ain't a-going to."

"We'll give him half an hour's grace," returned the Resurrection Man.
"The young fool is hard up, and won't let the hope of five couters slip
through his brain quite so easy."

"Half an hour's grace, as you say, Tony," whispered the Cracksman; "and
then if he don't come: we'll be off--eh?"

"Oh! just as you like," growled the Resurrection Man. "You seem quite
chicken-hearted to-night, Tom."

"I don't know how it is," answered the Cracksman; "but I've got a
persentiment--as they calls it--of evil. The sight of that there feller
there----" and he nodded towards the stranger.

"Humbug!" interrupted the Resurrection Man, "you haven't had grog
enough--that's it."

He accordingly ordered the waiter to supply fresh tumblers of hot
liquor; and the next half hour slipped away rapidly enough; but no Henry
Holford made his appearance.

At a quarter to ten the two villains rose, and, having settled their
score, departed.

Scarcely had the parlour door closed behind them, when the short
thick-set stranger also retreated precipitately from the room.

Disappointed and in an ill-humour, the Resurrection Man and the
Cracksman hurried away from the _Dark-House_ towards the den situate in
the immediate vicinity of the Bird-cage Walk.

The streets were ankle-deep in mud: a thin mizzling rain was falling;
and neither moon nor stars appeared upon the dark and murky field of
heaven.

The two men walked one a little in advance of the other, until they
reached the top of Brick Lane, where they separated for the purpose of
proceeding by different routes towards the game point--a precaution they
invariably adopted after quitting any public place in each other's
company.

But so well were the arrangements of the police concocted, that while
the Resurrection Man continued his way along Tyssen Street, and the
Cracksman turned to the right in Church Street until he reached Samuel
Street, up which he proceeded, an active officer followed each: while in
the neighbourhood of Virginia Street and the Bird-cage Walk numerous
policemen were concealed in dark alleys, lone courts, and obscure nooks,
ready to hasten to any point whence the spring of rattles might
presently emanate.

Also concealed in a convenient hiding-place, and anxiously awaiting the
result of the various combinations effected to discover the den of the
murderers, Richard Markham was prepared to aid in the operations of the
night.

Meantime, the Resurrection Man pursued one route, and the Cracksman
another, both converging towards the same point; but neither individual
suspected that danger was on every side! They advanced as confidently as
the flies that work their way amidst the tangled web of the spider.

At length the Resurrection Man reached his house; and almost at the same
moment the other ruffian arrived at the door.

"All right, Tom."

"All right, Tony."

And the Resurrection Man opened the door, by simply pressing his foot
forcibly against it in a peculiar manner.

He entered the passage, followed by the Cracksman, which latter
individual turned to close the door, when it was burst wide open and
half a dozen policemen rushed into the house.

"Damnation!" cried the Resurrection Man; "we are sold!"--and, darting
down the passage, he rushed into the little back room, the door of which
he succeeded in closing and fastening against the officers.

But the Cracksman had fallen into the hands of the police, and was
immediately secured. Rattles were sprung; and the sudden and unexpected
din, breaking upon the solemn silence of the place and hour, startled
the poor and the guilty in their wretched abodes.

"Break open the door there!" cried the serjeant who commanded the
police, and who was no other than the mysterious stranger of the
_Dark-House_ parlour: "break open that door--and two of you run up
stairs this moment!"

As he spoke, a strong light shone from the top of the staircase. The
officers cast their eyes in that direction, and beheld a hideous old
woman scowling down upon them. In her hand she carried a candle, the
light of which was thrown forward in a vivid flood by the reflection of
a huge bright tin shade.

This horrible old woman was the Mummy.

Already were two of the officers half-way up the staircase,--already was
the door of the back room on the ground floor yielding to the strength
of a constable,--already were Richard Markham and several officers
hurrying down the street towards the spot, obedient to the signal
conveyed by the springing of the rattles,--when a terrific explosion
took place.

"Good God!" ejaculated Markham: "what can that mean?"

"There--there!" cried a policeman near him: "it is all over with the
serjeant and my poor comrades!"

Immediately after the explosion, and while Markham and the officer were
yet speaking, a bright column of fire shot up into the air:--millions
and millions of sparks, glistening vividly, showered down upon the scene
of havoc;--for a moment--a single moment--the very heavens seemed on
fire;--then all was black--and silent--and doubly sombre.

The den of the assassins had ceased to exist: it had been destroyed by
gunpowder.

The blackened remains and dismembered relics of mortality were
discovered on the following morning amongst the ruins, or in the
immediate neighbourhood;--but it was impossible to ascertain how many
persons had perished on this dread occasion.




CHAPTER LXVII.

SCENES IN FASHIONABLE LIFE.


Two months elapsed from the date of the preceding event.

It was now the commencement of March; and bleak winds had succeeded the
hoary snows of winter.

The scene changes to the house of Sir Rupert Harborough, in Tavistock
Square.

It was about one o'clock in the afternoon. The baronet was pacing the
drawing-room with uneven steps, while Lady Cecilia lounged upon the
sofa, turning over the pages of a new novel.

"Now this is most provoking, Cecilia," exclaimed the baronet: "I never
was so much in want of money in my life; and you refuse to adopt the
only means which----"

"Yes, Sir Rupert," interrupted the lady impatiently; "I refuse to give
you my diamonds to pledge again--and all your arguments shall never
persuade me to do so."

"Your heart is too good, Cecilia----"

"Oh! yes--you may try what coaxing will do; but I can assure you that I
am proof against both honied and bitter words. Neither will serve your
turn now."

"And yet, somehow or another, you _have_ the command of money, Cecilia,"
resumed the baronet, after a pause. "You paid all the tradesmen's bills
and servants' wages about two months ago: you found out--though God only
knows how--that Greenwood had the duplicate of your diamonds;--you
redeemed the ticket from him, and the jewels themselves from V----'s;
and from that moment you have never seemed embarrassed for a five-pound
note."

"All _that_ is perfectly true, Sir Rupert," said Lady Cecilia, blushing
slightly, and yet smiling archly,--and never did she seem more beautiful
than when the glow of shame thus mantled her cheek and poured flood of
light into those eyes that were so expressive of a voluptuous and
sensual nature.

"Well, then," continued the baronet, "if you can thus obtain supplies
for yourself, surely you can do something in the same way for me."

"I have no ready money at present," said Lady Cecilia; "and I have
determined not to part with my jewels. There!"

"Perhaps you think that I am fool enough to be the dupe of your
miserable and flimsy artifices, Cecilia?" cried the baronet impatiently:
"but I can tell you that I have seen through them all along."

"You!" ejaculated the lady, starting uneasily, while her heart
palpitated violently, and she felt that her cheeks were crimson.

"Yes--I, Lady Cecilia," answered the baronet. "I am not quite such a
fool as you take me for."

"My God, Sir Rupert! what--how--who-----" stammered the guilty wife, a
cold tremor pervading every limb, although her cheeks appeared to be on
fire.

"There! you see that all my suspicions are confirmed," cried the
baronet; "your confusion proves it."

"You cannot say that--that--I have ever given you any cause, Sir
Rupert----"

"What? to doubt your word? Oh! no--I can't say that you are in the habit
of telling falsehoods generally; but----"

"Sir Rupert!"

"Nay--I will speak out! The fact is, you pretend to have quarrelled with
Lady Tremordyn; and it is all nonsense. Your mother supplies you with as
much money as you require--and that is the secret!"

"Oh! Sir Rupert--Sir Rupert!" exclaimed Lady Cecilia, suddenly relieved
from a most painful state of apprehension, and now comprehending the
error under which he was labouring.

"You cannot deny what I affirm, Cecilia. And now that I bethink me, it
is most probable that Greenwood himself told Lord Tremordyn (with whom
he was intimate at that time, although they have since quarrelled, God
only knows what about) of my having placed the duplicate of the diamonds
in his hands, and so your father arranged that matter with Greenwood. It
is a gross system of duplicity, Cecilia--a gross system; a pretended
quarrel merely to prevent me from visiting at the house of my
father-in-law. But, by God! I will stand it no longer!"

"What will you do, then?" demanded Lady Cecilia, ironically.

"What will I do? I will go straight off to Lord and Lady Tremordyn, and
tell them my mind."

"And Lord and Lady Tremordyn will tell you theirs in return."

"And what can they say, madam, against me?"

"Nay--Sir Rupert, rather ask what they can say for you."

"Oh! you wish to irritate me, madam--you are anxious to quarrel with
me," cried the baronet.--"Well--be it so! As for your father and mother,
I will tell them that they do not act honourably, nor even prudently,
in allowing their son-in-law to live by his wits and be compelled to
raise money where he can."

"And they will tell you in reply, that you did not act honourably nor
prudently to squander the large sum they gave you when you married their
daughter."

"The devil they will!" exclaimed the baronet. "Then, in that case, I
shall remind them of the consideration for which the large sum you
allude to was given."

"Monster--coward!" cried Lady Cecilia: "do you dare to throw in my teeth
the weakness of which I was guilty through excess of love for you?"

"I am sure you need not be so fastidious, Cecilia. To talk of love now,
between a man of the world like me and a woman of the world like you, is
an absurdity;--and as for the little weakness of which you speak, I
repaired it."

"Yes," said the lady, bitterly. "When you saw me kneeling in despair at
your feet--and when my mother implored you to save her daughter's
honour, you turned a deaf ear to our entreaties--you scorned our
prayers: but when my father offered a golden argument----"

"Lady Cecilia--silence, I command you!"

"When he offered a golden argument, I say," continued the lady, with
withering scorn, "--when he produced his cheque-book, Sir Rupert
Harborough pretended to yield to my entreaties; and as he raised me from
the ground--condescendingly raised me--me, the daughter of a peer--with
one hand,--with the other he clutched the bribe! Ah! Sir Rupert--you
spoilt a good heart--you trampled a confiding disposition in the
dust--when you would not allow yourself to be purchased by my love, but
still consented to sell yourself to me for my father's gold! Oh! it was
the vile instance of a man prostituting himself for gain, as poor weak
woman has so often been doomed to do!"

"Lady Cecilia--I am astonished--I am amazed at the terms in which you
allow yourself to address me!" said Sir Rupert Harborough, humiliated
and put to shame by these words of keenly cutting satire.

"And now," continued the indignant lady,--"now you solicit me to ruin
myself for you--to part with my very ornaments to supply your
extravagances,--you, who had no pity upon my tears, no feeling for my
anguish, no respect for my honour! No, Sir Rupert Harborough: I have
assisted you once--assisted you twice--assisted you thrice--assisted you
a hundred times already; and what return have you made me? When you are
penniless, you remain at home: when you are in the possession of funds,
you remain absent for weeks and weeks together. You may love me no
longer, it is true;--and, with regard to myself, I confess that your
conduct has long--long ago destroyed all the romance of affection in my
bosom. Still a woman cannot endure neglect--at least I thought so a few
months ago;--but now--_now,_" she added emphatically, as her thoughts
wandered to Greenwood, "I am indifferent alike as to your attention or
your neglect!"

"At least, Lady Cecilia, you are candid and explicit," said Sir Rupert,
biting his lips. "But perhaps you have something more to observe."

"No--nothing," answered the lady coldly; and, with these words, she rose
and left the room.

Not many minutes had elapsed since the termination of this "scene," when
Mr. Chichester was announced.

"Well, what news with the old man?" demanded the baronet hastily.

"My father will not advance me another shilling until June," answered
Chichester, throwing himself upon the sofa; "and as for your bill--he
won't look at it. Any thing good with you?"

"Nothing. Lady Cecilia positively refuses to part with the jewels
again," said the baronet, stamping his foot with rage.

"And can't you----"

"Can't I what?"

"Can't you help yourself to them in spite of her?" demanded Chichester.

"Impossible!" returned Harborough. "She keeps them under lock and key in
her own room; and the door of that room she always locks when she goes
out."

"How provoking! If we only had some ready money at this moment,"
observed Chichester, "we might make a little fortune."

"Yes--town is full--and such opportunities as we might have! By Jove, we
_must_ raise the wine somewhere."

"You do not think that Greenwood----"

"Oh! no--not for a moment!" cried the baronet, turning very pale as the
idea of the forged acceptance of Lord Tremordyn, which would be due in
another month, flashed across his mind: "no--I cannot apply to Greenwood
for a shilling."

"And after all the pains I have taken in perfecting you in the new
dodges with the cards and dice, ready for this season," said Mr.
Chichester, in a most lachrymose tone; then, taking a small parcel from
his pocket, he continued, "Here are the implements we want, too: every
thing prepared--except the money."

"Ah!" exclaimed the baronet, "you have got the things, then, at last?"

[Illustration]

"Yes," returned Chichester, opening the parcel and displaying its
contents upon the table. "Here are the _scratched dice,_ you see. These
must be used upon a bare table, because it is necessary to judge by the
sound of the dice in the box whether they are on the scratched side or
not. You understand that a hole has been drilled in the centre pip of
the five in this die, and in the ace of the other; a piece of ebony is
then inserted, with a very small portion projecting. These dice cannot,
therefore, fall perfectly flat, when the five side of the one and the
ace of the other are underneath on the table; and it is very easy for
the thrower just to move the box the least thing before he lifts it, to
that the sound may tell him whether the scratched side is down or not.
But you are to recollect that a man must be very drunk when you can use
them with any degree of safety."

"I should think so, indeed," said Sir Rupert.

"I can assure you that no implements of our craft are, on certain
occasions, more destructive than these," observed Chichester.

"And what is the use of these slight scratches upon the dice?"

"To assist the eye in manipulating them. But here," continued
Chichester, holding up a dice-box, and surveying it with a species of
paternal admiration,--"here is a famous antidote to fair dice. Don't
you see that when fair dice are used, you must introduce an unfair box.
Many a greenhorn may have heard of loaded dice, and so on; but very few
know that there is such a thing as the _Doctor Dice-box_. Honour to the
man, say I, who invented it. If you judge by the outside of this box, it
is a very fair-looking one; but just put your finger into it, and you
will feel that no less than three-quarters of the inside are filled up,
so that there is now only just space enough left in the middle for the
dice to fit in. Towards the top the sides grow larger and smoother. The
dice, you see, rattle by rising up and down, when shaken briskly, but do
not change their position. All that you have to do is to put them in, in
the first instance, with a view to the way in which you want them to
come up."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

"So that if you want to throw a six and a five, put the dice into the
box with the ace and the two uppermost," said the baronet.

[Illustration]

"Precisely," answered Chichester. "A fair box, you know as well as I do,
has one or more rims inside, against which the dice must turn in coming
out."

"By the bye," said the baronet, "what is the _Gradus_, Chichester? you
promised to show me a great many times, and have forgotten it; but now
that we are upon the subject, you may as well enlighten me."

"Certainly, my dear fellow," returned this very complacent Mentor; then,
taking up a pack of cards, he said, "nothing is more easy than the
_Gradus,_ or _Step_. It is often much safer than _Bridging_, too.
_Bridging_ is known by every snob about town who pretends to set up for
a _Greek_. All that you have to do for the _Gradus_ is to let any
particular card you fancy project a little in this way, so as to make
sure that your opponent will turn it up, at whist or ecarté, as the case
may be."

[Illustration]

"Excellent! I like the plan better than any other you ever yet showed me
for effecting the same object."

"_Palming_ may sometimes be done successfully," continued Chichester:
"but you must have the small French cards to do it. There--all that
there is to do is to secrete a particular card under the palm and
partially up the sleeve till it is required. When your opponent is well
primed, you can easily introduce _a fifth king_, or _fifth ace_, in this
way. There is a great deal of art, too, in shuffling, or _Weaving_. At
ecarté or whist, always watch which tricks taken up have the best cards;
then, when you take up all the cards to shuffle them again, _weave_ in
the good tricks to suit your purposes."

"I heard a gentleman say the other night," observed the baronet, "that
he had been most gloriously fleeced by a fellow who used _pricked
cards_."

"Ah! they are capital weapons," exclaimed Chichester. "Just lay the high
cards flat on their backs, and then prick them with a very fine needle,
so as to raise the slightest possible pimple in the world upon the backs
down in one of the corners; but mind, the cards are not to be punctured
quite through. The fellow who told me how to do this dodge, used some
chemical preparation to the ball of his thumb, which made that part
almost raw, and consequently so very sensitive that he could feel the
smallest possible pimple on the card with the greatest ease."

"And what have you got there?" demanded Sir Rupert, pointing to a pack
of cards which Chichester had just taken from his parcel.

"These are _Reflectors_," replied the Mentor. "They are French cards,
you perceive, and are only manufactured in France. They cost two guineas
a pack; but then--only think of their utility! Look at the backs of
these cards: instead of being plain, they are figured. Now this to a
common observer is nothing, most of the French cards being, you know,
variegated with flowers or other designs at the back. But to the
initiated, the lines upon these cards are every thing. Mark how they
run. All the high cards have semicircles in the corners, while all the
low cards have the ends of the lines meeting in the corners. Then, by a
more minute study still of these cards, it is easy to know kings,
queens, knaves, and aces, by the manner in which the lines run upon the
back. I hope these weapons are dangerous enough for you."

[Illustration]

"They are decidedly the most efficient I have yet seen," answered the
baronet. "I think we now know all the mysteries of the gaming world;
and, considering how many _flats_ there are in London and the watering
places, it would be astonishing indeed if we could not pick up a
handsome living."

"Of course it would," said Mr. Chichester. "The mania for play is most
extraordinary. The moment a young man enters upon life, he fancies that
it is very fine to frequent gambling-houses or lose his loose gold at
private play: indeed he imagines that he cannot be a _man of the world_
without it. There is our advantage. That anxiety to be looked upon as _a
fine dashing fellow_ is the real cause of the immense increase of gaming
propensities. Young men do not begin to play in the first instance
because they like it: they commence, simply to gratify their vanity; and
then they imbibe the taste and acquire the habit. What they began
through pride, they continue through love. There, again, I say, is our
pull:--there always will be flats ready to throw themselves head and
shoulders into the nets that sharps spread out for them."

"All that is very true, Chichester," said the baronet. "But we don't
want a homily on the vice of gambling this afternoon: what we require is
the needful to enable us to put our plans into execution. The old tricks
that you taught me more than three years ago in that very respectable
lodging which you occupied in Bartholomew Close, are well-nigh worn out:
we have now studied fresh ones;--but we are totally deficient in the
steam to set our new engines in motion."

Chichester was about to reply when a carriage drove up to the front
door, and Mr. Greenwood alighted.




CHAPTER LXVIII.

THE ELECTION.


"Well--it is all right!" exclaimed Mr. Greenwood, the moment he entered
the drawing-room, his countenance radiant with joy, and his eyes
expressive of triumph.

"What is all right?" demanded both the baronet and Chichester in the
same breath.

"Why--have you not heard that the election for Rottenborough took place
yesterday?" said Greenwood.

"Oh! to be sure--I forgot that!" observed the baronet. "But you surely
never have beaten Lord Tremordyn's candidate?"

"Yes--I was returned triumphantly--814 against 102," said Greenwood.

"I wish you joy, my dear fellow," exclaimed Chichester. "I suppose you
astonished the natives of Rottenborough? but how the devil did you
manage this victory?"

"I will give you a brief sketch of the whole proceeding," said
Greenwood, throwing himself upon the sofa, and playing with his elegant
guard-chain. "The fact is, I learnt in the latter part of December that
the representative of Rottenborough intended to accept the Chiltern
Hundreds when the Houses met in February. You know that I was at that
time very intimate with Lord Tremordyn, your worthy and much revered
father-in-law, Sir Rupert----"

"Ah! worthy, indeed!" ejaculated the baronet impatiently.

"I accordingly spoke to Lord Tremordyn," continued Greenwood; "and,
after a little delicate manoeuvring, received his promise to support
me,--in fact, to get me in for Rottenborough. It had been arranged that
Count Alteroni and his family were to pass the month of January and a
portion of February with Lord and Lady Tremordyn; but in the mean time,
the count learned something about me, as I before told you, which he did
not like; and he rejected me as a suitor for his daughter's hand. That
did not grieve me much. My only motives for making up to the signora at
all were, because I really liked the girl, and because she is a
nobleman's daughter. But the count did not stop there. He sent an
apology to Lord and Lady Tremordyn, and declined the invitation. Off
goes his lordship to Richmond, and calls upon the count. The count spoke
so ill of me, it appears, that his lordship determined to cut me. There
seemed at first an insurmountable obstacle to my hopes relative to
Rottenborough."

"Yes--but you are never dismayed at any thing," said Chichester.

"Never. There is no such word as _impossible_ in my vocabulary,"
returned Greenwood; "and as for _improbable_--that is a word which can
only intimidate cowards. I made up my mind to exert all my energies to
obtain the gratification of my wishes. I had set my mind upon becoming
an M.P. I had dreamt of it--thought upon it for hours together--and had
even based certain calculations and schemes upon the event. I was not to
be disappointed. I immediately went down to Rottenborough, and put up at
the principal inn. I looked about me for a day or two, and at length saw
something that suited me--an old mansion in such a ruined and
dilapidated state, that it would require three or four thousand pounds
to restore it to a habitable and comfortable condition. It belonged to
the banker of the place. I bought it without haggling, and thus made a
friend of him. I then set all the masons, carpenters, decorators, and
upholsterers in the place to work, paid a considerable sum into the
banker's hands, and appointed the head solicitor in the town to be my
agent. I moreover gave him certain secret instructions relative to my
ultimate views, and returned to London. Every Saturday I went down to
Rottenborough--it is only twenty-four miles from London, you know--and
paid all the bills without demanding discount. I also sent fifty pounds
to the clergyman of the parish to lay out in purchasing blankets for the
poor; and paid the coal merchant for fifty tons of coals also for
charitable distribution. I always remained at Rottenborough until Monday
mornings, and went to church three times on the Sundays. No one spoke
the responses louder than I did--no one dwelt with such holy delight
upon the clergyman's sermons as myself. I moreover won the hearts of the
churchwardens, by placing a ten-pound note in the plate, after a charity
sermon; and I secured the overseer by visiting the workhouse with him,
tasting the soup, and pronouncing the dietary-scale to amount to
absolute luxuries. In this manner, I was soon talked about. 'Who is this
Mr. Greenwood?' was the universal question. 'A wealthy capitalist of
London,' answered the lawyer. Thus, every thing progressed well."

"So I should imagine," observed the baronet.

"Well--parliament met--the representative of Rottenborough resigned his
seat; and the next morning by eight o'clock, my lawyer-agent had secured
every inn, tavern, and public-house in Rottenborough in my name.
Placards were posted all over the town, announcing my intention to come
forward in the liberal interest, Lord Tremordyn having always supported
the opposite side. Down goes Lord Tremordyn with his candidate, and is
quite astonished to see all the walls and houses covered with posters,
on which the name of Greenwood appeared in monster-type. But if he were
surprised at first, how much more was he compelled to marvel, and how
deeply was he annoyed, when not an inn--not a tavern--not even a
public-house, would receive him, or his horses. His lordship drove to
the rector's. The parson 'was excessively glad to see his lordship, and
hoped his lordship would make his (the rector's) house his home; but he
(the rector) could not think of entertaining the Conservative candidate
also, as he had promised his vote to a gentleman who intended to settle
in the place, and who had already done a vast amount of good there.'
Lord Tremordyn was astounded. He went to the banker's. Precisely the
same answer. The brewer, the coal-merchant, the Chairman of the Board of
Poor Law Guardians (who had heard that I admired the soup and considered
gruel at nineteen out of twenty-one meals every week, to be actually
encouraging in the poor a taste for luxuries) all spoke well of me. Lord
Tremordyn grew livid with rage; and he was compelled to take up his
quarters, with the new candidate, at the house of the undertaker, whose
services I had neglected to secure, not having known upon what possible
pretence to order a few coffins."

"Capital!" ejaculated Sir Rupert: "I am glad the old lord was taken in
at last--he who fancied himself omnipotent at Rottenborough."

"Every engine of Tory tactics was now put into execution by Lord
Tremordyn, his candidate, and his agents. All his tenants who had not
paid up their arrears of rent, were menaced with executions and
ejectments if they did not vote for the Conservative. My lawyer knew how
to counteract this influence. He found out all the tenants who were in
arrears, and proffered them loans payable at very distant dates. This
accommodation was gladly accepted; and they were of course given to
understand that the assistance emanated from me. 'At the same time,'
said my lawyer, 'you must not think that this is a mere electioneering
manoeuvre to secure your support. No--remain free and independent
electors. Mr. Greenwood's wishes and objects were merely to defeat
tyranny and annihilate intimidation.' In this way we completely weaned
his own tenants away from Lord Tremordyn and his cause."

"All this must have cost you a great deal of money," said Chichester.

"Not near so much as you would fancy. But, whatever it was, it was well
spent. The position of an M.P. to me is worth thousands and
thousands:--I know how to avail myself of it."

"I wish I had your head, Greenwood," exclaimed Sir Rupert Harborough,
with a sigh.

"My dear baronet, if you had my head and lacked my perseverance, my
industry, and my power of self-command, you would be but little
benefited. Let me, however, continue my narrative of the
electioneering proceedings. There was now nothing but placarding and
counter-placarding. My canvassers were most eloquent in my cause. 'Do
not look,' said they, 'to whether a man be Whig or Tory--Radical or
Conservative: ascertain whether he will benefit the town--whether he
will be charitable to the poor, will support the tradesmen, and will
dwell during the recess amongst the inhabitants of Rottenborough. What
good have the candidates of the Tremordyn interest ever done for ye, O
Rottenboroughers? Has the present candidate an account at the banker's?
has he given away blankets and coals wholesale? has he come regularly on
Sunday to attend divine service in our parish church three times? has he
employed the greater portion of the tradesmen of the town? No--he
appears amongst you as a stranger--making fine promises, but having
given an earnest of nothing. Look at Greenwood--a man of enormous
wealth--known probity--vast experience--high character--splendid
qualifications--unlimited charity--and undoubted piety.'"

"I suppose you wrote out all that for your canvassers?" said Chichester.

"No: my lawyer copied a character for me out of an old romance; and it
seemed to be admirably appreciated. At length the eventful
day--yesterday--came. You may depend upon it, I was up early. My band
and colours commenced parading about the town at seven o'clock; and my
lawyer had very prudently hired the clown and pantaloon of Richardson's
Theatre to attend the band, and amuse the people with their antics
during the intervals between the different airs. This told wonderfully
well, and, as I afterwards learnt, won thirty-three votes away from Lord
Tremordyn's candidate."

"A fact which speaks volumes in favour of the intellectual
qualifications of the people of Rottenborough," observed the baronet.

"But the beauty of it was," continued Greenwood, "that my lawyer had the
clown in the Guildhall, when my opponent addressed the electors; and the
fellow imitated the gesticulations and the facial contortions of Lord
Tremordyn's candidate so well, that the speech was drowned in roars of
laughter."

"And I suppose that your speech was listened to with the greatest
attention?" said Chichester.

"The very greatest," returned Greenwood; "and I can assure you that I
pitched them the gammon in the very finest possible style. 'Gentlemen,'
I said, 'it is well known that not a single town in this empire contains
a more enlightened, intellectual, and independent population than
Rottenborough. The inhabitants of Rottenborough are the envy of
surrounding cities, and the admiration of the universe. History has ever
been busy with the name of Rottenborough; and never has a gallant
Rottenborougher disgraced his name, his country, or his cause. This is
the chosen home of freedom: if you seek for independence, you will find
it in the peaceful groves and delicious retreats of Rottenborough.
Famous also is this town for the loveliness and virtue of its women; and
beauteous and faithful wives make their husbands and sons good and
great. Oh! supremely blessed is the town of Rottenborough, situate in
its happy valley, and through whose streets sweep balmy gales, laden
with perfume and delicious odour.'--At this moment, the voice of some
purblind Tory exclaimed, 'What do you say to the putrid black ditch at
the back of the church?' Of course one of my own supporters smashed this
ruffian's hat over his eyes; and I then proceeded thus: 'Gentlemen, free
and independent electors of Rottenborough! I offer myself as your
representative! I throw myself into your arms! I undertake your cause!
Tory influence has long blunted your energies: Tory machinations have
for years dimmed the bright and brilliant intellects of the
Rottenboroughers. Do you ask me what are my principles? I will tell you.
I am a liberal in every sense of the word. I am anxious that every free
and independent elector of Rottenborough shall have his beef and beer
for nothing--which shall be the case to-morrow, if I am returned to-day.
I am desirous that the industrious classes should be improved in
condition--that they should have more food and less treadmill, and be
supplied with flannel to expel the bleak and nipping cold of winter.
This want it shall be my duty to supply. But that is not all: I hope to
see the day arrive when every pauper in the workhouse at Rottenborough
shall thank God for his happy condition, and receive an extra half ounce
of bacon for the dinner of the Sabbath! These are my fond
aspirations--these are my aims! If I seem to promise much--I am ready to
perform it all. Trust me--try me--place me in a condition to be useful
to you. I have now expounded to you all my views--I have laid bare my
secret soul to your eyes; and heaven can attest the sincerity of my
intentions. Under these circumstances I confidently claim your
suffrage;--but if it should happen that I am disappointed--if I am
forced to shut up the mansion which I have purchased in this
neighbourhood, suspend all the works, and fly for ever from the peaceful
retreats and delicious haunts of Rottenborough, I shall at least----.'
Here it was arranged between my lawyer and me that my voice was to
falter and that I should seem as if I was about to faint. I accordingly
wound up the farce with a little bit of melodrama: and from that instant
the cause of my opponent was desperate beyond all chances of
redemption."

"You deserved success, after that brilliant speech;" said Chichester,
laughing heartily at this narrative.

"The polling was continued briskly until four o'clock, when the mayor
closed the books and announced that _George Greenwood, Esquire,
Gentleman, was duly returned to serve in Parliament as the
representative of Rottenborough_."

"When shall you 'take your oaths and your seat,' as the papers say?"
demanded Chichester.

"This evening," answered Greenwood.

"And of course you will range yourself amongst the liberals?"

"How can you fancy that I shall be guilty of such egregious folly?"
cried the new Member of Parliament. "The reign of the Liberals is
drawing to a close: a Tory administration within a year or eighteen
months is inevitable."

"But you stood forward as a Liberal, and were returned as such."

"Very true--very true, my dear fellow. But do you imagine that I became
a Member of Parliament to meet the interests and wishes of a pack of
strangers, or to suit my own?"

"And at the next election----"

"I shall be returned again. Mark my word for that. A politician is not
worth a fig who has not a dozen excuses ready for the most flagrant
tergiversation; and money--money will purchase all the free and
independent electors of Rottenborough."

Lady Cecilia Harborough returned to the drawing-room at this moment. She
scarcely noticed Chichester--who was "her aversion"--but welcomed
Greenwood in the most cordial manner. The baronet observed "that he
should leave Mr. Greenwood to amuse Lady Cecilia with an account of his
electioneering exploits;" and then withdrew, accompanied by his "shadow"
Mr. Chichester.

"You have succeeded, George?" said Lady Cecilia, the moment they were
alone together.

"To my heart's content, dearest Cecilia," answered Greenwood, placing
his arm around the delicate waist of the frail fair one, and drawing
her close to him as they stood before the fire.

"I am delighted with this result," said Lady Cecilia; "although my own
father has sustained a defeat in the person of his candidate."

"All fair in the political world, dear Cecilia," replied the new Member
of Parliament. "But you have not yet appeared to understand that I came
hither the moment I returned from Rottenborough,--to bear to you, first
and foremost, the news of my success."

"Ah! dearest George, how can I ever sufficiently testify my gratitude to
thee for all thy proofs of ardent love?" whispered Lady Cecilia, in a
soft and melting tone.

"Yes--I love you--I love you well," answered Greenwood, who in a moment
of tenderness declared with the lips far more than he really felt with
the heart;--and he imprinted a thousand kisses upon her month, her
cheeks, and her brow.

She returned them, while her countenance glowed with a deep crimson
dye;--but neither the kisses nor the blushes were those of a pure and
sacred affection; they were the offspring of a licentious and illicit
flame.

A slight noise in the room startled the guilty pair.

They hastily withdrew from each other's embrace, and glanced around.

Mr. Chichester was advancing towards the table in the middle of the
apartment.

Lady Cecilia uttered a faint cry, and sank upon the sofa.

"I beg you a thousand pardons," said Chichester, affecting the utmost
indifference of manner; "but I had left this parcel behind me;"---- and,
taking up the small package containing his dice and cards, he withdrew.

"Merciful heavens!" ejaculated Lady Cecilia: "we are discovered--we are
betrayed! That wretch will ruin us!"

"Do not fear--do not alarm yourself, sweetest lady," returned Greenwood:
"I will undertake to stop that man's mouth! One moment--and I return."

He hurried after Mr. Chichester, whom he overtook half-way down the
stairs.

"Chichester, one word with you," said Greenwood.

"A dozen, if you like, my dear fellow."

"You came into the drawing-room a minute ago--unexpectedly----"

"And I apologised for my rudeness."

"Yes--but you are not the less possessed of a secret which involves the
honour of a lady--the happiness of an entire family----"

"Greenwood, I am a man of the world: you can rely upon me," interrupted
Chichester. "Fear nothing on that score. You have now asked your favour,
and obtained it of me: let me request one of you."

"Command me in any way you choose."

"I am at this moment embarrassed for a hundred pounds or so----"

"Say no more: they are yours," returned Greenwood; and he forthwith
handed a bank-note for the amount mentioned, to Mr. Chichester.

"Thank you," said that individual; and he hastened to rejoin the
baronet, who was waiting for him in the square.

"Well--have you found your implements?" said Sir Rupert, as he took his
friend's arm.

"Yes--and a hundred pounds into the bargain," returned Chichester,
drily.

"A hundred pounds! Impossible!"

"There is the bank-note. It is just what we required."

"But how----"

"Greenwood was coming down stairs, and I mustered up courage to ask him
for a loan. He complied without a moment's hesitation. Indeed," added
Chichester, with a sneer, "I almost think that I shall be enabled, in
case of emergency, to obtain another supply from the same quarter."

"This is fortunate--most fortunate!" exclaimed Harborough. "Let us go
and dine at Long's or Stephen's this evening, and see if we can pick up
a flat."




CHAPTER LXIX.

THE "WHIPPERS-IN."


Having reassured Lady Cecilia Harborough relative to the alarm inspired
by the intrusion of Chichester at so critical a moment, Mr. Greenwood
returned to his own residence in Spring Gardens.

"Any one called, Lafleur?" he said to his favourite valet, as he
ascended to his study.

"Two gentlemen; sir. Their cards are upon your desk. They both declared
that they would call again to day."

Mr. Greenwood hastened to inspect the cards of his two visitors. One
contained the following name and address:--

[Illustration: THE HON. V. W. Y. SAWDER, M.P.

_Reform-Club_.]

The other presented the annexed superscription to view:--

[Illustration: SIR T. M. B. MUZZLEHEM, BART., M.P.

_Carlton-Club_.]

"Ah! ha!" exclaimed Mr. Greenwood, chuckling audibly: "I understand what
this means! Already at work, eh? No time to be lost, I see." Then
turning towards Lafleur, he added, "You see, my good fellow, that when a
man like me--a man of--of--consideration, in a word--becomes entrusted
with the interests of a free, enlightened, and independent constituency,
like that of Rottenborough, the Ministerial party and the Opposition
each endeavour to secure me to their cause--you understand,
Lafleur--eh?"

"Perfectly, sir," answered the imperturbable valet, with his usual bow.

"Well, then, Lafleur," continued Mr. Greenwood, "you must know farther
that each party has its whipper-in. The whippers-in keep lists of those
who belong respectively to their own parties, and collect them together
when their support is absolutely necessary on a division of the House.
In fact, the whippers-in are the huntsmen of the pack: and the members
all collect at the sound of their bugles. Do you comprehend, Lafleur?"

"Yes, sir--thank you, sir."

"I must therefore see both these gentlemen--but separately, mind. If
they should happen to call at the same time, show one into the
drawing-room while I receive the other here."

"Yes, sir."

"And now, Lafleur," proceeded Mr. Greenwood, "while we are upon the
subject, I may as well give you a few instructions relative to that
deportment which my altered position renders necessary."

Lafleur bowed.

"Placed in a situation of high responsibility and trust, by the
confidence of an intelligent and enlightened constituency," resumed Mr.
Greenwood, "I am bound to maintain a position which may inspire respect
and confidence. In the first place, as it cannot be supposed that I
shall receive many epistolary communications until my opinions upon
particular measures and questions become known through my parliamentary
conduct,--and as, at the same time, it would be disgraceful for the
neighbourhood to imagine that my correspondence is limited, you must
take care that the two-penny postman never passes my door without
leaving a letter."

"Yes, sir. I will have a letter, addressed to you, posted every two
hours, sir, so that you cannot fail to receive one by each delivery."

"Good, Lafleur; and you can tell the postman," added Mr. Greenwood, "to
knock louder than he has been in the habit of doing----"

"Yes, sir; because it is difficult to hear from the servants' offices."

"Precisely, Lafleur. And you can tell our newsman to bring me all the
_second editions_ of the newspapers whenever there are any; and mind you
always keep the news-boy waiting a long time at the door. Tell him,
moreover, to bawl out '_second edition_' of whatever paper it may be, as
loud as he can."

"I will take care he shall do so, sir," answered Lafleur.

"And once a week, or so," proceeded Greenwood, after a pause, "let an
express-courier gallop at full speed up to the house, and ring and knock
furiously until the door is opened. But, mind that he comes from at
least three or four miles distant, so that his horse may be covered with
foam, and himself with mud or dust, according to the state of the
weather."

"I understand, sir."

"Moreover, Lafleur, at least three or four times a week, go to
Leadenhall Market and purchase the game and poultry which we may require
for the house, and send it home by the London Parcels Delivery Company,
so that the neighbours may say, '_More presents for Mr. Greenwood. Dear
me! how popular he must be with his constituents!_'"

"I fully comprehend, sir."

"You can send fish home, too,--and haunches of venison in the same
manner," continued the new Member of Parliament; "but mind that the
feathers of the pheasants, the tails of the fish, and the feet of the
haunches always hang out of the baskets in which they are packed."

"Oh! certainly, sir."

"If you could possibly get a charity-school to wait upon me some
morning, to solicit me to become a patron, or any thing of that sort, it
would do good, and I should make a handsome donation to the funds."

"That can be managed, sir. I can safely promise that seventy boys and
ninety girls shall wait upon you in procession any day you choose to
appoint."

"Well and good, Lafleur. And mind that they are kept standing for three
quarters of an hour in the street before they are admitted."

"As a matter of course, sir."

"And now I will just mention a few things," continued Mr. Greenwood,
"that you most manage with very great nicety. Indeed, I know I can rely
upon you in every thing."

Lafleur bowed.

"You must turn away all Italian organ-players. The moment one shows
himself under our windows, let one of the footmen rush out and order him
off. It is not proper to encourage such vagabonds: the aristocracy don't
like them."

"Certainly not, sir."

"Organ-playing is a thing I am determined to put an end to. There is
also the hoop nuisance. Give any boy into charge, whatever may be his
age, who is caught trundling a hoop in Spring Gardens. That is another
thing I am resolved to put an end to. Ballad-singers and broom-girls you
will of course have taken into custody without hesitation. In fact you
had better give the policeman upon the beat general instructions upon
this head; and you can slip a guinea into his hand at the same time."

"Very good, sir."

"At the same time we must be charitable, Lafleur--we must be
charitable."

"Decidedly, sir."

"You must find out some decent woman with half a dozen children, to whom
the broken victuals can be given every day at about three o'clock, when
there are plenty of people in the street;--a woman who does not exactly
want the food, but who will not refuse it. The respectability of her
appearance will be set down to my benevolence, Lafleur; and she must be
careful always to come with her children. By these means we shall gain
the reputation of being judiciously particular in respect to vagabonds
and impostors, but charitable in the extreme to the deserving poor."

"Just so, sir."

"One word more, Lafleur. When any person calls whom you know I do not
want to see, say, '_Mr. Greenwood is engaged with a deputation from his
constituents_;' or else, '_Mr. Greenwood has just received very
important dispatches, and cannot be disturbed_;'--or, again, '_Mr.
Greenwood has just stepped down as far as the Home Office_.' You fully
comprehend."

"Perfectly, sir."

"Then you may retire, Lafleur. But--by the bye--Lafleur!"

"Yes, sir?"

"I shall add twenty guineas a year to your wages from this date,
Lafleur," said Mr. Greenwood.

"Thank you, sir," answered the valet; and, with a low bow, he retired.

"Another step gained in the ladder of ambition!" said Greenwood to
himself, when he was alone. "A Member of Parliament--and in spite of
Lord Tremordyn! ha! ha! ha! In spite of Lord Tremordyn! Oh most
intelligent and independent electors of Rottenborough: I bought your
suffrages with gold, with fine words, with clowns and mountebanks, and
with pots of beer! Free and enlightened electors! ha! ha! I shall turn
against the very interest in which I was elected; but if my constituents
grumble, I will silence them with more gold;--if they reproach, I will
use all the sophistry of which language is capable--and that is not a
little;--if they repine, I will win them back to good humour with fresh
sights, and buffoons, and galas;--if they grow dry with talking against
me, I will have whole pipes of wine and butts of beer broached in their
streets! Yes--I must join the Tory interest: I see that it is now upon
the rise. And yet I know--I feel in my heart--I have the conviction that
the popular cause is the true one, the just one. But what of that? I
stood forward as a candidate to suit myself, and not for the sake of the
free and independent electors of Rottenborough! Yes, all goes well with
me! An occasional annoyance--such as my failure in obtaining possession
of the person of Eliza Sydney, and of the hand of Isabella, the lovely
Italian--cannot be avoided;--but in all great points--in all my
important views, I am successful! And yet, Isabella--Isabella! Upon her
the eye that is wearied with the contemplation of the rude and
discordant scenes of life, could rest--could rest with unfeigned, with
ineffable delight! O Isabella, there are times when thine image comes
before me, like the vision of a holy and chaste Madonna to the
sleep-bound mind of the pious Catholic;--and there have been solitary
hours in which the whole earth has seemed to me to be covered with
flowers beneath the sweet sunlight of thine eyes! And yet--who knows?
The day may come when even thou shalt be mine! I longed to languish in
the arms of Diana Arlington;--and I had my wish. I coveted the patrician
loveliness of Cecilia Harborough;--and, behold! my wealth purchased it.
I sought for change; and accident--a strange accident--surrendered to my
embraces _another_--yes, _another_--whom I have never seen since that
day--now more than two months ago,--but who, I have since learnt through
the medium of my faithful Lafleur, dwells in the same house with--"

Mr. Greenwood's reverie was interrupted by the entrance of his valet,
who introduced the Honourable Mr. Sawder into the study. The new Member
of Parliament received the Whig whipper-in with his usual courtesy of
manner; and, when they were both seated, Mr. Sawder felicitated Mr.
Greenwood upon the successful result of the Rottenborough election.

"The liberal cause triumphed most signally," said Mr. Sawder: "the
result was hailed with enthusiasm at the Reform Club, I can assure you."

"I have no doubt," answered Mr. Greenwood, already adopting the method
of evasion so much in vogue amongst diplomatic and political
circles,--"I have no doubt that every true lover of his country must be
rejoiced at the victory achieved by straightforward conduct over the
system of bribery, intimidation, and corruption practised by the nominee
of Lord Tremordyn and his agents."

"Oh! certainly--certainly," returned Mr. Sawder. "The object of my
present visit is to ascertain whether you will permit me to introduce
you to the House this evening?"

"It is my intention to take the oaths and my seat this evening,"
answered Mr. Greenwood.

"And my services as _chaperon_--"

"You really confer a great honour upon me."

"Then I may consider that you accept--"

"My dear sir, how can I sufficiently thank you for this kind interest
which you take in my behalf?"

"Pray do not mention it, Mr. Greenwood."

"No, Mr. Sawder, I will not allude to it; since it is the more to be
appreciated, inasmuch as I never had the pleasure of being known to you
previous to this occasion."

"I am therefore to understand," said the whipper-in, who could not
precisely fathom the new member through the depths of these ambiguous
phrases, "that you will allow me the honour of introducing you--"

"The honour, my dear sir, would be with me," observed Mr. Greenwood,
with a gracious bow.

"At what hour, then, will you be prepared--"

"My time shall henceforth always be devoted to the interests of my
constituents."

"A very noble sentiment, my dear Mr. Greenwood," said the whipper-in.
"Shall we then fix the ceremony for five o'clock?"

"Five o'clock is an excellent hour, Mr. Sawder--an excellent hour. I
know no hour that I like more than five o'clock," exclaimed Mr.
Greenwood.

"Be it five, then," said the whipper-in. "And now, relative to the
Reform club--when will it please you to be proposed a member?"

"It will please me, my dear sir, at any time, to join that fraternity of
honourable gentlemen with whom I shall in future co-operate."

"Well and good, my dear sir," said Mr. Sawder; and he slowly and
reluctantly took his leave, not knowing what to make of the new member
for Rottenborough, nor whether to calculate upon his adhesion to the
Whig cause, or not.

Scarcely had the Honourable Mr. V. W. Y. Sawder, M. P., driven away in
his beautiful cabriolet from Mr. Greenwood's door, when Sir T. M. B.
Muzzlehem, Bart., M. P. arrived in his brougham at the same point. But
if Mr. Greenwood were evasive and ambiguous to the Whig whipper-in, he
was clear and lucid to the Tory one.

Sir T. Muzzlehem began by felicitating him upon his election, and in a
verbose harangue, expressed his hopes that Mr. Greenwood would support
that cause "the object of which was to maintain the glorious old
constitution inviolate, and uphold the Established Church in its unity
and integrity."

"Those are precisely my intentions," said Mr. Greenwood.

"I am delighted to hear you say so, my dear sir," resumed the Tory
whipper-in; "but I have one deep cause of uneasiness, which is that you
may not entertain precisely the same views of what is necessary to
maintain these honourable and ancient institutions, as the men who would
gladly lay down their lives to benefit their country."

"I believe, Sir Thomas Muzzlehem," answered Mr. Greenwood, "that I shall
act according to the wishes of my constituents, the dictates of my own
conscience, and the views of the illustrious men of whom you speak."

"In which case, my dear Mr. Greenwood, I am of course to understand that
you will be one of _us_--one of the true defenders of the Throne, the
Constitution, and the Church--"

"In other words, a Conservative," added Mr. Greenwood.

"Bravo!" ejaculated the whipper-in, unable to conceal his joy at this
unexpected result of a visit whose object he had at first deemed certain
of defeat: then, shaking Mr. Greenwood heartily by the hand, he said,
"At what hour shall I have the pleasure of introducing you this
evening?"

"At a quarter to five precisely," replied Mr. Greenwood.

"And of course you will become a member of the Carlton?" added the
whipper-in.

"Of course--whenever you choose--as early as possible," said Mr.
Greenwood.

Sir Thomas Muzzlehem again wrung the hand of the new member, and then
took his leave.

The moment he had departed, Lafleur repaired to the study, and said, "A
lady, sir, is waiting to see you in the drawing-room."

"A lady!" ejaculated Mr. Greenwood: "who is she?"

"I do not know, sir. She refused to give me her name; and I have never
seen her before."

"How did she come?"

"On foot, sir. She is neatly, but plainly dressed; and yet her manners
seem to indicate that she is a lady."

"Strange! who can she be?" murmured Greenwood, as he hastened to the
drawing-room.




CHAPTER LXX.

THE IMAGE, THE PICTURE, AND THE STATUE.


Upon the sofa in Mr. Greenwood's elegantly-furnished drawing-room was
seated the young lady who so anxiously sought an interview with the
owner of that princely mansion.

Her face was very pale: a profound melancholy reigned upon her
countenance, and was even discernible in her drooping attitude; her eyes
expressed a sorrow bordering upon anguish; and yet, through that veil of
dark foreboding, the acute observer might have seen a ray--a feeble ray
of hope gleaming faintly, so faintly, that it appeared a flickering lamp
burning at the end of a long and gloomy cavern.

Her elbow rested upon one end of the sofa, and her forehead was
supported upon her hand, when Greenwood entered the room.

The doors of that luxurious dwelling moved so noiselessly upon their
hinges, and the carpets spread upon the floors were so thick, that not a
sound, either of door or footstep, announced to that pale and mournful
girl the approach of the man whom she so deeply longed to see.

He was close by her ere she was aware of his presence.

With a start, she raised her head, and gazed steadfastly up into his
countenance; but her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth, and refused
utterance to the name which she would have spoken.

"Ellen!" ejaculated Greenwood, as his eyes met hers.--"what has brought
you hither?"

"Can you not imagine it possible that I should wish to see you again?"
answered Miss Monroe--for she was Mr. Greenwood's visitor upon the
present occasion.

"But why so much mystery, Ellen? why refuse to give the servant your
name? why adopt a course which cannot fail to render your visit a matter
of suspicion to my household?" said Greenwood, somewhat impatiently.

"Forgive me--forgive me, if I have done wrong," exclaimed Ellen, the
tears gushing to her eyes. "Alas! misfortunes have rendered me so
suspicious of human nature, that I feared--I feared lest you should
refuse to see me--that you would consider me importunate--"

"Well--well, Ellen: do not cry--that is foolish! I am not angry now; so
cheer up, and tell me in what I can serve thee?"

As Greenwood uttered these words, he seated himself upon the sofa by the
side of the young lady, and took her hand. We cannot say that her tears
had moved him--for his was a heart that was moved by nothing regarding
another: but she had looked pretty as she wept, and as her eyes glanced
through their tears towards him; and the apparent kindness of his manner
was the mechanical impulse of the libertine.

"Oh! if _you_ would only smile thus upon me--now and then--" murmured
Ellen, gazing tenderly upon him,--"how much of the sorrow of this life
would disappear from before my eyes."

"How can one gifted with such charms as you be unhappy?" exclaimed
Greenwood.

"What! do you imagine that beauty constitutes felicity?" cried Ellen, in
an impassioned tone. "Are not the loveliest flowers exposed to the
nipping frosts, as well as the rank and poisonous weeds? Do not clouds
obscure the brightest stars, as well as those of a pale and sickly
lustre? You ask me if I can be unhappy? Alas! it is now long--long since
I knew what perfect happiness was! I need not tell you--_you_--how my
father's fortune was swept away;--but I may detail to you the miseries
which the loss of it raised up around him and me--and chiefly _me_!"

"But why dwell upon so sad a theme, Ellen? Did you come hither to divert
me with a narrative of sorrows which must now be past, since--according
to what I have heard--your father and yourself have found an asylum--"

"At Markham Place!" added Miss Monroe, emphatically. "Yes--we have found
an asylum there--_there_, in the house of the individual whom my
father's speculations and your agency--"

"Speak not of that--speak not of that, I conjure you!" hastily exclaimed
Greenwood. "Tell me Ellen--tell me, you have not breathed a word to your
father, nor to that young man--"

"No--not for worlds!" cried Ellen, with a shudder: then, after a pause,
during which she appeared to reflect deeply, she said, "But you ask me
why I wish to narrate to you the history of all the miseries I have
endured for two long years, and upwards: you demand of me why I would
dwell upon so sad a theme. I will tell you presently. You shall hear me
first. But pray, be not impatient: I shall not detain you long;--and,
surely--surely, you can spare an hour to one who is so very--very
miserable."

"Speak, Ellen--speak!"

"The loss of our fortune plunged us into the most frightful poverty. We
were not let down gradually from affluence to penury;--but we fell--as
one falls from a height--abruptly, suddenly, and precipitately into the
depths of want and starvation. The tree of our happiness lost not its
foliage leaf by leaf: it was blighted in an hour. This made the sting so
much more sharp--the heavy weight of misfortune so much less tolerable.
Nevertheless, I worked, and worked with my needle until my energies were
wasted, my eyes grew dim, and my health was sinking fast. Oh! my God, I
only asked for work;--and yet, at length, I lost even that resource!
Then commenced a strange kind of life for me."

"A strange kind of life, Ellen--what mean you?" exclaimed Greenwood, now
interested in the recital.

"I sold myself in detail," answered Ellen, in a tone of the deepest and
most touching melancholy.

"I cannot understand you," cried Greenwood. "Surely--surely your mind is
not wandering!"

"No: all I tell you is unhappily too true," returned the poor girl,
shaking her head; then, as if suddenly recollecting herself, she started
from her thoughtful mood, and said, "You have a plaster of Paris image
as large as life, in the window of your staircase?"

"Yes--it is a Diana, and holds a lamp which is lighted at night,"
observed Greenwood. "But what means that strange question--so irrelevant
to the subject of our discourse?"

"More--more than you can imagine," answered Ellen, bitterly. "That
statue explains one phase in my chequered life;"--then, sinking her tone
almost to a whisper, grasping Greenwood's hand convulsively, and
regarding him fixedly in the countenance, while her own eyes were
suddenly lighted up with a strange wildness of expression, she added,
"The face of your beautiful Diana is my own!"

[Illustration]

Greenwood gazed upon her in speechless astonishment: he fancied that her
reason was unhinged; and--he knew not why--he was afraid!

Ellen glanced around, and her eyes rested upon a magnificent picture
that hung against the wall. The subject of this painting, which had no
doubt struck her upon first entering that room, was a mythological
scene.

Taking Greenwood by the hand, Ellen led him towards the picture.

"Do you see any thing that strikes you strangely there?" she said,
pointing towards the work of art.

"The scene is Venus rising from the ocean, surrounded by nereids and
nymphs," answered Greenwood.

"And you admire your picture much?"

"Yes--much; or else I should not have purchased it."

"Then have you unwittingly admired me," exclaimed Ellen; "for the face
of your Venus is my own!"

Greenwood gazed earnestly upon the picture for a few moments; then,
turning towards Ellen, he cried, "True--it is true! There are your
eyes--your mouth--your smile--your forehead--your very hair! How strange
that I never noticed this before. But--no--it is a dream: it is a mere
coincidence! Tell me--how could this have taken place;--speak--is it not
a mere delusion--an accidental resemblance which you noticed on entering
this room?"

"Come with me," said Ellen in a soft and melancholy tone.

Still retaining him by the hand, she led him into the landing place
communicating with the drawing-room and leading to the stairs.

A magnificent marble statue of a female, as large as life, stood in one
corner. The model was naked down to the waist, one hand gracefully
sustaining the drapery which enveloped the lower part of the form.

"Whence did you obtain that statue!" demanded Ellen, pointing towards
the object of her inquiry.

"The ruin of a family long reputed rich, caused the sale of all their
effects," answered Greenwood; "and I purchased that statue, amongst
other objects of value which were sold, for a mere trifle."

"The lady has paid dearly for her vanity!" cried Ellen: "her fate--or
rather the fate of her statue is a just reward for the contempt, the
scorn--the withering scorn with which she treated me, when I implored
her to take me into her service."

"What do you mean, Ellen?"

"I mean that the bust of your marble statue is my own," answered the
young lady, casting down her eyes, and blushing deeply.

"Another enigma!" cried Greenwood.

They returned to the drawing-room, and returned their seats upon the
sofa.

A long pause ensued.

"Will you tell me, Ellen," at length exclaimed Greenwood, deeply struck
by all he had heard and seen within the last half hour,--"will you tell
me, Ellen, whether you have lost your reason, or I am dreaming?"

"Lost my reason!" repeated Ellen, with fearful bitterness of tone;
"no--that were perhaps a blessing; and naught save misery awaits me!"

"But the image--the picture--and the statue?" exclaimed Greenwood
impatiently.

"They are emblems of phases in my life," answered Ellen. "I told you ere
now that my father and myself were reduced to the very lowest depths of
poverty. And yet we could not die;--at least I could not see that poor,
white-haired, tottering old man perish by inches--die the death of
starvation. Oh! no--that was too horrible. I cried for bread--bread--bread!
And there was one--an old hag--you know her--"

"Go on--go on."

"Who offered me bread--bread for myself, bread for my father--upon
strange and wild conditions. In a word I sold myself in detail."

"Again that strange phrase!" ejaculated Greenwood. "What mean you,
Ellen?"

"I mean that I sold my face to the statuary--my likeness to the
artist--my bust to the sculptor--my whole form to the photographer--and----"

"And--" repeated Greenwood, strangely excited.

"And my virtue to you!" added the young woman, whose tone, as she
enumerated these sacrifices, had gradually risen from a low whisper to
the wildness of despair.

"Ah! now I understand," said Greenwood, whose iron heart was for a
moment touched: "how horrible!"

"Horrible indeed!" ejaculated Ellen. "But what other women sell first. I
sold last: what others give in a moment of delirium, and in an excess of
burning, ardent passion, I coolly and deliberately exchanged for the
price of bread! But you know this sad--this saddest episode in my
strange history! Maddened by the sight of my father's sufferings, I flew
to the accursed old hag: I said, '_Give me bread, and do with me as thou
wilt_!' She took me with her. I accompanied her, reckless of the way we
went, to a house where I was shown into a chamber that was darkened;
there I remained an hour alone, a prey to all the horrible ideas that
ever yet combined to drive poor mortal mad, and still failed to
accomplish their dread aim;--the hour passed--a man came--you know the
rest!"

"Say no more, Ellen, on that head: but tell me, to what does all this
tend?"

"One word more. Hours passed away, as you are well aware: you would not
let me go. At length I returned home. My God! my poor father was happy!
He had met an angel, while I had encountered a devil----"

"Ellen! Ellen!"

"He had gold--he was happy, I say! He had purchased a succulent
repast--he had spread it with his own hand--he had heaped up his
luxuries, in his humble way, to greet the return of his dear--his
darling child. Heavens! how did I survive that moment? how dared I stand
in the presence of that old man--that good, that kind old man--whose
hair was so white with many winters, and whose brow was so wrinkled with
many sorrows? I cannot say how passed the few hours that followed my
return! Flower after flower had dropped from the garland of my
purity--that purity in which he--the kind old man--had nurtured me! And
then there was the dread--the crushing--the overwhelming conviction that
had I retained my faith in God for a few hours more--had I only
exercised my patience until the evening of that fatal day, I had been
spared that final guilt--that crowning infamy!"

Ellen covered her face with her hands, and burst into an agony of tears.
Deep sobs convulsed her bosom; she groaned in spirit; and never had the
libertine by her side beheld female anguish so fearfully exemplified
before.

Oh! when fair woman loses the star from her brow, and yet retains the
sense of shame, where shall she seek for comfort? whither shall she fly
to find consolation?

Greenwood was really alarmed at the violence of the poor girl's grief.

"Ellen, what can I do for you? what would you have with me?" he said,
passing his arm around her waist.

She drew hastily away from his embrace, and turning upon him her tearful
eyes, exclaimed, "If you touch me under the influence of the sentiment
that made you purchase my only jewel, lay not a finger on me--defile me
not--let my sorrows make my person sacred! But if you entertain one
spark of feeling--one single idea of honour, do me justice--resign me
not to despair!"

"Do you justice, Ellen?"

"Yes--do me justice; for I was pure and spotless till want and misery
threw me into your arms," continued Ellen, in an impassioned tone; "and
if I sinned--if I surrendered myself up to him who offered me a
price--it was only that I might obtain bread--bread for my poor father!"

"Ellen, what would you have me do?"

"What would I have you do!" she repeated, bitterly: "oh! cannot you
comprehend what I would have you do to save my honour? It is in your
power to restore me to happiness;--it is you who this day--this
hour--must decide my doom! You ask me what I would have you do? Here,
upon my knees I answer you--here, at your feet I implore you, by all
your hopes of prosperity in this world and salvation in the next--by all
you bold dear, solemn, and sacred--I implore you to bestow a father's
honourable name upon the child which I bear in my womb!"

She had thrown herself before him--she grasped his hands--she bedewed
them with her tears--she pressed them against her bosom that was
convulsed with anguish.

"Rise, Ellen--rise," exclaimed Greenwood: "some one may come--some one
may--"

"Never will I rise from this position until your tongue pronounces my
fate!"

"You do not--you cannot mean----"

"That you should marry me!" exclaimed Ellen. "Yes--that is the prayer
which I now offer to you! Oh! if you will but restore me to the path of
honour, I will be your slave. If my presence be an annoyance to you, I
will never see you more from the moment when we quit the altar: but if
you will admit me to your confidence--if you will make me the partner of
your hopes and fears, your joys and sorrows, I will smile when you
smile--I will console you when you weep. I will serve you--upon my knees
will I serve you;--I will never weary of doing your bidding. But--O God!
do not, do not refuse me the only prayer which I have now to offer to
mortal man!"

"Ellen, this is impossible! My position--my interest--my plans render
marriage--at present--a venture in which I cannot embark."

"You reject my supplication--you throw me back into disgrace and
despair," cried Ellen: "Oh! reflect well upon what you are doing!"

"Listen to me," said Mr. Greenwood. "Ask me any thing that money can
purchase, and you shall have it. Say the word, and you shall have a
house--a home--furnished in all imaginable splendour; and measures shall
be taken to conceal your situation from the world."

"No--this is not what I ask," returned Ellen. "The wealth of the
universe cannot recompense me if I am to pass as Mr. Greenwood's
pensioned mistress!"

"Then what, in the name of heaven, do you now require of me?" demanded
the Member of Parliament impatiently.

"That you should do me justice," was the reply, while Ellen still
remained upon her knees.

"Do you justice!" repeated Greenwood: "and how have I wronged you? If I
deliberately set to work to seduce you--if, by art and treachery, I
wiled you away from the paths of duty--if, by false promises, I allured
you from a prosperous and happy sphere,--then might you talk to me of
justice. But no: I knew not whom I was about to meet when the old hag
came to me that day, and said----"

"Enough! enough! I understand you," cried Ellen, rising from her
suppliant position, and clasping her hands despairingly together. "You
consider that you purchased me as you would have bought any poor girl
who, through motives of vanity, gain, or lust, would have sold her
person to the highest bidder! Oh--now I understand you! But, one word,
Mr. Greenwood! If there were no such voluptuaries--such heartless
libertines as you in this world, would there be so many poor unhappy
creatures like me? In an access of despair--of folly--and of madness, I
rushed upon a path which men like you alone open to women placed as I
then was! Perhaps you consider that I am not worthy to become your wife?
Fool that I was to seek redress--to hope for consolation at your hands!
Your conduct to others--to my father--to--"

"Ellen! I command you to be silent! Remember our solemn compact on that
day when we met in so strange and mysterious a manner;--remember that we
pledged ourselves to mutual silence--silence with respect to all we know
of each other! Do you wish to break that compact?"

"No--no," ejaculated Ellen, convulsively clasping her hands together: "I
would not have you publish my disgrace! Happily I have yet friends who
will--but no matter. Sir, I now leave you: I have your answer. You
refuse to give a father's name to the child which I bear? You may live
to repent your decision. For the present, farewell."

And having condensed all her agonising feelings into a moment of
unnatural coolness--the awful calmness of despair--Ellen slowly left the
room.

But Mr. Greenwood did not breathe freely until he heard the front door
close behind her.




CHAPTER LXXI.

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.


The building in which the representatives of the nation assemble at
Westminster, is about as insignificant, ill-contrived, and inconvenient
a place as can be well conceived. It is true that the edifices
appropriated to both Lords and Commons are both only temporary ones;
nevertheless, it would have been easy to construct halls of assembly
more suitable for their purposes than those that now exist.

The House of Commons is an oblong, with rows of plain wooden benches on
each side, leaving a space in the middle which is occupied by the table,
whereon petitions are laid. At one end of this table is the mace: at the
other, sit the clerks who record all proceedings that require to be
noted. Close behind the clerks, and at one extremity of the apartment,
is the Speaker's chair: galleries surround this hall of assembly;--the
one for the reporters is immediately over the Speaker's chair; that for
strangers occupies the other extremity of the oblong; and the two side
ones are for the use of the members. The ministers and their supporters
occupy the benches on the right of the speaker: the opposition members
are seated on those to the left of that functionary. There are also
cross-benches under the strangers' gallery, where those members who
fluctuate between ministerial and opposition opinions, occasionally
supporting the one side or the other according to their pleasure or
convictions, take their places.

At each extremity of the house there is a lobby--one behind the
cross-benches, the other behind the Speaker's chair, between which and
the door of this latter lobby there is a high screen surmounted by the
arms of the united kingdom. When the House divides upon any question,
those who vote for the motion or bill pass into one lobby, and those who
vote against the point to question proceed to the other. Each party
appoints its _tellers_, who station themselves at the respective doors
of the two lobbies and count the members on either side as they return
into the house.

The house is illuminated with bude-lights, and is ventilated by means of
innumerable holes perforated through the floor, which is covered with
thick hair matting.

According to the above-mentioned arrangements of benches, it is evident
that the orator, in whatever part he may sit, almost invariably has a
considerable number of members behind him, or, at all events, sitting in
places extremely inconvenient for hearing. Then, the apartment itself is
so miserably confined, that when there is a full attendance of members,
a least a fourth cannot obtain seats.

It will scarcely be believed by those previously unaware of the fact,
that the reporters for the public press are only allowed to attend and
take notes of the proceedings _upon sufferance_. Any one member can
procure the clearance of both the reporters' and the strangers'
galleries, without assigning any reason whatever.[76]

At half-past four o'clock the members began to enter the home pretty
thickly.

Near the table stood a portly happy-looking man, with a somewhat florid
and good-natured countenance, grey eyes, and reddish hair. He was well
dressed, and wore enormous watch-seals and a massive gold guard-chain.
He conversed in an easy and complacent manner with a few members who had
gathered around him, and who appeared to receive his opinions with
respect and survey him with profound admiration: this was Sir Robert
Peel.

One of his principal admirers on this (as on all other occasions) was a
very stout gentleman, with dark hair, prominent features, a full round
face, eyes of a sleepy expression, and considerable heaviness of tone
and manner: this was Sir James Graham.

Close by Sir James Graham, with whom he exchanged frequent signs of
approval as Sir Robert Peel was conversing, was a small and somewhat
repulsive looking individual, with red hair, little eyes that kept
constantly blinking, a fair complexion, and diminutive features,--very
restless in manner, and with a disagreeable and ill-tempered expression
of countenance. When he spoke, there was for more of gall than honey in
his language; and the shafts of his satire, though dealt at his
political opponents, not infrequently glanced aside and struck his
friends. This was Lord Stanley.

Shortly before the Speaker took the chair, a stout burly man,
accompanied by half-a-dozen representatives of the Emerald Isle, entered
the house. He was enveloped in a cloak, which he proceeded to doff in a
very leisurely manner, and then turned to make some observation to his
companions. They immediately burst out into a hearty laugh--for it was a
joke that had fallen upon their ears--a joke, too, purposely delivered
in the richest Irish brogue, and, accompanied by so comical an
expression of his round good-natured countenance that the jest was
altogether irresistible. He then proceeded slowly to his seat, saying
something good-natured to his various political friends as he passed
along. His broad-brimmed hat he retained upon his head, but of his cloak
he made a soft seat. His adherents immediately crowded around him; and
while he told them some rich racy anecdote, or delivered himself of
another jest, his broad Irish countenance expanded into an expression of
the most hearty and heart-felt good-humour. And yet that man had much to
occupy his thoughts and engage his attention; for he of whom we now
speak was Daniel O'Connell.

Close by Mr. O'Connell's place was seated a gentleman of most enormously
portly form, though little above the middle height. On the wrong side of
sixty, he was as hale, robust, and healthy-looking a man as could be
seen. His ample chest, massive limbs, ponderous body, and large head
denoted strength of no ordinary kind. His hair was iron-grey, rough, and
bushy; his eyes large, grey, and intelligent; his countenance rigid in
expression, although broad and round in shape. This was Joseph Hume.

Precisely at a quarter to five the Speaker took the chair; Mr. Greenwood
was then introduced by the Tory whipper-in, and (as the papers said next
morning) "took the oaths and his seat for Rottenborough."

The Whig whipper-in surveyed him with a glance of indignant
disappointment; but Mr. Greenwood affected not to notice the feeling
which his conduct had excited. On the contrary, he passed over to the
Opposition benches (for it must be remembered that the Whigs then
occupied the ministerial seat) where his accession to the Tory ranks was
very warmly greeted--being the more pleasant as it was totally
unexpected--by Sir Robert Peel and the other leaders of that party.

Mr. Greenwood was not a man to allow the grass to grow under his feet.
He accordingly delivered his "maiden speech" that very evening. The
question before the House was connected with the condition of the poor.
The new member was fortunate enough to catch the Speaker's eye in the
course of the debate; and he accordingly delivered his sentiments upon
the topic.

He declared that the idea of a diminution of duties upon foreign produce
was a mere delusion. The people, he said, were in a most prosperous
condition--they never were more prosperous; but they were eternal
grumblers whom nothing could satisfy. Although some of the most
enlightened men in the kingdom devoted themselves to the interests of
the people--he alluded to the party amongst whom he had the honour to
sit--the people were not satisfied. For his part, he thought that there
was too much of what was called _freedom_. He would punish all
mal-contents with a little wholesome exercise upon the tread-mill. What
presumption, he would like to know, could be greater than that of the
millions daring to have an opinion of their own, unless it were the
audacity of attempting to make that opinion the rule for those who sate
in that House? He was astounded when he heard the misrepresentations
that had just met his ears from honourable gentlemen opposite relative
to the condition of the working classes. He could prove that they ought
to put money in the savings-banks; and yet it was coolly alleged that in
entire districts they wanted bread. Well--why did they not live upon
potatoes? He could demonstrate, by the evidence of chemists and
naturalists, that potatoes were far more wholesome than bread; and for
his part he was much attached to potatoes. Indeed, he often ate his
dinner without touching a single mouthful of bread. There was a worthy
alderman at his right hand, who could no doubt prove to the House that
bread spoilt the taste of turtle. Was it not, then, a complete delusion
to raise such a clamour about bread? He (Mr. Greenwood) was really
astonished at honourable gentlemen opposite; and he should give their
measure his most strenuous opposition at every stage.

Mr. Greenwood sat down amidst loud cheers from the Tory party; and Sir
Robert Peel turned round and gave him a patronising nod of most gracious
approval. Indeed his speech must have created a very powerful sensation,
for upwards of fifty members who had been previously stretched upon the
benches in the galleries, comfortably snoozing, rose up in the middle of
their nap to listen to him.

The Conservative papers next morning spoke in raptures of the brilliancy
of the new talent which had thus suddenly developed itself in the
political heaven; while the Liberal prints denounced Greenwood's
language as the most insane farrago of anti-popular trash ever heard
during the present century.

Mr. Greenwood cared nothing for these attacks. He had gained his aims:
he had already taken a stand amongst the party with whom he had
determined to act;--he had won the smiles of the leader of that party;
and he chuckled within himself as he saw baronetcies and sinecures in
the perspective.

That night he could not sleep. His ideas were reflected back to the time
when, poor, obscure, and friendless, he had commenced his extraordinary
career in the City of London. A very few years had passed;--he was now
rich, and in a fair way to become influential and renowned. The torch of
Fortune seemed ever to light him on his way, and never to shine
obscurely for him in the momentous affairs of life:--like the fabled
light of the Rosicrucian's ever-burning lamp, the halo of that torch
appeared constantly to attend upon his steps.

Whether he thus prospered to the end, the sequel of our tale must show.




CHAPTER LXXII.

THE BLACK CHAMBER AGAIN.


It was now the beginning of April, and the bleak winds had yielded to
the genial breath of an early spring.

At ten o'clock, one morning, an elderly gentleman, with a high forehead,
open countenance, thin white hair falling over his coat collar, and
dressed in a complete suit of black, ascended the steps of the northern
door, leading to the Inland Letter Department of the General Post
Office, Saint Martin's-le-Grand.

He paused for a moment, looked at his watch, and then entered the
building. Having ascended a narrow staircase, he stopped at a door in
that extremity of the building which is the nearer to Aldersgate Street.
Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door, glanced cautiously
behind him, and then entered the _Black Chamber_.

Having carefully secured the door by means of a bolt and chain, he threw
himself into the arm-chair which stood near the large round oaken table.

The Examiner--for the reader has doubtless already recognised him to be
the same individual whom we introduced in the twenty-ninth chapter of
our narrative--glanced complacently around him; and a smile of triumph
curled his thin pale lips. At the same time his small, grey, sparkling
eyes were lighted up with an expression of diabolical cunning: his whole
countenance was animated with a glow of pride and conscious power; and
no one would have supposed that this was the same old man who meekly and
quietly ascended the steps of the Post-Office a few minutes ago.

Bad deeds, if not the results of bad passions and feelings, soon
engender them. This was the case with the Examiner. He was the agent of
the Government in the perpetration of deeds which disgraced his white
hair and his venerable years;--he held his appointment, not from the
Postmaster-General, but direct from the Lords of the Treasury
themselves;--he filled a situation of extreme responsibility and
trust;--he knew his influence--he was well aware that he controlled an
engine of fearful power--and he gloated over the secrets that had been
revealed to him in the course of his avocation, and which he treasured
up in his bosom.

He had risen from nothing; and yet his influence with the Government was
immense. His friends, who believed him to be nothing more than a senior
clerk in the Post-Office, were surprised at the great interest which he
evidently possessed, and which was demonstrated by the handsome manner
in which all his relatives were provided for. But the old man kept his
secret. The four clerks who served in his department under him, were all
tried and trustworthy young men; and their fidelity was moreover secured
by good salaries. Thus every precaution was adopted to render the
proceedings of the Black Chamber as secret as possible;--and, at the
time of which we are writing, the uses to which that room was
appropriated were even unknown to the greater number of the persons
employed in the General Post-Office.

The Examiner was omnipotent in his inquisitorial tribunal. There alone
the authorities of the Post-Office had no power. None could enter that
apartment without his leave:--he was responsible for his proceedings
only to those from whom he held his appointment. At the same time, he
was compelled to open any letters upon a warrant issued and directed to
him by the Secretaries of State for the Home and Foreign Departments,
and for the Colonies, as well as in obedience to the Treasury. Thus did
he superintend an immense system of _espionnage_, which was extended to
every class of society, and had its ramifications through every
department of the state.

It must be observed that, although the great powers of Europe usually
communicated with their representatives at the English court by means of
couriers, still the agency of post-offices was frequently used to convey
duplicates of the instructions borne by these express-messengers; and
many of the minor courts depended altogether upon the post-office for
the transport of their despatches to their envoys and ambassadors. All
diplomatic correspondence, thus transmitted, was invariably opened, and
notes or entire copies were taken from the despatches, in the Black
Chamber. Hence it will be perceived that the English Cabinet became
possessed of the nature of the greater part of all the instructions
conveyed by foreign powers to their representatives at the court of
Saint James's.

But the Government carried its proceedings with regard to the violation
of correspondence, much farther than this. It caused to be opened all
letters passing between important political personages--the friends as
well as the enemies of the Cabinet; and it thus detected party
combinations against its existence, ascertained private opinions upon
particular measures, and became possessed of an immense mass of
information highly serviceable to diplomatic intrigue and general
policy.

Truly, this was a mighty engine in the hands of those who swayed the
destinies of the British Empire;--but the secret springs of that
fearfully complicated machine were all set in motion and controlled by
that white-headed and aged man who now sat in the Black Chamber!

Need we wonder if he felt proud of his strange position? can we be
astonished if he gloated, like the boa-constrictor over the victim that
it retains in its deadly folds, over the mighty secrets stored in his
memory?

That man knew enough to overturn a Ministry with one word.

That man could have set an entire empire in a blaze with one syllable of
mystic revelation.

That man was acquainted with sufficient to paralyze the policy of many
mighty states.

That man treasured in his mind facts a mere hint at which would have
overwhelmed entire families--aye, even the noblest and highest in the
land--with eternal disgrace.

That man could have ruined bankers--hurled down vast commercial
firms--levelled mercantile establishments--destroyed grand institutions.

That man wielded a power which, were it set in motion, would have
convulsed society throughout the length and breadth of the land.

Need we wonder if the government gave him all he asked? can we be
astonished if all those in whom he felt an interest were well provided
for?

When he went into society, he met the possessors of vast estates, whom
he could prostrate and beggar with one word--a word that would proclaim
the illegitimacy of their birth. He encountered fair dames and titled
ladies, walking with head erect and unblushing brow, but whom he could
level with the syllable that should announce their frailty and their
shame. He conversed with peers and gentlemen who were lauded as the
essence of honour and of virtue, but whose fame would have withered like
a parched scroll, had his breath, pregnant with fearful revelations,
only fanned its surface. There were few, either men or women, of rank
and name, of whom he knew not something which they would wish to remain
unknown.

Need we wonder if bad passions and feelings had been engendered in his
mind? Can we be astonished if he had learnt to look upon human nature as
a fruit resembling the apples of the Dead Sea, fair to gaze upon, but
ashes at the heart?

Presently a knock at the door was heard. The Examiner opened it, and one
of his clerks entered the room. He bowed respectfully to his superior,
and proceeded to take his seat at the table. In like manner, at short
intervals, the other three subordinates arrived; but the one who came
last, brought with him a sealed parcel containing a vast number of
letters, which he had received from the President of one of the sorting
departments of the establishment. These letters were now heaped upon the
table before the Examiner; and the business of this mysterious conclave
commenced.

The entire process of opening the letters has been described in detail
in the twenty-ninth chapter. We shall therefore now content ourselves,
with a record of those letters which were examined upon the present
occasion.

The first was from Castelcicala to the representative of that Grand
Duchy at the English court, and was marked "Private." It ran as
follows:--

_City of Montoni, Castelcicala._

     "The undersigned is desired by his lordship the Marquis of Gerrano,
     his Serene Highness's Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, to
     inform your Excellency that your despatches marked L 1, M 2, and N
     3, were received in due course. His lordship regrets to find that
     Prince Alberto positively refuses to renounce his claims to the
     ducal crown of Castelcicala at the death of the reigning Grand
     Duke, whom God preserve for many years! His lordship is surprised
     that Prince Alberto should reject the compromise offered; inasmuch
     as, by complying with the terms thereof, he would receive a pension
     of twenty thousand pounds sterling _per annum_; whereas, by
     obstinately refusing the proposals made by the government of
     Castelcicala, he will obtain nothing. Moreover, it must be apparent
     to Prince Alberto that his claims will be set aside by the
     government of Castelcicala; and that a foreign prince will receive
     an invitation to accept the ducal crown at the death of his present
     Serene Highness the reigning Grand Duke. It would be well to make
     fresh representations to Prince Alberto; and assure him that he
     would act wisely to accept offers made in perfect good will, and
     that he may probably regret his obstinacy when too late. If the
     Prince cherishes the idea of enforcing his claims by arms, at the
     death of the reigning Grand Duke, your Excellency would do well to
     undeceive him; inasmuch, as his Majesty the King of Naples and his
     Holiness the Pope, holding in abhorrence the liberal notions
     entertained by the Prince, will support the government of
     Castelcicala in its determination to place a foreign prince upon
     the ducal throne at the death of his Serene Highness now reigning.

     "The undersigned is moreover instructed by his lordship the Marquis
     of Gerrano, to request your Excellency to pay prompt and full
     attention to the following Instructions:--An English lady, of the
     name of Eliza Sydney, arrived a month ago at Montoni. She is
     apparently about twenty seven or twenty-eight years of age, very
     beautiful, and unmarried. She travelled in a handsome carriage,
     attended by one female servant and an elderly valet. Although
     arrived at that mature age, she has preserved all the freshness of
     her youthful charms--a circumstance which renders her presence here
     the more dangerous, for certain reasons which the undersigned will
     detail to your Excellency on a future occasion. This charming
     English woman brought letters of introduction to certain noble
     families at Montoni, and immediately obtained admittance into the
     very first society of this capital. She has taken up her residence
     at the villa possessed by the Earl of Warrington, in the suburbs of
     Montoni, and is, it is believed, nearly related to that English
     nobleman. The service now required of your Excellency is to
     ascertain all particulars that can be gleaned concerning her. This
     is of the utmost--the very utmost importance. As a guide to your
     proceedings, it may be as well to mention that Miss Sydney this
     morning sent a letter to the post-office addressed to a Mrs.
     Arlington, residing in Dover Street, London.

     "The undersigned avails himself of this note to renew to your
     Excellency assurances of his most perfect consideration.

"_March 15, 1839._

BARON RUPERTO,

"Under Secretary of State for Foreign affairs, &c."



"Eliza Sydney!" exclaimed the Examiner. "That is the same young lady
whose plot with one Stephens, to defraud the Earl of Warrington, was
discovered through the medium of the Black Chamber, and revealed to the
solicitor of the Bank of England."

"The very same, no doubt, sir," observed the first clerk.

"Then the letter which Eliza Sydney has sent from Montoni to Mrs.
Arlington in London, must be amongst this packet of correspondence,"
continued the Examiner, glancing at the pile of letters before him,
"since it left Castelcicala by the same mail as the document of Lord
Ruperto."

The Examiner turned over the letters; and, at length, extracted a
particular one from the heap, observing, "Here it is." He then passed it
to the clerks, by whom it was opened. The contents were as follows:--

"_Montoni, 15th March, 1839._

     "Exactly a month ago, my dearest Diana, I wrote to you a hasty note
     to state my safe arrival in this city, after a very pleasant
     journey through the delicious climes of France, Switzerland, and
     Northern Italy. It was at about three o'clock in the afternoon of
     the 13th of February that the carriage reached the brow of a hill
     from whence the eye commanded a magnificent view of a vast plain,
     rich with fertility, bounded at the further extremity by the
     horizon, and on the right hand stretching down to the sea, the blue
     of which seemed a pure reflection of the cloudless heavens above.
     At the mouth of a superb river, which, after meandering through
     that delicious plain, amidst groves and pleasant meadows, flowed
     into the calm and tranquil sea, the tall towers and white buildings
     of Montoni met my eyes. It is impossible to conceive any thing more
     charming or picturesque than the sight of this peerless city of
     Italy. The river's verdant banks are dotted with magnificent villas
     and mansions, with which are connected beautiful gardens teeming
     with the choicest fruits and flowers, even at this season of the
     year! For here, my dear Diana, it is perfect summer! I ordered the
     carriage to stop for at least a quarter of an hour upon the hill,
     that I might enjoy the magnificent view of the vast plain and the
     beautiful city. Far above the edifices around, rose the two towers
     of the ancient cathedral of St. Theodosia--their dark and gloomy
     masses forming a striking contrast with the extensive white
     buildings of the ducal palace in the immediate foreground. The port
     of the city was crowded with shipping, the flags of all nations
     waving from the forest of masts that indicated the existence of an
     extensive commerce. While I was yet gazing upon the scene, the roar
     of distant artillery reached my ears. The Grand Duke (as I
     afterwards learnt) was just coming back from a water excursion in
     his beautiful yatch, a small steamer rigged as a frigate; and the
     batteries of the port, and the ships of war in the offing thundered
     forth a salute in honour of the royal return. Two line-of-battle
     ships, one French and the other English, and three frigates of the
     Castelcicalan navy, had all their yards manned, and displayed their
     gayest colours. Altogether the scene was one of the most enchanting
     and exhilarating that I have ever yet beheld.

     "In three quarters of an hour my carriage entered Montoni by the
     suburb of Saint Joanna. If I had admired the city from a distant
     point, how was I enraptured when I could survey it close at hand.
     It more nearly resembles the Chaussée d'Antin (a fashionable
     quarter of Paris, which city I had an opportunity of seeing during
     the four days that I remained there on my way hither) than any
     other place which I have ever yet beheld. The streets of Montoni
     are wide, and the buildings elegant. There are numerous fountains,
     and all the principal mansions, even in the very heart of the town,
     have gardens attached to them. At length I reached the fashionable
     quarter, and, having passed the magnificent dwellings of the
     Ministers of Foreign Affairs and the Interior, I passed through the
     immense arena, on one side of which stands the ducal palace. At
     that moment a regiment of Horse Guards was returning to its
     barracks close to the royal residence. The superb black chargers,
     the glittering helmets and cuirasses of the men, the waving plumes,
     the clang of armour, and the braying of trumpets, formed a _tout
     ensemble_ so inspiring, that I almost wished I was a man to be able
     to serve in such a corps.

     "The carriage proceeded, crossed the river over a suspension
     bridge, and, having passed the official dwellings of the Ministers
     of War, Commerce, Marine, and Finance, entered the southern suburbs
     of the metropolis of Castelcicala. I could not have conceived that
     any city could have possibly equalled London or Paris in the
     magnificence of its shops and the amount of wealth displayed in
     their windows;--but certainly, Montoni is a miniature counterpart
     of the finest portions of either the English or French capital.

     "At length I reached the villa so generously placed at my disposal
     by the Earl of Warrington, whom I can never sufficiently thank for
     all his kindness towards me. The servants, already advertised of my
     intended visit by letters which his lordship had written from
     England at the time of my departure, were prepared to receive me. I
     was immediately comfortable--immediately _at home_. Oh! how
     deliciously did I sleep that night;--but before I closed my eyes,
     how fervently did I pray for the welfare and happiness of the Earl
     of Warrington and of Diana Arlington!

     "And the Earl told you that it was a little villa, Diana! It is a
     superb mansion. The rooms are magnificently furnished; the gardens
     are spacious and full of all that is delicious in the shape of
     fruit or enchanting in the guise of flowers. I wandered for hours
     in those inviting grounds the morning after my arrival. But would
     you have me depict my new abode? Listen:--

     "Imagine a river half as broad as the Thames at Richmond, and far,
     far more lovely in its scenery. At a distance of about fifty yards
     from the stream, on a gentle acclivity rising from its very edge,
     stands a large square mansion, built of white free-stone. The villa
     is two storeys high; and the windows on the lower floor open like
     folding doors down to the ground. The hall and magnificent
     staircase are of the finest marble. And will you humour me in
     attending to all my minor details?--I have fitted up my own boudoir
     in precisely the same style as that in which I passed many happy
     hours at Clapton! A grove of myrtles almost surrounds the villa,
     and is musical with the warblings of a thousand birds. A gravel
     walk, margined with flowers, leads down to the river's bank. Behind
     the mansion extend the gardens, the acclivity still rising gently,
     until the summit of the verdant amphitheatre is on a level with the
     first floor windows. There is a marble basin in the middle of the
     grounds, filled with crystal water, in which gold and silver fish
     disport joyously beneath the shade of the overhanging fruit trees
     on one side, or, on the other, play with their glistening fins, in
     the brilliant flood of sunlight. Oh! in truth it is a charming
     spot, and seems as if its barriers could for ever exclude the
     footsteps of sorrow!

     "When I had rested myself for two or three days, and completely
     recovered from the fatigues of travelling, I delivered my letters
     of introduction to the families to whom they were addressed. And
     here I have another instance of the Earl of Warrington's noble
     conduct to record. The letters all represented me as the near
     relation of the Earl of Warrington! I was received with open arms
     by all to whom I was thus introduced; and each kind Italian family
     seemed only anxious to make me happy! Oh! what virtue must there
     have been in those letters, which Count Alteroni had written, no
     doubt according to the dictation of the Earl. But, ah! Diana,
     relative to those letters there is a secret, which I do not choose
     to trust to paper, but which the Earl has perhaps already explained
     to you. Oh! I do not wonder now that I was not to seek to penetrate
     their contents, in England (neither did I myself ever open them at
     all); nor is it a matter of marvel that those recommendations
     should prove such strong passports to the favour of those to whom
     they were addressed!

     "One of those letters was directed to General Grachia, the colonel
     of that very regiment of Horse Guards which I so much admired on my
     first entrance into Montoni. He and his amiable family, consisting
     of a wife and three lovely daughters, overwhelmed me with kindness.
     But now I am going to state something that will surprise you. A few
     days after I first became known to this delightful family, there
     was a grand review in the palace-square. General Grachia commanded
     the troops, which mustered to the number of about seven thousand.
     The ladies insisted that I should accompany them in their open
     carriage to see the manoeuvres. The review was to be a very
     brilliant one, as the Grand Duke himself intended to inspect the
     troops. I accordingly assented; and to the review we went. Never
     have I beheld a more magnificent sight. The road around the square
     was lined with carriages filled with all the rank and beauty of
     Montoni. The troops presented a splendid appearance--being the
     choice regiments of the Castelcicalan army, which, I have
     understood, is seventeen thousand strong. At length the Grand Duke
     Angelo III., attended by a brilliant staff, arrived upon the arena.
     He is a fine-looking man for his age, which must be at least sixty.
     He was dressed in a Field Marshal's uniform, and wore, amongst
     other orders, the insignia of the English Garter, of which he is a
     knight. He rode a little in advance of the great officers of state,
     who attended upon him; and when the troops presented arms, and the
     band struck up the national air, he took his heron plumed hat
     completely off, thus remaining bareheaded until the royal salute
     was ended. He then passed along the lines; but the troops received
     him in silence, for, to tell you the truth, his Serene Highness is
     far from popular, in consequence of certain political reasons with
     which I shall not trouble you at present.

     "When the review was over, the Duke, attended by his staff, rode
     round the square, and graciously replied to the salutations which
     awaited him on all sides. When he drew near the carriage in which
     General Grachia's family and myself were seated, he rode up to it,
     and entered into conversation with the General's lady. Presently he
     glanced toward me, and immediately bent down and whispered to
     Signora Grachia. The result was my formal introduction to the Grand
     Duke of Castelcicala. He inquired very kindly after the Earl of
     Warrington, whom he remembered perfectly. I blushed deeply as I
     answered his questions, for I was ashamed of the imperfect manner
     in which I speak the Italian language--for all that I know, as well
     as the little French with which I am acquainted, I taught myself
     during my residence at the villa at Clapton. The Grand Duke,
     however, seemed to comprehend me perfectly. Having conversed with
     us at least a quarter of an hour, he again whispered something to
     General Grachia's lady; and then rode on.

     "It appeared that there was to be a grand ball and reception at the
     ducal palace on the following evening; and this second whisper
     expressed a positive wish--amounting, you know, on the part of
     royalty, to a command--that I should accompany General Grachia's
     family. I could not avoid obedience to this invitation. I therefore
     expressed my readiness to comply with it. And now, my dearest
     Diana, pardon a woman's vanity;--but it struck me that I never
     looked so well as on that evening, when I was dressed for the ducal
     ball!

     "I need scarcely say that the entertainment itself was magnificent.
     Such a blaze of beauty I never saw before. Oh! what charming
     creatures are the Italian women; and Montoni is justly famed for
     its female loveliness! The Grand Duke is a widower, and has no
     children. The honours of the evening were entrusted to the lady of
     the Minister of the Interior, who is also the President of the
     Council. The Duke opened the ball with that lady. You may laugh at
     the idea of a prince of sixty dancing: but in Italy every body
     dances. I was invited by the major of General Grachia's regiment
     for the first quadrille, and by Baron Ruperto, under secretary of
     state for foreign affairs, for the second. The third and fourth I
     declined dancing, being somewhat overcome with the heat of the
     apartments. But the fifth quadrille I danced: _this time_ I could
     not refuse. No--it was not _an invitation_ that I received--it was
     a _command_! I danced with the Grand Duke of Castelcicala!

     "I found, on this occasion, that his highness speaks English well.
     He emigrated, it appears, to England, when the French armies
     occupied Italy, and resided in London for some years. We
     accordingly conversed in English. He expressed a hope that I should
     make a long stay in Montoni, and observed that he should be very
     angry with General Grachia's lady if she did not always bring me to
     court with her on the evenings of reception. I was at a loss how to
     express myself in return for so much condescension; and I am
     afraid, my dear Diana, that I was very awkward.

     "On the following morning, one of the Duke's attendants arrived at
     the villa with a present of the choicest fruits and flowers for me.
     He informed me that they were sent by order of his highness, and
     the messenger was expressly commanded to make inquiries concerning
     my health. I thanked him most sincerely for this act of kindness on
     the part of his illustrious master; and when he had taken his
     departure, I sate in a delicious summer-house the entire morning,
     wondering to what circumstance I could have been indebted for such
     a token of royal favour.

     "A few days elapsed; and the same messenger returned, bringing me a
     quantity of the most select Italian works, all beautifully bound,
     and with the ducal arms printed on the fly-leaf. Beneath this
     blazonry, were the words--'FROM ANGELO III. TO MISS ELIZA SYDNEY.'
     And now I asked myself, 'What can all this mean?'

     "Two days more passed, when I received an intimation from Signora
     Grachia that there was to be a select _conversazione_ in the
     evening at the palace, and that I was specially invited. I
     accompanied General Grachia's family; and the moment we entered the
     room, the Grand Duke accosted us. After conversing with us for a
     few moments, he offered me his arm, saying that he would conduct me
     to inspect his sculpture-gallery. This splendid museum communicated
     with the apartment wherein the company (which was by no means
     numerous on the occasion) was assembled. His Highness led me into
     the gallery, and explained all its curiosities. The works of art,
     by some of the most eminent masters, are very valuable. His
     Highness evidently prolonged the inspection as much as possible;
     and his language was occasionally interspersed with a compliment
     calculated to flatter me--nay, Diana, to make me very vain! When we
     returned to the drawing-rooms, the Duke led me to a sofa, seated
     himself by me, and conversed with me for a considerable time. He
     asked me many questions relative to my family--whether my father
     and mother were still living, whether I had any brothers or
     sisters, and in what degree of relationship I stood towards the
     Earl of Warrington? He then asked me how it was that I had not as
     yet launched my fortunes in the bark of matrimony? I blushed deeply
     at this question, and replied that I had never as yet encountered
     any one with whom I had chosen to link my destinies. He then spoke
     of the peculiar position of princes, observing with a deep sigh,
     that they could not always follow the bent of their inclinations,
     nor obey the natural dictates of their affections. During the
     remainder of the evening I was the object of universal attention--I
     could not _then_ conceive wherefore--on the part of the noble and
     beauteous guests assembled. Every one manifested the most
     respectful courtesy towards me; and General Grachia's family were
     more kind to me than ever. Ah! a vague suspicion darted across my
     mind:--could it be possible? Oh! no--no! that were the height of
     the most insane presumption!

     "Day after day passed; and frequent were the tokens of the Grand
     Duke's favour which I received--but all of the most delicate
     description,--flowers, fruits, and books. I was also compelled to
     accompany the Grachias to all the ducal _soirées_ and receptions;
     and on each occasion, the Duke paid me marked attention. Oh! my
     dear friend, my heart beats when I remember that only last evening
     his Serene Highness pressed my hand, and said to me in a low but
     impressive tone, '_Would that I were not a prince, or that you were
     a princess!_'

     "I can say no more at present, dearest Diana; but you shall
     speedily hear again from your sincerely attached and ever deeply
     grateful.

"ELIZA SYDNEY."



"No wonder," said the Examiner, drily, "that Baron Ruperto has desired
the Envoy of Castelcicala at the English court to make inquiries
relative to Miss Eliza Sydney. Let the contents of both letters be duly
noted, and forwarded to her Majesty's Secretary of State for Foreign
Affairs."




CHAPTER LXXIII.

CAPTAIN DAPPER AND SIR CHERRY BOUNCE.


The verdure of the early spring re-clothed the trees with their gay
garments, and gave back its air of cheerfulness to the residence of
Count Alteroni.

It was about mid-day; and the sun beamed brightly from a heaven of
unclouded blue. Nature appeared to be reviving from the despotism of
winter's rule; and the primrose peeped bashfully forth to welcome the
return of the feathered chorister of the grove.

The count and countess, with their lovely daughter, were seated in the
breakfast-parlour. The two ladies were occupied with their embroidery:
the noble Italian exile himself was reading the _Montoni Gazette_, which
that morning's post had brought him.

Suddenly he uttered an exclamation of surprise, and then appeared to
read with additional interest and attention.

"What news from Castelcicala?" inquired the countess.

"You remember that the Earl of Warrington applied to me between three
and four months ago for letters of introduction on behalf of a lady of
the name of Eliza Sydney?" said the count.

"And who was about to visit Castelcicala in order to escape the
persecution of that vile man who aspired to the hand of Isabella," added
the countess.

"The very same. She is a cousin of the Earl of Warrington; and it
appears that her presence has created quite a sensation in Montoni. The
_Gazette_ of the 15th of last month contains the following
passage:--'_The fashionable circles of Montoni have lately received a
brilliant addition in the person of Miss Eliza Sydney, a near relative
of the Earl of Warrington, the noble Englishman who purchased some years
ago the beautiful villa at the extremity of the suburbs of Petrarca.
Miss Sydney has taken up her abode at the villa; and during the month
that she has already honoured our city with her presence, her agreeable
manners, amiable qualities, and great personal attractions have won all
hearts. It is even rumoured that the highest person in the land has not
remained indifferent to the attractions of this charming foreigner._'"

"Surely this latter sentence cannot allude to the duke?" exclaimed the
countess.

"It can allude to none other," answered the count: "'_the highest person
in the land_.' Of course it means the duke. But, after all, it is
probably only one of those idle reports which so frequently obtain vogue
in the fashionable circles of all great cities--"

"Or one engendered in the fertile brain of a newspaper editor," said the
countess. "Still it would be strange if, through _your_ letters of
introduction--"

"Oh! it is too absurd to speculate upon," interrupted the count,
impatiently.

"And yet your lordship is not unaccustomed to judge now and then by the
mere superficial appearances of things," said the countess severely.

"I!" ejaculated the Italian noble.

"Decidedly," answered the countess. "You believed Mr. Greenwood to be an
honest man without examining into his real position--"

[Illustration]

"Ah! that one foolish step of mine!"

"And you pronounced Mr. Markham a villain without according him an
opportunity of giving an explanation," added the countess.

"Always Richard Markham!" cried the count angrily. "Why do you
perpetually throw his name in my teeth?"

"Because I think that you judged him too hastily," said the countess.

"Not at all! did he not admit that he had been in Newgate?"

A cold shudder crept over Isabella's frame.

"Yes; and so has our friend Mr. Armstrong, whom you value so highly, and
whose letter from Germany gave you so much pleasure yesterday morning."

"Certainly I was pleased to receive that letter, because I had not heard
from Armstrong so long: I fancied that something had happened to him.
But, to return to what you were saying," continued the count; "Armstrong
was incarcerated merely for a political offence; and there is something
honourable in that."

"Mr. Markham may have been more unfortunate than guilty," said the
countess. "At all events you have condemned without giving him a fair
hearing. I have even asked you to refer to the newspapers of the period
and read his case; but you refuse to give him a single chance."

"Your ladyship is very quick to blame," said the count, somewhat
sarcastically; "but you forget how rejoiced you were some years ago to
discover that the chevalier Gilderstein, whose father was executed for
coining, was no relation of your family, as you had long deemed him to
be: and yet the chevalier was himself innocent of his father's offence."

"I certainly have expressed myself more than once in the way you
mention," returned the countess; "but I had so spoken without due
consideration. Now that a case is immediately present to my view, I am
inclined to feel and act more charitably."

"But how could Mr. Markham justify himself?" exclaimed the count. "Was
not that attempt at burglary in this house so very glaring?"

"Oh!" cried Isabella, colouring deeply; "let Mr. Markham be guilty in
other respects, I would pledge my existence he never, _never_ could have
been a participator in that!"

"You speak warmly, signora," said the count, whose brow contracted. "You
forget that I myself overheard him talking with some one over the wall
of the garden only a few hours before the entrance of the burglars----"

"We have many cases upon record," interrupted Isabella enthusiastically,
"in which men have been unjustly convicted on an almost miraculous
combination of adverse circumstances. Suppose that Mr. Markham was, in
the first instance, made the victim of rogues and villains, and
sacrificed by them to screen their own infamy,--suppose he underwent his
punishment in Newgate, being innocent,--will you sympathise with and
commiserate him? or will you scorn and repulse him? Oh! my dear father,
no kindness would be too great towards a being who has suffered through
the fallibility of human laws! Suppose that one of the villains who
plunged him--innocent--into all that misery, repented of the evil, and
signed a confession of his own enormity and of Mr. Markham's
guiltlessness;--then would you remain thus prejudiced? Oh! no--my dear
father, you never would! your nature is too noble!"

"My dearest Isabella, let us drop this conversation. In the first place,
it is not likely that your romantic idea of one of the villains whom you
bring upon your fanciful stage, signing such a confession----"

"Oh! my dear father," exclaimed Isabella, a ray of joy flashing from her
large black eyes; "if such were the case----"

"Well--if such were the case," added the count impatiently, "the entire
mystery of the burglary remains to be cleared up to my satisfaction; and
therefore, with your permission, we will leave this subject--now, and
for ever!"

Isabella's head dropped upon her bosom; and her countenance wore an
expression of the most profound disappointment and grief.

Scarcely had the conversation thus received a rude check and the count
resumed the perusal of his paper, when Sir Cherry Bounce and Captain
Smilax Dapper were announced.

"Here we are--the two inseparables, strike me!" ejaculated the gallant
hussar. "How is the signora this morning? somewhat melancholy--blow me!"

"It seems that you have nothing to make you melancholy, Captain Dapper,"
said the count, who did not experience the greatest possible amount of
delight at the arrival of the two young gentlemen, although he was far
too well bred to show his annoyance.

"Beg pardon, count--on the contrary, smite me!" returned Captain Dapper:
"I have a great deal to be melancholy for. I lost six hundred pounds
last night at cards--blow me for a fool that I was! I must confess,
however, that I wasn't half awake."

"Yeth--and Thmilackth inthithted upon my thitting down and playing too;
and I lotht thwenty poundth."

"And got scolded by your mamma into the bargain, for sitting up too
late," said the captain.

"Nonthenth, Thmilackth!" exclaimed Sir Cherry; "I dare thay my mother
allowth me ath gweat a lithenth ath your'th."

"Well we won't quarrel, Cherry," said the officer. "But what do you
think, count? I and Cherry dined together at the Piazza, Covent-Garden,
where we got the most unexceptionable turtle and the most approved
venison. The iced punch was superlative--the charges, of course,
comparative. Well, in the evening, while I and Cherry were sipping our
claret--and Cherry was admitting confidentially to me that he really
hates claret, and only drinks it because it is fashionable----"

"Oh! naughty Thmilackth!"

"Hold your tongue, Cherry. Well--a couple of gentlemen came into the
coffee-room. There was no one else there besides me and Cherry and the
new comers. So they began whispering together for a few moments; and at
length one of them rushes forward, catches Cherry in his arms, and cries
out, '_Oh! my dear Smith--my friend Smith--how glad I am to meet with
you again!_' Cherry coloured up to the eyes----"

"Oh! what an infamouth falthhood!"

"You did, and you were so frightened you could not speak a word. I was
obliged to tell the loving gentleman that your name was not Smith; and
then he begged pardon, and said he never saw in his life such a
resemblance to an old school-fellow of his as Cherry was. Well, we
laughed over the mistake: the two gentlemen rang for claret; and we all
sate down to the same table together. We drank several bottles of wine,
and then adjourned to another place to sink it all with
brandy-and-water. Cherry was quite top-heavy; but I was as sober as a
judge--"

"Why did you woll in the mud, then?"

"Why? because I tripped against a stone. Well, then we were foolish
enough to go to a gambling-house with these gentlemen; and there I lost,
and Cherry lost."

"And the two gentlemen won, I suppose?" said the count, drily.

"Oh! of course," answered Captain Dapper.

"How foolish of two mere boys like you to think of going to a
gambling-house," exclaimed the count. "Do you not see that the two
_gentlemen_ who accosted you in so strange a manner in the coffee-room
of an hotel, perceived you to be a couple of greenhorns?"

"They might have thought so of Cherry," cried the captain, colouring
deeply, and twirling his moustachios; "but they couldn't have formed
such an opinion of me--an officer in her majesty's service--strike,
smite, and blow me!"

"I'm thure I don't look tho veway gween ath you think," said Sir Cherry
Bounce, now falling into a sulky fit with his friend the officer.

"Oh! I know perfectly well that they were regular gentlemen," continued
the captain; "for they gave us their cards; and one was Sir Rupert
Harborough. The other was Mr. Chichester."

"Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester!" exclaimed Isabella, on whom
the mention of these names produced a strange effect.

"Yes," answered Captain Dapper; "and so you see that they were proper
gentlemen, and it was all luck. But strike such luck as mine!"

Isabella's countenance was suddenly irradiated with a gleam of the
purest and most heart-felt joy;--the tears started to her eyes--but they
were tears of happiness;--and, fearful that her emotions would be
observed, she hurried from the room.

"Ah! but you didn't hear Cherry's adventure about the bird, did you,
count?" demanded Dapper, still continuing the conversation.

The count shook his head.

"Why, this was it," said the gallant captain of hussars. "A waggish
friend of mine, whose name is Dawson, dined with me and Cherry the other
day; and the conversation turned upon birds. Cherry said he was very
fond of choice birds; and Dawson immediately observed, 'If you like to
accept of it, I will make you a present of a very beautiful and curious
bird. I bought it the other day at Snodkins's, the bird-fancier's in
Castle Street; and you may have it:--it is still there. All you have to
do is to take a cage with you, call, and ask for Mr. Dawson's
_Poluphloisboio_.' Of coarse Cherry was quite delighted;--indeed, he
almost hugged my friend Dawson; and all the rest of the evening he could
think and talk of nothing but the bird with a hard name. At length he
thought of asking how large a cage he ought to take with him. 'The
largest you have got,' replied Dawson. So the evening passed away; and
next morning, before the clock struck nine, there was Cherry, rattling
up Regent Street as fast as he could in a hack-cab, with a huge
parrot-cage jolting on his knees. Well, he reached Castle Street, found
out Snodkins's, and said, 'Pleathe, I have come for Mithter Dawthon'th
_Poluphloithboio_.'--'for Mr. Dawson's what?' cried Snodkins.--'For
Mithter Dawthon'th _Poluphloithboio_,' repeated Cherry.--'And what the
devil is that? and who the deuce are you?' roared Snodkins, who thought
that Cherry had come to make a fool of him.--'The thing ith a bird; and
my name ith Thir Cherway Bounthe,' was the reply.--'And my name is
Snodkins,' said the fellow; 'and I don't understand being made a fool of
by you.'--'Mithter Dawthon bought a bird here a few dayth ago,'
persisted Cherry; 'and he thayth I may have it. Here'th the cage: tho
give me the bird.'--Snodkins was now inclined to believe that it was all
right; so he brought down the bird, put it into the cage, and Cherry
drove triumphantly home with it. His mamma was sitting at breakfast when
he entered with the cage in his hand. 'Here, ma,' said Cherry----"

"I don't thay _Ma_ more than you do, Thmilackth," interrupted the
youthful baronet.

"Yes, you do, Cherry," returned Dapper: "I have heard you a hundred
times. But let me tell the story out. Well--Cherry's mamma exclaims,
'Lor, boy, what have you got there?'--'A _Poluphloithboio_, ma, that my
fwiend Dawthon gave me.'--'A what, Cherry!' shrieks the old lady.--'A
_Poluphloithboio_, ma,' answers Cherry, bringing the cage close up to
his ma.--'A _Poluphloisboio_!' ejaculates mamma: 'why, you stupid boy,
it is nothing more or less than a hideous old owl!'--and so it was: and
there the monster sate upon the perch, blinking away at a furious rate
and looking as stupid as--as Cherry himself--smite him!"

Isabella had returned to the apartment and resumed her seat a few
moments before this story was finished; and Captain Dapper appeared very
much annoyed and surprised that she did not condescend to laugh at the
recital.

"By the by," he observed, after a moment's pause, "I have something to
tell you all--strike me!"

"Oh! yeth--about Wichard Markham," said Sir Cherry.

The count made a movement of impatience; the countess looked up from her
embroidery; and a deep blush mantled upon the cheek, and a sudden tremor
passed through the frame, of the lovely Isabella.

"Yes--about Richard Markham," continued the hussar officer. "I and
Cherry were riding in the neighbourhood of his house the other day--"

"And we thaw the two ath tweeth."

"Yes--and something else too;--for we saw one of the sweetest,
prettiest, most interesting young ladies--the signora herself
excepted--walking in the garden--"

"Well, well," said the count impatiently; "perhaps Mr. Markham is
married, and you saw his wife--that is all."

"No," continued Dapper; "for she was close by the railings that skirt
the side of the road running behind his house; and we saw an old
butler-looking kind of a fellow go up to her, and I heard him call her
'_Miss_.'"

"Mr. Markham and his affairs are not of the slightest interest to us,
Captain Dapper," said the count: "we do not even wish to hear his name
mentioned. Isabella, my love, let us have some music."

But no reply was given to the request of the count, who was seated in
such a way that he could not see his daughter's place at the work-table.

Isabella had again left the room.

Of what nature were the emotions which agitated the bosom of that
beauteous--that amiable creature?

Wherefore had she first sought her own chamber to conceal tears of joy?

And why had she now retired once more, to hide the out-pourings of an
intense anguish?




CHAPTER LXXIV.

THE MEETING.


When Isabella retired to her chamber the second time, she hastily put on
her bonnet and shawl, and then hurried to the garden at the back of the
mansion; for she felt the necessity of fresh air, to cool her burning
brow.

She walked slowly up and down for a few minutes, her mind filled with
the most distressing thoughts, when the sounds of voices fell upon her
ears. She listened; and the consequential tone of the hussar-captain,
alternating with the childish lisp of Sir Cherry Bounce, warned her that
the two young coxcombs had also directed their steps towards the garden.

She felt in no humour to listen to their chattering gossip--wearisome at
all times, but intolerable in a moment of mental affliction; still she
could not return to the house without encountering them in her way. A
thought struck her--the gardener had been at work all the morning; and
the back-gate of the enclosure had been left open for his convenience.
Perhaps it was not locked again? Thither did she hurry; and, to her joy,
the means of egress into the fields were open to her.

The delicate foot of that beauteous creature of seventeen scarcely made
an impression upon the grass, nor even crushed the daisy, so light was
her tread! And yet her heart was heavy. Grief sate upon her brow; and
her bosom was agitated with sighs.

She walked onward; and, turning the angle of a grove, was now beyond the
view of any one in her father's garden. She relaxed her speed, and moved
slowly and mournfully along the outskirts of the grove, vainly
endeavouring to conquer the sorrowful ideas that obtruded themselves on
her imagination.

But Woe is an enemy that knows no remorse, gives no quarter, while it
retains poor mortal in its grasp; and when its victim is a young and
innocent girl, whose heart beats with its first, its virgin love,--that
direful enemy augments its pangs in proportion to the tenderness and
sensibility of that heart which it thus ruthlessly torments.

Isabella's reverie was suddenly interrupted by a deep sigh.

She turned her head; and there, on her left hand--seated upon the trunk
of a tree that had been blown down by the late winds,--with his face
buried in his hands, was a gentleman apparently absorbed in reflections
of no pleasurable nature.

He sighed deeply, and his lips murmured some words, the sound of which,
but not the meaning, met her ears.

She was about to retrace her steps, when her own name was pronounced by
the lips of the person seated on the tree,--and in a tone, too, which
she could not mistake.

"Oh! Isabella, Isabella, thou knowest not how I love thee!"

An exclamation of surprise--almost of alarm--burst from the lips of the
beautiful Italian; and she leant for support against a tree.

Richard Markham--for it was by _his_ lips that her name had been
pronounced--raised his head, and gave vent to a cry of the most wild,
the most enthusiastic joy.

In a moment he was by her side.

"Isabella!" he exclaimed: "to what good angel am I indebted for this
unexpected joy--this immeasurable happiness?"

"Oh! Mr. Markham--forgive me if I intruded upon you--but, accident--"

"Call it not accident, Isabella: it was heaven!--heaven that prompted me
to seek this spot to-day, for the first time since that fatal night--"

"Ah! that fatal night," repeated the signora, with a shudder.

Markham dropped the hand which he had taken--which he had pressed for a
moment in his: and he retreated a few paces, his entire manner changing
as if he were suddenly awakened to a sense of his humiliating condition.

"Signora," he said, in a low and tremulous tone, "is it possible that
_you_ can believe me guilty of the terrible deed which a monster imputed
to me?"

"Oh! no, Mr. Markham," answered the young lady hastily; "I never for an
instant imagined so vile--so absurd an accusation to be based upon
truth."

"Thank you, signora--thank you a thousand times for that avowal,"
exclaimed Richard. "Oh! how have I longed for an opportunity to explain
to you all that has hitherto been dark and mysterious relative to
myself:--how have I anticipated a moment like this, when I might narrate
to you the history of all my sorrows--all my wrongs, and part with
you--either bearing away the knowledge of your sympathy to console me,
or of your scorn to crush me down into the very dust!"

"Oh! Mr. Markham, I cannot hear you--I dare not stay another moment
here," said Isabella, excessively agitated. "My father's anger--"

"I will not detain you, signora," interrupted Richard, coldly. "Obey the
will of your parents; and if--some day--you should learn the narrative
of my sorrows from some accidental source, then--when you hear how
cruelly circumstances combined, and how successfully villains leagued to
plunge me into an abyss of infamy and disgrace,--then, signora, then
reflect upon my prayer to be allowed to justify myself to you to-day--a
prayer which obedience to your parents compels you to reject."

"To me, Mr. Markham, no explanation is necessary," said Isabella,
timidly, and with her eyes bent towards the ground so that the long
black fringes reposed upon her cheeks.

"Oh! fool that I was to flatter myself that you would hear me--or to
hope that you would listen to aught which I might say to justify
myself!" ejaculated Markham. "Pardon me, signora--pardon my presumption;
but I judged your heart by mine--I measured your sympathy, your love, by
what I feel;--and I have erred--yes, I have erred--but you will pardon
me! Oh! how could the _freed convict_ dare to hope that the daughter of
a noble--a lady of spotless name, and high birth--should for a moment
stoop to him? Ah! I indulged in a miserable delusion! And yet how sweet
was that dream in my solitary hours! for you must know, lady, that I have
fed myself with hopes--with wild insane hopes--until my soul has been
comforted, and for a season I have forgotten my wrongs,
deep--ineffaceable though they be! I thought to myself--'There is one
being in this cold and cheerless world who will not put faith in all
that calumny proclaims against me,--one being who, having read my heart,
will know that I have suffered for a deed which I never committed, and
from which my soul revolts,--one being who can understand how it is
possible for me to have been unfortunate but never criminal,--one being
whose sympathy follows me amidst the hatred and scorn of others,--one
being in a word, who would not refuse to hear from my lips a sad
history, and who would be prepared to find it filled with sorrows, but
not stained with infamy!'--Such were my thoughts--such was my hope--such
was my delusive dream: O God! that I had never yielded to so bright a
vision! It is now dissipated; and I can well understand, lady--now--that
no explanation is indeed necessary!"

"Mr. Markham," said Isabella, in a voice scarcely audible through deep
emotion,--"Mr. Markham--you misunderstand me--I did not mean that I
would hear no explanation;--Oh! very far from that--"

"But that it would be now useless!" exclaimed Markham, his tone
softening, for he saw that the lovely idol of his heart was deeply
touched. "You mean, signora, that all explanation would be now too late;
that, whether innocent or guilty of the crime for which I suffered two
years' cruel imprisonment, I am so surrounded by infamy--my name is so
encrusted with odium, and scorn, and disgrace, that to associate with
me--to be seen for a moment near me, is a moral contagion--a plague--a
pestilence--"

"Oh! spare me--spare me these reproaches," cried Isabella, now weeping
bitterly; "for reproaches they are--and most unjust ones, too!"

"Unjust ones!" exclaimed Richard; "what mean you, signora?"

"That by me at least they are undeserved, Mr. Markham," returned the
lovely girl.

"How undeserved? how unjust?" said Richard, eagerly catching at the
first straw which presented itself upon the ocean that had wrecked all
his hopes; "did you not say that no explanation was now necessary?"

"Nor was it ever," answered Isabella, whose voice was almost entirely
subdued by her emotions; "for I never--never believed the accusations
which you seek to explain away!"

"My God! do I hear aright? or am I again the sport of a delusive
vision?" cried Richard; then, advancing towards Isabella, he took her
hand, and said, "Signora, repeat what you ere now averred, that I may
believe my own ears! You believe that I was the victim of villains, and
not a vile--degraded--base criminal?"

"Such has been, and ever would have been my belief--even without a
proof," replied Isabella.

"A proof!" ejaculated Markham: "what mean you?"

"The confession of one of the wretches who wronged you--the narrative of
the man named Talbot!" answered the Italian, casting a glance of
sympathy--of tender sympathy--upon her lover.

"And now, O God, I thank thee!" said Markham, his eyes filling with
tears, and his heart a prey to feelings of an indescribable nature: "O
God, I thank thee--how sincerely, devoutly I thank thee, thou well
knowest, for thou canst read the secrets of my soul! And you,
Isabella--dearest Isabella--Oh! can you forgive me, that I dared for a
moment to suspect your generous soul--that I doubted your noble
disposition?"

"Forgive you, Richard!" exclaimed the charming girl, smiling through her
tears: "Oh! how can you ask me?"

"And thus, my Isabella, you know all!"

"I know all--how deeply you were wronged, how fearfully you have
suffered."

"Isabella, you are an angel!" cried Markham, rapturously.

"Nay--do not flatter me," said the signora. "I have but obeyed the
dictates of my own convictions--and--"

"Speak, Isabella--speak!"

"And of my own heart," she added, casting down her eyes, and blushing.
"You left the confession of that Talbot behind you--on the fatal
night----"

"Oh! I remember now; and since then, how often have I deplored its
loss."

"My own maid found it, and gave it to me on the following morning. Since
then, I have read it very--very often!" said Isabella. "But now--I will
return it to you--I will find some opportunity to forward it you."

"Not for worlds, Isabella!" cried Markham. "If you still love me--if you
still deem me worthy of your regard--keep it, keep it as a pledge that
you believe me to be innocent!"

"Yes, Richard, I will keep it--keep it for you," said Isabella. "But do
not think that your cause is without advocates at our abode. My mother
believes that you were wronged, and not guilty--"

"Oh, Isabella! then there is yet hope!"

"But my father--my father," continued the signora, mournfully; "he will
not hear our arguments in your favour. It was only an hour ago that my
mother and myself reasoned with him upon the subject; but, alas! he--who
is so good and so just in all other respects,--_he_ is obdurate and
inexorable in this!"

"Time, sweetest girl, will do much; and now my soul is filled with hope!
Oh! how I rejoice that accident should have thrown in your way the very
proof that confirmed the opinion which your goodness suggested in my
favour."

"And not that proof alone," said Isabella; "for even this very morning,
a circumstance confirmed the assertion, that the two men who were
associated with Talbot in making you the blind instrument of their
infamous schemes, are characters of the very worst description. Captain
Dapper and his young friend were plundered by Sir Rupert Harborough and
Mr. Chichester last evening at a gambling-house."

"Oh! there is no enormity of which those villains are not capable!" said
Markham.

"But while I speak of Captain Dapper," observed Isabella, suddenly
assuming an air of restraint and embarrassment, "I am reminded of
another piece of information which he gave me, and which nearly concerns
yourself."

"Concerns me, Isabella! What can it be?"

"Nay--I know not whether it would be discreet--indeed, I am confident
that----"

"Speak, Isabella--speak unreservedly. Do you wish any explanation from
me? have you heard any further aspersions upon my character? Speak,
Isabella--speak: your own noble confidence merits an equally unreserved
frankness on my part."

"No, Richard--dear Richard," said the lovely Italian, in a bewitching
tone of tenderness; "I was wrong--very wrong to allude to so idle, so
silly an assertion;--and yet--and yet it grieved me--deeply at the
moment."

"My dearest Isabella, I implore you to speak. Let there be no secrets
between you and me."

"No--Richard--I will not insult you--"

"Insult me, Isabella? Impossible!"

"Yes--insult you with a suspicion--"

"Ah! some falsehood of that Captain Dapper," exclaimed Markham. "Pray
give me an opportunity of explaining away any impression--"

"Oh! no impression, Richard;--only a moment's uneasiness;--and, if you
will compel me to tell you--even at the risk of appearing a jealous,
suspicious creature in your eyes--"

"Ah, Isabella, if it be nothing but jealousy," said Richard, with a
smile of satisfaction, "I am well pleased; for there would not be
jealousy without love; and thus, the former is a proof of the latter."

"Then, Captain Dapper observed that he was riding near your abode the
other day; and he saw a young and very beautiful lady in your
garden----"

"And he said truly, Isabella," interrupted Markham: "he, no doubt, saw
Miss Monroe, who, with her venerable father, is residing at my
house--through charity, Isabella--through charity! No tongue can tell
the miseries which those poor creatures had endured, until I forced them
to come and take up their abode with me. Mr. Monroe was my guardian--and
by his speculations did I lose my fortune;--but never have I borne him
ill-will--and now--"

"Say no more, Richard," exclaimed Isabella: "you have a noble heart--and
never, never will I mistrust it!"

"And you love me, Isabella? and you will ever love me? and you will
never be another's?"

"Do you require oaths, and vows, and protestations, Richard?" said the
young lady, tenderly: "if so, you shall have them. But my own
feelings--my own sentiments are the best guarantee of my actions towards
you!"

"Oh! I believe you--dearest, dearest Isabella!" cried the young man,
enthusiastically, his handsome countenance irradiated with a glow of
animation which set off his proud style of male beauty to its fullest
extent; "I believe you; and you have rendered me supremely happy, for
you have taught me to have confidence in myself--you have led me to
believe that I am worthy of even such an angel as you! Oh! dearest
Isabella, you know not how sweet it is to be beloved by a pure and
virgin heart like yours! If my wrongs--my injuries--my sufferings--have
taught thee to feel one particle of sympathy the more for me, then am I
proud of the sad destinies that have so touched that tender heart of
thine! But say, Isabella--say, when shall we meet again?"

"Richard," answered the Italian lady, "you know how sincerely--how
fondly I love you; you know that you--and you alone shall ever accompany
me to the altar. But, never--never, dear Richard, can I so far neglect
my duty to my father, as to consent to a clandestine meeting. And you,
Richard--you possess a soul too noble, and too good, to urge me to do
that which would be wrong. The woman who has been a disobedient
daughter, may be a disobedient wife; and much as I love you,
Richard--much as I dote upon every word that falls from your lips--much
as I confide in your own affection for me, I cannot--I dare not--will
not diminish myself in my own opinion, nor stand the chance of incurring
a suspicion of levity in yours, by a course which is contrary to filial
duty. No, Richard--do not ask me to meet you again. Something tells me
that all will yet be well: we are young--we can hope;--and God--that God
in whom we both trust--will not forget us!"

"Now, Isabella--now," exclaimed Richard, "I comprehend all that is great
and noble in your disposition. Yes--it shall be as you say, my ever dear
Isabella; and the mental contemplation of your virtue will teach me to
appreciate the love of such a heart as yours."

"We must now separate, dear Richard," said Isabella: "I have already
remained too long away from home! But one word ere you depart:--that
miscreant who made so fearful an accusation against you on the fatal
night when you left my father's dwelling----"

"He is no more, Isabella," answered Markham: "at least I have every
reason to believe that when the police, instructed by me, discovered his
dwelling, three months ago, the villain terminated his existence in a
manner that corresponded well with the whole tenour of his life. The den
of infamy which he inhabited, was blown up with gunpowder, the moment
after the officers of justice entered it; and there can be no doubt that
he, together with one of his accomplices, perished in the ruin that was
produced by his own hand. Several constables met their death at the same
time; and, according to information gathered from the neighbours, an old
woman--believed to be the miscreant's mother--was also in the house at
the time of the explosion."

"How fearful are the ways of crime!" said Isabella, with a shudder. "May
God grant that in future you will have no enemies to cross your path!
And now, farewell, Richard--farewell. We shall meet again
soon--Providence will not desert us!"

Richard pressed his lips to those of that charming girl, and bade her
adieu.

She tore herself--now reluctantly!--away from him, and hastily retraced
her steps towards the mansion.

But ere she passed the angle of the grove, she turned and waved her
handkerchief to her lover.

The young man kissed his hand fondly to the idol of his heart: and in
another moment Isabella was out of sight.

That one half-hour of bliss, which Richard had thus passed with the
Italian lady, was a reward for weeks--months--years of anguish and of
sorrow!




CHAPTER LXXV.

THE CRISIS.


During the ensuing three months nothing occurred worthy of record, in
connexion with any character that has figured upon the stage of our
narrative.

The month of July arrived: and found Tomlinson, the banker, more deeply
involved in difficulties than ever. The result was that the
consultations between him and old Michael, the cashier, were of very
frequent occurrence; and the latter grew more morose, more dirty, and
more addicted to snuff in proportion as the affairs of the bank became
the more desperate.

One morning, in the first week of July, Tomlinson arrived at the
banking-house half an hour earlier than usual. He had taken home the
cash-books with him on the preceding evening, for the purpose of
ascertaining his true position; and he brought them back again in the
morning before any of the clerks had arrived, with the exception of old
Michael Martin, who was already waiting for him when he entered the
parlour.

"Well, Michael, my old friend," said Tomlinson, on whose countenance the
marks of care and anxiety were now too visibly traced, "I am afraid that
the establishment cannot possibly exist many days longer. Mr. Greenwood
will be here presently: and he is my only hope."

"Hope indeed!" growled Martin, plunging his fore-finger and thumb into
his capacious snuff-box: "how he left you to shift for yourself after
you gave that security to Count Alteroni."

"Which security fell due a few days ago; and a note from the count,
received yesterday, tells me that he shall call upon me next Saturday at
twelve o'clock for the amount."

"He is very welcome to call--and so are a good many others," said
Michael; "but they will go back as empty as they came."

"Good God! can nothing be done?" exclaimed Tomlinson, with an expression
of blank despair upon his countenance. "Say, Michael--is there any
resource? do you know of any plan? can you suggest any method--"

"Not one. You must go to the Bankruptcy Court, and I must go to the
workhouse;"--and the old man took a huge pinch of snuff.

"To the workhouse!" cried Tomlinson; "no--impossible! Do not say that,
my good old friend."

"I do say it, though;"--and two tears rolled slowly down the cashier's
cheeks.

This was the first time that Tomlinson had ever beheld any outward and
visible sign of emotion on the part of his faithful clerk.

Tomlinson was not naturally a bad man--at all events, not a bad-hearted
man: the cashier had served him with a fidelity rarely equalled; and
that announcement of a workhouse-doom in connexion with the old man
touched him to the soul.

"Michael," he said, taking the cashier's hand, "you do not mean to tell
me that you are totally without resources for yourself? Your salary has
been six hundred a year for a long time; and surely you must have saved
something out of that--you, who have no family encumbrances of any kind,
and whose expenses are so very limited."

The old man slowly opened one of the cash-books, pointed to the page at
the head of which stood his own name, ran his finger down a column of
payments made to himself, and stopping at the total, said, "That amount
runs over nine years; and the amount is £540."

"What--is it possible?" cried Tomlinson: "you have only paid yourself
£60 a-year."

"And that was too much for the state of the bank," said the cashier
drily, taking a pinch of snuff at the same time.

"Now of all things which combine to make me wretched at this moment,"
said Tomlinson, "your position is the most afflicting."

"Don't think of me: I'm not worth it," returned Michael. "What will you
do yourself?"

"What shall we both do?" cried the banker. "But so long as I have a
crust, you shall not want."

"Well--well, there's enough of that," almost growled the cashier, though
his furrowed cheeks were still moist with tears. "I am an old man, and
my wants are few. A bit of bread and a pinch of snuff are enough for me.
But you--you, who have always lived like a gentleman,--how can _you_
stand it?"

"And is it literally come to this? Is there no resource?"

"Do you see any? I do not. Will your father help you?"

"Not with another sixpence."

"Will Greenwood?"

"Here he comes to answer for himself."

Mr. Greenwood entered the parlour, and old Michael, taking his
cash-books under his arm, withdrew.

The member of parliament threw himself into a chair, and observed what a
beautiful morning it was.

Tomlinson made a movement of impatience, and yet dared not ask the
question that trembled upon his tongue, and the answer to which would
decide his fate.

"Yes," continued Greenwood, "it is a lovely morning: all nature seems
enlivened, and every body is inspired with a congenial feeling."

"What nonsense is this, Greenwood?" cried the banker. "Do you come to
taunt a man upon the brink of ruin, with the happiness of others?"

"Oh! I beg your pardon, my dear Tomlinson. I really was waiting for you
to question me upon matters of business; and in the mean time made use
of some observations of common courtesy and politeness."

"The fact is, that since you obtained a seat in Parliament your manners
have altogether changed. But please to put me out of suspense at
once:--have you considered my proposal?"

"I have--maturely."

"And what is your decision?"

"That I cannot agree to it."

"I thought as much," said Tomlinson. "Well--now I have no alternative. I
must close the bank and appear in the _Gazette_."

"And when you are cleared by a certificate, I will enable you to set up
in some business again."

"Upon that promise, Mr. Greenwood," said Tomlinson, severely, "I place
no reliance--no reliance whatever."

"Just as you please," returned Greenwood coolly.

"How can I?" cried the banker. "When I gave my security for you to Count
Alteroni, and relieved you of a burden of fifteen thousand pounds, you
faithfully promised to assist me. Did you keep your word?"

"Did I not forgive you a debt which would have ruined you that very
day?"

"True. But you were an immense gainer! You obtained twelve thousand
pounds by the transaction. However, I shall be compelled to give an
account of the transaction to the Bankruptcy Court."

"An avowal which will do you no good, and will only expose me," observed
Greenwood, alarmed by this declaration.

"And why should I have any regard for you?" demanded Tomlinson, with
that moroseness which men in his desperate condition are so frequently
known to manifest towards intriguers more fortunate than themselves.

"I will tell you why you should have some regard for me," answered
Greenwood. "In the first place, the mere fact of your having so long
carried on this bank when in a helpless state of insolvency, thereby
increasing your liabilities in a desperate manner, and receiving
deposits the eventual repayment of which each day became less likely,
will so irritate the mass of your creditors that you will never obtain
your certificate. Secondly, unless you have a friendly trade-assignee,
you will obtain no allowance out of the wrecks of the property, and you
will find it difficult, considering the state your books _must_ be in,
to make up a balance sheet that would stand the remotest chance of
passing."

"True--true," said Tomlinson: "my condition is really desperate."

"Not so desperate as you imagine," resumed Greenwood: "I will be your
friend--I will save you, if you only follow my counsel."

"Ah! my good friend," cried the despairing man, "forgive me the
expressions which fell from my lips just now."

"Do not mention that circumstance; I make every allowance for the
irritated state of your feelings. In the first place, then, you can make
me a creditor to the amount of thirty thousand pounds, and two or three
of my friends creditors to an equal amount in the aggregate. We shall be
enabled to give you your certificate, together with those persons who
will not bear you animosity or whom we can talk over. In the second
place, I can apply to be appointed trade-assignee; and I flatter
myself--considering my position, representing as I do a free,
enlightened, and independent constituency--my nomination will not be
opposed."

"If you could only contrive _that_," said Tomlinson, "I might pass my
second examination in even a creditable manner; and afterwards--"

"And afterwards open as a stock-broker," added Greenwood. "That is the
invariable resource of all bankrupt bankers; and what is more
extraordinary, they obtain confidence and succeed too. Tradesmen who are
unfortunate, always take to the wine, coal, or discount business, each
of which can be commenced without a shilling; but your aim must be a
broker's profession. It is so genteel--so comfortable: a hole of an
office in the City, and a villa at Clapham or Kensington;--a mutton chop
at the Dining-rooms in Hercules Passage at one, and turtle and venison at
home at six. Ah! the life of a stock-broker is a very pleasant one!"

"I am sure the life of an insolvent banker is not," said Tomlinson,
again rendered rather impatient by Mr. Greenwood's discursiveness.

"A thousand pounds will set you up comfortably again," continued
Greenwood; "and that you shall have. Only follow my advice--and I will
be the making of you. In the meantime, you had better not struggle
against fortune any longer in this position. What is to-day? Thursday.
Very well. I will strike a docket against you this very afternoon: the
_fiat_ can be opened to-morrow morning; and to-morrow evening you can be
in the _Gazette_. Is that agreed?"

"Agreed!" exclaimed Tomlinson bitterly: "I have no resource left but
that! Yes--it shall be as you say. But for God's sake, talk not in so
cold and heartless a manner of the mode of procedure."

"Cold and heartless, my dear fellow!" repeated Greenwood: "I speak of
your affairs just as I would speak of my own. Keep up your spirits, and
come and dine with me this evening. You shall then give me the necessary
securities to enable me to prove as your creditor for the amount agreed
upon. Meantime, give me a bill for a thousand or so, ante-dated about
four months, and due a month ago, so that I may strike the docket upon
it presently. Then, as you are not to know that these proceedings are in
operation against you, you must keep the bank open until the messenger
comes down to-morrow afternoon from the Bankruptcy Court the moment the
_fiat_ is lawfully proclaimed before the Commissioner. Of course you
will pretend to be struck with surprise, and instantly proceed to the
Court to obtain your _protection_. Is that agreed upon?"

"I am in your hands," said Tomlinson. "Your advice shall now guide me
altogether. But when I think upon the ruin and desolation my failure
will cause--the widows and the orphans whom it will reduce to
beggary--the poor tradesmen whom it will involve in inextricable
difficulties,--it is enough to drive me mad."

"Pooh! pooh! my good fellow," said Greenwood; "these little things
happen every day. As for the widows and the orphans, allow me to remind
you that the wisdom and goodness of the legislative bodies--to one of
which I have the honour to belong as the representative of an
intelligent and independent constituency--have established asylums for
the reception of persons so reduced, and where they enjoy every comfort,
upon the trifling condition of doing a little needle-work, or breaking a
few stones."

"Greenwood--Greenwood, do not speak in this heartless manner! Oh! the
idea that my failure will render your words literally true--that numbers
will be thereby reduced to the workhouse of which you speak,--it is
this, it is this that overwhelms me!"

"You are very silly to give way to your feelings in this manner. Why do
you know (and I may as well mention it by way of consolation in respect
to the widows and orphans whose fate you deplore)--that the workhouses
are conducted at present upon the most liberal principle possible? Do
you know that the female inmates are handsomely remunerated for the
shirts which they make--that they can make a shirt in a day and a half,
and that they receive one farthing for each? That is their
pocket-money--their little perquisites, my dear fellow;--so you perceive
that the workhouse is not such a bad place after all."

Tomlinson was pacing the bank-parlour in an abstracted mood, and paid
not the slightest attention to this tirade from the lips of the
newly-fledged politician.

Mr. Greenwood saw that his observations were unheeded, and accordingly
rose to take his departure. Tomlinson gave him a bill for a thousand
pounds to enable him to strike a docket against him; and Mr. Greenwood
then withdrew.

The moment he was gone, old Michael entered the room; and Tomlinson
communicated to him all that had passed. The cashier made no reply, but
took the largest pinch of snuff he had ever yet abstracted from his box
or conveyed to his nose.

He had not yet broken silence, when the door opened, and Mr. Greenwood
returned. Michael was about to withdraw; but the capitalist stopped him,
saying, "Stay--three heads are better than two. I was just entering my
cabriolet, when an idea--a brilliant idea struck me."

"An idea!" exclaimed Tomlinson: "what--to save me?"

"To render your failure legitimate--to make you appear an honourable,
but an unfortunate man--to avert all blame from you--"

"Ah! if that could be done," interrupted the banker, his countenance
animated with hope, "I might yet be spared the execrations of the widow
and the orphan!"

"Ever your widows and orphans, my dear fellow," said Greenwood: "you are
really quite sickening."

"Well--well--the idea?"

"Nothing is more simple," continued Greenwood. "You leave the bank this
afternoon at five, as usual: Michael sees all safe, and takes his
departure also. You leave fifty thousand pounds in specie and notes in
the strong box, together with securities of foreign houses at Leipzig,
Vienna, Turin, New York, Rio Janeiro, Calcutta, Sydney----"

"Greenwood, have you come back to mock a miserable--ruined man?"

"Quite the contrary. Listen! You leave money and securities to the
amount of ninety-two thousand, three hundred, and forty-seven pounds--or
any odd sum, to look well--safe in the strong box, together with the
cash-books. You and Michael come in the morning--or perhaps it would be
better to allow one of the clerks to arrive first,--and, behold! the
bank has been broken into during the night--the money, the securities,
and the books are all gone--and the bank stops as a natural
consequence!"

"Impossible--impossible!" exclaimed Tomlinson: "it could never be done!
I could not proclaim such a fraud without a blush that would betray me.
What say you, Michael?"

The old cashier answered only with a grunt, and took snuff as it were by
handfuls.

"What say you, Michael?" repeated Tomlinson, impatiently.

"I say that it _can_ be done--ought to be done--and must be done,"
replied the old man. "I would sooner die than see the honour of the
house lost--and _that_ will save it."

"Well said, Michael," exclaimed Greenwood. "Now, Tomlinson, your
decision?"

"It is a fearful alternative--and yet--and yet, it is preferable to
infamy--disgrace----"

"Then you agree?"

"And if I agree--where are the means of executing the scheme? Who will
rob--or affect to rob the premises?"

"That must be arranged by yourselves. The back of this house looks upon
a court. The thieves can have effected their entrance through these
parlour windows: the parlour doors will be found forced; the safe will
have been broken open. Nothing can be more simple."

"Yes--I know how to manage it all," exclaimed old Martin, who had been
ruminating more seriously than ever for the last few moments. "Mr.
Greenwood, you have saved the honour of the bank, which I love as if it
was my own child;"--and the cashier wrung the hand of the member of
Parliament with a warmth indicative of an amount of feeling which he had
never been known to demonstrate before.

"Well--I have given you the hint--do you profit by it," said Greenwood;
and with these words he departed.

And as he drove back to the West-End, he said to himself, "Tomlinson
will now be completely in my power, and will never dare confess the real
nature of the transaction relative to Count Alteroni's fifteen thousand
pounds. According to the first arrangement proposed, a bullying counsel
or an astute Commissioner might have wormed out of him the exact truth;
whereas, now--now his lips are silenced on that head for ever!"

The moment Greenwood had left the bank-parlour, old Michael accosted
Tomlinson, and said "Have you full confidence in me?"

"I have, Michael: but why do you ask me that question?"

[Illustration]

"Will you place yourself in my hands?"

"I will--in every way."

"Then you will leave the establishment as usual at five this evening;
and trust to me to manage every thing. I have my plan ready arranged;
but you shall know nothing to-day:--to-morrow--to-morrow----"

The old man stopped short, and had recourse to his snuff-box.

"Be it as you say, Michael," cried Tomlinson, always bewildered by the
terrors of his situation, and still half shrinking from the daring plot
which Greenwood had opened to his view; "I know that you are my faithful
friend--my best, my only friend:--it shall be as you desire!"




CHAPTER LXXVI.

COUNT ALTERONI'S FIFTEEN THOUSAND POUNDS.


On the Saturday morning following the Thursday on which the
above-mentioned conversation took place, the count and his family were
seated at breakfast.

The morning paper was late; and his lordship was one of those persons
who cannot enjoy their repast without the intellectual association of a
journal.

At length the wished-for print arrived; and the count was soon buried in
the preceding night's debate in the House of Commons--for he felt deeply
interested in all political affairs, no matter to which country they
referred.

"Really this Greenwood is a very clever man," he observed, after a long
interval of silence. "He acquitted himself well last evening,
notwithstanding the erroneous course he is pursuing in the political
sphere. The Tories of this country have obtained a powerful auxiliary in
him. It is a pity he is so unprincipled a villain--for, I repeat, he is
really very clever."

"It is astonishing how men of his stamp contrive to push themselves
forward in the world," said the countess, "while those of honest
principles and upright minds are either misunderstood, or vilely
persecuted."

"And yet vice only prospers for a time," observed Isabella; "and virtue
becomes triumphant at last. Those who are misunderstood to-day will be
comprehended and honoured to-morrow."

She thought of Markham as she uttered these words: indeed, the image of
her lover was ever uppermost in the mind of the charming and
affectionate girl.

"I am afraid," said the count, after a pause, "that the moral you have
just advanced, Bella, is rather that of the stage and the romancist than
of real life. And yet," he added fervently, "to entertain such an idea
as mine is to question the goodness and the justice of Providence.
Yes--I must believe in earthly rewards and punishments. You are right,
my child--you are right: the wicked man will not ever triumph in his
turpitude; nor may the virtuous one be oppressed until the end."

"No--or else were there small hope for us," said the countess solemnly.
"The great men of Castelcicala must some day perceive who is their real
friend."

"Alas!" exclaimed Isabella, "It is hard to be mistaken and suspected by
those whose good opinions we would fain secure."

The count resumed the perusal of the newspaper; but his eyes had not
dwelt many minutes upon the page ere he uttered a loud exclamation of
mingled astonishment and alarm.

The ladies looked towards him in a state of the most painful suspense:
and this feeling was not immediately removed, for the count, with an
ashy pale face, continued to read the article that had caught his eyes,
for some moments, ere he explained the cause of his emotion.

"Heavens!" exclaimed the countess, "are there any bad tidings from
Italy?"

"No--the hand that strikes the blow which ruins us, is not so far
distant," answered the nobleman, throwing the paper upon the table. "Ah!
we were premature," he continued bitterly, "in founding our hopes upon
the justice with which virtue is rewarded and vice punished!"

"The blow which ruins us?" said the countess, a prey to the most acute
anxiety.

"Yes--Tomlinson has stopped payment," cried the Italian exile; "and--and
we are ruined!"

"My dear father," said Isabella, hastening to fling her arms around the
neck of her much-loved sire, "all may not be so bad as you imagine!"

"Ruined!" repeated the countess; and, taking up the newspaper, the
following article instantly met her eyes:--

"ROBBERY AND STOPPAGE OF TOMLINSON'S BANK.

     "The City was yesterday morning thrown into a state of the greatest
     fermentation by a rumour which prevailed at about eleven o'clock,
     that the above-mentioned old-established and well-known banking
     establishment had been plundered to an enormous amount, and had
     suspended its payments. Unfortunately the rumour was but too true;
     and our reporter, upon repairing to Lombard Street, found an
     immense crowd collected in front of the bank. The doors were
     closed; and the following notice was posted up;--'JAMES TOMLINSON
     _is under the painful necessity of suspending the affairs of the
     bank, at least for the present. The flight of the cashier, with
     money and securities to an amount bordering upon a hundred thousand
     pounds, is the cause of this unfortunate step. Further particulars
     will be made known at speedily as possible._' It is impossible to
     describe the dismay which was depicted upon the countenances of
     those amongst the crowd who are sufferers by this calamity; and
     many very painful scenes took place. One widow lady who had placed
     her little all in the concern, and who arrived upon the spot, to
     draw her half yearly interest, only a few moments after the doors
     were closed, was taken away in a state of madness. We have since
     learnt that the unfortunate lady has entirely lost her reason.

     "Our reporter upon prosecuting his inquiries, gleaned the following
     particulars of the occurrence which led to the stoppage of the
     bank; and we have every reason to believe that the narrative which
     they furnish may be relied upon.

     "It appears that the cashier, whose name was Michael Martin, is a
     very old man, and had been for many years in the service of the
     present and late proprietors of the bank. His presumed integrity,
     his known experience, and his general conduct, had led to his
     elevation to the post of head cashier--a situation which he has
     filled for upwards of ten years, without exciting a suspicion
     relative to his proceedings. It is, however, supposed that he must
     have been pursuing a most nefarious course for a considerable
     length of time, for reasons which we shall state presently. On
     Thursday evening, Mr. Tomlinson, who, it appears, is the sole
     proprietor of the establishment, although the business has been all
     along carried on under its original denomination of _Tomlinson &
     Co._, quitted the bank at five o'clock, as usual, leaving the
     cashier to see all safe, and close the establishment for the day,
     according to custom. When Mr. Sanderson, one of the clerks, arrived
     at the bank at nine o'clock yesterday morning, he was surprised to
     find that the doors were not yet opened. The other clerks arrived
     shortly afterwards; and their surprise at length turned into alarm.
     Still the integrity of the cashier was not for a moment suspected;
     it was, however, imagined that something most have happened to
     him--an idea that was strengthened by the fact that the cashier
     occupied a room in the establishment, and there was consequently no
     reason to account for the doors remaining closed. The char-woman,
     who waited upon the cashier and swept out the bank, &c., came up to
     the door while the clerks were thus deliberating, and stated that
     she had not been able to obtain admission that morning as usual. It
     was now determined by Mr. Sanderson to obtain the assistance of a
     policeman, and force an entrance. This was done; and egress was
     obtained by breaking through the windows and shutters (which close
     inside) of the bank parlour. Mr. Sanderson and the constable
     immediately proceeded to the cashier's private room, which is on
     the ground-floor, and in which the iron safe was kept. The bed had
     not been slept in during the night. Attention was then directed to
     the safe, where it was found that it was open, and its contents had
     been abstracted. The front door of the bank was opened, and the
     clerks admitted. Mr. Tomlinson was then immediately sent for. That
     gentleman arrived by ten o'clock; and a farther investigation took
     place under his directions. The result of this search was a
     discovery that not only had the specie, notes, and securities
     disappeared, but even the cash-books, and all the papers that could
     throw any light upon the financial affairs of the establishment. It
     is this circumstance which induces a belief that the cashier must
     have carried on a system of plunder for a considerable length of
     time.

     "We regret to state that the shock was so great that Mr. Tomlinson
     was conveyed to his residence in a state bordering upon
     distraction."

"FURTHER PARTICULARS.

     "A reward of £3000 has been offered for the apprehension of the
     cashier; and a description of his person has been forwarded to all
     the principal seaports. [For _Description_ see our advertising
     columns.] Our reporter learnt last evening that Mr. Tomlinson was
     more composed, and had even exerted himself to consult with some
     friends upon the best course to pursue. It, however, appears that
     so entirely did he confide in his cashier, that he is only able to
     give a vague and meagre account of the nature of the securities
     abstracted. They were, however, the bills and bonds of several
     great foreign and colonial mercantile houses. We regret to hear
     that Mr. G. M. Greenwood, M.P., had paid a considerable sum of
     money into the bank, on Thursday morning. It appears that upwards
     of fifty thousand pounds in specie and notes (the numbers of which
     are now unknown, they having been entered in one of the books taken
     away) and forty-four thousand in securities have disappeared.

     "There is every reason to suppose that the delinquent will be
     speedily captured, as it is impossible for him to travel with a
     large amount of specie without exciting suspicion."

"LATEST PARTICULARS.

     "In order to institute the fullest and most complete investigation
     into the affairs of the bank, it was resolved, at a late hour last
     evening, at a meeting of the principal creditors, Mr. Greenwood in
     the chair, that a docket should be struck against Mr. Tomlinson. At
     the same time, it is our duty to observe that this is done with no
     ill feeling towards that gentleman, who is deserving only of
     universal sympathy, and, in no way, of blame."

"The name of that man Greenwood, in connexion with this affair," said
the count, "impresses me with the idea that all is not right. Moreover,
how could the cashier have removed a large quantity of specie without
attracting attention in a thoroughfare so frequented at all hours as
Lombard Street? There is something wrong at the foundation of this
history of the robbery."

"Alas! little does it matter now to us, whether Mr. Tomlinson be a false
or an unfortunate man," said the countess; "there is one thing
certain--we are ruined!"

"Yes--my dearest wife, my beloved daughter," exclaimed the count, "we
are in a pitiable situation--in a foreign land! It is true that I have
friends: the Earl of Warrington--Lord Tremordyn, both of whom know our
secret, and have faithfully kept it--would gladly assist me; but I would
not--could not apply to them--even though it be to settle the few debts
which I owe!"

"Still there remains one course," said the countess, hesitating, and
regarding her husband with anxious timidity.

"One course!" ejaculated the count. "Ah! I know full well to what you
allude; but never, never will I sell my rights for gold! No, my dear
wife--my beloved daughter--we must prepare ourselves to meet our
misfortunes in a becoming manner."

"Dear father," murmured Isabella, "your goodness has conferred upon me
an excellent education: surely I might turn to advantage some of those
accomplishments--"

"You, my sweetest girl!" cried the nobleman, surveying with feelings of
ineffable pride the angelic countenance of the lovely being that was
leaning upon his shoulder: "you--my own darling girl--a lady of your
high rank become a governess! no--never, never!

"Isabella, you are worthy of your noble sire," said the countess
enthusiastically.

And, even in the hour of their misfortune, that exiled--ruined family
found inexpressible solace in the sweet balm of each other's love!




CHAPTER LXXVII.

A WOMAN'S SECRET.


It was now seven months since Ellen Monroe became the victim of George
Greenwood.

She bore in her bosom the fruit of that amour; and until the present
time she had managed to conceal her situation from those around her.

She now began to perceive the utter impossibility of veiling her
disgrace much longer. Her health was failing; and her father and Markham
were constantly urging upon her the necessity of receiving medical
advice. This recommendation she invariably combated to the utmost of her
power; and in order to give a colour to her assurance that she suffered
only from some trivial physical ailment, she was compelled to affect a
flow of good spirits which she was far--very far from experiencing.

Markham had frequently questioned her with the most earnest and friendly
solicitude relative to the causes of those intervals of deep depression
which it was impossible for her to conceal;--he had implored her to open
her mind to him, as a sister might to a brother;--he had suggested to
her change of scene, diversion, and other means of restoring her lost
spirits;--but to all he advanced she returned evasive replies.

Richard and the aged father of the young lady frequently convened
together upon the subject, and lost themselves in conjectures relative
to the cause of that decaying health and increasing unhappiness for
which the sufferer herself would assign no feasible motive. At times Mr.
Monroe was inclined to believe that the privations and vicissitudes
which his daughter had experienced during the two years previous to
their reception at the hospitable dwelling of Richard Markham, had
engendered a profound melancholy in a mind that had been so painfully
harassed, and had implanted the germs of a subtle malady in a system
never constitutionally strong. This belief appeared the more reasonable
when the old man called to mind the hours of toil--the wearisome
vigils--and the exposure to want, cold, and inclement weather, which had
been endured by the poor girl in the court in Golden Lane; and Markham
sometimes yielded to the same impression relative to the causes of a
mental and physical decline which every day became more apparent.

Then, again, Richard thought that the fresh air of the healthy locality
where she now dwelt, and the absence of all care in respect to the
wherewithal to sustain life, would have produced a beneficial effect. He
enjoined her father to question her whether she cherished some secret
affection--some love that had experienced disappointment; but to this
demand she returned a positive negative: and her father assured his
young friend that Ellen had had no opportunity of obtaining the
affection of another, or of bestowing her own upon any being who now
slighted it. Of course her true position was never suspected for a
moment; and thus the cause of Ellen's unhappiness remained an object of
varied and conflicting conjectures.

Seven months had now passed since that fatal day when the accursed old
hag, whose name we have not allowed to defile these pages, handed her
over to the arms of a ruthless libertine;--seven months of mental
anguish and physical suffering had nearly flown;--the close of July was
at hand;--and as yet Ellen had decided upon no plan to direct her future
proceedings. She sometimes thought of returning to Greenwood, and
endeavouring to touch his heart;--but then she remembered the way in
which they had parted on the occasion of her visit to his house in
Spring-Gardens;--she recalled to mind all she knew of the character of
the man;--and she was compelled to abandon this idea. She felt that she
would sooner die than accept his succour in the capacity of a
mistress;--and there were, moreover, moments when she entertained
sentiments of profound hatred, and experienced a longing for revenge,
against the man who refused to do her justice. Then, again, she
recollected that he was the father of the child which she bore in her
bosom; and all her rancorous feelings dissolved in tears.

At other times she thought of throwing herself at her father's feet, and
confessing all. But what woman does not shudder at such a step?
Moreover, frail mortals invariably place reliance in the chapter of
accidents, and entertain hopes, even in situations where it is
impossible for those hopes to be realised.

To Richard Markham she would not--dared not breathe a syllable that
might lead him to infer her shame;--and yet, where was she to find a
friend save in the persons of her father and her benefactor?

Most pitiable was the situation of this poor girl. And yet she already
felt a mother's feeling of love and solicitude for her unborn babe.
Often--often, in the still hour of night, when others slept, did she sit
up and weep in her chamber:--often--often, while others forgot their
cares in the arms of slumber, was she a prey to an agony of mind which
seemed to admit of no solace. And then, in those hours of intense
wretchedness, would the idea of suicide steal into her mind--that idea
which suggests a last resource and a sore relief as a term for misery
grown too heavy for mortal endurance. But, oh! she trembled--she
trembled in the presence of that dread thought, which each night assumed
a shape more awfully palpable, more fearfully defined to her
imagination. She struggled against the idea: she exclaimed, in the
bitterness of her agony, "Get thee behind me, tempter;"--and yet there
the tempter stood, more plainly seen, more positive in its allurement
than ever! That poor, helpless girl balanced in her mind whether she
should dare human scorn, or in one mad moment resign her soul to Satan!

There was a piece of water at the back of the house close by the main
road; and thither would her footsteps lead her--almost unvoluntarily,
for the tempter pushed her onward from behind;--thither would she repair
at noon, to contemplate the sleeping waters of the lake within whose
depths lurked one pearl more precious in the eyes of the unhappy than
the brightest ornaments set in regal diadems,--the pearl of Oblivion!
Thither did the lost one stray: upon the margin of that water did she
hover like the ghost of one who had sought repose beneath that silver
surface;--and, oh! how she longed to plunge into the shining water--and
dared not.

At eve, too, when the sun had set, and every star on the dark vault
above was reflected on the bosom of the lake, and the pure argent rays
of the lovely moon seemed to fathom its mysterious depths,--then again
did she seek the bank; and as she stood gazing upon the motionless pool,
she prepared herself to take the one fatal leap that should terminate
her sorrows--and dared not.

No--she shrank from suicide; and yet the time had now come when she most
nerve herself to adopt some decided plan; for a prolonged concealment of
her condition was impossible.

Markham's household consisted of Whittingham, Holford, and a female
domestic of the name of Marian. This woman was a widow, and had been in
the service of our hero only since his release from incarceration. She
was between forty and fifty; and her disposition was kind, easy, and
compassionate.

One night--about an hour after the inmates of the Place had retired to
their chambers--Ellen was sitting, as usual, mournfully in her room,
pondering upon her unhappy condition, and dreading to seek a couch where
her ideas assumed an aspect which made her brain reel as if with
incipient madness,--when she heard a low knock at her door. She hastened
to open it; and Marian instantly entered the room.

"Hush, my dear young lady," she said in a whisper: "do not be
alarmed;"--and she carefully closed the door behind her.

"What is the matter, Marian?" exclaimed Ellen "has any thing happened?
is my father ill?"

"No, Miss--do not frighten yourself, I say," replied the servant. "I
have come to console you for I can't bear to see you pining away like
this--dying by inches."

"What do you mean, Marian?" said Ellen much confused.

"I mean, my dear Miss," continued the servant, "that if you won't think
me impertinent. I might befriend you. The eyes of a woman are sharp and
penetrating, Miss; and while every body else in the house is wondering
what can make you so pale, and low-spirited, I do not want to conjecture
to discover the cause."

"My God, Marian!" ejaculated the young lady, sinking into a chair;
"you--you really frighten me: you mistake--you--"

And Ellen burst into tears.

The servant took her hand kindly, and said "Miss, forgive my boldness;
but I am a woman--and I cannot bear to see one of my own sex suffer as
you do. Besides, you are so good and gentle--and when I was ill a few
weeks ago, you behaved with so much kindness to me, that my heart bleeds
for you--it does indeed. I was coming down to you last night--and the
night before--and the night before that too; but I didn't like to
intrude upon you. And to-day I saw how very much you was altered; and I
could restrain myself no longer. So, Miss, if I have done wrong, forgive
me; for I have come with a good intention--and I would go a hundred
miles to serve you. In a word, Miss, you require a friend--a faithful
friend; and if you will confide in me, Miss, I will give you the best
advice, and help you in the best way I can."

"Marian, this is very kind of you--very kind," answered Ellen, to whose
ear these words of female sympathy came ineffably sweet; "but I shall be
better soon--I shall get well--"

"Ah! Miss," interrupted Marian, soothingly, "don't hesitate to confide
in me. I know what ails you--I understand your situation; and I feel for
you deeply--indeed, indeed I do."

"Marian--"

"Yes, Miss: you cannot conceal it from others much longer. For God's
sake take some step before you kill yourself and your child at the same
time."

"Marian--Marian, what do you say?" exclaimed Ellen, sobbing violently,
as if her heart would break.

"Miss Monroe, you will shortly become a mother!"

"Ah! my God--kill me, kill me! Save me from this deep degradation--this
last disgrace!"

"Calm yourself, Miss--calm yourself; and I will be your friend," said
Marian. "I have been thinking of your condition for some time past--and
I have already settled in my mind a plan to save you!"

"To save me--to save me!" exclaimed Ellen. "Oh! how can I ever repay you
for this kindness?"

"I am but a poor ignorant woman. Miss," answered Marian; "but I hope
that I do not possess a bad heart. At all events I can feel for _you_."

"A bad heart, Marian!" repeated Ellen. "Oh! no--you are goodness itself.
But you said you had some plan to save me, Marian?"

"Yes, Miss. I have a sister, who is married and lives with her husband a
few miles off. He is a market-gardener; and they have a nice little
cottage. They will be delighted to do all they can for you."

"But how can I leave this house and remain absent for weeks without
acquainting my benefactor Mr. Markham, and my poor old father? You
forget, Marian--you forget that were I to steal away, and leave no trace
behind me, it would break my father's heart."

"Then, Miss, you had better throw yourself at your father's feet, and
tell him all."

"Never--never, Marian!" ejaculated Ellen, clasping her hands together,
while her bosom heaved convulsively.

"Trust in Mr. Markham, Miss--let me break the truth to him?"

"Impossible, Marian! I should never dare to look him in the face
again."

"And the person--the individual--the father of your child, Miss--" said
the servant, hesitatingly.

"Mention not him--allude not to him," cried Ellen; then, after a pause,
she added in a low and almost despairing tone, "No!--hope exists not
there!"

"And yet, Miss," continued Marian, "you must make up your mind to
something--and that soon. You cannot conceal your situation another
fortnight without danger to yourself and the little unborn innocent.
Besides, you have made no preparations, Miss; and if any sudden
accident--"

"Ah! Marian, you remind me of my duty," interrupted Ellen. "I must not
sacrifice the life of that being who has not asked me to give it
existence--who is the innocent fruit of my shame,--I must not sacrifice
its life to any selfish scruples of mine! Thank you, Marian--thank you!
You have reminded me of my duty! come to me again to-morrow night, and I
will tell you what step I have determined to take without delay!"

The servant then retired; and Ellen remained alone--alone with the most
desolating, heart-breaking reflections.

At length her ideas produced a mental agony which was beyond endurance.
She rose from her chair, and advanced towards the window, against the
cold glass of which she leant her brow--her burning brow, to cool it.
The moon shone brightly, and edged the clouds of night with silver. The
eyes of the wretched girl wandered over the landscape, the outlines of
which were strongly marked beneath the lustre of the moon; and amongst
other objects, she caught sight of the small lake at a little distance.
It shone like a pool of quicksilver, and seemed to woo her to its bosom.

Upon that lake her eyes rested long and wistfully; and again the tempter
stood behind her, and urged her to seek repose beneath that shining
surface.

She asked herself for what she had to live? She did not seek to combat
the arguments of the secret tempter; but she collected into one focus
all her sorrows; and at length the contemplation of that mass of misery
strengthened the deep anxiety which she felt to escape from this world
for ever.

And all the while she kept her eyes fixed upon the lake that seemed
sleeping beneath the moonlight which kissed its bosom.

But her poor father! and the babe that she bore in her breast! Oh!
no--she dared not die! Her suicide would not comprise one death
only;--but it would be the death of a second, and the death of a
third,--the death of her father, and the death of her still unborn
child!

She turned away from the window, and hastened to seek her couch. But
slumber did not visit her eyes. She lay pondering on the best course for
her to pursue; but the more she reflected upon her condition, the
farther off did she seem to wander from any settled point. At length she
sank into an uneasy sleep; and her grief pursued her in her dreams.

She rose late; and when she descended to the breakfast-room she learnt
that Richard Markham was about to depart immediately for the Continent.
Whittingham was busily occupied in packing his master's baggage in the
hall; and Holford had been despatched into town to order a post-chaise.

Markham explained this sudden movement on his part by placing a letter
in Ellen's hand, saying at the same time, "This is from a man who has
been a friend to me: I cannot hesitate a moment to obey his summons."

Ellen cast her eyes over the letter and read as follows:--

"Boulogne-sur-Mer, France,
"July 24, 1839.

"MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND,

     "If you can possibly dispose of your time for a few days, come to
     me at once. A severe accident--which may prove fatal--renders it
     prudent that I should attend to my worldly affairs; and to this end
     I require the assistance of a friend. Such I know you to be.

"THOMAS ARMSTRONG."



"The accident which my friend has met with must have been a serious
one," said Markham, "or his letter would be more explicit. I feel deeply
anxious to know the whole truth; for it was he who gave me courage to
face the world, and taught me how to raise my head again, after my
release from imprisonment;--he also introduced me to _one_----"

Markham ceased: and for some moments his thought were bent wholly on
Isabella.

At length the post-chaise arrived, and Richard departed on his journey,
after bidding adieu to Mr. Monroe and Ellen, and having received a
special request from the faithful Whittingham "to mind and not be
conglomerated by any such fellers as Kidderminster and them wulgar chaps
which called butlers _tulips_."




CHAPTER LXXVIII.

MARIAN.


In the evening Ellen retired early to her apartment, for she felt very
unwell; and certain sensations which she had experienced during the day
had alarmed her.

A short time after she had withdrawn to the seclusion of her own
chamber, the faithful and kind-hearted Marian made her appearance.

"This is very good of you, Marian," said Ellen. "I never felt the want
of some one to talk to and console me, so much as I do to-night."

"You look very pale and ill, Miss," observed the servant: "had you not
better retire to rest?"

"Yes," said Ellen. "I wish to struggle against a sense of weariness and
oppression which comes over me; and I cannot."

"Heavens, Miss!--if any thing was to happen to you to-night--"

"It cannot be that, Marian; but I feel very, very ill."

Marian aided Miss Monroe to divest herself of her garments; and the
young lady retired to her couch.

"How do you feel now, Miss?"

"Alas! I am not better, good Marian. I feel--I feel--"

"My God, Miss! you are about to become a mother this very night. Oh!
what is to be done? what is to be done?"

"Save me, save me, Marian--do not suffer me to be exposed!" cried Ellen
wildly.

"Why did I not speak to you before last night? We might have made some
arrangement--invented some plan: but now--now, it is impossible!"

"Do not say it is impossible, Marian--do not take away every remaining
hope--for I am wretched, very wretched."

"Poor young lady!" said Marian, advancing towards the bed, and taking
Ellen's hand.

"It is not for myself that I care so much," continued the unhappy girl;
"it is for my poor father. It would break his heart--oh! it would, break
his heart!"

"And he is a good, kind old gentleman," observed Marian.

"And he has tasted already so deeply of the bitter cup of adversity,"
said Ellen, "that a blow like this would send him to his grave. I know
him so well--he would never survive my dishonour. He has loved me so
tenderly--he has taken such pride in me, it would kill him! Do you hear,
Marian?--it would kill him. Ah! you weep--you weep for me, kind Marian!"

"Yes, Miss: I would do any thing I could to serve you. But now--it is
too late--"

"Say not that it is too late!" ejaculated Ellen, distractedly: "say not
that all chance of avoiding exposure has fled! take compassion on me,
Marian; take compassion on my poor old father! Ah! these pains--"

"Tell me how I can serve you, Miss--"

"Alas! I cannot concentrate my ideas, Marian; I am bewildered--I am
reduced to despair! Oh! if men only knew what bitter, bitter anguish
they entail upon poor woman, when they sacrifice her to their desires--"

"Do not make yourself miserable, dear young lady," interrupted Marian,
whose eyes were dimmed with tears. "Something must be done! How do you
feel now?"

"I cannot explain my sensations. My mental pangs are so great that they
almost absorb my bodily sufferings; and yet, it seems as if the latter
were increasing every moment."

"There can be no doubt of it, Miss," said Marian. "Do you know that when
I heard this morning of Mr. Markham's intended departure for France, it
struck me at the moment that Providence interfered in your behalf. I do
not know why such an idea should have come across me; for I could not
foresee that you would be so soon overtaken with--"

"I feel that I am getting worse, Marian; can nothing be done? must my
poor father know all? Oh! think of his grey hairs--his wrinkles! Think
how he loves me--his only child! Alas! can nothing be done to save me
from disgrace? How shall I ever be able to meet Mr. Markham again? Ah!
Marian, you would not desert me in such a moment as this?"

"No, dear young lady--not for worlds!"

"Thank you, Marian! And yet forgive me if I say again, do not desert
me--do not expose me! Oh! let me die rather than have my shame made
known. Think, Marian--do you not know of any means of screening me?"

"I am bewildered," exclaimed the poor woman. "How do you feel now?"

"My fears augment, that--"

"Ah! it is premature, you see, Miss! What is to be done? what shall we
do?"

"Marian, I beseech you--I implore you not to expose me!" said Ellen in a
tone of such intense agony, that the good-hearted woman was touched to
the very soul.

A sudden idea seemed to strike her.

"I know a young surgeon in the village--who is just married, and has
only set up in business a few weeks--he is very poor--and he does not
know where I am now in service."

"Do any thing you choose, Marian--follow the dictates of your own
mind--but do not expose me! Oh! my God! what misery--what misery is
this!"

"Yes," continued Marian, musing, "there is no other resource. But,
Miss," she added, turning towards the suffering girl, "if I can save you
from exposure, you must part with your child, should it be born alive!"

"I am in your hands: save me from exposure--for my poor old father's
sake! That is all I ask."

"This, then," said Marian, "is the only alternative; there is nothing
else to be done! And perhaps even _he_ will not consent--"

"To whom do you allude?" demanded Ellen impatiently.

"To the young surgeon of whom I spoke. But I must try: at all events his
assistance must be had. Miss, my plan is too long to tell you now: do
you think it is safe to leave you alone for three quarters of an hour?"

"Oh! yes--if it be for my benefit, kind--good Marian," said Ellen. "But
I must not be exposed--even to the surgeon!"

"The room must then be quite dark," observed Marian. "Do you mind that?"

Ellen shook her head.

"Then, take courage, Miss--and I think I can promise--but we shall see."

The servant then hastily extinguished the lights and left the room.

She hurried up to her own chamber, took from her box a purse containing
forty sovereigns--all her little savings, put on her bonnet and shawl,
concealed her face with a thick black veil, and then stole carefully
down stairs.

All was quiet; and she left the house by the back door.

       *       *       *       *       *

In three quarters of an hour two persons advanced together up the garden
at the back of the house.

One was a woman; and she led a man, whose eyes were blindfolded with a
black handkerchief.

"Your hand trembles," said Marian--for she was the female alluded to.

"No," answered the surgeon. "But one word--ere I proceed farther."

"Speak--do not delay."

"You gave me forty pounds for this night's work. What guarantee do you
offer me that the child--should it survive--will not be left on my
hands, altogether unprovided for?"

"Trust to paternal affection, sir," answered Marian. "I can promise you
that the child will not even remain long with you."

"Well, I will venture it," said the surgeon. "Your money will save me
from being compelled to shut up my establishment after an unsuccessful
struggle of only a few weeks; and I ought not to ask too many
questions."

"And you remember your solemn promise, sir, not to attempt to obtain any
clue to the place to which I am conducting you."

"On my honour as a man--on my solemn word as a gentleman."

"Enough, sir. Let us proceed."

Marian let the surgeon onward, and admitted him into the house by the
back door.

All was still quiet.

We have said on a previous occasion that the mansion was a spacious one.
Ellen's apartment was far removed from that in which her father slept;
and the rooms occupied by Whittingham and Holford were on the uppermost
storey. There consequently existed little chance of disturbing any one.

Marian led the surgeon very cautiously up the staircase to Ellen's
chamber, which they entered as noiselessly as possible.

Upon advancing into the room, which was quite dark, the surgeon struck
against a chest of drawers, and uttered a slight ejaculation of pain;
but not loud enough to reach the ears of those from whom it was
necessary to conceal this nocturnal proceeding.

Ellen was in the pangs of maternity when Marian and the surgeon came to
her assistance; and in a few moments after their arrival, she was the
mother of a boy.

Oh! who can express her feelings when the gentle cry of the child fell
upon her ears--that child from whom she was to part in a few minutes,
perhaps for ever?

       *       *       *       *       *

Half an hour afterwards Marian and the surgeon were again threading the
garden;--but this time their steps led them away from the house.

Beneath her thick shawl, carefully wrapped up, the servant carried
Ellen's child.

She conducted the surgeon to within a short distance of his own abode,
placed the child in his arms, and hurried rapidly away.

She returned to the Place, and ascended to Ellen's chamber without
disturbing the other inmates.

"Ah! Marian," said Ellen, "how can I ever sufficiently thank you for
your kindness of this night?"

"Silence, my dear young lady. Do not mention it! You must keep yourself
very tranquil and quiet; and in the morning I must say that you are too
unwell to rise."

"And that surgeon--"

"I know what you would ask, Miss," interrupted Marian. "All is safe and
secret--the bandage was never raised from the surgeon's eyes from the
moment he left his own house until he was far away from here again; nor
did he once catch a glimpse of my face, for when I first went to explain
the business to him and engage his assistance, he came down from his
bed-chamber and spoke to me in the passage where it was quite dark.
Moreover, I had taken my thick black veil with me by way of precaution.
Therefore, he can never know me again."

"But the means of securing his assistance? how did you contrive that,
Marian?"

"Well, Miss, if you must know," said the servant, after some hesitation,
"I had saved up forty pounds--"

"And you gave him all!" exclaimed Ellen. "Oh! this was truly noble!
However--I shall know how to repay you fourfold."

"We will speak of that another time, Miss," answered Marian. "You must
now endeavour to obtain some sleep;--and I shall sit with you all
night."

"Tell me one thing, Marian," said Ellen, with tears in her eyes;--"the
child--"

"Will be well taken care of, Miss. Do not alarm yourself about that. And
now you must try and obtain some repose."

In a few moments the young mother was overtaken by a profound sleep--the
first she had enjoyed for many, many weeks. But even this slumber was
not attended by dreams of unmixed pleasure: the thoughts of her
child--her new-born child, entrusted to the care of strangers, and
severed from the maternal bosom--followed her in her visions.

She awoke, considerably refreshed, at about seven o'clock in the
morning.

The faithful Marian was still watching by her side, and had prepared her
some refreshment, of which Ellen partook.

The young mother then asked for writing materials; and, in spite of the
remonstrances of Marian, sate up in her bed, and wrote a letter.

When she had sealed and addressed it, she spoke in the following manner:

"Marian, I have now one favour to ask you. You have already given me
such proofs of friendship and fidelity, that I need not implore you to
observe the strictest secrecy with respect to the request that I am
about to make. At the same time, I shall feel more happy if you will
promise me, that under any circumstances--whether my shame remain
concealed, or not--you will never disclose, without my consent, the name
of the person to whom this letter is addressed, and to whom you must
carry it as speedily as possible."

"You know, Miss, that I will do any thing I can to make you happy. Your
secret is safe in my keeping."

"Thank you, Marian! My father would curse me--Mr. Markham would scorn
me, did they know that I held communication with this man;"--and she
showed the address upon the letter to Marian.

"Mr. Greenwood!" exclaimed the servant. "Ah! now I
recollect--Whittingham has told me that he is the person who ruined your
poor father, and robbed Mr. Markham of nearly all his property."

"And yet, Marian," said Ellen, "that man--that same Mr. Greenwood, who
reduced my poor father to beggary, and plundered Mr. Markham--that very
same individual is the father of my child!"

"Ah! Miss, now I understand how impossible it was for you to reveal your
condition to your father, or to Mr. Markham. The blow would have been
too severe upon both!"

"Yes, Marian--Mr. Greenwood is the father of my child; and more than
that--he is--but no matter," said Ellen, suddenly checking herself. "You
now know my secret, Marian; and you will never reveal it?"

"Never, Miss, I promise you most solemnly."

"And you will take this letter to him to-day--and you will wait for his
reply."

"I will go this afternoon, Miss; and I will obey your wishes in every
way."

"And now, Marian, hasten to tell my father that I am unwell; and resist
any desire on his part to obtain medical assistance."

"Leave that to me, Miss. You already appear so much better that the old
gentleman will easily be induced to suppose that a little rest is all
you require."

"Ah! Marian--how can I ever reward you for all your goodness towards
me?"




CHAPTER LXXIX.

THE BILL.--A FATHER.


Nothing could be more business-like than the study of Mr. Greenwood. The
sofa was heaped up with papers tied round with red tape, and endorsed,
some "Corn-Laws," others "New Poor Law," a third batch "Rottenborough
Union," a fourth "Select Committee on Bribery at Elections;" and so on.

Piles of letters lay upon one table; piles of newspapers upon another;
and a number of Reports of various Committees of the House of Commons,
easily recognised by their unwieldy shapes and blue covers, was heaped
up on the cheffonier between the windows.

The writing-table was also arranged, with a view to effect, in the
manner described upon a former occasion; and in his arm-chair lounged
Mr. Greenwood, pleasantly engaged in perusing the daily newspaper which
contained the oration that he had delivered in the House on the
preceding evening.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon. Mr. Greenwood had risen
late, for the House had not separated until half-past two in the
morning, and the member for Rottenborough was a man of too decidedly
business-habits to leave his post in the middle of a debate.

Lafleur entered, and announced Sir Rupert Harborough.

"I have called about that bill again," said the baronet. "When it came
due at the end of March, we renewed it for four months. It will be due
again to-morrow."

"I am aware of it," said Greenwood. "What do you propose to do?"

"I am in no condition to pay it," answered the baronet.

"You must provide a portion, and renew for the remainder," said
Greenwood.

"It is impossible, my dear fellow!" exclaimed Sir Rupert. "I am
completely at low water-mark again, upon my honour!"

"And yet I have heard that you and Chichester have not been altogether
unsuccessful in the play-world during the last few months," observed
Greenwood.

"Not so prosperous as you may fancy," returned the baronet. "Come, what
shall we say about this bill?"

"I have told you. The bill was originally given for fifteen hundred
pounds--"

"For which I only had a thousand."

"I don't recollect now. At all events, it fell due; and fortunately I
had not passed it away."

"Of course not. You promised to retain it in your portfolio."

"I don't recollect. You could not pay it; and I agreed to renew it--"

"On condition of making it sixteen hundred," said the baronet.

"I don't recollect," observed Greenwood again. "Now you come to me, and
tell me that you can do nothing towards it. Things cannot go on so."

"But you knew very well, Greenwood, when you took it, that the day of
payment might be rather distant."

"I don't recollect. You must bring me the six hundred, and I will renew
for the thousand--without interest. There!"

"And where the devil am I to find six hundred pounds on a sudden like
this?" exclaimed Sir Rupert.

"I am sure I am not aware of your private resources, my good sir,"
answered Greenwood, coolly. "You must be well aware that I cannot afford
to remain without my money in this manner; and since it would appear you
do not wish Lord Tremordyn to know that you have not paid the acceptance
which he so kindly lent you--"

"Lent me!" ejaculated Sir Rupert, now really alarmed.

"Of course. He could not possibly have owed you the amount."

"Greenwood, what do you mean by this?" cried the baronet. "Upon my
honour, one would almost suppose that you had forgotten the real nature
of the transaction."

"Possibly I may not recall to mind some of the minor details. One thing
is, however, certain: I have in my possession a bill bearing your
endorsement and accepted by Lord Tremordyn, for sixteen hundred pounds;
and I offer you the most easy terms I can think of for its payment."

"Greenwood, you cannot have forgotten--"

"Forgotten what?"

"Forgotten that the acceptance--"

"Well?"

"Is not Lord Tremordyn's."

"The acceptance not Lord Tremordyn's!" cried Mr. Greenwood, affecting to
be quite confounded by this statement.

"Certainly not," answered the baronet. "You yourself suggested to me--"

"I suggested!" cried Greenwood, now pretending indignation. "Sir Rupert
Harborough, what are you aiming at? to what point would you arrive?"

"Oh! if I were not in the power of this man!" thought the baronet,
actually grinding his teeth with rage; but suppressing his feelings, he
said, "My dear Greenwood, pray renew this bill for four months more, and
it shall be paid at maturity."

"No, Sir Rupert Harborough," replied the capitalist, who had not failed
to notice the emotions of concentrated rage which filled the mind of the
baronet. "I am decided: give me six hundred pounds, and I renew for the
thousand; otherwise--"

"Otherwise," repeated Sir Rupert mechanically.

"I shall pay the bill into my banker's this afternoon, and it will be
presented for payment at Lord Tremordyn's agent's to-morrow morning."

"You would not wish to ruin me, Greenwood!"

"Such a course will not ruin you: Lord Tremordyn will of course honour
his acceptance."

"Greenwood, you drive me mad!"

"I am really very sorry to hear it; but if every one who could not meet
his bills were driven mad by being asked for payment of them, every
third house in the street would become a lunatic-asylum."

"You can spare your raillery, Mr. Greenwood," said the baronet. "Do you
wish to have me transported?"

"Certainly not. I want a proper settlement in this respect."

"And how can I settle the bill? Where am I to procure six hundred pounds
at a moment's warning?"

"A moment's warning! you have had four clear months."

"But I fancied--I hoped you would renew the bill from time to time until
I could pay it. You said as much when you lent me the money upon it."

"I don't recollect."

"You did indeed; and upon the faith of that promise, I--"

"I don't recollect."

"My God! what am I to do?" cried Sir Rupert, despairingly. "I have no
means of raising half the sum you require."

"Then why did you take my money seven months ago?"

"Why did I take the money? why did I take it? Because you yourself
proposed the transaction. You said, '_Bring me the acceptance of Lord
Tremordyn for fifteen hundred pounds, and I will lend you a thousand
upon it immediately._'"

"I don't recollect."

"And you said emphatically and distinctly that _you should not call upon
Lord Tremordyn to inquire if it were his acceptance_."

"Of course not. Amongst gentlemen such a proceeding would be
unpardonable."

"Oh! Greenwood, you affect ignorance in all this! and yet it was you who
put the infernal idea into my head--"

"Sir Rupert Harborough," said the capitalist, rising from his chair;
"enough of this! I put no infernal ideas into any one's head. Settle
the bill in the way I propose; or it shall take its course."

[Illustration]

"But--my God! you will send me to the Old Bailey!" cried the baronet,
whose countenance was actually livid with rage and alarm.

"And did you not send Richard Markham thither?" said Greenwood, fixing
his piercing dark eyes upon Sir Rupert Harborough in so strange a manner
that the unhappy man shrank from that fearful glance.

"But what matters that to you?" cried the baronet. "In one word, will
you ruin me? or will you give me time to pay this accursed bill?"

"I have stated my conditions: I will not depart from them," replied
Greenwood in a determined manner. "You have plenty of time before you. I
will keep the bill back until to-morrow morning at twelve o'clock."

"Very good, sir," said the baronet, scarcely able to repress his rage.

Sir Rupert Harborough then withdrew, a prey to feelings more easily
imagined than described.

"Why should I allow this gambler to retain my money without even paying
me the interest?" said Greenwood to himself, when he was again alone. "I
can keep him in my power as well with a forged bill for a thousand, as
for sixteen hundred pounds. As for his wife, the beautiful Cecilia--I am
now wearied of that intrigue, which, moreover, becomes too expensive!
Lady Cecilia's extravagance is unbounded. I must put an end to that
connexion without delay!"

Lafleur entered the room at this moment, and said, "A female, sir,
desires to see you upon particular business."

"Is it anybody whom you know?"

Lafleur replied in the negative.

"Never mind! I will see her," said Greenwood; and, unaware who she might
be, he seated himself at his writing-table, where he appeared to be
profoundly occupied with some deeds that were lying before him.

In a few moments Marian entered the room.

"Well, my good woman, what is the object of your call?" demanded
Greenwood.

"I am the bearer of a letter, sir, from Miss Monroe," was the reply.

"From Miss Monroe!" ejaculated Greenwood; and he hastened to peruse the
letter which the servant placed in his hand.

Its contents ran thus:--

     "You are the father of a boy. The excellent woman who bears this
     will explain every thing to you. I should not recall myself to your
     memory--if you have forgotten the mother of your child--did not a
     sacred duty towards the female whom I have above alluded to, and
     towards the helpless infant who perhaps will never know a parent's
     care, compel me thus to address you. The kind woman who will give
     you this, expended forty pounds--all her little savings--to save me
     from disgrace. The surgeon to whose care the child is entrusted,
     must receive a small allowance for its support. If you ever
     entertained one generous feeling towards me, relieve my mind on
     these two subjects.

"ELLEN MONROE."



For some minutes Mr. Greenwood appeared to be absorbed in thought.

He then questioned Marian relative to the particulars of Ellen's
accouchement; and she detailed to him every particular with which the
reader is already acquainted.

"You managed the matter admirably," said Greenwood. "There are two
points to which Miss Monroe directs my attention in this note. In the
first place, she speaks of your most disinterested services. Accept this
as a trifling mark of my gratitude:"--and he placed six Bank-notes for
ten pounds each in Marian's hand.

"I do not desire any remuneration, sir," said the kind-hearted woman. "I
will take my forty pounds; but the other two notes I must beg to
return."

"No--keep them," exclaimed Greenwood.

"I thank you, sir, most sincerely," said the servant firmly; "but I
would rather not. I rendered Miss Monroe that service which one female
should afford another in such a case; and I cannot think of accepting
any recompense."

With these words she laid two of the notes upon the table.

"You are really a most extraordinary woman," cried Greenwood, who was
perfectly astonished at the idea of any one in her class of life
refusing money. "Will you not permit me to offer you a ring--a watch--or
some trinket--"

"No, sir," replied Marian, with severe firmness of tone and manner.
"Miss Monroe is so kind--so good--so gentle, I would go to the end of
the world to serve her."

"Well--you must have your own way," said Mr. Greenwood. "The next point
in Miss Monroe's letter is a provision for her child. What sum do you
suppose would content the surgeon and his wife who have taken care of
it?"

"They are poor people, sir--struggling against difficulties--and having
their way to make in the world--"

"Suppose we say forty pounds a year for the present," interrupted
Greenwood.

"Oh! sir--that will be ample!" exclaimed Marian: "and Miss Monroe will
be so rejoiced! Ah! sir--what consolation to the poor young lady!"

"What is the address of the surgeon?" demanded Greenwood.

"_Mr. Wentworth, Lower Holloway_," was the reply.

"My servant shall call upon that gentleman this very evening, and carry
him the first quarter's payment," continued Greenwood. "You can say to
Miss Monroe--but stay: I will write her a few lines."

"Oh! do, sir. Who knows but it may console her?" ejaculated the
kind-hearted Marian.

Mr. Greenwood wrote as follows:--

     "Your wishes are attended to in every point. The existence of the
     child need never be known to either Mr. Monroe or Mr. Richard
     Markham. Keep faithfully _all the secrets_ which are treasured in
     your bosom; and I will never desert the child. I will watch over
     its welfare from a distance: trust to me. You were wrong to
     hesitate to apply to me. My purse is at all times at your
     disposal--so long as those secrets remain undivulged.

"G. M. G."



Marian, prompted by that inherently kind feeling which had influenced
her entire conduct towards Ellen, hesitated for a few moments, after
receiving this letter, and seemed anxious to speak. She would have
pleaded in behalf of the young mother: she would have implored Greenwood
to make her his own in the sight of heaven, and acknowledge their child.
But her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth;--and she at length
retired, unable to give utterance to a single word in favour of poor
Ellen.

As soon as she was gone, Greenwood rang for his faithful French valet.

"Lafleur," said he, "you will take these ten pounds, and proceed without
delay to the house of Mr. Wentworth, a surgeon residing in Lower
Holloway. You will say to him, '_The father of the child which was
entrusted to you last night in so mysterious a manner, will allow you
forty pounds a year for its support. As it grows older, and the expenses
it incurs augment, this allowance will be proportionately increased. But
should you endeavour to find out who are the parents of that child, it
will instantly be removed to the care of others who may possess less
curious dispositions._'--You will pay him those ten pounds: you will
tell him that every three months you will call with a similar sum; and
you will see the child. Remember, you will see the child. If it have any
peculiar mark about it, notice that mark: at all events, study it well,
that you may know it again. You will moreover direct that its Christian
name be _Richard_: its surname is immaterial. In a word, you will
neither say nor do a whit more nor less than I have told you."

"I understand, sir," answered Lafleur. "Any further commands?"

"No--not at present. Be cautious how you conduct this business. It is
delicate."

"You may depend upon me, sir."

And Lafleur retired.

"Thus far it is well," said Greenwood to himself, when he was again
alone. "I am relieved of a subject of frequent annoying reflection and
suspense. Ellen's shame is unknown to those from whom I was most anxious
it should be concealed. It can never transpire now!"

The clock struck six; and Mr. Greenwood repaired to his dressing-room to
arrange his toilet for dinner.




CHAPTER LXXX.

THE REVELATION.


That same evening Mr. Chichester dined with his friend Sir Rupert
Harborough, at the dwelling of the latter in Tavistock Square.

Whenever her husband invited this guest, Lady Cecilia invariably made it
a rule to accept an invitation elsewhere.

The baronet and his friend were therefore alone together.

"This is awkward--very awkward," said Chichester, when the cloth was
removed, and the two gentlemen were occupied with their wine.

"Awkward! I believe you," exclaimed the baronet. "Upon my honour, that
Greenwood ought to be well thrashed!"

"He is an insufferable coxcomb," said Chichester.

"A conceited humbug," added the baronet.

"A self-sufficient fool," remarked Chichester.

"A consummate scoundrel," cried Sir Rupert.

"So he is," observed Chichester.

"But all this will not pay my bill," continued the baronet; "and where
to obtain six hundred pounds, the deuce take me if I can tell."

"No--nor I either," said Chichester; "unless we get a couple of horses
and ride down towards Hounslow upon a venture."

"You never can be serious, Chichester? What! turn highwaymen!"

"I was only joking. But do you really think that Greenwood will press
you so hard?"

"He will send the bill to Lord Tremordyn's banker's to-morrow. Oh! I can
assure you he was quite high about it, and pretended to forget all the
circumstances that had led to the transaction. To every word I said, it
was '_I don't recollect_.' May the devil take him!"

"And so he has got you completely in his power?"

"Completely."

"And you would like to have your revenge?"

"Of course I should. But what is the use of talking in this manner? You
know very well that I can do him no injury!"

"I am not quite so sure of that," said Chichester.

"What do you mean?" demanded the baronet. "I can see that there is
something in your mind."

"I was only thinking. Suppose we accused him of something that he would
not like exposed, and could not very well refute--an intrigue with any
particular lady, for instance--"

"Ah! if we could--even though it were with my own wife," exclaimed the
baronet. "And, by the bye, he is very intimate with Lady Cecilia."

"Of course he is," said Chichester drily. "Have you never noticed that
before."

"It never struck me until now," observed the baronet.

"But it has struck me--frequently," added Chichester.

"And when I think of it," continued Sir Rupert Harborough, "he has often
been here for an hour or two together; for I have gone out and left him
with Lady Cecilia in the drawing-room; and when I have come back, he has
been there still."

"Greenwood is not the man to waste his time at a lady's apron-strings
for nothing."

"Chichester--you do not mean--"

"Oh! no--I mean nothing more than you choose to surmise."

"And what would you have me surmise?"

"I do not suppose," said Chichester, "that you care very much for Lady
Cecilia."

"You are well aware of my feelings with regard to her."

"And out of all the money she has had lately--an affluence that you
yourself have noticed more than once--she has never assisted you."

"No--never. And I have often puzzled myself to think whence came those
supplies."

"You cannot suppose that either Lord or Lady Tremordyn replenish her
purse?"

"Yes--I have thought so."

"Oh! very well; you know best;" and Chichester sipped his wine with an
affected indifference which was in itself most eloquently significant.

"My dear fellow," said the baronet, after a pause, "I feel convinced
that you have got some plan in your head, or else that you know more
than you choose to say. In either case, Lady Cecilia is concerned. I
have told you that I care not one fig about her--on my honour! Have the
kindness, then, to speak without reserve."

"And then you may be offended," said Chichester.

"How absurd! Speak."

"What if I was to tell you that Lady Cecilia--"

"Well?"

"Is Greenwood's mistress!"

"The proof! the proof!" ejaculated the baronet.

"I myself saw them in each other's arms."

Sir Rupert Harborough's countenance grew deadly pale, and his lips
quivered. He now revolted from the mere idea of what he had just before
wished to be a fact.

"You remember the day that Greenwood called to acquaint us with his
success at Rottenborough in March last?" said Chichester, after a pause.
"You and I had been practising with the dice and cards; and we went out
together."

"I recollect," exclaimed the baronet; "and you returned for the
dice-boxes which you had left behind."

"It was upon that occasion. Greenwood followed me out of the
drawing-room, and gave me a hundred pounds to keep the secret."

"True! you produced a hundred pounds immediately afterwards; and you
said that Greenwood had lent you the amount. Why did you never tell me
of this before?"

"The deuce! Is it a pleasant thing to communicate to a friend,
Harborough? Besides, it always struck me that the discovery would one
day or another be of some use."

"Of use indeed!" ejaculated the baronet. "And Lady Cecilia is
Greenwood's mistress! Ah! that explains the restoration of her diamonds,
as well as the improved condition of her finances. The false creature!"

"You must admit, Harborough," said Chichester, "that you have never been
over attentive to your wife; and if--"

"Nonsense, my good fellow," interrupted the baronet sharply. "That is no
excuse for a woman. A man may do what he chooses; but a woman--a wife--"

"Come, come--no moralizing," said Chichester. "It is all your own fault.
Not one woman out of fifty would go wrong, if the husband behaved
properly. But now that I have told you the secret, think what use you
can make of it."

"I cannot see how the circumstance can serve me, without farther proof,"
remarked the baronet. "Ah! Lady Cecilia--what duplicity! what deceit!"

"Why not search her drawers--her boxes?" said Chichester. "She is
absent; no one can interrupt you; and perhaps you may find a letter--"

"Excellent thought!" cried Sir Rupert; and, seizing a candle, he hurried
from the room.

Twenty minutes elapsed, during which Mr. Chichester sate drinking his
wine as comfortably as if he had done a good action, instead of
revealing so fearful a secret to his friend.

At length Sir Rupert Harborough returned to the dining-room.

He was very pale; and there was something ghastly in his countenance,
and sinister in the expression of his eyes.

"Well--any news?" inquired Chichester.

"No proof--not a note, not a letter," answered the baronet. "But I have
found something," he added, with an hysterical kind of laugh, "that will
answer my purpose for the moment better still."

"What is that?" asked his friend.

"Lady Cecilia's diamonds and other trinkets--presents, most likely, from
Greenwood--together with ninety pounds in notes and gold."

"Capital!" cried Chichester. "You can now settle with Greenwood."

"Yes--I will pay him his six hundred pounds, renew for the remainder for
three or four months, and then devise some plot to obtain undeniable
proof of his amour with Lady Cecilia. But when I think of that woman,
Chichester--not that she is any thing to me--still she is my wife--"

"Nonsense! It is fortunate for you that I told you of the affair, or
else you would never have thought of using her property for the purpose
of raising the sum you require."

"Ah! I will be revenged on that Greenwood!" cried Sir Rupert, in whose
mind one idea was uppermost, in spite of his depraved and selfish
disposition: "I will have the most signal vengeance upon the seducer of
my wife! But remember, Chichester--I care nothing for _her_;--still the
outrage--the dishonour--the perfidy! Yes--by God!" he added, dashing his
clenched fist upon the table; "I will be avenged!"

"And in the mean time convert the diamonds and jewels into money," said
Chichester. "It is only seven o'clock; we have plenty of time for the
pawnbroker's."

"Come," cried the baronet, whose manner continued to be excited and
irritable; "I am ready."

The two friends emptied their glasses, and took their departure, the
baronet having carefully secured about his person the booty he had
plundered from his wife. They then bent their steps towards the
pawnbroking-establishment of Mr. V----, in the Strand.

What a strange type of all the luxury, dissipation, extravagance,
profligacy, misery, ruin, and want, which characterise the various
classes of society, is a pawnbroker's shop! It is the emporium whither
go the jewels of the aristocrat, the clothes of the mechanic, the
ornaments of the actress, and the necessaries of the poor. Genteel
profligacy and pining industry seek, at the same place--the one the
means for fresh extravagance, the other the wherewith to purchase food
to sustain life. Two broad and direct roads branch off from the
pawnbroker's shop in different directions; the first leading to the
gaming-table, the second to the gin-palace; and then those paths are
carried onwards, past those half-way houses of destruction, and converge
to one point, at which they meet at last, and whose name is Ruin.

Two working men have been seen standing at the corner of a street,
whispering together: at length one has taken off his coat, gone to the
pawnbroker's, come out with the proceeds, and accompanied the other to
the nearest gin-shop, where they have remained until all the money
raised upon the garment was expended. Again, during the absence from
home of the hard-working mechanic, his intemperate wife has collected
together their few necessaries, carried them to the pawnbroker's, and
spent the few shillings, thus procured, on gin. The thief, when he has
picked a pocket of a watch, finds a ready means of disposing of it at
the pawnbroker's. Hundreds of working-men pledge their Sunday garments
regularly every Monday morning, and redeem them again on Saturday night.

Are pawnbrokers' shops a necessary evil? To some extent they are. They
afford assistance to those whom some pressing urgence suddenly
overtakes, or who are temporarily out of work. But are not the
facilities which they thus present to all classes liable to an abuse
more than commensurate with this occasional advantage? Decidedly. They
supply a ready means for drink to those who would hesitate before they
sold their little property out-and-out; for every one who pawns, under
such circumstances, entertains the hope and intention of redeeming the
articles again. The enormous interest charged by pawnbrokers crushes and
effectually ruins the poor. We will suppose that a mechanic pledges his
best clothes every Monday morning, and redeems them every Saturday night
for wear on the Sabbath: we will presume that the pawnbroker lends him
one pound each time:--they will thus be in pawn 313 days in each year,
for which year he will pay 3_s._ 8_d._ interest, and 4_s._ 4_d._ for
duplicates--making a total of 8_s._ Thus he pays 8_s._ for the use of
his own clothes for 52 days!

If the government were really a paternal one--if it had the welfare of
the industrious community at heart, it would take the system of lending
money upon deposits under its own supervision, and establish
institutions similar to the Mont de Piété in France. Correctly managed,
demanding a small interest upon loans, such institutions would become a
blessing:--now the shops of pawnbrokers are an evil and a curse!

Sir Rupert Harborough entered the pawnbroker's shop by the front door,
while Mr. Chichester awaited him in the Lowther Arcade. The baronet was
well known in that establishment; and he accordingly entered into a
friendly and familiar chat with one of the young men behind the counter.

"That is a very handsome painting," said Sir Rupert, pointing to one
suspended to the wall.

"Yes, sir. It was pledged fifteen months ago for seven pounds, by a
young nobleman who had received it along with fifty pounds in cash the
same morning by way of discount for a thousand pound bill."

"And what do you expect for it?"

"Eighty guineas," answered the young man coolly. "But here is one much
finer than that," continued the pawnbroker's assistant, turning towards
another painting. "That expired a few days ago. It was only pledged for
thirty guineas."

"And how much have you the conscience to ask for it?"

"One hundred and twenty," whispered the young man. "There is something
peculiar connected with that picture. It belonged to an upholsterer who
was once immensely rich, but who was ruined by giving credit to the Duke
of York."

"To the Duke of York--eh?"

"Oh! yes, sir: we have received in pledge the goods of many, many
tradesmen who were once very wealthy, but who have been reduced to
absolute beggary--starvation--by his late Royal Highness. We call the
pillar in Saint James's Park the COLUMN OF INFAMY."

"Well, it was too bad not to pay his debts before they built that
monument," said the baronet carelessly. "But, come--give me a cool six
hundred for these things."

"What! the diamonds again?" exclaimed the assistant.

"Oh! yes--they come and go, like good and bad fortune--'pon my honour!"
said Sir Rupert.

"Like the jewels of many others at the West-End," added the assistant;
and, having made out the duplicates, he handed Sir Rupert over the sum
required.

On the following morning the baronet paid Mr. Greenwood the six hundred
pounds, and gave a new bill for a thousand at four months, for which the
capitalist was generous enough not to charge him any interest.

There was nothing in the baronet's conduct to create a suspicion in Mr.
Greenwood's mind that his intrigue with Lady Cecilia was detected; but
when the transaction was completed, Sir Rupert hastened to consult with
his friend Chichester upon some plan for obtaining positive evidence of
that amour.




CHAPTER LXXXI.

THE MYSTERIOUS INSTRUCTIONS.


At the expiration of ten days from the mysterious accouchement of Ellen
Monroe, Richard Markham returned home.

It was late at night when he alighted at his dwelling; but, as he had
written two days previously to say when his arrival might be expected,
Mr. Monroe and Whittingham were sitting up to receive him.

Richard's countenance was mournful; and he wore a black crape round his
hat.

"You have lost a kind friend, Richard," said Mr. Monroe. "Your hasty
letter acquainted us with the fact of Mr. Armstrong's death; but you
gave us no details connected with that event."

"I will now tell you all that has occurred," said Richard. "You need not
leave the room, Whittingham: you knew Mr. Armstrong, and will be, no
doubt, interested in the particulars of his last moments."

"I knowed him for a staunched and consisting man in his demmycratical
opinions," answered Whittingham; "and what's more comportant, he thought
well of you, Master Richard."

"He was an excellent man!" observed Markham, wiping away a tear.

"Worth a thousand Ilchesters, and ten thousand wulgarians which calls
butlers _tulips_," added Whittingham, dogmatically.

"I will tell you the particulars of his death," continued Richard, after
a pause. "You remember that I received a letter from Mr. Armstrong,
written in a hurried manner, and desiring me to repair to him in
Boulogne, where he was detained by an accident which, he feared, might
proved fatal. I posted to Dover, which town I reached at about five in
the evening; and I found that no packet would leave for France until the
following morning. The condition of my friend, as I judged of it by his
note, seemed too serious to allow me to delay: I accordingly hired a
vessel, and proceeded without loss of time to Boulogne, where I arrived
at eleven that same night, after a tolerably rough passage. I hurried to
the hotel at which my friend was staying, and the card of which he had
enclosed in his letter. I found him in bed, suffering from a fearful
accident caused by the overturning of the chaise in which he had arrived
at Boulogne from Paris, on his way to England. No limbs were broken: but
he had sustained internal injuries of a most serious nature. A nurse was
seated at his bed-side; and his medical attendant visited him every two
or three hours. He was delighted to see me--wept--and said frequently,
even up to the moment of his decease, 'Richard, this is very--very kind
of you.' I sate up with him all that night, in spite of his entreaties
that I would retire to rest; and from the first moment that I set my
eyes upon him in that room, I felt convinced he would never leave it
alive. I need not tell you that I did all I could to solace and render
comfortable the man who had selected me, of all his acquaintances, to
receive his last breath. I considered myself honoured by that mark of
friendship; and I moreover remembered that he had believed in my
innocence when I first told him my sad tale within the walls of Newgate.
I never left him, save for one hour, from the instant I arrived in
Boulogne until that of his death."

"Poor Master Richard," said Whittingham, surveying the young man with
affectionate admiration.

"I said that I left him for one hour," continued Markham: "that was the
evening before his death. Five days after my arrival, he called me to
his bed-side, and said, 'Richard, I feel that my hours are numbered. You
heard what my physician observed ere now; and I am not the man to delude
myself with vain and futile hope. I repeat--my moments are now numbered.
Leave me alone, Richard, for one hour; that I may commune with myself.'
This desire was sacred; and I immediately obeyed it. But I remained away
only just one hour, and then hastened back to him. He was very faint and
languid; and I saw, with much surprise, that he had been writing. I sate
down by his bed-side, and took his emaciated hand. He pressed mine, and
said in a slow and calm tone,--'Richard, I need not recall to your mind
under what circumstances we first met. I heard your tale; I knew that
you were innocent. I could read your heart. In an hour I understood all
your good qualities. I formed a friendship for you; and in the name of
that friendship, listen to the last words of a dying man.' He paused for
a few moments, and then continued thus:--'When I am no more, you will
take possession of the few effects that I have with me here. In my desk
you will find a sum sufficient to pay all the expenses incurred by my
illness and to meet the cost of my interment. I desire to be buried in
the Protestant cemetery in the neighbourhood of Boulogne: you and the
physician will attend me to my grave. The funeral must be of the most
humble description. Do not neglect this desire on my part. I have been
all my life opposed to pomp and ostentation, and shall scarcely wish any
display to mark my death.' He paused again; and I gave him some
refreshing beverage. He then proceeded:--'Beneath my pillow, Richard,
there is a paper in a sealed envelope. After my death you will open that
envelope and read what is written within it. And now I must exact from
you a solemn promise--a promise made to a dying man--a promise which I
am not ashamed to ask, and which you need not fear to give, especially
as it relates eventually to yourself. I require you to pledge yourself
most sacredly that you will obey to the very letter the directions which
are written within that envelope, and which relate to the papers that
the envelope contains.' I readily gave the promise required. He then
directed me to take the sealed packet from beneath his pillow, and
retain it safely about my person. He shortly after sank into a deep
slumber--from which he never awoke. His spirit glided imperceptibly
away!"

"Good old man!" exclaimed Whittingham, applying his snow-white
handkerchief to his eyes.

"According to the French laws," continued Richard, "interments must take
place within forty-eight hours after death. The funeral of Thomas
Armstrong was humble and unostentatious as he desired. The physician and
myself alone followed him to the tomb. I then inspected his papers; but
found no will--no instructions how his property was to be disposed of;
and yet I knew that he was possessed of ample means. Having liquidated
his debts with a portion of the money I found in his desk, and which
amounted to about a hundred pounds, I gave the remainder to an English
charity at Boulogne. And now you are no doubt anxious to know the
contents of that packet so mysteriously delivered to me. When I broke
the seal of the envelope, I found a letter addressed thus:--'_To my dear
friend Richard Markham_.' This letter was sealed. I then examined the
envelope. You shall yourselves see what was written within it."

Markham took a paper from his pocket, and handed it to Monroe, who read
its contents aloud as follows:--

     _"Richard, remember your solemn promise to a dying man; for when I
     write this, I know you will not refuse to give me that sacred
     pledge which I shall ask of you._

     _"When you are destitute of all resources--when adversity or a too
     generous heart shall have deprived you of all means of
     subsistence--and when your own exertions fail to supply your wants,
     open the enclosed letter._

     _"But should no circumstances of any kind deprive you of the little
     property which you now possess,--and should you not be plunged into
     a state of need from which your own talents or exertions cannot
     relieve you,--then shall you open this letter upon the morning of
     the 10th, of July, 1843, on which day you have told me that you are
     to meet your brother._

     _"These directions I charge you to observe faithfully and
     solemnly._

"_THOMAS ARMSTRONG._"



"How very extraordinary!" ejaculated Monroe. "Nevertheless, I have a
presentiment that these mysterious instructions intend some eventual
good to you, Richard."

"It's a fortin! a fortin! depend upon it," said the old butler.

"Upon that head it is useless to speculate," observed Richard. "I shall
obey to the very letter the directions of my late friend, be their
tendency what it may. And now that I have told you all that concerns
myself, allow me to ask how fares it with you here. Does Ellen's health
improve?"

"For the last ten days she has been confined to her bed," answered
Monroe, tears starting to his eyes.

"Confined to her bed!" cried Markham. "I hope you have had proper
medical advice?"

"I wished to call in the aid of a physician," said Monroe, "but Ellen
would not permit me. She declared that she should soon be better; she
assured me that her illness was produced only by the privations and
mental tortures which she had undergone, poor creature! previous to our
taking up our abode in your hospitable dwelling; and then Marian was so
kind and attentive, and echoed every thing which Ellen advanced, so
readily, that I suffered myself to be over-persuaded."

"You did wrong--you did wrong, Mr. Monroe," exclaimed Markham. "Your
daughter should have had medical advice; and she shall have it
to-morrow."

"She appears to be mending in health, though not in spirits," observed
Monroe. "But my dear young friend, you shall have your own way; and I
thank you sincerely for the interest you show in behalf of one who is
dear--very dear to me."

Richard pressed the hand of the old man, and retired to his chamber, to
seek that repose of which he stood so much in need after his journey.
But ere he sought his couch, he sate down and wrote the following note
to Count Alteroni, that it might be despatched to Richmond without delay
in the morning:--

     "Mr. Markham regrets to be the means of communicating news of an
     afflicting nature to Count Alteroni; nor should he intrude himself
     again upon Count Alteroni's notice, did he not feel himself urged
     by a solemn duty to do so in the present instance. Count Alteroni's
     old and esteemed friend, Thomas Armstrong, is no more. He departed
     this life four days ago, at Boulogne-sur-Mer. Mr. Markham had the
     melancholy honour of closing the eyes of a good man and true
     patriot, and of following his remains to the tomb."




CHAPTER LXXXII.

THE MEDICAL MAN.


In the morning, when Ellen awoke at about eight o'clock, the first news
she heard from Marian's lips was the return of Richard Markham.

The first sentiment which this announcement excited in the mind of the
young lady, was one of extreme joy and thankfulness that her
accouchement should have occurred so prematurely, and thus have happened
during his absence; but this feeling was succeeded by one of vague alarm
and undefined dread, lest by some means or other her secret should
transpire.

This fear she expressed to Marian.

"No, Miss--that is impossible," said the faithful attendant. "The child
is provided for; and the surgeon is totally ignorant of the house to
which he was brought the night the poor infant was born. How could Mr.
Markham discover your secret?"

"It is perhaps my conscience, Marian, that alarms me," returned Ellen;
"but I confess that I tremble. Do you think that Mr. Wentworth is to be
relied upon, even if he should suspect or should ever discover--"

"Mr. Greenwood has purchased his silence, Miss. Do not be down-hearted.
I declare you are quite white in the face--and you seem to tremble so,
the bed shakes. Pray--dear Miss--don't give way to these idle alarms!"

"I shall be more composed presently, Marian."

"And I will just step down stairs and get up your breakfast."

When Ellen was alone, she buried her face in the pillow and wept
bitterly; and from time to time her voice, almost choked with sobs, gave
utterance to the words--"My child! my child!"

Oh! how happy would she have been, could she have proclaimed herself a
mother without shame, and have spoken of her child to her father and her
friend without a blush.

In a few minutes Marian returned to the room; and Ellen hastened to
assume an air of composure. She wiped away her tears, and sate up in the
bed, supported by pillows--for she was yet very weak and sickly--to
partake of some refreshment.

"Mr. Markham is up and has already gone out," said Marian, as she
attended upon her lovely young patient. "He left word with Whittingham
to tell me that he should come up, and see you on his return in half an
hour."

"I would that this first interview were over, Marian," exclaimed Ellen.

"So you said, Miss, in the morning after your accouchement, when your
father was coming up to see you; and yet all passed off well enough."

"Yes--but I felt that I blushed, and then grew deadly pale again, at
least ten times in a minute," observed Ellen.

Marian said all she could to re-assure the young mother; and when the
invalid had partaken of some tea, the kind-hearted servant left her, in
order to attend to her own domestic duties down stairs.

Ellen than fell into a mournful reverie, during which she reviewed all
the events of the last two years and a half of her life. She pondered
upon the hideous poverty in which she and her father had been plunged in
the court leading out of Golden Lane; she retrospected upon the strange
services she had rendered the statuary, the artist, the sculptor, and
the photographer; she thought of the old hag who had induced her to
enter upon that career;--and then she fixed her thoughts upon Greenwood
and her child.

She was thus mentally occupied when she heard footsteps ascending the
staircase; and immediately afterwards some one knocked at her door.

In a faint voice she said, "Come in."

The door opened, and Richard Markham entered the apartment; but, as he
crossed the threshold, he turned and said to some one who remained upon
the landing, "Have the kindness to wait here one moment."

He then advanced towards the bed, and took the young lady's thin white
hand.

"Ellen," he exclaimed, "you have been very ill."

"Yes--very ill, Richard," returned the invalid, casting down her eyes;
"but I am better--oh! much, very much better now; and, in a day or two,
shall be quite well."

"And yet you are very pale, and sadly altered," said Markham.

"I can assure you that I am recovering fast. Indeed, I should have risen
to-day; but Marian persuaded me to keep my bed a short time longer."

"And you have had no medical advice, Ellen. I told your father that he
had done wrong--"

"Oh! no, Richard," interrupted Ellen eagerly; "he was anxious to call in
the aid of a physician; but I was not so ill as he thought."

"Not ill!" ejaculated Markham. "You must have been very--very ill."

"But Marian was so kind to me."

"No doubt! Nevertheless I have no confidence in the nostrums and
prescriptions of old servants and nurses; and human existence is too
serious a thing to be tampered with."

"I assure you, Richard, that Marian has treated me most judiciously; and
I am now very nearly quite well."

"Ah! Ellen," cried Markham, "I can read your heart!"

"You, Richard!" exclaimed the young lady, with a cold shudder that
seemed to terminate in a death-chill at the heart.

"Yes," continued Markham, his voice assuming a tone of melancholy
interest; "I can well appreciate your motives in combating the desire of
your father to procure medical aid. You were afraid of burdening me with
an expense which you feared my restricted means would not permit me to
afford;--Oh! I understand your good feeling! But this was wrong, Ellen;
for I did not invite you to my house to deny to either yourself or
father the common attentions which I would bestow upon a stranger who
fell sick under my roof. No--thank God! I have yet enough left to meet
casualties like these."

"Ah! Richard, how kind--how generous you are," said Ellen; "but I am now
really much better;--and to-morrow--to-morrow I shall be quite well."

"No--Ellen, you are very far from well," returned Markham; "but you
shall be well soon. I have been myself this morning to procure you
proper advice."

"Advice?" repeated Ellen, mechanically.

"Yes: there is a medical gentleman now waiting to see you."

With these words Richard hastened to the door, and said, "Miss Monroe,
sir, is now ready to receive you. I will leave you with her."

The medical man then entered the chamber; and Markham immediately
retired.

The votary of Æsculapius was a man of apparently five-and-twenty years
of age--pale, but good-looking, with light hair, and a somewhat
melancholy expression of countenance. He was attired in deep black. His
manners were soft and pleasing; but his voice was mournful; and his
utterance slow, precise, and solemn.

Approaching the couch, he took the hand of the invalid, and, placing his
fingers upon the pulse, said, "How long have you been ill, Miss?"

"Oh! sir--I am not ill now--I am nearly well--I shall rise
presently--the fresh air will do me good," exclaimed Ellen, speaking
with a rapidity, and almost an incoherence, which somewhat surprised the
medical man.

"No, Miss," he said calmly, after a pause, "you cannot leave your bed
yet: you are in a state of fever. How long have you been confined to
your couch?"

"How long? Oh! only a few days--but, I repeat, I am better now."

"How many days, Miss?" asked the medical man.

"Ten or twelve, sir; and, therefore, you see that I have kept my bed
long enough."

"What do you feel?" demanded the surgeon, seating himself by the side of
the invalid with the air of a man who is determined to obtain answers to
his questions.

"I did feel unwell a few days ago, sir," said Ellen; "but now--oh! now I
am quite recovered."

"Perhaps, miss, you will allow me to be the judge of that. You are very
feverish--your pulse is rapid. Have you been taking any medicine?"

"No--that is, a little cooling medicine which the servant who attends
upon me purchased. But why all these questions, since I shall soon be
well?"

"Pardon me, Miss: you must have the kindness to answer all my queries.
If, however, you would prefer any other medical adviser, I will at once
acquaint Mr. Markham with your desire, and will relieve you of my
presence."

"No, sir--as well you as another," cried Ellen, scarcely knowing what
she said, and shrinking beneath the glance of mingled curiosity and
surprise which the surgeon cast upon her.

"During your illness were you at all delirious?" inquired the medical
adviser.

"Oh! no--I have not been so ill as you are led to suppose. All I require
is repose--rest--tranquillity----"

"And professional aid," added the surgeon. "Now, I beg of you, Miss
Monroe, to tell me without reserve what you feel. How did your illness
commence?"

"Ah! sir, I scarcely know," replied Ellen. "I have experienced great
mental affliction; and that operated upon my constitution, I suppose."

"And you say that you have been confined to your bed nearly a
fortnight?"

"Oh! no--not so long as that," said Ellen fearful of confirming the
surgeon's impression that she had been very ill, and consequently stood
greatly in need of professional assistance: "not so long as that! Ten
days exactly."

"Ten days!" repeated the medical man, as if struck by the coincidence of
this statement with something which at that moment occurred to his
memory; then glancing rapidly round the room, he started from his chair,
and said, "Ten days ago, Miss Monroe! And at what hour were you taken
ill?"

"At what hour?" repeated the unhappy young lady, who trembled for her
secret.

"Yes--at what hour?" demanded the surgeon, the slow solemnity of his
tone changing to a strange rapidity of utterance: "was it not a little
before midnight?"

"Sir--what do you mean? why do you question me thus?"

"On that night," continued the surgeon, gazing fixedly upon Ellen's
countenance, "a man with his eyes blind-folded--"

"His eyes blindfolded?" repeated Ellen mechanically, while a fearful
shudder passed through her frame.

"Led by a servant wearing a black veil--"

"A black veil?"

"Entered this room--"

"Ah! my God--spare me!"

"And delivered a lady of a male child."

"How do you know it, sir? who told you?"

"That man was myself!" cried the surgeon emphatically.

"Oh! kill me--kill me!" exclaimed Ellen; and covering her face with her
hands, she burst into an agony of tears and heart-wrung sobs.

"Yes," continued the surgeon, pacing the room, and glancing rapidly on
all sides: "there is the chest of drawers against which I dashed my
foot--here stood the bed--here the table--I sate down in this chair--Oh!
now I remember all!"

And for some moments he walked up and down the room in profound silence.

Suddenly Ellen started up to a sitting posture in the bed, and
exclaimed, "My child, sir? Tell me--have you taken care of my child?"

"Yes--Miss--Madam," replied Mr. Wentworth; "the little boy thrives well,
although deprived of his natural nourishment."

"Thank you, sir--thank you at least for that assurance," said Ellen.
"Oh! sir--you cannot understand how deeply a mother feels to be
separated from her child!"

"Poor girl," said the surgeon, in a compassionate tone; "you have then
suffered very much?"

"God alone knows what I have endured for months past, mentally and
bodily!" cried Ellen, clasping her hands together. "And now you know
all, sir--will you betray me? say, sir--will you betray me?"

Mr. Wentworth appeared to reflect deeply for some moments.

Ellen awaited his reply in a state of the most agonising suspense.

"Miss Monroe," at length said Mr. Wentworth, speaking in his usual
solemn and grave tone, "you know your own affairs better than I; but
would it not be well to confide in those friends by whom you are
surrounded?"

"I would die first--die by my own hand!" answered Ellen emphatically.
"If you tell me that you will betray me--if you leave this room to
communicate my secret to Mr. Markham, who brought you hither, or to my
father--I will not hesitate a moment--I will throw myself from the
window--"

"Calm yourself, Miss Monroe. Your secret is safe in my hands."

"Oh! thank you, sir--a thousand times I thank you," exclaimed Ellen.
"There are circumstances which render it necessary that this secret
should not transpire--circumstances, not altogether connected with my
own shame, which I cannot, dare not reveal to you."

"Enough, Miss Monroe--I do not seek to penetrate into those mysteries.
Your child is with me--I will be a father to him!"

"And heaven will bless you!" said Ellen pressing the surgeon's hand with
the warmth of the most fervent gratitude.

"In time you will be able to call at my house," observed Mr. Wentworth;
"and you can see your son--you can watch his growth--mark his
progress--"

"How kind you are! Oh! now I am rejoiced that you know all!"

"And no one will ever suspect the real motive of your visits," continued
the surgeon. "Mrs. Wentworth shall call upon you in a few days; and thus
an acquaintance may be commenced. With reference to my visit of this
morning, I shall inform Mr. Markham that you will be convalescent in a
few days."

Ellen once more expressed her sincere and heartfelt thanks to the
surgeon, who shortly took his leave of her, after strictly recommending
her to take the medicaments which he should send in the course of the
day.

And now the recovery of the young invalid progressed rapidly; and her
own mind, relieved of many sources of anxiety and alarm, aided nature in
conducting her to convalescence; for she longed to behold and caress her
child!




CHAPTER LXXXIII.

THE BLACK CHAMBER AGAIN.


A few days after the incidents just narrated, the following letters were
opened in the Black Chamber of the General Post-Office.

The first was from the Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs of
Castelcicala to the representative of that state at the British court:--

"_Montoni, Castelcicala._

     "The undersigned is desired by his lordship the Marquis of Gerrano,
     Minister of Foreign Affairs, to inform your excellency that the
     information you forwarded relative to the Englishwoman Eliza
     Sydney, has failed to produce the desired effect. Your excellency
     stated that Mrs. Arlington, the correspondent of the said Eliza
     Sydney, was the mistress of the Earl of Warrington; and that Eliza
     Sydney herself had been confined for two years in a criminal prison
     in England. Your excellency moreover forwarded the English
     newspapers of the time, containing a full and detailed report of
     her crime and trial. These statements have failed to produce any
     effect in a certain quarter, in consequence of the infatuation of a
     high personage in respect to this Eliza Sydney, and the apparent
     frankness (as the Marquis of Gerrano has learnt) with which she
     avowed the entire history of her past life to the high personage
     alluded to. It is now of the greatest consequence that your
     excellency should ascertain whether Eliza Sydney's conduct has ever
     been tainted with incontinence; whether, in a word, she has not
     indulged in immoral and vicious courses. The result of your
     excellency's inquiries must be forwarded by courier without delay;
     as you will perceive, by the inclosed copy of a ducal ordinance
     issued this morning, that the infatuation above alluded to grows to
     a very dangerous point.

     "The undersigned avails himself of this opportunity to state that
     the Marquis of Gerrano is greatly afflicted at the perverse and
     obstinate conduct of the Prince Alberto, in steadily refusing the
     offers of a pension for life made by the government of his reigning
     Highness through your excellency. The Marquis of Gerrano desires
     your Excellency to redouble your assiduity in inducing the prince
     to accept the terms proposed, for which purpose a farther delay of
     three months will be granted; and should his reply then continue
     unfavourable, the government of his Highness will adopt measures to
     ensure the succession to the ducal throne of Castelcicala to a
     Neapolitan Prince.

     "The undersigned renews his expressions of perfect consideration
     toward your excellency.

"BARON RUPERTO,
"Under Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.

"_July 13, 1839._"



[Illustration]

The following is a copy of the ducal ordinance to which reference was
made in the above letter:--

     "ANGELO III., BY THE GRACE OF GOD, GRAND
      DUKE OF CASTELCICALA,

     "To all present and to come, Greeting:

     "We have ordered and do order that which follows:--

     "I. The style and title of Marchioness of Ziani are conferred upon
     the Signora Eliza Sydney.

     "II. A pension of one thousand ducats annually shall be paid to the
     Marchioness of Ziani from the public treasury.

     "III. Our Minister Secretary of State for the Department of the
     Interior will execute the first article of this ordinance; and our
     Minister Secretary of State for the Department of Finance will
     execute the second article.

"_By the Grand Duke_, ANGELO III.

"MARQUIS OF VINCENZA,
"Minister of the Interior.

"COUNT OF MARCOTTI,
"Minister of Finance.

"_July 13, 1839._"



The next letter, read in the Black Chamber upon this occasion, ran as
follows:--

"_Montoni, Castelcicala._

     "I received your charming letters, my dearest Diana, and return you
     my most sincere thanks for the kind expressions of love and
     friendship which they contain, and for the advice which you proffer
     me. You moreover inform me that you have shown my letters of March,
     April, and May, to the Earl of Warrington; and that his lordship
     approves of the cautious manner in which I have acted, and
     recommends me to accept the honourable offer of marriage made to me
     by his Highness Angelo III. I assured you that his highness never
     once insulted me by hinting at the possibility of a connexion upon
     any other terms than those of marriage; and when he proposed a
     morganatic union, it was merely in accordance with the practice of
     many European sovereigns. I however expressed myself firmly to his
     serene highness upon this head, stating that, although a morganatic
     marriage was perfectly valid so far as the religious ceremonies
     went, still it was not strictly legal, and would not please those
     who wished me well in England.

     "In my last letter I informed you that some one had represented to
     the Grand Duke my misfortunes in England. Happily this announcement
     failed to produce any change in his conduct or views with regard to
     me, as I had previously made him acquainted with all those
     particulars, of my own accord.

     "In a word, my dearest Diana, his Serene Highness has offered me
     his hand,--offered to raise me to a seat by his side on the ducal
     throne,--offered to make me his bride in sight of the world. Could
     I refuse? or why should I? You ask me if I can love his Serene
     Highness? Ah! how can I help revering one who shows such love for
     me? And then, human nature has its weak points; and rank, honour,
     wealth, and distinction cannot fail to attract even one naturally
     so retiring as myself. Oh! how pleasant will it be to possess
     riches and influence for the mere purpose of doing good!

     "Well, then--all is decided: I am to be Grand Duchess of
     Castelcicala. The marriage is to take place in six weeks from the
     present date. The daughters of General Grachia are to be my
     bridesmaids. As a preliminary step towards this high honour, the
     Grand Duke has conferred upon me a title and a pension. To the
     world I am now the Marchioness of Ziani: to you, Diana, I am still,
     and always shall be--Eliza Sydney.

     "I was surprised to learn from you that the villain Montague
     Greenwood has succeeded in obtaining a seat in the English
     Parliament. Ever since I have had power and wealth in the
     prospective, I have meditated upon the best means of protecting
     others from that villany which he designed against me, but which
     providence so signally frustrated. At length I thought of a plan,
     and despatched a trusty person to England a few days ago to execute
     it. This person has instructions from me to call upon you on his
     arrival in England, and communicate to you my scheme. He is also
     the bearer of a trifling token of my sincere friendship and
     gratitude towards you, dear Diana, and which little token I hope
     you will accept for my sake.

     "I need scarcely say that you will oblige me by tendering my best
     thanks to the Earl of Warrington for the kind advice he sent me
     through you, and renew to him the expression of my eternal
     gratitude for all he has done for me.

     "You shall hear again shortly from your devoted and attached

"ELIZA SYDNEY.

     "_July 13, 1839._"

The third letter read upon this occasion, was addressed to Count
Alteroni, Richmond, and ran in the following manner:--

"_Montoni, Castelcicala_,
"_July 13, 1839._

     "Things, my lord, are growing towards a crisis in this country. No.
     29 is literally infatuated with No. 1. He has this morning created
     her a marchioness: and in a month or six weeks he will, it is said,
     espouse her. There is no possibility of preventing this, No. 29
     being quite despotic; and now his foolish ministers see their
     mistake in having maintained him in his absolutism, and refused the
     country a constitution."

"Number 29, you will understand," interrupted the Examiner, "evidently
means the Grand Duke; and No. 1 represents Eliza Sidney. Proceed."

The clerk who read the letter continued as follows:--

     "The ministers know not what to do. They are at their wits' end. I
     know for a fact that they obtained from England certain information
     relative to No. 1, which proved that she had been in a criminal
     gaol; but No. 29 made no account of it. No. 1 is very beautiful;
     fascinating in manners; somewhat shy and reserved; and yet amiable.
     She is also accomplished. When she first came to Montoni she spoke
     the Italian language imperfectly: she now speaks it fluently;--and
     this knowledge she has acquired in a few months. There can be no
     doubt that she will exercise an immense influence over No. 29, if
     she choose to make use of it. And who knows what a woman, suddenly
     rising from private life to the first ducal throne in the world,
     may do? She does not, however, seem to be ambitious. Nevertheless,
     something ought to be done. If this marriage take place, you are
     well aware that issue may follow, for No. 1 is young; and in that
     case * * * * I really think that if your lordship were to land
     suddenly upon the Castelcicalan coast, without delay, this union
     might be prevented. I hinted to your lordship in my last letter the
     immense ascendancy gained by No. 1 over No. 29: your lordship's
     reply astonished me. Your lordship states that if No. 29 choose to
     marry according to his fancy, no human power has a right to control
     him. With due deference, is not this carrying liberality of opinion
     a little too far? Your lordship expresses a determination to trust
     to the issue of events, and do nothing that may stand the chance of
     plunging the country into a civil war. These self-denying
     sentiments are no doubt highly patriotic and noble;--but is it in
     human nature to resign without a struggle * * * * In any case I am
     your lordship's faithful servant, and am anxious only to execute
     your lordship's wishes. I therefore await your lordship's
     instructions.

"NUMBER 17."



"You have taken copies of these letters?" said the Examiner.

"Yes, sir," replied the clerk thus addressed.

"Then let them be immediately conveyed to the office of the Secretary of
State for Foreign Affairs, as their contents are highly important."

"Yes, sir."

And this order was forthwith obeyed.




CHAPTER LXXXIV.

THE SECOND EXAMINATION.--COUNT ALTERONI.


Forty-two days after the appearance of Mr. Tomlinson's name in the
_Gazette_, among the category of Bankrupts, the second examination of
this gentleman took place at the Bankruptcy Court in Basinghall Street.

In an arm-chair, behind a desk raised upon a species of dais, sate the
commissioner, embellished with a wig and gown. Close under the desk was
placed the registrar, also with wig and gown; and two or three
barristers, who were retained in the case, were similarly adorned. In a
sort of pew on the right of the commissioner sate the official assignee,
with a pile of books and papers before him. About two hundred persons
thronged the room--most of whom, by their sullen and sinister looks,
might be easily recognised as the creditors of the bankrupt. At a
distance from the box in which witnesses were placed during examination,
stood Count Alteroni, with folded arms and severe countenance.

A few moments before eleven o'clock a bustle was heard near the door;
and a whisper of "Here's the trade assignee," ran through the crowd.

Mr. Greenwood entered the court with a patronising smile upon his
countenance, and an easy kind of gait, as if he were by no means
dissatisfied with himself. He was dressed in the most elegant manner;
and his left hand played negligently, as usual, with the costly gold
chain that festooned over his waistcoat.

As he passed through the crowd of his friend's creditors, many of whom
were known to him, he addressed a few words in an off-hand and
patronising manner to those whom he recognised at the moment.

"Fine day, Mr. Styles. How are Mrs. Styles and those dear children?"
(Mr. Styles was an old batchelor.)--"Ah! Mr. Milksop, how are you? quite
delighted to see you! Why, upon my word, you are getting quite stout."
(Poor Mr. Milksop was as thin as a lath.) "But every thing prospers
with you, I suppose!--Well, Mr. Chivers, how do _you_ do? Any thing new
on the Stock-Exchange? I believe you don't suffer much by this business
of Tomlinson's, do you?"

"Only three thousand--that's all!" returned Mr. Chivers, with a smile
which would have turned new milk sour.

"Oh! a mere song!" exclaimed Greenwood, tossing up his head. "Well,
Vokes, are you here? you don't mean to say that you're wasting your time
in this manner, eh?--Ah! Tullett, my good friend--delighted to see you.
Why, how well you do look, to be sure!" (Mr. Tullett was in a rapid
decline; and he "grinned horribly a ghastly smile" at this salutation.)

In this manner did Mr. Greenwood work his way through the crowd, until
he reached the desk of the official assignee, by the side of whom he
took a seat.

"Where's the bankrupt?" exclaimed the clerk of the court in a loud and
imperious tone of voice, while Mr. Greenwood bestowed one of his
patronising smiles upon the Commissioner.

"Here," replied Tomlinson; and he stood forward close by the
witness-box.

He was pale and altered; and the marks of care and anxiety were visible
upon his countenance. The glance he cast around him, as he took his
stand in the presence of the Commissioner, was hurried and fearful:--he
almost dreaded that the face of Michael Martin would meet his eyes as he
thus hastily scanned the crowd by whom he was surrounded. But his alarm
was without foundation: the old cashier was not there.

The examination of the bankrupt then commenced.

In answer to the questions put to him, he stated that had he delivered
in to the assignees as full and complete a statement of his affairs as
the loss of his books (which had been abstracted by the cashier at the
time of the robbery) would permit.

Mr. Greenwood observed that the accounts were highly satisfactory, and
would doubtless please every creditor present. It was, however,
unfortunate that the estate would not pay a single farthing in the
pound.

"Very unfortunate indeed," growled a creditor.

"I would much rather have heard that there was a dividend, than that the
accounts are so very satisfactory," murmured another.

"Mr. Tomlinson's creditors cannot complain of him, your Honour," said
Mr. Greenwood to the Commissioner: "on the contrary, they have every
reason to be perfectly satisfied with him. He has given up every
thing--"

"Why, there was nothing left to give up!" ejaculated Mr. Vokes.

"Nothing left to give up!" cried Mr. Greenwood, casting a stern glance
upon the unfortunate creditor; "permit me, sir, as the trade-assignee
duly chosen at the last meeting--permit me, sir, to inform you that
there were the desks, counters, stools, and various fixtures of the
bank--all of which Mr. Tomlinson surrendered in the most honourable and
straightforward manner, and which have realized a hundred and eighty-one
pounds, seventeen shillings, and sixpence, for the benefit of the
estate."

"Well--and what has become of that sum?" demanded Mr. Vokes.

"Consumed by the expenses of the _fiat_," answered Mr. Greenwood coolly.
"But, as I was observing, your Honour, when I was interrupted--interrupted
in a most indecent manner--the position of Mr. Tomlinson is a most
honourable one--"

"Perhaps it is even enviable," said the consumptive creditor, drily.

"And I for one," added Mr. Greenwood, "shall certainly sign his
certificate."

"Have no tidings been heard of the cashier who absconded?" inquired the
Commissioner.

"None, sir," answered the official assignee and Mr. Greenwood
simultaneously.

"What has become of the bankrupt's furniture at his private residence?"
demanded a creditor.

"His landlord issued a distress for a year's rent the moment the bank
stopped," answered Greenwood. "The amount due to this most hard-hearted
and unfeeling landlord is a hundred and twenty pounds, and the furniture
would not fetch more at an auction. I therefore, with the full
concurrence of the official assignee, allowed that very harsh man to
keep the goods."

A barrister, who had been retained for one of the creditors, then
proceeded to examine Mr. Tomlinson.

"You allege that about ninety-four thousand pounds were abstracted from
the bank by the fugitive cashier?"

"I do--or as nearly as I can guess."

"And yet, by this balance-sheet, I perceive that your liabilities are
two hundred thousand pounds. Were you not insolvent when the robbery was
perpetrated?"

"It would appear so, certainly."

"Then how do you account for that immense deficiency?"

"I can account for it in no other manner than by presuming that my
cashier had carried on a systematic mode of plunder for some years past;
but as I placed implicit reliance on him, I was never led to an
investigation of my actual position."

"Do you mean to say that your cashier embezzled many thousand pounds
every year?"

"I am afraid that such was the fact."

The barrister asked no farther questions.

Another opposing counsel interrogated the bankrupt relative to his
affairs; but Tomlinson's replies were given in a manner which afforded
no scope for suspicion.

Ah! none divined how much it cost that unhappy man thus to heap shame
and infamy upon the head of a faithful old clerk, who had never wronged
him of a shilling!

The case terminated by the declaration of the commissioner that the
bankrupt had passed his second examination.

Tomlinson was glad to escape from the frightful ordeal to which his
feelings had been subjected for two mortal hours; and, while he hurried
home to conceal his emotions from every eye, and meditate upon his
condition in private, Mr. Greenwood busied himself in obtaining
signatures for his certificate. This was an easy matter to a man of the
financier's powers of persuasion; and that very afternoon the names of
four-fifths of the bankrupt's creditors were attached to the parchment
which was to relieve him of all past embarrassments.

When Greenwood took the certificate to Tomlinson in the evening, he
said, "My dear fellow, you will soon be a new man. In one-and-twenty
days this document will have passed the Lord Chancellor and the Court of
Review, and be duly registered in Basinghall Street. I will then lend
you a thousand pounds, _at only twenty per cent._, to start you as a
stock-broker. You see how well I have managed your business. You have
passed through the Court--and you have kept your furniture."

"Which I would have given up to my creditors, had you permitted me,"
said Tomlinson sorrowfully.

"Nonsense, my dear fellow! Never give away what you can keep by a little
manoeuvring. Your landlord can now withdraw his friendly seizure, and
all will be well."

"Nothing will render me happy until I find out that poor old man who has
so nobly, so generously sacrificed himself for me," observed Tomlinson
in a tone of deep dejection. "What can have become of him?"

"Oh! do not bother yourself about him," cried Greenwood impatiently. "He
will turn up one of these days; and then you can remunerate him
handsomely."

"Ah! that would indeed be a moment of supreme happiness for me!"
ejaculated Tomlinson.

"Yes," continued Greenwood, musing: "a five-pound note will recompense
the old fellow well for his conduct."

"A five-pound note!" repeated Tomlinson. "Can you be in earnest,
Greenwood?"

"Well, if you think it is too much, give him a couple of sovereigns,"
said Greenwood, coolly. "But I must take leave of you now: I am
compelled to devote a couple of hours this evening to the interests of
that free and enlightened body whom I have the honour to represent in
parliament. So, adieu, Tomlinson; and when your certificate is
registered, come to me."

Mr. Greenwood then took his departure from the bankrupt's abode.

"The heartless villain!" cried Tomlinson, when the door had closed
behind the financier; then, after a long pause, he added, "and yet his
ingenuity has saved me from eternal degradation and shame!"

In the mean time Count Alteroni returned to his dwelling at Richmond. He
reached home at about five o'clock in the evening, and found his wife
and daughter anxiously awaiting his arrival. The moment he entered the
drawing-room, the ladies cast a timid and yet inquiring glance towards
him; and their hearts sank within them when their eyes caught sight of
his severe and sombre expression of countenance.

"My dear wife--my beloved daughter," he said, advancing towards them,
and taking the hand of each in his own, "my worst fears are confirmed.
The bank will not pay one sixpence of dividend: Greenwood has contrived
to get his fellow-conspirator clear of the tribunal; and the creditors
have not a hope left. It was with the greatest difficulty that I could
so far master my feelings as to avoid an interference in those most
iniquitous proceedings. But my position--my rank forbade me from
attempting aught to expose those villains. And now, my dear wife--now,
my charming Isabella--prepare yourselves to hear the worst. We are
ruined!"

"Ruined!" exclaimed both the countess and her daughter at the same
moment.

"Oh! no," added Isabella: "we have many friends, my dear father."

"To whom I will not apply," said the count, proudly. "No--we must
wrestle with our evil fortunes, and trust to the advent of better times.
At present every thing seems to conspire to crush us; and should that
contemplated marriage take place in Castelcicala----"

"My dearest husband," interrupted the countess, "do not aggravate
present griefs by the apprehension of that which as yet only menace us.
It is scarcely possible that the Grand Duke will perpetrate such a
folly."

"And that title of Marchioness of Ziani--and that pension,--do they not
speak volumes?" cried the count bitterly. "Oh! there are moments when I
feel inclined to listen to the representations of those faithful friends
in my own country with whom I correspond, and who are ever counselling
me to----"

"Ah! my dearest father," exclaimed Isabella, bursting into tears; "would
you endanger that life which is so precious to my mother and myself?
would you plunge your native land in the horrors of a civil war? Oh! let
us dare all our present ills with firmness and resolution; and if there
be a guardian Providence--as I devoutly believe--he will not allow us to
be persecuted for ever!"

"Noble girl!" cried the count; "you teach me my duty;"--and he embraced
his lovely daughter with the utmost warmth and tenderness.

"Yes," said the countess, fondly pressing her husband's hand, "we are
crushed only for a time. Our course is now clear:--we must give up our
present establishment; and--as we have, thank God! no debts----"

"Ah! it is that which cuts me to the very soul!" interrupted the count.
"You are not yet acquainted with the extent of our misfortunes. A brave
fellow countryman of mine, who supported me in all the plans which I
endeavoured to carry out for the welfare of the Castelcicalans, and who
was driven into exile on my account, was imprisoned in London a few
months ago for a considerable sum of money. I could not leave him to
perish in a gaol. I became answerable for him--and the creditor is now
pressing me for the payment of the debt."

"And what is the amount of this liability?" inquired the countess,
hastily.

"Eighteen hundred pounds," was the reply.

"Do not suffer that to annoy you, my dearest father," exclaimed
Isabella. "My jewellery and superfluous wardrobe will produce----"

"Alas! my dearest child," interrupted the count, "all that we possess
would not realize any thing like that sum. But, happen what will, our
first step must be to give up this furnished mansion, and retire to a
more humble dwelling. That will not cost us many pangs. We shall still
be together; and our love for each other constitutes our greatest
happiness."

"Yes, my dearest husband," said the countess; "even a prison should not
separate us."

"Where my beloved father is--where my parents are--there am I happy,"
murmured Isabella, the pearly tears trickling down her cheeks.

Oh! in that hour of his sorrow, how sweet--how sweet upon the ears of
that noble Italian sounded the words, "husband" and "father," which,
coupled with tender syllables of consolation, came from the lips of the
two affectionate beings who clung to him so fondly. The lovely
countenance of his daughter--so beautiful, that it seemed rather to
belong to the ethereal inhabitants of heaven than to a mortal denizen of
earth--was upturned to him; and her large black eyes, shining through
her tears, beamed with an ineffable expression of tenderness and filial
love.

Charming, charming Isabella--how ravishing, how enchanting wast thou at
that moment when thou didst offer sweet consolation to thy father! The
roses dyed thy cheeks beneath the delicate tinge of transparent bistre
which proclaimed thee a daughter of the sunny south;--thy moist red lips
apart, disclosed thy teeth white as the orient pearl;--thy young bosom
heaved beneath the gauze which veiled it;--purity sat upon thy lofty
brow, like a diadem which innocence confers upon its elect! Very
beautiful wast thou, Isabella--charming exotic flower from the sweet
Italian clime!

"Yes, my beloved wife--my darling daughter," said the count; "we are
ruined by my mad confidence in that villain Greenwood. You know that
there is one means by which I could obtain wealth and release us from
this cruel embarrassment. But never would either of you wish to see me
sell my claims and resign my patriotism for gold! No--dearest partakers
of my sad destinies, that may not be! I shall ever reject the offers of
my persecutors with scorn; and until fortune may choose to smile upon
us, we must learn to support her frowns with resignation."

"That same Almighty power which afflicts and chastises, can also restore
gladness, and multiply blessings," said Isabella, solemnly.

A servant now entered the room to announce that dinner was served in
another apartment.

Assuming a cheerful air, the count led his wife and daughter to the
dining-room, and partook of the repast with a forced appetite, in order
to avoid giving pain to those who watched all his movements and hung
upon all his words with such tender solicitude.

After dinner, the count, still pondering upon the scene in which a
tender wife and affectionate daughter had administered to him such sweet
consolation, and experiencing a delicious balm in the domestic felicity
which he enjoyed, said to Isabella, "Read me from your _Album_, my dear
girl, those lines which a poet is supposed to address to his wife, and
which always possess new charms for me."

Isabella hastened to obey her father's wishes, and read, in a soft and
silver tone, the following stanzas:--

               THE POET TO HIS WIFE.

    When far away, my memory keeps in view,
      Unweariedly, the image of my wife;
    This tribute of my gratitude is due
      To her who seems the angel of my life--
    The guiding star that leads me safely through
      The eddies of this world's unceasing strife;--
    Hope's beacon, cheering ever from afar,
    How beautiful art thou, my guiding star!

    Our children have thy countenance, that beams
      With love for him who tells thy virtues now;--
    Their eyes have caught the heavenly ray which gleams
      From thine athwart the clouds that shade my brow,
    Like sunshine on a night of hideous dreams!--
      The first to wean me from despair art thou;
    For all th' endearing sentiments of life
    Are summed up in the words _Children_ and _Wife_.

    The mind, when in a desert state, renews
      Its strength, if by Hope's purest manna fed;
    As drooping flowers revive beneath the dews
      Which April mornings bountifully shed.
    Mohammed taught (let none the faith abuse)
      That echoes were the voices of the dead
    Repeating, in a far-off realm of bliss,
    The words of those they loved and left in this.

    My well-beloved, should'st thou pass hence away,
      Into another and a happier sphere,
    Ere death has also closed my little day,
      And morn may wake no more on my career,
    "I love thee," are the words that I shall say
      From hour to hour, during my sojourn here.
    That thou in other realms may'st still be found
    Prepared to echo back the welcome sound.

Scarcely had Isabella finished these lines, when a servant entered the
room, and announced a Mr. Johnson, "who had some pressing business to
communicate, and who was very sure that he shouldn't be considered an
intruder."

Mr. Johnson--a queer-looking, shabby-genteel, off-hand kind of a
man--made his appearance close behind the servant, over whose shoulder
he leered ominously.

"I b'lieve you're Count Alteroni, air you?" was Mr. Johnson's first
question.

"I am. What is your business with me?"

"I'm come from Rolfe, the attorney, in Clements' Inn," was the reply:
"he--"

"Oh! I suppose he has sent you to say that he will accord me the delay I
require?" interrupted the count.

"Not quite that there neither," said the man; then, sinking his voice to
a mysterious whisper, and glancing towards the ladies with an air of
embarrassment, he added, "The fact is, I've got a execution agin your
person--a _ca-sa_, you know, for eighteen hundred and costs."

"A writ--a warrant!" ejaculated the count aloud. "You do not mean to say
that you are come to take me to prison?"

"Not exactly that either," replied Mr. Johnson. "You needn't go to quod,
you know. You can come to our lock-up in the New-Cut, Lambeth, where
you'll be as snug as if you was in your own house, barring liberty."

"I understand you," said the count; then, turning to his wife and
daughter, he added, "My dears, the evil moment is arrived. This person
is a bailiff come to arrest me; and I must go with him. I implore you
not to take this misfortune to heart:--it was sure to happen; and it
might just as well occur to-day as a week or a month hence."

"And whither will they take you?" asked the countess, bursting into
tears. "Cannot we be allowed to accompany you?"

"You can come, ma'am, and see his lordship to-morrow," said the bailiff;
"and you can stay with him from ten in the morning till nine in the
evening--or may-be till half-arter ten as a wery partick'lar
faviour--for which you'll on'y have to pay half a sufferin extray. But
there's my man."

A sneaking kind of knock--something more than a single one, not so much
as a double one, and by no means as bold as a postman's--had been heard
the moment before the bailiff uttered these last words; and while he
went in person to inform his acolyte that the caption was made, and that
he might wait in the hall, the count endeavoured to soothe and console
the two afflicted ladies who now clung to him in the most impassioned
and distracted manner.

"To-morrow, my dear father--to-morrow, the moment the clock strikes ten,
we will be with you," said Isabella. "Oh! how miserably will pass the
hours until that period!"

"Will you not _now_ permit me, my dearest husband, to see the Envoy of
Castelcicala, and--"

"No," answered the count firmly. "Did we not agree ere now to support
with resignation all that fortune might have in store for us?"

"Ah! pardon me--I forgot," said the countess. "I am overwhelmed with
grief. Oh! what a blow--and for _you_!"

"Show yourselves worthy of your high rank and proud name," cried the
nobleman; "and all will yet be well."

At this moment the bailiff returned to the room.

"I am now ready to accompany you," said the count.

"So much the better," cried Mr. Johnson. "Me and my man Tim Bunkins come
down in a omnibus; I don't know which vay you'd like to go, but I've
heerd say you keeps a wery tidy cabrioily."

"It would be a monstrous mockery for any one to proceed to a prison in
his own luxurious vehicle," said the count sternly. "As you came, so may
you return. I will accompany you in an omnibus."

The count embraced his wife and daughter tenderly, and with much
difficulty tore himself away, in order to leave a comfortable home for a
miserable sponging-house.




CHAPTER LXXXV.

A FRIEND IN NEED.


Ten days after the arrest of Count Alteroni, a young lady was
proceeding, at about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, down the
Blackfriars Road.

She was dressed plainly, but with that exquisite taste which denotes a
polished mind, and is in itself an aristocracy of sentiment. She looked
neither to the right nor to the left: her pace was somewhat rapid, as if
she were anxious to arrive at her destination:--and though there was
something timid in her manner as she threaded her way along the crowded
thoroughfare, few who passed her could help turning round to obtain
another glimpse of the sylph-like form of that unassuming girl.

From the opposite direction advanced a young man of tall and handsome
appearance, neatly dressed, and with a shade of melancholy upon his
countenance.

In a few moments he met the young lady, and was about to pass her, when
his eyes happened to catch a glimpse of her lovely features.

He started with surprise, exclaiming, "Signora! is it possible? Do we
indeed meet again? Ah! it seems to me that it is an age since I saw you,
dearest Isabella!"

"And since we last met, Richard, many unfortunate events have happened.
My poor father--"

"Your father! what can have happened to him?" cried Markham, struck by
the mournful tone of the beauteous Italian.

"He is in the Queen's Bench Prison," replied Isabella, her eyes filling
with tears.

"In the Queen's Bench! And you are going to him now? Oh! Isabella, you
must tell me how all this happened: I will escort you a little
way;"--and with these words, Richard offered his arm to the signora, who
accepted it with a ready confidence in him whom she loved, and whose
presence was by no means displeasing to her at that moment when she
stood so much in need of consolation.

"You are aware," resumed Isabella, "that my father intrusted a
considerable sum of money to Mr. Greenwood."

"The villain!" ejaculated Markham warmly.

"I cannot explain to you exactly how it was that my father accepted the
security of Mr. Tomlinson, the banker, for that amount, as I am not
acquainted with matters of business;--but he did so, and released Mr.
Greenwood."

"And Tomlinson failed--and your father lost all!"

"Alas! he did;--and he is now imprisoned for a sum for which he had
become answerable to serve a friend," said Isabella.

"How long has the count been in--in--"

"In prison," added the signora mournfully. "He was arrested ten days
ago; and, by the advice of a solicitor, he removed on the following day
from the bailiff's private house to the Bench."

"And the countess?"

"My mother is very unwell to-day, and could not leave her room; and I am
now on my way to visit my poor father. We have left Richmond altogether;
and my mother and myself occupy lodgings in the Blackfriars Road, near
the bridge."

"Ten days ago this happened, Isabella," said Richard reproachfully; "and
you did not acquaint me with what had occurred?"

"Ah! Richard--you know well that circumstances forbade me;--or else--"

"Or else? Speak--dearest Isabella."

"Or else I believe you would have given my father the best advice how to
proceed. He is too proud to apply to his friends; and he cannot--he must
not remain in prison. His health would sink under the idea of
degradation that has taken possession of him."

"That villain Greenwood!" said Markham, musing. "When will the day of
retribution arrive for him?"

"We must now part, Richard," observed Isabella, as they came in view of
the dingy wall of the Queen's Bench Prison, crowned by _chevaux-de-frise_.

"Yes--we must part again," said Markham mournfully. "But how happy
should I have been had we met this morning under other circumstances!
How I should have blessed the accident that brought me thus early this
morning on some business of my own, to this neighbourhood! Oh! Isabella,
you know not how constantly I think of you--how unceasingly I dwell upon
your dear image!"

"And can you suppose, Richard, that I never devote a thought to you?"
said Isabella, in a low and plaintive tone. "But we must not talk upon
such a subject at present. Let us hope for happier times."

With these words the young lady returned the pressure of her lover's
hand, and hurried towards the Queen's Bench.

Markham loitered about the spot for five minutes, and then proceeded to
the lobby of the prison. There he inquired into the particulars of Count
Alteroni's detention; and ascertained that he had been arrested for
eighteen hundred pounds, with costs.

He then left the gloomy precincts of the debtors' gaol, and retraced his
steps towards the City.

"Eighteen hundred pounds would procure the count's liberation," he said
to himself: "eighteen hundred pounds, which he does not possess, and
which he is too proud to borrow,--eighteen hundred pounds, which would
restore him to his family, and make Isabella happy! My property is worth
four thousand pounds:--if I raise two thousand pounds upon it, I shall
curtail my income by exactly one half. I shall have one hundred pounds
a-year remaining. But my education was good--my acquirements are not
contemptible: surely I can turn them to some account?"

Then it suddenly struck him that he had already raised five hundred
pounds upon his estate at the period when the Resurrection Man
endeavoured to extort that sum from him; and half of this sum had
already disappeared in consequence of the amount given to Talbot
(_alias_ Pocock) in the _Dark-House_--the assistance rendered to Monroe
and Ellen--his journey to Boulogne--and other claims. Then there would
be the expenses of deeds to reckon. If he raised two thousand pounds
more, his property would only remain worth to him about fifteen hundred
pounds. His income would therefore be reduced to seventy-five pounds
_per annum_.

But not for one moment did this noble-hearted young man hesitate
relative to the course he should pursue; and without delay he proceeded
to the office of Mr. Dyson, his solicitor, in the City.

There the business was speedily explained and put in train. It would,
however, require, said the solicitor, four days to terminate the affair;
but Markham did not leave him until he had fixed the precise moment when
the deeds were to be signed and the money paid over.

Richard returned home in a state of mind more truly happy than he had
known for some time past. He had resolved upon an immense sacrifice, to
benefit those whom he esteemed or loved; and he was prepared to meet any
consequences which it might produce. This is human nature. We may inure
ourselves to the contemplation of any idea, however appalling or
alarming it may appear at first sight, without a shudder and almost
without a regret. The convict, under sentence of death in the condemned
cell, and his ears ringing with the din of the hammers erecting the
scaffold, does not experience such acute mental agony as the world are
apt to suppose. We all have the certainty of death, at some date more or
less near, before our eyes; and yet this conviction does not trouble our
mental equanimity. The convict who is doomed to die, is only worse off
than ourselves inasmuch as the precise day, hour, and moment of his fate
are revealed to him; but his death, which is to be sudden and only of a
moment's pain, must be a thousand times preferable to the long,
lingering, agonising throes of sickness which many of those who pity him
are eventually doomed to endure before their thread of existence shall
be severed for ever!

Yes--we can bring our minds to meet every species of mortal affliction
with resignation, and even with cheerfulness;--and there is no sorrow,
no malady, no pang, which issued from Pandora's box, that did not bear
the imprint of hope along with it!

True to the appointed time, Richard proceeded to the office of Mr.
Dyson, on the fourth day from the commencement of the business.

He signed the papers and received two thousand pounds.

The lawyer shook his head, implying his fears that his client was
improvident and wasteful.

He was, however, speedily undeceived.

"Will you have the kindness to accompany me in a cab?" said Markham.
"You can render me a service in the way in which I am about to dispose
of this money."

"Certainly," returned Mr. Dyson, "Are you going far?"

"Not very," answered Richard; and when they were both seated in the
vehicle, he told the driver to proceed towards the Queen's Bench Prison,
but to stop at some distance from the gates.

These directions were obeyed.

"Now, Mr. Dyson," said Richard, "will you have the kindness to repair to
the office of the prison, and inquire the amount of debts for which a
certain Count Alteroni is detained in custody?"

Mr. Dyson obeyed the instructions thus given to him, and in ten minutes
returned from the prison with a _copy of causes_ in his hand.

"Count Alteroni is a prisoner for eighteen hundred and twenty-one
pounds," said the lawyer.

"Are there any fees or extra expenses beyond the sum specified in that
paper?" asked Richard.

"Yes--merely a few shillings," replied the solicitor.

"I wish, then, that every liability of Count Alteroni be settled in such
a way that he may quit the prison without being asked for a single
shilling. Here is the necessary amount: pay all that is due--and pay
liberally."

"My dear sir," said the lawyer, hesitating, "I hope you have well
reflected upon what you are about to do."

"Yes--yes," answered Richard impatiently: "I have well reflected, I can
assure you."

"Two thousand pounds--or nearly so--is a large sum, Mr. Markham."

"I have weighed all the consequences."

"At least, then, you have received ample security--"

"Not a scrap of paper."

"Had I not better call and see this nobleman, and obtain from him a
warrant of attorney or cognovit--"

"So far from doing any such thing," interrupted Markham, "you must take
especial care not to mention to a soul the name of the person who has
employed you to effect the count's release--not a syllable must escape
your lips on this head; nor need you acquaint the clerks whom you may
see, with your own name. In a word, the affair must be buried in
profound mystery."

"Since you are determined," said Mr. Dyson, "I will obey your
instructions to the very letter. But, once again, excuse me if I request
you to reflect whether--"

"My dear sir, I have nothing more to reflect upon; and you will oblige
me by terminating this business as speedily as possible."

The solicitor returned to the prison; and Markham, whom he now
considered to be foolish or mad, instead of improvident and extravagant,
threw himself back in the vehicle, and gave way to his reflections. His
eyes were, however, turned towards the road leading to the Bench; for he
was anxious to watch for the re-appearance of his agent.

Ten minutes had elapsed, when his attention was directed to two ladies
who passed by the cab, and advanced towards the prison-gate.

He leant forward--he could not be mistaken:--no--it was indeed she--the
idol of his adoration--the being whom he loved with a species of
worship! She was walking with the countess. They were on their way to
visit the count in his confinement; but Richard could not catch a
glimpse of their countenances--though he divined full well that they
wore not an expression of joy. It was not, however, necessary for him to
behold Isabella's face, in order to recognise her:--he knew her by her
symmetrical form, the elegant contours of which, even the ample shawl
she wore could not hide: he knew her by her step--by her graceful and
dignified gesture--by her lady-like, and yet unassuming gait.

Oh! how speedily, thought he within himself, were she and her parents to
be restored to happiness again!

In about a quarter of an hour after the ladies had entered the prison,
Dyson returned to his client.

"Is it all settled?" demanded Markham.

"Every thing," answered the lawyer.

"And when can the count leave the prison?"

"Almost immediately," replied Dyson, as he entered the vehicle once
more.

Markham then ordered the driver to return to the City.

In the mean time the countess and Isabella repaired to the room which
the noble exile occupied in the prison. As they ascended the steep stone
staircase which led to it, they wondered within themselves when he whom
they loved so tenderly would be restored in freedom to them.

The count was seated at a table covered with books and papers, and was
busily occupied in arranging the latter when the countess and signora
entered the room. They were instantly welcomed with the most
affectionate warmth by the noble prisoner: and he endeavoured to assume
a cheerful air in their presence.

"Any letters?" said the count, after the usual inquiries concerning
health and comfort.

"None this morning," answered the countess. "And now, my dear husband,
tell me--have you settled any plan to effect your release?"

"No," said the count. "I must trust to events. Were Armstrong alive, I
should not hesitate to accept a loan from him;--but to none other would
I apply."

At this moment a knock at the door of the prison chamber was heard; and
the two inseparables, Captain Smilax Dapper and Sir Cherry Bounce, made
their appearance.

"My dear count, you don't mean to say that it is really true, and that
you are here on your own account--strike me!" ejaculated the gallant
hussar.

"The newth wath twue--too twue, you thee, Thmilackth," said Sir Cherry,
shuddering visibly, and without any affectation too as he glanced around
him.

"True indeed!" cried the count, bitterly.

"I wonder whether they will let uth out again?" said Sir Cherry, gazing
from the window. "But, I declare, they have got wacket-gwoundth here,
and no leth than thwee pumpth. What can the pwithonerth want with tho
muth water?"

"What, indeed--confound me!" exclaimed the captain. "For my part, I
always heard that they lived upon beer. But tell me--how much is there
against you?"

"Yeth--how muth?" echoed Sir Cherry Bounce.

"A mere trifle," answered the count evasively. "I have been cruelly
robbed, and my present position is the result."

"Well," continued the captain, with remarkable embarrassment of manner,
"we are all here together--and so there is no harm in speaking openly,
you know--and Cherry isn't anybody, strike him!--I was thinking that a
very satisfactory arrangement might be made. Always strike when the
iron's hot! I have long entertained a high respect for your family,
count: my late uncle, the general, who introduced me and Cherry to you,
always spoke in the best possible terms of you, although he never said
much about your past life, and even hinted that there was some
mystery--"

"To what is all this to lead, Captain Dapper?" exclaimed the count,
somewhat impatiently.

"Simply that--why do you stand there, laughing like a fool, Cherry?"

"Me, Thmilackth?"

"Yes--you. Well, as I was saying when Cherry interrupted me--I have
always entertained the highest possible opinion of your family, count,
and especially of the signora; and if she would accept my hand and
heart--why, strike me! an arrangement could be made in four and twenty
hours--"

"Captain Dapper," interrupted the count, "no more of this. I believe
that you would not wantonly insult either my daughter or myself; but I
cannot listen to the terms to which you allude."

"My dear count--"

"Silence, sir! No more of this!" exclaimed the noble Italian.

There was a pause, which was broken by the entrance of one of the
turnkeys.

"Sir, I have the pleasure to inform you that you are discharged," said
that functionary.

"Discharged!" ejaculated the count: "impossible! How could I be
discharged?"

The countess and Isabella surveyed the turnkey with looks of the most
intense and painful anxiety.

"A stranger has sent his solicitor to pay every thing against you at the
gate; and all the fees and the little donations to us and the criers are
paid also."

"You are bantering me, sirrah!" cried the count. "You are mistaken. The
Envoy from my native land, who alone of all my acquaintances is capable
of doing an action of this generous nature, and in so delicate a manner,
has been absent from London for the last ten days, and is even unaware
of my situation. Who then could have paid my debts?"

A name trembled upon Isabella's tongue; but the word died upon her lips.
She dared not pronounce that name--although her heart told her that her
surmise was correct, and that Richard Markham was the secret friend to
whom her father was indebted for his liberty. Richard! the reward of thy
good deed had already commenced by the feelings which now changed the
love that the beauteous girl had hitherto experienced for thee, into an
adoration and a worship!

"Well, sir," said the turnkey, "we don't know who has done this, and it
wasn't our business to inquire. All I can say is, that the debt is paid,
the fees settled, and you may leave the place as soon as you like."

"Dapper, this is your doing," cried the count, after a moment's pause.
"And yet--"

"No--strike me!--I had nothing to do with it--I wish I had _now_."

We shall not attempt to describe the delight of the Italian family, when
they found that the joyful tidings were indeed true; but all the count's
conjectures, to fix this generous and noble deed upon any particular
member of his acquaintance, were alike unsatisfactory and
unavailing:--Isabella alone divined the truth.




CHAPTER LXXXVI.

THE OLD HAG.


Markham was not the man to remain idle now that his circumstances were
so desperately reduced. He had a taste for literary pursuits, and he
resolved to devote his talents to some advantage. His income was totally
insufficient to support his establishment, and yet he knew not how to
effect any very great economy in the mode of conducting it. He would not
for worlds allow Mr. Monroe and Ellen to leave his house, and again
enter upon a struggle with the world. With Whittingham nothing could
have induced him to part;--Marian was the only female domestic he kept,
and he could not dispense with her services. Holford alone was an
incumbrance of which he thought of relieving himself. But before he
adopted any measure of economical reform, he summoned the faithful
Whittingham to a consultation with him in the library.

When Markham had made the butler acquainted with his altered
circumstances, the old man shook his head, and observed--

"Well, Master Richard, all this here ruination--and when I make use of
the paragraph _ruination_, I mean to express the common sentence,
_flooring_--has been brought round about by your over generosity, and
good disposition towards others. I can't a-bear, Master Richard, to see
you circumlocuted and circumwented in this manner; and now all your
property has gone to the canine species--or, wulgarly speaking, _to the
dogs_."

[Illustration]

"What is done, is done, Whittingham," said Richard; "nor did I send for
you to criticise my conduct."

"Ah! Master Richard; don't go for to scold me--me that saw you bred and
born," exclaimed the old butler, tears starting into his eyes. "I
wouldn't be an ominous burden to you for all the world; so I'll get
employment somewhere else--"

"No--no, my faithful friend," cried Richard, taking the old man's hand,
"I would not allow you to leave me on any account. As long as I have a
crust you shall share it. My present object is to acquaint you with the
necessity of introducing the most rigid economy into our household."

"Ah! now I understand you, Master Richard. And talking of this reminds
me that a gentleman in the neighbourhood requires a young youth of the
nature of Holford; and so the lad might step quite permiscuous, as the
saying is, into a good situation at once."

"Well, let him seek for another place, Whittingham; but tell him that he
may stay here until he can succeed in finding one."

Markham and Whittingham then arranged other little methods of economy,
and the debate terminated. Fortunately for these plans, Holford procured
the place alluded to by Whittingham, and repaired to his new situation
in the course of a few days.

Notwithstanding the solicitude with which Markham endeavoured to conceal
his altered circumstances from Mr. Monroe and Ellen, the quick
perception of the latter soon enabled her to penetrate into the real
truth; and she immediately reflected upon the best means of turning her
own acquirements to some good purpose. She did not mention to her father
her suspicion that they were a burden upon Markham's resources; but she
took an early opportunity of hinting to Richard her anxiety to avail
herself of her education and accomplishments, in order to add to the
general resources of the household. The young man was struck by the
delicate manner in which she thus made him comprehend that she was not
blind to the limited nature of his means; but he assured her that his
property was quite commensurate with his expenditure. Ellen appeared to
be satisfied; but she nevertheless determined within herself to lose no
time in seeking for profitable employment for her leisure hours.

But where was she to seek for occupation? She knew the miserable rate at
which the labours of the needle-women were paid; and she shuddered at
the idea of returning to the service of a statuary, an artist, a
sculptor, or a photographer. And yet she was resolved not to remain
idle. She could not bear the thought that her father and herself were a
burden upon the slender resources of their generous and noble-hearted
benefactor:--she saw with pain that while Markham forced her father to
partake of his wine as usual, he himself now invariably invented an
excuse to avoid joining in the indulgence;--she saw that Richard rose
earlier than heretofore, and remained in his library the greater portion
of the day;--she learned from Marian that the surplus garden produce was
sold;--in a word, she beheld a system of the most rigid economy
introduced into the establishment, and which was only relaxed on behalf
of her father and herself. All this gave her pain; and she was resolved
to do somewhat to enable her to contribute towards the resources of the
household--even though she should be compelled to return to the service
of a statuary, an artist, a sculptor, or a photographer.

At one moment she thought of applying to Greenwood:--but he had already
done all she asked in respect to their child. And then, even if she were
to obtain money from him, in what manner could she account to her father
and to Markham for its possession? for there was a secret--a terrible
secret connected with Greenwood, which she dared not reveal--even though
such confession were to save her from a death of lingering tortures!

Thus thought Ellen Monroe. Was it extraordinary if the idea of applying
to the old hag--that nameless woman--dwelling in a nameless court in
Golden Lane, and exercising a nameless avocation--often entered the
young lady's imagination? Was it strange that she should gradually
overcome her repugnance to seek the presence of the filthy-souled
harridan, and at length look upon such a step as the only means through
which her ardent desire to obtain employment could be gratified?

It was decided! she would go.

Accordingly, one morning, she dressed herself in the most simple manner,
and proceeded by an omnibus into the City. It was mid-day when she
reached Golden Lane.

With what strange feelings did she proceed along the narrow and dirty
thoroughfare! Pure and spotless was she when, nearly three years back,
she had first set foot in that vile lane;--how much had she seen--how
much passed through--how much endured since that period?
Dishonoured--unwedded--she was a mother. Her virgin purity was gone for
ever--the evidence of her shame was living, and could at any moment be
brought forward to betray her. And if she now pursued a virtuous course,
it was scarcely for virtue's sake, but through dread of the consequences
of a fresh fault. The innate chastity of her soul had dissolved, like
snow before the mid-day sun's effulgence, beneath the glances of the
statuary, the artist, the sculptor, and the photographer. It was true
that she looked upon her services to those masters with disgust; but the
feeling had little reference to pure and unadulterated feminine modesty.
Still she was of a proud spirit in one respect;--she detested a life of
slothful dependence upon an individual who had not enough for himself!

Such was Ellen Monroe when she retraced her way, on the present
occasion, to the dwelling of the old hag--that way which had led her to
so frightful a precipice before!

The old woman was sitting in her great easy chair, watching the steam
that rose from a large saucepan upon the hob. That saucepan contained
the harridan's dinner--tripe and cow-heel stewing with onions, and
filling the close apartment with a sickly odour. But the hag savoured
that smell with a hideous expression of delight; to her nostrils it was
a delicious perfume. From time to time she glanced--almost
impatiently--towards her Dutch clock, as if anxious for the arrival of
the happy moment when she might serve up her mess. She was just
spreading a filthy napkin upon one corner of her table, when a knock was
heard at her door.

Instead of inviting the visitor, whoever it might be, to enter, the hag
hastened to answer the summons by opening the door a few inches. She was
already afraid that some poor neighbour might seek a portion of her
dainty meal!

But when she recognised Ellen Monroe, a gleam of joy suddenly illumined
her lowering countenance, and the young lady immediately obtained
admittance, for the hag thought within herself--"There is gold yet to be
gained by her!"

Re-assured as to the undivided enjoyment of the stew, and having
satisfied herself with a glance that Ellen was above immediate want, the
old woman conducted her fair visitant to a seat, saying--

"My bird of beauty, you have come back to me again; I have been waiting
for your return a long long time."

"Waiting for me?" cried Ellen, with surprise.

"Yes, miss--certainly. I know the world--and I felt convinced that you
could not always contrive for yourself, without me."

"I am at a loss to understand you," said Ellen.

"Well--well, no matter!" exclaimed the hag, lifting off the lid of her
saucepan, and ogling the stew. "At all events," she continued, after a
pause, "you require my services now--else why are you come?"

"Yes--I require your services," answered the young lady. "I want
employment--can you tell me of any thing likely to suit me?"

"In what way?" demanded the hag, with an impudent leer.

Ellen remained silent--absorbed in thought. That question recalled to
her mind the difficulties of her position, and convinced her how little
scope there was for the exercise of choice in respect to employment.

The old woman surveyed her fair visitant with attention; the sardonic
expression of her countenance changed into one of admiration, as she
contemplated that lovely girl. Her head was so gracefully inclined the
least thing over one shoulder as she sat wrapt up in her
reflections;--there was a shade of such bewitching melancholy upon her
classic countenance: the long, dark fringes that shadowed her deep blue
eyes, gave so Murillo-like a softness to her cheek as she glanced
downwards; her bust, since she had become a mother, had expanded into
such fine proportions, yet without destroying the perfect symmetry of
her shape;--and her entire air had something so languishing--something
of an only partially-subdued voluptuousness--that the old hag regarded
her with mingled sentiments of admiration, envy, and pleasure.

"In what way can I serve you?" said the harridan again, after a long
time.

"Alas! I have scarcely made up my mind how to answer the question,"
replied Ellen, smiling in spite of her melancholy thoughts. "I am not
actually in want; but my father and myself are dependent upon the bounty
of one who is by no means able to support us in idleness. My father can
do nothing; he is old--infirm, and broken down by affliction. It
therefore remains for me to do something to earn at least a trifle."

"A young lady of your beauty cannot be at a loss for friends who will
treat her nobly," said the old woman, affecting to busy herself with her
stew, but in reality watching Ellen's countenance with a reptile-like
gaze as she spoke.

"Ah! I know that I am not the ugliest person in existence," exclaimed
the young lady, smiling once more; "but I am anxious," she added, her
countenance suddently assuming a serious expression, "to live a
quiet--an honourable--and a virtuous life. I know there is nothing to be
gained by the needle. I dislike the menial and degrading situation of a
copy or a model:--are you aware of no other occupation that will suit
me?"

"Have you any money in your pocket?" demanded the hag, after a few
moments' reflection.

"I have three sovereigns and a few shillings," answered Ellen, taking
her purse from her reticule.

"I know of an employment that will suit you well," continued the old
woman; "and my price for putting it in your way will be the three
sovereigns in your purse."

"Of what nature is the employment?" asked Ellen.

"That of patient to a Mesmerist," was the reply.

"Patient to a mesmerist!" exclaimed the young lady: "I do not understand
you."

"There is a French gentleman who has lately arrived in London, and who
lectures upon Animal Magnetism at the West End," said the hag. "He has
created a powerful sensation; and all the world are running after him.
But he requires patients to operate upon; and the photographer, with
whom he is acquainted, recommended him to apply to me. You will answer
his purpose; and you well know that I have always performed my promises
to you hitherto; so you need not be afraid to pay me my price at once. I
will then give you the mesmerist's card."

"First explain the nature of the services that will be demanded of me,"
said Ellen.

"You will be placed in a chair, and the magnetiser will pass his hands
backwards and forwards in a particular way before your eyes; you will
then have to fall asleep--or pretend to do so, whichever you like; and
the professor will ask you questions, to which you must reply. This is
the main business which he will require at your hands."

"But it is a gross deception," said Ellen.

"You may embrace or refuse my offer, just as you choose. If you are so
very particular, Miss," added the old woman ironically, "why do you not
obtain the situation of a governess, or go out and give lessons in music
and drawing?"

"Because I should be asked for references, which I cannot give;--because
there would be a perpetual danger of my former occupations
transpiring;--and because----"

"Because--because you do not fancy that employment," exclaimed the hag
impatiently. "See now--my dinner is ready--you are wasting my time--I
have other business to attend to anon. Do you refuse or accept my
offer?"

"What remuneration shall I be enabled to earn?" demanded Ellen,
hesitatingly.

"Thirty shillings a-week."

"And how long shall I be occupied each day?"

"About two hours at the evening lectures three times a week; and perhaps
an hour every day to study your part."

"Then I accept your offer," said Ellen; and she placed three sovereigns
upon the table.

The eyes of the old woman glistened at the sight of the gold, which she
clutched hastily from the table for fear that Ellen might suddenly
repent of her bargain. She wrapped the three pieces carefully up in a
piece of paper, and hastened to conceal them in the interior of her old
Dutch clock. She then opened her table-drawer, and begin to rummage, as
on former occasions when Ellen visited her, amongst its filthy contents.

The search occupied several minutes; for the old woman had numerous
cards and notes scattered about in her drawer.

"You see that I have a good connexion," she observed, with a horrible
smile of self-gratulation, as she turned the cards and notes over and
over with her long bony hands: "all the fashionable young men about town
know me, and do not hesitate to engage my services on particular
occasions. Then they recommend me, because I give them satisfaction; and
so I always have enough to do to give me bread. I am not idle, my dear
child--I am not idle, I can assure you. Day and night I am at the beck
and call of my patrons. I help gentlemen to mistresses, and ladies to
lovers. But, ah! the pay is not what it used to be--it is not what it
used to be!" repeated the old hag, shaking her head dolefully. "There is
a great competition, even in my profession, miss--a very great
competition. The shoemakers, the tailors, the publicans, the butchers,
the bakers, all complain of competition;--but they have not half so much
right to complain as I have. Now and then I pick up a handsome sum in
one way;--and, while I think of it, miss, I may as well mention to
you--for who can tell what may happen?--you are young, and beautiful,
and warm--and such a thing is almost sure to befall you as well as any
other woman. But, as I was saying, miss--I may as well mention to you,
that if you should happen--in consequence of a fault--to----"

The old woman leant forward, and whispered something in Ellen's ear.

The young lady started; and an exclamation of mingled disgust and horror
escaped her lips.

"Do not alarm yourself, my dear child," said the old hag, resuming her
search with the most imperturbable coolness: "I did not mean to offend
you. I can assure you that many a young lady, of higher birth than
yours, and dwelling in the most fashionable quarters of London, has been
glad to avail herself of my services. What would often become of the
indiscreet miss if it wasn't for me? what, indeed?--what, indeed?"

"Haste and give me the card," exclaimed Ellen, in a tone of ill
concealed disgust and aversion; "I am in a hurry--I can wait no longer."

"There it is, my dear," said the old hag. "I know the situation will
suit you. When you require another, come to me."

Miss Monroe received the card, and took her departure without another
moment's delay.

As soon as the young lady had left that den, the old hag proceeded to
serve up her stew, muttering to herself all the while, "One of my stray
sheep come back to me again! This is as it should be. There is yet much
gold to be made by that girl: she cannot do long without me!"

Then the horrible wretch fetched from the cupboard the champagne-bottle
which contained her gin; and she seated herself cheerfully at the table
covered with the dainties that she loved.




CHAPTER LXXXVII.

THE PROFESSOR OF MESMERISM.


Ellen had already been long enough from home to incur the chance of
exciting surprise or alarm at her absence; she was therefore compelled
to postpone her visit to the Professor of Mesmerism until the following
day.

On her return to the Place, after an absence of nearly three hours, her
fears were to some extent realised, her father being uneasy at her
disappearance for so long a period. She availed herself of this
opportunity to acquaint Mr. Monroe with her anxiety to devote her
talents to some useful purpose, in order to earn at least sufficient to
supply them both with clothes, and thus spare as much as possible the
purse of their benefactor. Her father highly approved of this laudable
aim; and Ellen assured him that one of the families, for whom she had
once worked at the West End, had promised to engage her as a teacher of
music and drawing for a few hours every week. It will be recollected
that the old man had invariably been led to believe that his daughter
was occupied in private houses with her needle, when she was really in
the service of the statuary, the artist, the sculptor, and the
photographer: he therefore now readily put faith in the tale which Ellen
told him, and even undertook not only to communicate her intention to
Markham, but also to prevent him from throwing any obstacle in its way.
This task the old man accomplished that very day; and thus Ellen
triumphed over the chief difficulty which she had foreseen--namely, that
of accounting for the frequent absence from home which her new pursuits
would render imperative. And this duplicity towards her sire she
practised without a blush. Oh! what a wreck of virtue and chastity had
the mind of that young female become!

The Professor of Mesmerism occupied a handsome suite of apartments in
New Burlington Street. He was a man of about fifty, of prepossessing
exterior, elegant manners, and intelligent mind. He spoke English
fluently, and was acquainted with many continental languages besides his
own.

It was mid-day when Miss Monroe was ushered into his presence.

The Professor was evidently struck by the beauty of her appearance; but
he held her virtue at no high estimation, in consequence of the source
of her recommendation to him. Little cared he, however, whether she were
a paragon of moral excellence, or an example of female degradation: his
connexion with her was to be based upon a purely commercial ground; and
he accordingly set about an explanation of his views and objects. Ellen
listened with attention, and agreed to become the patient of the
mesmerist.

Thus, having sold her countenance to the statuary, her likeness to the
artist, her bust to the sculptor, her entire form to the photographer,
and her virtue to a libertine, she disposed of her dreams to the
mesmerist.

Several days were spent in taking lessons and studying her part, under
the tutelage of the Professor. She was naturally of quick comprehension;
and this practice was easy to her. Her initiation was therefore soon
complete; and the Professor at length resolved upon giving a private
exhibition of "the truths of Mesmerism practically illustrated" to a few
friends. Ellen took a feigned name; and all the preliminary arrangements
were settled.

The memorable evening arrived; and by eight o'clock the Professor's
drawing-room was filled with certain select individuals, all of whom
were favourably inclined towards the "science" of Mesmerism. Some of
them, indeed, were perfectly enthusiastic in behalf of this
newly-revived doctrine. The reporters of the press were rigidly excluded
from this meeting, with two or three exceptions in favour of journals
which were known to be friendly to the principle of Animal Magnetism.

When the guests were thus assembled, Ellen was led into the apartment.
She was desired to seat herself comfortably in an easy arm-chair; and
the Professor then commenced his manipulations, "with a view to produce
_coma_, or mesmeric sleep." In about five minutes Ellen sank back,
apparently in a profound sleep, with the eyes tightly closed.

The Professor then expatiated upon the truths of the science of
Mesmerism; and the assembled guests eagerly drank in every word he
uttered. At length he touched upon _Clairvoyance_, which he explained in
the following manner:--

"_Clairvoyance_," he said, "is the most extraordinary result of Animal
Magnetism. It enables the person magnetised to foretel events relating
both to themselves and others; to describe places which they have never
visited, and houses the interior of which they have never seen; to read
books opened and held behind their heads; to delineate the leading
points of pictures in a similar position; to read a letter through its
envelope; to describe the motions or actions of a person in another
room, with a wall intervening; and to narrate events passing in far
distant places."

The Professor then proposed to give practical illustrations of the
phenomena which he had just described.

The visitors were now all on the tiptoe of expectation; and the
reporters prepared their note-books. Meantime Ellen remained apparently
wrapped up in a profound slumber; and more than one admiring glance was
turned upon her beautiful classic features and the exuberant richness of
her bust.

"I shall now question the patient," said the Professor, "in a manner
which will prove the first phenomenon _of clairvoyance_; namely, _the
power of foretelling events relative to themselves and others_."

He paused for a moment, performed a few more manipulations, and then
said, "Can you tell me any thing in reference to future events which are
likely to happen to myself?"

"Within a week from this moment you will hear of the death of a
relation!" replied Ellen in slow and measured terms.

"Of what sex is that relation?"

"A lady: she is now dangerously ill."

"How old is she?"

"Between sixty and seventy. I can see her lying upon her sick-couch with
two doctors by her side. She has just undergone a most painful
operation."

"It is perfectly true," whispered the Professor to his friends, "that I
have an aunt of that age; but I am not aware that she is even ill--much
less at the point of death."

"It is wonderful--truly wonderful!" exclaimed several voices, in a
perfect enthusiasm of admiration.

"Let us now test her in reference to the second phenomenon I mentioned,"
said the Professor; "which will show _the power of describing places she
has never visited, and houses whose interiors she has never seen_."

"Ah! that will be curious, indeed," cried several guests.

"Perhaps you, Mr. Wilmot," said the Professor, addressing a gentleman
standing next to him, "will have the kindness to examine the patient
relative to your own abode."

"Certainly," replied Mr. Wilmot then, turning towards Ellen, he said,
"Will you visit me at my house?"

"With much pleasure," was her immediate answer.

"Where is it situated?"

"In Park Lane."

"Come in with me. What do you see?"

"A splendid hall, with a marble table between two pillars on one side,
and a wide flight of stairs, also of marble, on the other."

"Come with me into the dining room of my house. Now what do you see?"

"Seven large pictures."

"Where are the windows?"

"There are three at the bottom of the room."

"What colour are the curtains?"

"A rich red."

"What is the subject of the large picture facing the fire-place?"

"The battle of Trafalgar."

"How do you know it is that battle?"

"Because I can read on the flag of one of the ships the words, '_England
expects that every man will do his duty_.'"

"I shall not ask her any more questions," said Mr. Wilmot, evidently
quite amazed by these answers. "Every one of her replies is true to the
very letter. And I think," he added, turning towards the other guests,
"that you all know me well enough to believe me, when I declare most
solemnly that this young person has never, to my knowledge, been in my
house in her life."

A murmur of satisfaction arose amongst the guests, who were all
perfectly astounded at the phenomena now illustrated--although they had
come, as before said, with a predisposition in favour of Mesmerism.

"We will have another proof yet," said the Professor. "Perhaps Mr. Parke
will have the kindness to question the patient."

Mr. Parke stepped forward, and said, "Will you do me the favour to walk
with me to my house."

"Thank you, I will," answered Ellen, still apparently remaining in a
profound mesmeric sleep.

"Where is my house?"

"In Mortimer Street, Cavendish Square."

"How many windows has it in front?"

"Thirteen."

"Where are the two statues of Napoleon?"

"In the library."

"What else do you see in that room?"

"Immense quantities of books on shelves in glass cases."

"Are there any pictures?"

"Yes--seven."

"What is the subject of the one over the mantelpiece?"

"A beautiful view of London, by moonlight, from one of the bridges."

"Wonderful!" ejaculated Mr. Parke. "All she has said is perfectly
correct. It is not necessary to ask her any more questions on this
subject."

"Gentlemen," said the Professor, casting a triumphant glance around him,
"I am delighted to perceive that you are satisfied with this mode of
illustrating the phenomena of _clairvoyance_. I will now prove to you
that the patient _can read a book held open behind her head_."

He then performed some more manipulations to plunge his patient into as
deep a mesmeric sleep as possible, although she had given no symptom of
an inclination to awake throughout the preceding examination. Having
thus confirmed, as he said, her perfect state of _coma_, the Professor
took up a book--apparently pitched upon at random amongst a heap of
volumes upon the table; and, holding it open behind the head of the
patient, he said, "What is this?"

"A book," was the immediate reply.

"What book?"

"Milton's _Paradise Lost_."

"At what page have I opened it?"

"I can read pages 110 and 111."

"Read a few lines."

Ellen accordingly repeated the following passage in a slow and
beautifully mellifluous tone:--

    "Now morn, her rosy steps in th' eastern clime
     Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl,
     When Adam waked, so 'customed, for his sleep
     Was airy light, from pure digestion bred,
     And temperate vapours bland, which th' only sound
     Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan,
     Lightly dispersed, and the shrill matin song
     Of birds on every bough."[77]

"That is sufficient," cried several voices. "Do not fatigue her. We are
perfectly satisfied. It is really marvellous. Who will now dare to doubt
the phenomena of _clairvoyance_?"

"Let us take a picture," said the Professor; "_and she will delineate
all the leading points in it_."

The mesmerist took an engraving from a portfolio, and held it behind
Ellen's head.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"A picture."

"What is the subject?"

"I do not know the subject; but I can see two figures in the
fore-ground, with a camel. The back-ground has elevated buildings. Oh!
now I can see it plainer: it is a scene in Egypt; and those buildings
are the pyramids."

"Extraordinary!" cried Mr. Wilmot.

"And that little hesitation was a proof of the fact that she could
really see the picture," added Mr. Parke.

"Wonderful! extraordinary!" exclaimed numerous voices.

At this moment a servant entered the room and delivered a letter to his
master, the Professor, stating that it had just been left by a friend
from Paris.

The mesmerist was about to open it, when a sudden idea seemed to strike
him.

"Gentlemen," he exclaimed, throwing the letter upon the table, "the
arrival of this missive affords me an opportunity of proving another
phenomenon belonging to _clairvoyance_. _The patient shall read this
letter through the envelope._"

"But if its contents be private?" said a guest.

"Then I am surrounded by gentlemen of honour, who will not publish those
contents," returned the professor with a smile.

A murmur of approbation welcomed this happy compliment of the Frenchman.

The mesmerist held the letter at a short distance from Ellen's
countenance, and said, "What is this?"

"A letter," she replied. "It is written in French."

"Read it," cried the mesmerist.

"The writing is obscure, and the lines seem to cross each other."

"That is because the letter is in an envelope and folded," said the
Professor. "But try and read it."

Ellen then distinctly repeated the contents of the letter, of which the
following is a translation:--

"_Paris_.

     "HONOURED SIR,--I have to acquaint you with the alarming illness of
     my beloved mistress, your aunt Madame Delabarre. She was taken
     suddenly ill four days ago. Two eminent physicians are in constant
     attendance upon her. It is believed that if she does not get better
     in a few days, the medical attendants will perform an operation
     upon her. Should your leisure and occupation permit, you would do
     well to hasten to France to comfort your venerable relative.

"Your humble servant,
"FELICIE SOLIVEAU."



"Ah! my poor aunt! my poor aunt!" cried the Professor: "she is no more!
It was her death that the patient foretold ere now! Yes--the two
physicians--the painful operation--Oh! my poor aunt!"

The mesmerist tore open the letter, hastily glanced over it, and handed
it to the gentleman who stood nearest to him. This individual perused it
attentively, and, turning towards the other guests, said, "It is word
for word as the patient read it."

The enthusiasm of the disciples of mesmerism present was only damped by
the grief into which the Professor was now plunged by the conviction of
the death of his venerable aunt. They, therefore, briefly returned their
best thanks for the highly satisfactory illustrations of the truths of
mesmeric phenomena which they had witnessed upon the occasion, and took
their leave, their minds filled with the marvels that had been developed
to them.

The moment the guests and the reporters had taken their departure, the
Professor hastened up to Ellen, took her by the hand, and exclaimed in a
transport of joy, "You may rise, my good young lady; it is all over! You
acquitted yourself admirably! Nothing could be better. I am delighted
with you! My fortune is made--my fortune is made! These English
blockheads bite at anything!"

Ellen rose from the chair in which she had feigned her mesmeric sleep,
and was by no means displeased with the opportunity of stretching her
limbs, which were dreadfully cramped through having remained an hour in
one unchanged position. The Professor compelled her to drink a glass of
wine to refresh her; and in a few minutes she was perfectly at her ease
once more.

"Yes," repeated the mesmerist; "you conducted yourself admirably. I
really could not have anticipated such perfection at what I may call a
mere rehearsal of your part. You remembered every thing I had told you
to the very letter. By cleverly selecting to examine you, those persons
whose houses I have visited myself, and the leading features of which I
am able to explain to you beforehand, I shall make you accomplish such
wonders in this respect, that even the most sceptical will be astounded.
You have an excellent memory; and that is the essential. Moreover, I
shall never mislead you. The book and the print agreed upon between us
during the day, shall always be chosen for illustration at the lecture.
By the bye, your little hesitation about the engraving was admirable.
You may always introduce that _piece of acting_ into your _part_: it
appears true. The part then is not over-done. I give you great credit
for the idea. In a few days I shall tell all my friends that I have
received a letter announcing my aunt's death; and that her demise took
place at the very moment when you beheld her death-bed in your mesmeric
slumber. This will astound them completely. On the next occasion we must
introduce into our comedy the scene _of the patient describing what
takes place in another room, with a wall intervening_; and as we will
settle before-hand all that I shall do in another apartment, upon the
occasion, that portion of the task will not be difficult."

"But suppose, sir," said Ellen, "that a gentleman, concerning whose
house you have given me no previous description, should wish to examine
me,--what must I do in such a case?"

"Remain silent," answered the Professor.

"And would not this excite suspicion?"

"Not a bit of it. I have my answer ready:--'_There is no magnetic
affinity, no mesmeric sympathy, between you and your interlocutor._'
That is the way to stave off such a difficulty; and it applies equally
to a stranger holding books or prints for you to read with the back of
your head."

"I really can scarcely avoid laughing when I think of the nature of the
farce," observed Ellen.

"And yet this is not the only doctrine with which the world is duped,"
said the Professor. "But it is growing late; and you are doubtless
anxious to return home. I am so well pleased with you, that I must beg
you to accept this five-pound note as an earnest of my liberal
intentions. You were very perfect with the poetry and the letter--the
letter, by the bye, from my poor old aunt, whose existence is only in my
own imagination!--Indeed, altogether, I am delighted with you!"

Ellen received the money tendered her by the mesmerist, and took her
departure.

Thus successfully terminated her first essay as a patient to a Professor
of Animal Magnetism!




CHAPTER LXXXVIII.

THE FIGURANTE.


The wonders performed by the Professor of Mesmerism produced an immense
sensation. The persons who had been admitted to the "private
exhibition," did not fail to proclaim far and wide the particulars of
all that they had witnessed; and, as a tale never loses by repetition,
the narrative of those marvels became in a very few days a perfect
romance. The reporters of the press, who had attended the exhibition,
dressed up a magnificent account of the entire proceedings, for the
journals with which they were connected; and the fame of the Professor,
like that of one of the knights of the olden time, was soon "bruited
abroad through the length and breadth of the land."

At length a public lecture was given, and attended with the most
complete success. Ellen had an excellent memory; and her part was
enacted to admiration. She recollected the most minute particulars
detailed to her by the Mesmerist, relative to the interior of the houses
of his friends, the contents of letters to be read through envelopes,
the subjects of prints, and the lines of poetry or passages of prose in
the books to be read when placed behind her. Never was a deception
better contrived: the most wary were deluded by it; and the purse of
the Professor was well filled with the gold of his dupes.

But all things have an end: and the deceit of the Mesmerist was not an
exception to the rule.

One evening, a gentleman--a friend of the Professor--was examining
Ellen, who of course was in a perfect state of _coma_, respecting the
interior of his library. The patient had gone through the process of
questioning uncommonly well, until at length the gentleman said to her,
"Whereabouts does the stuffed owl stand in the room you are describing?"

In the abstract there was nothing ludicrous in this query: but, when
associated with the absurdity of the part which Ellen was playing, and
entering as a link into the chain of curious ideas that occupied her
mind at the moment, it assumed a shape so truly ridiculous that her
gravity was completely overcome. She burst into an immoderate fit of
laughter: her eyes opened wide--the perfect state of coma vanished in a
moment--the _clairvoyance_ was forgotten--the catalepsy disappeared--and
the patient became unmesmerised in a moment, in total defiance of all
the prescribed rules and regulations of Animal Magnetism!

Laughter is catching. The audience began to titter--then to indulge in a
half-suppressed cachinnation;--and at length a chorus of hilarity
succeeded the congenial symphony which emanated from the lips of the
patient.

The Professor was astounded.

He was, however, a man of great presence of mind: and he instantaneously
pronounced Ellen's conduct to be a phenomenon in Mesmerism, which was
certainly rarely illustrated, but for which he was by no means
unprepared.

But all his eloquence was useless. The risible inclination which now
animated the great majority of his audience, triumphed over the previous
prejudice in favour of Mesmerism; the charm was dissolved--the spell was
annihilated--"the pitcher had gone so often to the well that it got
broken at last"--the voice of the Professor had lost its power.

No sooner did the hilarity subside a little, when it was renewed again;
and even the friends and most staunch adherents of the Professor looked
at each other with suspicion depicted upon their countenances.

What reason could not do, was effected by ridicule: Mesmerism, like the
heathen mythology, ceased to be a worship.

The Professor grew distracted. Confusion ensued; the audience rose from
their seats; groups were formed; and the proceedings of the evening were
freely discussed by the various different parties into which the company
thus split.

Ellen took advantage of the confusion to slip out of the room; and in a
few moments she left the house.

Her occupation was now once more gone; and she resolved to pay another
visit to the old hag.

Accordingly, in a few days she again sought the miserable court in
Golden Lane.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, when the young lady entered
the apartment in which the old hag dwelt. The wrinkled wretch was seated
at the table, working. She had bought herself a new gown with a portion
of the money which she had received from Ellen on the occasion of
recommending the latter to the Mesmerist; and the old woman's looks were
joyful--as joyful as so hideous an expression of countenance would allow
them to be--for she thought of being smart once more, even in her old
age. Vanity only ceases with the extinction of life itself.

"Well, my child," said the old woman, gaily; "you have come back to me
again. Surely you have not already finished with your Mesmerist?"

"Yes," replied Ellen. "The bubble has burst; and I am once more in
search of employment."

"And in such search, miss, will you ever be, until you choose to settle
yourself in a manner suitable to your beauty, your accomplishments, and
your merits," said the old woman.

"In what way could I thus settle myself?"

"Do you ask me so simple a question? May you not have a handsome house,
a carriage, servants, money, rich garments, jewels, and a box at the
Opera, for the mere asking?"

"I do not require so much," answered Ellen, with a smile. "If I can earn
a guinea or two a week, I shall be contented."

"And do you not feel anxious to set off your charms to the greatest
advantage?" demanded the old woman. "How well would pearls become your
soft and shining hair! how dazzling would your polished arms appear when
clasped by costly bracelets! how lovely would be your little ears with
brilliant pendants! how elegant would be your figure when clad in
rustling silk or rich satin! how the whiteness of your bosom would
eclipse that of the finest lace! Ah! miss, you are your own enemy--you
are your own enemy!"

"You forget that I have a father," said Ellen,--"a father who loves me,
and whom I love,--a father who would die if he knew of his daughter's
disgrace."

"Fathers do not die so easily," cried the old hag. "They habituate
themselves to every thing, as well as other people. And then--think of
the luxuries and comforts with which you could surround the old man."

"We will not talk any more upon that subject," said Ellen firmly. "I
well understand your meaning; and I am not prudish nor false enough to
affect a virtue which I do not possess. But I have my interests to
consult; and it does not suit my ideas of happiness to accept the
proposal implied by your language. In a word, can you find me any more
employment?"

"I know no more Mesmerists," answered the old hag, in a surly tone.

"Then you can do nothing for me?"

"I did not say that--I did not say that," cried the hag. "It is true I
can get you upon the stage; but perhaps that pursuit will not please
you."

"Upon the stage!" ejaculated Ellen. "In what capacity?"

"As a _figurante_, or dancer in the ballet, at a great theatre," replied
the old woman.

"But I should be known--I should be recognised," said Ellen.

"There is no chance of that," returned the hag. "Dressed like a sylph,
with rouge upon your cheeks, and surrounded by a blaze of light, you
would be altogether a different being. Ah! it seems that I already
behold you upon the stage--the point of admiration for a thousand
looks--the object of envy and desire, and of every passion which can
possibly gratify female vanity."

For some moments Ellen remained lost in thought. The old woman's offer
pleased her: she was vain of her beauty and she contemplated with
delight the opportunity thus presented to her of displaying it with
brilliant effect. She already dreamt of success, applause, and showers
of nosegays; and her countenance gradually expended into a smile of
pleasure.

"I accept your proposal," she said; "but--"

"Why do you hesitate?" demanded the old woman.

"Oh! I was only thinking that the introduction would be better----"

"If it did not come from me?" added the old woman, her wrinkled face
becoming more wrinkled still with a sardonic grin. "Well, make yourself
easy upon that score. I am only aware that a celebrated manager has a
vacancy in his establishment for a figurante, and you may apply for it."

"But I am ignorant of the modes of dancing practised upon the stage,"
said Ellen.

"You will soon learn," answered the old woman. "Your beauty will prove
your principal recommendation."

"And what shall I give you for your suggestion?" asked Ellen, taking out
her purse.

When a bailiff makes a seizure in a house, he assures himself with a
glance around, whether there be sufficient property to pay at least
_his_ expenses;--when a debtor calls upon his creditor to ask for time,
the latter surveys the former for a moment, to ascertain by his
countenance if he can be trusted;--the wholesale dealer always "takes
stock," as it were, of the petty detailer who applies to him for
credit;--and thus was it that the old woman scrutinized with a single
look the capacity of Ellen's purse, so that she might thereby regulate
her demand. And all the while she appeared intent only on her work.

"You can give me a couple of guineas now," the old woman at length said;
"and if your engagement proves a good one, you can bring or send me
three more in the course of the month."

This arrangement was immediately complied with, and Ellen took leave of
the old hag, with the fervent hope that she should never require her aid
any more.

On the following day Miss Monroe called upon the manager of the great
national theatre where a figurante was required.

She was ushered into the presence of the theatrical monarch, who
received her with much urbanity and kindness; and he was evidently
pleased with her address, appearance, and manners, as she explained to
him the nature of her business.

"Dancing in a ball-room, and dancing upon the stage, are two very
different things," said the manager. "You will have to undergo a course
of training, the length of which will depend upon your skill and your
application. I have known young ladies become proficient in a
month--others in a year--many never, in spite of all their exertions.
Most of the figurantes have been brought up to their avocation from
childhood; but I see no reason why you should not learn to acquit
yourself well in a very short time."

"I shall exert myself to the utmost, at all events," observed Ellen.

"How are you circumstanced?" inquired the manager. "Excuse the question;
but my object is to ascertain if you can support yourself during your
apprenticeship, as we may term the process of study and initiation?"

"I have a comfortable home, and am not without resources for my present
wants," answered Ellen.

"So far, so good," said the manager. "I do not seek to pry into your
secrets. You know best what motives induce you to adopt the stage: my
business is to secure the services of young, handsome, and elegant
ladies, to form my _corps de ballet_. It is no compliment to you to say
that you will answer my purpose, provided your studies are successful."

"With whom am I to study, sir?"

"My ballet-master will instruct you," replied the manager. "You can
attend his class. If you will come to the theatre to-morrow morning at
ten o'clock, you can take your first lesson."

Ellen assented to the proposal, and took leave of the manager. They were
mutually satisfied with this interview: the manager was pleased with the
idea of securing the services of a young lady of great beauty, perfect
figure, and exquisite grace;--and, on her side, Ellen was cheered with
the prospect of embracing an avocation which, she hoped, would render
her independent of the bounty of others.

And now her training commenced. In the first place her feet were placed
in a groove-box, heel to heel, so that they formed only one straight
line, and with the knees turned outwards. This process is called "_se
tourner_." At first the pain was excruciating--it was a perfect
martyrdom; but the fair student supported it without a murmur; and in a
very few days her feet accustomed themselves, as it were, to fall in
dancing parallel to each other.

The second lesson in the course of training consisted of resting the
right foot on a bar, which Ellen was compelled to hold in a horizontal
line with her left hand. Then the left foot was placed upon the bar,
which was in this case held up by the right hand. By these means the
stiffness of the feet was destroyed, and they were rendered as pliant
and elastic as if they had steel springs instead of bones. This process
is denominated "_se casser_."

Next, the student had to practise walking upon the extreme points of the
toes, so that the foot and the leg formed one straight line. Then Ellen
had to practise the flings, capers, caprioles, turns, whirls, leaps,
balances, borees, and all the various cuts, steps, positions, attitudes,
and movements of the dance. During the caprioles the student had to
train herself to perform four, six, and even eight steps in the air; and
the fatigue produced by these lessons was at times of the most
oppressive nature.[78]

When Ellen was perfected in these portions of her training, she had to
practise the tricks of the stage. At one time the was suspended to lines
of wires; at another she was seated on paste-board clouds; then she
learned to disappear through traps, or to make her exit by a window.
Some of these manoeuvres were of a very dangerous nature; indeed, in
some, the _danseuse_ actually risked her life--and all her limbs. The
awkwardness of an underling in shifting a trap-door at the precise
moment would have led her to dash her head against a plank with fearful
violence.

The art of theatrical dancing is divided into two schools, called
_Ballonné_ and _Tacqueté_. The former is the branch in which Taglioni
shines; the latter is that in which Fanny Ellsler excels. The style of
the _Ballonné_, takes its name from the airiness of the balloon; it
combines lightness with grace, and is principally characterized by a
breezy and floating appearance of the figure. The _Tacqueté_ is all
vivacity and rapidity, distinguished by sparkling steps and twinkling
measures, executed with wonderful quickness upon the point of the feet.
In both these schools was Ellen instructed.

So intense was the application of Miss Monroe--so unwearied was she in
her practice, so quick in comprehending the instructions of the
master--so resolute in surmounting all obstacles, that in the short
space of two months she was a beautiful dancer. The manager was
perfectly astonished at her progress; and he pronounced a most
favourable opinion upon her chance of achieving a grand triumph.

[Illustration]

Her form became all suppleness and lightness; her powers of relaxation
and abandonment of limb were prodigious. When attired in the delicate
drapery of the ballet, nothing could be more beautiful--nothing more
sylph-like, than the elastic airiness of her rich and rounded figure.
The grace of her attitudes--the charm of her dance--the arrangement of
that drapery, which revealed or exhibited the exquisite contours of her
form--the classic loveliness of her countenance--the admirable symmetry
of her limbs--and the brilliant whiteness of her skin, formed a whole so
attractive, so ravishing, that even the envy of her sister-figurantes
was subdued by a sentiment of uncontrollable admiration.

In obedience to a suggestion from the manager, Ellen agreed to adopt a
well-sounding name. She accordingly styled herself Miss Selina
Fitzherbert. She then learned that at least two-thirds of the gentlemen
and ladies constituting the theatrical company, had changed their
original patronymics into convenient pseudonyms. Thus Timothy Jones had
become Gerald Montgomery; William Wilkins was announced as William
Plantagenet; Simon Snuffles adopted the more aristocratic nomenclature
of Emeric Gordon; Benjamin Glasscock was changed into Horatio Mortimer;
Betsy Podkins was distinguished as Lucinda Hartington; Mary Smicks was
displaced by Clara Maberly; Jane Storks was commuted into Jacintha
Runnymede; and so on.

In her relations with the gentlemen and ladies of the corps, Ellen (for
we shall continue to call her by her real name) found herself in a new
world. Every thing with her present associates might be summed up in the
word--_egotism_. To hear them talk, one would have imagined that they
were so many princes and princesses in disguise, who had graciously
condescended to honour the public by appearing upon the stage. The
gentlemen were all descended (according to their own accounts) from the
best and most ancient families in the country; the ladies had all
brothers, or cousins, or uncles highly placed in the army or navy;--and
if any one ventured to express surprise that so many well-connected
individuals should be compelled to adopt the stage as a profession, the
answer was invariably the same--

"I entered on this career through preference, and have quarrelled with
all my friends in consequence. Oh! if I chose," would be added, with a
toss of the head, "I might have any thing done for me; I might ride in
my carriage; but I am determined to stick to the stage."

Poor creatures! this innocent little vanity was a species of reward, a
sort of set-off, for long hours of toil, the miseries of a precarious
existence, the moments of bitter anguish produced by the coldness of an
audience, and all the thousand causes of sorrow, vexation, and distress
which embitter the lives of the actor and actress.

With all their little faults, Ellen found the members of the theatrical
company good-natured creatures, ever ready to assist each other,
hospitable and generous to a fault. In their gay moments, they were
sprightly, full of anecdote, and remarkably entertaining. Many of them
were clever, and exhibited much sound judgment in their remarks and
critical observations upon new dramas and popular works.

At length the evening arrived when Ellen was to make her first
appearance upon the stage in public. The house was well attended; and
the audience was thrown into a remarkably good humour by the various
performances which preceded the ballet. Ellen was in excellent spirits,
and full of confidence. As she surveyed herself in the glass in her
little dressing-room a few moments before she appeared, a smile of
triumph played upon her lips, and lent fire to her eyes. She was indeed
ravishingly beautiful.

Her success was complete. The loveliness of her person at once produced
an impression in her favour; and when she executed some of the most
difficult measures of the Ballonné school, the enthusiasm of the
audience knew no bounds. The eyes of the ancient libertines, aided by
opera-glasses and _lorgnettes_, devoured the charms of that beautiful
girl;--the young men followed every motion, every gesture, with
rapturous attention;--the triumph of the _debutante_ was complete.

There was something so graceful and yet so voluptuous in her style of
dancing,--something so bewitching in her attitudes and so captivating in
her manner, that she could not have failed to please. And then she had
so well studied all those positions which set off her symmetrical form
to its best advantage,--she had paid such unwearied attention to those
measures that were chiefly calculated to invoke attention to her
well-rounded, and yet light and elastic limbs,--she had so particularly
practised those pauses which afforded her an opportunity of making the
most of her fine person, that her dancing excited pleasure in every
sense--delighting the eye, producing an effect as of a musical and
harmonious feeling in the mind, and exciting in the breasts of the male
portion of the spectators passions of rapture and desire.

She literally wantoned in the gay and voluptuous dance; at one moment
all rapidity, grace, and airiness; at another suddenly falling into a
pause expressive of a soft and languishing fatigue;--then again becoming
all energy, activity, and animation,--representing, in all its phases,
the soul--the spirit--the very poetry of the dance!

At length the toils of her first performance ended. There was not a
dissenting voice, when she was called for before the curtain. And then,
as she came forward, led by the manager, flowers fell around her--and
handkerchiefs were waved by fair hands--and a thousand enthusiastic
voices proclaimed her success. Her hopes were gratified--her aspirations
were fulfilled:--she had achieved a brilliant triumph!




CHAPTER LXXXIX.

THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER.


And now commenced a gay and busy life for Ellen Monroe. To account for
her long absence each day from home, was an easy matter; for her father
was readily satisfied, so implicit was the confidence he placed in his
daughter's discretion; and Markham was always buried amongst his books
in his study, save during the intervals occupied by meals.

Ellen's salary was considerable; and to dispose of it in a manner that
was not calculated to excite the suspicion of her parent and benefactor,
required more duplicity. She took home with her a small amount weekly;
and the remainder she placed in the hands of a man of business,
recommended to her by the manager.

Numerous attempts were made by certain young noblemen and gentlemen, who
frequented the theatre, to ascertain where she resided. But this secret
was unknown to every one save the manager, and he kept it religiously.

Nevertheless, Ellen was persecuted by amatory letters, and by proposals
of a tender nature. A certain favoured few, of the youthful fashionables
above alluded to, were permitted to lounge behind the scenes during the
hours of performance; and with them Ellen was an object of powerful
attraction--indeed, _the_ object of undivided attention and interest.
They perceived that she was as beautiful when surveyed near as she
seemed when viewed from a distance. But, although she would lend a
willing ear to the nonsense and small talk of her wooers, she gave them
no direct encouragement; and, though somewhat free, her manners never
afforded a pretence even for the most daring to overstep the bounds of
decency towards her. The most brilliant offers were conveyed to her in
the most delicate terms; but they were invariably declined with
firmness, when oral--and left unanswered, when written.

A species of mystery appeared to hang around the charming _danseuse_,
and only served to render her the more interesting. No one knew who she
was, or whence she came. Her residence was a secret; and she was seen
only at the theatre. Then she was reported to be a very paragon of
virtue, and had refused the offers of titled and wealthy men. These
circumstances invested her with those artificial attractions which
please the public, and which, when united with her real qualifications,
raised her to a splendid degree of popularity.

Although her time was fully occupied, she now and then found leisure to
call at the house of Mr. Wentworth, the surgeon, and pass half an hour
in the company of her child. The little being throve apace; and Ellen
felt for it all a mother's tenderness--a love which was not impaired by
that callousness towards virtue for virtue's sake, which we have before
noticed, and which had been produced in her by the strange scenes
through which she had passed.

One evening, a short time before she was to appear in the ballet, the
manager informed her that a gentleman desired to speak with her alone in
the green-room.

To that apartment did Ellen immediately repair, and, to her surprise,
the found herself in the presence of Mr. Greenwood.

"Ah! I am not then mistaken," exclaimed that gentleman, with one of his
blandest smiles. "I saw you last night for the first time; and the
moment you appeared upon the stage I knew you--that is, I felt almost
convinced that it was you. But how happened this strange event in your
life?"

"My benefactor, _Richard Markham_," answered Ellen, with singular and
mysterious emphasis upon the name, "is not wealthy--_you_ best know why;
my father is irretrievably ruined--_you_ also know how:--and, with all
my faults, I could not endure the idea of eating the bread of dependence
and idleness."

"But why did you not apply to me?" demanded Greenwood. "I would have
placed you above want."

"No--I would not for worlds be dependent upon you," replied Ellen
warmly. "I appealed to you to support my child--_our_ child; and you did
so. There was only one way in which you could have manifested a real
generosity towards me--and you refused. The service I asked you once
upon my knees--with tears and prayers--you rejected:--I implored you to
give a father's honourable name to your child--I besought you to save
the reputation of her whose father was ruined through you, and who
herself became your victim by a strange combination of circumstances.
You refused! What _less_ could I accept at _your_ hands? Do you think
that I have not my little sentiments of pride as well as you? I could
not live idly:--I embraced the stage; and my exertions have been crowned
with success."

"And your father--and Richard--do they know of your present avocation?"
demanded Greenwood, somewhat abashed by the bitterness of the
under-current of reproach which had characterised the last speech of the
figurante.

"God forbid!" cried Ellen. "And yet," she added, after a moment's
thought, "I need not be ashamed of earning my bread by my own honourable
exertions."

"And now, Ellen--one more question," said Greenwood. "The child--is he
well! Is he taken care of?"

"He is well--and he is duly cared for," was Ellen's reply; and as she
delivered it, she felt an emotion--almost of tenderness--in favour of
the man who thus inquired, with embarrassment of manner, after the
welfare of _their_ child.

Greenwood's quick eye noticed the feeling that animated the young
mother's bosom. He took her hand, and drew her towards him. She was so
exquisitely beautiful--so inviting in the light gauze garb which she
wore, that Greenwood's passions were fired, and he longed to make her
his mistress.

Her hand lingered in his;--he pressed it gently. She did not seem to
notice the circumstance; her eyes were cast down--she was absorbed in
thought.

Greenwood imprinted a kiss upon her spotless forehead.

She started, hastily withdrew her hand, and cast upon him a look of
mingled curiosity and reproach.

"Are you astonished that I should bestow a mark of kind feeling upon the
mother of my child?" asked Greenwood, assuming a soft and tender tone of
voice.

"That mother," answered Ellen, "whom you abandoned to shame and
dishonour!"

"Do not reproach me for what is past," said Greenwood.

"Would you not act in the same manner over again?" inquired Ellen,
darting a searching glance at the member of Parliament.

"Why this question, Ellen?" exclaimed Greenwood. "Will you not believe
me if I tell you that I am attached to you? Will you not give me credit
for sincerity, when I declare that I would gladly exert all the means in
my power to make you happy? Why do you look so coldly upon me? Listen
for a moment, Ellen, to what I am about to say. A few miles from London
there is a delicious spot--a perfect Paradise upon earth, a villa
surrounded by charming grounds, and commanding views of the most lovely
scenery. That property is for sale: say but the word--I will purchase
it--it shall be yours; and all the time that I can spare from my
numerous avocations shall be devoted to Ellen and to love."

"The way to that charming villa, so far as you and I are concerned,"
said Ellen, "must lead through the church. Is it thus that you
understand it?"

"Why destroy the dream of love and happiness which I had formed, by
allusion to the formal ceremonies of this cold world?" exclaimed
Greenwood.

"That is the language of every libertine, sir," replied Ellen, with
bitter irony. "Do not deceive yourself--you cannot deceive me. I would
accept the title of your wife, for the sake of our child;--but to be
your mistress--no, never--never."

With these words Ellen left the green-room; and in a few minutes she
appeared upon the stage--gay, animated, radiant with beauty and with
smiles--the very personification of the voluptuous dance in which she
shone with such unrivalled splendour.

Five or six evenings after the one on which she had this interview with
Greenwood, Ellen received a note by the post. It was addressed to her at
the theatre, by the name which she had assumed; and its contents ran as
follows:--

     "A certain person who is enamoured of you, and who is not
     accustomed to allow trivial obstacles to stand in the way of his
     designs, has determined upon carrying you forcibly off to a
     secluded spot in the country. He knows where you reside, and has
     ascertained that you return every evening from the theatre in a
     hackney cab to within a short distance of your abode. His plan is
     to way-lay you during your walk from the place where you descend
     from the vehicle, to your residence. If your suspicions fall upon
     any person of your acquaintance, after a perusal of this note,
     beware how you tax him with the vile intent;--beware how you
     communicate this warning, for by any imprudence on your part, you
     may deprive the writer of the means of counteracting in future the
     infamous designs which the individual above alluded to may form
     against yourself or others."

This note was written in a neat but curious hand, which seemed to be
that of a foreigner. The reader can well imagine the painful surprise
which its contents produced upon the young figurante. She however had no
difficulty in fixing upon Greenwood as the person who contemplated the
atrocity revealed in that note.

He alone (save the manager, who was an honourable and discreet man) knew
where she lived; unless, indeed, some other amatory swain had followed
her homeward. This idea perplexed her--it was possible; and yet she
could not help thinking that Greenwood was the person against whom she
was thus warned.

But who had sent her that friendly notice? Who was the mysterious
individual that had thus generously placed her upon her guard?
Conjecture was useless. She must think only of how she ought to act!

Her mind was speedily made up. She resolved to ride in the vehicle of an
evening up to the very door of Markham's house, and trust to her
ingenuity for an excuse to satisfy her father relative to this apparent
extravagance on her part. Both Richard and Mr. Monroe put implicit
confidence in her word;--she had already satisfactorily accounted for
the late hours which her attendance at the theatre compelled her to
keep, by stating that she was engaged to attend private concerts and
musical conversaziones at the West End--sometimes, even, at Blackheath,
Kensington, and Clapham--where she presided at the piano, in which she
was a proficient. Then, when she was compelled to be present at
rehearsals at the theatre, she stated that she had morning concerts to
attend; and as she was not absent from home every day (her engagement
with the manager being merely to appear three nights a-week) this system
of deception on her part readily obtained credit with both Markham and
her father, neither of whom could seriously object to what they were
induced to believe was the legitimate exercise of her accomplishments.
Accordingly, when, on the morning after the receipt of the mysterious
letter, she casually mentioned that she should no longer return home of
an evening by the omnibus, as she disliked the lonely walk from the
main-road, where it set her down, to the Place, and that her emoluments
would now permit her to enjoy the comfort and safety of a cab, both
Richard and her father earnestly commended her resolution.

And why did she not tell the truth at once? wherefore did she not
acknowledge the career which she was pursuing, and reveal the triumph
which she had achieved?

Because she knew that both her father and Markham would oppose
themselves to the idea of her exercising the profession of a
dancer;--because she had commenced a system of duplicity, and was almost
necessitated to persevere in it;--and because she really loved--ardently
loved--the course upon which she had entered. The applause of crowded
audiences--the smiles of the manager--the adulation of the young nobles
and gentlemen who, behind the scenes, complimented her upon her success,
her talents, and her beauty,--these were delights which she would not
very readily abandon.




CHAPTER XC.

MARKHAM'S OCCUPATIONS.


Since the period when Markham had made so great a sacrifice of his
pecuniary resources, in order to effect the liberation of Count Alteroni
from a debtor's prison, he had devoted himself to literary pursuits. He
aspired to the honours of authorship, and composed a tragedy.

All young authors, while yet nibbling the grass at the foot of Parnassus
(and how many never reach any higher!) attempt either poetry or the
drama. They invariably fix upon the most difficult tasks; and yet they
did not begin learning Greek with Euripides, nor enter upon their
initiation into the mysteries of the Latin tongue with Juvenal.

There is also another fault into which they invariably fall;--and that
is an extraordinary tendency to three meretricious ornaments which they
seem to mistake for fine writing. Truth and nature may be regarded as a
noble flock, furnishing the richest fleece to mankind; but when a series
of good writers have exhausted their fleece in weaving the fabrics of
genius, their successors are tempted to have recourse to swine for a
supply of materials; and we know, besides, that in this attempt, as in
the rude dramas called "Moralities" in the middle ages, there is great
cry and little wool. It is also liable to the objection that no skill in
the workmanship, or adjustment in the machinery, can give it the beauty
and perfection of the raw material which nature has appropriated to the
purpose of clothing her favoured offspring.

Too many writers of the present day, instead of attempting to rival
their predecessors in endeavouring to fabricate the genuine fleece
derived from this flock of truth and nature, into new and exquisite
forms, are engaged in shearing the swine. In this labour they can
obtain, at best, nothing more than erroneous principles of science,
worthless paradoxes, unnatural fictions, tinsel poetry and prose, and
unnumbered crudities.

Richard Markham was not exempted from these faults. He wrote a
tragedy--abounding in beauties, and abounding in faults.

The most delicious sweets, used in undue proportions with our food and
drink, soon become in a high degree offensive and disgusting. Markham
heaped figure upon figure--crammed his speeches with metaphors--and
travelled many thousands of miles out of his way in search of a
similitude, when he had a much better and more simple one close at hand.
Nevertheless, his tragedy contained proofs of a brilliant talent, and,
with much judicious pruning, every element of triumphant success.

Having obtained the address of the private residence of the manager of
one of the principal metropolitan theatres, Richard sent his tragedy to
the great man. He, however, withheld his real name, for he had
determined to commence his literary career under a feigned one; so that,
in case he should prove unsuccessful, his failure might not become known
to his friends the Monroes, or reach the ears of his well-beloved
Isabella. For the same reason he did not give his proper address in the
letter which accompanied the drama; but requested that a reply might be
sent to _Edward Preston, to the care of Mr. Dyson_ (his solicitor).

He did not mention to a single soul--not even to Monroe or the faithful
Whittingham--the circumstance of his authorship. He reflected that if he
succeeded, it would then be time to communicate his happiness; but, that
if he failed, it would be useless to wound others by imparting to them
his disappointments. He had ceased to be sanguine about any thing in
this world; for he had met with too many misfortunes to anticipate much
success in life; and his only ambition was to obtain an honourable
livelihood.

Scarcely a week had elapsed after Markham had sent his drama to the
manager, when he received a letter from this gentleman. The contents
were laconic enough, but explicit. The manager "had perused the tragedy
with feelings of extreme satisfaction;"--he congratulated the writer
upon "the skill which he had made his combinations to produce stage
effect;"--he suggested "a few alterations and considerable
abbreviations;" and concluded by stating that "he should be most happy
to introduce so promising an author to the public." A postscript
appointed a time for an interview at the manager's own private
residence.

At eleven o'clock the next morning Markham was ushered into the presence
of the manager.

The great man was seated in his study, dressed in a magnificent Turkish
dressing-gown, with a French skull-cap upon his head, and red morocco
slippers upon his feet. He was a man of middle age--gentlemanly and
affable in manner--and possessed of considerable literary abilities.

"Sit down, sir--pray, sit down," said the manager, when Markham was
introduced. "I have perused your tragedy with great attention, and am
pleased with it. I am, moreover, perfectly willing to undertake the risk
of bringing it out, although tragedy is at a terrible discount
now-a-days. But, first and foremost, we most make arrangements about
terms. What price do you put upon your manuscript?"

"I have formed no idea upon that subject," replied Markham. "I would
rather leave myself entirely in your hands."

"Nay--you must know the hope you have entertained in this respect?" said
the manager.

"To tell you the candid truth, this is my first essay," returned
Markham; "and I am totally unacquainted with the ordinary value of such
labour."

"If this be your first essay, sir," said the manager, surveying Markham
with some astonishment, "I can only assure you that it is a most
promising one. But once again--name your price."

"The manner in which you speak to me shows that if I trust to your
generosity, I shall not do wrong."

"Well, Mr. Preston," cried the manager, pleased at this compliment, "I
shall use you in an equally liberal manner. You must be informed that
you will have certain pecuniary privileges, in respect to any provincial
theatres at which your piece may be performed should it prove
successful; and you will also have the benefit of the publication of the
work in a volume. What, then, should you say if I were to give you fifty
guineas for the play, and five guineas a-night for every time of its
performance, after the first fortnight?"

"I should esteem your offer a very liberal one," answered Richard,
overjoyed at the proposal.

"In that case the bargain is concluded at once, and without any more
words," said the manager; then, taking a well-filled canvass bag from
his desk, he counted down fifty guineas in notes, gold, and silver.

Markham gave a receipt, and they exchanged undertakings specifying the
conditions proposed by the manager.

"When do you propose to bring out the piece?" inquired Richard, when
this business was concluded.

"In about six weeks," said the manager. "Shall you have any objection to
attend the rehearsals, and see that the gentlemen and ladies of the
company fully appreciate the spirit of the parts that will be assigned
to them?"

"I shall not have the least objection," answered Markham; "but I am
afraid that my experience----"

"Well, well," said the manager, smiling, "I will not press you. Leave it
all to me--I will see justice done to your design, which I think I
understand pretty well. If I want you I will let you know; and if you do
not hear from me, you will see by the advertisements in the newspapers
for what night the first representation will be announced."

Markham expressed his gratitude to the manager for the kindness with
which he had received him, and then took his leave, his heart elated
with hope, and his mind relieved from much anxiety respecting the
future.

When he left the manager's residence he repaired to an adjacent tavern
to procure some refreshment; and there, while engaged in the discussion
of a sandwich and a glass of sherry, he cast his eyes over _The Times_
newspaper.

A particular advertisement arrested his attention.

A gentleman--a widower--required a daily tutor for his two young sons,
whom he was desirous of having instructed in Latin, history, drawing,
arithmetic, &c. The boys were respectively nine and eleven years old.
The advertiser stated that any individual who could himself teach the
various branches of education specified, would be preferred to a
plurality of masters, each proficient only in one particular study.
Personal application was to be made between certain hours.

The residence of the advertiser was in Kentish Town; and this vicinity
to Markham's own abode induced him to think seriously of offering his
services. He did not feel disposed to pursue his literary labours until
after the representation of his drama, as he was as yet unaware of the
reception it might experience at the hands of the public;--and he was
also by no means inclined to remain idle. The occupation of daily tutor
in a respectable family appeared congenial to his tastes; and he
resolved to proceed forthwith to the residence of Mr. Gregory, in
Kentish Town.

Arrived at the house, he was admitted into the presence of a gentleman
of about fifty, with a serious and melancholy countenance, prepossessing
manners, and a peculiar suavity of voice that gave encouragement to the
applicant.

Markham told him in a few words that he was once possessed of
considerable property, the greater portion of which he had lost through
the unfortunate speculations of his guardian, and that he was now
anxious to turn the excellent education which he had received to some
advantage.

Mr. Gregory had only lately arrived in London with his family, from a
very distant part of the country, where he had a house and small estate;
but the recent death of a beloved wife had rendered the scenes of their
wedded happiness disagreeable to him;--and this was the cause of his
removal and his settlement in London. He lived in a very retired manner,
and had previously known nothing of Markham--not even his name. He was
therefore totally ignorant of Richard's trial and condemnation for
forgery. The young man felt the greatest possible inclination to reveal
the entire facts to Mr. Gregory, whose amiable manners gave him
confidence; but he restrained himself--for it struck him that others
were dependent upon him--that he ought not to stand in his own
light--and that his innocence of the crime imputed to him, and the
consciousness of those upright and honourable intentions which on all
occasions filled his breast, were a sufficient extenuation for this
silence.

Mr. Gregory, who was himself a highly-educated man, soon saw that
Markham was competent to teach his children all that it was desirable
for them to acquire; and he agreed to engage the applicant as his sons'
tutor. Richard offered to give him a reference to his solicitor; but Mr.
Gregory declined to take it, saying, "Your appearance, Mr. Markham, is
sufficient."

On the following day Richard entered upon his new avocation. He was
engaged to attend at Mr. Gregory's house from ten till three every day.
The employment was a pleasant one; and the pecuniary terms were liberal
in the extreme.

Gustavus and Lionel Gregory were two intelligent and handsome youths;
and they soon became greatly attached to their tutor.

From the mere fact of having never been accustomed to tuition, Richard
took the greater pains to explain all difficult subjects to them; and so
well did he adapt his plan of instruction to their juvenile capacities,
that in the short space of a month, Mr. Gregory was himself perfectly
astonished at the advance which his sons had made in their studies. He
then determined that the advantages of the tutor's abilities should be
extended to his daughter, in respect to drawing; and Miss Mary-Anne
Gregory was accordingly added to the number of Markham's pupils.

Mary-Anne was, at the time of which we are writing, sixteen years of
age. Delicate in constitution, and of a sweet and amiable disposition,
she was an object of peculiar interest to all who knew her. Her long
flaxen hair, soft blue eyes, pale countenance, and vermilion lips, gave
her the appearance of a wax figure; and her light and airy form,
flitting ever hither and thither in obedience to the innocent gaiety and
vivacity of her disposition, seemed that of some fairy whose destinies
belonged not to the common lot of mortals.

Although she was sixteen, she was considered but a mere girl; and she
romped with her brothers, and with the young female friends who
occasionally visited her, with all the joyousness and glee of a child of
ten years old.

The animation of her countenance was on those occasions radiant and
brilliant in the extreme:--a spectator could have snatched her to his
arms and embraced her fondly,--not with a single gross desire--not with
the shadow of an unhallowed motive; but, in the same way as a man, who,
being a parent himself, is attached to children, suddenly seizes upon a
lovely little boy or girl of two or three years old, and covers its
cheeks with kisses.

Mary-Anne was by no means beautiful--not even pretty; and yet there was
something altogether unearthly in the whole character and expression of
her countenance. It was a face of angelic interest--indicative of a
mental amiability and serenity truly divine.

Without possessing the ingredients of physical beauty--without
regularity of feature or classical formation of head,--there was still
about her an abstract loveliness, apart from shape and features, which
was of itself positive and distinct, and seemed an emanation of mental
qualities, infantine joyousness, and winning manners. It produced a sort
of atmosphere of light around her--enveloping her as with a halo of
innocence.

Her face was as pale--as colourless as the finest Parian marble, but
also, like the surface of that beautiful material, spotless and devoid
of blemish. Her pure forehead was streaked with small azure veins: her
lips were thin, and of the brightest vermilion; and these hues placed in
contrast with that delicate complexion, gave a sentiment and expression
to her countenance altogether peculiar to itself.

Her eyes, of a light and yet too positive a blue to be mistaken for
grey, were fringed with long dark lashes, which imparted to them--ever
gay and sparkling as they were--a magic eloquence as powerful as that of
the most faultless beauty. And, again, in strange contrast with those
dark lashes was her flaxen hair, the whole of which fell in ringlets and
in waves over her shoulders and her back, no portion of it being
collected in a knot behind.

Then her form--it was so slight as to appear almost etherealised, and
yet there was no mistaking the symmetry of its proportions.

Thus--without being actually beautiful--Mary-Anne was a creature of
light and joy who was calculated to interest, fascinate, and win, in a
manner which produced feelings of admiration and of love. Her appearance
therefore produced upon the mind an impression that she _was_
beautiful--very beautiful; and yet, if any one had paused to analyse her
features, she would have been found to possess no real elements of
physical loveliness. She was charming--fascinating--bewitching--interesting;
therefore lovely in one sense, and loveable in all respects!

Mary-Anne was a very difficult pupil to teach. In the midst of the most
serious study, that charming and volatile creature would start from her
chair, run to her piano, and commence a lively air, which she would
leave also unfinished, and then narrate some sprightly anecdote, or
utter some artless sally, which would create a general laugh.

The seriousness of the tutor would be disturbed in spite of himself: and
even her father, if present, could not find it in his heart to scold.

The drawing would at length be resumed; and for half an hour, the
application of Mary-Anne would be intense. Then away would be flung the
pencil; and a new freak must be accomplished before the study would be
resumed.

Richard could not help liking this volatile, but artless and innocent
creature,--as a man likes his daughter or his sister; and she, on her
part, appeared to become greatly attached to her tutor.

Although Mr. Gregory followed no profession, being a man of considerable
independent property, he was nevertheless much from home, passing his
time either at the library of the British Museum or at his Club. Richard
and Mary-Anne were thus much together,--too much for the peace of that
innocent and fascinating girl!

She speedily conceived a violent passion for her tutor, which he,
however, neither perceived nor returned.

She was herself unaware of the nature of her own feelings towards
him;--she knew as much of love and its sensations as a beauteous savage
girl, in some far-off isle, knows of Christianity;--and hers was an
attachment which could only be revealed to herself by some accident,
which might excite her jealousy or awaken her grief.

One morning, before the usual lessons of the day commenced, Mr. Gregory
entered the study, and, addressing himself to Markham, said, "We must
now give the young people a holiday for a short time. Proper relaxation
is as necessary to their bodily welfare as education to their mental
well-being. We will suspend their studies for a month, if you be
agreeable, Mr. Markham. I shall, however, be always pleased to see you
as often as you choose to call during that interval; and every Sunday,
at all events, we shall expect the pleasure of your company to dinner as
usual."

"What!" cried Mary-Anne; "is Mr. Markham to discontinue his daily visits
for a whole month?"

"Certainly, my dear," said her father. "Mr. Markham requires a holiday
as well as you."

"I want no holiday," exclaimed Mary-Anne, pouting her lips in a manner
that was quite charming, and which might remind the reader of the
_petite moue_ that Esmeralda was accustomed to make in Victor Hugo's
admirable novel _Notre Dame de Paris_.

"But _you_ always take a holiday, my dear," returned her father with a
smile; "and therefore you fancy that others do not require a temporary
relaxation. Gustavus and Lionel want a holiday; and Mr. Markham cannot
be always poring over books and drawings."

"Well, I wish Mr. Markham to take the trouble to come every morning and
give me my drawing lesson," said the young lady, with a little air of
decision and firmness, which was quite comic in its way; "and if he will
not," she added, "then I will never learn to draw any more--and that is
decided."

Mr. Gregory surveyed his daughter with an air of astonishment.

Probably he half penetrated _the_ secret--for her passion could not be
called _her_ secret, because she was totally unconscious of the nature
of her feelings, and sought to conceal nothing.

Had she been aware of the real sentiment which she experienced, she
would have at once revealed it; for she was guileless and
unsuspicious--ignorant of all deceit--devoid of all hypocrisy--and
endowed with as much simplicity and artlessness as a child of six years
old.

"Mr. Markham must have a holiday, my dear," said Mr. Gregory, at length,
with a peculiar emphasis; "and I beg that no further objection may be
offered."

Mary-Anne instantly burst into tears, exclaiming, in a voice almost
choked with sobs, "Mr. Markham _may_ have _his_ holiday, if he likes;
but I will not learn any thing more of him when the studies begin
again."

And she retired in a pet to another apartment.

Markham was himself astonished at this singular behaviour on the part of
his interesting pupil.

He was, however, far from suspecting the real cause, and took his leave
with a promise to return to dinner on the following Sunday, until which
time there was then an interval of five days.

Three days after the one on which the above conversation took place,
Markham was about to issue from his dwelling to proceed into town for
the purpose of calling upon the manager, as he had that morning seen his
drama advertised for early representation,--when Whittingham informed
him that a young lady desired to speak to him In the drawing-room.

The idea of Isabella instantly flashed through the mind of Richard:--but
would _she_ call upon him, alone and unattended? No--for Isabella, was
modesty and prudence personified.

Then, who could it be?

Markham asked this question of his butler.

"A remarkable sweet creatur," said Whittingham; "and come quite
spontaneous like. Beautiful flaxy hair--blue eyes--pale complexion--"

"Impossible! you do not say _that_, Whittingham?" cried Markham, on whom
a light now broke.

"Do I look like a man that speaks evasiously, Master Richard?" demanded
the butler, shifting his inseparable companion--the white napkin--from
beneath one arm to the other.

Markham repaired to the drawing-room:--his suspicions were
verified;--the moment he entered the apartment, he beheld Miss Gregory
seated upon the sofa.

"Well, Mr. Markham," she said, extending to him her hand, and smiling so
sweetly with her vermilion lips, which disclosed a set of teeth not
quite even, but as white as ivory, that Richard could not find it in his
heart to be angry with her; "I was resolved not to pass the day without
seeing you; and as you would not come to me, I was compelled to come to
you."

"But, Miss Gregory," said Markham, "are you not aware that you have
taken a most imprudent step, and that the world would highly censure
your conduct?"

"Why?" demanded Mary-Anne, in astonishment.

"Because ladies, no matter whether single or married, never call upon
single gentlemen; and society has laid down certain rules in this
respect, which--"

"My dear Mr. Markham, you are not giving me a lesson now, remember, in
my father's study," interrupted Mary-Anne, laughing heartily. "I know
nothing about the rules of society in this respect, or that respect, or
any other respect. All I know is, that I cried all night long after you
left us the other day; and I have been very miserable until this
morning, when I suddenly recollected that I knew your address, and could
come and call on you."

"If your father were to know that you came hither," said Richard, "he
would never forgive you, nor ever see me again."

"Well, then, all we have to do is not to tell my father any thing about
the matter," said Mary-Anne, with considerable ingenuousness. "But how
cross you look; and I--I thought," she added, ready to cry, "that you
would be as pleased to see me as I am to see you."

"Yes, Miss Gregory--I _am_ pleased to see you--I am always pleased to
see you," answered Markham, by way of soothing the poor girl; "but you
must allow me to assure you that this step is the most imprudent--the
most thoughtless in the world. I really tremble for the
consequences--should your father happen to hear of it."

"I tell you over and over again," persisted Miss Gregory, "that my papa
shall never know any thing at all about the matter. Now, then, pray
don't be cross; but tell me that you are glad to see me. Speak, Mr.
Markham--are you glad to see me?"

"How shall I ever be able to convince this artless young creature of the
impropriety of her conduct?" murmured Richard within himself. "To argue
with her too long and too forcibly upon the subject would be to instruct
her innocent mind in the evils and vices of society, and to imbue her
with ideas which are as yet like a foreign and a strange tongue to her!
Innocence, then, is not a pearl of invaluable price to its possessor, in
this world,--since it can so readily prepare the path which _might_ lead
to ruin!"

"You do not answer me--you are thoughtful--you will not speak to me,"
said Mary Ann, rising from the sofa, with tears in her eyes, and
preparing--or rather affecting an intention to depart.

Markham still gave her no reply.

He was grieved--deeply grieved to wound her feelings; but he thought
that it would be better to allow her to return home at once, with
sentiments of pique and wounded pride which would prevent a repetition
of the same step, than to initiate her into those social mysteries which
would only give an impulse to her lively imagination that would probably
prove morally injurious to her.

But Mary Anne was incapable of harbouring resentment; and she burst into
an agony of grief.

"Oh! how unkind you are, Mr. Markham," she exclaimed, "after all my
endeavours to please you! I thought that you would have experienced as
much joy to see me, as I felt when I saw you enter the room. Since the
day that I lost my dear mother--upwards of nine years ago--I have never
loved any one so much as I love you--no, not even my father; for I feel
that at this moment I could dare even _his_ anger, if you were to
shelter me! I have long thought that I had no friend but God, to whom I
could communicate my little secrets; and now I feel as if I could bestow
all my confidence upon you. Since the death of my mother I have never
sought my couch without resigning my soul into the hands of God, and
without demanding of him an insight into truth and virtue. But now I
would rather entrust my safety to you; and I would rather learn all I
should know from your lips than from those of another! You ought,
therefore, to treat me with more kindness and consideration than you
have done up to this moment;--you should bestow upon me an additional
share of your attention and notice,--because I am anxious to please
you--I would do any thing to save you pain--I would lay down my life to
ensure a prolongation of yours!"

Mary-Anne had never spoken so seriously, nor in so impassioned a manner,
in her life before. She was even astonished herself at the very ideas
which she was now expressing for the first time, and which seemed to
flow from some inward fountain whose springs she could not check.

Markham was astounded.

He suddenly comprehended the true situation of the innocent and artless
girl in respect to himself.

A pang shot through his heart when he considered the impossibility of
her happiness ever being ensured by his means; and he thought within
himself, "Alas! poor child, she does not rightly comprehend the state of
her own mind!"

But how could this love of hers be stifled? how could that passion be
suppressed?

All the remedies yet essayed to quench and annihilate love, have changed
into poisons;--even violent and unexpected lessons will not always make
the heart reflect.

The more the slave bends, the heavier becomes the yoke: the more a man
employs an unjust force, the more will injustice become necessary to his
views. No one should attempt to exercise tyranny upon proud souls; for
he will readily learn that it is not easy to triumph over and trample on
a noble love. Error succeeds error--outrage follows upon outrage--and
bitterness increases like a torrent whose embankments have given way.
Who can define the termination of these ravages? Will not the tender and
affectionate woman, whose love man may endeavour to stifle by coldness
or neglect, perish in the ruin? _She_ will succumb to tears and to
devouring cares--even while the _love_ which she cherishes still
preserves all its vigour, and loses nothing of its ardour through
intense suffering!

Markham knew not how to reply to that affectionate girl, whose spirit he
dared not break by his unkindness,--whose passion he could not return,
because his heart was devoted to another,--and whose mind he was afraid
to enlighten with regard to those social duties which originated in
reasons and motives totally unknown to her.

"Mr. Markham," said Mary-Anne, wiping away her tears, "tell me that you
are not angry with me for calling: and, as you say it is not right, I
will never come again."

"Angry with you, Miss Gregory, I cannot be," exclaimed Markham. "But I
ought to tell you that you must not give way to that feeling
of--of--preference towards me--"

"Oh! I suppose that the rules of society also prevent a single lady from
liking a single gentleman?" interrupted Mary-Anne pettishly.

"No rules can control volition, Miss Gregory," said Richard, cruelly
embarrassed how to explain himself to the young lady; "but if you tell
me that you prefer me to your father--"

"And so I do," exclaimed Mary-Anne quickly.

"Then you are wrong," returned Markham.

"Wrong, indeed! and yet you have just told me that no rules can control
volition."

"True; but we must endeavour to conquer those feelings. You say that you
like me?--suppose that we were never to meet again; would you not then
learn to forget that you ever knew such a being?"

"Impossible! never--never!" cried Mary-Anne enthusiastically. "I am
always thinking of you!"

"But the time must come, some day or another--whether now, or a year, or
ten years hence--when we must cease to meet. I may be married--or you
yourself may marry--"

"Married!" ejaculated Mary-Anne: "do you think of marrying, then, Mr.
Markham?"

"I am certainly attached to a young lady," replied Richard; "but there
are circumstances which--"

"You are attached to a young lady? Is she beautiful--very beautiful?"

"Very beautiful," answered Richard.

Mary-Anne remained silent for some moments: she appeared to reflect
profoundly.

A sudden glow of animation flushed her cheek:--was it a light that
dawned in upon her soul?

Richard sincerely hoped so.

"Mr. Markham," said Mary-Anne, rising from her seat, and speaking in a
tone so serious that Richard could scarcely believe he was now listening
to the once volatile, sprightly, thoughtless, and playful creature he
had known,--"Mr. Markham, I have to apologise most sincerely for the
trouble I have given you, and the intrusion of which I have been guilty.
A veil has suddenly fallen from my eyes; and I now comprehend the
impropriety of my conduct. Ah! I see what you mean by the laws of
society. But God--and you also, Mr. Markham, well know the innocence of
my motives in calling this morning upon you; and if my friendship for
you has betrayed me into error, I beseech you to forget that such a
scene has ever taken place."

She shook hands with Richard with her usual cordiality and warmth, and
then took her departure--no longer skipping like the young fawn, but
with steady and measured pace.

And still that young girl did not dream that love had influenced her
conduct;--she continued to believe that the sentiment she experienced
was one of friendship. The idea of Richard's marriage with another had
only enlightened her in respect to those laws which, as social and
sympathetic beings, we have conventionally enacted.

On the ensuing Sunday Markham dined, according to engagement, with Mr.
Gregory.

Mary-Anne was present; and striking was the change which had taken place
in her!

Her manners were no longer gay, joyous, confiding, and full of
animation. As sickness chases from the cheek the flush of hoyden health,
so had a new sentiment banished that sprightliness of disposition and
that liveliness of temperament which so lately had characterised this
_child of nature_.

Love, then, is omnipotent, if he can effect such changes as these! Alas!
Love can work much for our unhappiness, but little for our felicity:--he
may make the gladsome companion melancholy and serious; but he seldom
covers the countenance of the morose one with smiles!

Mary-Anne endeavoured to seem as reserved as possible with Richard; and
yet, from time to time, when she thought he did not notice her, she
fixed her eyes upon him with an expression of such heart-devoted
tenderness, that it seemed as if she were pouring forth her entire soul
to the divinity whom she worshipped.

[Illustration]

In the grotesque and colossal sculptures, and the mountainous
architectural piles of the East, we seem to behold the products of an
imagination struggling with conceptions too vast for its compass, and
hence endeavouring to make some approximation to the reality by heaping
up the irregular and huge invisible forms;--and thus did the tortured
and embarrassed mind of this poor girl, unacquainted with the precise
nature of the sentiment it cherished, maintain a conflict with the
feelings which oppressed it, and offer up an idolatry of its own
invention to the object of its unbounded veneration.

Mr. Gregory could not but perceive this change in his daughter's
behaviour; and he was more or less at a loss to conceive the cause.

He had entertained, for a few days previously, a faint suspicion that
Mary-Anne had peradventure formed an attachment, which would thus
account for her altered demeanour; for since her call upon Markham, had
her manners changed. But the good-hearted father was still loth to
believe that his daughter's young heart had been smitten--and for the
simple reason because he did not wish it to be so.

Although he respected Markham, he was like all parents, who, possessing
fortunes themselves, are anxious that the suitors for their daughters'
hands should also be enabled to produce a modicum of this world's lucre.

He was therefore unwilling to admit in his own mind the conviction that
his suspicion was well-founded: he fancied that change of scene or
amusement would probably operate favourably upon his daughter's mind,
and bring her spirits back to their proper tone; and in this resolution
was he confirmed, when in the course of that Sunday evening, he saw the
confirmation of his suspicion. He could no longer doubt:--a thousand
little incidents proved to him the attachment of his daughter to Richard
Markham; and his quick glance convinced him that she was _not_ loved by
her tutor in return.

That night Mr. Gregory lay awake, pondering upon the best course to
pursue. At one moment he thought of communicating to Markham the state
of his daughter's heart (for he could not suppose that Richard was aware
of the passion of which he was the object), and permitting the young
couple to look upon each other as destined to be one day united:--at
another moment, he imagined that it would be better to allow things to
take their chance for a short time, and thereby ascertain whether the
attachment gained ground on the part of his daughter, and whether it
would become mutual (for he was entirely ignorant of Markham's love for
another); and at length he resolved upon dispensing with the services of
Richard, and trusting to time to eradicate the seeds of the unfortunate
passion from the heart of Mary-Anne.

This plan Mr. Gregory put into execution in the course of a few
days--indeed, the very next time that Richard called at his house.

"Mr. Markham," said the father, "I deeply regret that certain
circumstances, which it is not necessary for me to explain to you,
compel me to dispense with your farther attendance upon my children."

"I hope," said Markham, "that I have given you no cause----"

"Not at all--not in the least," interrupted Mr. Gregory, shaking Richard
cordially by the hand: then, in a serious tone, he added, "my daughter's
health requires rest--repose--and quiet. I shall see no visitors for
some time."

Markham was satisfied. Mr. Gregory had heard nothing prejudicial to his
character; but he had evidently penetrated into the state of Mary-Anne's
feelings. Richard was delighted to be thus dismissed from a house where
his presence was only calculated to destroy the more profoundly the
peace of one of its inmates:--indeed, he himself had already entertained
serious ideas of severing his connexion with that family.

"If I can at any time be of service to you, Mr. Markham, in any way, you
may command me," said Mr. Gregory, when the former rose to depart; "and
do not think that I am merely uttering a cold ceremonial phrase, when I
desire you to make use of me as a friend, should you ever require one."

Richard thanked Mr. Gregory for his kindness, and took leave of him. He
also bade adieu to Gustavus and Lionel, both of whom were deeply
affected at the idea of losing the visits of their tutor:--but Mary-Anne
had been purposely sent to pass a few days with some friends in the
country.




CHAPTER XCI.

THE TRAGEDY.


At length the evening, upon which the tragedy was to be represented for
the first time, arrived.

Markham in the mean time had seen little of the manager, and had not
attended a single rehearsal, his presence for that purpose not having
been required. Moreover, true to his original intentions, he had not
acquainted a soul with his secret relative to the drama. The manager
still knew him only as Edward Preston; and the advertisements in the
newspapers had announced the "forth-coming tragedy" as one that had
"emanated from the pen of a young author of considerable promise, but
who had determined to maintain a strict _incognito_ until the public
verdict should have been pronounced upon his piece."

A short time before the doors opened, Richard proceeded to the theatre,
and called upon the manager, who received him in his own private
apartment.

"Well, Mr. Preston," said the theatrical monarch, "this evening will
decide the fate of the tragedy. A few hours, and we shall know more."

"I hope you still think well of it," returned Markham.

"My candid opinion is that the success will be triumphant," said the
manager. "I have spared no expense to get up the piece well; and I am
very sanguine. Besides, I have another element of success."

"What is that?" inquired Richard.

"My principal ballet-dancer, who is a beautiful creature and a general
favourite--Miss Selina Fitzherbert--"

"I have heard of her fame," said Markham, "but have never seen her.
Strange as it may appear, I never visit theatres--I have not done so for
years."

"You will visit them often enough if your productions succeed," observed
the manager with a smile. "But, as I was saying, Miss Fitzherbert has
lately manifested a passionate desire to shine in tragedy; and she will
make her _debut_ in that sphere to-night, in your piece. She will play
the _Baron's Daughter_."

"Which character does not appear until the commencement of the third
act," said Markham.

"Precisely," observed the manager. "But time is now drawing on. Where
will you remain during the performance?"

"I shall proceed into the body of the house," returned Markham, "and
take my seat in one of the central boxes--I mean those precisely
fronting the stage. I shall be able to judge of the effect better in
that part of the house than elsewhere."

"As you please," said the manager. "But mind and let me see you after
the performance."

Richard promised compliance with this request, and then proceeded into
the house, where he took a seat in the centre of the amphitheatre.

The doors had been opened a few minutes previously, and the house was
filling fast. By half-past six it was crowded from pit to roof. The
boxes were filled with elegantly-dressed ladies and fashionable
gentlemen: there was not room to thrust another spectator into any one
point at the moment when the curtain drew up.

The overture commenced. How long it appeared to Markham, passionately
fond of music though he was!

At length it ceased; and the First Act commenced.

For some time a profound silence pervaded the audience:--not a voice,
not a murmur, not a sigh, gave the slightest demonstration of either
approbation or dislike.

But, at length, at the conclusion of a most impressive soliloquy, which
was delivered by the hero of the piece, one universal burst of applause
broke forth; and the theatre rang with the sounds of human tongues and
the clapping of hands. When the First Act ended, the opinion of the
audience was decisive in favour of the piece; and the manager felt
persuaded that "it was a hit."

This was one of the happiest moments of Markham's existence--that
existence which had latterly presented so few green spots to please the
mental eye of the wanderer in the world's desert. His veins seemed to
run with liquid fire!--a delirium of joy seized upon him--he was
inebriated with excess of bliss.

Around him the spectators were expressing their opinions of the first
act, little suspecting that the author of the piece was so near. All
those sentiments were unequivocally in favour of the tragedy.

The Second Act began--progressed--terminated.

No pen can describe the enthusiasm with which the audience received the
development of the drama, nor the interest which it seemed to excite.

Inspired by the applause that greeted them, the performers exerted all
their efforts; and the excellence of the tragedy, united with the talent
of the actors and the beauty of the scenery, achieved a triumph not
often witnessed within the walls of that or any other theatre.

The Third Act commenced. Selina Fitzherbert appeared upon the stage; and
her presence was welcomed with rapturous applause.

She came forward, and acknowledged the kindness of the audience with a
graceful curtsey.

Markham surveyed her with interest, in consequence of the manner in
which her name had been mentioned to him by the manager;--but that
interest grew more profound, and was gradually associated with feelings
of extreme surprise, suspense, and uncertainty, for he fancied that if
ever he saw Ellen Monroe in his life, there was she--or else her living
counterpart--before him--an actress playing a part in his own drama!

He was stupefied;--he strained his eyes--he leant forward--he borrowed
the opera-glass of a gentleman seated next to him;--and the more he
gazed, the more he felt convinced that he beheld Ellen Monroe in the
person of Selina Fitzherbert.

At length the actress spoke: wonder upon wonder--it was Ellen's
voice--her intonation--her accent--her style of speaking.

Markham was amazed--confounded.

He inquired of his neighbour whether Selina Fitzherbert was the young
lady's real name, or an assumed one.

The gentleman to whom he spoke did not know.

"How long has she been upon the stage?"

"Between two and three months; and, strange to say, it is rumoured that
she only took two months to render herself so proficient a dancer as she
is. But she now appears to be equally fine in tragedy. Listen!"

Markham could ask no more questions; for his neighbour became all
attention towards the piece.

Richard reviewed in a moment, in his mind, all the principal appearances
and characteristics of Ellen's life during the last few months,--the
lateness of her hours--the constancy of her employment--and a variety of
circumstances, which only now struck him, but which tended to ratify his
suspicion that she was indeed Selina Fitzherbert.

His attention was withdrawn from his own piece; and he determined to
convince himself at once upon this head.

Taking advantage of the termination of the first scene in the third act,
he left the box, and proceeded behind the scenes of the theatre. But
while he was on his way thither, it struck him that if his suspicions
were correct, and if he appeared too suddenly in the presence of Ellen,
he would perhaps so disconcert her as to render her unfit to proceed
with the part entrusted to her. He accordingly concealed himself in a
dark corner, behind some scene-boards, and whence he could see plainly,
but where he himself could not be very readily discovered.

He did not wait long ere his doubts were cleared up. In a few minutes
after he had taken his post in the obscure nook, Ellen passed close by
him. She was conversing with another actress.

"Have you seen the author?" said the latter.

"No--not yet," replied Ellen. "But the manager has promised us that
pleasure when the curtain fails."

"He has made a brilliant hit."

"Yes," said Ellen. "He need not have been so bashful if he had known his
own powers, or foreseen this success. The greatest mystery has been
preserved about him: he never once came to rehearsal; and the prompter
who copied out my part for me from the original manuscript, tells me
that he is convinced the author is quite a novice in dramatic
composition, by the way in which the piece was written--I mean, there
were not in the manuscript any of those hints and suggestions which an
experienced writer would have introduced."

"I really quite long to see him," said Ellen's companion: "he must be
quite--"

The two ladies passed on; and Richard heard no more.

His doubts were, however, cleared up:--Ellen Monroe was a figurante and
an actress!

He was not so annoyed at this discovery as Ellen had imagined he would
have been when she took such precautions to conceal the fact from the
knowledge of him and her father. Richard could not help admiring the
independent spirit which had induced her to seek the means of earning
her own livelihood, and which he now fully comprehended:--at the same
time, he was sorry that she had withheld the truth, and that she had
embraced the stage in preference to any other avocation. Alas! he little
suspected what scenes that poor girl had passed through:--he knew
nothing of her connexion with the statuary, the artist, the sculptor,
the photographer, Greenwood, and the mesmerist!

Having satisfied himself that Selina Fitzherbert and Ellen Monroe were
one and the same person, and still amazed and bewildered by the
discovery, Markham returned to the body of the theatre; but, instead of
proceeding to his former seat, he repaired to the "author's box," which
he found unoccupied, and which, being close to the stage, commanded a
full view of the scene.

The tragedy proceeded with unabated success: the performance of Ellen
was alone sufficient to give it an extraordinary _éclat_. Her beautiful
countenance--the noble and dignified manner in which she carried her
classic head--her elegant form--the natural grace and suavity of her
manners--her musical voice--and the correct appreciation she evinced of
the character in which she appeared,--these were the elements of an
irresistible appeal to the public heart. The tragedy would
have been eminently successful by reason of its own intrinsic
merits, and _without_ Ellen:--but _with_ her, that success was
brilliant--triumphant--unparalleled in the annals of the modern stage!

The entire audience was enraptured with the charming woman who shone in
two ways so essentially distinct,--who had first captivated the sense as
a dancer, and who now came forth a great tragic actress. Her lovely
person and her talents united, formed a passport to favour which not a
dissentient voice could question;--and when the curtain fell at the
close of the fifth act, the approbation of the spectators was expressed
with clapping of hands, waving of handkerchiefs, and shouts of
applause--all prolonged to an unusual length of time, and frequently
renewed with additional enthusiasm.

The moment the curtain fell Markham hastened behind the scenes, and
encountered Ellen in one of the slips.

Hastily grasping her by the hand, he said in a low but hurried tone "Do
not be alarmed--I know all--I am here to thank you--not to blame you."

"Thank _me_, Richard!" exclaimed the young actress, partially recovering
from the almost overwhelming state of alarm into which the sudden
apparition of Markham had thrown her: "why should you thank _me_?"

"Thank you, Ellen--Oh! how can I do otherwise than thank you?" said
Markham. "You have carried my tragedy through the ordeal--"

"_Your_ tragedy, Richard?" cried Miss Monroe more and more bewildered.

"Yes, _my_ tragedy, Ellen--it is mine! But, ah! there is a call for
you--"

A moment's silence had succeeded the flattering expression of public
opinion which arose at the termination of the performance; and then
arose a loud cry for Selina Fitzherbert.

This was followed by a call for the author, and then a thousand voices
ejaculated--"Selina Fitzherbert and the Author! Let them come together!"

The manager now hastened up to the place where Ellen and Richard were
standing, and where the above hurried words had been exchanged between
them.

"You must go forward, Miss Fitzherbert--and you too, Mr. Preston--"

Ellen glanced with an arch smile towards Richard, as much as to say,
"_You_ also have taken an assumed name."

Markham begged and implored the manager not to force him upon the
stage;--but the call for "Selina Fitzherbert and the Author" was
peremptory; and the "gods" were growing clamorous.

Popular will is never more arbitrary than in a theatre.

Markham accordingly took Ellen's hand:--the curtain rose, and he led her
forward.

The appearance of that handsome couple--a fine dark-eyed and genteel
young man leading by the hand a lovely woman,--a successful author, and
a favourite actress,--this was the signal for a fresh burst of applause.

Richard was dazzled with the glare of light, and for some time could see
nothing distinctly.

Myriads of human countenances, heaped together, danced before him; and
yet the aspect and features of none were accurately delineated to his
eyes. He could not have selected from amongst those countenances, even
that of his long-lost brother, or that of his dearly beloved Isabella,
had they been both or either of them prominent in that multitude of
faces.

And Isabella _was_ there, with her parents--impelled by the curiosity
which had taken so many thither that evening.

Her surprise, and that of her father and mother, may therefore well be
conceived, when, in the author of one of the most successful and
beautiful dramatic compositions of modern times, they recognised Richard
Markham!

The applause continued for three or four minutes--uninterrupted and
enthusiastic--as if some mighty conqueror, who had just released his
country from the thraldom of a foreign foe, was the object of adulation.

At length this expression of approbation ceased; and the spectators
awaited in suspense, and with curiosity depicted upon their
countenances, the acknowledgment of the honours showered upon the
author.

At that moment the manager stepped forward, and said, "Ladies and
gentlemen, I have the honour to inform you that Mr. Edward Preston is
the author of the successful tragedy upon which you have been pleased to
bestow your approval. I consider it to be my duty to mention a name
which the author's own modesty--a modesty which you will agree with me
in pronouncing to be unnecessary under such circumstances--would not
probably have allowed him to reveal to you."

The manager bowed and retired.

Fresh applause welcomed the announcement of the tragic author's name;
and a thousand voices exclaimed, "Bravo, Edward Preston!"

By this time Markham had recovered his presence of mind and
self-possession: and his joy was extreme when he suddenly recognised
Isabella in a box close by the stage.

Oh! that was a glorious moment for him: _she_ was there--_she_ beheld
his triumph--and doubtless _she_ participated in his own happy feelings.

"Bravo, Edward Preston!" was re-echoed through the house.

And then a dead silence prevailed.

All were anxious to hear Richard speak.

But just at the moment when he was about to acknowledge the honours
conferred upon him and his fair companion by the audience, a strange
voice broke upon the stillness of the scene.

"It is false! his name is not Preston----"

"Silence!" cried numerous voices.

"His name is----"

"Turn out that brawler! turn him out!"

"His name is----"

"Hold your tongue!"

"Silence!"

"Turn him out! turn him out!"

"His name is Richard Markham--the Forger!"

A burst of indignation, mingled with strong expressions of incredulity,
rose against the individual, who, from an obscure nook in the gallery,
had interrupted the harmony of the evening.

"It is true--I say! he is Richard Markham who was condemned to two
years' imprisonment for forgery!" thundered forth the hoarse and
unpleasant voice.

A piercing scream--the scream of a female tone--echoed through the
house: all eyes were turned towards the box whence it issued; and a
young lady, with flaxen hair and pale complexion, was seen to sink
senseless in the arms of the elderly gentleman who accompanied her.

And in another part of the house a young lady also sank, pale,
trembling, and overcome with feelings of acute anguish, upon her
father's bosom.

So deeply did that dread accusing voice affect the sensitive and
astonished Mary-Anne, and the faithful Isabella!

All was now confusion. The audience rose from their seats in all
directions; and the theatre suddenly appeared to be converted into a
modern Babel.

Overwhelmed with shame, and so bewildered by this cruel blow, that he
knew not how to act, Markham stood for some moments like a criminal
before his judges. Ellen, forgetting where she was, clung to him for
support.

At length, the unhappy young man seized Ellen abruptly by the hand, and
led her from the public gaze.

The curtain fell as they passed behind the scenes.

The audience then grew more clamorous--none scarcely knew why. Some
demanded that the man who had caused the interruption should be arrested
by the police; but those in the gallery shouted out that he had suddenly
disappeared. Others declared that the accusation ought to be
investigated;--people in the pit maintained that, even if the story were
true, it had nothing to do with the success of the accused as a dramatic
author;--and gentlemen in the boxes expressed their determination never
to support a man, in a public institution and in a public capacity, who
had been condemned to infamous penalties for an enormous crime.

Thus all was noise, confusion, and uproar,--argument, accusation, and
recrimination,--the buzzing of hundreds of tongues,--the clamour of
thousands of voices.

Some called "Shame!" upon the manager for introducing a discharged
convict to the notice of Englishmen's wives and daughters,--although the
persons who thus clamoured did not utter a reproach against the immoral
females who made no secret of their profligacy, and who appeared nightly
upon the stage as its brightest ornaments--nor did they condescend to
recall to mind the vicinity of that infamous saloon which vomited forth
numbers of impure characters to occupy seats by the sides of those wives
and daughters, whose purity was now supposed to be tainted because a man
who had undergone an infamous punishment, but who could _there_ set no
bad example, had contributed to their entertainment!

And then commenced a riot in the theatre. The respectable portion of the
audience escaped from the scene with the utmost precipitation:--but the
occupants of the upper region, and some of the tenants of the pit,
remained to exhibit their inclination for what they were pleased to term
"a lark." The benches were torn up, and hurled upon the stage:--hats and
orange-peel flew about in all directions;--and serious damage would have
been done to the theatre, had not a body of police succeeded in
restoring order.

In the mean time Markham and Ellen had been conducted to the Green Room,
where a glass of wine was administered to each to restore their
self-possession.

The manager was alone with them; and when Richard had time to collect
his scattered ideas, he seemed to awake as from a horrible dream. But
the ominous countenance of the manager met his glance;--and he knew that
it was all a fearful reality.

Then did Markham bury his face in his hands, and weep
bitterly--bitterly.

"Alas! young man," said the manager, "it was an evil day for both you
and me, when you sought and I accorded my patronage. This business will
no doubt injure me seriously. You are a young man of extraordinary
talent;--but it will not avail you in this sphere again. You have
enjoyed one signal triumph--you have experienced a most heart-rending
overthrow. Never did defeat follow upon conquest so rapidly. The power
of your genius will not vanquish the opinion of the public. I do not
blame you: you were not compelled to communicate your former history to
me;--and it was I who forced you to go forward."

Markham was consoled by the language of the manager, who spoke in a kind
and sympathising tone of voice.

Thus the only man who would suffer in a pecuniary point of view--or, at
least, he who would suffer most--by the fatal occurrence of that
evening, was also the only one who attempted to solace the unhappy
Markham.

As for poor Ellen--she was overwhelmed with grief.

"You gave me fifty guineas for that fatal--fatal drama," said Richard,
after a long pause. "The money shall be returned to you to-morrow."

"No, my young friend,--that must not be done!" exclaimed the manager,
taking Richard's hand. "Your noble conduct in this respect raises you
fifty per cent, in my opinion."

"Yes--he is noble, he is generous!" cried Ellen. "He has been a
benefactor to myself and my father: it is at his house that we live; and
never until this evening were we aware of each other's avocations, in
respect to the stage."

"How singular a coincidence!" exclaimed the manager. "But I hope that I
shall not lose the services of the principal attraction of my company?"

"Yes," said Ellen firmly: "I shall never more appear in public in that
capacity of which I was lately so enamoured, but for which I have
suddenly entertained an abhorrence."

"A few days' repose and rest will induce you to change your mind, I
hope?" said the manager, who was really alarmed at the prospect of
losing a figurante of such talent and an actress of such great promise.

"We shall see--I will reflect," returned Ellen, unwilling to add to the
annoyances of the kind-hearted manager.

"You must not desert me," said this gentleman, "especially at a time
when I shall require all the attractions possible to restore the
reputation of my house."

Markham now rose to take his departure.

"I should not advise you to leave the house together," said the manager.
"There may be a few mal-contents in the street;--and, at all events, it
will be as well that the ladies and gentlemen of my company should not
know of your intimate acquaintance with each other. Such a proceeding
might only compromise Miss Fitzherbert."

Markham cordially acceded to this suggestion; and it was agreed that he
should depart by the private door, and that Ellen should return home in
the usual manner by herself.

But before they separated, the two young people agreed with each other
that the strictest silence should be preserved at the Place, not only
with respect to the events of that evening, but also in regard to the
nature of the avocations in which they had both lately been engaged.

Markham succeeded in escaping unobserved from the theatre;--and,
humiliated, cast down, heartbroken,--bending beneath an insupportable
burden of ignominy and shame,--with the fainting form of Isabella before
his eyes, and the piercing shriek of Mary-Anne, whom he had also
recognised, in his ears,--he pursued his precipitate retreat homewards.

But what a dread revelation had been made to him that evening! His
mortal enemy--his inveterate foe had escaped from the death which, it
was hitherto supposed, the miscreant had met in the den of infamy near
Bird-Cage Walk some months previously:--his ominous voice still
thundered in Markham's ears;--and our unhappy hero once more saw all his
prospects ruined by the unmitigated hatred of the Resurrection Man.




CHAPTER XCII.

THE ITALIAN VALET.


Ellen retired to her private dressing-room, and hastily threw aside her
theatrical garb.

She assumed her usual attire, and then stole away from the
establishment, without waiting to say farewell either to the manager or
any of her acquaintances belonging to the company.

As she left the private door of the theatre, she saw several persons
loitering about--probably in hopes of catching a glimpse of the author
who had been so signally disgraced that evening, and whose previous
departure from the house was unperceived.

She drew her veil closely over her countenance; but not before one
fellow, more impudent than the rest, and whose cadaverous countenance,
shaggy eye-brows, and sinister expression, struck a momentary terror
into her soul, had peered beneath her bonnet.

Fortunately, as Ellen considered it, a cab was close by; and the driver
was standing on the pavement with his hand grasping the door-latch, as
if he were expecting some one.

"Cab, ma'am?" said he, as Ellen approached.

Ellen answered in the affirmative, mentioned her address, and stepped
into the vehicle.

The driver banged the door, and mounted his box.

The man with the cadaverous countenance watched Ellen into the vehicle,
and exchanged a sign of intelligence with the driver.

The cab then drove rapidly away.

Another cab was standing at a little distance; and into this the man
with the cadaverous countenance stepped. There was already an individual
in it, who, when the former opened the door, said, "All right?"

"All right," was the reply.

This second cab, containing these two individuals, then followed rapidly
in the traces of the first.

Meantime Ellen had thrown herself back in the vehicle, and had given way
to her reflections.

The events of that memorable evening occupied her attention. A
coincidence, of a nature fitted only for the pages of a romance, had
revealed to Markham and herself the history of each other's pursuits.
While she had been following the occupation of a figurante, he was
devoting his time to dramatic composition. He had retained his
employment a secret: she had dissembled hers. He had accidentally
applied for the patronage of the same manager who had taken her by the
hand. He had assumed a false name: so had she. Chance led her to take a
part in his drama;--her talent had materially contributed to its
success. A triumph was achieved by each;--and then came the
overwhelming, crushing denunciation which turned his joy to
mourning--his honour to disgrace--his glory to shame. She felt as if she
were identified with his fate in this one respect:--he was her
benefactor; she esteemed him: and she seemed to partake in his most
painful emotions as she pondered upon the incidents of that evening.

And then she retrospected over the recent events which had chequered her
own life. The cast of her countenance embellished statues;--her likeness
lent its attraction to pictures;--her bust was preserved in marble;--her
entire form feasted the eyes of many a libertine in the private room of
the photographic department of a gallery of science;--her virtue had
become the prey of one who gave her a few pieces of paltry gold in
exchange for the inestimable jewel of her purity;--her dreams had been
sold to a mesmerist;--her dancing had captivated thousands;--her tragic
talent had crowned the success of a drama. What remained for her now to
sell? what talent did she possess which could now be turned to
advantage? Alas! she knew not!

Her meditations were painful; and some time elapsed ere she awoke from
her reverie.

At length she glanced towards the window: the night was beautifully
clear, though piercing cold--for it was now the month of December; and
the year 1839 was drawing to a close.

The vehicle was proceeding along a road skirted only by a few leafless
trees, and wearing an aspect strange and new to her.

The country beyond, on either side, seemed to present to her view
different outlines from those which frequent passage along the road
leading to Markham Place had rendered familiar to her eyes. Again she
gazed wistfully forth:--she lowered the window, and surveyed the
adjacent scenery with redoubled interest.

And now she felt really alarmed; for she was convinced that the driver
had mistaken the road.

She called to him, and expressed her fears.

"No--no, ma'am," he exclaimed, without relaxing the speed at which the
vehicle was proceeding; "there's more ways than one of reaching the
place where you live. Don't be afraid, ma'am--it's all right."

Ellen's fears were hushed for a short time; but as she leant partially
out of the window to survey the country through which she was passing,
the sounds of another vehicle behind her own fell upon her ears.

At any other time this circumstance would not have produced a second
thought; but on this occasion Ellen felt a presentiment of evil. Whether
the mournful catastrophe of the evening, or her recent sad
reflections,--or both united, had produced this morbid feeling, we
cannot say. Sufficient is it for us to know that such was the state of
her mind; and then she remembered the warning contained in the letter so
mysteriously sent to her a short time previously at the theatre.

Again she addressed the cabman; but this time he made no answer; and in
a few minutes he drove up to the door of a small house which stood alone
by the side of that dreary road.

Scarcely had he alighted from his box, when the second cab came up and
stopped also.

"Where am I?" demanded Ellen, now seriously alarmed.

An individual, who had alighted from the second cab, hastened to open
the door of the first, and assist Ellen to alight.

"You must get down here, Miss," he said, in a dialect and tone which
denoted him to be a foreigner.

Ellen saw at a glance that he was a tall elderly man, with a dark olive
complexion, piercing black eyes, but by no means an unpleasant
expression of countenance. He was dressed in black, and wore a large
cloak hanging loosely over his shoulders.

"Get down here!" repeated Ellen. "And why? where am I? who are you?
Speak."

"No harm will happen to you, Miss," replied the tall stranger. "A
gentleman is waiting in this house to see you."

"A gentleman!" cried Ellen. "Ah! can it be Mr. Greenwood?"

"It is, Miss: you need fear nothing."

Ellen was naturally of a courageous disposition; and the circumstances
of her life had tended to strengthen her mind. It instantly struck her
that she was in the power of her persecutor's myrmidons, and that
resistance against them was calculated to produce effects much less
beneficial for her than those which remonstrance and firmness might lead
to with their employer.

She accordingly accompanied the tall stranger into the house.

But what was the astonishment of the poor creature when she encountered
in the hall the very old hag whom she had known in the court in
Goldenlane, and who had originally introduced her to the embraces of
Mr. Greenwood!

The horrible wrinkled wretch grinned significantly, at she conducted
Ellen into a parlour very neatly furnished, and where a cheerful fire
was burning in the grate.

Meantime the tall stranger issued forth again, and ordered the driver of
the cab in which Ellen had arrived to await further instructions. He
then accosted the cadaverous looking man who had accompanied him in the
second cab, and who was now loitering about in front of the house.

"Tidkins," said he, "we do not require your services any further. The
young lady made no resistance, and consequently there has been no need
for the exercise of your strong arm. Here is your reward. You can return
to London in the same cab that brought you hither."

"Thank you, my friend," exclaimed the Resurrection Man. "Your master
knows my address, the next time he requires my services. Good night."

"Good night," said the tall man: and when he had seen the second cab
depart, he re-entered the house.

In the hall he met Mr. Greenwood.

"Well, Filippo--all right, eh?" said this gentleman, in a whisper.

"All right, sir. We managed it without violence; and the lady is in your
power."

"Ah! I thought you would do the business genteelly for me. Lafleur is a
faithful fellow, and would do any thing to serve me; but he is clumsy
and awkward in an intrigue of this kind. No one can manage these little
matters so well as a foreigner. A Frenchman is clever--but an Italian
incomparable."

"Thank you, sir, for the compliment," said Filippo, with a low bow.

"Oh! it is no compliment," returned Greenwood. "Three or four little
things that I have entrusted to you since you have been in my service,
were all admirably managed so far as you were concerned; and though they
every one failed afterwards, yet it was no fault of yours. I am well
aware of that."

The Italian bowed.

"And now I must present myself to this haughty beauty," said Greenwood.

"Am I to dismiss the vehicle which brought her hither, sir?" demanded
Filippo.

"Yes: you will stay here to-night."

The Italian valet bowed once more, and returned to the driver of the
vehicle that brought Ellen thither.

"My good fellow," said Filippo, in a hurried tone, "here is your money
for the service rendered up to this moment. Are you now disposed to earn
five guineas in addition?"

"Certainly, sir," replied the man.

"Then drive to the bend in the road yonder," continued Filippo. "There
you will find a large barn, belonging to my master's property here. You
can house your horse and cab comfortably there. But do not unharness the
animal. There is a pond close by; and you will find a bucket in the
barn. There is also hay for your horse. Wait there patiently till I come
to you."

The cabman signified acquiescence; and Filippo returned to the house.

Meantime the old hag, as before stated, had conducted Ellen to a
parlour, where the young lady threw herself upon a sofa, her mind and
body being alike fatigued with the events and anxieties of the evening.

"We meet again, Miss," said the old woman, lingering near the table, on
which refreshments of several luxurious kinds were placed. "You came no
more to visit me in the court; and yet I watched from a distance the
brilliancy of your career. Ah! what fine things--what fine things I have
introduced you to, since first I knew you."

"If you wish to serve me," said Ellen, "help me away from this place,
and I will recompense you largely."

"For every guinea that you would give me to let you go, I shall receive
two for keeping you in safe custody," returned the hag.

"Name the price that you are to have from your employer," cried Ellen;
"and I will double it."

"That you cannot do. Miss. Besides, have I not your interests to
consider? Do I not know what is good for you? I tell you that you may
become a great lady--ride in a magnificent carriage--have fine clothes
and sparkling jewels--and never know again what toil is. I should not be
so squeamish if I were you."

"Silence, wretch!" cried Ellen, exasperated more at the cool language of
calculation in which the old woman spoke, than with the prospects she
held out and the arguments she used.

"Ah! Miss," resumed the hag, nothing discomfited, "I am not annoyed with
you, for the harsh way in which you speak to me. I have seen too much of
your stubborn beauties in my life to be abashed with a word. Lack-a-day!
they all yield in time--they all yield in time!"

And the old hag shook her head seriously, as if she had arrived at some
great moral conclusion.

Ellen paid no attention to her.

"Ah! Miss," continued the hag, "I was once young like you--and as
beautiful too, wrinkled and tanned as I now appear. But I was not such a
fool to my own interests as you. I lived luxuriously for many, many
years--God knows how many--I can't count them now--I don't like to think
of those happy times. I ought to have saved money--much money; but I
frittered it all away as quick as I got it. Now, do you take my advice:
accept Mr. Greenwood's offers;--he is a handsome man, and pays like a
prince."

The argument of the old hag was cut short by the entrance of the
individual of whom she was just speaking.

She left the room; and Ellen was now alone with Greenwood.

"Sir, are you the author of this cowardly outrage which has been
perpetrated upon me?" demanded Ellen, rising from the sofa, and speaking
in a firm but cold tone.

"Call it not an outrage, dearest Ellen--"

"It is nothing else, sir; and if you have one spark of honour left--one
feeling of respect for the mother of your child," added Miss Monroe,
sinking her voice, "you will allow me to depart without delay. On that
condition I will forget all that has transpired this evening."

"My dear girl, you cannot think that I have taken all this trouble to be
thwarted by a trifling obstacle at the end, or that I have merely had
you brought hither to have the pleasure of letting you depart again
after one minute's conversation. No, Ellen: listen to me! I have
conceived a deep--profound--a fervent affection for you----"

"Cease this libertine's jargon, Mr. Greenwood," interrupted Ellen. "You
must know that your sophistry cannot deceive me as it has done so
many--many others."

"Then in plain terms, Ellen, you shall be mine--wholly and solely
mine--and I will remain faithful to you until death."

"I will become your wife, for the sake of my child: on no other terms
will I consort with you. As surely as you attempt to force me to
compliance with your will, so certainly will I unmask you sooner or
later. I will expose you--I will tell the world who you are--I will
proclaim how you obtained your fortune by the plunder of your own--"

"Silence, Ellen!" thundered Greenwood, his face becoming purple with
indignation. "Remember that the least word calculated to betray my
secret, would lead to a revelation of yours; and the result would be the
execrations of your father showered down upon your devoted head."

"I care not for that catastrophe--I care not for mine own past
dishonour--I care not for the existence of that child of whom you are
the father," exclaimed Ellen in a rapid and impassioned tone. "I will
not be immolated to your desires--I will not succumb to your wishes,
without revenge! Oh! full well do I comprehend you--full well do I know
how you calculated when you resolved to perpetrate this outrage. You
thought that I must suffer every thing at your hands, and not dare
proclaim my wrongs:--you fancied that my lips are sealed against all and
every thing connected with _you_! Mark me, you have reckoned erroneously
upon the extent of my dread of my father and my benefactor! There is one
thing that will make me fall at their feet and reveal--all and that is
the consummation on your part of this vile outrage upon me!"

"Be it so, Ellen," said Greenwood. "I am as determined as you. I will
use no force against you; but I will keep you a prisoner here; and
believe me--for I know the world well--your stern resolves will soon
melt in the presence of solitude and monotony. You will then solicit me
to come to you--if it be only to bear you company! Escape is
impossible--my spies are around the house. Day and night will you be
watched as if you were a criminal. And when you consent to become mine,
in all save the vain ties which priestcraft has invented, and the
shackles of which shall never curb my proud spirit,--then will I
surround you with every luxury, gratify your slightest wishes, study
your pleasures unceasingly, and do all to make you cling to me more
fervently than if I were your husband according to monkish ceremony.
This is my resolve. In the mean time, if you choose to console your
father for your absence, write a note telling him that you are happy,
but that circumstances at present compel you to withhold from him the
place of your residence; and that letter shall be delivered to-morrow
morning at Markham Place. I now leave you. This is your sitting-room;
your sleeping apartment is above. The servant--the old woman whom you
know so well," added Greenwood, in a tone slightly ironical, "will
attend upon you. The house contains every luxury that may gratify the
appetite; all your wishes shall be complied with. But, again I say,
think not of escape; that is impossible. And if you feel inclined to
write the note of which I have spoken, do so, and give it to your
attendant. It is now late--the clock has struck one: I leave you to
yourself."

Ellen made no reply; and Greenwood left the room.

The moment she was alone, Ellen rose and hastened to the window. She
drew aside the curtain, and was somewhat surprised to perceive that the
casements were not barred; for she had expected to find every precaution
against escape adopted after the confident manner in which Greenwood had
spoken upon that head. But her heart sank within her; for she remembered
his assurance that the house was surrounded by spies. She therefore made
up her mind, after some reflection, to remain quiet until the next day,
and then regulate her endeavours to escape by the aspect of the house
and its locality when seen by day-light.

She felt exhausted and wearied, and partook of a light refreshment. She
then took a candle from the table, and proceeded up-stairs to the
bed-room prepared for her. Having carefully bolted the door, she sate
down to reflect upon the propriety of writing to her father the note
suggested by Greenwood. She felt most acutely on the old man's account;
and she knew that she would not be permitted to communicate with him in
terms more explicit than those mentioned by her persecutor. Such terms
were too vague and equivocal to be satisfactory;--and she concluded in
her own mind that silence was the better alternative of the two.

Having once more satisfied herself that the room was safe against all
chances of intrusion, she thought of retiring to rest. She laid aside
her bonnet and shawl, which she had hitherto kept on, and then took off
her gown. She approached a long Psyche, or full-length mirror, that
stood near the dressing-table (for the room was elegantly furnished),
and for a moment contemplated herself with feelings of pride and
pleasure--in spite of the vexatious position in which she found herself.
But vanity was now an essential ingredient of her character. It had been
engendered, nurtured, and matured by the mode of life she had been
compelled to adopt.

And, assuredly, hers were charms of which she had full right to be
proud. The mirror reflected to her eyes a countenance that had been
deemed worthy to embellish a Venus on the canvass of a great painter. In
that same faithful glass was also seen a form the beautiful undulations
and rich contours of which were perfectly symmetrical, and yet
voluptuously matured. The delicate white corset yielded with docile
elasticity to the shape which no invention of art could improve. The
form reduced that corset to suit its own proportions; and in no way did
the corset shape the form. Those swelling globes of snow, each adorned
as with a delicate rose-bud, needed no support to maintain them in their
full and natural rotundity;--the curvatures which formed the waist, were
not drawn nearer to each other by the compression of the stay;--the
graceful swell of the hips required no art to improve or augment its
copiousness. Ellen smiled--in spite of herself,--smiled
complacently--smiled almost proudly, as she surveyed her perfect form in
that mirror.

But, hark! what sound is that which suddenly falls upon her ear?

She starts--looks round--and listens.

Again!--that sound is repeated.

This time she comprehends its source: some one is tapping gently at the
side window of the room.

Ellen hastily put on her gown once more, and advanced to the casement.

She raised the blind, and beheld the dark form of a man mounted upon a
ladder, at the window. A second glance convinced her that he was the
tall Italian whom she had before seen.

She approached as closely as possible, and said, in a low tone, "What do
you require? what this strange proceeding?"

[Illustration]

"I am come to save you," answered Filippo, in a voice so low, that his
words were scarcely intelligible. "Do not be afraid--I am he who wrote
the warning letter, which----"

Without a moment's farther hesitation, Ellen gently raised the window.

"I am he who wrote the warning letter which you received at the
theatre," repeated Filippo. "Although ostensibly compelled to serve my
master, yet privately I counteract all his vile schemes to the utmost of
my power."

"I believe you--I trust you," said Ellen, overjoyed at the arrival of
this unlooked-for succour. "What would you have me do?"

"Tie the sheets of the bed together--fasten one end to the bed-post, and
throw the other outside," returned Filippo, speaking in a rapid whisper.

In less than a minute this was done; and Ellen once more assumed her
bonnet and shawl.

By the directions of Filippo she then stepped upon the window-sill: he
received her in his arms, and bore her in safety to the ground.

Then, taking the ladder on his shoulders, he desired her to follow him
without speaking a word.

They passed behind the house, and stopped for a moment at a stable where
Filippo deposited the ladder. He then led the way across a field
adjoining the garden that belonged to the house.

"Lady," said the Italian, when they were at some distance from the
dwelling, "if you consider that you owe me any gratitude for the service
I am now rendering you, all the recompense I require is strict silence
on your part with respect to the real mode of your escape."

"Rest well assured that I shall never betray you," answered Ellen. "But
how is it that so bad a man as your master can possess so honest and
generous a follower as you?"

"That, lady, is a mystery which it is by no means difficult to explain,"
replied Filippo. "Chosen by a noble-hearted lady, who by this time
doubtless enjoys a sovereign rank in another clime, to counteract the
villanies of Greenwood, I came to England; and fortunately I learnt that
he required a foreign valet. I applied for the situation and obtained
it. He believes me faithful, because I appear to enter heart and soul
into all his schemes; but I generally succeed eventually in defeating or
mitigating their evil effects upon others. This is the simple truth,
lady; and you must consider my confidence in you as implicitly sacred.
Any revelation--the slightest hint, on your part, would frustrate the
generous purposes of my mistress. And think not, lady, that I am merely
acting the part of a base spy:--I mean Mr. Greenwood no harm--I shall do
him none: all I aim at is the prevention of harm springing from his
machinations in regard to others. But we are now at the spot where a
vehicle waits to convey you back to London."

Filippo opened the door of a barn, which they had just reached; and the
cabman responded to his summons.

In a few minutes the vehicle was ready to depart. Ellen offered the
Italian a recompense for his goodness towards her; but he drew himself
up haughtily, and said, "Keep your gold, lady: I require no other reward
than _silence_ on your part."

He then handed Miss Monroe into the vehicle; and ordered the driver to
conduct the lady whithersoever she commanded him.

Ellen desired to be taken home to Markham Place; the Italian raised his
hat respectfully; and the cab drove rapidly away towards London.

Miss Monroe now began to reflect profoundly upon the nature of the
excuse which she should offer to her father and Richard Markham, to
account for her prolonged absence. We have before said that she had
ceased to shrink from a falsehood; and she had certain cogent reasons
for never associating her own name with that of Greenwood;--much less
would she acquaint her father or Richard with an outrage which would
only induce them to adopt means to punish its perpetrator, and thus
bring them in collision with him.

At length she resolved upon stating that she had been taken ill at a
concert where she had been engaged for the evening: this course would be
comprehended by Markham, who would only have to substitute the word
"theatre" for "concert" in his own imagination; and it would also
satisfy her father.

We need merely add to this episode in our eventful history, that Ellen
reached home safely at four o'clock in the morning, and that the excuse
was satisfactory to both Markham and her father, who were anxiously
awaiting her return.




CHAPTER XCIII.

NEWS FROM CASTELCICALA.


Return we once more to Diana Arlington, who still occupied the splendid
mansion in Dover Street, which had been fitted up for her by the Earl of
Warrington.

The routine of the life of the Enchantress continued the same as we have
described it in Chapter LI.

The Earl of Warrington was unremitting in his attention, and unchanged
in his liberality towards his beautiful mistress; and, on her part,
Diana was the faithful friend and true companion who by her correct
conduct maintained the confidence which she had inspired in the heart of
her noble protector.

We must again introduce our readers to the Enchantress at the hour of
breakfast, and in the little parlour where we have before seen her.

But on this occasion, instead of being occupied with the perusal of the
_Morning Herald_, her entire attention was absorbed in the contents of a
letter, which ran as follows:--

"_Montoni_, _December 3, 1839_.

     "I sit down, my dearest Diana, to inform you that the ceremony of
     my union with his Serene Highness Angelo III. was solemnized
     yesterday.

     "You are aware that this ceremony was to have taken place some
     months ago; but the intrigues of certain persons holding high and
     influential offices in the state, delayed it. Calumny after calumny
     against me was whispered in the ears of the Grand Duke; and,
     although his Highness believed not a word of those evil reports, I
     steadily refused to accept the honour he was anxious to confer upon
     me, until he had satisfied himself of the falsity of each
     successive calumny. At length I implored his Highness to address an
     autograph letter to the Earl of Warrington, with whom his Highness
     was acquainted during the residence of that good English nobleman
     in Castelcicala. His Highness complied with my request, and
     despatched his letter so privately that none of those who surround
     him suspected his proceeding. The Earl of Warrington, as you know,
     dearest Diana, hastened to reply. His answer was so satisfactory,
     so frank, so generous, so candid, that the Duke declared he would
     visit with his severest displeasure any one who dared breathe a
     word of calumny against me or my friends in England, in future.

     "The next step adopted by his Serene Highness was to dismiss the
     Marquis of Gerrano from the office of Minister of Foreign Affairs.
     Baron Ruperto, the Under Secretary in that Department, retired with
     his superior. The Duke adopted this measure in consequence of the
     intrigues of those noblemen to thwart his Highness's intentions of
     raising to the ducal throne the woman whom he loved. You may
     suppose how grieved--how vexed--how distressed I have been through
     the conviction that I myself was the cause of these heart-burnings,
     jealousies, and intrigues; and although I was innocently the source
     of such disagreeable proceedings, my sorrow and annoyance were but
     little mitigated by this impression. I implored the Grand Duke to
     allow me to leave the country, and retire to Switzerland; but his
     Serene Highness remained firm, and assured me that, although he had
     many difficulties to overcome, he was not disheartened. Then he
     declared that his entire happiness was centred in me; and he thus
     over-ruled my scruples.

     "At length the duke remodelled his cabinet (a fact to which I
     alluded above) by appointing the Count of Friuli (who is deeply
     attached to His Highness, and favourable to our union) to the
     Foreign Office, in place of the Marquis of Gerrano. Signor Pisani,
     another faithful dependant of His Highness, was appointed
     Under-Secretary in the place of Baron Ruperto. The Minister of War
     also retired, and was succeeded by General Grachia. When these
     changes were effected, his Serene Highness communicated to the
     council of ministers his intention to _unite himself to Eliza
     Marchioness of Ziani on the 2d of December of the present year_.

     "This decision was made known on the 19th of last month. I did not
     write to communicate the important fact to you, because I was
     apprehensive of new delays; and as I had already misled you once
     (though unintentionally on my part) I was unwilling to deceive
     either you or myself a second time. I know your friendship for me,
     Diana,--I know that you entertain a sister's love for me, the same
     that I feel for you,--and I also know that you anxiously watch the
     progress of my fortunes, as, under similar circumstances, I should
     yours. I therefore resolved to acquaint you with no more of my
     hopes, until they should have been realised. That result has now
     been attained; and I need preserve a cold silence no longer.

     "In the evening of the 19th of November, the Grand Chancellor of
     Castelcicala, the President of the Council (the Marquis of
     Vincenza), and the Archbishop of Montoni, visited me at the villa
     to acquaint me with the royal decision. I endeavoured--and I hope
     succeeded--to convince their lordships of the profound sense which
     I entertained of the high honour intended to be conferred upon me,
     and my conviction that no merit which I possessed could render me
     worthy of such distinction; at the same time I declared my
     readiness to accept that honour, since it was the will and pleasure
     of a sovereign Prince to bestow it upon me.

     "I can scarcely tell you the nature of the varied emotions and
     feelings which filled--indeed agitated--my bosom when the memorable
     morning dawned. That was yesterday! I awoke at an early--a very
     early hour,--before six, and walked in the garden with the hope
     that the fresh air and the charming tranquillity of the scene would
     compose me. I could scarcely believe that I was on the point of
     entering upon such high destinies; that a diadem was so soon to
     encircle my brow; that the thrilling words _Highness_ and
     _Princess_ would in a few hours be addressed to me! I could not
     reconcile with my former obscure lot the idea that I was shortly to
     sit upon a sovereign throne,--command the allegiance of millions
     of human beings,--and share the fortunes of a potentate of Europe!
     Was it possible that I--I who was the daughter of a poor farmer,
     and who had seen so much of the vicissitudes of life,--I who had
     thought myself happy with the competence which I enjoyed through
     the Earl of Warrington's bounty at Clapton,--I who conceived myself
     to be one of the most fortunate of individuals when, by the
     goodness of that same excellent peer, I arrived in this State, and
     took possession of the villa which he had placed at my disposal,--I
     who had then no more elevated aspirations than to dwell in
     tranquillity and peace--no loftier hope than to deserve that kind
     nobleman's benefits by my conduct,--was it possible that I was in a
     few hours to become the Grand Duchess of Castelcicala? I could not
     fix my mind to such a belief; the idea seemed an oriental
     fiction--a romantic dream. And yet, I remembered, I had already
     received an earnest of this splendid promise of fortune: I had
     already been elevated from a lowly condition to an exalted rank;
     the distinction of a Marchioness was mine; for months had I been
     accustomed to the sounding title of _Your Ladyship_ and for months
     had I been enrolled amongst the peeresses of Castelcicala. Yes--I
     thought: it was true,--true that a Prince--a powerful
     Prince--intended to raise me to a seat upon his own ducal throne!

     "At seven precisely the three lovely daughters of General Grachia
     arrived at the villa to assist me in my toilette--my nuptial
     toilette. They informed me that, if it were my pleasure, they were
     to remain in attendance upon me after my marriage. I embraced them
     tenderly, and assured them that they should always be near me as
     friends. When the toilette was completed, I bade adieu to the
     villa. I wept--wept tears of mingled joy and sorrow as I said
     farewell to that abode when I had passed so many happy, happy
     hours! At length I entered General Grachia's carriage, which was
     waiting; and, accompanied by my three amiable friends, repaired to
     their father's private dwelling (not his official palace of the War
     Department) in Montoni.

     "Here my letter must terminate. Enclosed is an account of the
     entire ceremony, translated into English by my private secretary
     (who is well acquainted with my native tongue) from the _Montoni
     Gazette_. Fain would I have erased those passages which are
     favourable--too favourable to myself; but I fancied that my
     friend--my sister Diana would be pleased to read the narrative in
     its integrity.

     "In conclusion, let me say--and do you believe it as devoutly as I
     say it sincerely--that, in spite of my rank and fortunes,--in spite
     of the splendours that surround me, to you I am in heart, and
     always shall remain, the same attached and grateful being, whom you
     have known as

"ELIZA SYDNEY."



It would be impossible to describe the feelings of delight with which
Mrs. Arlington perused the latter portion of this letter. Pass we on,
therefore, to the Bridal Ceremony, as it was described in the translated
narrative which accompanied the communication of the Grand Duchess:--

                 "THE MARRIAGE OF THE GRAND DUKE.

     "Yesterday morning were celebrated the nuptials of his Serene
     Highness Angelo III. and Eliza Marchioness of Ziani.

     "From an early hour the capital wore an appearance of unusual
     gaiety and bustle. The houses looking on the Piazzetta of
     Contarini, leading to the ancient Cathedral of Saint Theodosia,
     were decorated in a most splendid manner with banners, garlands,
     festoons of flowers, and various ornaments and devices appropriate
     to the occasion. The balconies were fitted up as verdant bowers and
     arbours, and the lovely characteristics of the country were thus
     introduced into the very heart of the city. The Town-Hall was hung
     with numerous banners; and the royal standard waved proudly over
     the Black Tower of the Citadel. The shops in those streets through
     which the procession was to pass were fitted up with seats which
     were let to those who were willing to pay the high prices demanded
     for them. In other parts of the city the shops and marts of trade
     were all closed, as was the Exchange. A holiday was observed at the
     Bank of Castelcicala; and the business of the General Post Office
     closed at eleven o'clock in the forenoon. Nor was the port less gay
     than the city. All the vessels in the harbour and docks, as well at
     those in the roadstead, were decked with innumerable flags. The
     royal standard floated from the main of the ships of war of the
     Castelcicalan navy. The sight was altogether most imposing and
     lively.

     "At seven o'clock the bells of Saint Theodosia and all the other
     churches in Montoni rang out merry peals; and the troops of the
     garrison got under arms. At a quarter before eight the Mayor and
     Corporation of the city, arrayed in their robes of green velvet
     edged with gold, proceeded to the palace and presented an address
     of congratulation on the auspicious day, to his Serene Highness,
     who was pleased to return a most gracious answer. It being
     generally understood that the Marchioness of Ziani would in the
     first instance alight at the dwelling of General Grachia, the
     Minister of War, a crowd of highly respectable and well-dressed
     persons had collected in that neighbourhood. At nine o'clock the
     General's private carriage, which had been sent to convey the
     future Grand Duchess from her own abode to the General's mansion,
     drove rapidly up the street, attended by two outriders. We shall
     never forget the enthusiasm manifested by the assembled multitude
     upon that occasion. All political feelings appeared to be
     forgotten; and a loud, hearty, and prolonged burst of welcome met
     the ear. The object of this ebullition of generous feeling bowed
     gracefully to the crowds on either side; and the cheering continued
     for some moments after the carriage had entered the court-yard of
     the General's mansion.

     "At half-past ten o'clock the President of the Council, the Grand
     Chancellor, and the Intendant of the Ducal Civil List arrived in
     their carriages at General Grachia's abode, preceded by one of the
     royal equipages, which was sent to convey the bride and her
     ladies-in-waiting to the palace. In a few minutes the President of
     the Council handed the bride, who was attended by the lady and
     three lovely daughters of General Grachia, into the ducal carriage.
     The procession then repaired to the palace, the crowds that lined
     the streets and occupied the windows and balconies by which it
     passed, expressing their feelings by cheers and the waving of
     handkerchiefs. To these demonstrations the bride responded by
     graceful bows, bestowed in a manner so modest and yet evidently
     sincere, that the conduct of this exalted lady upon the occasion
     won all hearts.

     "The procession entered the palace-square; and the Grand Duke,
     attended by the great officers of state and a brilliant staff,
     received his intended bride at the foot of the great marble
     staircase of the western pavilion. The illustrious company then
     entered the palace. Immediately afterwards the five regiments of
     household troops, commanded by that noble veteran the Marshal Count
     of Galeazzo, marched into the square, and formed into three lines
     along the western side of the palace. At half-past eleven the royal
     party appeared at the foot of the marble staircase, and entered the
     numerous carriages in waiting. The bride occupied the carriage
     which had conveyed her to the palace, and was accompanied by the
     ladies in attendance upon her. His Serene Highness, attended by the
     President of the Council and the Grand Chancellor, entered the
     state carriage. The procession then moved onwards to the Cathedral
     of Saint Theodosia.

     "This was the signal for the roar of artillery from all points. The
     citadel, and the ships of war in the roadstead thundered forth the
     announcement that his Serene Highness had just left the palace. The
     bells rang blithely from every steeple; the troops presented arms,
     the military bands played the national hymn; and the procession was
     welcomed with joyous shouts, the waving of handkerchiefs, and the
     smiles of beauty. The windows and balconies of the houses
     overlooking the streets through which it passed, were crowded with
     elegantly dressed ladies, brilliant with their own beauty, gay with
     waving plumes, and sparkling with diamonds. The only indication of
     political feeling which we observed upon the occasion, was on the
     part of the troops; _and they were silent_.

     "The bride was naturally the centre of all interest and attraction.
     Every one was anxious to catch a glimpse of her charming
     countenance. And certainly this lovely lady never could have
     appeared _more lovely_ than on the present occasion. She was
     attired in a dress of the most costly point-lace over white satin.
     Her veil was of the first-mentioned material, and of the richest
     description. She was somewhat pale; but a charming serenity was
     depicted upon her countenance. She bowed frequently, and in the
     most unpretending and affable manner, as the procession moved
     along.

     "At length the cavalcade reached the cathedral, where the
     Archbishop of Montoni, assisted by the Bishops of Trevisano and
     Collato, was in attendance to perform the solemn ceremony. The
     sacred edifice was thronged by the _élite_ and fashion of the
     capital, who had been admitted by tickets. When the royal party had
     entered the Cathedral, the doors were closed; and the holy ceremony
     was solemnised. The roar of the artillery was again heard, as the
     royal party returned to their carriages. This time the Grand
     Duchess was handed by his Serene Highness into the state carriage.
     The return to the palace was distinguished by demonstrations of
     satisfaction on the part of the spectators more enthusiastic, if
     possible, than those which marked the progress of the cavalcade to
     the cathedral. A glow of animation was visible upon the countenance
     of her Serene Highness; and the Grand Duke himself looked
     remarkably well and cheerful. In a short time the Sovereign
     conducted his lovely bride into that palace which in future is to
     be her home.

     "Thus ended a ceremony which, in a political point of view, may
     probably be attended with important results to the interests of
     Castelcicala. Should male issue proceed from this marriage, the
     contentions of rival parties in the state will be at once
     annihilated. The supporters of the Prince of Castelcicala, who is
     now an exile in England, are naturally indignant and annoyed at the
     marriage of his Serene Highness Angelo III. with a lady young
     enough to encourage hopes that the union may not remain unfruitful.
     It is even evident that many of the former friends of the exiled
     Prince pronounced in favour of this marriage, the moment it was
     contemplated some months previously to its solemnization. This
     sentiment of approval will account for the entrance of General
     Grachia, who was notorious for his adhesion to the popular cause
     espoused by the Prince, into the Ministry. Probably the best
     friends of their country, aware that it was neither natural nor
     legal to attempt to control the inclinations and affections of his
     Serene Highness Angelo III., looked upon this marriage as the best
     means of securing peace and internal tranquillity to Castelcicala,
     inasmuch as it gives a prospect of an heir to the ducal throne--an
     heir whose right and title none could dispute. This is the view we
     ourselves take of the case: and we therefore hail the event as one
     of a most auspicious nature in our annals."

Scarcely had the Enchantress terminated this narrative of the ceremony
which elevated her friend to a ducal throne,--a narrative which she had
perused with the liveliest feelings of satisfaction, and the most
unadulterated pleasure,--when the Earl of Warrington was announced.

Diana hastened to communicate to him the tidings which she had received;
and the nobleman himself read Eliza's letter, and the extract from the
_Montoni Gazette_, with an interest which showed how gratified he felt
in the high and exalted fortunes of the daughter of her whom he had once
loved so tenderly.

"Yes, indeed," said the earl, when he had terminated the perusal of the
two documents, "Eliza Sydney now ranks amongst the queens and reigning
princesses of the world: from a humble cottage she has risen to a
throne."

"And this exalted station she owes to your lordship's goodness,"
remarked Diana.

"Say to my justice," observed the earl; "for I may flatter myself that I
have behaved with justice to the child of my departed uncle's daughter.
And this remarkable exaltation of Eliza Sydney shows us, Diana, that we
should never judge of a person's character by one fault. Eliza has
always been imbued with sentiments of virtue and integrity, although she
was led into one error by that villain Stephens; and she has now met
with a reward of a price high almost beyond precedent. But, ah!"
exclaimed the earl, who was carelessly turning the letter of the Grand
Duchess over and over in his hands as he spoke, "this is very
singular--very remarkable;"--and he inspected the seal and post-marks of
the letter with minute attention.

"What is the matter?" inquired Diana.

"Some treachery has been perpetrated here," answered the earl, still
continuing his scrutiny: "this letter had been opened before it was
delivered to you."

"Opened!" cried Diana.

"Yes," said the Earl of Warrington; "here is every proof that the letter
has been violated. See--there is the English post-mark of _yesterday
morning_: and over it has been stamped _another mark_, of this morning's
date. Then contemplate the seal. There are two kinds of wax, the one
melted over the other: do you not notice a shade different in their
colours?"

"Certainly," said Diana: "it is apparent. But who could have done this?
Perhaps the Grand Duchess herself; for the ducal arms are imprinted upon
the upper layer of wax."

"The persons who opened this letter, Diana," said the earl, in a
serious--almost a solemn tone, "are those who know full well how to take
the imprint of a seal. But have you not other letters from
Castelcicala?"

"Several," replied Diana; and she hastily unlocked her writing-desk,
where she produced all the correspondence she had received from Eliza
Sydney.

The earl carefully inspected the envelopes of those letters; and his
countenance grew more serious as he proceeded with his scrutiny.

"Yes," he exclaimed, after a long pause; "the fact is glaring! Every one
of these letters was opened _somewhere_ ere they were delivered to you.
The utmost caution has been evidently used in re-sealing and re-stamping
them;--nevertheless, there are proofs--undoubted proofs--that the whole
of this correspondence has been violated in its transit from the writer
to the receiver."

"But what object--what motive----"

"I have long entertained suspicions," said the Earl of Warrington,
interrupting his fair mistress, "that there is one public institution in
England which is made the scene of proceedings so vile--so
detestable--so base as to cast a stain upon the entire nation. Those
suspicions are now confirmed."

"What mean you?" inquired Diana: "to which institution do you allude?"

"_To the General Post-office_," replied the Earl of Warrington.

"The General Post-office!" cried Mrs. Arlington, her countenance
expressing the most profound astonishment.

"The General Post-office," repeated the earl. "But this is a matter of
so serious a nature that I shall not allow it to rest here. You will
lend me these letters for a few hours? I am more intimately acquainted
with the Home Secretary than with any other of her Majesty's Ministers;
and to him will I now proceed."

The earl consigned the letters to his pocket, and, with an air of deep
determination, took a temporary leave of Mrs. Arlington.

Scarcely had the earl left the house, when Mr. Greenwood's valet,
Filippo, was introduced.

"I have called, madam," said the Italian, "to inform you that I last
night counteracted another of my master's plots, and saved a young
female from the persecution of his addresses."

"You have done well, Filippo," exclaimed Mrs. Arlington. "Does your
master suspect you?"

"Not in the remotest degree, madam. I contrived matters so well, that he
believed the young person alluded to had escaped by her own means, and
without any assistance, save that of a pair of sheets which enabled her
to descend in safety from the window of the room in which she was
confined."

"I am delighted to hear that your mission to England has been so
successful, in thwarting the machinations of that bad man," observed
Mrs. Arlington. "Have you heard any news from Castelcicala?"

"I have this morning received a Montoni newspaper, announcing the
nuptials of the Grand Duke and the Marchioness of Ziani," replied
Filippo.

"And I also have heard those happy tidings," said Mrs. Arlington. "But
have you any further information to give me relative to the schemes of
your master? I am always pleased to learn that his evil designs
experience defeat through your agency."

"I have nothing more to say at present, madam," answered Filippo;
"except, indeed," he added, suddenly recollecting himself, "that I
overheard, a few days ago, a warm contention between my master and a
certain Sir Rupert Harborough."

"Sir Rupert Harborough!" ejaculated Diana, a blush suddenly
overspreading her cheeks.

"Yes, madam. From what I could learn, there was a balance of about a
thousand pounds due from Sir Rupert Harborough to Mr. Greenwood, on a
bill that purported to be the acceptance of Lord Tremordyn, but which
was in reality a forgery committed by Sir Rupert himself."

"A forgery!" cried Diana.

"A forgery, madam. Sir Rupert bitterly reproached Mr. Greenwood with
having suggested to him that mode of raising money, whereas Mr.
Greenwood appeared to deny with indignation any share in the part of the
transaction imputed to him. The matter ended by Mr. Greenwood declaring
that if the bill were not paid to-morrow, when it falls due (having, it
appears, been renewed several times), Sir Rupert Harborough should be
prosecuted for forgery."

"And what said Sir Rupert Harborough to that?" inquired Diana.

"He changed his tone, and began to implore the mercy of Mr. Greenwood:
but my master was inexorable; and Sir Rupert left the house with ruin
and terror depicted upon his countenance."

"This battle you must allow them to fight out between themselves," said
Diana, after a moment's hesitation. "I know Sir Rupert Harborough--know
him full well; but I do not think that he is so thoroughly black-hearted
as your master. He was once kind to me--once," she added, musing to
herself rather than addressing the Italian valet: then, suddenly
recollecting herself, she said, "However, Filippo--that affair does not
regard you."

"Very good, madam," replied the valet; and he then took his departure.

The moment he was gone, Mrs. Arlington threw herself into her
comfortable arm-chair, and became wrapt up in deep thought.




CHAPTER XCIV.

THE HOME OFFICE.


In a well furnished room, on the first-floor of the Home Office, sate
the Secretary of State for that Department.

The room was spacious and lofty. The walls were hung with the portraits
of several eminent statesmen who had, at different times, presided over
the internal policy of the country. A round table stood in the middle of
the apartment; and at this table, which groaned beneath a mass of
papers, was seated the Minister.

At the feet of this functionary was a wicker basket, into which he threw
the greater portion of the letters addressed to him, and over each of
which he cast a glance of such rapidity that he must either have been a
wonderfully clever man to acquire a notion of the contents of those
documents by means of so superficial a survey, or else a very neglectful
one to pay so little attention to affairs which were associated with
important individual interests or which related to matters of national
concern.

The time-piece upon the mantel struck twelve, when a low knock at the
door of the apartment elicited from the Minister an invitation to enter.

A tall, thin, middle-aged, sallow-faced person, dressed in black, glided
noiselessly into the room, bowed obsequiously to the Minister, and took
his seat at the round table.

This was the Minister's private secretary.

The secretary immediately mended a pen, arranged his blotting-paper in a
business-like fashion before him, spread out his foolscap writing paper,
and then glanced towards his master, at much as to say, "I am ready."

"Take that pile of correspondence, if you please," said the Minister,
"and run your eye over each letter."

"Yes, my lord," said the Secretary; and he glanced cursorily over the
letters alluded to, one after the other, briefly mentioning their
respective objects as he proceeded. "This letter, my lord, is from the
chaplain of Newgate. It sets forth that there is a man of the name of
William Lees at present under sentence of death in that prison; that
William Lees, in a fit of unbridled passion, which bordered upon
insanity, murdered his wife; that the conduct of the deceased was
sufficient to provoke the most temperate individual to a similar deed;
that he had no interest in killing her; and that he committed the crime
in a moment over which he had no control."

"Do you remember anything of the case?" demanded the Home Secretary.
"For my part, I have no time to read trials."

"Yes, my lord," replied the Secretary. "This William Lees is a barber;
and his wife was of vile and most intemperate habits. He murdered her in
a fit of exasperation caused by the discovery that she had pledged every
thing moveable in the house, to obtain the means of buying drink."

"Oh! a barber--eh?" said the Home Secretary, yawning.

"Yes, my lord. Your lordship will remember that young Medhurst, who
assassinated a school-fellow in a fit of passion, was only condemned to
three years' imprisonment."

"Ah! but that was quite a different thing," exclaimed the Minister.
"Medhurst was a gentleman; but this man is only a barber."

"True, my lord--very true," said the Secretary. "I had quite forgotten
that."

"Make a memorandum, that the law in the case of William Lees must take
its course."

"Yes, my lord;"--and the Secretary, having endorsed the note upon the
letter, referred to another document. "This, my lord, is a petition from
a political prisoner confined in a county gaol, and who sets forth that
he is compelled to wear the prison dress, associate with felons of the
blackest character, and eat the prison allowance. He humbly submits--"

"He may submit till he is tired," interrupted the Minister. "Make a
memorandum to answer the petition to the effect that her Majesty's
Secretary of State for the Home Department does not see any ground for
interfering in the matter."

"Very good, my lord. This letter it from a pauper in the---- Union,
stating that he has been cruelly assaulted, beaten, and ill-used by the
master; that he has applied in vain to the Poor Law Commissioners for
redress; and that he now ventures to submit his case to your lordship."

"Make a note to answer that the fullest inquiries shall be immediately
instituted," said the Minister.

"Shall I give the necessary instructions for the inquiry, my lord?"
asked the Secretary.

"Inquiry!" repeated the Minister: "are you mad? Do you really imagine
that I shall be foolish enough to permit any inquiry at all? Such a
step would be almost certain to end in substantiating the pauper's
charge against the master; and then there would be a clamour from one
end of the country to the other against the New Poor Laws. We must
smother all such affairs whenever we can; but by writing to say that the
fullest inquiries shall be instituted, I shall be armed with a reply to
any member who might happen to bring the case before Parliament. My
answer to the charge would then be _that her Majesty's Government had
instituted a full inquiry into the matter, and had ascertained that the
pauper was a quarrelsome, obstreperous, and disorderly person, who was
not to be believed upon his oath_."

"True, my lord," said the Secretary, evidently struck by this display of
ministerial wisdom. "The next letter, my lord, is from a clerk in the
Tax Office, Somerset House. He complains that his income is too small,
and that the Commissioners of Taxes refuse to augment it. He states in
pretty plain terms, that unless he receives an augmentation, he shall
not hesitate to publish the fact, that the Dividend Books of the Bank of
England are removed to the Tax-Office every six months, in order that an
account of every fundholder's stock in the government securities may be
taken for the information of the Treasury and the Tax Commissioners: he
adds that such an announcement would convulse the whole nation with
alarm at the awful state of _espionnage_ under which the people exist;
and he states these grounds as a reason for purchasing his silence by
means of an increase of salary."

"This is serious--very serious," said the Minister: "but the letter
should have been addressed to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. You must
enclose it to my colleague."

"Yes, my lord," replied the Secretary.

At this moment a gentle knock was heard at the door of the apartment.

The Secretary hastened to respond to the summons, and admitted two
persons dressed in plain but decent attire. One was a short, stout,
red-faced, consequential-looking man: the other was a tall, raw-boned,
ungainly person, and seemed quite confounded at the presence in which he
found himself.

The former of these individuals was an inspector of police: the latter
was a common police-officer. Indeed, the reader has been already
introduced to them, in the fourteenth chapter of this narrative.

Having ushered these individuals into the room, the private secretary
hastened to breathe a few words in an under tone to the ear of his
master.

"Oh! these are the men, are they?" said the Minister aloud.

"Yes, my lord," replied the Secretary; then, addressing the
police-officers, he exclaimed. "Step forward, my men--step forward.
There--that's right: now sit down at that side of the table, and let the
one who can write best make notes of the instructions that will be
immediately given to you."

Both the Minister and Secretary were cautious enough not to give those
instructions in their own handwriting.

The men sate down, as they were desired; and the inspector whispered to
his companion an order to assume the duties of amanuensis on the
occasion.

"You are aware, my good fellows," said the Minister, "that there is to
be a great political meeting to-morrow evening somewhere in Bethnal
Green?"

"Yes, my lord," replied the inspector.

"It is necessary to the purposes of her Majesty's Government," continued
the Minister, "that discredit should be thrown upon all political
meetings when very liberal sentiments are enunciated."

"Yes, my lord," said the inspector. "Shall Crisp put that down, my
lord?"

"There is no necessity to make a note of my observations, only of my
instructions," answered the Minister, with a smile. "The best method of
throwing discredit upon those meetings is to create a disturbance. You,
Mr. Inspector, will therefore take care and have at least a dozen of
your men in plain clothes at the assembly to-morrow evening."

"Yes, my lord. Put that down, Crisp."

"You will direct your men, Mr. Inspector, to applaud most vehemently all
the inflammatory parts of the speeches made upon the occasion."

"Yes, my lord. Put that down, Crisp."

"You will contrive that Mr. Crisp, whom my secretary states to be a
proper man for the purpose, shall himself make a speech to-morrow
evening."

"Yes, my lord. Put that down, Crisp."

"This speech must be of the most violent and inflammatory kind: it must
advocate the use of physical force, denounce the aristocracy, the
government, and the parliament in the most blood-thirsty terms; it need
not even spare her most gracious Majesty. Let the cry be _Blood_; and
let your men, Mr. Inspector, applaud with deafening shouts, every period
in this incendiary harangue."

"Yes, my lord. Put that down, Crisp."

"The well-disposed portion of the audience will remonstrate. Your men in
plain clothes can thus readily pick a quarrel; and a quarrel may be
easily made to lead to blows. Then let a posse of constables in uniform
rush in, and lay about them with their bludgeons most unsparingly. The
more broken heads and limbs, the better. Be sure to have some of the
audience taken into custody; and on the following morning, appear
against them before the police-magistrate."

"Yes, my lord. Put that down, Crisp."

"You will take especial care to denounce the individuals so captured, as
the ringleaders of the riot, and the ones who made themselves most
conspicuous in applauding the inflammatory speeches uttered on the
occasion--especially those which advocated rebellion, bloodshed, and
death to monarchy and aristocracy."

"Yes, my lord. Put that down, Crisp."

"If the magistrate asks you--as he will be certain to do," continued the
Minister, "whether you are acquainted with the prisoners at the bar, you
can say that they are well known to the police as most dangerous and
disorderly characters."

"Yes, my lord. Put that down, Crisp."

"You see," said the Minister, turning towards his own private secretary,
"it is ten to one that the individuals so arrested will be respectable
tradesmen; and as they will thus obtain a taste of the treadmill (for we
must send our private instructions to the magistrates at Lambeth Street,
to that effect) the warning will be a most salutary one throughout the
whole district--especially at a moment when the Spitalfields weavers are
reduced to desperation by their dreadfully distressed condition."

"Of course, my lord," replied the Secretary. "Such a proceeding will
sicken men of political meetings. Has your lordship any farther
instructions for these officers?"

"None," said the Minister. "I may, however, add, that if they acquit
themselves well in this respect, the inspector shall become a
superintendent, and the constable a serjeant."

"Thank your lordship," exclaimed the inspector. "You may put that down,
too, Crisp--and express your gratitude to his lordship for his
kindness."

Mr. Crisp acted in all respects as he was desired; and having each made
an awkward bow, the two officers retired.

"Now proceed with the correspondence," said the Minister.

"Yes, my lord," replied the Secretary. "Here is a letter from the mayor
of ----, stating that the experiment of making the prisoners, tried and
untried, who are confined in the gaol of that town, wear black masks
whenever they are compelled to mingle together, works well. The mayor
moreover states, that out of two hundred prisoners subjected to the
_solitary system_, since the introduction of the plan into the gaol,
only nineteen have gone mad, and of those only three have died raving.
He therefore recommends the solitary system. He adds that all personal
identity is now destroyed in the prison, and prisoners are known by
_numbers_ instead of by their _names_. He concludes by inquiring whether
these regulations shall continue in force?"

"Most assuredly," answered the Minister. "Make a note that a reply is to
be sent to that effect. I am glad the system of solitary confinement,
black cloth masks, and numbers instead of names, works well. I shall
gradually apply it to every criminal prison in England. At the same
time, I must endeavour to throw the odium of the introduction of that
system upon the justices in quarter sessions assembled--in case I should
be assailed on the subject in the House."

"Certainly, my lord. This letter is from the secret agent, sent down to
Manchester to inquire into the constitution and principles of the
Independent Order of Rechabites. He obtained admission into a lodge, and
was regularly initiated a member of the Brotherhood. He finds that the
Rechabites are about eighty thousand in number, having lodges in all the
great cities and towns of England, with the head-quarters at Manchester.
The Order is not political; but is formed of sections of the Teetotal
Societies. The government need not entertain any fears of this
combination. The agent sends up a detailed account of the secrets and
signs connected with the Order, accompanied by a copy of the rules and
regulations."

"These Teetotalers must not be encouraged. They are seriously injuring
the Excise-revenues. Proceed."

"This letter, my lord, is from the principal agent sent down into the
mining districts, to encourage a spirit of discontent amongst the
pitmen. He says that he has no doubt of being enabled to produce a
disturbance in the north, and thus afford your lordship the wished-for
opportunity of sending more troops in that direction. When once
over-awed by the presence of a formidable number of bayonets, the pitmen
will be compelled to submit to the terms dictated by the coal-mine
proprietors; and your lordship's aims will be thus accomplished."

"I am glad of that. The coal-mine proprietors are rich and influential
men, whom it is necessary to conciliate," said the Minister. "What
next?"

"Here is a letter, my lord," continued the Secretary, "from Sir Joseph
Gosborne, stating that his daughter, Miss Gosborne, was taken into
custody yesterday morning on an accusation of stealing a jar of
anchovies from an oilman's shop. The magistrate refused to take bail,
and remanded the young lady until next Monday. Sir Joseph is anxious
that his daughter should be admitted to bail, because, in that case,
should he fail to settle with the prosecutor, he can keep his daughter
out of the way when the day of trial arrives, and pay the money for the
estreated recognizances. He is moreover desirous that the case should be
sent to the Sessions, because, if by any accident the matter _should_ go
to trial, a verdict of acquittal is certain at the hands of a
Clerkenwell jury, but by no means sure with an Old Bailey one."

"Make a memorandum to write to the magistrate who will hear the case
next Monday, to take bail--_moderate bail_, mind--and to refer the
matter to the Sessions. We must not refuse to oblige Sir Joseph
Gosborne."

While the private secretary was still writing, a servant entered and
informed the Minister that Mr. Teynham was waiting, and solicited an
audience.

"Ah! the new magistrate at Marlborough Street," exclaimed the Home
Secretary. "Show him in."

Mr. Teynham, a middle-aged gentleman attired in black, was introduced
accordingly. He bowed very low to the Minister, and, when desired to
take a chair, obsequiously seated himself upon the very edge.

"I have recommended you to Her Majesty, Mr. Teynham," said the Minister,
"as a fit and proper person to fill the situation of police-magistrate
and justice of the peace at the Marlborough Street Court; and her
Majesty has been most graciously pleased to confirm the appointment."

Mr. Teynham bowed very low, and became entangled in a labyrinth of
acknowledgments, with which "deep gratitude"--"sense of
duty"--"impartial distribution of justice," and such like phrases were
blended.

"It is necessary," said the Minister, after a pause, "that I should give
you a few instructions with respect to the functions upon which you are
about to enter. You are aware, Mr. Teynham, that the young gentlemen of
the aristocracy are occasionally addicted to wrenching off knockers,
pulling down bells, and other innocent little pranks of a similar
nature. These are delicate cases to deal with, Mr. Teynham; but I need
scarcely inform you that the treadmill is _not_ for the aristocracy."

"I understand, my lord. A trifling fine, with a reprimand--and a little
wholesome advice--"

"Precisely, Mr. Teynham--precisely!" cried the Minister: "I see that you
understand your business well. The nice discrimination which you possess
will always teach you whether you have a gentleman to deal with, or not.
If a low person choose to divert himself with aristocratic amusements,
punish him--do not spare him--send him to the treadmill. In the same way
that game is preserved for the sport of the upper classes, so must the
knockers and the bells be saved from spoliation by the lower orders."

"I fully comprehend your lordship," said the newly-made magistrate. "I
should like, however, to know your lordship's sentiments in one
respect."

"Speak, Mr. Teynham," said the Minister, with the most condescending
affability, or the most affable condescension--whichever the reader
likes best.

"Suppose, my lord, that a young nobleman or well-born gentleman wrenches
off a knocker, and throws it into the street; then suppose, my lord,
that a poor man, passing by, picks up the knocker and carries it off to
a marine-store dealer's to sell it for old iron, in order to procure his
family a meal; and then if your lordship will be kind enough to suppose
that both those persons are brought up before me--the nobleman for
wrenching off the knocker and throwing it away, and the poor man for
picking it up and selling it,--how am I to act in such a case?"

"Very ingenious--very ingenious, indeed, Mr. Teynham," said the
Minister: "you will make an excellent magistrate! Your course in the
case propounded is clear; the nobleman is fined five shillings for being
drunk and disorderly--because all noblemen and gentlemen who wrench off
knockers are drunk and disorderly; and the poor man must be committed to
the House of Correction for three months. Nothing is plainer, Mr.
Teynham."

"Nothing, my lord. Has your lordship any farther instructions?"

"Oh! decidedly," returned the Minister. "When any individual connected
with a noble or influential family gets into a scrape, and is brought
before you, hear the case in private, and exclude the reporters. Again,
never commit such a person for trial, unless you are absolutely
compelled. Let him go upon bail: it will be ten to one if you are ever
troubled any more with the case. There is another point to which I must
direct your attention. The practice of shoplifting among ladies has
increased lately to a fearful degree. But, after all, it is only a
_little eccentricity_--indeed one might almost call it an _amiable
weakness_. The fact is, that many ladies will go into a shop, purchase a
hundred-guinea shawl, and secrete an eighteen-penny pair of gloves.
Prudent husbands and fathers avert the tradesman, with whom their wives
and daughters deal, beforehand; and these trifling abstractions are duly
entered in the running accounts; but now and then a lady _does_ get
taken up. In such a case you must show her every possible distinction.
Order her a chair in the dock: and before the business comes on, permit
her to remain with her friends in the 'magistrates' private room.' Then,
if the prosecutor hesitates in giving his evidence, fly into a passion,
tell him that he is prevaricating and not worthy to be believed upon his
oath, and indignantly dismiss the case. The accused lady can then step
into her carriage, and drive off comfortably home."

"Your lordship's instructions shall be complied with to the very
letter," said Mr. Teynham.

"In a word," continued the Minister, "you must always shield the upper
classes as much as possible; and in order to veil their little
peccadilloes, bring out the misdeeds of the lower orders in the boldest
relief. This is the only way to support the doctrine that the poor
_must_ be governed by the rich. Whenever young boys or girls appear as
witnesses, ask them if they know the value of an oath; and if they reply
in the negative, expatiate upon the frightful immorality prevalent among
the poorer classes, so that the reporters may record your observations.
This does good--and enables the Bishops to make long speeches in the
House of Lords on the necessity of religious instruction, and the want
of more churches. If you attend to these remarks of mine, Mr. Teynham,
you will make an excellent magistrate."

"Your lordship may rely upon me," was the submissive answer.

"There is one more point--I had almost forgotten it," said the Home
Secretary. "You must invariably take the part of the police. Remember
that the oath of one police-officer is worth the oaths of a dozen
defendants. This only applies to the collision of the police with the
lower orders, mind. As a general rule, remember that the police are
always _in the right_ when the poor are concerned, and always _in the
wrong_ when the rich are brought before you. And now, Mr. Teynham, I
have nothing more to say."

The newly-made magistrate rose, bowed several times, and withdrew,
walking obsequiously upon the points of his toes for fear his boots
should creak in the awful presence of the Home Secretary.

But if "his worship" were thus meek and lowly before his patron, he
afterwards avenged himself for that constraint, when seated in the
magisterial chair, upon the poor devils that appeared before him!

The private secretary was about to proceed with the correspondence
addressed from different quarters to the Minister, when a servant
entered the room, and placed a card upon the table before this great
officer of state.

"The Earl of Warrington?" said the Minister. "I will receive him."

The servant withdrew, and the private secretary retired to an inner
apartment.

In a few moments the Earl of Warrington was announced.

When the usual civilities had been exchanged between the two noblemen,
the Earl of Warrington said, "I have called, my lord, upon a matter
which, I hope from the knowledge I have of your lordship's character,
will be considered by you as one of importance to the whole nation."

"The estimate your lordship forms of any business can be no mean guide
to my own opinion," answered the Minister.

"I am not quite aware whether I am acting in accordance with official
etiquette, to bring the matter alluded to under the notice of your
lordship, or whether it would have been more regular in me to have
addressed myself direct to the Postmaster-General or the Prime Minister;
but as I have the honour of being better acquainted with your lordship
than with any of your colleagues in the administration, I made up my
mind to come hither."

"I shall be most happy to serve your lordship in any way in my power,"
said the Minister.

"Then I shall at once come to the point," continued the Earl of
Warrington. "A friend of mine--a lady who resides in London--has
corresponded for some months past with a lady living in the state of
Castelcicala; and there is every reason to believe that the letters
addressed to my friend in London, have been opened during the transit."

"Indeed," said the Minister, not a muscle of whose countenance moved as
he heard this communication. "May I ask what is the nature of the proofs
that such is the fact?"

"I believe," returned the Earl of Warrington, "that the letters have
been opened at the English Post-office."

"The English Post-office!" ejaculated the Minister, with an air of great
surprise--whether real or affected, we must leave our readers to
determine.

"Yes, my lord--the English Post-office," said the Earl of Warrington,
firmly. "The proofs are these;"--and, extracting the letters from his
pocket, he pointed out to the Minister the same appearances which he had
ere now explained to Mrs. Arlington.

"On this last letter," said the Minister, "I perceive the ducal arms of
Castelcicala."

"The present Grand Duchess of that state is the correspondent of Mrs.
Arlington, to whom, your lordship may perceive, these letters are
addressed."

[Illustration]

"And her Serene Highness is a relative of your lordship, I believe?"
observed the Minister inquiringly.

"Which circumstance, united with my friendship for Mrs. Arlington, has
determined me to inquire into this matter--nay, to sift it to the very
bottom."

"Your lordship can scarcely suppose that the contents of letters are
violated by the sanction of the Post-Master General?" said the Minister,
darting a keen glance upon the earl.

"I will not take upon myself to accuse any individual directly," was the
answer.

"Nor is it worth while to scrutinise a matter which will probably
terminate in the discovery that the impertinent curiosity of some clerk
has led to the evil complained of," said the Minister.

"No, my lord--this violation of private correspondence has been
conducted too systematically to be the work of a clerk surrounded by
prying eyes and hurried with the fear of detection every moment. Here
are two distinct coats of wax on several of the letters; and yet the
impressions of the original seals are retained. Those impressions were
not taken by artificial process in an instant, nor without previous
preparation."

"Then whom does your lordship suspect?" inquired the Minister, with a
trifling uneasiness of manner.

"I come to ask your lordship to furnish me with a clue to this mystery,
and not to supply one. Were I acquainted with the real truth, I should
know what course to pursue."

"And what course would that be?"

"In the next session of Parliament, I would rise in my place in the
House of Lords, and proclaim to the whole nation--nay, to the entire
world--the disgraceful fact, that England, the land of vaunted freedom,
possesses an institution where the most sacred ties of honour are basely
violated and trampled under foot."

"But suppose, my lord--I only say suppose," cried the Minister, "that
her Majesty's government should consider it vitally important to English
interests to be acquainted with the contents of certain
letters,--suppose, I say, my lord, that such were the case,--would you
then think it necessary to publish your discovery,--presuming that your
lordship has made such discovery,--of that necessary proceeding on the
part of her Majesty's government?"

"I am afraid that your lordship has now afforded me a clue to the
mystery which has perplexed me," said the Earl of Warrington coldly.

"And as a nobleman devoted to your country, your lordship must recognise
the imperious necessity of adopting such a course, at times, as the one
now made known to you."

"As a nobleman devoted to my country," exclaimed the Earl of Warrington
proudly, "I abhor and detest all underhand means of obtaining
information which serves as a guide for diplomatic intrigue, but which
in nowise affects the sterling interests of the state."

"Your lordship speaks warmly," said the Minister.

"And were I in my place in Parliament, I should speak more warmly--far
more warmly still. I am, however, here in your lordship's apartment, and
the laws of courtesy do not permit me to express my feelings as I
elsewhere _should_ do--and as I elsewhere _shall_ do."

"Your lordship will reflect," said the Minister, now really
alarmed,--"your lordship will reflect--maturely--seriously----"

"It requires no reflection to teach me my duty."

"But, my dear earl----"

"My lord?"

"The peace of the country frequently depends upon the information which
we acquire in this manner."

"Then had the peace of the country better be occasionally menaced, than
that the sacred envelope of a letter should be violated?"

"Your lordship is too severe," said the Minister.

"No--my lord: I am not, under the circumstances, severe enough. Behold
the gross injustice of the system. The law forbids us to transmit sealed
letters through any other medium than the Post-office; and yet that very
Post-office is made the scene of the violation of those sacred missives.
My lord, it is impossible to defend so atrocious a proceeding. Now, my
lord, I have spoken as warmly as I feel."

"Really, my dear earl, you must not permit this little business to go
any further. You shall have for your friends every satisfaction they
require: their correspondence shall be strictly inviolate in future. And
now, my lord," continued the Minister, with a smile whose deceptive
blandness Mr. Greenwood would have envied, "let me request attention to
another point. The Premier has placed your lordship's name on the list
of peers who are to be raised to a more elevated rank ere the opening of
the next session; and your lordship may exchange your coronet of an
earldom against that of a marquisate."

"Her Majesty's government," replied the earl with chilling--freezing
_hauteur_, "would do well to reserve that honour in respect to me, until
it may choose to reward me when I shall have performed a duty that I owe
my country, and exposed a system to express my full sense of which I
dare not _now_ trust my tongue with epithets. Good morning, my lord."

And the Earl of Warrington walked proudly from the room.

On the following day a cabinet council was held at the Home Office.




CHAPTER XCV.

THE FORGER AND THE ADULTERESS.


It was evening; and Lady Cecilia Harborough was seated alone in the
drawing-room of the house which she and her husband occupied in
Tavistock Square.

A cheerful fire blazed in the grate: the lamp upon the table diffused a
soft and mellow lustre through the apartment.

Lady Cecilia's manner was pensive: a deep shade of melancholy overspread
her countenance; and at times her lips quivered, and her bosom heaved
convulsively.

She was evidently attempting to struggle with feelings of a very painful
nature.

"Slighted--neglected--perhaps despised!" she at length murmured. "Oh!
what an indignity! To have yielded myself up entirely to that man--and
now to be cast aside in this manner! For months past have I observed
that his conduct grew more and more cool towards me;--his visits became
less frequent;--he made appointments with me and did not keep them;--he
remonstrated with me for what he called my extravagance, when I asked
him for money! Ah! how I endeavoured to close my eyes to the truth:--I
forced myself to put faith in his excuses for absence--I compelled
myself to be satisfied with his apologies for not keeping his
engagements. Fool that I have been! Had I reproached--wept--stormed--and
quarrelled, as other women would have done, he would yet be my slave:
but I was too pliant--too easy--too docile,--and he has ended by
contemning me! I wanted spirit--I was deficient in courage--I practised
no artifice. I should have refused him my favours when he was most
impassioned; I should have tantalized him--acted with caprice--set a
high value upon the pleasures which he enjoyed in my arms. Oh! it is
cruel--cruel! I have been the pensioned harlot of that man! He commanded
the use of my person as he would that of the lowest prostitute in the
street. I was too cheap--too willing--too ready to meet him half way in
the dalliance of love! I caught a fine bird--and by leaving his cage
open, have allowed him an opportunity to fly away! The indignity is
insufferable! For weeks I had not asked him for a shilling--for weeks I
had not spoken to him on the subject of money. And now--to-day--when I
require a hundred guineas for urgent matters, to be refused! to be
denied that paltry sum! Oh! it is monstrous! And not to come himself to
explain,--but to send a cool note, expressing a regret that the numerous
demands he has had upon him lately render it impossible for him to
comply with my request! A worn-out excuse--a wretched apology! And for
him, too, who absolutely rolls in riches! I never could have believed
it. Even now it appears a dream! Ah! the ungrateful monster! It is true
that he has supplied me at times in the most generous manner,--that he
redeemed my jewels for me a second time, some months ago, when Rupert
played me that vile trick by plundering me during my absence;--but,
alas! the jewels have returned to their old place--and who is to redeem
them _now_?"

Lady Cecilia paused, and compressed her lips together.

She felt herself slighted--perhaps for some rival: and whose sufferings
are more acute than those of a neglected woman? who experiences mental
pangs more poignant?

Lady Cecilia felt herself degraded. She now comprehended that she had
been made the instrument of a heartless libertine's pleasures; and that
he coolly thrust her aside when literally satiated with her charms.

This was a most debasing conviction--debasing beyond all others, for a
patrician lady!

Never did she seem so little in her own estimation: she felt
polluted;--she saw that she had sold herself for gold: she remembered
how willingly, how easily she surrendered herself on the first occasion
of her criminality; and she despised herself, because she felt that
Greenwood despised her also!

She had no virtue--but she had pride.

The highest bidder might enjoy her person, so voluptuous was she by
nature--so ready also was she to make any sacrifice to obtain the means
of gratifying her extravagance.

Love with her was not a refinement--it was a sensuality.

Still she had her pride--her woman's pride; for even the most degraded
courtezan has _that_; and it was her pride that was now so deeply
wounded.

She knew not what course to pursue.

Should she endeavour to bring Greenwood back to her arms?

Or should she be revenged?

If she resolved upon the former, what wiles was she to adopt--what
artifices to employ?

If she decided upon the latter, what point in her neglectful lover was
vulnerable--what weapon could she use?

A woman does not like to choose the alternative of vengeance, because
such a proceeding implies the absence of all hope and of all power of
recalling the faithless one.

And yet what was Lady Cecilia to do? That refusal of the money which she
had requested, appeared expressive of Mr. Greenwood's determination to
break off the connexion.

In that case nothing remained to her but vengeance.

Such were her thoughts.

Her reverie was interrupted by the sudden entrance of her husband Sir
Rupert Harborough. His face was flushed with drinking--for he had dined,
with his friend Chichester, at a tavern; and his cares had forced him to
apply with even more than usual liberality to the bottle.

He threw himself into a chair opposite to his wife, and said, "Well,
Cecilia, I have got very bad news to tell you."

"Indeed, Sir Rupert?" she said, in a tone which signified that _she_
also had her annoyances, and would rather not be troubled with _his_.

"I have, on my honour!" cried the baronet. "In fact, Cecilia, I must
find a thousand pounds to-morrow by twelve o'clock."

Lady Cecilia only laughed ironically.

"You make merry, madam, at my misfortunes," said Sir Rupert; "but I can
assure you that the present is no laughing matter."

"And I unfortunately have no more diamonds and jewellery for you to rob
me of," returned the lady.

"No, Cecilia--but you are my wife; and the disgrace that falls upon your
husband would redound on yourself."

"Oh! if you be afraid of rusticating in the Queen's Bench prison for a
season, I would advise you to make yourself easy on that head;
because--"

"Because what, Cecilia?"

"Because I can assure all your friends and acquaintances that you are
merely passing the winter in Paris."

"Ridiculous!" cried the baronet impatiently.

"Not so ridiculous as you imagine," returned Lady Cecilia. "You are
accustomed, you know, to leave home for weeks and months together."

"Lady Cecilia, this is no time for either ill-feeling or sarcasm. If we
have no love for one another, at least let us sit down and converse
calmly upon the urgency of our present situation."

"_Our_ situation?" ejaculated Cecilia.

"Yes--_ours_," repeated the baronet emphatically. "In one word, Cecilia,
can you possibly raise a thousand pounds?"

To a person who had not the means of obtaining even the tenth part of
that sum, and who had herself been disappointed that very evening in her
endeavour to procure a hundred guineas, the question put by the baronet
appeared in so ridiculous a light, that--in spite of her own
annoyances--Lady Cecilia threw herself back in her chair, and burst into
a loud and hearty laugh.

Sir Rupert rose and paced the room in an agitated manner; for he was
totally at a loss what course to pursue. His only hope was in his wife;
and yet he knew not how to break the fatal news to her.

"My God! Cecilia," he exclaimed, after a pause, during which he resumed
his seat, "you will drive me mad!"

"You have become very sensitive of late, Sir Rupert; and yet I was not
aware that you were so weak-minded as to tremble upon the verge of
insanity. Certainly your conduct has never led me to suppose that you
were over sane."

"My dear Cecilia, cease this raillery, in the name of every thing
sacred," cried the baronet. "I tell you that ruin hangs over me--ruin of
the most fearful nature--ruin in which your own name, as that of my
wife, will be compromised--"

"Then tell me at once what you dread, and I will tell you whether I can
assist you; for I know perfectly well that you require me to do
something."

"Do not ask me what it is, Cecilia; but say--can you procure from any
quarter--_from any quarter_, mind--a thousand pounds?"

"Absurd! Sir Rupert," answered the lady. "I have no means of helping
myself at this moment--much less of providing so large a sum to supply
your extravagance. This is a debt of honour, I presume--a debt
contracted at the gambling table."

"No--it is far more serious than that, Cecilia; and you _must_ exert
yourself. If I do not have that amount by twelve to-morrow, the
consequences will be most fatal. I know you can borrow the money for
me--you have resources, no matter where or how--I ask no questions--I do
not wish to pry into your secrets--"

"You are really very considerate, Sir Rupert. You do not wish to pry
into my secrets: but you would not hesitate to pry into my drawers and
boxes, if you thought there was any thing in them worth taking."

And as she uttered these words, a smile of superb contempt curled her
vermilion lips.

Sir Rupert was maddened by this behaviour on the part of his wife; and
with difficulty could he restrain his feelings of rage and hatred.

"Madam," he exclaimed, "I ask you to throw aside your raillery, and
converse with me--for once--in a serious manner."

"I am willing to do so, Sir Rupert," answered Cecilia; "but you really
appear to be joking me yourself. You speak in enigmas about the ruin
that hangs over _you_ and will involve _me_;--you refuse to entrust me
with more of your secret than is necessary to serve as a preface for
your demand;--and that demand is a thousand pounds! A thousand pounds
are required in a few hours of a person who has no diamonds to
pledge--no friends to apply to--"

"Stay, Cecilia," cried the baronet. "You cannot be without friends. For
a year past you have been well supplied with funds--you have redeemed
your diamonds twice--you have satisfied many of our creditors--the
servants' wages and the rent have been regularly paid--"

"And all this has been done without the contribution of one shilling on
the part of my husband towards the household expenses," added Lady
Cecilia.

"I am glad you have mentioned that point," exclaimed Sir Rupert: "it
proves that you _have_ friends--that perhaps your father and mother
assist you in private,--in a word, that you have some resources. Now
what those resources may be, I do not ask you: all I require is
assistance--now--within a few hours--before twelve to-morrow."

"Even if I could raise the sum you require," said Cecilia, "I would not
think of giving it to you without knowing for what destination it was
intended."

"And can you procure the sum, if I reveal to you--if I tell you----"

"I promise nothing," interrupted Lady Cecilia drily.

"But you will do your best?" persisted the baronet.

"I will do nothing without being previously made aware of the real
nature of your difficulties."

"I will then keep you in the dark no longer. The cause of my
embarrassment is a bill of exchange, for a thousand pounds, now lying in
Greenwood's hands, and due to-morrow."

"That is but a simple debt; and, methinks, Sir Rupert, that your
acquaintance with bills is not so slight as to render you an alarmist
respecting the consequences."

"Were it only a simple matter of debt, I should care but little," said
Sir Rupert, still compelled to support the biting raillery of his wife:
"but unfortunately--in an evil hour--I know not what demon prompted me
at the moment----"

"Speak, Sir Rupert--tell me the truth at once," cried Lady Cecilia, now
really alarmed.

"I say that in an evil hour--in a moment of desperation--in an excess of
frenzy--I committed a forgery!"

"A forgery!" repeated Lady Cecilia, turning deadly pale. "Ah! what a
disgrace to the family--what shame for me----"

"I told you that my ruin would redound upon yourself, Cecilia. But there
is more yet for you to hear. The acceptance that I forged----"

"Well?"

"Was that of Lord Tremordyn----"

"My father!"

"And now you know all. Can you assist me?"

"Sir Rupert, I have no means of raising one tenth part of the sum that
you need to cover this infamous transaction."

"And yet you seemed to say that if I told you the nature of my
difficulties----"

"I was curious to learn your secret; and as you appeared resolved to
keep it from _me_, I thought I would see if there were no means of
wheedling it out of _you_."

"And you therefore have no hope to give me?" said the baronet, in a tone
of despair.

"None. Where could I raise one thousand pounds? how am I to obtain such
a sum? It is for you either to pacify Mr. Greenwood, or to throw
yourself at my father's feet and confess all."

"Mr. Greenwood is resolute; and you know that your father would spurn me
from his presence. So far from me being able to help myself, it is for
you to help me. Perhaps Mr. Greenwood would listen to your
representations; or else Lord Tremordyn would accord to you what he
would never concede to me."

"You cannot suppose that I can have any influence upon Mr. Greenwood,"
began Lady Cecilia: "and as for--"

"On the contrary," said Sir Rupert, fixing his eyes in a significant
manner upon his wife's countenance; "I have every reason to believe that
your influence over Mr. Greenwood is very great; and I will now thank
you to exercise it in my behalf."

"What do you mean, Sir Rupert?" exclaimed Cecilia, a deep blush
suffusing her face, and her eyes sinking beneath her husband's
expressive look.

"Do not force me to explanations, Cecilia," returned the baronet. "I
know more than you imagine--I have proofs of more than you fancy I could
even suspect. But of that no matter: relieve me from this
embarrassment--and I will never trouble you about _your_ pursuits."

"What would you have me do?" asked the guilty wife, in a trembling
voice.

"Go to Greenwood and settle this business for me," said the baronet, in
an authoritative tone.

"I cannot--I dare not--I have no right to demand such a favour of him--I
should be certain to experience a refusal--I--"

"Lady Cecilia," interrupted the baronet, speaking in a slow and emphatic
manner, "Mr. Greenwood is too gallant a man to refuse a mere trifle to a
lady who has refused nothing to him."

"Sir Rupert--you cannot suppose--you--"

"I mean what I say, madam," added the baronet sternly. "Mr. Greenwood is
your paramour, and you can surely use your influence with him to save
your husband."

"My God! what do I hear?" ejaculated Cecilia. "What proof have you, Sir
Rupert--what testimony--what ground--"

"Every proof--every testimony--every ground," interrupted the baronet
impatiently. "But, again I say, I do not wish to ruin your reputation,
if you will save mine."

"Impossible!" cried Lady Cecilia. "I do not deny that Mr. Greenwood has
accommodated me with an occasional loan--upon interest--"

"Interest indeed!" said the baronet, whose turn to assume a tone of
raillery had now arrived: "interest paid from the bank of my honour!"

"Upon legal and commercial terms has he lent me money," continued Lady
Cecilia; "and this very evening has he refused to advance me another
shilling!"

"Is that true, Cecilia?" demanded Sir Rupert.

"Nay--satisfy yourself," said the lady; and drawing a note from her
bosom, she handed it to her husband.

The correspondence that passed between Mr. Greenwood and Lady Cecilia
was always of a laconic and most guarded nature: there was consequently
nothing in the letter now communicated to Sir Rupert Harborough, to
confirm his belief in his wife's criminality. Indeed, the epistle was
neither more nor less than any gentleman might write upon a matter of
business to any lady.

"I see that Mr. Greenwood is tired of you, Cecilia," said the baronet,
throwing the note upon the table, "and that he is anxious to break off
the connexion. Now I will tell you how you must be kind enough to act,"
he continued, in a tone of command. "You must proceed at once to Mr.
Greenwood; you must tell him that I have discovered all--that I have
positive proofs--that since the day when Chichester discovered him with
his arm round your neck in my drawing-room--"

"Oh! that villain Chichester!" murmured Lady Cecilia.

"That ever since that day," continued the baronet, "Chichester and
myself have watched your proceedings--have seen you, Cecilia, repair to
the appointments agreed upon with your paramour--"

"But this is atrocious!" ejaculated the lady, now dreadfully excited.

"Nay--do not interrupt me," said Sir Rupert in an imperative manner.
"You must tell Mr. Greenwood that I and my witness have followed you
both to an hotel at Greenwich--that we have been in the next room and
have overheard your conversation--that we have been aware of the moments
of your amorous dalliance--"

"Ah! Sir Rupert--do you want to kill me" cried Cecilia, bursting into an
agony of tears.

"Nonsense!" ejaculated the baronet: "I only want you to save me, and I
will screen you. Go, then, to Greenwood--tell him all this--assure him
that I know all--that for months have I been watching you--and that I
should obtain from him damages far more important than the amount of
this acceptance, but that I am willing to compromise the business by the
destruction of that document."

"And why could you not have acquainted Mr. Greenwood with all this when
you last saw him?" demanded Lady Cecilia, drying her tears, and
endeavouring to compose herself, now that the worst was known.

"I did not intend to mention my knowledge of your criminality at all,"
said Sir Rupert; "and had you consented in the first instance to use
your influence with Greenwood to obtain the money to settle the bill,
you would not have forced me to these revelations."

"Say rather, Sir Rupert Harborough," exclaimed the lady, "that you would
have me obtain for you the means to pay this forged bill; and when once
you were freed from the power of Greenwood, you would have brought your
action against him, and exposed your wife. But as you have failed in
making _me_--the wife whom you would thus expose--the instrument of
procuring that sum,--and as the danger now stares you in the face, you
proclaim your knowledge of our connexion, and use it as a means to
compromise the forgery."

"Cecilia, you do not think me capable----"

"I think you capable of any thing," interrupted his wife indignantly;
and it was singular to see that adulterous woman--that criminal
wife--that profligate female now putting her husband to the blush, by
exposing his base designs.

"Well--after all," exclaimed Sir Rupert, "recriminations will do no
good. Go to Greenwood--settle the affair--and the past shall be buried
in oblivion."

"And what guarantee do you offer to ensure eternal secresy on your part,
provided Mr. Greenwood will give up this forged bill?"

"I will sign any paper he may require," replied the baronet. "But time
presses--it is now nearly ten o'clock--and to-morrow morning----"

"I will go to Mr. Greenwood," said Lady Cecilia, rising from her seat:
"I will go to him--and endeavour to compromise this affair to the best
of my power."

Sir Rupert rang the bell and ordered wine to be brought up, while Lady
Cecilia hastened to her boudoir to attire herself for going out; and in
the mean time a servant was despatched to procure a cab.

The vehicle arrived and Lady Cecilia was already upon the threshold of
the front door of the house, when a servant in a handsome livery
ascended the steps, presented a letter, and said "For Sir Rupert
Harborough."

Lady Cecilia received the letter; and the servant who delivered it,
immediately took his departure.

The lady was about to send in the letter by her own domestic to her
husband, when the superscription on the envelope caught her eyes by the
light of the hall-lamp. The writing was in the delicate hand of a
female; and, without a moment's hesitation, Cecilia consigned the
epistle to her reticule.

She then stepped into the vehicle, and ordered the driver to take her to
Spring Gardens.

There were two bright lamps fixed in front of the cab; and by these
means was Lady Cecilia enabled to examine the contents of the letter
intended for her husband.

Without the least hesitation she opened the letter, and to her ineffable
surprise discovered that it contained a Bank of England note for one
thousand pounds.

This treasure was accompanied by a letter, the contents of which were as
follows:--

     "An individual who once received some kindness at the hands of Sir
     Rupert Harborough, has learnt by a strange accident that Sir Rupert
     Harborough has a pressing need of a sum of money to liquidate a
     debt due to Mr. George Montague Greenwood. The individual alluded
     to takes leave to place the sum required at Sir Rupert Harborough's
     disposal."

No name--no date--no address were appended to this mysterious note. The
writing was in a delicate female hand;--and a servant in a handsome
livery had delivered the letter. These circumstances, combined with the
handsome manner in which the money was tendered, refuted the suspicion
that some female, with whom Sir Rupert was illicitly connected, had thus
befriended him.

Lady Cecilia was bewildered: the pain of conjecture and doubt was
however absorbed in the pleasurable feelings excited by the possession
of so large a sum of money.

The cab now stopped at Mr. Greenwood's residence.




CHAPTER XCVI.

THE MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT'S LEVEE.


"You have doubtless called, my dear Cecilia," said Mr. Greenwood, as he
handed the fair visitant to a seat in his elegant drawing-room,--"you
have doubtless called to remonstrate with me respecting my note of this
evening."

"No," answered Cecilia coldly: "I come on a more momentous affair than
that: Sir Rupert knows all!"

"Ah!" cried Greenwood; "is it possible that the villain Chichester--"

"Has betrayed us," added the lady. "Moreover, Sir Rupert and his
inseparable friend have been watching and dogging all our movements for
months past."

"This is awkward--very awkward," observed Greenwood. "However, Sir
Rupert will not dare show his teeth against me, nor venture to give
publicity to the affair."

"Because you hold his bill, with a forged acceptance, for one thousand
pounds," said Lady Cecilia.

"Ah! he has told you that much--has he?" exclaimed Greenwood. "Well--you
perceive, my dearest Cecilia, that he is completely in my power."

"The most remarkable part of the entire business," observed the lady,
"is that I am actually deputed by Sir Rupert to negotiate the amicable
settlement of the affair with you."

"Indeed!" cried Greenwood. "He could not have chosen a more charming
plenipotentiary."

"His proposal is this:--you are to give up the acceptance, and he will
sign any paper you choose to guarantee you against legal proceedings on
his part."

"I do not see, fair ambassadress," said Greenwood, who did not treat the
business with so much serious attention as Lady Cecilia had
anticipated--"I do not see that I should benefit myself by such an
arrangement. So long as the bill remains in my possession, it is
impossible for Sir Rupert Harborough to commence civil proceedings
against me, because he knows full well that were he to have process
issued against me, I should that moment hand him over to the officers of
justice."

"Then, for my sake, Mr. Greenwood," said Lady Cecilia, cruelly hurt by
this cold calculation on the part of a man the slave of whose passions
she had so completely been,--"for my sake, compromise this affair
amicably."

"A thousand pounds is a large sum to fling into the street, my dear
Cecilia," observed Greenwood.

"And suppose that by some accident my husband should raise that amount
and pay the bill--"

"It never was my intention to allow him to pay all," interrupted
Greenwood. "I imagined that by threatening him, I should obtain five or
six hundred on account, and I should still hold the bill for the
balance. That balance I would not receive, were he to offer it, because
by retaining the bill, I keep him in my power."

"Then, once again, for my sake--_for my sake_," repeated Lady Cecilia,
"consent to the proposal made to you this evening--settle the affair in
an amicable manner."

"To oblige you, my dear Cecilia, I will assent to Sir Rupert
Harborough's proposal. Let him draw up and sign a document in which he
acknowledges that he has discovered the--the--"

"Criminal conversation between his wife and Mr. George Greenwood," said
Cecilia: "we will not mince words in a negotiation of this kind," she
added ironically.

"Precisely," exclaimed Greenwood, coolly; "and that he has received full
satisfaction for the same. In this manner the business can be disposed
of to the satisfaction of all parties."

"To-morrow morning at eleven o'clock I will call with that paper," said
Lady Cecilia.

"And I will give you up the forged bill," returned the Member of
Parliament. "And now, my dear Cecilia, allow me to make an observation
relative to the answer I sent you this evening to your little note. The
truth is, that representing as I do an enlightened and independent
constituency--"

"Pardon me," said Lady Cecilia, rising: "we will not talk of any other
business until this most painful affair be settled."

The fair patrician lady then took her leave, and returned to her
husband, who awaited Greenwood's decision in a state of the most painful
suspense.

Cecilia communicated to him the particulars of the interview; and, ere
he retired to rest, the baronet drew up the document which was to save
himself by the compromise of his honour.

"So far, so good," said Sir Rupert, as he handed the paper to his wife.
"I have now a proposal to make to you, Cecilia--and I have little doubt
that you will accept it."

"Proceed," said Cecilia.

"After the explanation which has taken place between us this evening, it
is impossible that we can ever entertain much respect for each other
again. You know me to be a forger--I know you to be unfaithful to my
bed. If it suits you, we will agree to live together beneath the same
roof as hitherto--to have our separate apartments--to maintain an
appearance of enjoying domestic tranquillity--and each to follow his own
pursuits without leave or remonstrance on the part of the other. You
will never interfere with me--I will never interfere with you. If you
hear that I have a mistress, you will take no notice of it: if I know
that you have a lover, I shall be equally blind and dumb. Does this
please you?"

"Perfectly," answered Lady Cecilia. "Shall we commit this compact to
writing?"

"Oh! with much pleasure," returned Sir Rupert. "I will draw up two
agreements, embodying the conditions of our compact, immediately. You
can retain one; and I will keep the other."

The baronet set to work, and, in a most business-like manner, wrote out
the compact. He then read it to Lady Cecilia, who signified her approval
of its terms. A counterpart was written; and the husband and wife signed
the papers that released them from all the moral obligations of their
marriage-vows!

They then retired to their separate apartments, better pleased with each
other, perhaps, than they had been for a long--long time.

The reader need scarcely be informed that Lady Cecilia said nothing to
her husband relative to the mysterious letter containing the Bank note
for a thousand pounds.

On the following morning Lady Cecilia repaired to the abode of Mr.
Greenwood. When she arrived in Spring Gardens, she found the street
completely blocked up with a train of charity children--boys and girls,
marshalled by the parish beadle, and accompanied by the schoolmaster and
schoolmistress. The girls were attired in their light blue dresses,
plain straw bonnets, white collars, and pepper-and-salt coloured cloaks;
and their arms, red with the cold, were only half covered with their
coarse mittens. The boys wore their muffin caps, short coats, and
knee-breeches; and each was embellished with a large tin plate, or
species of medal, affixed like a badge of honour, to the breast. Their
meagre countenances, their thin arms, and lanky legs, did not speak much
in favour of the quantity of food which constituted their diurnal meals.

Lady Cecilia was conducted to the drawing-room by the Italian valet, who
informed her that Mr. Greenwood would wait upon her the moment he had
dismissed the charity children.

Lafleur, in the mean time threw open the door of the mansion, and
admitted the procession into the spacious hall, after having kept the
poor creatures shivering in the cold for nearly a quarter of an hour.
The beadle took his station upon the steps, with awful dignity, and
watched the boys and girls as they defiled past him in military order
into the hall. It was very evident from the timid glances which the
little scholars cast towards the countenance of this functionary, that
they believed him to be one of the most important personages on the face
of the earth; and perhaps they were even perplexed to decide, in their
own minds, whether the parish beadle whom they saw before them, or Mr.
Greenwood, M. P., whom they were about to see, was the greater man of
the two.

At length the procession had entirely cleared the threshold of the
mansion, and then only did the beadle enter. He doffed his enormous
cocked hat out of respect to the owner of the dwelling in which he now
found himself, and made his long staff ring upon the marble pavement of
the hall with a din that electrified the children and called looks of
solemn importance to the countenances of the schoolmaster and mistress.

In a few moments a side door opened, and Mr. Greenwood appeared.

The beadle struck his stick upon the hall floor once more; and the
children, duly tutored to obey the signal, saluted the great man, the
girls with low curtseys, and the boys by doffing their muffin caps,
bobbing their heads forward, and kicking back their left legs.

"Well, Mr. Muffles," said the Member of Parliament to the beadle, with
one of his usual affable smiles; "brought your little family--eh?"

"These children, sir," responded Muffles in a self-sufficient and
important tone, glancing at the same time in a patronising manner upon
the groups of juveniles around--"these children, sir, has come, as in
dooty bounden, to hoffer up the hincense of their most gratefullest
thanks to you, sir, as their kind paytron which supplied 'em with
pea-soup, blankets, and religious tracts, to keep their bodies and souls
both warm and comfortable, as one may say."

"I am delighted, Mr. Muffles," replied the Member of Parliament, in a
most condescending manner, "to receive this little mark of gratitude on
the part of those for whom I entertain a deep interest, and I am the
more pleased because this visit on their part was quite spontaneous, and
on mine totally unlooked for."

Mr. Greenwood did not think it necessary to state his knowledge that the
whole affair had been got up by Lafleur, in obedience to his own
commands.

"Representing as I do," continued Mr. Greenwood, "an enlightened,
independent, and important constituency, I cannot do otherwise than feel
interested in the welfare of the rising generation; and when I glance
upon the happy countenances of these dear children, I thank God for
having given me the means to contribute my mite towards the maintenance
of the schools of the parish wherein I have the honour to reside."

Mr. Muffles' stick was here rapped upon the floor with tremendous
violence; and the boys and girls immediately burst forth into shrill
cries of "Hear! hear!"

When silence was once more restored, the beadle in due form presented
the schoolmaster and schoolmistress to Mr. Greenwood.

"This gen'leman, sir," said the parish functionary, "is Mr. Twiggs, the
parochial perceptor--as worthy a man, sir, as ever broke bread. He's bin
in his present sitivation thirteen year come Janivary--"

"Febivary, Mr. Muffles," said the schoolmaster, mildly correcting the
beadle.

"Oh! Febivary, be it, Mr. Twiggs?" exclaimed the parish authority. "And
this, sir, is Mrs. Twiggs, a lady well known for her excellent qualities
in teaching them blessed young gals, and taking care o' their linen."

"Delighted to see your scholars looking so well, Mr. Twiggs," said
Greenwood, bowing to the master: "quite charmed, Mrs. Twiggs, to behold
the healthy and neat appearance of your girls," he added, bowing to the
mistress.

"Would you be kind enough, sir," said Mr. Twiggs, in a meek and fawning
tone, "to question any of them lads on any pint of edication?"

"Perhaps I might as well, Mr. Twiggs," returned Greenwood; "in case I
should ever have to allude to the subject in the House of Commons."

The mere idea of any mention of the parochial school being made in
Parliament, produced such an impression upon the beadle that he banged
his staff most earnestly on the hall floor; and the children, taking it
for a signal which they had been previously tutored to observe, again
yelled forth "Hear! Hear!"

"Silence!" thundered Mr. Muffles; and the vociferations instantly
ceased.

"Now, my boy," said Mr. Greenwood, addressing the one who stood nearest
to him, "I will ask you a question or two. What is your name?"

"Jem Blister, sir," was the prompt reply.

"James Blister--eh? Well--who gave you that name?"

"Father and mother, please, sir."

"Blister, for shame!" ejaculated Mr. Muffles, with a terrific frown:
then, by way of prompting the lad, he said, "_My Godfathers and_--"

"_My Godfathers and Godmother in my baptism_," hastily cried the boy,
catching at the hint; and after a pause, he added, "_I mean an outward
and visible sign of an inward_--"

"Blister, I am raly ashamed of you!" again exclaimed Mr. Twiggs. "Stand
back, sir; and let the boy behind you stand for'ard."

Another urchin stepped forth from the rank, and stood, blushing up to
his very hair, and fumbling about with his cap, in the presence of Mr.
Greenwood.

"My good boy," said the Member of Parliament, condescendingly patting
him upon the head, "what is _your_ name?"

"M. or N. as the case may be, please, sir," replied the boy.

"I should observe, sir," said the schoolmaster, "that this lad only
began his Catechism yesterday."

"Oh very well, Mr. Twiggs," exclaimed Greenwood: "that accounts for his
answer! I will ask him something else, then. My good lad, who was Adam?"

"The fust man, sir."

"Very good, my boy. And who was Eve?"

"The fust 'ooman, sir."

"Very good indeed," repeated Mr. Greenwood. "Now tell me what is the
capital of England?"

"This boy is not in geography, sir," said Mr. Twiggs. "He's jest begun
cyphering."

"Oh very good. Can you say your multiplication table, my boy?"

"Twice one's two; twice two's three; twice three's eight; twice four's
ten; twice five's fourteen--"

The boy was rattling on at a furious pace, when the ominous voice of Mr.
Twiggs ejaculated, "Garlick, I am ashamed of you!"

And Master Garlick began to cry most piteously.

"Come, it is not so bad, though," said Mr. Greenwood, by way of soothing
the discomfited schoolmaster and restoring the abashed beadle to
confidence; "he evidently knows his Bible very well--and that is the
essential."

The Member of Parliament then delivered himself of a long harangue in
favour of a sound religious education and in praise of virtue; and thus
ended the solemn farce.

The great man bowed and withdrew: the beadle rapped his staff upon the
floor; Lafleur opened the door; and the procession filed slowly out of
the mansion.

Mr. Greenwood, having thus gone through a ceremony an account of which
was to appear in the papers on the following morning, hurried up to the
drawing-room where Lady Cecilia awaited him.

"My dear Cecilia," he exclaimed, as he entered the room, "a thousand
pardons for keeping you; but the fact is that the position in which an
intelligent and independent constituency has placed me, entails upon me
duties--"

"A truce to that absurdity with me," interrupted the baronet's wife, in
a more peremptory tone than Mr. Greenwood had ever yet heard her use. "I
am come according to appointment to settle a most unpleasant business.
Here is my husband's acknowledgment, drawn up as you desired: please to
deliver up to me the bill."

Mr. Greenwood ran his eye over the document, and appeared satisfied. He
then drew forth the bill from his pocket-book, and handed it to Lady
Cecilia.

There was a flush upon the lady's delicately pale countenance; and her
eyes sparkled with unusual vivacity. She was dressed in a very neat, but
plain and simple manner; and Mr. Greenwood fancied that she had never
seemed so interesting before.

As he delivered the bill into her keeping, he took her hand and
endeavoured to convey it to his lips.

She drew back with an air of offended dignity, which would have well
become a lady that had never surrendered herself to the pleasures of an
illicit love.

"No, Mr. Greenwood," she said, in a firm, and even haughty tone: "all
_that_ is ended between you and me. You are a heartless man, who cannot
appreciate the warmth with which a confiding woman yields herself up to
you;--you have treated me--the daughter of a peer--like a pensioned
mistress. But let that now pass:--I have made you acquainted with the
nature of my thoughts--and I am satisfied."

"I am at a loss to understand how I should have deserved these harsh
words, Cecilia," replied Greenwood, with a somewhat supercilious smile;
"but perhaps my inability to supply you with the means of gratifying
your extravagances has given you offence."

"Your cool indifference of late has indeed given me a bitter lesson,"
said Lady Cecilia.

"And yet I manifested every disposition to serve you, madam," rejoined
Greenwood haughtily, "when I consented to compromise your husband's
felony."

"Yes--you generously abandoned your claim to a thousand pounds,"
exclaimed Cecilia, with cutting irony, "in order to hush up an intrigue
with the wife of the man whom you had inveigled into your net. But think
not, Mr. Greenwood, that I attempt to justify my husband's conduct: I
know him to be a heartless--a bad--an unprincipled man;--and yet, Mr.
Greenwood, I do not conceive that _you_ would shine the more
resplendently by being placed in contrast with _him_. One word more. Had
you refused to deliver up that bill, I was prepared to pay it. Some
unknown friend had heard of this transaction--heaven alone knows how;
and that friend forwarded last evening the means wherewith to liquidate
this debt. Here is the letter which contained a Bank-note for a thousand
pounds: it fell into my hands, and my husband knows naught concerning
it;--can you say whose writing that is?"

Greenwood glanced hastily at the letter, and exclaimed, "Yes--I know
that writing well: Mrs. Arlington is your husband's generous friend!"

"Mrs. Arlington!" exclaimed Cecilia: "Oh!--now I recollect that rumour
points to that woman as having once been my husband's mistress."

"The same," said Greenwood, struck by this noble act on the part of the
fair one whom he himself had first seduced from the paths of virtue.

"It would now be difficult to decide," observed Cecilia, in a tone of
profound contempt, "which has acted the more noble part--the late
mistress of Sir Rupert Harborough, or the late lover of his wife."

Greenwood only answered with a satirical curl of the lip.

Lady Cecilia rose from her seat, bowed coldly to the capitalist, and
withdrew.

Thus terminated the amours of the man of the world and the lady of
fashion--ending, as such illicit loves usually do, in a quarrel.

But the reader must not suppose that the same sentiments of pride which
had thus induced Lady Cecilia to break off abruptly a connexion which
her paramour had been for some time dissolving by degrees, influenced
her in the use to which she appropriated the handsome sum supplied for
an especial purpose by Mrs. Arlington. The lady knew no compunction in
this respect, and she therefore devoted the thousand pounds so
generously forwarded by her husband's late mistress, to her own wants!

       *       *       *       *       *

The Italian valet had overheard the entire conversation between Lady
Cecilia Harborough and Mr. Greenwood, which we have just described.

In the course of the day the whole details of that interview were
communicated to Mrs. Arlington, who thus learnt that Lady Cecilia had
intercepted the money intended for Sir Rupert Harborough, and had
settled the forged bill without being compelled to disburse it.




CHAPTER XCVII.

ANOTHER NEW YEAR'S DAY.


It was the 1st of January, 1840.

The tide of Time rolls on with the same unvarying steadiness of motion,
wearing off the asperities of barbarism, as the great flood of ocean
smooths the sharp edges of rugged rocks.

But as the seasons glide away, vainly may we endeavour to throw a veil
upon the past;--vainly do we lament, when Winter comes, that our
Spring-dreams should be faded and gone, too beautiful to
endure;--vainly, vainly do we pray that the waves of a Lethean sea may
overwhelm the memories of those years when Time cast flowers from his
brow, and diamonds from his wing!

Time looks down upon the world from the heights of the Pyramids of
Egypt; and, as he surveys the myriad cities of the universe swarming
with life,--marks the mighty armies of all states, ready to exterminate
and kill,--views the navies of great powers riding over every sea,--as
he beholds all these. Time chuckles, for he knows that they are his own!

For the day must come when the Pyramids themselves, the all but immortal
children of antiquity, shall totter and fall; and Time shall triumph
over even these.

The strongest edifices crumble into dust, and the power of the mightiest
nations fritters into shreds, beneath the hand of Time.

The glories of Sesostris are now a vague dream--the domination of Greece
and Rome has become an uncertain vision: the heroes of the Crusades have
long since mouldered in the earth;--the crescent of the Ottomans menaces
Christendom no more: the armadas of Spain are extinct;--the thrones that
Napoleon raised are cast down: of the millions that he led to conquest,
during his meteor-like career, what numbers have left this busy scene
for ever and how varied are the climes in which they have found their
graves!

[Illustration]

Oh, Time! what is there that can strive with thee--thou that art the
expression of the infinite existence of God himself!

Alas! if Time were a spirit endowed with intellect to comprehend, and
feelings to sympathise, how would he sorrow over the woes of that human
existence, which has now occupied nearly sixty centuries!

Year after year rolls away; and yet how slowly does civilization
accomplish its task of improving the condition of the sons and daughters
of toil.

For in the present day, as it was in the olden time, the millions labour
to support the few; and the few continue to monopolize the choicest
fruits of the earth.

The rights of labour are denied; and the privileges of birth and wealth
are dominant.

And ever, when the millions, bowed down by cares, and crushed with
incessant hardships, raise the voice of anguish to their taskmasters,
the cry is, "_Toil_! _toil_"

And when the poor labourer, with the sweat standing in large drops upon
his brow, points to his half-starved wife and little ones, and demands
the increase of his wages which will enable him to feed them adequately,
and clothe them comfortably, the only response that meets his ears is
still, "_Toil! toil!_"

And when the mechanic, pale and emaciated, droops over his loom, and in
a faint tone beseeches that his miserable pittance may be turned into a
fair remuneration for that hard and unceasing work which builds up the
fortunes of his employer, the answer to his pathetic prayer is, "_Toil!
toil!_"

And when the miner, who spends his best days in the bowels of the earth,
hewing the hard mineral in dark subterranean caves at the peril of his
life, and in positions which cramp his limbs, contract his chest, and
early prostrate his energies beyond relief,--when _he_ exalts his voice
from those hideous depths, and demands the settlement of labour's rights
upon a just basis, the only echo to his petition is, "_Toil! toil!_"

Yes--it is ever "_Toil! toil!_" for the millions, while the few repose
on downy couches, feed upon the luxuries of the land and water, and move
from place to place in sumptuous equipages!

It was the 1st of January, 1840.

Another New Year's Day--commemorated with feasting by those who had no
reason to repine, but marked as the opening of another weary epoch of
care and sorrow by those who had nothing for which to be grateful,
either to heaven or to man!

The first day of January, 1840, was inclement and severe. The air was
piercing cold, and the rain fell in torrents. The streets of the great
metropolis were swept by a wintery wind that chased the poor houseless
wanderers beneath the coverings of arches and doorways, and sent the
shivering mendicants to implore an asylum at the workhouse.

It was evening; and the lamps diffused but an uncertain light in the
great thoroughfares. The courts and alleys of the poor neighbourhoods
were enveloped in almost total darkness; for every shutter was closed,
and where there were no shutters, blinds were drawn down, or rags were
stretched across the windows, to expel the bitter cold.

We must now request our readers to accompany us to a district of London,
which is most probably altogether unknown to the aristocrat, even by
name, and with which many of that class whose occupations lead them into
an intimate acquaintance with the metropolis, are by no means familiar.

Situate to the east of Bethnal Green,--bounded on the north by Bonner's
Fields, on the south by the Mile End Road, and on the east by the
Regent's Canal,--and intersected by the line of the Eastern Counties
Railway, is an assemblage of narrow streets and filthy lanes, bearing
the denomination of Globe Town.

When compared with even the worst districts of the metropolis,--when
placed in contrast with Saint Giles's or Saffron Hill,--Globe Town still
appears a sink of human misery which civilisation, in its progress, has
forgotten to visit.

The majority of the streets are unpaved, rugged, and broken. The
individual who traverses them in the summer is blinded by the dust, or
disgusted by heaps of putrescent offal, the rotting remains of
vegetables, and filth of every description, which meet the eye at short
intervals; and, in winter, he wallows, knee-deep, in black mud and
stagnant water. But even in the summer itself, and in the very midst of
the dog-days, there are swamps of mire in many of the streets of Globe
Town, which exhale a nauseating and sickly odour, like that of
decomposing dead bodies.

In the winter time Globe Town is a complete marsh. Lying low, in the
vicinity of the canal, and on a naturally swampy soil, the district is
unhealthy in the extreme. Nor do its inhabitants endeavour, by any
efforts of their own, to mitigate the consequences of these local
disadvantages. They seem, for the most part, to cling with a sort of
natural tenacity, to their rags and filth. Perhaps it is the bitterness
of their poverty which makes them thus neglectful of the first duties of
cleanliness: perhaps their pinching indigence reduces them to a state of
despair that allows them no spirit and no heart to do any thing that may
conduce to their comfort. Whatever be the cause, it is nevertheless a
fact that, with the exception of one or two streets, Globe Town is a
district which necessity alone could compel a person of cleanly habits
and domestic propriety to reside in.

And yet Globe Town contains streets delighting in aristocratic names.
There is Grosvenor Place in which a carriage and pair would have some
trouble to turn; there is Parade Street, where a corporal's guard could
not find space to manoeuvre; there is Park Street, whose most gorgeous
embellishment is the sign of a mangle; there is Chester Place, formed by
two rows of miserable shops; and there are Essex Street and Digby
Street, where single men may obtain lodgings at the rate of threepence a
night.

How strange is this affection for fine names to distinguish horrible
neighbourhoods! In the lowest parts of Whitechapel we find Pleasant Row,
Queen Street, Flower Street, Duke Street, and Rose Lane. In Bethnal
Green, a place inhabited by the poorest of the poor is denominated
Silver Street; and, in the same district, a filthy thoroughfare is
christened Pleasant Street.

Globe Town and its immediate vicinity abound in cemeteries. To the north
there is the Eastern London Cemetery; and to the south there are two
Jews' burial grounds, and two other places of sepulture. With the
exception of the first-mentioned one, which has only been recently
opened, and is a large airy space neatly planted with shrubs, those
cemeteries are so crowded with the remains of mortality, that it is
impossible to drive a spade into the ground without striking against
human bones.

When you once merge from the Cambridge Road, pass the new church in
Bethnal Green, and plunge into Globe Town, it seems as if you had left
London altogether,--as if you were no longer within the limits of the
metropolis, but had suddenly dropped from the clouds into a strange
village strangely peopled. You encounter but few persons in the streets;
and those whom you do meet are, for the most part, squalid, emaciated,
pale, and drooping. The only sounds of mirth which meet your ear,
emanate from the casements of the public-houses, or from the urchins
that play half-naked in the mud. With these exceptions, Globe Town is
silent, gloomy, and sombre.

The shop-windows are indicative of the poverty of the inhabitants. The
butcher's shed displays but a few slices of liver stretched upon a
board, sheep's heads of no very inviting appearance, and hearts, lungs,
and lights, all hanging together, like a Dutch clock with its weights
against a wall. The poor make stews of this offal. The fish-stalls
present "for public competition," as George Robins would say, nothing
but the most coarse and the cheapest articles--such as huge Dutch
plaice, haddocks, &c. In the season the itinerant venders of
fresh-herrings and sprats drive a good trade in Globe Town. In a word,
every thing in that district denotes poverty--poverty--nothing but
pinching poverty.

The inhabitants of Globe Town are of two kinds; being weavers, and
persons who earn their livelihood by working at the docks or on the
canal, on the one hand; and thieves, prostitutes, and vagrants, on the
other. When a burglar or a pickpocket finds St. Giles's, Clerkenwell,
the Mint, or Bethnal Green too hot to hold him, he betakes himself to
Globe Town, where he buries himself in some obscure garret until the
storms that menaced him be blown over. Globe Town has thus acquired
amongst the fraternity of rogues of all classes, the expressive
denomination of the "Happy Valley."

In one of the narrowest, dirtiest, and most lonely streets at the
eastern extremity of Globe Town, there was a house of an appearance more
dilapidated than the rest. It was only two storeys high, and was built
in a very singular manner. From the very threshold of the front door a
precipitate staircase, more nearly resembling a ladder, led to the upper
apartments; so that when any one entered that house from the street, he
had to thread no passage nor corridor, but immediately began to ascend
those steep steps. The staircase led to a landing, from which two doors
opened into small, dirty, and dark chambers. These rooms had a door of
communication pierced in the wall that separated them: but there were no
stairs leading down into the lower apartments of the house. The only way
of obtaining access to the rooms on the ground-floor, was by means of a
door up an alley leading from the street, and running along one side of
the house into a court formed by other dwellings. Thus the upper and
lower parts of this strange building might be said to constitute two
distinct tenements. The windows of the ground-floor rooms were darkened
with shutters, at the upper part of which holes in the shape of hearts
had been cut to admit a few straggling rays of light.

The rooms on the upper floor were furnished in a tolerably comfortable
manner; but every article was wretchedly begrimed with dirt. The front
apartment served as a sitting-room for the inmates of this
strangely-built house; and the back chamber was fitted up as a bed-room.

It was evening, as we before said; and thick curtains were drawn over
the two windows of the front room to which we have alluded. A candle
with a long flaring wick, stood upon the table. On a good fire a kettle
was just beginning to boil. The table was set out with glasses, bottles,
sugar, lemons, pipes, and tobacco. The inmates of that room were
evidently preparing for a carouse, while the rain beat in torrents
against the windows, and the wind swept down the street like a
hurricane.

But who _were_ the inmates of that room?

We will proceed to inform our readers.

Lolling in an arm-chair, the covering of which was torn in many places,
and spotted all over with grease, was a female, who in reality had
scarcely numbered five-and-twenty years, but to whom the ravages of
dissipation and evil passions gave the appearance of five-and-thirty.
She had once been good-looking; and her features still retained the
traces of beauty: but there was a deep blue tint beneath the eyes, which
joined the dark thick brows, and thus seemed to inclose the orbs
themselves in a dingy circle. The faded cheeks were coloured with rouge;
but the dye had been so clumsily plastered on, that the effect could not
deceive the most ignorant in such matters. This woman wore a faded light
silk gown, cut very low in front, and disclosing a considerable portion
of a thin and shrivelled neck. In a word, she had the air of being what
she really was--a faded courtesan of a low order. Her proper name was
Margaret Flathers; but her acquaintance, for brevity's sake, called her
Meg; and, in addition to these appellations, the name of _The
Rattlesnake_ had been conferred upon her, from the circumstance that she
was fond of dressing in silks or satins, which she had a habit of
rustling as much as possible when she walked.

On the other side of the fire-place was seated a man of cadaverous
countenance, which was overshadowed by a quantity of tangled black hair,
and whose expression was vile and sinister to a degree.

"Half-past eight," said the woman, glancing towards a huge silver-watch
which hung by a faded blue riband to a nail over the mantel.

"Yes--they can't be long now," returned her companion, who was no other
than the Resurrection Man. "But because they're late, Meg, it's no
reason why we shouldn't have a drop of blue ruin. The night's precious
cold; and the kettle's just on the boil. Pour out the daffy, Meg."

The woman drew two tumblers towards her, and half filled each with gin.
She then added sugar and lemon; and in a few moments the Resurrection
Man poured the boiling element upon the liquor.

"Good, isn't it, Tony?" said the Rattlesnake.

"Capital, Meg. You're an excellent girl to judge of the proportions in a
glass of lush."

"And I think, Tony," said the woman coaxingly, "that you have had no
reason to complain of me in other respects. Twelve months all but a few
days that we've been together, and I have done all I could to make you
comfortable."

"And so you ought," answered the Resurrection Man. "Didn't I take you
out of the street and make an independent lady of you? Ain't you the
mistress of this crib of mine? and don't you live upon the fat of the
land?"

"Very true, Tony," said the Rattlesnake. "But what would you have done
without me? When that business took place down by the Bird-cage Walk,
and you was obliged to come and hide yourself in the Happy Valley, you
wanted some one you could rely upon to go out and buy your things, take
care of the place, and get information whether the blue-bottles had
fallen on any scent."

"All right, my girl," cried the Resurrection Man. "I _did_ want such a
person, and the moment after I escaped that night when I blew the old
crib up, I went to you and told you just what I required. You agreed to
come and live with me and I agreed to treat you well. We have both kept
our bargain; and I am satisfied if you are."

"Oh! you know I am, Tony dear," exclaimed the Rattlesnake. "But
sometimes you have been so cross and quarrelsome, that I didn't know
what to make of it."

"And was there no excuse, Meg?" cried the Resurrection Man. "Did I not
see my old mother and the Cracksman perish before my very eyes--and by
my own hand too? But I do not accuse myself of having wilfully caused
their death. There was no help for it. We should have all three been
taken to Newgate, and never have come out of the jug again but
twice--once to be tried, and the second time to be hung."

"Could they have proved any thing against you?" demanded the
Rattlesnake.

"Yes, Meg," answered the Resurrection Man; "there was a stiff'un in the
front room at the very moment when the police broke into the house. We
had burked him on the preceding evening; and he was still hanging head
downwards to the ceiling."

"It was much better, then, to blow the place up, as you did," observed
the Rattlesnake.

"Of course it was, Meg. Don't you see," continued the Resurrection Man,
after a pause, during which he imbibed a considerable quantity of the
exhilarating fluid in his glass,--"don't you see that I was too old a
bird not to be always prepared for such an event as that which happened
at last? I had got together a great quantity of gunpowder in the
back-room of the crib, and had stowed it away in brown paper parcels in
a cupboard. This cupboard stood between the fire-place and the back wall
of the house. So I had made a hole through the wall, and had introduced
a long iron pipe into the cupboard. This pipe was ten or twelve feet in
length, and ran all along the wall that divided my yard from the next.
The pipe, so placed, was protected by a wooden cover or case; and any
one who saw it, must have thought it was only a water-pipe. It was,
however, filled with excellent gunpowder, and there was nothing to do
but to put a match to the farthest end of the pipe to blow up the whole
place."

"Capital contrivance!" exclaimed the Rattlesnake. "Had you put up that
pipe long before the police broke into the house?"

"Oh! yes--some months," answered the Resurrection Man; "and very lucky
it was, too, that the pipe was water-tight, so that the rain had never
moistened the powder in the least. Well, when the blue-bottles broke in,
I rushed into the back-room, locked the door, leapt through the window,
flew to the end of the pipe, tore out the plug, applied the match, and
in a moment all was over."

"And for a long time even your old pals at the Boozing-ken on Saffron
Hill, fancied you had been blown up with the rest," said the
Rattlesnake.

"Of course they did, because the newspapers, which you always used to go
and fetch me to read, said there was no doubt that every one of the gang
in the house at the time had perished."

"And they also spoke of the way in which the police had followed you and
the Cracksman to the house," said the Rattlesnake.

"Yes--and that was how I came to learn that the man who had hunted me
almost to death, was Richard Markham," exclaimed the Resurrection
Man, his countenance suddenly wearing an expression of such
concentrated--vile--malignant rage, as to render him perfectly hideous.

"Now don't begin to brood over that," cried the Rattlesnake hastily;
"for I am almost afraid of you when you get into one of those humours,
dear Tony."

"No--I shan't give way now," said the villain: "I have prepared the
means for revenge; and then I shall be happy. Ah! Meg, you cannot
conceive how I gloated over the wretch the other night when I denounced
him in the theatre! That man has been the means of making me stay in
this infernal prison--for it has been nothing better--for weeks and
months; he was the cause of the loss of my best friend, the Cracksman,
and of my old mother, who was very useful in her way: and he prevented
me from getting that young fellow into my power, who went and explored
the Palace. When I think of all that I have suffered through this
infernal Richard Markham, I am ready to go mad;--and I should have gone
mad, too, if it hadn't been that I always thought the day of vengeance
would come!"

"And my little attentions helped to console you Tony," said the
Rattlesnake, in a wheedling manner that seemed peculiar to her.

"Oh! as for that, Meg, a man like me can be consoled by nothing short of
revenge in such a case. I have told you the history of my life over and
over again; and I think you must have learnt from it, that I am not a
person to put up with an injury. I have often thought of doing to
Markham as I did to the justice of the peace and the baronet--setting
his house on fire; but then he might not learn who was the incendiary,
or he might even think that it was an accident. My object is for him to
know who strikes him, that he may writhe the more."

"And do you think that the Buffer and Moll are to be depended upon?"
asked Margaret Flathers.

"To the back-bone," replied the Resurrection Man. "How could the Buffer
possibly betray _me_, when _he_ was one of the gang, as the newspapers
called it? Besides, wasn't he laid by the heels in Clerkenwell Gaol for
making away with the bantling to cheat the Burying Society? and didn't
he escape? How could he go and place himself in contact with the police
by giving information against me? And what good would it be to him to
deceive me? He knows that I have got plenty of tin, and can pay him
well. Indeed, how has he lived in the Happy Valley for the last eleven
months and more, since he escaped out of Clerkenwell? Haven't I been as
good as a brother to him, and lent him money over and over again?"

"Very true," said the Rattlesnake. "I only spoke on your account."

"I shall be able to let the Buffer in for several good things, now that
I am determined to commence an active life again," continued the
Resurrection Man. "I have been idle quite long enough; and I am not
going to remain so any more. Why, Greenwood alone ought to be as good as
an annuity to me. He can always find employment for a skilful and daring
fellow like me."

"And he pays like a prince, doesn't he?" demanded the Rattlesnake.

"Like a prince," repeated the Resurrection Man. "Five guineas the other
night for just attending the carrying off of the young actress. That is
the way to make money, Meg."

"And you have got plenty, Tony, I know?" said the woman, in a tone more
than half interrogatively, and only partially expressing a conviction.

"What's that to you?" cried the Resurrection Man, brutally; at the same
time eyeing his mistress in a somewhat suspicious manner.

"Oh! only because you needn't have any secrets from me, Tony," returned
the Rattlesnake, affecting a tone of indifference. "You have been out
every night lately--and only for a short time--"

"Now I tell you what it is, Meg," exclaimed Tidkins, striking his fist
upon the table, "you have asked me about my money a great many times
lately; and I tell you very candidly, I don't like it. It looks
suspicious; but, by heavens! if you attempt to play me false--"

"Why should you say that, Tony? Have I not given you every proof of
fidelity?"

"Yes--you have; or else I should have known what to do in a very few
moments. But why do you bother yourself about the money that I have got?
It is very little, I can tell you; but where it is, it's safe enough;
and if I ever catch you attempting to follow me or spy upon me when I go
into the rooms down stairs, I'll make you repent it."

"Now, Tony dear, don't put yourself into a passion," said the
Rattlesnake, turning pale, and assuming her usual wheedling tone: "I
didn't mean to annoy you. All that I wanted to know was whether there
was a chance of running short or not."

"Don't frighten yourself, Meg," returned the Resurrection Man. "Whenever
I run low, I know how to get more. And now, that we mayn't have to talk
upon this subject again, recollect once for all that I won't have you
prying into any thing that I choose to keep to myself. You know that I
am not a man to be trifled with; and if any one was to betray me--I
don't mean to say that you ever had such an idea--I only mean you to
understand that if anybody _did_--"

"Well--what?" said the Rattlesnake in a tone of alarm.

"I would not be taken alive," added the Resurrection Man; "and those who
came to take me at all, would probably travel the same road that the
police, the Cracksman, and the Mummy have gone already."

"Tony," exclaimed the woman, a deadly pallor overspreading her
countenance, "you don't mean to say that this house is provided with a
pipe like the one--"

"I don't mean to say any thing at all about it, one way or another,"
interrupted the Resurrection Man coolly. "All I want you to do is to
remain quiet--attend to my wishes--keep a close tongue in your head--and
have no eyes for any thing that I don't tell you to look at,--and then
we shall go on as pleasant as before. Otherwise--"

At this moment a knock at the street door was heard.

The Rattlesnake hastened to answer the summons, and returned accompanied
by the Buffer and his wife.




CHAPTER XCVIII.

DARK PLOTS AND SCHEMES.


The Buffer was one of the most unmitigated villains that ever disgraced
the name of man. There was no species of crime with which he was not
familiar; and he had a suitable helpmate in his wife, who was the sister
of Dick Flairer--a character that disappeared from the stage of life in
the early part of this history.

In person, the Buffer was slight, short, and rather
well-made,--extremely active, and endowed with great physical power. His
countenance was by no means an index to his mind; for it was
inexpressive, stolid, and vacant.

His wife was a woman of about five-and-twenty, being probably ten years
younger than her husband. She was not precisely ugly; but her
countenance--the very reverse of that of the Buffer--was so indicative
of every evil passion that can possibly disgrace womanhood, as to be
almost repulsive.

The two new-comers seated themselves near the fire, for their clothes
were dripping with the rain, which continued to pour in torrents. The
warmth of the apartment and a couple of glasses of smoking grog soon,
however, put them into good humour and made them comfortable; and the
Resurrection Man then proposed that they should "proceed to business."

"In the first place, Jack," said the Resurrection Man, addressing
himself to the Buffer, "what news about Markham?"

"He will attend to the appointment," was the answer.

"He will?" exclaimed the Resurrection Man, as if the news were almost
too good to be true: "you are sure?"

"As sure as I am that I've got this here glass in my mawley," said the
Buffer.

"To-morrow night?"

"To-morrow night he'll meet his brother at Twig Folly," answered the
Buffer, with a laugh.

"Tell me all that took place," cried the Resurrection Man; "and then I
shall be able to judge for myself."

"As you told me," began the Buffer, "I made myself particklerly clean
and tidy, and went up to Holloway this morning at about eleven o'clock.
I knocked at the door of the swell's crib; and an old butler-like
looking feller, with a port-wine face, and a white napkin under his arm,
come and opened it. He asked me what my business was. I said I wanted to
speak to Mr. Markham in private. He asked me to walk in; and he showed
me into a library kind of a place, where I see a good-looking young
feller sitting reading. He was very pale, and seemed as if he'd been
ill."

"Fretting about that business at the theatre, no doubt," observed the
Resurrection Man.

"What business?" cried the Buffer.

"No matter--go on."

"Well--so I went into this library and see Mr. Markham. The old servant
left us alone together. 'What do you want with me, my good man?' says
Markham in a very pleasant tone of voice.--'I have summut exceeding
partickler to say to you, sir,' says I.--'Well, what is it?' he
asks--'Have you heerd from your brother lately, sir?' says I, throwing
out the feeler you put me up to. If so be he had said he had, and I saw
that he really knew where he was, and every thing about him, I should
have invented some excuse, and walked myself off; but there was no need
of that; for the moment I mentioned his brother, he was quite
astonished.--'My brother!' he says in a wery excited tone: 'many years
has elapsed since I heerd from him. Do you know what has becomed on
him?'--'Perhaps I knows a trifle about him, sir,' says I; 'and that is
wery trifling indeed. In a word,' I says, 'he wants to see you.'--'He
wants to see me!' cries my gentleman: 'then why doesn't he come to me?
But where is he? tell me, that I may fly to him.'--So then I says, 'The
fact of the matter is this, sir; your brother has got his-self into a
bit of a scrape, and don't dare show. He's living down quite in the east
of London, close by the Regent's Canal; and he has sent me to say that
if so be you'll meet him to-morrow night at ten o'clock in Twig Folly,
he'll be there.'--Then Mr. Markham cries out, 'But why can I not go to
him now? If he is in distress or difficulty, the sooner he sees me the
better.'--'Softly, sir,' says I. 'All I know of the matter is this, that
I'm a honest man as airns his livelihood by running on messages and
doing odd jobs. A gentleman meets me on the bank of the canal, close by
Twig Folly, very early this morning and says, '_Do you want to airn five
shillings?_' Of course I says '_Yes_.'--'_Then,_' says the gentleman,
'_go up to Markham Place without delay, and ask to see Mr. Markham. He
lives at Holloway. Tell him that you come from his brother, who is in
trouble, and can't go to him; but that his brother will meet him
to-morrow night at ten o'clock on the banks of the canal, near Twig
Folly. And,' says the gentleman, 'if he should ask you for a token that
you're tellin' the truth, say that this appointment must be kept instead
of the one on the top of the hill where two ash trees stand
planted_.'--Well, the moment I tells Mr. Markham all this, he begins to
blubber, and then to laugh, and to dance about the room, crying, 'Oh! my
dear--dear brother, shall I then embrace you so soon again?' and
such-like nonsense. Then he gives me half a sovereign his-self, and
sends me into the kitchen, where the cook makes me eat and drink till I
was well-nigh ready to bust. The old butler was rung for; and I've no
doubt that his master told him the good news, for when he come back into
the kitchen, he treated me with the greatest civility, but asked me a
lot of questions about _Master Eugene_, as he called him. I satisfied
him in all ways; and at last I rises, takes my leave of the servants,
and comes off."

"Well done!" cried the Resurrection Man, whose cadaverous countenance
wore an expression of superlative satisfaction. "And you do not think he
entertained the least suspicion?"

"Not a atom," returned the Buffer.

"Nor the old butler?" asked the Resurrection Man.

"Not a bit. But do jest satisfy me on one point, Tony; how come you to
know that anythink about this young feller's brother would produce such
a powerful excitement?"

"Have I not before told you that this Richard Markham was a
fellow-prisoner with me in Newgate some four years and more ago? Well, I
often overheard him talking about his affairs to another man that was
also there, and whose name was Armstrong. Markham and this Armstrong
were very thick together; and Markham spoke quite openly to him about
his family matters, his brother, and one thing or another. That's the
way I came to hear of the strange appointment made between the two
brothers."

"Well, there's no doubt that the fish has bit and can be hooked
to-morrow night," said the Buffer.

"Yes--he is within my reach--and now I shall be revenged," exclaimed the
Resurrection Man, grinding his teeth together. "I will tell you my plans
in this respect presently," he added. "Let us now talk about the old man
that your wife nurses."

"Or _did_ nurse, rather," cried Moll, with a coarse laugh.

Both the Resurrection Man and Margaret Flathers turned a glance of
inquiry and surprise upon the Buffer's wife.

"The old fellow's dead," she added, after a moment's pause.

"Dead already!" exclaimed Tidkins.

"Just as I tell you," answered Moll. "He seemed very sinking and low
this morning; and so I was more attentive to him than ever."

"But the money?" said the Resurrection Man.

"All a dream on her part," cried the Buffer, sulkily, pointing towards
his wife.

"Now don't you go for to throw all the blame on me, Jack," retorted the
woman; "for you know as well as I do that you was as sanguine as me. And
who wouldn't have taken him for an old miser? Here you and me," she
continued, addressing herself to her husband, "go to hire a lodging in a
home in Smart Street, about three months ago, and we find out that
there's an old chap living overhead, on the first floor, who had been
there three months before that time, and had always lived in the same
regular, quiet way--never going out except after dusk, doing nothing to
earn his bread, paying his way, and owing nobody a penny. Then he was
dressed in clothes that wasn't worth sixpence, and yet he had gold to
buy others if he chose, because he used to change a sovereign every
week, when he paid his rent. Well, all these things put together, made
me think he was a miser, and had a store somewhere or another; and when
I said to you----"

"I know what you said, fast enough," interrupted the Buffer, sulkily:
"what's the use of telling us all this over again?

"Just to show that if I was deceived, you was too. But it's always the
way with you: when any thing turns out wrong, you throw the blame on me.
Didn't you say to me, when the old fellow was took ill a month ago:
'_Moll_,' says you, '_go and offer your services to nurse the old
gentleman; and may be if he dies he'll leave you something; or at all
events you may worm out of him the secret of where he keeps his money,
and we can get hold of it all the same_.' That's what you said--and so I
did go and nurse the old man; and he seemed very grateful, for at last
he began to like me almost as much as he did his snuff-box--and that's
saying a great deal, considering the quantity of snuff he used to take,
and the good it seemed to do him when he was low and melancholy."

"Well--what's the use of you and the Buffer wrangling?" cried the
Resurrection Man. "Tell us all about the old fellow's death."

"As I was saying just now," continued Moll, "the old gentleman was took
wery bad this morning soon after Jack left to go up to Holloway; and the
landlady, Mrs. Smith, insisted on sending for a doctor. The old
gentleman shook his head, when he heard Mrs. Smith say so, and seemed
wery, much annoyed at the idea of having a medical visit. But Mrs. Smith
was positive, for she said that she had lost her husband and been left a
lone widder through not having a doctor in time to him when he was ill.
Well, a doctor _was_ sent for, and he said that the old gentleman was
very bad indeed. He asked me and Mrs. Smith what his name was, and
whether he'd any relations, as they ought to be sent for; but Mrs. Smith
said that she never knowed his name at all, and as for relations no one
never come to see him and he never went to see no one his-self. The
doctors orders him to have mustard poultices put to his feet; but it
wasn't of no use, for the old fellow gives a last gasp and dies at
twenty minutes past two this blessed afternoon."

"Well," said the Resurrection Man; "and then, I suppose, you had a
rummage in his boxes?"

"Boxes, indeed!" cried Moll, with an indignant toss of her head. "Why,
when he first come to the house, Mrs. Smith says that all he had was a
bundle tied up in a blue cotton pocket handkercher--a couple of shirts,
and a few pair of stockings, or so. She didn't like to take him in, she
says; but he offered to pay a month's rent in advance; and so she was
satisfied."

"Then you found nothing at all?" exclaimed the Rattlesnake.

"Not much," returned Moll. "The moment we saw he was dead, we began to
search all over the room, to see what he had left behind him. For a long
time we could find nothing but a dirty shirt, two pair of stockings, and
a jar of snuff; and yet Mrs. Smith said she knew there must be money,
for she had heard him counting his gold one day before he was took ill.
Besides, during his illness, whenever money was wanted to get any thing
for him, he never gave it at first, but sent me or Mrs. Smith out of the
room with some excuse; and when we went back, he always had the money in
his hand. Well, me and Mrs. Smith searched and searched away; and at
last Mrs. Smith bethinks herself of looking behind the bed. We moved the
bed away from the wall as well as we could, for the dead body lying upon
it made it precious heavy; and then we saw that a hole had been made
down in the comer of the room. Mrs. Smith puts in her finger, and draws
out an old greasy silk purse. I heard the gold chink; but I saw that the
purse was not over heavy. '_Well_,' says Mrs. Smith, '_I'm glad I've got
a witness of what the poor gentleman left behind him, or else I might
get into trouble some day or another, if any inquiries should be made_.'
So she pours out the gold into her hand, and counts thirty-nine
sovereigns."

"And that was all?" cried the Resurrection Man.

"Every farthing," replied the Buffer's wife. "Well, I asked Mrs Smith
what she intended to do with it; and she says, '_I shall bury the poor
old gentleman decently: that will be five pounds. Then there is a pound
for the doctor, as I must get him to follow the funeral; and here is two
pounds for you for your attention to the old gentleman in his illness_.'
So she gives me the two pounds; and I asks her what she is going to do
with the rest, because there was still thirty-one pounds left."

"And what did she say to that?" demanded the Rattlesnake.

"She began a long ditty about her being an honest woman, though a poor
one, and that dead man's gold would only bring ill-luck into her house."

"The old fool!" cried the Resurrection Man.

"And then she said she should ask the parson, when she had buried the
old man, what she ought to do with the thirty-one pounds."

"Why didn't you propose to split it between you, and hold your tongues?"
asked the Resurrection Man.

"So I did," answered Moll; "and what do you think the old fool said? She
up and told me that she always thought that me and my husband was not
the most respectablest of characters, and she now felt convinced of it."

"Well, we must have those thirty-one yellow boys, old fellow," said the
Resurrection Man to the Buffer.

"Yea--if we can get them," answered the latter; "and I know of no way to
do it but to cut the old woman's throat."

"No--that won't do," ejaculated the Resurrection Man. "If the old woman
disappeared suddenly, suspicion would be sure to fall on you; and the
whole Happy Valley would be up in arms. Then the blue-bottles might find
a trace to this crib here; and we should all get into trouble."

"But if you mean to put the kyebosh upon young Markham to-morrow night,"
said the Buffer, "won't that raise a devil of a dust in the
neighbourhood?"

"Markham disappears from Holloway, which is a long way from the Happy
Valley," replied the Resurrection Man.

"And the old butler, who is certain to know that the appointment was
made for Twig Folly," persisted the Buffer, "won't he give information
that will raise the whole Valley in arms, as you call it?"

"No such thing," said the Resurrection Man. "Markham falls into the
canal accidentally, and is drowned. There's no mark of violence on his
body, and his watch and money are safe about his person. Now do you
understand me?"

"I understand that if you mean me to jump into the canal and help to
hold him in it till he's drowned, you're deucedly out in your reckoning,
for I ain't going to risk drowning myself, 'cause I can't swim better
than a stone."

"You need not set foot in the water," said the Resurrection Man,
somewhat impatiently. "But I suppose you could hold him by the heels
fast enough upon the bank?"

"Oh! yes--I don't mind _that_," replied the Buffer: "but how shall we
get the thirty-one couters from this old fool of a landlady, unless we
use violence?"

The Resurrection Man leant his head upon his hand, his elbow being
supported by the table, and reflected profoundly for some moments.

So high an opinion did the other villain and the two women entertain of
the ingenuity, craft, and cunning of the Resurrection Man, that they
observed a solemn silence while he was thus occupied in meditation,--as
if they were afraid of interrupting a current of ideas which, they
hoped, would lead to some scheme beneficial to them all.

Suddenly the Resurrection Man raised his head, and, turning towards the
Buffer's wife, said, "Do you know whether the old woman has spoken to
any one yet about the funeral?"

"She said she should let it be till to-morrow morning, because the
weather was so awful bad this afternoon."

"Excellent!" ejaculated the Resurrection Man. "Now, Moll, do you put on
your bonnet, take the large cotton umbrella there, and go and do what I
tell you without delay."

The woman rose to put on her bonnet and cloak, which she had laid aside
upon first entering the room; and the Resurrection Man wrote a hurried
note. Having folded, wafered, and addressed it, he handed it to the
Buffer's wife, saying, "Go down as fast as your legs will carry you to
Banks, the undertaker, in Globe Lane, and ask to see him. Give him this;
but mind and deliver it into his hand only. If he is not at home, wait
till he comes in."

The woman took the note, and departed on the mysterious mission
entrusted to her.

"What's in the wind now?" demanded the Buffer, as soon as the door had
closed behind his wife.

"You shall see," replied the Resurrection Man. "Now let us fill our
glasses, and blow a cloud till Moll comes back."

The Rattlesnake mixed fresh supplies of grog; and the two men lighted
their pipes.

"How the rain does beat down," observed the Buffer, after a pause.

"And the wind sweeps along like a hurricane," said the Resurrection Man.
"By the by, this is New Year's Day. What different weather it is from
what it was last New Year's Day."

"Do you recollect what sort of weather it was last New Year's Day?"
demanded the Buffer.

"Perfectly well," answered the Resurrection Man; "because it was on that
evening that I and the poor Cracksman helped young Holford over the
Palace wall."

"And that venture turned out no go, didn't it?" asked the Buffer.

"It failed because the young scamp either turned funky or played us
false, I never could make out which. But I have an account to settle
with him too; and the first time I meet him I'll teach him what it is to
humbug a man like me."

There was a pause, during which the two men smoked their pipes with all
the calmness of individuals engaged in virtuous and innocent meditation;
and the Rattlesnake added fresh fuel to the fire, the flames of which
roared cheerfully up the chimney.

"Come, sing as a song, Meg," cried the Buffer, breaking a silence which
had lasted several minutes.

"I have got a cold, and can't sing," replied the woman.

"Well, then, Tony," said the Buffer, "tell us some of your adventures.
They'll amuse us till Moll comes back."

"I am quite tired of telling the same things over and over again,"
answered the Resurrection Man. "We've never heard you practise in that
line yet; so the sooner you begin the better. Come, tell us your
history."

"There isn't much to tell," said the Buffer, refilling his pipe; "but
such as it is, you're welcome to it."

With this preface, the Buffer commenced his autobiography, in the record
of which we have taken the liberty of correcting the grammatical
solecisms that invariably characterised this individual's discourse; and
we have also improved the language in which the narrative was originally
clothed.




CHAPTER XCIX.

THE BUFFER'S HISTORY.


"You are well aware that my name is really John Wicks, although very few
of my pals know me by any other title than the Buffer.

"My father and mother kept a coal and potatoe shed in Great Suffolk
Street, Borough. I was their only child; and as they were very fond of
me, they would not let me be bothered and annoyed with learning. For
decency's sake, however, they made me go to the Sunday-school, and there
I just learnt to read, and that's all.

"When I was twelve years old, I began to carry out small quantities of
coals and potatoes to the customers. We used to supply a great many of
the prisoners in the Bench; and whenever I went into that place, I
generally managed to have a game of marbles, and sometimes rackets, with
the young blackguards that lurked about the prison to pick up the racket
balls, run on messages, and so on. At length I got to play for money;
and as I generally lost, I had to take the money which I received from
the customers to pay my little gambling debts. I was obliged to tell my
father and mother all kinds of falsehoods to account for the
disappearance of the money. Sometimes I said that I had lost a few
halfpence; then I declared that a beggar in the street had snatched a
sixpence out of my hand, and ran away; or else I swore that the
customers had not paid me. This last excuse led to serious
misunderstandings; for sometimes my father went himself to collect the
debts owing to him; and then, when the prisoners declared they had paid
me, I stuck out that it was false; and my father called them rogues and
swindlers. At length, he began seriously to suspect that his son was
robbing him; and one day he found it out in a manner which I could not
deny. I was then fourteen, and was pretty well hardened, I can tell you.
So I turned round, and told my father that he had brought it all on
himself, because he had instructed me how to cheat the customers in
weight and measure, and had therefore brought me up in wrong principles.

"You must understand that the usual mode of doing business in coal-sheds
is this: all the weights only weigh one half of what they are
represented to weigh. For instance, the one which is used as the fifty
pound weight is hollow, and is, therefore, made as large in outward
appearance as the real fifty pound weight; whereas, in consequence of
being hollow, it actually only weighs twenty-five pounds. This is the
case with all the weights; the pound weight really weighs only half a
pound, and so on. You may ask why the weights are thus exactly one half
less than they are represented to be,--neither more nor less than one
half. I will tell you: when the leet jury comes round and points, for
instance, to the weight used for fifty pounds, the answer is, 'Oh, that
is the twenty-five pound weight;' and, upon being tested, the assertion
is found to be correct. So there is never any danger of being hauled
over the coals by the leet jury; but if the weights were each an odd
number of ounces or pounds short, they could not be passed off to the
jury as weights of a particular standard, and then the warehouseman
would get into a scrape. It is just the same with the measures. The
bushel contains a false bottom, and is really half a bushel; and when
the leet jury calls, it is stated to be the half bushel measure, whereas
to customers it is passed off as the bushel. This will also account to
you for the way in which costermongers in the streets are able to sell
fruit (cherries particularly) and peas, in the season, for just one half
of the price at which they can be bought at respectable dealers. The
poor dupe who gives twopence for _a pound_ of cherries of a costermonger
in the street, only obtains half a pound; and the housewife who thinks
that she can save a hundred per cent. by buying her peas in the same
way, only gets half a peck instead of a peck.

"My father had thirty barrows, which he let out to the costermongers at
the rate of eighteen pence a day each; and some of those men could clear
eight or ten shillings a day by their traffic. But they are so addicted
to drinking that they spend all they get; and in the winter season they
starve. Now and then a costermonger would disappear with the barrow, for
the loan of which my father never required any security, as the poor
souls had none to give; and then my father offered a reward for the
apprehension of the absentee. He was generally caught, and my father
always had him taken before the magistrate and punished--as a warning,
he said, to the rest. I used to think he behaved very harshly in this
respect, as the poor wretch whom he thus got sent to the treadmill had
most probably paid for the barrow over and over again.

"But to return to my story. When my father discovered that I had robbed
him, I threw in his teeth the use he made of false weights and measures.
He was alarmed at this, because I threatened to inform the neighbours;
and so he did not give me the thrashing which he had at first promised.
He, however, resolved to send me away from home, and in the course of a
few days got me a place at a friend's of his, who kept a sweet-stuff
shop, in Friar Street, Blackfriars. There I was initiated into all the
mysteries of that trade. I found that the white-sugar articles were all
largely adulterated with plaster of Paris; and that immediately
accounted to me for the pernicious--often fatal--effects produced by
this kind of trash upon children. If parents, who really care for their
children, were only commonly prudent, they would never allow them to eat
any white-sugar sweet-stuff at all. Then I discovered that the articles
passed off as burnt almonds, really contained the kernels of fruits; for
the kitchen-maids in wealthy families and hotels collect and sell the
stones of the peaches, apricots, and nectarines, eaten at the
dinner-tables of their masters, as regularly as cooks dispose of their
bones and grease. In fact, the most deleterious ingredients enter into
the composition of sweet-stuff. The sugar-refiners sell all their scum
to the sweet-stuff makers; and this scum is composed of the lime, alum,
bullock's blood, charcoal, acetate of soda, and other things used for
fining sugar. Oxide of lead is also mixed with the small proportions of
sugar used in making sweet-stuff; and thus you may perceive what filthy
and poisonous substances are given to children in the shape of
sugar-plums. I hope that I do not weary you with this description; and
if you should be surprised that I can now recollect the chemical names
of the ingredients used, I must tell you that I went so often to the
sugar-refiners, and to the chemists, for my master, that I soon became
familiar with every thing at all relating to the business.

"I now come to more interesting matters. I had been with my master about
six years, and was then going on for twenty-one, when my father died. My
mother sent for me home to help her in the business; and I now had the
command of money. The taste for gambling which I had imbibed in my
boyhood, returned with additional force; and I sought every opportunity
of gratifying my inclination in this respect. I frequented a notorious
public-house in Suffolk Street, where gaming was carried on to a great
extent; and my ill-luck seemed unvaried. My mother did all she could to
check the progress of this infatuation; but it was invincible; and in
the course of three years I had completely ruined both my mother and
myself. An execution was put into the house for rent, and my mother died
of a broken heart. I shed a few tears, and then looked round me for some
occupation.

[Illustration]

"One of the persons who frequented the public-house in Suffolk Street
offered to recommend me to a friend of his, who kept an auction-room in
the City. I gladly accepted the proposal, and was engaged as 'a bidder,'
at that establishment. I will tell you what I had to do: the auction was
carried on in an open warehouse in a great thoroughfare. The articles
put up for sale were all of the most worthless description--razors, made
(like Peter Pindar's) to sell, and not to cut; pen-knives, that would
inflict no damage upon a piece of wood; decanters, that would scarcely
resist the pressure of the most delicate lady's hand; candlesticks, made
of a metal that would melt if held too close to the fire; urns, that
sprang a leak the moment hot water was poured into them; watches, that
were never known to go beyond the first four-and-twenty hours; scissors,
that would not sever a thread; snuffers, that merely crushed without
diminishing the wick; teapots, made of polished pewter, and warranted as
silver; in a word, every species of domestic rubbish of this kind,
occupied the counters and tables in the auction-room. Myself and three
others were hired as bidders. Our duty was to offer a price for every
article put up, and buy it in if it appeared likely to go to a stranger
at too low a price--although, indeed, few prices were too low for the
articles on which they were put. Then, when a greenhorn entered the
mart, we were to puff off the articles amongst ourselves in his
hearing--never talking _to_ him, but talking _at_ him. The master was
perched up behind a high desk, using his hammer with exemplary alacrity,
and knocking down article after article to the flats that came in and
bid. Sometimes the dupes would come back the following day, and demand
the return of their money, as they had ascertained that the goods for
which they had parted with it were worthless: it was then our duty to
hustle such obstreperous claimants, bonnet them, or, in extreme cases,
knock them down, and then give them into custody for creating a
disturbance.

"In this situation I remained for three years. The master was very good
to us, and gave us a present every time he effected large sales by our
means. One afternoon an elderly gentleman entered the mart, and stood
bidding for some cut decanters. They had been invoiced to the proprietor
of the establishment for six shillings, and the lowest price at which
they were to be knocked down was two pounds ten. The bidding was rather
slow; and I retreated a pace or two behind the old gentleman, to avoid
having the appearance of being anxious to make myself conspicuous. In
that position I observed the corner of a red pocket-book peeping out of
his coat tail. I glanced around: no one noticed me; and in a moment I
abstracted the inviting object. This was the first theft I ever
committed; and bad as I already was, the moment I had that pocket-book
safe in my possession, I would have given the world for it to have been
back again in its former place. The deed was however done; and I
evaporated from the auction mart with the rapidity of thought.

"I was not such an idiot as to return to my lodgings; but I hastened
into the vicinity of Smithfield, and entered a public-house in Chick
Lane. The parlour--a little slip, with a single window looking upon the
street--was fortunately empty; and I immediately examined my treasure.
And true enough it was a treasure! It contained eight hundred pounds in
Bank of England notes, together with bills of exchange to the amount of
three thousand. There were also letters and cards of address, which
showed me who the old gentleman was. He was a rich landholder in the
county of Hants. I enclosed the bills of exchange and the letters in a
sheet of paper, and returned them through the post to their owner. The
Bank notes I kept. But I was now at a loss how to act; for I fancied
that if the notes had been stopped, there would be danger in attempting
to pass them. After I had put the letter in the post, I returned to the
public-house in Chick Lane, and meditated upon the best course to
pursue. While I was sitting in the parlour, over a glass of
brandy-and-water, pondering upon this very difficult matter, a man
entered, sate down, called for some liquor, and got into conversation
with me. By degrees we grew confidential; and he let me know that he was
a member of the swell-mob. I opened my heart to him; and he immediately
offered to take me to a place where I could change my notes.

"I thankfully accepted his proposal; and he led me into Field Lane.
There he entered a shop where they sold salt fish, herrings, haddocks,
and oysters. He asked a dirty-looking girl if Israel Moses was at home;
and, receiving an affirmative answer, led the way up a narrow, dark, and
dirty staircase, to a room where an old Jew, with a face almost
completely concealed by grisly white hair, was sitting at a table
covered with papers. My guide immediately communicated to him the object
of my visit; and the old Jew questioned me closely relative to the way
in which I had obtained the Bank notes. My companion advised me to tell
him the exact truth, which I did; and the Jew then offered me six
hundred pounds in gold for my eight hundred pounds' worth of notes. He
explained to me that he should be compelled to send them to his agents
in Paris, Hamburgh, and Amsterdam, to get rid of them; and that he could
therefore afford to give me no more. I accepted his proposal, received
the gold, and departed, accompanied by my new friend, who was no other
than Dick Flairer.

"I made him a handsome present for his counsel and assistance, and was
about to part from him, when he told me that I had better take care of
myself for a few days until the hue and cry concerning the pocket-book
should be over. He asked me to accompany him to his lodgings in Castle
Street, Saffron Hill. I agreed; and there I first met his sister Mary.
In the evening Dick went out, to ascertain, as he said, 'how the wind
blew.' He came back at a late hour, and brought me a copy of a hand-bill
that had been printed and circulated, and which gave not only a full
description of the robbery, but also a most painfully accurate account
of my person. Dick assured me that I was not safe in his lodgings, as he
himself was a suspicious character in the neighbourhood; and he advised
me to hide myself in a certain house which he knew in Chick Lane. I
followed his advice, and proceeded to the Old House, where I lay
concealed in that horrid dungeon under ground for a mortal fortnight.
Mary brought me my food every other day, and gave me information of what
was going on outside. She told me that the newspapers had published an
account of the return of the bills of exchange and letters by post; and
that the same organs stated that the old gentleman who had been robbed
was unwilling to proceed any farther on that very account. At length
Dick came himself, and assured me that I might leave the dungeon; but
that it would be better for me to remain quiet in some snug place for a
few weeks. I proposed to him a trip into the country; he agreed; and
Mary accompanied us.

"We went down to Canterbury, and took lodgings on the Herne Bay road,
close by the barracks. Dick and I used to visit all the neighbouring
towns, and see what we could pick up; but we led a jovial life, spending
much more than we got, and thus making desperate inroads into my funds.
My old habits of gambling returned; and the gold which I had received
from the Jew was disappearing very rapidly. We had left London for
upwards of eight months, when we thought of returning to our old haunts.
Mary seemed quite averse to the proposal, and was most anxious to remain
a short time longer where she was. To this Dick agreed; and he and I
came up to town. We went to the Boozing-ken on Saffron Hill, and there
took up our quarters. Dick introduced me to Bill Bolter; and as it
happened that our funds were all low, we resolved upon adopting some
means to replenish our purses. Happening to take up the _Times_, I saw
an advertisement, according to which a wealthy jeweller and goldsmith in
the Strand required a porter. I made a remark which led Dick Flairer to
observe, that if I chose to take the situation, he could get me a
reference, as he knew one of the largest linen-drapers in Norton
Folgate, who was in the habit of buying stolen goods of the cracksmen of
Dick's gang, and would not dare refuse to perform the part required. The
plan was settled: I applied for the situation, gave the reference, and
in two days entered the service of the rich goldsmith. In less than a
fortnight I had obtained all the information I required; and stepping
out one evening, I hastened to the boozing-ken, where I met the pals,
and appointed the following night for the enterprise. I then returned to
my master's residence.

"On the ensuing night, precisely as the clock struck twelve, I stole
softly down from my bed-room, and entered the shop by means of a
skeleton key. I then cautiously opened the front door, and admitted Dick
Flairer and Bill Bolter. We immediately set to work to pack up all the
most valuable and most portable articles; in which occupation we were
engaged when a cry of '_Fire, fire!_' was heard in the street outside;
and almost at the same moment a tremendous knocking at the front door
began. For an instant we were paralysed; but the noise of steps
descending the stairs hurried us into action; and, opening the doors, we
darted from the house with the speed of wild animals, leaving all the
booty behind us. The cry of '_Fire!_' was instantly succeeded by that of
'_Thieves!_' and several persons began to pursue us hotly. We gained
Wellington Street, and hastened towards Waterloo Bridge, intending to
get into the Borough with the least possible delay. On we went--through
the great gate, without waiting to pay the toll at the entrance of the
footway--the pursuers gaining upon us. Suddenly I recollected that the
cornice along the outside of the parapet was very wide; and without
hesitating a moment I sprang over the parapet, alighted on the cornice,
and only saved myself from falling into the river by catching hold of
the gas-pipe which runs along the outer side of the bridge. Scarcely had
I thus accomplished a most dangerous feat, when I distinctly saw a man,
a few yards a-head, mount the parapet, and precipitate himself into the
river. Then arose the sounds of voices on the bridge, crying, '_He is
over!_' '_He has leaped in!_' '_He will be drowned._' '_They have all
three escaped._' '_But where the devil could the other two have got
to?_' and such-like exclamations, which convinced me that my companions
were safe. There I remained, a prey to a thousand painful reflections
and horrid ideas, for upwards of an hour; till at length I grew so dizzy
that I was every moment on the point of falling into the river. The
bridge was now completely silent; and I ventured to leave my
hiding-place. I passed over the bridge to the Surrey side, without
molestation, and proceeded by a circuitous route to the Old House in
Chick Lane, where, to my astonishment, I found Bill Bolter. I then
learnt that it was Dick Flairer who had leapt into the river, and was no
doubt drowned; and that Bolter had only escaped by concealing himself in
the deep shade of one of the recesses of the bridge, when totally
overcome by fatigue, until his pursuers had passed, when he retraced his
steps, and quietly gained the Strand.

"We were greatly grieved to think that our enterprise in the jeweller's
house should have failed, and that we had lost so excellent a fellow as
Flairer; but in the midst of our lamentations, the door opened and Dick
himself entered the room. Pale, dripping, and exhausted, he fell upon a
seat, and would most probably have fainted--if not died--had we not
forced some brandy down his throat. He then revived; and, having changed
his clothes, was soon completely recovered from the effects of his bath,
and the desperate exertions he had made to swim to a wharf communicating
with the Commercial Road.

"We staid for the remainder of the night at the Old House; and on the
following morning Dick Flairer went up to the boozing-ken, where he
procured a newspaper. He then returned to us; and we perceived by the
journal that the curtains of the bed-room which I had occupied at the
jeweller's house had caught fire, and created the alarms which had
interrupted us in the midst of our employment in the shop. I moreover
ascertained that I was of course suspected of having admitted thieves
into the premises, and that a reward was offered for my apprehension. I
was accordingly compelled to remain concealed for some weeks in the Old
House, while Bolter and Flairer, being unsuspected, were enabled to go
abroad. I did not upon this occasion conceal myself in the dungeon of
the Old House, for I could not bear the solitude of that living tomb;
and as Bolter and Flairer were constantly visiting me, the time did not
hang so very heavily on my hands. At length I left the Old House, and I
and Dick returned to Canterbury.

"When we arrived there, after an absence of two months, we made a most
unpleasant discovery--unpleasant to Dick as the brother, and to me who
was enamoured of Mary. She was in a way to become a mother; her
situation was too palpable to be concealed. Dick flew into a most
ungovernable rage; and Mary tried to deny it. But the fact was glaring,
and she was obliged to confess that she had been seduced by a serjeant
of the regiment stationed at Canterbury. Her attachment to that man, and
the hope that he would do her justice, were the reasons that had induced
her to remain at Canterbury, when we went to London. The serjeant had
recently treated her with neglect and indifference, and she longed for
revenge. Dick and I swore that she should have it. She told us that the
serjeant was very fond of angling, and that every morning early he
indulged in his favourite sport in the river Stour, which flowed close
by the barracks.

"Next morning Dick and I went down to the river, and there we saw the
serjeant preparing his tackle. From the description we had received of
him, we knew him to be the man we wanted; but there was a large
water-mill close by, and we dared not attack him in a spot that was so
overlooked. We accordingly returned home, and consulted together how we
should proceed. At length we resolved that Mary should endeavour to get
him to grant her an interview on the banks of the river. She sent him a
note, saying that she was to leave Canterbury in a few days, and that
she wished to see him once more. She concluded by begging him to meet
her that evening or the next between nine and ten o'clock, close by the
bridge of Kingsford's water-mill. He consented, and appointed the
evening of the next day for the interview.

"The hour drew nigh, and Mary went to the place agreed upon. Dick and I
followed her at a little distance. The night was dark; it was in the
month of April; and the air was very cold. As we drew near the bridge as
noiselessly as we could, we distinguished the forms of two persons
standing upon the bridge, and leaning in earnest conversation upon the
low railing that overhung the huge wheel which was revolving beneath,
the torrent pouring over it through the sluices of the dam upon the top
of which the bridge stood. We advanced closer; and could then perceive
that the two forms were those of Mary and her seducer. We proceeded to
the bridge. When we reached the middle, Dick went up to the serjeant,
and said, '_This is my sister; do you mean to do her justice?_'--'_No,_'
cried Mary; '_he has just told me that I need have no hope in that
respect_.' '_Then there is nothing more to be said,_' exclaimed Dick
Flairer; and at the same moment we precipitated ourselves upon the
serjeant. Dick Flairer pressed his hand upon his mouth; the poor wretch
struggled violently; but in an instant we hurled him over the
bridge-railing. He fell upon the wheel; the roar of the torrent, and the
din of the ponderous machine drowned his last cry of agony, and the
crushing of his bones. '_Now, Mary,_' said I, '_you are revenged_.' She
pressed my hand convulsively, without uttering a word; and we returned
to our lodgings.

"Next day, the body of the serjeant was found, fearfully crushed and
mutilated, a mile below the mill, entangled in a bed of osiers. It was
carried to the barracks: an inquest was called; and a verdict of '_Found
Drowned_' was recorded. Not a suspicion was entertained that the man had
been murdered, it being evident from the surgical examination that he
had been crushed by the wheel of the mill, upon which it was supposed he
had accidentally fallen, over the bridge-railing, which was only about
three feet high.

"The moment the verdict was returned, and we saw that no suspicion
attached to any body in reference to the murder, we left Canterbury, and
repaired to London. In the course of a few weeks, Mary became the mother
of a still-born child; and in due time I assured her that I would
overlook her fault, and marry her if she would have me. She was pleased
with the proposal; and Dick readily agreed to it. But before we could be
spliced, I one day met the goldsmith of the Strand in the street; and he
gave me into custody. I was taken before the magistrates, and fully
committed for an attempt to rob my employer. While I was in Newgate,
waiting for my trial, I was greatly alarmed lest the old gentleman, whom
I had robbed at the auction mart, should prefer an indictment against
me; but my fears in this respect were unfounded. At length the sessions
commenced, and I was put upon my trial. The Sheriffs had supplied me
with counsel, for I was completely without funds when I was arrested.
The barrister thus retained in my behalf, advised me to plead guilty, as
I should then stand a good chance of escaping transportation. I followed
his recommendation, and expressed my contrition for the offence. The
Recorder read me a long lecture, and condemned me to seven years'
transportation, which sentence was commuted to two years' imprisonment
in Newgate.

"During that time I seriously thought of mending my ways, when I should
be once more at liberty. But I could not conceive what on earth I should
do for a livelihood if I did not steal. I knew that I should be turned
adrift without a penny in my pocket; and I had no friends but those with
whom I could only pursue my old career. When the chaplain spoke to me
upon the errors of my past life, and the necessity of reformation, I
used to say to him, '_Show me, reverend sir, how I am to obtain an
honest living when I leave these walls, and I never shall sin again._'
But he always gave an evasive reply. In fact, what could he say? If he
had required a man-servant--a groom--an errand-boy--a menial scrub to
black his boots and brush his clothes, would he have taken me? No. If he
had known any friend who wanted a man to take care of his hounds--never
enter his house--but sleep in the kennels along with the dogs, would the
chaplain have recommended me? No. If the governor of Newgate had needed
a man to sweep the dirt away from the front of the prison, would the
reverend gentleman have spoken a kind word in favour of me? No. Of what
use, then, is it for these gaol chaplains to preach penitence and
reformation, when by their very actions they say, '_We do not believe
that you can possibly change for the better?_' Of what benefit is it for
these salaried moralists to declaim upon the advantages of a virtuous
course, when they know perfectly well that the old maxim is invariably
correct,--'_Give a dog a bad name and hang him!_' Virtue must be fed;
but Virtue, upon leaving the walls of a criminal prison, can obtain no
food. Must Virtue, then die of starvation? Human nature revolts against
this self-destruction--this systematic suicide; and, sooner than submit
to it, Virtue will allow itself to be changed by circumstances into
Vice. Virtue in this case has no option but to become Vice.

"I often thought, when I was in prison, that if there was a workshop,
established by the government to receive persons whom the criminal gaols
daily vomit back upon society, many a miserable creature would in
reality reform, and be saved from a re-plunge into the sea of crime. But
all that the government does is to punish. I mentioned these thoughts to
the chaplain. And what did he say? He endeavoured to get rid of the
necessity of giving a decisive opinion, by throwing himself headlong
into a mass of argument and reasoning, half religious and half
political, which I could not understand. Thus do those men invariably
extricate themselves from perplexing topics. In my opinion there is no
mockery more abominable--no hypocrisy more contemptible--no morality
more baseless than the attributes of a gaol-chaplain!

"If good and pious men attended criminal prisons of their own free will,
and talked in a plain homely manner to the inmates,--a manner which
those inmates could understand,--how much benefit might result! But when
you think that the chaplain only troubles himself about you because he
is paid,--that he doles out his doctrine in proportion to the income
which he receives,--and that he says the same to you to-day which he
said to another yesterday, and will say to a third to-morrow,--his
office is mean, contemptible, and degrading.

"It does not do for me to hold forth in this manner; I know _that_: but
I cannot help expressing the thoughts that occupied me when I was in
Newgate. They are often present in my memory; and, sometimes, when I am
dull and in low spirits, I console myself by the conviction that if I am
bad now, it is because there is no door open for me to be good. So a
truce to these ideas. They do not often come from my lips; and even now
I scarcely wish to recall them.

"Well--I passed my two years in Newgate; and when I was released, I
stood still by the lamp-post at the top of the Old Bailey, thinking
which way I should go. I had not a penny in my pocket; and I knew that
in the course of a few hours I should be hungry. As true as I am sitting
here, tears rolled down my cheeks as I contemplated the necessity of
returning to my old pursuits,--yes--burning tears--tears of agony--such
tears as I never shed before, and shall never shed again!

"Suddenly a thought struck me. I would go to the workhouse. The idea
consoled me; and, fearful lest my good intentions should grow cool, I
turned back past the door of Newgate again, and directed my steps down
the Old Bailey towards Blackfriars' Bridge. In the course of an hour, I
knocked at the door of the ---- Workhouse, with an order for admission
from the overseer.

"It was about twelve o'clock in the day when I entered the Workhouse.
The porter conducted me into the office, where the master took down my
name, age, &c. He then sent me to the bath-room, where I was cleansed.
When I came from the bath I put on the coarse linen, grey suit, and
thick shoes which constitute the workhouse garb--the livery of poverty.
The dress differed but little from the one I had worn in Newgate--so
small is the distinction in this blessed country between a felon and a
pauper! My old clothes were put up together in a bundle, labelled with
my name, and conveyed to the store-room, to be returned to me when I
chose to leave the place. As soon as I was dressed, I was allotted to
the _able-bodied men's department_ of the Workhouse. The scale of food
for this class of persons was just this:--

  ---------+------+--------+-----+------+---------+--------+-------+--------
           |Bread.| Gruel. |Meat.|Bacon.|Potatoes.|  Soup. |Cheese.| Suet
           |      |        |     |      |         |        |       |Pudding.
           +------+--------+-----+------+---------+--------+-------+--------
           | _Oz._|_Pints._|_Oz._| _Oz._|  _Oz._  |_Pints._| _Oz._ |
           |      |        |     |      |         |        |       |
  Monday   |   14 | 1½     | ..  |  ..  |   ..    |  1½    |   2   |   ..
  Tuesday  |   21 | 1½     | ..  |  ..  |   ..    |   ..   |   4   |   ..
  Wednesday|   14 | 1½     | ..  |  ..  |   ..    |  1½    |   2   |   ..
  Thursday |   14 | 1½     | ..  |   4  |    8    |   ..   |   2   |   ..
  Friday   |   14 | 1½     | ..  |  ..  |   ..    |   ..   |   2   |   14
  Saturday |   14 | 1½     | ..  |  ..  |   ..    |  1½    |   2   |   ..
  Sunday   |   14 | 1½     |  5  |  ..  |    8    |  1½    |  ..   |   ..
           +------+--------+-----+------+---------+--------+-------+--------
      Total|      |        |     |      |         |        |       |
     Weekly|  105 | 10½    |  5  |   4  |   16    |  6     |  14   |   14
  Allowance|      |        |     |      |         |        |       |
  ---------+------+--------+-----+------+---------+--------+-------+--------

"So you see that we had only five ounces of cooked meat and five ounces
of bacon, in the shape of animal food, in the course of each week! And
yet we had to work--to keep the grounds in order, to do various jobs in
the establishment, and to pick four pounds of oakum each, every day, the
Sabbath excepted. Felons are better off;[79] for in the prison one has
more meat, more bread, and more gruel (which is certainly nourishing)
than in the workhouse!

"We had nothing to drink with our dinners and suppers but water--and of
that they could not very well stint us, because it cost nothing. The
able-bodied women had much _less_ than the able-bodied men. The infirm
paupers had each one ounce of tea and seven ounces of sugar weekly,
instead of gruel, for breakfast! Fancy one ounce of tea for seven meals!

"We were divided into messes, or tables of ten each; and each mess
elected a carver. The duty of the carver was to go to the kitchen and
fetch the provision allotted to the individuals at his particular table,
and then to distribute it in equal proportions. What fighting and
wrangling always took place at meal times! On meat days, one had too
much fat, and another's morsel was too under-done:--on bacon days, one
had too much lean, and another had the rind given to him. Then one
declared that he had been cheated out of a potatoe; and so on. It was a
scene of perpetual selfishness--of human beings quarrelling for a crumb!
But who can wonder? A potatoe or a cubic inch of bread was a
considerable portion of a meal; and where all were ravenous, who could
afford to lose even a potatoe or a crumb?[80]

"Neither of you have ever been in a workhouse, I know; and therefore you
cannot imagine the change it produces in its inmates. They grow
discontented with the world, and look upon their superiors with
abhorrence. An army of able-bodied men, recruited from all the Unions in
the kingdom, would make the finest republican soldiers imaginable. They
would proceed with a good heart to level throne, aristocracy, and every
institution which they believed oppressive to the industrious classes.

"But that is no business of mine--and I care nothing for politics of any
kind. Of an evening, we used to gather round the fire till bed-time, and
talk of our past lives. Many--many of my companions, had, like myself,
seen better days; and it actually made one's heart ache to hear them
compare their former positions with their present ones. And after all,
what can be more inhuman--what more cruel, than the very principles of
the workhouse system? Old couples, who have lived together for years and
years, are separated when they go to the workhouse. Mothers are debarred
from the society of their little ones:--no ties of kindred are respected
_there_!

"I remember one man--he was about sixty, and much better behaved than
the rest--who had been a writer, or something of that kind, in his time.
The men used to get him now and then, when he was in the humour to
recite poems--some of which he had composed in better days, and others
since he had been in the Union. Those of his palmy years were all about
love, and friendship, and sweet spring, and moonlight scenes, and so
on;--but from the moment that he set foot in the workhouse, he bade
farewell to love and friendship; and he never more was destined to know
the enjoyments of charming seasons and tranquil hours! One of his late
poems made such an impression on me, that I learnt it by heart. It was a
workhouse scene. I remember it now; and will repeat it:--

      "THE SONG OF THE WORKHOUSE.

    "Stooping over the ample grate,
       Where burnt an ounce of fuel,
           That cheered not the gloom
           Of the workhouse room,
     An aged and shivering female sate,
       Sipping a pint of gruel:
     And as she sopped a morsel of bread
       In that liquid thin and poor,
     With anguish she shook her aching head,
       And thought of the days that were o'er.

    "Through the deep mists of years gone by
       Her mental glances wandered;
           And the warm blood ran
           To her features wan;
     And fire for a moment lighted her eye,
       As o'er the past she pondered.
     For she had once tripped the meadow green
       With a heart as blithe as May;
     And she had been crowned the village-queen
       In times that were far away!

    "She'd been the pride of parents dear,
       And plenty banished sorrow;
           And her love she gave
           To a yeoman brave;
     And a smiling offspring rose to cheer
       Hearts that feared not for the morrow.
     Oh! why should they fear? In the sweat of their brow
       They ate their daily bread;
     And they thought, 'The earth will e'er yield as now
       The fruits whereon we're fed!'

    "But when their hair grew silvery white,
       Sorrow their cot invaded,
           And ravaged it then
           As armies of men
     Sack the defenceless town by night:--
       Thus all Hope's blossoms faded!
     From their little farm the stock was swept
       By the owner of their land;
     And the very bed on which they slept,
       Was snatched by the bailiff's hand.

    "One hope--one fond hope now was all
       Each tender heart dared cherish--
           That they might remain
           Still linked by one chain,
     And 'midst the sorrows that might befal,
       Together live or perish.
     But Want drove them on to the workhouse gate;
       And when the door was pass'd
     They found themselves doomed to separate--
       To separate at last!

    "And he fell sick:--she prayed in vain
       To be where he was lying;
           She poured forth her moan
           Unto hearts of stone;
     Never admittance she could gain
       To the room where he was dying!
     Then into her brain the sad thoughts stole
       That brain with anguish reeling--
     That the great ones, judging by their own soul,
       Think that paupers have no feeling.

    "So, thus before the cheerless grate,
       Watching the flick'ring ember
           She rocked to and fro,
           Her heart full of woe;
     For into that heart the arrow of fate
       Pierced like the cold of December.
     And though she sopped a morsel of bread,
       She could not eat for crying:
     'T was hard that she might not support the head
       Of her much-lov'd husband dying!

"I stayed in the workhouse six weeks; and could stand it no longer. I
had to labour, and was half-starved. So one morning I went to the
Master, demanded my clothes, and was speedily retracing my steps towards
my old haunts. That evening I supped with Dick Flairer at the
boozing-ken on Saffron Hill; and the same night we broke into a
watchmaker's shop in the City. We got seventeen pounds in money, and a
dozen watches and other trinkets, which we sold to the 'fence' in Field
Lane for thirty guineas. That was a good bargain for him! I then went
and took up my quarters with Dick Flairer at his lodgings; and in a few
weeks I married his sister Mary. Six or eight months afterwards poor
Dick was killed; and--"




CHAPTER C.

THE MYSTERIES OF THE GROUND-FLOOR ROOMS.


The Buffer was interrupted at this point by the return of his wife, who
in spite of the protection of the Resurrection Man's umbrella, was
dripping wet.

We must observe that we have taken the liberty of altering and improving
the language, in which the Buffer delivered his autobiography, to the
utmost of our power: we have moreover embodied his crude ideas and
reduced his random observations into a tangible shape. We should add
that the man was not deficient in intellectual sharpness, in spite of
the stolid expression of his countenance; and thus the observations
which he made relative to prison discipline and the neglect of
government to adopt means of _preventing_ crime in preference to
_punishing_ it when committed, need excite no astonishment in those who
peruse them.

But to return to the thread of our narrative.

When the Buffer's wife had taken a warm seat by the fire, and comforted
herself with a tolerably profound libation of steaming gin-and-water,
she proceeded to give an account of her mission.

"I went down to Globe Lane," she said; "and a miserable walk it was, I
can assure you. The rain falls in torrents, and the wind blows enough to
carry the Monument into the Thames. By the time I got down to the
undertaker's house I was drenched. Then Banks wasn't at home; but his
wife asked me to stop till he came in; and as I thought that the
business was pressing, I agreed. I waited--and waited till I was tired;
one hour passed--then half an hour more; and I was just coming back when
Banks walks in."

"And so you gave him the note," said the Resurrection Man, who had
listened somewhat impatiently to this prelude.

"Yes--I gave him the note," continued Moll Wicks; "and he put on a pair
of spectacles with round glasses as big as the bottoms of wine-glasses.
When he had read it, he said he would attend to it, and should call
his-self on you to-morrow morning by nine o'clock."

"Well and good," exclaimed the Resurrection Man.

"What are you going to do, Tony?" demanded the Rattlesnake.

"Never do you mind now," answered the Resurrection Man. "I will tell you
all to-morrow."

"But I haven't quite done yet," cried the Buffer's wife. "Just as I came
out of the undertaker's shop I met the surgeon that attended upon the
old gentleman at Mrs. Smith's. He beckoned me under an archway, and
asked when the old gentleman was going to be buried? I told him that I
knew nothing about it. He hesitated, and was going away; and then he
turned round suddenly, and said, 'Do you think your husband would mind a
job that would put ten pounds into his pocket?' I don't know whether he
had ever seen Jack, or not----"

"To be sure he has," interrupted the Buffer. "Didn't I go to him when I
cut my hand with the hatchet, chopping wood one day?"

"Ah! I forgot that," said Moll. "Well, so I told him that my husband
wasn't at all the man to refuse a ten pun' note; and even then he didn't
seem to like to trust me. But after a little more hesitation, he says,
says he, 'I should like to know what that old gentleman died of; I can't
make out at all. I wonder whether his friends would have any objection
to my opening the body; for I spoke to Mrs. Smith, and she won't hear of
it.' I told him that the poor old feller had no friends; but I saw very
well what the sawbones wanted; and so I says, 'Why don't you have him up
again if so be you want so partickler to know what he died of?'--'That's
just the very thing,' he says. 'Do you think your husband would do the
job? I once knew a famous feller,' he says, 'one Anthony Tidkins'----"

"And so do I know him," interrupted the Resurrection Man. "Doesn't he
live in the Cambridge Road, not far from the corner of Bethnal Green
Road?"

"The same," answered the Buffer's wife.

"Well--what took place then?"

"He only told me to tell my husband to call upon him--and that was all."

"Here's more work, you see, Jack," said the Resurrection Man. "Leave
this business to me. I'll take care and manage it. When we meet
to-morrow night, I'll explain all my plans about the money this old
fellow has left behind him; and then I'll tell you what arrangement I've
made with this surgeon. You must mind and be with me at nine to-morrow
night, Jack; because we won't keep young Markham waiting for us."

These last words were uttered with a low chuckle and an expression of
countenance that indicated but too well the diabolical hopes and
intentions of the Resurrection Man.

The Buffer and his wife then took leave of their friends, and departed
to their own abode.

"Now, Meg," said the Resurrection Man, "it is nearly twelve o'clock; and
you may get ready to go to bed. I am just going out for a few minutes--"

"As usual, Tony," cried the Rattlesnake, impatiently. "Why do you always
go out now--every night?"

"I have told you over and over again not to pry into my secrets,"
returned the Resurrection Man, furiously. "You mind your own business,
and only meddle in what I tell you to take a part; or else--"

"Well, well, Tony--don't be angry now," said the Rattlesnake, in her
most wheedling tone. "I will never ask you any more questions. Only I
thought it strange that you should have gone out every night for the
last three weeks--no matter what weather--"

"And you may think it strange a little longer if you like," once more
interrupted the terrible Resurrection Man, with a sinister lowering of
his countenance which checked the reply that was rising to the lips of
his companion.

The Rattlesnake lighted a candle, and passed into the adjoining
apartment.

The Resurrection Man poured some raw spirits into a wine glass, tossed
it off, and putting on his hat, left the room.

He descended the precipitate staircase leading to the front door of the
house, and in another moment reached the street.

Simply closing, without locking, the door behind him, he turned sharply
round into the dark alley which ran beneath a sombre and narrow arch,
along one side of the house.

But his footsteps, on this occasion, were closely followed by the
Rattlesnake.

Unable to restrain her curiosity any longer--and, _perhaps_, influenced
by other motives of a less superficial nature,--Margaret Flathers had
determined to follow her paramour this night; and, scarcely had he
closed the street door, when she was already at the bottom of the
staircase.

The moment she stepped into the street, she saw the dark form of the
Resurrection Man turn down the alley above mentioned; and she muttered
to herself, "I thought so! and now perhaps I shall find out why he never
would allow me to set foot in the rooms of the lower storey."

The Resurrection Man passed half-way up the alley, and taking a key from
his pocket, proceeded to open a door that communicated with the
ground-floor of his singularly-built house.

He entered, and the Rattlesnake hurried up to the door. She applied her
ear to the key-hole--listened--and heard his footsteps echoing upon the
boarded floor of the back-room. In a few moments the grating of a
lucifer-match upon the wall met her ear; and applying her eye for a
moment to the key-hole, she saw that there was now a light within.

Impelled by an invincible curiosity, or other motives of a powerful
nature,--if not both,--the Rattlesnake cautiously raised the latch, and
opened the door to the distance of nearly a foot.

With the utmost care, she now ventured to look into the interior of that
part of the house, in respect to which a species of Blue-beard
restriction had existed for her ever since she first became the
companion of the Resurrection Man in that mysterious abode.

Glancing cautiously in, we say, she saw a small passage communicating
with two rooms--one at each end, front and back. The door of the front
room was closed: that of the back one was open. She accordingly directed
all her attention to the back-room.

Against the wall facing the door was a candle, burning in a bright tin
shade or reflector; and in the middle of the room, between the door and
the light, stood the Resurrection Man. He had his back towards the
Rattlesnake; but she could watch all his proceedings with the greatest
facility.

And how strange were those proceedings!--The Resurrection Man enveloped
himself in a large dark cloak, and fixed a black cloth mask over his
countenance. He then advanced towards a cupboard, which he opened, and
whence he took several articles, the precise nature of which the
Rattlesnake could not ascertain, in consequence of the position in which
her paramour was then standing. She however observed that he placed
those articles in a basket at his feet; and when this task was
accomplished, he lifted the basket in his hand, and turned so abruptly
round to leave the room, that the Rattlesnake trembled from head to foot
lest he should have caught a glimpse of her head protruded through the
opening of the door.

She drew herself back and pulled the door towards her. For a moment she
felt inclined to beat a precipitate retreat to her own quarters; but
curiosity compelled her to remain.

What could mean that strange disguise?--Why that cloak?--Wherefore that
mask?--And what were the objects which the Resurrection Man had
consigned to his basket?--Lastly, whither was he going?

With the most extreme caution she again pushed the door partly open, and
again did she glance into the interior of that mysterious division of
the house.

But all was now dark; the light had disappeared, or was extinguished,
and the place was involved in total obscurity.

Nevertheless, all was not silent. The measured tread of receding
footsteps fell upon the woman's ear: those sounds seemed to come from
heavy feet descending stone stairs.

Fainter and fainter became the sounds, until at length they merged into
the low wind, which whistled gloomily and monotonously through the lower
part of the house.

Margaret Flathers felt alarmed: she scarcely knew why.

Was it that being aware of the diabolical character of the Resurrection
Man, she naturally associated his present strange proceedings with some
deed of darkness whose very mystery made her shudder?

Was it that she trembled at the idea of being in the power of a
miscreant whose ability to work evil seemed as unbounded as his
inclination?

Suddenly her thoughts received an interruption which was by no means
calculated to tranquillize her mind.

A scream, apparently coming from the very bowels of the earth, echoed
through the lower part of that house--a scream expressive of an agony so
intense, an anguish so acute, that it smote even her hardened and
ruthless heart!

That scream was not repeated; but its echoes rang long throughout the
place, and vibrated in a strange and terrible manner on the ears of the
Rattlesnake.

Then followed low mutterings, in a hoarse and subdued tone; but as they
gradually grew louder, she could recognise the menacing voice of the
Resurrection Man.

Fear now completely triumphed over the motives which had induced the
woman to seek to penetrate into the secrets of her paramour. The dark
cloak--the black mask--the basket--the piercing scream--and the
threatening voice, all combined to bewilder her imagination, and fill
her with vague but not less terrible alarms.

Hastily closing the door, she retreated with precipitate speed from the
dark alley, and ascended the steep staircase leading to the upper rooms
of the house.

To throw off her clothes and betake herself to rest was the occupation
of but a few minutes: nevertheless, as she laid aside her garments, she
cast timid and furtive glances behind her--as if she were afraid that
her eyes would encounter some horrible spectre--or some masked figure of
appalling aspect.

In a quarter of an hour after she had returned from the contemplation of
those mysterious proceedings that had filled her mind with such
ineffable horror, the Resurrection Man entered the bed-room.

A light was burning upon the table, and when the door opened the
Rattlesnake glanced with profound terror in that direction--for she
feared lest he should appear in his long dark cloak and black mask. She
was inured to crime;--but it was that crime which she could contemplate
face to face; and thus the idea that she was in a house where deeds of
unknown horror and machinations of an undefined degree of blackness were
the business of the terrible man with whom her fortunes were now linked,
prostrated all her courage, and filled her with alarms the more
profound, because so ominously vague.

In order to avoid the risk of betraying her trepidation to the
Resurrection Man, she soon affected to fall asleep; and, when at length
slumber really overtook her, her dreams were filled with gaunt forms
clad in long black cloaks, and wearing upon their countenances dark
masks, through the holes of which their eyes glared with fearful
brightness.




CHAPTER CI.

THE WIDOW.


The cold January morning struggled into existence, amidst rain and
sleet, and seemed cradled in dense masses of clouds of tempestuous
blackness.

It appeared as if the sun had taken leave of the earth for ever; and it
would not have been surprising had the ignorant inquired whence came the
gloomy light that just seemed to guide them to their toil.

Miserable indeed was the aspect of the eastern district of the
metropolis. Emaciated women, wrapt in thin and scanty shawls, crept
along the streets, through the pouring rain, to purchase at the
chandlers' shops the morsel that was to serve for the morning's
meal,--or, perhaps, to pledge some trifling article in their way, ere
they could obtain that meal! Half-starved men,--poor wretches who never
made a hearty meal, and who were yet compelled to work like
horses,--unhappy beings, who flew to the public houses in despair, and
then were reproached by the illiberal and intolerant for their
immorality,--black sheep of Fortune's flock, to whom verdant pastures
were unknown,--friendless outcasts, who in sickness knew no other
consolation than that of the hospital, and in destitution, no asylum
save the workhouse,--luckless mortals, who cursed the day they knew the
power of love, and execrated that on which they pronounced the marriage
vows, because therefrom had sprung children who pined for want before
their face,--such men as these were seen dragging themselves along to
their labours on the railroad, the canal, or at the docks.

It was about eight o'clock on this miserable morning, when a man,
dressed in a shabby suit of black, and wearing a very dirty white
neckcloth, the long ends of which hung, damp and lanky, over the front
of his closely-buttoned body-coat, walked slowly along Smart Street--a
thoroughfare in the eastern part of Globe Town.

This individual was in reality verging upon sixty; but as he dyed his
hair and whiskers in order to maintain an uniform aspect of funereal
solemnity, he looked ten years younger. His manner was grave and
important; and, although the rain was descending in torrents, he would
not for the world depart from that measured pace which was habitual to
him. He held an old umbrella above his head, to protect a battered hat,
round which a piece of crape was sewn in three or four clumsy folds; but
the torrent penetrated through the cotton tegument, and two streams
poured from the broad brims of his hat adown his anti-laughter-looking
and rigidly demure countenance.

When he arrived at about the middle of Smart Street, he halted, examined
the numbers of the houses, and at length knocked at the door of one of
them.

An elderly woman, dressed in a neat but very homely garb, responded to
the summons.

"Does Mrs. Smith live here, ma'am?" demanded the individual in black.

"My name's Smith, sir," answered the widow.

"Very good, ma'am. I'll have a little conversation with you, if you
please;"--and the stranger stepped into the passage.

Mrs. Smith conducted him into her little parlour, and inquired his
business.

"Mine, ma'am," was the answer, "is a professional visit--entirely a
professional visit, ma'am. Alas! ma'am," continued the stranger, casting
his eyes upwards in a most dolorous manner, and taking a dirty white
handkerchief from his pocket,--"alas! ma'am, I understand you have had a
sad loss here?"

"A lodger of mine, sir, is dead," said Mrs. Smith, somewhat surprised at
the display of sorrow which she now beheld, and very naturally expecting
that her visitor would prove to be a relation of the deceased.

[Illustration]

"Ah! ma'am, we're all mortal!" exclaimed the stranger, with a mournful
shake of the head, and a truly pitiful turning up of the whites of his
eyes: "we're all mortal, ma'am; and howsomever high and mighty we may be
in this life, the grave at last must have our carkisses!"

"Very true, sir," said the good woman, putting the corner of her apron
to her eyes; for the reflection of the stranger called to her mind the
loss she had experienced in the deceased Mr. Smith.

"Alas! it's too true, ma'am," continued the stranger, applying his
handkerchief to his face, to suppress, as the widow thought, a sob: "but
it is to be hoped, ma'am, that your lodger has gone to a better speer,
where there's no cares to wex him--and no rent to pay!"

"I hope so too, most sincerely, sir," said Mrs. Smith, wondering when
the gentleman would announce the precise terms of relationship in which
he stood to the deceased. "But, might I inquire--"

"Yes, ma'am, you may inquire anything you choose," said the stranger,
with another solemn shake of his head--in consequence of which a great
deal of wet was thrown over Mrs. Smith's furniture; "for I know you by
name, Mrs. Smith--I know you well by reputation--as a respectable,
kind-hearted, and pious widder; and I feel conwinced that your treatment
to the poor lamented deceased--" here the stranger shook his head again,
and groaned audibly--"was every thing that it ought to be in this
blessed land of Christian comfort!"

Mrs. Smith now began to suspect that she was honoured with the visit of
a devout minister of some particular sect to which the deceased had
probably belonged. But before she had time to mention her supposition,
the stranger resumed his highly edifying discourse.

"My dear madam," he said, turning up his eyes, "the presence of death in
this house--this wery house--ought to make us mindful of the uncertain
leasehold of our own lives; it ought to make us prayerful and
church-loving. But madam--my dear madam," continued the stranger,
apparently on the point of bursting out into a perfect agony of grief,
"there are attentions to be paid to the body as well as cares to
entertain for the soul; and the least we can do is to show a feeling of
weneration for our deceased friends by consigning them in a decent
manner to the grave."

"On that point, sir," said Mrs. Smith, "I think as you do; and I s'pose
you're come to superintend the funeral. If so, I am sure I am very
thankful, for it's a great tax on a poor lone body like me to have such
a undertaking to attend to."

"I'll _undertake_ the undertaking--out of respect to the poor dear
deceased, ma'am," observed the stranger, in a tone of deep solemnity.
"And now, ma'am," he continued, rising, "I must request you to command
those feelings which is so nat'ral under such circumstances, and show me
into the room where the blessed departed lays."

Mrs. Smith, thinking within herself that the visitor must have some
legitimate authority for his present proceeding, and presuming that he
would condescend to impart to her the nature of that authority ere he
took his leave, conducted him with very little hesitation to the room
where the deceased lay stretched upon the bed.

The corpse was covered with a clean white sheet; for every thing, though
excessively homely, was still neat and decent in the widow's dwelling.

"I see, ma'am," said the stranger, advancing solemnly up to the bed, and
drawing the sheet away from the corpse, "I see that you know how to pay
proper respect to the last remnants of mortality. Ah! ma'am, it's all
wanity and wexation of spirit!"

With these words the extraordinary stranger drew a rule gravely from his
pocket, and proceeded to measure the corpse, saying at the same time,
"Ah! my dear madam, heaven will reward you for all your goodness towards
our dear deceased friend!"

"Was he a friend of yours, then, sir?" demanded the widow, somewhat
astounded at the process of measurement which was now going on before
her eyes.

"Are we not all friends and brethren, ma'am?" said the stranger: "are we
not all Christian friends and Christian brethren? Yes, ma'am, we are--we
must be."

"May I ask, sir, why----"

"Yes, ma'am, ask any thing--I implore you to ask any thing. I am so
overcome by the idea of your goodness towards the blessed defunct, and
by the sense of the dooty which my profession----"

"What profession, sir?" asked Mrs. Smith, point-blank.

"Ah! my dear madam," answered the stranger, with a shake of the head
more solemn than any he had yet delivered himself of, "I exercise the
profession of undertaker."

"Undertaker!" ejaculated the widow, a light breaking in upon her as she
thought of the systematic measurement of the body.

"Undertaker and furnisher of funerals, ma'am, on the most genteel and
economic principles."

"Well--I raly took you for a minister," said Mrs. Smith, somewhat
disappointed.

"Excellent woman! your goodness flatters me," ejaculated the undertaker.
"But here is my card, ma'am--_Edward Banks_, you perceive--_Globe Lane_.
Ah! my dear madam, I knew your dear deceased husband well! Often and oft
have we chanted the same hymn together in the parish church; and often
have we drunk together out of the same pewter at the _Spotted Dog_."

Mournful, indeed, was the shake of the head that accompanied this latter
assurance; and the undertaker once more had recourse to his dingy
pocket-handkerchief.

The widow used the corner of her apron.

Mr. Banks saw the advantage he had gained, and hastened to clench the
object of his visit.

"Yes, my dear madam, no man respected your dear husband more than me: in
fact, I wenerated that man. Poor dear Thomas Smith----"

"Matthew, sir," said the widow mildly.

"Ah! so it was, ma'am--Matthew Smith! Good fellow--charming
companion--excellent man--gone, gone--never to come back no more!"

And Mr. Banks sobbed audibly.

"Well," observed the widow, wiping her eyes, "it's wery strange that
poor dear Mat never should have mentioned your name to me, considering
you was so intimate."

"Our friendship, ma'am, was a solemn compact--too solemn to be made a
matter of idle conversation. But since I have made myself known to you,
my dear madam, do, pray, let me take this unpleasant business off your
hands, and conduct the funeral of your lamented lodger."

"Well, sir," said the widow, after a moment's reflection, "since you are
in the undertaking line, and as you've called so polite and all, I shall
be wery much obleeged----"

"Say no more, my dear Mrs. Smith," exclaimed Mr. Banks. "I will do the
thing respectable for you--and wery moderate charges. You need not
bother yourself about it in any way. We will bury the dear departed in
one of the Globe Lane grounds; and I will even provide the clergyman."

"Do you know a good--pious--sincere minister, that you can recommend,
Mr. Banks?" asked the widow.

"I do, ma'am--a godly, dewout, prayerful man--meek and humble," answered
the undertaker.

"I rayther want a little advice in one way--quite private," continued
Mrs. Smith; "and I should take it as a faviour if your friend the
minister would just step round--or shall I call upon him?"

"No, Mrs. Smith--certainly not. He shall pay his respects to you.
Gentlemen always waits upon ladies," added Mr. Banks.

Though he uttered a compliment, he did not smile; but Mrs. Smith was
flattered; and, leading the way down stairs to her little parlour, she
invited Mr. Banks to take "a thimble-full of something short to keep out
the damp that cold morning."

Mr. Banks accepted the civility; and the costs of the funeral were duly
settled. The undertaker engaged to inter the deceased lodger for five
pounds, and pay all expenses. At length he took his leave; and Mrs.
Smith felt quite relieved from any anxiety respecting the obsequies of
the deceased.

From Mrs. Smith's humble abode, the respectable Mr. Banks proceeded to
the dwelling of the Resurrection Man, who had just returned from a visit
to the surgeon that had attended upon the deceased. The success of this
visit will be related hereafter; for the present, let us hasten to
inform our readers that Mr. Banks acquainted his friend Mr. Tidkins with
every particular respecting his call upon the widow in Smart Street.




CHAPTER CII.

THE REVEREND VISITOR.


When Mr. Banks had taken his leave of the widow in Smart Street, Globe
Town, the latter seated herself in her little parlour to reflect upon
what had passed during the interview.

"Well," she said to herself, "that certainly is a wery singular man. To
have knowed my husband so well, and for me never to have knowed _him_!
P'raps, after all, my poor Mat was fond of the public-house, and didn't
like to speak of the acquaintances he met there. That accounts for his
never mentioning Mr. Banks's name. But for a man like Mr. Banks to come
here whimpering and crying over a corpse which he never see living,
shows a excellent heart. Mr. Banks must be a wery amiable man. And yet I
always heerd say that butchers and undertakers was the most unfeelingest
of men. They never let butchers set on juries; but I'm sure if
undertakers is so milk-hearted, _they_ may set on juries, or up in
pulpits, or any where else, for my part. Mr. Banks is a wery respectable
man--and a wery pious one too. I'm sure I thought he was going to sing a
hymn--'specially after the dodger of gin he took. The minister that he
said he'd send to me must be a holy man: I shall put confidence in
him--and foller his advice."

A tap at the parlour door interrupted Mrs. Smith's reverie; and the
Buffer's wife entered the room.

"How do you do this morning, ma'am?" said Moll Wicks. "I thought I heerd
that you had company just now?"

"Only Mr. Banks, the undertaker, Mrs. Wicks."

"Oh! Mr. Banks, was it?" ejaculated the Buffer's wife, who now began to
comprehend a part of the Resurrection Man's plan: "and a highly
respectable individual he is too."

"Do you know any thing of him, Mrs. Wicks?"

"Certainly I do, ma'am. He buried my grandfather and grandmother, my
great uncle and my lame aunt, and never took no more than expenses out
of pocket," answered Moll--although be it well remembered, she had never
seen nor heard of Mr. Banks before the preceding evening.

"Ah! well--I thought I couldn't be wrong," observed the widow, extremely
satisfied with this information.

"And so I suppose, ma'am, you've made the arrangements with him for the
funeral?"

"Just so," responded Mrs. Smith; "and in the course of the day I expect
a wery pious minister of Mr. Banks's acquaintance."

Scarcely were these words uttered, when a modest double knock at the
front door was heard--a summons which Mrs. Wicks volunteered to answer.

The moment she opened the door, an ejaculation of surprise was about to
issue from her tongue; but the individual whom she saw upon the
threshold put his finger to his lips to impose silence.

The Buffer's wife responded with a significant nod, and introduced the
visitor into the widow's parlour.

Moll Wicks then withdrew to her own room.

Meantime the visitor stood in the presence of Mrs. Smith, who beheld
before her a short man, with a pale face, dark piercing eyes, shaggy
brows, and long straggling black hair. He was dressed in a respectable
suit of mourning, and wore a clean white cravat.

"Pardon me, ma'am, if I intrude," said the visitor; "but my friend Mr.
Banks--"

"Oh! sir, you are quite welcome," ejaculated the widow. "Pray sit down,
sir. I presume you are the reverend minister--"

"I am a humble vessel of the Lord," answered the visitor, casting down
his eyes with great meekness: "and I am come to see in what way I can be
useful to a respectable widow of whom my friend, the excellent Mr.
Banks, has spoken so very highly."

"The truth is, reverend sir," said the widow, sinking her voice, and
drawing her chair closer up to her sanctified visitor, "I want some good
advice how to act in a wery partickler matter."

"It is my business to give good advice," was the reply.

"I thought so, reverend sir; and if Mat had been alive, I should have
told him that I thought so. Howsomever, this is what I want to know
about. An old gentleman dies yesterday morning in my house; and he
leaves a little money--thirty or forty pounds, or so--behind him. He
always paid his way with me; and so I don't start no claim to a farthing
of it. He has no name--no friends--no relations--no nothing: now the
question is, sir, what am I to do with this here money that he's left
behind him?"

"You are a very honest woman, Mrs. Smith," answered the reverend
gentleman; "and you conduct yourself in a most creditable way in this
respect. Many people would have put the money into their own pockets."

"And that's just what a female lodger of mine wanted me to do, reverend
sir," exclaimed the landlady. "But I know myself better. Dead man's
money never did no one no good unless it was properly left, as the
saying is. Mrs. Wicks would have had me keep it all quiet; and I must
say that I was surprised at the perposal. But, between you and me, sir,
I don't think overmuch of my lodgers, although they do pay their rent
pretty reg'lar. The man doesn't seem to have any work or employment; and
yet they live on the best--biled beef one day, steaks the next, bacon
and greens the next--and so on. I know that _I_ can't do it on nothing.
And then they have their ale at dinner, and their gin of an evening. For
my part I can't understand it. The man keeps late hours too; and the
woman swears like a trooper when she's got a drop too much. But then, as
I said, they pays their way; and a lone widder like me doesn't dare ask
no questions."

"Of course not," said the reverend gentleman. "I think you stated that
the name of the lodgers you allude to is Wicks?"

"Yes, sir--Wicks."

"I know them--by reputation only. They have an annuity of eighty pounds
a-year, and are very respectable people. Their only fault is that they
are rather fond of company--and that, perhaps, makes them stay out late
now and then."

"Well, sir, if a pious gentleman like you thinks well on them, it isn't
for a poor ignorant creatur' like me to say black's the white of their
eye.... They pays their way; and that's all I ought to bother myself
about. But, as I was a-saying, the old gentleman which lodged with me
dies, and leaves some money behind him. There ain't kith or kin to claim
it. Now what had I better do with it?"

"The ecclesiastical law--"

"Sir?"

"The law of Doctors' Commons, I mean, is very particular on this head,"
said the reverend visitor. "There are only two things to do."

"And which be they, sir?" asked the widow.

"Either to go and put the money into the Chancery Court, or to bury it
in the coffin along with the deceased."

"And suppose I put it into the Chancery Court, sir?"

"Then no one will ever get it out again--that's all."

"But if some relation comes for'ard?"

"Then he'll just have to pay two pounds costs for every pound he draws
out."

"Lack-a-daisy me!" ejaculated the widow. "I raly think it would be best
to bury the money in the poor old gentleman's coffin."

"I am sure it would be," said the reverend adviser; "and although you
would be giving up a treasure in this life, you would be laying up for
yourself a treasure in heaven."

"Ah! well-a-day, sir--we must all think of that. I shall foller your
advice, and bury the money with the poor man in his coffin."

"Without mentioning the business to a soul except Mr. Banks," said the
saintly man, in an impressive tone.

"Or else his rest might be disturbed--eh, sir?" demanded the widow,
sinking her voice to a whisper. "But do you think there's such people as
resurrection men now-a-days?"

"Resurrection men!" ejaculated the reverend visitor, bursting out into a
laugh; "no, my dear madam--society has got rid of those abominations."

"Then where do surgeons get corpses from, sir?"

"From the hulks, the prisons, and the workhouses," was the answer.

"What! poor creatures which goes to the workus!" cried Mrs. Smith,
revolting at the idea.

"Yes--ma'am; but the surgeons don't like them as subjects, because
they're nothing but skin and bone."

"Well, for my part," exclaimed the widow, wiping away a tear, "I think
it's wery hard if, after paying rates and taxes for a many--many year, I
should be obleeged to go to the workus, and then be cut up in a
surgeon's slaughter-house at last."

"Ah! my dear ma'am, these are sad times--very sad times," said the
sanctified gentleman. "But a woman who does her duty to her fellow
creatures as you do, need fear nothing; heaven will protect you!"

With these words the holy man rose from his seat, and prepared to
depart.

"I hope Mr. Banks has engaged you to perform the service over my poor
deceased lodger, sir?" said the widow, as she conducted him to the door.

"He has, ma'am," was the reply; and the reverend minister took his leave
of Mrs. Smith, from whose mind a considerable load was removed by the
suggestion she had received relative to the disposal of the money of her
defunct lodger--a suggestion which she now determined to follow to the
very letter.

In the mean time the Rattlesnake had been left alone at the mysterious
dwelling which she and her terrible paramour inhabited.

Before the Resurrection Man went out, after the call of Mr. Banks, he
threw aside his every-day garb, and put on a complete suit of black. He
performed the ceremony of his toilet somewhat hurriedly; and the
Rattlesnake perceived with the most unfeigned delight that he forgot to
transfer the contents of the pockets of his old garments to those of his
new ones. At length he went out; and the Rattlesnake instantly commenced
a strict examination of the clothes which he had just put off.

There were a few papers and dirty letters, but of those the woman took
no notice. Neither did her fingers clutch greedily the three or four
sovereigns which were contained in a greasy purse. A bunch of keys--the
principal object of her search--rivetted all her attention--engrossed
all her interest.

Without a moment's delay, she descended the stairs, and issued from the
house. She darted up the narrow alley, paused at the side door, and
tried the lock with the different keys. The last of all was the one
which opened the door.

The heart of the Rattlesnake beat with joy as she entered the passage,
and closed the door carefully behind her.

She first peeped into the front room, and by the faint light that was
admitted through the heart-shaped holes in the shutters, she beheld only
the implements peculiar to the avocation of a resurrection man; namely,
flexible iron rods to sound the depths of graves, and long poles with
hooks at the ends to drag up bodies, together with saws, spades,
pickaxes, trowels, ropes, skeleton-keys, &c. &c.

The Rattlesnake then entered the back room, which was small, damp, and
in a dilapidated condition. The plaster of the walls had given way in
several places; and the whole appearance of the chamber seemed to
indicate that it had not been inhabited for many years.

A table, a chair, and a cupboard were all the furniture which the room
contained. On the table lay the mask, and over the chair hung the cloak
in which the Resurrection Man had disguised himself on the preceding
night. The basket, which she had seen him use on the same occasion, and
which was of the kind that housewives take to market to hold their
purchases, lay upon the floor.

The contents and appearance of the room were visible by means of the
light admitted through the shutters.

The door of the cupboard was locked, but one of the keys which the
Rattlesnake had with her speedily unlocked it. There, however, was
nothing either to excite or allay her curiosity--for it was empty.

She now proceeded to examine the chamber more carefully, expecting to
find some secret communication with a subterranean excavation; for she
was still impressed with the idea that she had heard the steps of the
Resurrection Man descend a flight of stairs on the preceding evening;
and she was also convinced that the scream she had then heard had
proceeded from a greater distance or lower depth than the small back
chamber in which she now found herself.

But all her attempts to penetrate this mystery were unavailing; and,
fearful that the Resurrection Man might return and detect her
proceedings, she hastened away from the ground floor of this strange
house.

Carefully locking the doors after her, she succeeded in reaching the
upper story and replacing the keys where she had found them, some time
ere she heard the steps of the Resurrection Man ascending the staircase.

When he entered the bed-room to change his clothes once more, he found
her busily engaged in some domestic occupation; and, as she welcomed him
in her usual manner, not a suspicion of her proceedings entered his
mind.

"Well," he said, as he assumed his common garb, "I have managed this
business. I have played the parson to some purpose; and the old woman
has consented to bury the yellow boys along with the old fellow. I shall
now sit down and write a letter to a certain Mr. Chichester, which
letter you must take to the post yourself. That being done, I can remain
quiet until the evening; and then," he added, with a ferocious leer,
"_then_ for Richard Markham!"




CHAPTER CIII.

HOPES AND FEARS.


We must now go back to the preceding day, and introduce our readers to
Markham Place, immediately after the Buffer had called upon Richard in
the manner already described.

Richard had received him in the library, and had there heard the
exciting news of which the Buffer was the bearer.

Dismissing the man to the kitchen to partake of some refreshment,
Richard hastened to the parlour, where Mr. Monroe and Ellen were seated.

The past sorrows and anxieties which the young man had experienced were
now all forgotten: forgotten also was the dread exposure which he had so
recently received at the theatre,--an exposure which had deprived him of
the honourable renown earned by his own talent,--an exposure, too, which
had induced Ellen to abandon that career wherein she excelled so
pre-eminently.

The idea of meeting his well-beloved brother now alone occupied his
mind:--the hope of seeing and even succouring the wanderer banished
every other consideration.

His cheek, lately so pale, was flushed with a glow of animation, and his
eyes glistened with delight, as he rushed into the room where Ellen and
her father were seated.

"Eugene is returned--my brother has come back at last!" he exclaimed.

"Your brother!" repeated Ellen, deadly pallor overspreading her
countenance.

"Eugene!" cried Mr. Monroe, in a tone of deep interest.

"Yes--Eugene is in London--is returned," answered Richard, not noticing
the strange impression which his words had made, and still produced upon
Ellen, who now sat incapable of motion in her chair, as if she were
suddenly paralyzed: "Eugene is in London! A man has just been to tell me
this welcome news; and I am to see my brother to-morrow evening."

"To-morrow evening!" said Mr. Monroe. "And why not now--at once?"

"Alas! my brother is in some difficulty, and dares not appear at the
dwelling of his forefathers. I am not aware of the nature of that
dilemma, but I am assured that he has need of my help."

"Where are you to meet him?" inquired Monroe, somewhat surprised by the
singularity of this announcement.

"At the eastern extremity of London--on the banks of the canal, near
some place called Twig Folly."

"And at what hour?" demanded the old man.

"To-morrow night, at ten precisely," was the reply.

"Do you know the man who brought you this message? or have you received
a letter?" asked Ellen, who now began to breathe more freely.

"No, I never saw the man before; nor have I any letter. But, surely, you
cannot suppose that any one is deceiving me in so cruel a manner?"

"I feel convinced of it," said Ellen, with peculiar emphasis on her
words and warmth in her manner.

"No--no--impossible!" cried Markham, unwilling to allow the hope which
had a moment ago appeared so bright, to be obscured by the mists of
doubt: then, acting upon a sudden impulse, he rang the bell violently.

Whittingham speedily made his appearance.

"The man that I have just sent below," said Richard, hastily, "has come
to inform me that my brother is in London--"

"Mister Eugene in London!" ejaculated the old butler, forgetting his
gravity, and literally beginning to dance with joy.

"And he has appointed to meet me to-morrow evening in a very distant and
lonely part of London," continued Markham. "This circumstance seems
suspicious--strange;--at least so Miss Monroe thinks--"

"Nay--I do not _think_, Richard: I am _sure_," exclaimed Ellen, with the
same emphasis which had marked her previous declaration.

"At all events, Whittingham," said Markham, "do you return to the
kitchen, get into conversation with the man, and then give us your
opinion."

The old butler withdrew to execute these orders.

Markham then began to pace the room in an agitated manner.

"I cannot think who could be cruel enough to practise such a vile cheat
upon me," he said, "if a cheat it really be. No one would benefit
himself by so doing. Besides--the man spoke of the appointment which my
brother made when we parted on yonder hill; he spoke of that appointment
as a token of his sincerity--as a proof of the veracity of his
statement--as an evidence that he came direct from Eugene!"

"Many persons are acquainted with the fact of that appointment," said
Ellen. "There is not an individual in this neighbourhood who is ignorant
of the meeting that is named for the 10th of July, 1843, between the
ash-trees on that hill."

"True!" exclaimed Markham. "The mere mention of that appointment is
scarcely a sufficient evidence. And yet my brother might deem that it
would prove sufficient: Eugene may not know how suspicious the deceits
of this world are calculated to render the mind that has been their
victim."

"I have no doubt that Eugene is by this time as well acquainted with the
world as you can be, Richard," persisted Ellen; "and I am also convinced
that if he were to send such a message to you as this stranger has
brought--making an appointment at a strange place and at a very lonely
hour--he would have been careful to accompany it with some undeniable
token of its genuineness."

"You reason sensibly, Ellen," said Markham; "and yet I am by no means
inclined to surrender up the hope that was just now so consoling to my
heart--wounded as that heart is by many misfortunes!"

"I reason consistently with your interests," returned Ellen. "Nothing
could persuade me that your brother would fail to write a line to you in
such a case as this is represented to be."

"What say you, Mr. Monroe?" inquired Richard.

"I am hesitating between the two arguments," answered the old man: "I
know not whether to encourage the hope to which you cling--or to suffer
myself to be persuaded by the reasoning of Ellen."

At this moment Whittingham returned to the parlour.

"The enwoy-plentipotent-and-hairy is gone," said Whittingham; "and,
although he didn't show his credentials, my firm compression is that he
was raly the representation of the court he said he come from."

"You questioned him closely?" asked Markham.

"You know, Master Richard, I can put a poser or two now and then; and if
this man had been a compostor, I should have circumwented him pretty
soon, I can assure you."

"He answered your questions in a straightforward manner, then?"
persisted Richard.

"He couldn't have been more straightfor'ard," replied Whittingham. "I'm
sure he's a honest, simple-hearted, well-meaning man."

"Then it is decided!" ejaculated Richard: "I will go to this
appointment. Who knows in what peril my poor brother may be? who can say
from what dangers I may save him? who can explain what powerful motives
he may have for the nature of the appointment he has made, and the
caution he has adopted in making it? I should be wrong to allow a
suspicion to interfere with a duty. Were any thing serious to happen to
Eugene, through the want of a friend at this moment, how should I ever
after reproach myself? I will not incur such a chance: I will go
to-morrow evening to the spot named, and to the hour appointed!"

Whittingham withdrew; and Ellen once more endeavoured to deter Richard
from his resolution.

"In the name of God, reflect," she exclaimed, with an earnestness which,
had he not been otherwise preoccupied, would have struck him by its
peculiarity, for it seemed rather the impassioned expression of a
conviction based on indisputable grounds, than a doubt which might be
based on truth or error;--"in the name of God, reflect, Richard, ere you
endanger your life, perhaps, by going at a auspicious hour to a lonely
place. Remember, you have enemies: recollect how nearly you met your
death at the hands of _one villain_ in the neighbourhood of Bird-Cage
Walk--the narrative of which occurrence and your miraculous escape you
have so often related to us;--reflect that _that_ was not the only
occasion on which the same miscreant has sought to injure you--"

"I know to what you allude, Ellen," said Markham, significantly; "and I
thank you sincerely for your interest in my behalf. But, believe me,
there is no Resurrection Man in the present matter: all is
straightforward--I feel convinced of it."

Markham uttered these words in a tone which left no scope for further
argument or remonstrance; and Ellen threw herself back in her chair, a
prey to reflections of the most painful nature.

At length she retired to her chamber to meditate in secret upon the
incident of the morning.

"What can I do," she mused aloud, "to convince Richard Markham that he
is nursing a delusion? I tremble lest some enemy should meditate
treachery against him. Perhaps even his life may be threatened? Oh! the
plots--the perfidies--the villanies which are engendered in this London!
But how warn him? how prove to him that he is deceived? Alas! that is
impossible; unless, indeed--"

But she shook her head impatiently, as if to renounce as impracticable
the idea which had for a moment occupied her mind.

"No," she continued, "that were madness indeed! And yet what can be
done? He must not be allowed to rush headlong and blindly into
danger--for that danger awaits him, I feel convinced. Perhaps that
terrible man, from whose power he once escaped, and who denounced him at
the theatre, may be the instigator of all this? And, if such be the
fact, then who knows where the atrocity of that miscreant may stop?
Murder--cold-blooded, ruthless murder may be the result of this
mysterious appointment. And the murder of whom?" said Ellen, a shudder
passing, like a cold chill, over her entire frame: "the murder of my
benefactor--of the noble-minded, the generous hearted young man who gave
us an asylum when all the world forsook us! Oh! no--no--it must not be!
I dare not tell him all I know; but I can do somewhat to protect him!"

She smiled, in spite of the unpleasant nature of the emotions that
agitated her bosom,--she smiled, because a wild and romantic idea had
entered her imagination.

Without further hesitation,--and acting under the sudden impulse of that
idea,--she sate down and wrote a short note.

When she had sealed and addressed it, she rang the bell.

In a few moments Marian answered the summons.

"My faithful friend," said Ellen, "I am about to put your goodness to
another test. But before I explain what I require of you, I beseech that
you will not now endeavour to penetrate my motives. You shall know all
the day after to-morrow."

"Speak, Miss; I am always ready to do any thing I can for you," said
Marian.

"In the evening," continued Ellen, "you must find a pretence to go out
for two or three hours. In the first instance you must call at Mr.
Greenwood's house--"

"Mr. Greenwood's?" ejaculated Marian.

"Yes--but your business is not this time with him. On the contrary, he
must not know the real motive of your visit, which is to deliver this
note into the hands of his Italian valet Filippo. You have never seen
Filippo--for he entered the service of Mr. Greenwood since you called
there some months ago. You cannot, however, mistake him. He is a tall,
dark man, with long black curling hair. Moreover, he speaks English with
a strong foreign accent."

"The description is sufficient, Miss," said Marian; "I shall not be
mistaken."

"This note is to be delivered into his hand--and his only," continued
Ellen. "Should you meet Mr. Greenwood by accident, you may say, '_I come
from Miss Monroe to inform you that your child is well and thriving_.'
This will be an excuse; I must leave the rest to you; but I implore you
to do all you can to obtain an interview with Filippo."

"I will follow your wishes, Miss, to the utmost of my power," returned
Marian.

"And when you know the motives of my present proceeding," said Ellen,
"you will be satisfied with the part you have taken in it."

"I do not doubt you, Miss," observed Marian. "Have you seen the dear
little baby lately?"

"I saw him yesterday," answered Ellen. "I called at Mr. Wentworth's: the
excellent man's wife was nursing my little Richard. I took him in my
arms and fondled him; but, alas! he cried bitterly. Of course he does
not know me: he will learn to look up to a stranger as his mother! Oh!
Marian, that idea pierced like a dagger to my very heart!"

"Cheer up, Miss!" exclaimed Marian, in a kind tone; "better days will
come."

"But never the day, Marian," added Ellen, solemnly, "when I can proclaim
myself the mother of that child, nor blush to mention its father's
name!"




CHAPTER CIV.

FEMALE COURAGE.


Holywell Street was once noted only as a mart for second-hand clothing,
and booksellers' shops dealing in indecent prints and volumes. The
reputation it thus acquired was not a very creditable one.

Time has, however, included Holywell Street in the clauses of its Reform
Bill. Several highly respectable booksellers and publishers have located
themselves in the place that once deserved no better denomination than
"Rag Fair." The unprincipled venders of demoralizing books and pictures
have, with few exceptions, migrated into Wych Street or Drury Lane; and
even the two or three that pertinaciously cling to their old temples of
infamy in Holywell Street, seem to be aware of the incursions of
respectability into that once notorious thoroughfare, and cease to
outrage decency by the display of vile obscenities in their windows.

The reputation of Holywell Street has now ceased to be a by-word: it is
respectable; and, as a mart for the sale of literary wares, threatens to
rival Paternoster Row.

It is curious to observe that, while butchers, tailors, linen-drapers,
tallow-manufacturers, and toy-venders, are gradually dislodging the
booksellers of Paternoster Row, and thus changing the once exclusive
nature of this famous street into one of general features, the
booksellers, on the other hand, are gradually ousting the old-clothes
dealers of Holywell Street.

As the progress of the American colonist towards the far-west drives
before it the aboriginal inhabitants, so do the inroads of the
bibliopoles menace the Israelites of Holywell Street with total
extinction.

Paternoster Row and Holywell Street are both losing their primitive
features: the former is becoming a mart of miscellaneous trades; the
latter is rising into a bazaar of booksellers.

Already has Holywell Street progressed far towards this consummation. On
the southern side of the thoroughfare scarcely a clothes shop remains;
and those on the opposite side wear a dirty and miserably dilapidated
appearance. The huge masks, which denote the warehouse where
masquerading and fancy-attire may be procured on sale or hire, seem to
"grin horribly a ghastly smile," as if they knew that their occupation
was all but gone. The red-haired ladies who stand at their doors beneath
a canopy of grey trousers with black seats, and blue coats with brown
elbows--a distant imitation of Joseph's garment of many colours--seem
dispirited and care-worn, and no longer watch, with the delighted eyes
of maternal affection, their promising offspring playing in the gutters.
Their glances are turned towards the east--a sure sign that they
meditate an early migration to the pleasant regions which touch upon the
Minories.

Holywell Street is now a thoroughfare which no one can decry on the
score of reputation: it is, however, impossible to deny that, were the
southern range of houses pulled down, the Strand would reap an immense
advantage, and a fine road would be opened from the New Church to Saint
Clement Danes.

It was about half-past seven in the evening that Ellen Monroe, dressed
in the most simple manner, and enveloped in a large cloak, entered
Holywell Street.

Her countenance was pale; but its expression was one of resolution and
firmness.

She walked slowly along from the west end of the street towards the
eastern extremity, glancing anxiously upon the countenances of those
traders who stood in front of the second-hand clothes shops.

At length she beheld a female--one of the identical ladies with red hair
above alluded to--standing on the threshold of one of those warehouses.

Ellen looked upwards, and perceived all kinds of articles of male attire
suspended over the head of this female, and swinging backwards and
forwards, like so many men hanging, upon the shop-front.

Ellen paused--glanced wistfully at the Jewess, and appeared to hesitate.

Her manner was so peculiar, that, although the clothes venders do not
usually solicit the custom of females, the Jewess immediately exclaimed
in a sharp under-tone, "Sell or buy, ma'am?"

Ellen turned, without another moment's hesitation, into the shop.

"I wish to purchase a complete suit of male attire--for myself," said
Miss Monroe. "Serve me quickly--and we shall not dispute about the
price."

These last words denoted a customer of precisely the nature that was
most agreeable to the Jewess. She accordingly bustled about her,
ransacked drawers and cupboards, and spread such a quantity of coats,
trousers, and waistcoats, before Ellen, that the young lady was quite
bewildered.

"Select me a good suit which you think will fit me," said Miss Monroe,
after a moment's hesitation; "and allow me to try it on in a private
room."

"Certainly, ma'am," answered the Jewess; and, having looked out a suit,
she conducted Ellen up stairs into her own sleeping-apartment.

"And now I require a hat and a pair of boots," said Ellen;--"in a word,
every thing suitable to form a complete male disguise. I am going to a
masquerade," she added, with a smile.

The Jewess made no reply: it did not concern her, if her customer chose
to metamorphose herself, so long as _she_ was paid; and she accordingly
hastened to supply all the remaining apparel necessary to complete the
disguise.

She then left Ellen to dress herself at leisure.

And soon that charming form was clothed in the raiment of the other sex:
those delicate feet and ankles were encased in heavy boots; thick blue
trousers hampered the limbs lately so supple in the voluptuous dance; a
coarse shirt and faded silk waistcoat imprisoned the lovely bosom; a
collar and black neckcloth concealed the swan-like neck and dazzling
whiteness of the throat; and a capacious frock coat concealed the
admirable symmetry of the faultless figure. The hair was then gathered
up in a manner which would not betray the sex of the wearer of those
coarse habiliments, especially when the disguise was aided by the
darkness of the night, and when that luxuriant mass was covered with the
broad-brimmed and somewhat slouching hat which the Jewess had provided
for the purpose.

Ellen's toilette was thus completed, and she then descended to the shop.

The Jewess--perhaps not altogether unaccustomed to such
occurrences--made no comment, and took no impertinent notice of the
metamorphosed lady. She contented herself with asking a handsome price
for the clothes and accommodation afforded; and Ellen paid the sum
without a murmur, merely observing that she should send for her own
apparel next day.

Miss Monroe then left the shop, and issued from Holywell Street just as
the church clocks in the neighbourhood struck eight.

The reader has, doubtless, seen enough of her character to be well aware
that she had acquired a considerable amount of fortitude and
self-possession from the various circumstances in which she had been
placed: she was not, therefore, now likely to betray any diffidence or
timidity as she threaded, in male attire, the crowded streets of the
metropolis. She threw into her gait as much assurance as possible; and
thus, without exciting any particular notice, she pursued her way
towards the eastern districts of the great city.

The weather was cold and damp; but the rain, which had fallen in
torrents the day before, had apparently expended its rage for a short
interval. A sharp wind, however, swept through the streets; and Ellen
pitied the poor shivering, half-naked wretches, whom she saw huddling
upon steps, or crouching beneath archways, as she passed along.

Ellen walked rapidly, and having gained Bishopsgate Street, proceeded as
far as the terminus of the Eastern Counties Railway.

There she halted, and glanced anxiously around her.

In a few minutes, a tall man, wrapped up in a large cloak, came up to
the spot where she was standing.

"Is that you, Filippo?" said Ellen.

"Yes, Miss; I am here in obedience to your commands," returned Mr.
Greenwood's Italian valet. "I promised your servant yesterday evening
that I would be punctual to the hour--half-past eight--to-night; and I
have kept my word."

"I owe you a debt of gratitude, which I never shall be able to repay,"
said Ellen. "Your generous behaviour towards me on a former occasion
emboldened me to write to you when I required a friend. I told you in my
note not to be surprised if you should find me disguised in male attire;
I moreover requested you to arm yourself with pistols. Have you complied
with this desire on my part?"

"I have, Miss," answered Filippo. "Conceiving it to be impossible that
you could wish me to aid you in any dishonourable service, I have
attended to your commands in every respect. I mentioned to you when we
last met that my mission to England is from a lady now enjoying a
sovereign rank, and that it is devoted to good and liberal purposes.
Under those circumstances, I am ready to assist you in any manner
consistent with my own principles and with the real objects of my
mission.

"You will this night be the means of rendering an essential service to a
fellow-creature," said Ellen, in an impressive tone. "A foul conspiracy
against him,--whether to take his life or for other purposes of villany,
I know not,--has been devised; and he has blindly fallen into the snare
that has been spread for him. At ten o'clock he is to attend an
appointment on the banks of the canal at a place called Twig Folly. We
must proceed thither: we must watch at a little distance; and, if need
be, we must interpose to save him."

"A more simple plan, Miss," said the Italian, "would be to warn this
individual of his danger."

"I have done so; but he will not believe that treachery is intended,"
returned Ellen.

"Then another effectual manner to counteract the designs of villains in
such a case is to obtain the assistance of the police."

"No, Filippo; such a proceeding would lead to inquiries and
investigations whence would transpire circumstances that must not be
made known."

"Miss Monroe, this proceeding on your part is so mysterious, that I
hesitate whether to accompany you further," said the Italian.

While thus conversing, they had pursued their way, Ellen being the
guide, along Church Street into the Bethnal Green Road.

"Come with me--do not hesitate--I implore you," exclaimed Ellen. "If you
persist in penetrating my motives for acting in this strange manner, I
will tell you all, rather than you should retreat at a moment when it is
too late for me to obtain other succour. And be your resolve as it may,"
added Ellen, hastily, "nothing shall induce _me_ to turn back. Desert
me--abandon me if you will, Filippo; but, in the name of every thing
sacred, lend me the weapons which you carry with you."

The Italian made no reply for some moments, but continued to walk
rapidly along by the side of the disguised lady.

"I will believe, Miss Monroe," he said, at length, "that your motives
are excellent; but are you well advised?"

"Listen," exclaimed Ellen. "The individual, whose life we may perhaps
this night save, is Richard Markham--the generous young man who has been
a son to my father, and a brother to myself."

"I have heard Mr. Greenwood mention his name many times," observed
Filippo.

"He believes that he is to meet his brother, from whom he has been for
many years separated, this night on the banks of the canal," continued
Ellen. "For certain reasons I know most positively that the idea of such
an appointment can only be a plot on the part of some enemies of Richard
Markham. And yet I dared not communicate those reasons to him--Oh! no,"
added Ellen, with a shudder, "that was impossible--impossible!"

"I do not seek to penetrate further into your secrets, Miss," said
Filippo, struck by the earnestness of the young lady's manner, and
naturally inclined to admire the heroism of her character, as developed
by the proceeding in which he was now bearing a part.

"And the necessity of keeping those _certain reasons_ a profound
secret," continued Ellen, "has also prevented me from procuring the
intervention of the police. In the same way, should the result of our
present expedition introduce you to the notice of Mr. Markham, it would
be necessary for you to retain as a profound secret who you are--how you
came to accompany me--and especially your connexion with Mr. Greenwood.
Not for worlds must the name of Greenwood be mentioned in the presence
of Richard Markham! If it should be necessary to enter into explanations
with him, leave that task to me; and contradict nothing that you may
hear me state. I have my motives for all I do and all I say--motives so
grave, so important, that, did you know them all, you would applaud and
not doubt me. And now are you satisfied?"

"Perfectly," returned Filippo: "I will not ask another question, nor
hesitate another moment."

"My everlasting gratitude is your due," said Ellen. "And now, one more
favour have I to ask."

"Name it," answered the Italian.

"Give me one of your pistols."

"But, Miss Monroe--"

"Pray do not refuse me! I am not a coward; and I must inform you that I
learnt to fire a pistol at the theatre."

The Italian handed the young lady one of his loaded weapons.

She concealed it beneath the breast of her coat; and her heart
palpitated with pride and satisfaction.

Ellen and the Italian then quickened their pace, and proceeded rapidly
towards Globe Town.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER CV.

THE COMBAT.


In spite of the suspicions entertained by Mr. Monroe and Ellen
concerning the genuineness of the appointment for which Markham was
engaged, the young man was too devotedly attached to the memory of his
brother not to indulge in the most wild and sanguine hopes.

Thus, as he proceeded to the place of meeting near Twig Folly, he
communed with himself in the following manner:--

"If my brother be involved in pecuniary difficulties,--or if he have
committed any imprudence, from the results of which money may release
him,--how gladly will I dispose of the remainder of my small income--how
joyfully will I devote all I possess to aid him! And then, when I have
no other resources, I will open the mysterious document which Thomas
Armstrong placed in my hands ere he breathed his last; and I feel
convinced that I shall at least receive therefrom good advice--if not
pecuniary succour--to guide me in future. O Eugene! is it possible that
I am now about to meet you once more? On the 10th of July, 1831, did we
part on the summit of the hill which overlooks the mansion of our
ancestors. This is the 2d of January, 1840. Eight years and a half have
now elapsed since the day of our separation. Ah! I know the proud--the
haughty--the independent disposition of my brother! Were he
prosperous--were he successful in his pursuits, (be those pursuits what
they may,) he would not seek me now. He would wait until the
accomplishment of the twelve years: he would not seek me until the 10th
of July, 1843. _Then_ should we compare notes, and ascertain who was the
more prosperous! Yes--this would be my brother's mode of conduct. And
therefore he is unhappy--he is unfortunate, that he seeks me ere the
time be elapsed: he is perhaps poor--in want--who knows? Oh! how
sincerely I hope that this is no delusion; that my unfortunate star will
not pursue me even unto the point of so terrible a disappointment! No--I
feel that this is no deception--that Eugene indeed awaits me. Who could
wish to injure _me_? who would desire to take _my_ life? who could hope
to obtain a treasure by laying a plot to rob _me_? The idea is
preposterous! Yes--the appointment is a genuine one: I am about to meet
my brother Eugene!"

Such were the meditations of Richard Markham as he proceeded towards the
place of appointment. He was considerably before his time; for hope
cannot brook delay.

When he reached the banks of the canal, he was struck by the lonely and
deserted nature of the spot. The sward was damp and marshy with the late
heavy rains: the canal was swollen, and rolled, muddy and dark, between
its banks, the pale and sickly moon vainly wooing its bosom to respond
to the caresses of its beams by a reflective kiss.

The bank on which Markham now walked backwards and forwards, and which
constituted the verge of the region of Globe Town, was higher than the
opposite one; and the canal, swollen by the rains, had deluged many
parts of that latter shore.

In the place where Markham now found himself, several ditches and
sluices had been cut; and these, added to the uneven and swampy nature
of the soil, rendered his ramble in that quarter not only unpleasant,
but even dangerous.

Nevertheless, Markham continued to pace backwards and forwards on the
bank where he expected to meet one who was so dear to him.

He had been at his post about half an hour when footsteps suddenly fell
upon his ears.

He stopped, and listened.

The steps approached; and in a few moments he beheld, through the
obscurity of the night, a person advancing towards him.

"True to your appointment, sir," said the individual, when he came up to
the spot where Richard was standing.

"I told you that I should not fail," answered Markham, who had
immediately recognised the voice of the man that had borne him the
message making the present appointment. "But what of my brother? will he
come? is he near? Speak!"

"He will be here in a few moments," said the man, who, as our readers
well know, was none other than the Buffer.

"Are you sure?" demanded Markham. "Why has he sent you first? could he
suspect treachery from his own brother?"

"Not a bit of it," replied the Buffer. "Only--but here he comes, sure
enow."

Approaching footsteps were heard; and in a minute or two another form
emerged from the gloom of night.

Markham's heart palpitated violently.

"Here is your brother, sir," said the Buffer.

"Eugene--dear Eugene!" cried Richard, springing forward to catch his
brother in his arms.

"Brother indeed!" muttered the ominous voice of the Resurrection Man;
and at the same moment Richard was pinioned from behind by the Buffer,
who skilfully wove a cord around his arms, and fastened his elbows
together.

"Villains!" ejaculated Richard, struggling with all his might--but
vainly, for the Resurrection Man, whose voice he had immediately
recognised but too well, threw him violently upon the damp sod.

"Now, my lad," cried the Resurrection Man, "your fate is decided. In a
few minutes you'll be at the bottom of the canal, and then--"

He said no more--for at that moment another person appeared upon the
scene; and, quick as thought, the Resurrection Man was felled by the
butt end of a pistol.

But the instant the miscreant touched the ground, he caught a desperate
hold of the person who had so suddenly and unexpectedly appeared upon
the spot; and Filippo--for it was he--also rolled on the damp sward.

The Resurrection Man leapt upon him, and caught hold of his throat with
such savage violence, that the Italian would have been suffocated in a
few moments, had not the flash of a pistol close by the head of the
Resurrection Man turned the fortune of the combat.

The pistol so aimed only flashed in the pan; but the sudden glare singed
the Resurrection Man's hair, and caused him to abandon his victim and
spring upon his feet with an alacrity that resembled a galvanic effect.

The Buffer, alarmed by the first attack on the part of Filippo, had
relinquished his hold of the rope that confined Richard's arms; and
Markham, encouraged by this sudden and unexpected assistance, disengaged
himself from the coil with the rapidity of lightning. He then sprang
upon the Buffer, hurled him to the ground, and, placing his knee upon
the ruffian's chest, kept him fast in that prostrate condition on the
very verge of the canal.

The Resurrection Man, with eagle glance, beheld the situation of
affairs. He saw his confederate powerless, and desperate odds leagued
against himself--for, in the darkness of the night, he could not observe
that one of his opponents was a female in disguise.

The moment that he sprang from the ground, in consequence of the flash
of the pistol close by his ear, he cast this comprehensive look over the
field of action.

There was no time for hesitation.

Pushing Ellen violently aside, and dashing Filippo furiously back again
upon the ground from which he was rising, the Resurrection Man darted
upon Richard Markham.

In another moment there was a splash of water: a cry of horror issued
from the lips of Ellen; the Resurrection Man shouted "Run! run!"--but
neither the young lady nor Filippo thought of interrupting the flight of
the miscreants.

"The villains!--they have drowned him!" exclaimed Filippo; and, without
an instant's hesitation, he plunged into the canal.

"Brave man!" cried Ellen. "Save him--oh! save him!"

As she uttered these words, she stumbled over the coil of rope which had
been used to confine Markham's hands, and which the miscreants had left
behind them.

Instantly twining one end round her delicate wrist, she cast the other
into the canal; and creeping so far down the bank as nearly to touch the
water, she exclaimed, "Here is a rope, Filippo: Richard, try and catch
the rope. Speak, Filippo--can you save him? If not, I will myself plunge
into the stream--and--"

"He is lost--he is gone!" said Filippo, who was swimming about on the
surface of the water as skilfully as if it were his native element.

"Oh, God! do not say that! do not--"

"I see him--I see him, Miss--yonder--down the stream--struggling
desperately--"

At that moment a faint cry for help echoed over the bosom of the canal.

Ellen scrambled up the bank, and darted along the margin with the speed
of the fawn, dragging the long coil of rope after her.

In a few moments she beheld a black object appear on the surface of the
water--then disappear again in an instant.

But Filippo had already gained that part of the stream; and Ellen
directed him with her voice to the spot where the object had sunk.

The brave Italian, though well-nigh exhausted, dived fearlessly; and to
the infinite joy of Ellen, re-appeared upon the surface, exclaiming, "He
is saved--he is saved!"

Supporting Markham's head above the water, Filippo swam to the bank;
and, aided by Ellen and the rope, succeeded in landing his burden as
well as himself.

Markham was insensible; but Filippo placed his hand upon the young man's
breast, and said, "He lives!"

"Heaven be thanked!" ejaculated Ellen, solemnly.

She then chafed his temples; while the Italian rubbed the palms of his
hands.

In a few minutes Richard moaned.

The attentions of those who hung over him were redoubled; and Filippo
was about to propose to convey him to the nearest dwelling, when he
gasped violently, and murmured, "Where am I?"

"Saved!" answered Ellen. "None but friends are near you."

A quarter of an hour had not elapsed from the moment that he was rescued
from the water, when he was so far recovered as to sit up on the bank;
and all fears on the part of Ellen relative to his complete
resuscitation had vanished.

"Ellen--is that you? can this be you? was it your voice that I heard?"
he said, in a faint tone: "or is it a vision?"

"It is no vision, Richard--it is indeed Ellen, who owes you so much, and
who has been the humble instrument--aided by this brave man--of saving
your life."

"And who is this brave man?" asked Markham. "Tell me his name, that I
may pour forth my gratitude to him, as well as to you, kind Ellen--my
sister!"

"His sister!" murmured Ellen; while an emotion, like an electric shock,
agitated her to the very heart's core.

But those words--"his sister!"--were not heard by either Markham or
Filippo.

"Do not fatigue yourself by speaking now," said Ellen, after a moment's
pause. "Suffice it for the present to tell you that I was afraid of
treachery towards you--I had my misgivings--a presentiment of evil
haunted me! I owed you so much, that I was determined to watch over your
safety--weak and powerless as I am. Hence this strange attire.
Fortunately I met this brave man--a total stranger to me--near the spot;
and, when I communicated my object to him, he generously offered to bear
me company."

"Excellent girl!--generous stranger!" cried Richard; "I owe you my life.
Oh! how can I ever express my gratitude?"

"We must not speak on that subject now, sir," said Filippo. "The chief
point to be considered is how to get you home."

"And he lives so far from here, too," hastily exclaimed Ellen, laying
her hand at the same time, but unseen by Markham, on Filippo's arm.

The Italian took the hint, which was to remind him that he must not seem
to know the place of residence, or indeed any other particular
concerning the affairs, of Richard Markham.

"Oh! this bitter disappointment--this vile treachery!" cried the young
man, whose thoughts were now reflected back to the cause of the perils
from which he had just escaped.

"Compose yourself," said Ellen, with peculiar and touching kindness of
manner: "compose yourself, Richard; and do not excite yourself by
unpleasant reflections. Let us rather think how we are to convey you
home. There is no vehicle to be obtained in this neighbourhood."

"I feel myself able to walk," said Markham,--"at least as far as the
nearest place where we can procure conveyance."

"Wrap yourself up in my cloak," cried Filippo. "It is close at hand--I
took it off and concealed it under yonder tree, before the conflict
began."

Filippo hastened to fetch the cloak, in which Markham enveloped himself.

Then, leaning on the arms of those to whom he was indebted for his
rescue from the murderous designs of his enemies, he walked slowly away
from the spot where he had hoped to meet a brother, but where he had
encountered fiends in human shape.

In this manner they traversed Globe Town, and reached Bethnal Green New
Church. In that neighbourhood they procured a cab, into which Markham
and Ellen stepped.

"I shall now take leave of you, sir," said Filippo; "and I most
sincerely hope that you will soon recover from the effects of this
night's maltreatment."

"Generous man!" cried Markham, "tell me your name that I may--"

But Filippo had already disappeared.

"How strange!" said Markham. "That noble-hearted foreigner makes light
of his own good deeds. He has left me no opportunity of expressing my
gratitude more fully than by mere words."

"He is evidently a man of lofty feelings and generous disposition,"
observed Ellen calmly. "It was fortunate that I happened to encounter
him in that lonely spot."

She then informed the driver whither he was to proceed; and the vehicle
rolled quickly away.




CHAPTER CVI.

THE GRAVE-DIGGER.


Three days after the events related in the preceding chapter,--and at
that hour in the cold wintry morning when the dawn breaks in fitful
gleams through a dense atmosphere of a dark neutral dye,--a
labouring-man, with a shovel and pickaxe upon his shoulder, entered one
of the cemeteries in the immediate vicinity of Globe Lane.

This cemetery was only partly enclosed by houses; on the remaining sides
there was a low wall.

The soil was damp; and a nauseous odour, emanating from it, impregnated
the air. When the sun lay for several days upon the place, even in the
depth of winter,--and invariably throughout the summer,--the stench was
so intolerable that not a dwelling in the neighbourhood was seen with a
window open. Nevertheless, that sickly, fetid odour penetrated into
every house, and every room, and every inhabited nook or corner, in that
vicinity; and the clothes of the poor inmates smelt, and their food
tasted, of the damp grave!

The cemetery was crowded with the remains of mortality. The proprietors
of the ground had only one aim in view--namely, to crowd the greatest
possible quantity of corpses into the smallest space. But even this
economy of room did not prevent the place from being so filled with the
dead, that in a given quantity of the soil it was difficult to say
whether earth or decayed human remains predominated. Still the cemetery
was kept open for interments; and when there was no room for a
new-comer, some recently-buried tenant of a grave was exhumed to afford
the required space.

In one part of the ground was a rude brick-building, denominated a
Bone-House. This hovel was provided with a large fire-place; and seldom
did a day pass without smoke being seen to issue from the chimney. On
those occasions,--when the furnace was lighted,--the stench from the
cemetery was always more powerful than at other times.

Some of the poor inhabitants of the adjoining houses had remonstrated
with the parochial authorities on the subject of this nuisance being
tolerated; but the only reply the applicants could obtain was, "Well,
prefer an indictment at the sessions, if you don't like it!"

The idea of men in the receipt of eight or ten shillings a week
preferring an indictment! Such a process is only accessible to those
possessed of ample means; for the legislature has purposely rendered
law,--that is, the power of obtaining justice, enforcing rights, or
suppressing nuisances,--a luxury attainable only by money. The poor,
indeed! who ever thought of legislating for the poor? Legislate
_against_ them, and it is all well and good: heap statute upon
statute--pile act upon act--accumulate measure upon measure--encumber
the most simple forms with the most intricate technicalities--diversify
readings and expand in verbiage until the sense becomes
unintelligible--convert the whole legal scheme into a cunning web, so
that the poor man cannot walk three steps without entangling his foot in
one of those meshes of whose very existence he was previously unaware,
and whose nature he cannot comprehend even when involved therein;--do
all this, and you are a wise and sound statesman; for this is
legislating _against_ the poor--and who, we repeat, would ever think of
legislating _for_ them?

But to continue.

The grave-digger entered the cemetery, and cast a glance around him.

That glance well expressed the man's thoughts; for he mentally asked
himself, "Whose grave must I disturb now to make room for the new one?"

At length he advanced towards a particular spot, considered it for a
moment, and then struck his spade into the soil, as much as to say,
"This will do."

The place where he had now halted was only a few yards from the
Bone-House. Taking a key from his pocket, he proceeded to unlock the
door of that building.

Entering the Bone-House he took from amongst a quantity of implements in
one corner, a long flexible iron rod similar to those which we have
already described as being used by the body-snatchers.

Returning to the grave, he thrust the rod into the ground. It met with a
little resistance from some substance a little harder than the soil; but
the man pushed it downwards with a strong arm; and it sank at least
twelve feet into the ground.

Satisfied with this essay of the nature of the spot, the grave-digger
drew back the rod; and from the deep but narrow aperture thus formed,
issued a stench more pestiferous than that which ever came from the
lowest knacker's yard.

The man retreated rapidly to the Bone-House; that odour was too powerful
even for one who had passed the greater portion of his life in that very
grave-yard.

He now proceeded to light a fire in the Bone-House; and when he saw the
huge logs which he heaped on the grate, blazing brightly, he covered
them with coke. The current of air from the open door fanned the flames,
which roared up the chimney; and the grave-digger felt invigorated and
cheered by the genial warmth that issued from the ample grate.

After lingering for a few minutes in the Bone-House, the grave-digger
returned to the spot which he had previously marked for excavation.

Baring his brawny arms to the very shoulders, he now set himself
vigorously to work to dig the grave which was to receive a new-comer
that afternoon.

Throwing the earth up on either side, he had digged to a depth of about
two feet, when his spade encountered a coffin. He immediately took his
pickaxe, broke the coffin to pieces, and then separated with his shovel
the pieces of wood and the human bones from the damp earth. The coffin
was already so soft with decay that the iron rod had penetrated through
it without much difficulty; and it therefore required but little
exertion to break it up altogether.

But the odour which came from the grave was now of the most nauseating
kind--fetid, sickly, pestiferous--making the atmosphere heavy, and the
human breath thick and clammy, as it were--and causing even that
experienced grave-digger to retch as if he were about to vomit.

Leaping from the grave, he began to busy himself in conveying the pieces
of the broken coffin and the putrid remains of mortality into the
Bone-House, where he heaped them pell-mell upon the fire.

The flesh had not completely decayed all away from the bones; a thick,
black, fatty-looking substance still covered those human relics; and the
fire was thus fed with a material which made the flames roar and play
half up the chimney.

And from the summit of that chimney came a smoke--thick, dense, and
dark, like the smoke of a gasometer or a manufactory, but bearing on its
sable wing the odour of a pestilence.

The man returned to the grave, and was about to resume his labour, when
his eyes caught sight of a black object, almost embedded in the damp
clay heaped up by the side. He turned it over with his spade: it was the
upper part of the skull, with the long, dark hair of a woman still
remaining attached to it. The grave-digger coolly took up the relic by
that long hair which perhaps had once been a valued ornament; and,
carrying it in this manner into the Bone-House, threw it upon the fire.
The hair hissed for a moment as it burnt, for it was damp and clogged
with clay; then the voracious flames licked up the thin coat of
blackened flesh which had still remained on the skull; and lastly
devoured the bone itself.

The grave-digger returned to his toils; and at a depth of scarcely one
foot below the coffin thus exhumed and burnt, his shovel was again
impeded for a moment--and by another coffin!

Once more was the pickaxe put into requisition: a second coffin was
broken up; another decomposing, but not entirely decomposed, corpse was
hacked, and hewed, and rent to pieces by the merciless implement which
was wielded by a merciless arm;--and in a few moments, the fire in the
Bone-House burnt cheerfully once more, the mouth of the chimney vomiting
forth its dense and pest-bearing breath, the volume of which was from
time to time lighted with sparks and flakes of fire.

Thus was it that this grave-digger disposed of the old tenants of the
cemetery in order to make room for new ones.

And then fond, surviving relations and friends speak of the _last home_
and the _quiet resting-place_ of the deceased: they talk with
affectionate reverence of those who _sleep in the grave_, and they grow
pathetic in their eulogies of the _tranquil slumber of the tomb_!

Poor deluded creatures! While they are thus engaged in innocent
discourse,--a discourse that affords them solace when they ponder upon
the loss which they have sustained,--the _last home_ is invaded--the
_quiet resting-place_ is rudely awakened with sacrilegious echoes--the
_sleep of the grave_ is disturbed by the thunder of a pickaxe--and the
corpse is snatched from the _tranquil slumber of the tomb_ to be cast
into the all-devouring furnace of the Bone-House.

The grave-digger proceeded in his task; and a third coffin was speedily
encountered. Each successive one was more decayed than that which had
preceded it; and thus the labour of breaking them up diminished in
severity.

But the destination of one and all was the same--the fire of the
Bone-House.

No wonder that the cemetery continued to receive so many fresh tenants,
although the neighbours knew that it must be full:--no wonder that the
stench was always more pestiferous when the furnace of the Bone-House
was lighted!

And that man--that grave-digger performed his task--his odious
task--without compunction, and without remorse: he was fulfilling the
commands of his employers--his employers were his superiors--and "surely
his superiors must know what was right and what was wrong!"

And so the grave-digger worked and toiled--and the fire in the
Bone-House burnt cheerfully--and the dark, thick smoke was borne over
the whole neighbourhood, like a plague-cloud.

Two hours had passed away since the man had commenced his work; and he
now felt hungry.

Retiring to the Bone-House, he took a coffee-pot from the shelf, and
proceeded to make some coffee, the material for which was in a cupboard
in a corner of the building. Water he took from a large pitcher, also
kept in that foul place; and bread he had brought with him in his
pockets.

He drew a stool close to the fire; and, when the coffee boiled,
commenced his meal.

The liquid cheered and refreshed him; but he never once recollected that
it had been heated by flames fed with human flesh and bones!

While he was thus occupied, he heard footsteps approaching the
Bone-House; and in a few moments Mr. Banks, the undertaker, appeared
upon the threshold.

"Mornin', sir," said the grave-digger. "Come to have a look at the size
of the grave, s'pose? You've no call to be afeard; I'll be bound to make
it big enow."

"I hope it won't be a very deep one, Jones," returned the undertaker.
"Somehow or another the friends of the blessed defunct are awerse to a
deep grave."

"My orders is to dig down sixteen feet and shore up the sides as I
deepens," said Jones. "Don't you see that I shall throw the earth on
wery light, so that it won't take scarcely no trouble to shovel it out
agin; 'cos the next seven as comes to this ground must all go into that
there grave."

"Sixteen feet!" ejaculated the undertaker, in dismay. "It will never do,
Jones. The friends of the dear deceased wouldn't sleep quiet in their
beds if they thought he had to sleep so deep in his'n. It won't do,
Jones--it won't do."

"My orders is sich from the proprietors, sir," answered the
grave-digger, munching and drinking at intervals with considerable
calmness.

"Now I tell you what it is, Jones," continued the undertaker, after a
moment's pause, "not another grave will I ever order in this ground, and
not another carkiss that I undertake shall come here, unless you choose
to comply with my wishes concerning this blessed old defunct."

"Well, Mr. Banks, there isn't a gen'leman wot undertakes in all Globe
Town, or from Bonner's Fields down to Mile End Gate, that I'd sooner
obleege than yourself," said Jones, the grave-digger; "but if so be I
transgresses my orders--"

"Who will know it?" interrupted Banks. "You have whole and sole charge
of the ground; and it can't be often that the proprietors come to
trouble you."

"Well, sir, there is summut in that--"

"And then, instead of five shillings for yourself, I should not hesitate
to make it ten--"

"That's business, Mr. Banks. How deep must the grave be?"

"How deep is it already?"

"A matter of nine feet, sir," said Jones.

"Then not another hinch must you move," cried the undertaker,
emphatically; "and here's the ten bob as an earnest."

Mr. Banks accordingly counted ten shillings into the hands of the
grave-digger.

"When's the funeral a-coming, sir?" asked Jones, after a pause.

"At two precisely," replied Mr. Banks.

"Rale parson, or von of your men as usual?" continued the grave-digger,
inquiringly.

"Oh, a friend of mine--a wery pious, savoury, soul-loving wessel,
Jones--a man that it'll do your heart good to hear. But, I say, Jones,"
added the undertaker, "you're getting uncommon full here."

"Yes, full enow, sir; but I makes room."

"I see you do," said Banks, glancing towards the fire: "what a offensive
smell it makes."

"And would you believe that I can scarcely support it myself sometimes,
Mr. Banks?" returned Jones. "But, arter all, our ground isn't so bad as
some others in London."

"I know it isn't," observed the undertaker.

"Now ain't it a odd thing, sir," continued the grave-digger, "that
persons which dwells up in decent neighbourhoods like, and seems
exceedin' proud of their fine houses and handsome shops, shouldn't
notice the foul air that comes from places only hid by a low wail or a
thin paling?"

"It is indeed odd enough," said Mr. Banks.

"Well, I knows the diggers in some o' the yards more west," continued
Jones, "and I've heerd from them over and over agin that they pursues
just the wery same course as we does here--has a Bone-House or some such
conwenient place, and burns the coffins and bones that is turned up."

"I suppose it is necessary, Jones?" observed Mr. Banks.

"Necessary, sir? in course it be," exclaimed the grave-digger. "On'y
fancy wot a lot of burials takes place every year in London; and room
must be made for 'em somehow or other."

"Ah! I know something about that," said the undertaker. "Calkilations
have been made which proves that the average life of us poor weak human
creeturs is thirty-five years; so, if London contains a million and a
half of people, a million and a half of persons dies, and is buried in
the course of every thirty-five years. Isn't that a fine thing for them
that's in the undertaking line? 'cause it's quite clear that there's a
million and a half of funerals in every thirty-five years in this
blessed city."

"And a million and a half of graves or waults rekvired," said Jones.
"Well, then, who the deuce can blame us for burning up the old 'uns to
make room for the new 'uns?"

"Who, indeed?" echoed Mr. Banks. "T'other day I had an undertaking,
which was buried in Enon Chapel, Saint Clement's Lane,--down there by
Lincoln's Inn, you know. The chapel's surrounded by houses, all okkipied
by poor people, and the stench is horrid. The fact is, that the chapel's
divided into two storeys: the upper one is the preaching place; and the
underneath one is the burial place. There's only a common boarded floor
to separate 'em. You go down by a trap-door in the floor; and pits is
dug below for the coffins. Why, at one end the place is so full, that
the coffins is piled up till they touch the ceiling--that is, the floor
of the chapel itself, and there's only a few inches of earth over 'em.
The common sewer runs through the place; so, what with that and the
coffins and carkisses, it's a nice hole."

"Wuss than this?" said Jones.

"Of course it is," returned Banks; "'cause at all ewents this _is_ out
in the open air, while t'other's shut up and close. But I'll tell you
what it is, Jones," continued the undertaker, sinking his voice as if he
were afraid of being overheard by a stranger, "the people that lives in
that densely-populated quarter about Saint Clement's Lane, exists in the
midst of a pestilence. Why they breathe nothing but the putrid stench of
the Enon burial-place, the Green Ground in Portugal Street, and the
Alms-House burying ground down at the bottom of the Lane."

"All that'll breed a plague von o' these days in the werry middle of
London," observed Jones.

"Not a doubt of it," said the undertaker. "But I haven't done yet all I
had to say about that quarter. Wery soon after a burial takes place at
Enon Chapel, a queer-looking, long, narrow, black fly crawls out of the
coffin. It is a production of the putrefaction of the dead body. But
what do you think? Next season this fly is succeeded by another kind of
insect just like the common bug, and with wings. The children that go to
Sunday-school at the Chapel calls 'em '_body bugs_.' Them insects is
seen all through the summer flying or crawling about the Chapel. All the
houses that overlooks the Chapel is infested with rats; and if a poor
creetur only hangs a bit of meat out of his window in the summer time,
in a few hours it grows putrid."

"Well, Mr. Banks, sir," said Jones, after reflecting profoundly for some
moments, "it's wery lucky that you ain't one o' them chaps which writes
books and nonsense."

"Why so, Jones?"

"'Cos if you was to print all that you've been tellin' me, you'd make
the fortunes of them new cemetries that's opened all round London, and
the consekvence would be that the grounds _in_ London would have to shut
up shop."

"Very true, Jones. But what I'm saying to you now is only in confidence,
and by way of chat. Why, do you know that the people round about the
burying grounds in London--this one as well as any other--have seen the
walls of their rooms covered at times with a sort of thick fatty fluid,
which produces a smell that's quite horrid! Look at that burying place
in Drury Lane. It's so full of blessed carkisses, that the ground is
level with the first-floor windows of the houses round it."

"Well, it's a happy thing to know that the world don't trouble
themselves with these here matters," said Jones. "Thank God! in my
ground I clears and clears away, coffins and bodies both alike, as quick
as I turns 'em up. Lord! what a sight of coffin nails I sells every
month to the marine-store dealers; and yet people passes by them shops
and sees second-hand coffin furniture put out for sale, never thinks of
how it got there, and where it come from."

"Of course they don't," cried Banks. "What the devil do you think would
become of a many trades if people always wondered, and wondered how they
supported theirselves?"

"You speaks like a book, Mr. Banks, sir," said Jones. "Arter all, I've
often thought wot a fool I am not to sell the coffin-wood for fuel, as
most other grave-diggers does in grounds that's obleeged to be cleared
of the old 'uns to make room for the new 'uns. But, I say, Mr. Banks,
sir, I've often been going to ask you a question about summut, and I've
_always_ forgot it; but talkin' of these things puts me in mind of it.
What's the reason, sir, that gen'lemen in the undertaking line wery
often bores holes right through the coffins?"

"That's what we call '_tapping the coffin_,' Jones," answered Mr. Banks;
"and we do it whenever a body's going to remain at home two or three
days with the coffin-lid screwed down, before the funeral takes place.
Poor people generally buries on Sunday: well, p'raps the coffin's took
home on Wednesday or Thursday, and then the body's put in and the lid's
screwed tight down at once to save trouble when Sunday comes. Then we
tap the coffin to let out the gas; cause there _is_ a gas formed by the
decomposition of dead bodies."[81]

"Well, all that's a cut above me," said Jones. "And now I must get back
to work--"

"Not at _that_ grave, mind," interrupted the undertaker. "It musn't be
another hinch deeper."

"Not a bit, sir--I ain't a goin' to touch it: but I've got another place
to open; so here goes."

With these words the grave-digger rose from his seat, and walked slowly
out of the Bone-House.

"At two o'clock, Jones, I shall be here with the funeral," said Mr.
Banks.

"Wery good, sir," returned Jones.

The undertaker then left the burial-ground; and the grave-digger
proceeded to open another pit.




CHAPTER CVII.

A DISCOVERY.


At two o'clock precisely the funeral entered the cemetery.

Four villanous-looking fellows supported a common coffin, over which
was thrown a scanty pall, full of holes, and so ragged at the edges that
it seemed as if it were embellished with a fringe.

Mr. Banks, with a countenance expressing only a moderate degree of
grief, attended as a mourner, accompanied by the surgeon and the Buffer.
The truth is that Mr. Banks had a graduated scale of funeral expressions
of countenance. When he was uncommonly well paid, his physiognomy
denoted a grief more poignant than that of even the nearest relatives of
the deceased: when he was indifferently paid, as he considered himself
to be in the present case, he could not afford tears, although he was
not so economical as to dispense with a white pocket-handkerchief.

In front of the procession walked the Resurrection Man, clad in a
surplice of dingy hue, and holding an enormous prayer-book in his hand.
This miscreant performed one of the most holy--one of the most sacred of
religious rites!

Start not, gentle reader! This is no exaggeration--no extravagance on
our part. In all the poor districts in London, the undertakers have
their own men to solemnise the burial rites of those who die in poverty,
or who have no friends to superintend their passage to the grave.

The Resurrection Man,--a villain stained with every crime--a murderer of
the blackest dye--a wretch whose chief pursuit was the violation of the
tomb,--the Resurrection Man read the funeral service over _the unknown_
who was now consigned to the grave.

The ceremony ended; and Jones hastened to throw the earth back again
into the grave.

The surgeon exchanged a few words with the Resurrection Man, and then
departed towards his home.

Mr. Banks and the Buffer accompanied the Resurrection Man to his own
abode, where they found a copious repast ready to be served up to them
by the Rattlesnake. The Buffer's wife was also there; and the party sat
down with a determination to enjoy themselves.

To accomplish this most desirable aim there were ample means. A huge
round of beef smoked upon the board, flanked with sundry pots of porter;
and on a side-table stood divers bottles of "Booth's best."

"Well," said Mr. Banks, "the worst part now is over. We have got the
body under ground--"

"And we must soon get it up again," added the Resurrection Man drily.
"You are sure the old woman put the money in the coffin?"

"I see her do it," answered the undertaker. "She wrapped it up in a old
stocking which belonged to the blessed defunct--"

"Blessed defunct indeed!" said the Rattlesnake, with a coarse laugh.

"You see, ma'am, I can't divest myself of my professional lingo,"
observed Mr. Banks. "It comes natural to me now. But as I was a saying,
I see the old woman wrap the thirty-one quids up in the toe of a
stocking, and put it on his breast--"

"On the shroud, or underneath?" demanded the Resurrection Man eagerly.

"Underneath," replied Banks: "I took good care of that. I knowed very
well that you'd want to draw the body up by the head, and that the money
must be so placed as to come along with it."

"Of course," said the Buffer; "or else we should have to dig out all the
earth, and break open the lid of the coffin; and that takes twice as
long as to do the job t' other way."

"At what time is the sawbones coming down to the grave-yard?" asked
Banks.

"He isn't coming at all," returned the Resurrection Man: "but I promised
that we would be at his place at half-past one o'clock to-night."

"Too early!" exclaimed the Buffer. "We can't think of beginning work
'afore twelve. The place ain't quiet till then."

"Well, and an hour will do the business," said the Resurrection Man.
"Besides, the saw-bones will set up for us. Now then, Meg, clear away,
and let's have the blue ruin and hot water. I must just write a short
note to a gentleman with whom I have a little business of a private
nature; and you can run and take it to the post presently."

The Resurrection Man seated himself at a little side-table, and penned a
hasty letter, which he folded, sealed, and addressed to "ARTHUR
CHICHESTER, ESQ., _Cambridge Heath, near Hackney_."

Margaret Flathers took it to the post-office, which was in the immediate
neighbourhood.

On her return, the Resurrection Man said, "Now you and Moll try your
hands at some punch,--and make it pretty stiff too--just as you like it
yourselves."

This command was obeyed; and the three men betook themselves to their
pipes, while the women set to work to brew a mighty jorum of gin-punch
in an earthenware pitcher that held about a gallon and a half. The
potent beverage was speedily served up; and the conversation grew
animated. Even the moroseness of the Resurrection Man partially gave way
before the exhilarating fluid; and he narrated a variety of incidents
connected with the pursuits of his criminal career.

Then the women sang songs, and Mr. Banks told a number of anecdotes
showing how he was enabled to undertake funerals at a cheaper rate than
many of his competitors, because he had always taken care to league
himself with body-snatchers, to whom he gave information of a nature
serviceable to them, and for which they were well contented to pay a
handsome price. Thus, whenever he was intrusted with the interment of a
corpse which he fancied would make a "good subject," he communicated
with his friends the resurrectionists, and in a night or two the body
was exhumed for the benefit of some enterprising surgeon.

In this manner the time slipped away;--hour after hour passed; supper
was served up; "another glass, and another pipe," was the order of the
evening; and although these three men sate drinking and smoking to an
immoderate degree, they rose from their chairs, at half-past eleven
o'clock, but little the worse for their debauch.

The Resurrection Man filled a flask with pure gin, and consigned it to
his pocket.

"We must now be off," he said. "You, Banks, can go home and get the cart
ready: the Buffer and me will go our way."

"At what time shall I come with the cart?" demanded the undertaker.

"At a quarter past one to a second--neither more nor less," answered
Tidkins.

Banks then took his departure.

"Are you going to stay here with Meg, or what?" asked the Buffer of his
wife.

"I shall go to bed," said the Rattlesnake hastily. "Tony can take the
key with him."

"Then I shall be off home," observed Moll. "Besides, Mrs. Smith may
think it odd if we both remain out so late."

The Buffer's wife accordingly took her leave.

"Now come, Jack," said the Resurrection Man. "We have no time to lose.
There's the tools to get out."

The two men descended the stairs, and issued from the house. They
hastened up the little alley: the Resurrection Man opened the door of
the ground-floor rooms; and they entered that part of the house
together.

"Bustle about," said Tidkins, when they found themselves in the front
room; and having lighted a candle, he hastily gathered together the
implements which they required.

Laden with the tools, the two men were about to leave the room, when the
Buffer suddenly exclaimed, "What the devil was that? I could have sworn
I heard some one moaning."

"Nonsense," said the Resurrection Man; but, as he spoke, he observed by
the glare of the candle, that the countenance of his companion had
suddenly become ashy pale.

"Well, I never was more deceived in my life," observed the Buffer.

"You certainly never was," answered the Resurrection Man: then, hastily
extinguishing the light, he pushed the Buffer into the alley, and locked
the door carefully behind himself.

The two body-snatchers then proceeded to the scene of their midnight
labour.

We must take leave of them for a short space, and follow the movements
of the Rattlesnake.

It was not without an object that this woman had got rid of the company
of the Buffer's wife, by declaring that she was about to retire to rest.

She permitted ten minutes to elapse after the Resurrection Man and his
companion had left the room; then, deeming that sufficient time had been
allowed for them to provide themselves with the implements necessary for
their night's work, she started from her chair, involuntarily exclaiming
aloud, "Now for the great secret!"

From an obscure corner of a shelf in the bed-room she drew forth a bunch
of skeleton keys, which she had procured on the preceding day.

She then provided herself with a dark-lantern, and descended to the
alley.

In five minutes she lighted upon a key, after many vain attempts with
the others, which turned in the lock. The door opened, and she entered
the ground floor.

Having closed the door, she immediately proceeded into the back room,
the appearance of which was the same as when she last visited it. The
mysterious cloak and mask were there; but in the cupboard, which was
before empty, were now a loaf and a bottle of water.

"Then there _is_ a human being concealed somewhere hereabouts!" she said
to herself: "or else why that food! And it must have been the supply of
bread and water that I saw _him_ put into his basket the other night."

She listened; but no sound fell upon her ear. Then she carefully
examined the room, to discover any trap-door or secret means of
communication with a dungeon or subterranean place. She knew, by the
situation of the house in respect to those on either side of it, that
there could be no inner room level with the ground-floor; she therefore
felt convinced that if there were any secret chamber or cell connected
with the premises, it must be underneath.

She scrutinized every inch of the floor, and could perceive no signs of
a trap-door. The boards were all firm and tight. She advanced towards
the chimney, which was divested of its grate; and suddenly she felt the
hearth-stone move with a slight oscillation beneath her feet.

Her countenance became animated with joy; she felt convinced that her
perseverance in examining that room was about to be rewarded.

She placed the lantern upon the floor, and endeavoured to raise the
stone; but it seemed fixed in its setting, although it trembled as she
touched it.

Still she was not disheartened. She scrutinized the boards in the
immediate vicinity of the stone; but her search was unavailing. No
evidence of a concealed lock--no trace of a secret spring met her eyes.
Yet she was confident that she was on the right scent. As she turned
herself round, while crawling upon her hands and knees the better to
pursue her examination, her rustling silk dress disturbed a portion of
the masonry in the chimney, where a grate had once been fixed.

A brick fell out.

The heart of the Rattlesnake now beat quickly.

She approached the lantern to the cavity left by the dislodged brick;
and at the bottom of the recess she espied a small iron ring.

She pulled it without hesitation; the ring yielded to her touch, and
drew out a thick wire to the distance of nearly a foot.

The Rattlesnake now tried once more to raise the stone, and succeeded.
The stone was fixed at one end with stout iron hinges to one of the
beams that supported the floor, and thus opened like a trap-door.

When raised, it disclosed a narrow flight of stone steps, at the bottom
of which the most perfect obscurity reigned.

The Rattlesnake now paused--in alarm.

She longed to penetrate into those mysterious depths--she panted to dive
into that subterranean darkness; but she was afraid.

All those terrible reminiscences which were associated with her
knowledge of the Resurrection Man, rushed to her mind; and she trembled
to descend into the vault at her feet, for fear she should never return.

These terrors were too much for her. She, moreover, recalled to mind
that nearly an hour had now elapsed since the Resurrection Man and the
Buffer had departed; and she knew not how speedily they might conclude
their task. Besides, some unforeseen accident or sudden interruption
might compel them to beat a retreat homewards; and she knew full well
that if she were discovered _there_, death would be her portion.

She accordingly determined to postpone any further examination into the
mysteries of that house until some further occasion.

Having closed the stone trap-door and replaced the brick in the wall of
the chimney, she hastened back to the upper floor, where she speedily
retired to bed.

We may as well observe that during the time she was in the lower room,
no sound of a human tongue met her ears.

But perhaps the victim slept!




CHAPTER CVIII.

THE EXHUMATION.


THE night was fine--frosty--and bright with the lustre of a lovely moon.

Even the chimneys and gables of the squalid houses of Globe Town
appeared to bathe their heads in that flood of silver light.

[Illustration]

The Resurrection Man and the Buffer pursued their way towards the
cemetery.

For some minutes they preserved a profound silence: at length the Buffer
exclaimed, "I only hope, Tony, that this business won't turn out as bad
as the job with young Markham three nights ago."

"Why should it?" demanded the Resurrection Man, in a gruff tone.

"Well, I don't know why," answered the Buffer. "P'rhaps, after all, it
was just as well that feller escaped as he did. We might have swung for
it."

"Escape!" muttered the Resurrection Man, grinding his teeth savagely.
"Yes--he did escape _then_; but I haven't done with him yet. He shall
not get off so easy another time."

"I wonder who those chaps was that come up so sudden?" observed the
Buffer, after a pause.

"Friends of his, no doubt," answered Tidkins. "Most likely he suspected
a trap, or thought he would be on the right side. But the night was so
plaguy dark, and the whole thing was so sudden, it was impossible to
form an idea of who the two strangers might be."

"One on 'em was precious strong, I know," said the Buffer. "But, for my
part, I think you'd better leave the young feller alone in future. It's
no good standing the chance of getting scragged for mere wengeance. I
can't understand that sort of thing. If you like to crack his crib for
him and hive the swag, I'm your man; but I'll have no more of a business
that's all danger and no profit."

"Well, well, as you like," said the Resurrection Man, impatiently. "Here
we are; so look alive."

They were now under the wall of the cemetery.

The Buffer clambered to the top of the wall, which was not very high;
and the Resurrection Man handed him the implements and tools, which he
dropped cautiously upon the ground inside the enclosure.

He then helped his companion upon the wall; and in another moment they
stood together within the cemetery.

"Are you sure you can find the way to the right grave?" demanded the
Buffer in a whisper.

"Don't be afraid," was the reply: "I could go straight up to it
blindfold."

They then shouldered their implements, and the Resurrection Man led the
way to the spot where Mrs. Smith's anonymous lodger had been buried.

"I'm afeard the ground's precious hard," observed the Buffer, when he
and his companion had satisfied themselves by a cautious glance around
that no one was watching their movements.

The eyes of these men had become so habituated to the obscurity of
night, in consequence of the frequency with which they pursued their
avocations during the darkness which cradled others to rest, that they
were possessed of the visual acuteness generally ascribed to the cat.

"We'll soon turn it up, let it be as hard as it will," said the
Resurrection Man, in answer to his comrade's remark.

Then, suiting the action to the word, he began his operations in the
following manner.

He measured a distance of five paces from the head of the grave. At the
point thus marked he took a long iron rod and drove it in an oblique
direction through the ground towards one end of the coffin. So accurate
were his calculations relative to the precise spot in which the coffin
was embedded in the earth, that the iron rod struck against it the very
first time he thus sounded the soil.

"All right," he whispered to the Buffer.

He then took a spade and began to break up the earth just at that spot
where the end of the iron rod peeped out of the ground.

"Not so hard as you thought," he observed. "The fact is, the whole
burial-place is so mixed up with human remains, that the clay is too
greasy to freeze very easy."

"I s'pose that's it," said the Buffer.

The Resurrection Man worked for about ten minutes with a skill and an
effect that would have astonished even Jones the grave-digger himself,
had he been there to see. He then resigned the spade to the Buffer, who
took his turn with equal ardour and ability.

When _his_ ten minutes elapsed, the resurrectionists regaled themselves
each with a dram from Tidkins' flask; and this individual then applied
himself once more to the work in hand. When he was wearied, the Buffer
relieved him; and thus did they fairly divide the toil until the
excavation of the ground was completed.

This portion of the task was finished in about forty minutes. An oblique
channel, about ten feet long, and three feet square at the mouth, and
decreasing only in length, as it verged towards the head of the coffin
at the bottom, was now formed.

The Resurrection Man provided himself with a stout chisel, the handle of
which was covered with leather, and with a mallet, the ends of which
were also protected with pieces of the same material. Thus the former
instrument when struck by the latter emitted but little noise.

He then descended into the channel which terminated at the very head of
the coffin.

Breaking away the soil that lay upon that end of the coffin, he inserted
the chisel into the joints of the wood, and in a very few moments
knocked off the board that closed the coffin at that extremity.

The wood-work of the head of the shell was also removed with ease--for
Banks had purposely nailed those parts of the two cases very slightly
together.

The Resurrection Man next handed up the tools to his companion, who
threw him down a strong cord.

The end of this rope was then fastened under the armpits of the corpse
as it lay in its coffin.

This being done, the Buffer helped the Resurrection Man out of the hole.

"So far, so good," said Tidkins: "it must be close upon one o'clock. We
have got a quarter of an hour left--and that's plenty of time to do all
that's yet to be done."

The two men then took the rope between them, and drew the corpse gently
out of its coffin--up the slope of the channel--and landed it safely on
the ground at a little distance from the mouth of the excavation.

The moon fell upon the pale features of the dead--those features which
were still as unchanged, save in colour, as if they had never come in
contact with a shroud--nor belonged to a body that had been swathed in a
winding-sheet!

The contrast formed by the white figure and the black soil on which it
was stretched, would have struck terror to the heart of any one save a
resurrectionist.

Indeed, the moment the corpse was thus dragged forth from its grave, the
Resurrection Man thrust his hand into its breast, and felt for the gold.

It was there--wrapped up as the undertaker had described.

"The blunt is all safe, Jack," said the Resurrection Man; and he secured
the coin about his person.

They then applied themselves vigorously to shovel back the earth; but,
when they had filled up the excavation, a considerable quantity of the
soil still remained to dispose of, it being impossible, in spite of
stamping down, to condense the earth into the same space from which it
was originally taken.

They therefore filled two sacks with the surplus soil, and proceeded to
empty them in different parts of the ground.

Their task was so far accomplished, when they heard the low rumble of
wheels in the lane outside the cemetery.

To bundle the corpse neck and heels into a sack, and gather up their
implements, was the work of only a few moments. They then conveyed their
burdens between them to the wall overlooking the lane, where the
well-known voice of Mr. Banks greeted their ears, as he stood upright in
his cart peering over the barrier into the cemetery.

"Got the blessed defunct?" said the undertaker, interrogatively.

"Right and tight," answered the Buffer; "and the tin too. Now, then,
look sharp--here's the tools."

"I've got 'em," returned Banks.

"Look out for the stiff 'un, then," added the Buffer; and, aided by the
Resurrection Man, he shoved the body up to the undertaker, who deposited
it in the bottom of his cart.

The Resurrection Man and the Buffer then mounted the wall, and got into
the vehicle, in which they laid themselves down, so that any person whom
they might meet in the streets through which they were to pass would
only see one individual in the cart--namely, the driver. Otherwise, the
appearance of three men at that time of night, or rather at that hour in
the morning, might have excited suspicion.

Banks lashed the sides of his horse; and the animal started off at a
round pace.

Not a word was spoken during the short drive to the surgeon's residence
in the Cambridge Road.

When they reached his house the road was quiet and deserted. A light
glimmered through the fan-light over the door; and the door itself was
opened the moment the cart stopped.

The Resurrection Man and the Buffer sprang up; and, seeing that the
coast was clear, bundled the corpse out of the vehicle in an instant;
then in less than half a minute the "blessed defunct," as the undertaker
called it, was safely lodged in the passage of the surgeon's house.

Mr. Banks, as soon as the body was removed from his vehicle, drove
rapidly away. His portion of the night's work was done; and he knew that
his accomplices would give him his "reg'lars" when they should meet
again.

The Resurrection Man and the Buffer conveyed the body into a species of
out-house, which the surgeon, who was passionately attached to
anatomical studies, devoted to purposes of dissection and physiological
experiment.

In the middle of this room, which was about ten feet long and six broad,
stood a strong deal table, forming a slightly inclined plane. The stone
pavement of the out-house was perforated with holes in the immediate
vicinity of the table, so that the fluid which poured from subjects for
dissection might escape into a drain communicating with the common
sewer. To the ceiling, immediately above the head of the table, was
attached a pulley with a strong cord, by means of which a body might be
supported in any position that was most convenient to the anatomist.

The Resurrection Man and his companion carried the corpse into this
dissecting-room, and placed it upon the table, the surgeon holding a
candle to light their movements.

"Now, Jack," said Tidkins to the Buffer, "do you take the stiff 'un out
of the sack, and lay him along decently on the table ready for business,
while I retire a moment to this gentleman's study and settle accounts
with him."

"Well and good," returned the Buffer. "I'll stay here till you come
back."

The surgeon lighted another candle, which he placed on the window-sill,
and then withdrew, accompanied by the Resurrection Man.

The Buffer shut the door of the dissecting-room, because the draught
caused the candle to flicker, and menaced the light with extinction. He
then proceeded to obey the directions which he had received from his
accomplice.

The Buffer removed the sack from the body, which he then stretched out
at length upon the inclined table, taking care to place its head on the
higher extremity and immediately beneath the pulley.

"There, old feller," he said, "you're comfortable, at any rate. What a
blessin' it would be to your friends, if they was ever to find out that
you'd been had up again, to know into what skilful hands you'd happened
to fall!"

Thus musing, the Buffer turned his back listlessly towards the corpse,
and leant against the table on which it was lying.

"Let me see," he said to himself, "there's thirty-one pounds that was
buried along with _him_, and then there's ten pounds that the sawbones
is a paying now to Tony for the _snatch_; that makes forty-one pounds,
and there's three to go shares. What does that make? Threes into four
goes once--threes into eleven goes three and two over--that's thirteen
pounds a-piece, and two pound to split--"

The Buffer started abruptly round, and became deadly pale. He thought he
heard a slight movement of the corpse, and his whole frame trembled.

Almost at the same moment some object was hurled violently against the
window; the glass was shivered to atoms; the candle was thrown down and
extinguished; and total darkness reigned in the dissecting-room.

"Holloa!" cried the Buffer, turning sick at heart; "what's that?"

Scarcely had these words escaped his lips when he felt his hand suddenly
grasped by the cold fingers of the corpse.

"O God!" cried the miscreant; and he fell insensible across the body on
the table.




CHAPTER CIX.

THE STOCK-BROKER.


Upon a glass-door, leading into offices on a ground floor in Tokenhouse
Yard, were the words "JAMES TOMLINSON, _Stock-broker_."

It was about eleven o'clock in the morning.

A clerk was busily employed in writing at a desk in the front office.
The walls of this room were covered with placards, bills, and
prospectuses, all announcing the most gigantic enterprises, and whose
principal features were large figures expressing millions of money.

These prospectuses were of various kinds. Some merely put forth schemes
by which enormous profits were to be realised, but which had not yet
arrived to that state of maturity (the point at which the popular
gullibility has been laid hold of,) when Directors, Secretaries, and
Treasurers can be announced in a flaming list. Others denoted that the
projectors had triumphed over the little difficulty of obtaining good
names to form a board; and the upper part of this class of prospectuses
was embellished with a perfect array of M.P.'s, Aldermen, and Esquires.

The prospectuses, one and all, set forth, with George-Robins-flourishes
and poetico-hyperbolical flowers of rhetoric, the unparalleled and
astounding advantages to be reaped from the enterprises respectfully
submitted to public consideration and to the monied world especially.
The face of the globe was a complete paradise according to those
announcements. The interior of Africa was represented to be a perfect
mine of gold by the projectors of a company to trade to those salubrious
parts; the cannibals of the South Sea Islands became intelligent and
interesting beings in the language of another association of
speculators; the majestic scenery of the North Pole and the phenomena of
the aurora borealis were held out by a colonising company as inducements
to families to emigrate to Spitzbergen; the originators of a scheme for
forming railways in Egypt expatiated upon the delights of travelling at
the rate of sixty miles an hour through a land famous for its
antiquarian remains, and along the banks of a river where the young
alligators might be seen disporting in the sun; and numerous other
prospectuses of majestic enterprises developed their original principles
and prospective benefits to the astounded reader.

One would have imagined that any individual with a five-pound note in
his pocket, had only just to step into Mr. Tomlinson's office, take five
shares in as many enterprises, pay one pound deposit upon each, and walk
out again a man of vast wealth.

Mr. Tomlinson himself was seated in a decently furnished room, which
constituted the "private office." He was looking well, but somewhat
careworn, and not quite so comfortable as a man who had passed through
the Bankruptcy Court, got his certificate, and was in business once
more, might be expected to look. In a word, he had a hard struggle to
make his way respectably, and was compelled to meddle in many things
that shocked his somewhat sensitive disposition.

A short, well-dressed, good-humoured man, with a small quick eye, was
sitting on one side of the fire, conversing with the stock-broker.

"Well, Mr. Tomlinson," he said, "on those conditions I will lend my name
to the Irish Railway Company proposed. But, remember, I require fifty
shares, and I am not to pay a farthing for them."

"Oh, of course," cried Tomlinson; "that is precisely the proposal I was
instructed to make to you. The fact is, between you and me, the
projectors are all men of straw--one came out of Whitecross Street
Prison a few weeks ago, and another has been a bankrupt twice and an
insolvent seven times; and so they must raise heaven and earth to get
good names."

"'Tis their only plan--their only plan," answered the gentleman; "and I
flatter myself," he added, drawing himself up, "that the countenance of
Mr. Sheriff Popkins is not to be sneezed at."

"On the contrary, my dear Mr. Popkins," said Tomlinson, "your name will
soon bring a host of others."

"I should think so, Mr. Tomlinson--I should think so," was the
self-sufficient reply.

"Well, then, Mr. Popkins, shall I make an appointment for you to meet
Messrs. Bubble and Chouse to-morrow morning at my office?"

"If you please, my dear sir. And now I wish you to do a little matter
for me. The fact is, I have been fool enough to take thirty shares in a
certain railway company, and I have been elected a director. The company
is in a most flourishing condition, and so I mean to make them purchase
my shares of me. You will accordingly have the kindness to let it be
known on 'Change that you have my shares to sell; but you must mind and
not part with them. The thing will get to the company's ears, and they
will be terribly alarmed at the prospect of the injury which may be done
to the enterprise by a director offering his shares for sale. They will
then send and negotiate with you privately, and you can make a good
bargain with them."

"I understand," said Tomlinson. "I shall only breathe a whisper about
the shares being offered for sale, in a quarter whence I know the rumour
will immediately fly to the Directors of the Company."

"Good," observed Mr. Sheriff Popkins. "Here is the scrip: you can tell
me what you have done when I call to-morrow morning to meet Messrs.
Bubble and Chouse."

The worthy sheriff then withdrew, and Mr. Alderman Sniff was announced.

"Mr. Tomlinson," said this gentleman, "I wish you to do your best for a
new Joint Stock-Company which I have just founded. This is the
prospectus."

The stock-broker glanced over it, and said, in a musing manner, "Ah!
very good indeed--excellent! '_British Marble Company._' Famous idea!
'_Capital Two Hundred Thousand Pounds in Ten Thousand Shares of Twenty
Pounds Each._' Good again. '_Deposit One Pound per Share._' That will
do. Then comes the Board of Directors--all good names. I see you have
made yourself Managing Director: well, that's quite fair! Then, again,
'_Auditor, Mr. Alderman Sniff_; _Treasurer, Mr. Alderman Sniff_;
_Secretary, Mr. Alderman Sniff._' But who sells the quarry to the
Company? Oh! I see, '_Mr. Alderman Sniff_.'"

"Well, what do you think of it?" demanded the alderman.

"You ask me candidly, my dear sir?"

"Certainly," replied the alderman.

"I think the plan is excellent. The only drawback to its success,
is--shall I speak openly?"

"I wish you to do so."

"Then I am of opinion that you have given yourself too many situations,"
continued Tomlinson. "In the first place you found the Company, and you
make yourself Managing Director. Well and good. But then you also sell
the quarry _to_ the Company. Now, as Managing Director, you have to
award _to_ yourself a sum for that quarry; as Treasurer you pay
yourself; as Secretary you draw up the agreements; and as Auditor you
confirm your own accounts!"

"Perfectly correct, Mr. Tomlinson. Is it not a rule that Joint-Stock
Companies are never to benefit any one save the founder?"

"Oh! no one denies _that_," answered the stock-broker. "What I am afraid
of is, that the public will not _bite_, when they see one man occupying
so many situations in the Company."

"Nonsense, my dear fellow! The name of an alderman will carry every
thing before it. Does not the world believe that the Aldermen of the
City of London are all as rich as Croesus?"

"Whereas, between you and me," returned Tomlinson with a sly laugh,
"there is scarcely one of them who has got a penny if his affairs came
to be wound up."

"And yet we live gloriously, ha! ha!" chuckled Mr. Alderman Sniff. "But
to return to my business: what can you do for me?"

"I can certainly recommend the enterprise," answered Tomlinson. "But
where can the marble be seen?"

"At my office," said the alderman. "I went and bought the finest piece
that was ever imported from Italy; and there it is in my counting-house,
labelled 'BRITISH MARBLE' in letters at least half a foot high."

"Where is the quarry situated?" inquired Tomlinson.

"Oh! I haven't quite made up my mind about _that_ yet," was the answer
given by Mr. Alderman Sniff. "The truth is, I am going down into Wales
this week, and I shall buy the first field I can get cheap in some rude
part of the country. That is the least difficulty in the whole
enterprise."

"Your plans are admirable, my dear sir," exclaimed Tomlinson. "I will do
all I can for you. Will you take a glass of wine and a biscuit?"

"No, I thank you--not now," said the Alderman. "I have promised a
colleague to sit for him to-day at Guildhall police-court. Last week I
was on the rota for attendance there, and I remanded a man who was
brought up on a charge of obtaining three and sixpence under false
pretences."

"Indeed?" ejaculated Tomlinson, whose eyes were fixed upon the "_Two
Hundred Thousand Pounds_" in the alderman's prospectus.

"Yes," continued Mr. Sniff; "and I am going to sit to-day because that
fellow comes up again. I mean to clear the City of all such rogues and
vagabonds. I shall give him a taste of the treadmill for two months. So,
good morning. By the by, call as you pass my office and have a look at
the marble; and mind," he added, sinking his voice, "you don't let out
that it came from Italy. It is pure Welsh marble, remember!"

Alderman Sniff chuckled at this pleasant idea, and then hastened to
Guildhall, where he fully justified his character of being the most
severe magistrate in the City of London.

A few minutes after Mr. Alderman Sniff had taken his departure, Mr.
Greenwood was announced.

"My dear Tomlinson, I am delighted to see you," said the capitalist. "It
is really an age--a week at least--since I saw you. How do matters get
on?"

"I have prospects of doing an excellent business," answered Tomlinson.
"The numberless bubble companies that are started every day, are the
making of us stock-brokers. We dispose of shares or effect transfers,
and obtain our commission, let the result be what it may to the
purchasers."

"And I hope that you have conquered those ridiculous qualms of
conscience which always made a coward of you, when you were in Lombard
Street?" said Greenwood.

"_Needs must when the devil drives_," observed Tomlinson drily.

"For my part," continued Greenwood, "I take advantage of this mania on
the part of the English for speculation in joint-stock companies and
railway shares. A day of reaction will come; and the effects will be
fearful. Thousands and thousands of families will be involved in
irretrievable ruin. That day may not occur for one year--two years--five
years--or even ten years;--but come it will; and the signal for it will
be when the House of Commons is inundated with railway and joint-stock
company business, and when it is compelled to postpone a portion of that
business until the ensuing session. Then confidence will receive a
shock: an interval for calm meditation will occur; and the result will
be awful. Every one will be anxious to sell shares, and there will be no
buyers. Now mark my words, Tomlinson; and, if you speculate on your own
account, speculate accordingly. _I_ do so."

"And you are not likely to go wrong, I know," said Tomlinson. "But
stock-brokers do not risk any money of their own: they have plenty of
clients, who will do that for them."

"Then you are really thriving?" asked Greenwood.

"I am earning a living, and my business is increasing. But I feel
hanging like a mill-stone round my neck the thousand pounds which you
lent me at twenty per cent.--"

"Yes--_only_ twenty per cent."

"_Only_ at twenty per cent.," continued Tomlinson with a sigh: "and I am
unable to return you more than one hundred at present, although I agreed
to pay you two hundred every four months."

"The hundred will do," said Greenwood; and he wrote out a receipt for
that amount.

Tomlinson handed him over a number of notes, which Greenwood counted and
then consigned to his pocket.

"There is a pretty business to be done in the City now," said the
capitalist, after a pause. "I contrive to snatch an hour or two now and
then from the time which I am compelled to devote to the enlightened and
independent body that returned me to Parliament; and I seldom come into
the City on those occasions without lending a few hundreds to some poor
devil who has over-bought himself in shares."

"I have no doubt that you thrive, Greenwood," said the stock-broker.
"Every man who takes advantage of the miseries of others must get on."

"To be sure--to be sure," cried the Member of Parliament. "I hope that
you will act upon that principle."

"I have no reason to complain of the business that I am now doing: I act
as honestly as I can--and that principle deprives me of many
advantageous affairs. Then I experience annoyance from a constant
reminiscence of that poor old man who so nobly sacrificed himself for
me."

"The eternal cry!" ejaculated Greenwood. "If you are so very anxious to
find him out, put an advertisement in the _Times_--"

"And if he saw it, he would believe it to be a stratagem of the police
to arrest him. You know that there is a warrant out against him. The
official assignee took that step."

"Well, let him take his chance; and if he should happen to be captured,
we will petition the Home Secretary to diminish the period for which he
will be sentenced to transportation. Not that such a step would benefit
him much, because his age--"

"Let us drop this subject, Greenwood," said Tomlinson, evidently
affected.

"With all my heart. I must admit that it moves one's feelings; and if I
met the old man in the street, I should not hesitate to give him a
guinea out of my own pocket."

"A guinea!" cried Tomlinson--and a smile of contempt curled his lips.
"Perhaps you would recommend me to bestow a five-pound note upon that
poor Italian nobleman whom you cheated out of his fifteen thousand
pounds."

"You need not call him a poor nobleman," answered Greenwood. "He is now
worth ten thousand pounds a-year."

"Indeed! A great change must have taken place, then, in his fortunes?"
exclaimed Tomlinson.

"The fact, in a few words, is this. A young lady, whom I knew well,"
said Greenwood, "obtained letters of introduction from Count Alteroni to
certain friends of his in Montoni, the capital of Castelcicala, to which
state she repaired for the benefit of her health, or some such frivolous
reason. She had the good fortune to captivate the Grand Duke--"

"Miss Eliza Sydney, you mean?" said Tomlinson.

"The same. Did you know her?"

"Not at all. But I read in the newspapers the account of her marriage
with Angelo III. Proceed."

"The moment she married the Grand Duke, a pension of ten thousand a-year
was granted to Count Alteroni, by way of indemnification, I have heard,
for his estates, which were confiscated after he had fled the country in
consequence of political intrigues."

"How did you learn all this?"

"My valet Filippo happens to be a native of Montoni, and he seems well
acquainted with all that passes in Castelcicala. Count Alteroni and his
family have returned to the villa which they formerly inhabited at
Richmond."

"I am delighted to hear this good news. You have taken a considerable
weight off my mind; the transaction with that nobleman was always a
subject of self-reproach."

"I dare say," observed Mr. Greenwood ironically; then, drawing his chair
closer to Tomlinson's seat, he added, "You are no doubt the most
punctilious and conscientious of all City men. I have something to
communicate to you, and must do it briefly, as I am compelled to return
to Spring Gardens, to meet a deputation from the Rottenborough
Agricultural Society, at one o'clock precisely--and I never keep such
people waiting more than an hour!"

"That is considerate on your part," said the stock-broker.

"Don't you think it is? But I did not come here for the sole purpose of
chatting. The fact is, a gentleman with whom I am acquainted wants a
stock-broker for a very delicate and important business--for a
business," added Greenwood, sinking his voice to a whisper, "which
requires a man who will be content to put five hundred pounds into his
pocket for the service that will be required of him, and perform that
service blindfold, as it were."

"I will do nothing to compromise my safety," said Tomlinson.

"You will not be required to do so," answered Greenwood. "However, the
gentleman I allude to will call upon you in the course of the day, I
dare say; and he will then explain to you the service he has to demand
at your hands."

"What is the name of your friend?" inquired Tomlinson.

"Mr. Chichester--Arthur Chichester," was the reply.

"Chichester--Chichester," said the stock-broker, musing; "surely I have
heard you mention that name before? Ah! now I remember! Did you not
complain to me a few days ago that he had been making mischief between
you and a certain Sir Rupert Harborough?"

"I did," answered Greenwood; "and I certainly had good cause for anger
against this same Arthur Chichester. But I had become his confidant and
adviser in a certain affair a few weeks before I discovered that he had
acquainted Sir Rupert Harborough with circumstances which he had better
have kept to himself; and I am therefore compelled to continue my
assistance and counsel to him until the affair alluded to be brought to
a successful termination. Besides, as Sir Rupert and I have settled our
little differences, there is no use in bearing malice, especially when
something is to be gained by forbearance."

"I thought you would make that admission," said Tomlinson, laughing.
"Well, I shall see your friend, and if, with safety, I can earn five
hundred pounds, certainly, in my position, I cannot afford to lose such
an opportunity."

"That is speaking like a reasonable man," observed Greenwood. "Never
stick at trifles. What should I be now, if I had hesitated at every step
I took? Should I possess a hundred thousand pounds in good securities?
should I be enabled to gratify every wish, caprice, or desire, whose
object money can accomplish? should I be the representative of one of
the most independent and intelligent constituencies in England? Ah, my
dear fellow, think of me and my position when you hesitate; and always
make money after the well-authorised system--_honestly_, if you can;
_but, at all events, make money_."

With these words, Mr. Greenwood took his departure.

"Yes," mused Tomlinson, when he was alone once more, "that man is right!
Make money, honestly, if you can; but, at all events, _make money_. That
is the burden of _his_ song; why should it not be the _chorus_ of mine?
When I look around me, I see every one making money upon the same plan.
Sheriff Popkins does not hesitate to lend his name to a bubble; and
Alderman Spiff concocts one! And they are men of reputation--holding
important offices--appearing at Court--wielding power--exercising
influence. This is indeed a wide field for contemplation. Why,
Greenwood, in his bold, dashing manner, gains more in a day than I, in
my miserable, droning fashion, earn in a month. To be afraid to touch
the gold that is thrown in one's way in this wonderful city, is to be a
coward--a very coward. Yes--I see it all! Greenwood is right. Make
money--honestly, if you can; but, at all events, make money!"

Mr. Tomlinson's soliloquy had arrived at this very pleasing conclusion,
just as the door of his office opened, and a clerk entered to acquaint
his master that a gentleman of the name of Chichester desired to speak
to him.

"Show Mr. Chichester in," said Tomlinson.

Mr. Chichester was dressed in his usually fashionable manner; and his
gait had lost nothing of the care-nothing-for-anybody kind of swagger
which characterised him when he was first introduced to the reader.

Having thrown himself listlessly upon a chair, he said, "I presume our
mutual friend Greenwood has mentioned my name to you, Mr. Tomlinson?"

"He has. I was prepared for your visit."

"But not for its object, perhaps?" said Chichester.

"I am as yet ignorant on that head," was the reply.

"Mr. Greenwood then told you nothing--"

"Nothing, save an intimation that my services were required in a certain
delicate and important matter, and that five hundred pounds would be my
remuneration."

"Perfectly correct," answered Mr. Chichester. "Are you disposed to aid
me on the proposed terms?"

"I must first learn the nature of the business in which my interference
is needed."

"And if you should then decline?"

"You shall have my solemn assurance that what you confide to me remains
buried in my own bosom."

"That is what I call a proper understanding," exclaimed Chichester. "You
must know, then, that some three months ago I wooed, and won, a widow
lady, not very ugly, certainly, but whose principal attraction consisted
of the sum of sixteen thousand pounds in the three and a half per cents.
She was five and twenty years of age, and possessed of a sweet little
house in the neighbourhood of the Cambridge Heath gate. I met her one
evening in July or August last at a party at my father's house--when I
was doing the amiable to the old gentleman in order to sound his
pockets; and my father whispered to me that I ought to make up to Mrs.
Higgins. Certainly the name was not very aristocratic; but then her
Christian name was Viola; and I thought that Viola Chichester would be
pretty enough. I accordingly flirted with the widow on that occasion,
and we seemed tolerably pleased with each other. I called next day--and
every now and then, when I had time; but I, really, scarcely entertained
serious thoughts of making her an offer, until one day when I was
desperately hard up, and I saw my friend Harborough involved in such
difficulties that we could not do any good together. So I got into an
omnibus in Bishopsgate Street, went down to Cambridge Heath, called upon
Mrs. Higgins, and then and there offered her my heart and hand. She
accepted me. We had a pleasant little chat about money matters: she
stated that her late husband, a wealthy builder, had left her sixteen
thousand pounds; and, of course, I could not make myself out a pauper.
Besides, she knew that father was tolerably well off. I assured her that
I was possessed of a few thousands, and that the old gentleman allowed
me three hundred a-year into the bargain. She stipulated that all her
own money should be settled upon herself. I demurred to this proposal;
but she was obstinate; and I then discovered that Mrs. Viola Higgins had
a very determined will and a very positive temper of her own. I thought
to myself, '_Here is a charming widow who throws herself into my arms,
and who possesses a decent fortune; it would be madness to neglect so
golden an opportunity of enriching myself. Besides,_' I reasoned, '_when
once we are married, it will be very easy for me to wheedle the
affectionate creature out of any money that I may require_.' Well, I
consented to the settlement of all her property upon herself; and in due
course we were married. I did not mention the matter to any of my
West-End friends, because I did not like to invite them to the
wedding--I was afraid their off-hand manners would alarm the bride, and
give her an unfavourable opinion with regard to myself. So the business
was kept very snug and quiet; and we passed the honey-moon at my wife's
sister and brother-in-law's, very decent people in their way, and
dwelling at Stratford-le-Bow. On our return to London, I thought it time
to break the ice in respect to my own pecuniary situation. The truth
was, that I had not a penny-piece of my own, and that my father had long
since withdrawn his support, in consequence of the immense drains I had
made upon his purse. I was moreover encumbered with debts; and some of
my tradesmen had found me out and began to call at the house at
Cambridge Heath. They even used menaces. My position was truly critical.
I did not marry the widow merely with a view to take her out for a walk,
sit by the fire-side chatting, or read a book while she worked. I wanted
money,--money to pay my debts,--money to enjoy myself with. Accordingly
I broke the ice by very candidly avowing that I had not a shilling. I,
however, swore that her beauty and accomplishments had alone induced me
thus to deceive her. But--oh! the vixen! She flew into such a passion
that I thought she would tear my eyes out. She raved and wept--and wept
and raved--and then reproached and taunted,--until I wished one of us at
the devil, and scarcely cared which went there. The scene ended in
Viola's falling into a fit of hysterics; and she was compelled to go to
bed. I was most assiduous to her; and my attentions evidently softened
her. In a few hours she grew calm, and then said, '_Arthur, you have
deceived me grossly; but I can forgive you. I do not regret the loss of
the wealth and income which you led me to believe were yours; I am only
sorry that you should have thought it necessary to practise such a
measure to induce me to marry you. But let what is past be forgotten.
The income derived from my property is sufficient for us; and, if you
will be kind and good to me, this deception shall never more trouble our
happiness._'"

"I think Mrs. Chichester spoke like a generous, sensible, and
noble-hearted woman," observed Tomlinson, who was, nevertheless, at a
loss to conceive how all these details could be connected with the
service which Mr. Chichester required at his hands.

"Ahem!" exclaimed that gentleman, who did not seem to relish the remark
particularly well. "However, all that fine feeling was mere outward show
with my wife," he continued; "for she was inexorable in her refusal to
sell out or mortgage any of her funded property for my use. I told her
that I had debts. '_Give a list to my solicitor,_' she said, '_and he
shall compromise with your creditors_.' I assured her that I could make
a better bargain with them myself. She would not believe me. I then
declared point-blank that I did not mean to remain tied to her
apron-strings; that she must at least settle half the property upon me;
that I desired to keep a horse and cab, and introduce my friends to my
wife; and that I was resolved we should live as people of property ought
to live. It was then that she showed her inveterate obstinacy, and
manifested the worst shades of an infamous temper. She agreed to allow
me one hundred a-year for my clothes and pocket-money, but would not
give me any control over her property. As for horses, cabs, and West End
friends, she ridiculed the idea. I prayed, threatened, and reasoned by
turns: she was as immoveable as Mount Atlas. Several days were passed in
perpetual arguments upon the subject; but the more I prayed, threatened,
and reasoned, the more obstinate she grew. One morning we had a
desperate quarrel. I swore that I would be revenged--that I would extort
from her by violence, or other means, what she refused to yield to
argument. Nothing, however, could move her: she said that she would not
ruin herself to gratify my extravagances. This was nearly a month ago. I
bounced out of the house, and hurried up to the West End of the town, as
fast as I could go, to see and consult my friend Sir Rupert Harborough.
But, as I was on my way thither--for I actually had not even money in my
pocket to pay a cab--I accidentally met Greenwood. He saw that I was
annoyed and vexed, and inquired the reason. I told him all. He reflected
for some moments, and then said, '_Do not consult Harborough in this
matter. He cannot assist you. There is only one course to adopt with
such a woman as this. You must put her under restraint._' I told him
that nothing would please me better; but that I should have all her
friends upon me if I threw her into a lunatic asylum; and that I was,
moreover, without the means to take a single step. Greenwood and I went
into a tavern, and discussed the business over a bottle of wine. He then
laid down a certain plan, made certain stipulations respecting
remuneration for himself, and offered to back me in carrying the matter
to the extreme. Of course I assented to all he proposed. The whole
affair was managed in such a manner as--"

"As none but Greenwood _could_ manage it," observed Tomlinson.

"Exactly," returned Chichester. "Indeed, he _is_ a thorough man of
business! He procured two surgeons to call, at separate times, at the
house at Cambridge Heath, ostensibly to see me. I took care to be at
home. They also saw my wife; and the result was that they granted the
certificates I required."

"Certificates of an unsound state of mind?" inquired Tomlinson.

"Certificates of an unsound state of mind," repeated Chichester,
affirmatively. "Greenwood managed it all--keeping himself, however,
entirely in the back-ground. He found the surgeons--provided me with
money to fee them--and then recommended to me a keeper of a lunatic
asylum, who is not over particular. These proceedings occupied two or
three days, during which I was on my very best behaviour with my wife;
but if ever I hinted to her the propriety of acceding to my wishes in
respect to the disposal of her property, she cut me short by the
assurance that her decision was irrevocable. I really wished to avoid
extreme measures; but with such a disobedient, self-willed, obstinate
woman, leniency was an impossibility. Accordingly, I one evening allured
her, during a walk, into the immediate vicinity of the lunatic asylum:
the streets were lonely and deserted; and it was already dark. The
keeper of the mad-house had been prepared for the execution of the
project that evening; and he was at his post. As we slowly passed by his
house, he sprang forward from some recess or dark nook, and fixed a
plaster over my wife's mouth. Thus not a cry could escape her lips. At
the same moment we seized her, and conveyed her into the asylum."

"That was three weeks ago?" inquired Tomlinson.

Chichester nodded an assent.

"And she has not come to her senses yet?"

"She has at length," was the answer. "I received a letter yesterday from
the keeper of the asylum, stating that her spirit is broken, and that
she is now ready to obey her husband in all things. The keeper wrote to
me a few days ago to state that his _mode of cure_ was producing a
favourable result; and yesterday he intimated to me by another letter
that the _mode_ alluded to had proved completely successful."

"What course do you now intend to pursue?" demanded Tomlinson, who began
to suspect the manner in which his services were to be made available.

"I immediately communicated the important contents of this second letter
to Greenwood," continued Chichester, "and he recommended me to apply to
you to aid me in completing the business. My wife now sees her folly,
and is willing to devote one half of her property--namely, eight
thousand pounds, to the use and purposes of her lawful husband; and I am
generous enough to be satisfied with that sum, instead of insisting upon
having the whole."

"I understand you," said Tomlinson: "you require a stock-broker to
effect the transfer of eight thousand pounds from the name of your wife
into your own name."

"And to sell out the amount when so transferred," added Chichester.

"It will be necessary for me to obtain the signature of your wife to a
certain paper," observed Tomlinson.

"Greenwood has told me all this. In one word, will you accompany me to
the asylum where my wife is confined, and obtain her signature?"

"If she be willing to give it, I am willing to receive it--_as a matter
of business_," answered Tomlinson. "But, are you sure--in a word, what
guarantee have you that she will not denounce the whole proceeding to
the officers of justice--rally her friends around her--appeal to the
law--and punish every one concerned in the business?"

"Listen. The document which she agrees to sign is a general power on my
behalf over eight thousand pounds in the Bank of England: this power
will be dated two months back--a month after our marriage. We must be
supposed to have called at your office on a particular day at that
period, on which occasion she signed the power in your presence. It
being a general power of transfer, it would not seem extraordinary that
I did not use it until now--that is, two months after it was given. This
night must she sign the deed: to-morrow you must transfer and sell out
the money. Then to-morrow night, she shall be conveyed back to the house
at Cambridge Heath. The two servants whom we keep are bribed to my
interest: they are ready, in case of need, to prove the existence of
those symptoms of insanity which justified the certificates of the
surgeons and the restraint under which my wife has been placed. How,
then, can she do us an injury? If she proclaim her '_wrongs_'--as she
may call them, _you_ can prove that the power of transfer could not have
been extorted from her in a mad-house, as it was signed two months ago
at your office! Then, if she were to speak of the _mode of treatment_
adopted by the keeper of that mad-house to curb her haughty spirit, the
accusation would be indignantly denied; and her statements would be set
down to a disordered imagination, _and would justify further restraint_.
Be you well assured, that she will never say or do any thing that may
endanger her liberty again! No--the fact is simply this: we divide the
property, and separate for ever. She will be glad to get rid of a
husband like me: I shall not be sorry to dissolve--as far as we can
dissolve it--a connexion with a woman of her mean, griping, and
avaricious disposition."

"This is Greenwood's scheme throughout," said Tomlinson. "No other man
living could plot such admirable combinations to effect a certain
object, without danger to any one."

"Do you consent to act in this matter, on consideration of retaining for
yourself five hundred pounds of the money which you will have to
transfer and sell out to-morrow?"

"I do consent," replied Tomlinson, after a few moments' reflection,
during which he muttered to himself, "_Make money--honestly, if you can;
but, at all events, make money_."

"To-night--at ten o'clock, will you come to me at my house at Cambridge
Heath?" inquired Chichester.

"I will," was the answer. "But let me ask you one question:--what excuse
have you made to your wife's friends for this absence of three weeks?"

"In the first place," said Chichester, "her only relations consist of a
sister and this sister's husband at Stratford-le-Bow; and they are so
immersed in the cares of business, that they have not called once at
Cambridge Heath ever since our marriage. Secondly, my wife always lived
in a very retired manner, and has very few acquaintances or friends
besides my father's family. It was therefore easy to satisfy the one or
two persons who _did_ call, with the excuse that Mrs. Chichester had
gone on a short visit to some relatives in the country."

"And you feel convinced your precautions are so wisely taken, that she
will never open her lips relative to the past?" said Tomlinson.

"_I am confident that she will not breathe a word that may lead to her
return to the place where she now is_," answered Chichester, with a
significant look and emphatic solemnity of tone.

"Then I will not hesitate to serve you in this business," said
Tomlinson. "To-night--at ten o'clock."

"To-night--at ten o'clock," repeated Chichester; and with these words he
departed.

When he was gone, Tomlinson paced his office in an agitated manner.

"The die is cast--I am now about to plunge into crime!" he said. "And
yet how could I avoid--how could I long procrastinate this step? These
mean tricks--these dishonourable dealings--these deceptive schemes in
which we brokers are compelled to bear a part, only serve to prepare
the way for more daring and more criminal pursuits. Five hundred pounds
at one stroke! That is a little fortune to a man, struggling against the
world, like me! Four hundred will I pay to Greenwood--the other hundred
will swell my little account at the bankers'; for who can hope to do any
extent of business in this city without a good name at his bankers'?"

[Illustration]

Tomlinson ceased, and sate down calm and collected. Alas! how easy is it
to reason oneself into a belief of the existence of a necessity for
pursuits of dishonesty or crime!

The clerk entered the private office, and said, "Sir, there is a person,
who refuses to give his name, waiting to speak to you."

"Let him come in," replied Tomlinson.

The clerk ushered in a man of cadaverous countenance, bushy brows, and
large whiskers, and who was dressed in a suit of black.

"Your business, sir?" said the stock-broker, who did not much like the
appearance of his visitor.

"Your name's Tomlinson?" remarked the man, coolly taking a chair.

"Yes. What would you with me?"

"James Tomlinson," continued the man, referring to a scrap of paper,
which he took from his waistcoat pocket, "late banker in Lombard
Street?"

"The same," said Tomlinson, impatiently.

"Then I took it down right, although he did speak in such a confused
manner," observed the man, muttering rather to himself than to Mr.
Tomlinson.

"What do you mean?" demanded the stock-broker.

"I mean that there's a person who wants to see you," answered the
stranger. "I don't know that I'm exactly right in saying _wants_,
because he is in such a state that he can neither want nor care about
any thing. At the same time, I think it would be as well if _you_ was to
see _him_."

"Who is this person?" cried Tomlinson.

"A man that seems to know you well enough, if I can understand his
ravings."

"Ravings!" repeated the stock-broker, already influenced by a slight
misgiving.

"Ravings, indeed! and enough to make him rave! To be laid out as dead
for four days, then put in a coffin, buried, and be had up again within
ten or a dozen hours:--if that wouldn't make a man rave--what the devil
would?"

"Have the goodness to explain yourself. Every word you utter is an
enigma to me."

"But it wasn't an enigma to my poor friend when the stiff 'un suddenly
put a cold hand upon his. However, in two words, do you know a person
called Michael Martin?"

"Michael Martin!" cried the stock-broker. "Speak--what has become of
him?"

"He has been ill--"

"Ill! poor old man! and I not to know it!"

"Worse than that! He died--"

"Died! Where--when?"

"Died--and was buried."

"Trifle not with me. When did he die? where is he buried?"

"He died--was buried--and came to life again!" said the stranger, with
the most provoking coolness.

"Sir," exclaimed Tomlinson, advancing towards his visitor, and speaking
in a firm and emphatic manner, "if you have called to tell me any thing
concerning Michael Martin, speak without mystification."

"Well, sir," returned the stranger, "the plain truth is this:--An old
man, without a name, took up his abode in a by-street in Globe Town some
months ago. He was taken ill, and, to all appearance, died. He was
buried. A surgeon fancied him as a subject, and hired me and a friend of
mine to have him up again. We resurrectionized him, and took him in a
cart last night to the surgeon's house. He was conveyed into the
dissecting-room, and stretched on the table. The doctor and I went into
the surgery to settle the expenses; and, in the mean time, my friend was
left alone with the stiff 'un. It seems that a neighbour, suspecting
that the surgeon now and then got a subject for his experiments, saw the
cart stop at the door, and immediately understood what was going on. He
went into his garden, which joins the yard where the dissecting-house
stands, and seeing a light in the window of the dissecting-house, he
felt sure that his suspicions were well founded, although he could not
see into the place, because there was a dark blind drawn down over the
window. However, the neighbour was resolved to clear up his doubts; so
he took up a brick-bat, and threw it as hard as he could against the
window. The glass was broken, and the light extinguished. My friend, who
was left alone with the stiff 'un, was somewhat startled at this
occurrence; but how much more was he alarmed when he suddenly felt the
body stretch out its hand and catch hold of one of his?"

"Then Michael Martin was not dead?" ejaculated Tomlinson, in a tone
which expressed alike the tenderness of deep emotion and also the
bitterness of disappointment; for, perhaps, all circumstances
considered, the ex-banker would rather have heard a confirmation of the
death, than an account of the resuscitation of his late clerk.

"No--the old man is not dead. The doctor and myself were in the surgery,
when we heard the smash of the window and the cry of the Buf--of my
friend, I mean."

"Of your brother resurrectionist, I suppose," continued Tomlinson, in a
tone of ineffable disgust. "Well, go on."

"We went into the dissecting-room with a lamp, and there we found the
light put out, and my comrade insensible on the floor. But what was more
extraordinary still, we saw the corpse gasping for breath. '_He is not
dead!_' cried the surgeon; and in a moment a lancet was stuck into his
arm. The blood would not flow at first, but the surgeon chafed his
temples and hands by turns; and in a few moments the blood trickled out
pretty freely. Meantime I had recovered my companion, and explained to
him the nature of the phenomenon that had taken place. When he heard the
real truth, he was no longer alarmed, because he knew very well that
people are often buried in a trance. In fact, one night, about eighteen
months ago, he and I went to Old Saint Pancras church-yard to get up a
stiff 'un, and when we opened the coffin, we found that the body had
turned completely round on its face; it was, however, stone dead when we
got it up--and never shall I forget what a countenance it had! But of
that no matter."

"Have the goodness to keep to your present narrative," said Tomlinson,
scarcely able to conceal his disgust at the presence of a
resurrectionist--an avowed body-snatcher.

"Well," continued the man with the cadaverous countenance, "in a very
few minutes we completely recovered the old gentleman. I obeyed all the
directions of the surgeon, and ran backwards and forwards to the
pharmacy for God only knows what salts and what ammonia. At last the
subject gave a terrible groan, opened his eyes, and exclaimed, '_Where
am I?_' The surgeon assured him that he was in safety--that he had been
very ill--that he was now much better--and so on. Meantime, by the
surgeon's orders, I had called up his housekeeper, (for he is a
bachelor,) and she had got a bed prepared and warmed, and some hot water
ready, and every thing comfortable. Well, we carried the old gentleman
up to bed; the doctor gave him a little warm brandy and water; and in
another half hour, he was able to speak a few words in a comprehensible
manner. But his brain seemed confused, and all we could learn was that
his name was '_Michael Martin_,' and that he raved after a gentleman,
whom he called '_James Tomlinson, the banker_.'"

"Ah! he said that--did he?" cried Tomlinson, rising, and pacing the room
with agitated steps.

"He did," was the reply. "And then we began to think that we had heard
those names before; and, in a few minutes, I--who know every thing,"
added the man, fixing his serpent-like eyes upon he stock-broker with a
kind of fiendish leer,--"I," he continued, "remembered that Michael
Martin was the man who had been the cashier in the bank of Tomlinson and
Company, Lombard Street."

"But did he say--did he--" began the stock-broker, gasping for
breath,--"did he--"

"He raved--he grew delirious; and in his wanderings, he said enough to
prove that _he_ was not guilty of the breach of trust imputed to him."

"O God! thy vengeance overtakes me, then, at last!" cried Tomlinson,
sinking, pale and trembling, upon a chair.

"He said much--very much," continued the man whose revelations had thus
produced so strange an effect upon James Tomlinson. "But do not alarm
yourself--I am not one to peach; and the doctor himself is not likely to
say any thing that night lead to an awkward inquiry into the
circumstances that brought the old gentleman into his house. Remember,
the law now punishes with transportation those who resurrectionize, and
those who encourage resurrectionists."

"Then you will not betray me?" ejaculated Tomlinson, a ray of hope
animating his countenance.

"Betray you!" echoed the man, with a contemptuous curl of his lip and a
ferocious leer of his eyes, which gleamed from beneath their bushy brows
like those of a hyena from the shade of an overhanging brake: "betray
you! What good should I get by that? You know that a reward of three
thousand pounds was offered to any one who would deliver up this Michael
Martin; and as a man of sense, you must also understand that it would
not be very convenient for me to go forward and claim this reward. At
the same time, I might talk--or my friend might talk; no one could
prevent that; and such-like idle gossiping would lead to the detection
of the old man. Now you are the best judge whether or not it is worth
while to put a seal upon our lips. We don't want to be hard upon
you;--but, perhaps," added the man, interrupting himself, "you had
better see the old gentleman first, and then you will know that I am
telling you the truth."

"When can I see him? where is he?" demanded Tomlinson, almost bewildered
by the sudden revelation which had been made to him concerning Michael
Martin.

"You had better put off your visit till dusk," was the reply; "because I
should like to go with you, and the surgeon would not be very well
pleased if I called upon him in the day-time."

"Let it be at dusk, then," said Tomlinson.

"Name your hour."

"I have an engagement between nine and ten o'clock to-night," returned
the stock-broker.

"And so have I," said the visitor. "What should you say to seven
o'clock? It is as dark then as it is at ten or eleven."

"Seven will suit me well," answered Tomlinson. "Where shall I meet you?"

"At Bethnal Green New Church--the church that stands in the Cambridge
Road, and faces the Bethnal Green Road," explained the body-snatcher.
"You can be walking up and down there a few minutes before seven--I
shall not keep you waiting."

"I will be punctual," said Tomlinson. "But--once more--you will not
betray me?"

"Ridiculous!" was the contemptuous reply.

"And this surgeon--will he not be tempted by the reward to--"

"Do you think he would walk straight into Newgate and say, '_I am come
to be transported for encouraging and employing resurrection men_?' You
need not alarm yourself. Me and my comrade will settle the matter
amicably with you."

The body-snatcher then took his departure.

Tomlinson threw himself back in his chair, pressed both his hands
against his heated forehead, and exclaimed in a tone of despair, "I have
fervently prayed that I might meet my poor old clerk again; and heaven
has granted my request--but merely to punish me for my crimes!"




CHAPTER CX.

THE EFFECTS Of A TRANCE.


It was half-past eight o'clock in the evening.

By the side of a bed in a comfortable chamber at the surgeon's house in
the Cambridge Road, near Bethnal Green New Church, sate James Tomlinson.

The light of the candles that burnt upon the table, fell on the pale and
ghastly countenance of old Michael Martin, who lay in that bed, his head
propped up with pillows.

There was no one else in the room at the time, save these two persons.

"And thus was it, my good and faithful friend," said Tomlinson, breaking
the long silence which had ensued after mutual explanations,--"thus was
it that you so nobly sacrificed yourself for me! Oh! believe me that I
have never ceased to think of your generous--your unparalleled behaviour
in that sad business!"

"I know it--I know it," returned the old man in a weak and hollow voice.
"If you had not been a kind master to me, I should never have done all
that for you. But, tell me,--and tell me truly," added Michael, fixing
his glassy eyes upon the stock-broker, "do you think that these
persons--the surgeon, and that hideous man who--"

Martin ceased--and his entire frame was convulsed with horror as he
remembered the appalling circumstances under which he had been recovered
from his late death-like trance and restored to life.

"Compose yourself, my excellent friend," said Tomlinson, who fully
comprehended what was passing in his mind; "fear alone will seal these
people's lips--even if no other motive were powerful enough to ensure
their silence. The surgeon seems an honest kind of man, and may be
relied upon: besides, he would seriously compromise himself were he to
breathe a word of this strange occurrence. As for the other person--he
who came to tell me what had taken place, and brought me hither this
evening--I have agreed to purchase his silence and that of a comrade,
who, it appears, was engaged with him in the business."

"I know you cannot afford to do any such thing," said old Michael,
speaking with somewhat of that bluntness, or even gruffness of manner,
which had characterised him in past times; "and I won't have you get
yourself into difficulties on my account."

"Believe me, I can afford it," returned Tomlinson.

"You can't. You told me just now that you were struggling against many
difficulties. How much are you going to give these scoundrels?"

"A mere trifle--nothing beyond my means--"

"How much?" demanded old Michael, imperatively.

"Two hundred pounds."

"Two hundred pounds! It can't--and it shan't be done, Mr. Tomlinson. You
have not got two hundred pounds: I know you have not."

"I am to receive five hundred this evening for certain professional
services to be rendered," said Tomlinson; "and I can readily spare a
portion to ensure a silence which is necessary not only to your safety
but to mine."

"True--_your_ safety," muttered old Michael, whose thoughts seemed ever
fixed upon the welfare of his late employer. "Well--well, I suppose it
must be done. Do it, then."

Another long pause ensued.

Suddenly Martin turned towards Tomlinson, and said, in a sharp querulous
tone, "You told me that you were going to receive five hundred pounds
this evening?"

"Such is my hope," answered the stock-broker, averting his glances from
the old man.

"Ah! you can't look me in the face," exclaimed Michael, almost savagely.
"Where are you going to get that money from?"

"From a client--for whom I am to do business--of a certain nature,"
faltered Tomlinson.

"Certain nature, indeed! What is it?"

"Merely professional. Michael," was the answer.

"Professional business in one evening, that will produce five hundred
pounds," said the old man, dwelling emphatically upon every word: then,
after a pause, he added abruptly, "I don't believe it."

"I declare most solemnly that I am telling you the truth," cried
Tomlinson, somewhat hurt by Michael's manner and observations.

"So much the worse for you, then," rejoined the old man, laconically.
"The business you are to perform for that sum is not honest."

Tomlinson was about to make some excuse to put an end to the topic by an
evasive reply, when Michael Martin raised himself to a sitting posture
in the bed, and, fixing his eyes upon his late master, exclaimed, with
strange emphasis of manner, "Have you not seen enough--experienced
enough--and suffered enough, to render you timorous in re-embarking upon
the great ocean of chicanery, duplicity, and crime? Be you well assured
that though the currents of that ocean may float you prosperously along
for a season, they will sooner or later dash you against a sunken rock,
and shipwreck you beyond redemption. Oh!" he continued, his ghastly
countenance becoming animated with the ruddy tinge of excitement, and
fire once more sparkling from his glassy eyes,--"Oh! if you had only
passed through all that I have within these last few days, you would not
neglect so terrible a warning! Do you know,"--and his utterance became
rapid and eloquent,--"do you know that I have passed the limits of the
tomb, and have wandered in the worlds beyond? Do you know that I have
learnt the grand--the sublime--the supernal secret of eternity?
Yes--when the breath left this mortal clay, my soul winged its flight
into the regions of infinite space! With the rapidity of a whirlwind I
was hurried away from the earth; and, although I was nothing but a
spirit, _and could not touch myself_, yet had I ears to hear, and eyes
to see, and organs to receive sensations. I was permitted to wander
amidst the regions of eternal bliss, and to penetrate into the mysteries
of hell. O God! I tasted of the joys of the former, and was equally
compelled to submit to the torments of the latter--each for a little
space! Ah! sir, can you not divine wherefore the Almighty from time to
time plunges mortals into a trance--submits them to the dominion of
death for a season? It is that he may snatch away their souls, to lead
them into the celestial mansions, and precipitate them into the depths
of Satan's kingdom,--so that, when restored to their mortal clay, they
may teach their fellow-creatures the grand truths of eternity--they may
announce to them that there is a heaven to reward, and a hell to punish!
And the Almighty made choice of me,--of _me_, a grovelling worm, one of
the most obscure and humble of his creatures,--He made choice of _me_, I
say, to become the means through which His warning voice might speak to
_you_ and _others_! What the pleasures of heaven are, or of what the
torments of hell consist, I dare not say: suffice it for you to know
that there _is_ a heaven, and there _is_ a hell--and the former exceeds
all idea which man can conceive of bliss, while the latter surpasses
every thing which he can imagine of horror! Be warned, then, by me,
James Tomlinson--be warned by one who for four days was snatched away
from earth, and, during that period was initiated in the mighty secrets
of Eternity!"

The old man fell back in the bed, exhausted.

Tomlinson had at first listened to him with sorrow and alarm: he
trembled lest the delirium of a fever had suddenly overtaken him--lest
his brain was wandering. But as he proceeded--in a style of galvanic
force and eloquence of which the listener, who had known him for so many
years, deemed him incapable,--in a manner so inconsistent with all his
former habits, so strangely at variance with his nature, his character,
and his disposition,--the stock-broker became afraid, for it seemed to
him as if those burning, searching, searing, scorching words were indeed
an emanation from a source belonging to the mysteries of other worlds.

An awful pause ensued when Michael Martin ceased to speak.

For some moments Tomlinson sate riveted in speechless terror to his
chair--stunned, bewildered, astounded, appalled by all he had just
heard.

That dread silence was at length interrupted by the entrance of the
surgeon.

"How gets on my patient now?" he said, approaching the couch.

"I fear--I am afraid--that is, I think--his head, wanders," faltered the
stock-broker, scarcely knowing what he said.

"We must expect that such will be the case--for some days to come,"
returned the surgeon, with the coolness of a professional man who saw
nothing extraordinary in such results following so strange a
resuscitation from a death-like trance.

"You think, then," asked Tomlinson, "that it is possible for this poor
old man to rave--about things of--a very extraordinary nature?"

"People, when delirious, burst forth into the most wild and fanciful
ravings," answered the surgeon, as he felt Michael's pulse.

"And _he_ might, then, rave of heaven--and hell--and things relating
to--"

"He may rave of any nonsense," said the surgeon, abruptly; "but that is
no reason why we should allow ourselves to be affected by it--as I see
that you are."

"It was, indeed, very foolish on my part," observed Tomlinson, now
acquiring confidence, and endeavouring to divest himself of the strange
sensations of horror and dread which the eloquence of the old man had
excited within him.

"You had better retire for the present," said the surgeon. "He is in a
high fever--produced, perhaps, by this interview with you, under such
circumstances. Do not think of seeing him again this evening: to-morrow
evening he will be better and more composed."

"And you will take every possible care of him," exclaimed the
stock-broker. "Remember that no expense most be spared to make him
comfortable--to ensure his recovery. I will remunerate you handsomely,
sir."

"Well, well," said the surgeon, impatiently. "We will talk about that
another time. Good evening--you may return to-morrow at the same hour."

"Good evening," answered Tomlinson; and he slowly took his departure.




CHAPTER CXI.

A SCENE AT MR. CHICHESTER'S HOUSE.


It was about half-past nine on the same evening that the above incidents
occurred, when a double-knock at the front door echoed through Mr.
Chichester's dwelling, in the immediate vicinity of the Cambridge Heath
Gate.

Mr. Chichester himself was seated in an elegantly-furnished parlour,
sipping a glass of excellent Madeira, and pondering upon the best means
of enjoying himself when he should have fingered the cash to obtain
which he had perpetrated so diabolical an outrage against the confiding
woman who had bestowed upon him her hand, and made him a partner in the
enjoyment, if not in the actual possession, of her fortune.

The room was not large, but very comfortable; and at one end a pair of
ample folding doors, now closed, afforded admission into a back parlour.

A few moments after the echo of the double-knock above mentioned,
through the house, a female servant entered and announced Mr. Tomlinson.

Having requested the stock-broker to be seated, Mr. Chichester followed
the servant into the hall, and said to her in a low whisper, "When the
_other person_ comes, show him into the back parlour, as I may require
to have some conversation with this gentleman before I introduce them to
each other."

This command being given, Mr. Chichester returned to the room where he
had left Mr. Tomlinson.

"You are before your time," said Chichester, pushing the decanter and a
glass towards the stock-broker: "that looks like business."

"I accidentally had an appointment upon some business in this
neighbourhood," was the reply; "and when that matter was disposed of, I
came straight hither."

"We cannot repair to the lunatic asylum until ten or half-past," said
Chichester, "because, as a precaution, the keeper has promised to call
upon me presently, and report whether my wife continues in the same
docile mood as when he wrote to me yesterday afternoon."

"I should be delighted to hear that you could settle this
unpleasant--very unpleasant affair in some amicable way," returned
Tomlinson, whose mind was still painfully excited by the interview which
had taken place between him and his late cashier.

"Impossible, my dear sir!" ejaculated Chichester. "There is no way save
the one chalked out. I hope that you do not hesitate to fulfil the
agreement into which you entered with me."

"The truth is, Mr. Chichester," said Tomlinson, "there is no man in
London to whom a few hundreds of pounds would prove so welcome as to
me--especially as to-morrow I have to pay two hundred to men who will
not be very well pleased to experience a disappointment. It is true that
I possess such a sum at my bankers'; but I dare not draw out every
shilling--my credit would be ruined."

"So much the better reason for doing as I require of you," said
Chichester, filling the glasses with Madeira.

"True," observed Tomlinson. "But, on the other hand, I tremble to take a
false step--I fear to jeopardize myself by connivance at a direct
conspiracy--"

"Pshaw!" cried Chichester. "What is the use of compunction on the part
of a man who stands in so much need of money as yourself?"

Tomlinson was about to reply, when a low knock at the front door fell
upon his ears.

"It is no one--of any consequence," said Chichester; then, as he
re-filled the glasses, he muttered to himself, "There is no use in
introducing these men to each other, unless this milk-and-water fool is
quite agreeable to act."

"Did you make an observation?" inquired the stock-broker.

"I was observing that it was no one of any consequence;--only some
person for the servants, most probably. But let me now ask you
seriously, Mr. Tomlinson, whether you feel disposed to proceed further
in this matter or not?"

"Candidly speaking, I would rather not," was the reply.

"Then you were wrong to give me a false hope of your aid, and allow so
much valuable time to elapse, during which I might have found a broker
less punctilious than you."

"I regret that I should have caused this inconvenience," answered
Tomlinson; "but I had resolved to perform my promise until about an hour
ago, and I have even brought the necessary documents for the purpose."

"Something very remarkable must have intervened to change your
resolutions," said Chichester, contemptuously.

"I am not superstitions," observed Tomlinson; "but I believe that a
providential warning was conveyed to me--"

"A providential fiddle-stick! Remember, Mr. Tomlinson, that by your
unpardonable vacillation in this matter you will only prolong the
incarceration of my wife."

"And, pray, who is responsible for that deed?"

"We will not discuss this point," returned Chichester. "I did not ask
you to become my Mentor. At the same time," he added, sinking his voice,
"every moment is important--for my wife is going mad in reality!"

"Then, in the name of God, release her at once!" ejaculated Tomlinson.

"Never--until she signs the deed."

"Release her," continued Tomlinson; "and then bring her with you to my
office, where she can make the transfer."

"Are you mad yourself? Do you suppose she would ever put pen to paper if
she were once liberated in that manner? I am surprised at your
ignorance--vexed at your cowardice. You have not acted like a man of
business, nor as a man of the world. It was for you to accept or decline
my proposal--not to deceive me by these changes and shiftings of
inclination. Come, sir--once for all--pluck up your courage: remember
the two hundred pounds which you say must be paid to-morrow to two men
who will not be put off, and the settlement of which debt will so
materially embarrass your finances."

"My mind is made up, Mr. Chichester," answered Tomlinson firmly.

"And what is your decision?"

"I shall beg to withdraw from the transaction."

And Tomlinson rose to depart.

But at the same moment the folding-doors, communicating with the inner
room, were thrown open, and a man with a cadaverous countenance stood
forward.

"You shall _not_ forfeit your word in this respect," exclaimed the
individual, whom Tomlinson immediately recognised to be the
body-snatcher engaged in the affair of Michael Martin.

"What does this man do here?" asked Tomlinson, in a faint voice, of
Chichester.

"What do I do here? what do I do every where?" cried the man, with a
diabolical laugh.

"Tell me the secret plot--the cunning intrigue--- the scheme of villany
to which Anthony Tidkins, surnamed the Resurrection Man, is a stranger!
But little did I think when I called upon you this morning,--little did
I imagine when I met you again this evening, that _you_ were the person
enlisted by Mr. Chichester in the affair which we have now in hand."

"It would appear, then, that you are acquainted with each other," said
Chichester, laughing heartily at the confusion manifested by the
stock-broker in the presence of the Resurrection Man. "Why, what devilry
was it that brought you two together?"

"Whether I keep Mr. Tomlinson's secret, or whether I proclaim it to you
and every one else whom I know, until the whole town rings with the
circumstance, is a matter for him to decide," said the Resurrection
Man;--and, with admirable coolness, he helped himself to a bumper of
Madeira.

"If I pay you two hundred pounds, as agreed upon," exclaimed Tomlinson,
"what more would you require of me?"

"I require that you remain faithful to your promise to Mr.
Chichester;--I require that you fulfil the service which you have
undertaken to perform in his behalf," was the resolute reply.

"And in what way does the business regard you--you, who acknowledge
yourself to be--"

"A resurrectionist! Certainly I am--and the most skilful in London, no
other excepted," exclaimed Tidkins, with a satanic chuckle. "But that
does not prevent me from turning mad-house keeper--or any thing
else--when opportunity offers."

"What! _you_ are the keeper of the asylum in which this gentleman's wife
is imprisoned!" exclaimed the stock-broker, in a tone of the most
profound astonishment.

"Yes, he is indeed," said Chichester; "and a better keeper could not
have been found. So now you know all about that point."

"And Mr. Tomlinson will be good enough to accompany _me_ to my house,"
observed the Resurrection Man. "You, Mr. Chichester, can follow us at a
little distance. It looks suspicious for three people to walk together."

"I really must decline--" began Tomlinson, trembling from head to foot,
as the warning voice of Michael Martin seemed to ring in his ears.

"One word more, Mr. Tomlinson," said the Resurrection Man. "I am a
person of determined spirit and resolution. I never stick at trifles
myself; and I don't choose others, with whom I am connected, to balk me
in my designs, when I can prevent them. Now, either come with me, and do
what is required of you; or, as sure as there is breath in your body, I
will deliver up a certain person to the police, and stand the
consequences myself."

"I beg of you--I implore you--"

"Pshaw!" cried Chichester: "this is child's play!"

"Child's play, indeed!" thundered the Resurrection Man in a terrible
voice. "But I will put an end to it. Come, sir--hesitate another minute,
and _that old man_ is lost!"

"I will accompany you," answered the stock-broker;--then, in an under
tone, he added, "But God knows how unwillingly!"

The Resurrection Man seized him by the arm, and conducted him out of the
house.

Five minutes afterwards, Chichester followed in the same direction.




CHAPTER CXII.

VIOLA.


The Resurrection Man and the stock-broker pursued their way in silence
to the very entrance of the alley leading to the side door of the
dwelling of the former.

There they halted, the Resurrection Man observing that they must wait
for Mr. Chichester.

Tomlinson took advantage of the interval to implore the Resurrection Man
not to communicate to Chichester the secret relating to Michael Martin.

"Do not be afraid," was the answer: "I am as close as Newgate-door when
people conduct themselves as they ought to do. One individual for whom I
do business never knows what I am engaged in for another--unless his own
bad behaviour forces me to blab. So make yourself quite easy upon that
score."

Chichester now made his appearance; and the Resurrection Man led the way
up the alley.

Having opened the door of the house, he admitted his two companions into
the back-room on the ground-floor, and then struck a light.

The appearance of the place was precisely the same as when we described
it on the first occasion of the Rattlesnake's visit to that department
of the building.

Tomlinson shuddered as he cast his eyes around the naked and gloomy
walls.

"Holloa!" ejaculated Chichester, taking up the mask, which lay on the
table, in his hands: "I suppose that this--"

"Hush!" said the Resurrection Man, glancing towards Tomlinson, as much
as to desire Chichester not to allow the stock-broker to know more of
the secrets connected with the treatment of the prisoner, than was
possible; for Tidkins, who possessed a profound knowledge of human
nature, was well aware that certain compunctious feelings still floated
in the mind of Tomlinson, and that he was, after all, but a very coward
in the ways of crime.

Chichester covered the mask with the cloak, while the stock-broker was
engaged in scanning the appearance of the chamber.

When Tomlinson had completed his survey, and while he was still
wondering where the means of communication with the apartment of the
alleged lunatic could be, he happened to turn in the direction of the
chimney-piece, when to his surprise he perceived the hearth-stone
raised, and the Resurrection Man half down the subterranean staircase
which that strangely contrived trap-door had disclosed to view.

Tomlinson shuddered--and hesitated whether he should proceed further in
the matter; but his scruples vanished when he heard the voice of the
Resurrection Man desiring--or rather commanding him--to follow him down
that flight of stone steps.

Guided by Tidkins, who carried the candle, which was fixed in one of the
large tin shades before described, Tomlinson descended the stairs, and
found himself in a vaulted passage, about twenty feet long, and four
broad. There were four strong doors, studded with thick iron nails, on
each side.

"You see, this house was built for a lunatic asylum many--many years
ago, when treatment wasn't quite so humane as it is now," whispered the
Resurrection Man to Tomlinson; "but it hadn't been used as such for the
last thirty years till the other day."

"And did you hire the establishment for the purpose of restoring it to
its original uses?" demanded Tomlinson, shuddering, as he glanced around
on the damp walls on which the strong light of the candle fell.

"Not I, indeed," answered Tidkins, abruptly.

Chichester had now descended into the subterranean passage.

"This is the cell," said the Resurrection Man; and, approaching one of
the doors, he placed a key in the lock.

During the few seconds that intervened until the door was thrown open,
Tomlinson experienced a perfect age of mental agony. He felt as if he
were about to perpetrate some hideous crime--a murder of the blackest
dye. The perspiration poured off his forehead: he trembled from head to
foot; his brain felt oppressed; there was a weight upon the pit of his
stomach; his eye-balls throbbed.

Yes--he was a very coward in guilt!

The door flew open.

The Resurrection Man entered first, and advanced into the middle of a
small arched cell--a stone tomb, built to immure the living!

A decent bed, a table, a chair, a wash-hand-stand, and a lamp, which was
lighted, together with a few other necessaries, composed the furniture
of that dungeon.

And stretched upon the bed, with her clothes on, lay the victim of this
cruel persecution.

The glare of the Resurrection Man's candle fell upon a pale, but not
unpleasing countenance: the long chesnut hair spread, dishevelled, over
the arm that supported the head.

The sleep of that lady was deep but uneasy--such a slumber as might be
supposed to fall upon the eyes of the criminal the night before his
execution.

Her bosom heaved convulsively; and from her lips escaped a stifled sob
as the three men entered the cell.

Chichester was about to place his hand upon her shoulder in order to
arouse her, when she opened her eyes, and started up to a sitting
posture on the bed.

"Villains!" she exclaimed: "would you murder me?"

"No such thing, my dear," said Chichester. "We have merely come to
terminate this unpleasant business in the way proposed by Mr. Tidkins."

"The wretch!" cried Viola, casting a glance of doubt and uncertainty at
both Tomlinson and the Resurrection Man.

"Ah! I dare say I am, ma'am, in _your_ estimation," said Tidkins,
coolly. "Oh! you needn't look at me in that way, ma'am. I will
acknowledge that I am your keeper in this establishment; and that it's
me who has been good enough to bring you food every night."

"The wretch!" again cried the unhappy lady, while a profound shudder
seemed to convulse her whole frame as she surveyed the Resurrection Man
from head to foot. "It is you, then," she continued, leaping from the
bed, and confronting the miscreant, "it is you who have dared to
practise upon my fears in a manner the most diabolical--the most
cowardly;--you who have chosen the solemn hour of midnight for your
visits, and who have come in a guise calculated to fill my mind with the
most horrible imaginings!"

"Remember our agreement, ma'am," said Tidkins, sternly. "You pledged
yourself to forget the past upon certain conditions: we are here to
fulfil those conditions. Do you mean to keep your word? or must we leave
you to your solitude?"

"Who is this gentleman?" demanded Viola, casting a penetrating glance
upon Tomlinson.

"The stock-broker, my dear," answered Chichester: "the person who will
receive your signature to a certain little paper--"

"Then, sir," interrupted the lady, addressing herself to James
Tomlinson, "as you exercise an honourable profession, prove yourself an
honourable man in this respect. You see before you a powerless female,
who was weak enough to bestow her hand upon a villain--a villain that
has immured her, by the aid of another villain of even a deeper dye than
himself, in this horrible vault! Perhaps they have told you that I am
mad, sir; but do I speak like one whose reason has abandoned her? or
would you receive the signature of a person who knew not what she
signed? Oh! no, sir--you cannot believe that I am in mental darkness!
you must perceive the full extent of the villany that has been practised
against me, for the purpose of plundering me of that property which I
received from my former husband! Oh! if you be a man possessing one
spark of honour--as I must suppose that you are--"

"Come--a truce to all this," said Mr. Chichester. "The gentleman to whom
you are addressing yourself knows the whole affair, and will act _with_
and _for_ me."

"Is this true, sir?" asked the unhappy lady, casting a glance of mingled
terror and supplication upon the stock-broker, and clasping her hands
together: "can this be true? Is it possible that a person exercising an
honourable profession can league with wretches of their stamp?"--and she
pointed disdainfully towards the Resurrection Man and Chichester. "Oh!
no, it cannot be! At least, hear me! I married that man--"

"Don't I tell you that Mr. Tomlinson knows all," cried Chichester,
impatiently. "We did not come to debate upon the past, but to settle for
the future."

"You have come, then, to plunder a weak, helpless, persecuted female,"
continued Viola. "But do you know, sir, the terrible means that have
been adopted to wring from me a consent to part with half the property
which was bequeathed to me by a man that loved me--a man who toiled for
years and years to amass the fortune that must now be devoted to the
extravagances of a spendthrift? Would you believe to what an extent the
cruelty, the cowardice of that man,"--and she pointed to Tidkins,--"has
been carried to terrify me into compliance with the demands of his
employer? Sir, for three weeks and three days have I been a prisoner in
this dungeon; and every night--without fail--has that miscreant visited
me in a disguise which, in such a place, and at such an hour, would make
the stoutest heart palpitate with horror,--a disguise of such a nature
that this is the first time that I have seen his face; for on the fatal
evening when I was seized and brought to this dungeon, every thing was
involved in utter obscurity;--and then, when the door opened again, and
a light gleamed in upon me,--O God! it was carried by a person dressed
in a dark cloak and a white mask--like a being of another world!"

"Surely you did not go to such extremes as this?" exclaimed Tomlinson,
turning sharply round upon the Resurrection Man.

"Whatever I did, or did not, is nothing to the present business,"
replied Tidkins, brutally. "If any thing is going to be done, let it be
done at once; if not, the lady will remain here till she chooses to
consent to the terms proposed to her."

Tomlinson glanced, with a look of deep sympathy, towards the lady, who
stood in an attitude of supplication and despair before him. Her
dishevelled hair hung loosely over her shoulders: her countenance,
though not beautiful, was naturally interesting, and was now rendered
more so by its extreme pallor and by the expression of profound
melancholy which it wore; and her mild blue eyes were raised towards him
as if to implore his aid--his compassion.

"Now, what is to be done?" demanded Chichester.

"It is for this gentleman to decide," said the lady, still gazing upon
Tomlinson's countenance. "You may well suppose that I am desirous to
recover the liberty which has thus been infamously violated;--but if
you, sir, possess one germ of generous feeling--one spark of honour--one
gleam of humanity in your soul, do not--do not lend yourself to this
infamy! Command these men to restore me to freedom--they cannot refuse
to obey you! Oh! sir--hear me--do not avert your head: hear me--hear me,
I implore you!"

"This is quite enough of folly for one time," ejaculated the
Resurrection Man: "I have been an idiot myself to listen to it so long.
Mr. Tomlinson, are you prepared to receive the signature of this lady to
the deed that will transfer to her husband a certain portion of her
property?"--then, approaching his lips to the stock-broker's ear, he
murmured in a low whisper, "Hesitate--and I denounce your late clerk
within an hour!"

These words operated like magic upon the weak-minded and timid James
Tomlinson. He no longer beheld the supplicating woman before him: he
only saw his own danger.

Accordingly, he advanced towards the table, drew forth a document from
his pocket, and said, in a cold tone, "I am ready to receive that lady's
signature."

The Resurrection Man produced an ink-bottle and pens (with which he had
purposely provided himself beforehand) from his pocket; and placed them
upon the table.

Tomlinson seated himself in the chair, and proceeded to fill up the
paper.

"In whose favour is the transfer to be made?" he demanded.

"Then, sir, you are determined to league with my oppressors?" said
Viola, in a tone expressive of concentrated feelings of indignation and
despair.

"Madam, I am unfortunately compelled--"

"Say no more, sir," interrupted the lady, with a contemptuous curl of
the lip. "If you came hither a villain, I must be mad indeed to hope to
make you an honest man by any reasoning of mine."

"Madam, you wrong me, by heavens!" ejaculated Tomlinson, throwing down
the pen.

But at the same moment his wrist was seized with a grasp of iron, and a
well-known voice whispered in his ear, "Hesitate another moment, and I
denounce you and your cashier together!"

Tomlinson became docile as a child, resumed the pen, and said, "In whose
favour is this transfer to be made?"

"In that of Mr. Arthur Chichester," answered Viola, firmly.

"What is the amount to be so transferred?"

"Eight thousand pounds, being part of a sum now standing in my name in
the Three-and-a-Half per cents.," replied the injured woman, still with
an outward composure, which was not, however, the reflection of her
inward feelings.

Tomlinson filled up the paper according to the instructions which he
received.

Then, addressing himself to Viola, but without turning his eyes towards
her, he said, "You are aware, madam, that this document is ante-dated by
two months?"

"I am, sir."

"Nothing now remains, then, madam, save for you to sign it."

Viola advanced slowly towards the table, took up the pen, and seemed to
be about to affix her signature to the deed, when--as if suddenly
recollecting herself--she turned towards the stock-broker, and
exclaimed, "What guarantee have I that my freedom is to follow this
concession on my part?"

"To-morrow evening, at dusk, you shall be conveyed home," exclaimed
Chichester, seeing that Tomlinson gave no answer.

"And why not this evening--now--the moment that document is signed?"

"Because I should prefer laying my hand on the money first," was the
reply.

"Mr. Tomlinson," cried the lady, "I have more confidence in you than in
either of these men: I am willing even to believe that some
circumstance, unknown to me, compels you unwillingly to become their
instrument on this occasion."

"By heavens, you speak the truth, madam!" ejaculated Tomlinson, warmly.

"I believe you. Now, sir, promise me on your most solemn word of
honour--by every thing you consider sacred--- that to-morrow evening at
nine o'clock I shall be released from this dungeon."

"I promise--I swear that you shall be conveyed home to-morrow evening at
nine o'clock," answered Tomlinson. "But, in return, madam, will you
pledge yourself as solemnly that your lips shall ever remain closed with
regard to this proceeding?"

"Oh! yes--I do--I do," answered the poor creature, clasping her hands
together--for she could even feel grateful to the man who, while leagued
with others against her, yet pledged himself to her release from that
horrible cell.

"Secresy on all sides is one of the conditions of the present
arrangement," said Chichester.

"And if the lady breaks that condition," added the Resurrection Man,
"she would repent it; for let her be surrounded by friends--let her be
protected by a regiment of soldiers--let her take refuge in the Queen's
palace, I would still find means to tear her away, and bring her back to
this dungeon."

Tomlinson and the lady both cast a glance of mingled horror and surprise
at the formidable individual who thus spoke so confidently of his power
and resolution.

There was a moment's pause.

Viola then took up the pen, and, with a firm hand, affixed her signature
to the document.

"I am now at your mercy," she said, in a tone rather of supplication
than of menace or mistrust.

"You need not be afraid that we shall deceive you, my dear," observed
Chichester, with a smile.

A reply rose to the lips of his injured wife; but she suppressed
it--though with difficulty. She was no doubt afraid to irritate the man
in whose power she still found herself, by giving utterance to her
thoughts.

"No--there's nothing to be afraid of," said the Resurrection Man. "The
lady has fulfilled her part of the bargain, and we will perform ours. As
for her keeping this little business dark, I feel confident about
_that_: she would not like to stand the chance of coming here again;
and, as for making a disturbance merely to get back the money, that
would be useless, when once it had found its way into the pockets of her
husband."

[Illustration]

Having concluded this brutal speech, the Resurrection Man desired his
companions to await his return for a moment, while he proceeded to fetch
the lady her provisions for the next four-and-twenty hours.

He accordingly hastened up the steps to the little back room, whence he
speedily returned with his basket in his hand.

"You see that I expected how all this would end," he observed, with a
hideous smile; "and so I prepared a little treat for the lady. Here's a
prime fowl; that brown paper contains ham; here's a new loaf; and this
is a bottle of as excellent sherry as one need drink."

The Resurrection Man placed the articles, as he enumerated them, upon
the table; and Viola was pleased as she contemplated them--because she
perceived in this indulgence an earnest that the promise of her
persecutors would be fulfilled with respect to her restoration to
liberty.

"We must now take leave of Mrs. Chichester," said Tidkins. "To-morrow
evening, ma'am, at nine precisely, you shall be free."

The three men then left the dungeon.

But ere the door closed upon the inmate once more, she moved forward,
caught Tomlinson by the hand, and said in an emphatic tone, "Remember
your solemn promise!"

"Do not be alarmed, madam. There can be no interest to detain you here
beyond to-morrow."

Viola retreated into the dungeon; and the door was shut.

She heard the three persons who had just left her retire from the
subterranean prison: the closing of the trap-door also fell upon her
ears.

Clasping her hands together, she exclaimed, "God grant that they may not
deceive me!"

And then a vague terror stole upon her,--a horrible, an absorbing dread
lest those men intended to immure her for life in that solitary cell, or
else restore her to liberty only when they should have extorted from her
the remainder of her fortune.

"Oh! fool that I was, to sign that paper!" she exclaimed, in a paroxysm
of despair. "Will men, who are capable of such villany--such atrocity
as this that they have practised towards me,--will they remain satisfied
with a portion of the gold that has allured them to violate every
principle of honour and humanity? Oh! no--no! and perhaps--to conceal
their crime the more effectually--they will not hesitate to imbrue their
hands in my blood!"

Overpowered by this idea, the unhappy woman threw herself upon the bed,
and wept bitterly.

That torrent of tears relieved her; and in a few minutes she grew
somewhat composed.

Then came reflections of a less painful nature.

"Still--still there was something honest in the appearance of that
stock-broker: there was something feeling in his words! He was
performing a task against which his soul revolted. He commiserated my
condition: oh! yes--he sympathised with me! In him is my hope--my only
hope! I need not quite despair!"

She thus reasoned herself into a state of comparative calmness; and then
a feeling of weakness came over her. She grew faint--her head swam
round.

She rose, and walked up and down the cell to dispel the sensation that
thus oppressed her; and suddenly she recollected that many hours had
elapsed since she had eaten any thing. Her eyes fell upon the viands
which the Resurrection Man had placed on the table; and she hastened to
break her long fast. When she had partaken of a morsel of food, she
poured some wine into a glass and drank it.

Scarcely, however, had she swallowed the liquor, when she felt herself
overpowered by a deep drowsiness; the glass dropped from her hands; she
rose from the chair, advanced a few paces, and then fell upon the bed in
a state of insensibility.




CHAPTER CXIII.

THE LOVERS.


The morning, which succeeded the night that witnessed the incidents just
detailed, was clear, frosty, and fine. It was one of those winter
mornings when the soil is as hard as iron, but on which the sun shines
with gay light if not with genial heat. On such a morning we walk abroad
with a consciousness that the exercise benefits us: we feel the blood
acquiring a more rapid circulation in our veins; we soon experience a
pleasant glow pervading the frame; our spirits become exhilarated; and
we learn that even Winter has its peculiar charms.

Such was the feeling that animated Richard Markham, as, after alighting
from a public vehicle at Richmond, he proceeded rapidly along a by-road
that led through the fields at the back of Count Alteroni's mansion.

His cheeks were tinged with a glow that set off his handsome features to
the greatest advantage: his dark eyes sparkled with an expression of joy
and hope; a smile played upon his lip; and he walked with his head erect
as if he felt proud of his existence--because that existence, in spite
of its vicissitudes, was protected by some auspicious star.

O Love! art thou not a star full of hope and promise, like that which
guided the sages of the East to the cradle of their Redeemer?--like the
welcome planet which heralds the dauntless mariner over the midnight
seas?--like the twinkling orb which points the right track to the Arab
wanderer of the desert?

Richard Markham pursued his way--his soul full of hope, and love, and
bliss.

At a distance of about a quarter of a mile on his right hand, the
mansion of Count Alteroni soon met his eyes, surrounded by the
evergreens that, in contrast with the withered trees elsewhere, gave to
the spot where it stood the air of an oasis in the midst of a desert.

Markham's heart beat quickly when that well-known dwelling met his view;
and for a moment a shade of melancholy passed over his countenance, for
he recalled to mind the happy hours he had once spent within its walls.

But that transitory cloud vanished from his brow, when his eye caught a
glimpse, in another instant, of a sylph-like form that was threading a
leafless grove at a little distance.

Richard redoubled his steps, and was led, by the circuitous winding of
the path that he was pursuing, somewhat nearer to the Count's mansion.

In a few minutes he reached the very spot where, in the preceding
spring, he had accidentally encountered Isabella, and where she assured
him of her unchanged and unchangeable love.

He is now on that spot once more:--he pauses--looks around--and Isabella
again approaches.

Richard rushes forward, and clasps the beauteous Italian maiden in his
arms.

"Isabella--dearest Isabella! What good angel prompted you to grant me
this interview?" he exclaimed, when the first effusion of joy was over.

"Do you think me indiscreet, Richard?" asked the signora, taking his
arm, and glancing timidly towards his countenance.

"Indiscreet, my sweet girl!" cried her lover: "Oh! how can you suppose
that I would entertain a harsh feeling with regard to that goodness on
your part which doubtless instigated you to afford me the happiness of
this meeting?"

"But when we met here--seven or eight months ago, Richard," said
Isabella, "I told you that never--never would I consent to a stolen
interview. And now--you may imagine--"

"I imagine that you love me, Isabella--love me as I love you," exclaimed
Markham; "and what other idea can occupy my thoughts when that one is
present? Oh! you know not the ineffable joy--the unequalled pleasure
which I experienced when your letter reached me yesterday. I recognised
your handwriting immediately; and I seized the letter with avidity, when
it was brought to me in my study. And then, Isabella--will you believe
me when I tell you that I trembled to open it? I laid it upon the
table--my hand refused to break the seal. Pardon me--forgive me, if for
a moment I feared--"

"That I had forgotten my vows--my plighted affection," faltered
Isabella, reproachfully.

"Again I say pardon--forgive me, dearest girl; but--oh! I have been so
very unfortunate!"

"Think not of the past, Richard," said Isabella, tenderly.

"The past! Oh! how can I cease to ponder upon the past, when it has
nearly bereaved me of all hope for the future?" exclaimed Markham, in an
impassioned tone.

"Not _all_ hope," murmured Isabella; "since hope still remains to _me_!"

"Angel that thou art!" cried Richard, pressing the maiden's hand fondly.
"How weak I am, since it is from thee that moral courage ever is
imparted."

"You were speaking of my letter," said Isabella, with a smile.

"True! But so many emotions--joy and hope--sorrowful reminiscences and
brighter prospects, bewilder me! I will, however, try to talk calmly!
When your letter came, I feared to open it for some moments: I dreaded a
new calamity! But at length I called all my firmness to my aid; and a
terrible weight was taken from my soul, when my eye glanced at the first
lines of that letter which suddenly became as dear and welcome as a
reprieve to the condemned criminal. Then, when I saw that my beloved
Isabella still thought of me--still loved me---"

"Oh, I did not tell you _that_ in my letter," exclaimed Isabella, with a
smile of bewitching archness.

"No--but I divined it--I gathered it from the words in which you
conveyed to me your desire to see me--from the manner in which you said
that at eleven o'clock this morning you should walk in the very place
where we had met accidentally once before--oh! I suddenly became a new
being: never was my heart so light!"

"And yet I said in my letter, Richard, that I wished to see you upon a
matter of business----"

"Ah! Isabella, destroy not the charm which makes me happy! Let no cold
thought of worldly things chill the heavenly fervour of our affection.
Were it not for that love which reciprocally exists between us, how
should I have supported the misfortunes that have multiplied upon me?"

"Again I say, Richard, allude not to the past. Alas! bitter--bitter were
the tears that I wept on that fatal night when----"

"When I was publicly disgraced at the theatre--in the midst of a
triumph. Yes--Isabella, you were there--there, when my shame was
consummated!"

"Accident had led us to the theatre that evening," answered Isabella.
"My father had heard that a new tragedy, of which grand hopes were
entertained, was to be produced; and he insisted that I should accompany
him and my mother. I was compelled to assent to his desire--although I
prefer retirement and tranquillity to society and gaiety. You may
conceive our astonishment--you may imagine _my_ surprise and _my_ joy,
when you came forward to acknowledge the congratulations offered for a
triumph so brilliantly achieved. And then--but let us leave that
subject--my blood turns cold when I think of it!"

"Oh! go on--speak of it, speak of it!" exclaimed Markham,
enthusiastically; "for although the reminiscence of that fearful scene
be like pouring molten lead upon an open wound, still it is sweet--it is
sweet, Isabella, to receive sympathy from such lips as yours."

"Alas! I have little more to say--except that the sudden intervention of
that terrible man seemed to strike me as with the arrow of death; and I
became insensible. Then, Richard,--_then_," continued Isabella, in a low
and tremulous tone, "my mother suspected my secret--or rather received a
confirmation of the suspicion which she had long entertained!"

"And she shuddered at the mere idea?" exclaimed Markham,
interrogatively.

"No, Richard: my mother is kind and good--and, you know, was always well
disposed towards you: I have told you that much before! She said
little--and of that no matter! But my father--my father----"

"He discovered _our_ secret also!" exclaimed Richard. "Oh! did he not
curse me?"

"He was cool and calm, when--on the following morning--he spoke to me
upon the subject. I answered him frankly: I admitted my attachment for
you."

"What did he say, Isabella! Tell me every thing--suppress not a word!"

"Oh, heavens! he made me very miserable," returned Isabella, tears
trickling down her countenance. "But wherefore distress both yourself
and me with a recapitulation of what ensued? Suffice it to say, that I
collected all the arguments in my memory--and they were not a few;--and
I presented to him that paper--the confession of Talbot, which proved
your innocence!"

"Dearest girl!" exclaimed Markham, rapturously.

"He did not refuse to read it," added Isabella; "and at length, when I
saw that I had made a profound impression on him, I turned the
conversation upon the momentary reverse of fortune which had plunged him
into a debtors' prison----"

"Isabella!" cried Markham, in surprise.

"And then I boldly declared my conviction that the unknown friend who
had released him--the anonymous individual who had thrown open to him
the gate leading to liberty--the nameless person, that had done so
generous a deed, and accomplished it in a manner as delicate as it was
noble,--was none other than Richard Markham!"

The tone of the Italian maiden had become more and more impassioned as
she proceeded; and when she uttered the last words of the foregoing
sentence, she turned upon him on whose arm she leant, a countenance
glowing with animation, and radiant with gratitude and love.

"Oh, Isabella! you told your father _that_!" cried Markham. "And
yet--you knew not----"

"My suspicion amounted almost to a certainty," interrupted Isabella:
"and now I doubt no longer. Oh! Richard--if ever for one moment I had
wavered in my love for you,--if ever an instant of coldness, arising
from worldly reflections, had intervened to make me repent my solemn
vows to you,--that _one_ deed of yours--that noble sacrifice of your
property, made to release my revered parent from a gaol,--that--that
alone would have rendered my heart unalterably thine!"

"Beloved girl--this moment is the happiest of my life!" exclaimed
Markham; and tears of joy filled his eyes, as he pressed the maiden once
more to his heart.

"Yes, Richard," continued Isabella, after a long pause; and now her
splendid countenance was lighted up with an expression of dignity and
generous pride, and the timid, bashful maiden seemed changed into a lady
whose brow was encircled with a diadem; "yes, Richard, if ever I felt
that no deed nor act of mine shall separate us eternally--if ever I
rejoiced in the prospect of possessing wealth, and receiving lustre from
my father's princely rank----"

"Isabella!" exclaimed Richard, dropping the arm on which the Italian
lady was leaning, and stepping back in the most profound astonishment:
"Isabella, what mean you?"

"I mean," continued the signora, casting upon him a glance of deep
tenderness and noble pride; "I mean that henceforth, Richard, I can have
no secret from you,--that I must now disclose what has often before
trembled upon my tongue; a secret which my father would not, however, as
yet, have revealed to the English public generally,--the secret of his
rank; for he whom the world knows as the Count Alteroni, is Alberto,
Prince of Castelcicala!"

Strange was the effect that this revelation produced upon the young man.
He felt, as if, when in a burning heat, a mighty volume of icy water had
suddenly been dashed over him: his head appeared to swim round--his
sight grew dim--he staggered, and would have fallen had not Isabella
rushed towards him, exclaiming, "Richard--dear Richard--do you not
believe how much I love you?"

Those words produced an instantaneous change within him: those sweet
syllables, uttered in the silvery tones of lovely woman's
tenderness--recalled him to himself.

"Ah! Isabella," he exclaimed, mournfully, "how insuperable is the
barrier which divides us _now_!"

"And--if that barrier to which you allude, ever existed, was it less
formidable when you were ignorant of the secret than it is at present?"
asked Isabella, tenderly.

"It seems so to me," replied Richard. "Are you not placed on an eminence
to which I never can hope to reach? have I not dared to lift my
ambitious eyes towards a Princess--the daughter of one who will some day
wear a sovereign crown? Oh! now the delusion is gone--I am awakened from
a long dream! But, say--did your highness make this revelation to-day,
in order to extinguish my adventurous aspirations at once and for ever?"

"Richard, you wrong me--cruelly wrong me!" exclaimed Isabella, bursting
into tears.

"Forgive me--forgive me, sweetest, dearest girl!" cried Markham. "I was
mad--I raved--I knew not what I said----"

"Richard, when we met here--once before--you doubted my affection, and
then you asked me to forgive you! How often will you put my feelings to
so cruel a test? how often will you renew those unjust suspicions?"

"O God! what have I done, that I should thus call tears to your eyes,
Isabella? Forgive me, again--I say--forgive me: on my knees I
implore----"

"No--no! I think no more of what you said," exclaimed Isabella. "Calm
yourself for my sake!"--and she gazed so tenderly up into his
countenance, that he was reassured, and all his doubts and fears
vanished in a moment.

"Yes, Isabella," he said: "I am now calm; and you--you are an angel!"

"A mere terrestrial one, Richard, I am afraid," returned the Princess,
with a smile. "And now let me speak to you upon the little matter of
business to which I alluded in my note. After I had informed my father
that you were the generous unknown who had been the means of his release
from prison, he exclaimed, '_Excellent-hearted young man! How I have
wronged him by my injurious suspicions concerning that night when the
burglary was attempted at our home!_' You see that I tell you his very
words."

"Yes--tell me every thing, dear Isabella. And, thus, your father no
longer believes----"

"How can he believe that any one would attempt to rob him one day, and
pay nearly two thousand pounds for him another?" exclaimed Isabella.
"Oh, no--he is disabused upon that point. Would that he were
unprejudiced on others!"

"I understand you," said Markham, mournfully. "The Prince cannot consent
to renew his acquaintance with one who has been subjected to an infamous
punishment, and who aspires to the hand of his daughter."

"Alas! you have divined but too truly," returned Isabella, wiping away a
tear. "Nevertheless, may we not hope? Already is one great point gained:
my father believes that you may have been unfortunate, and not guilty.
Oh! that is a great obstacle removed! And in my mother, Richard, you
have a warm friend--although her prejudices of rank and family----"

"I can well comprehend the sentiments of her Highness," answered
Markham: "and it is all that which now makes me fear lest----"

"Fear not--but hope every thing," said Isabella, who, however, poor
girl! spoke in a more flattering manner than her secret thoughts would
have warranted, had she consulted them; but she saw her lover oppressed
and weighed down by the revelation of that secret which she had
considered it unkind to retain any longer; and she did all she could to
console him.

"Yes--I will hope, for both our sakes," said Richard.

"And now let me conclude my little narrative," continued Isabella. "My
father resolved to repay you the money you had so generously advanced,
the moment he was enabled; and as the Grand Duke of Castelcicala has
settled upon him an income of ten thousand a-year, besides an immediate
grant of forty thousand pounds,--boons which my father had only accepted
because no political condition was attached to them, and because they
are alleged to be an indemnification for his estates which have been
confiscated,--he only awaited the arrival of his first remittances to
acquit himself of that debt of honour. The day before yesterday he gave
this letter," added Isabella, taking a small sealed packet from her
reticule, "to one of our servants to convey to the post at Richmond. I
demanded it back again privately of the servant, with the view of
placing it myself in your hands, and--and taking the opportunity to
reveal to you a secret which I did not think it right to keep from you
any longer."

"I receive this packet, then, Isabella, with its contents," said
Markham, pressing her hand as he took it, "because your father is
happily in a position to repay me the trifle which I was enabled to
disburse for his benefit. But ten thousand times more valuable is this
sum to me, since its payment prompted you to grant me this interview."

"I had so much to tell you, Richard," answered the lady, with a deep
blush, "that I could not commit it all to paper. I therefore adopted
this plan--which perhaps is indiscreet----"

"Use not that epithet again, dear Isabella," interrupted Markham. "You
assure me that you love me: can you then regret that you have made me
happy by allowing me to see you--to talk to you--to embrace you once
again? And yet, in the midst of that happiness, the sad thought intrudes
upon me--'_When shall I see thee again?_'"

"Accident may throw us together soon--as it has done ere now," murmured
Isabella: "accident--or rather Providence--does so much for us poor
mortals."

"But, with your mother's prejudices in favour of rank and birth, and
with your father's high destinies, what hope can exist for so humble an
individual as myself? How can I dare aspire to the hand of a Princess of
a powerful independent state?"

"Did not Miss Eliza Sydney espouse the Grand Duke of Castelcicala? and
she--she also----"

"Oh! I remember," exclaimed Markham, seeing that Isabella hesitated,--"I
remember that _she_ also was unfortunate, as I was; and she also
endured a weary imprisonment of two years. Yes--I accept the omen--it is
an auspicious one!"

And Richard's handsome countenance was once more animated with a glow of
hope and joy.

Then, in an access of enthusiasm, he exclaimed:

"Oh! if ever this fond aspiration should be realised,--if ever the
humble and obscure Englishman were united to the high-born and brilliant
Italian Princess, how sweet--how sweet would it be for him to owe rank
and fortune to the woman whom he loved so fondly, and whom he would ever
love until the hand of Death should beckon him to the tomb! For myself,
I pant not for the honours and glories of this life; for hadst thou,
Isabella, been the daughter of the lowest peasants, I had loved thee all
the same--and had been far, far more contented, because the obstacles
which now oppose our happiness might then have ceased to exist!"

"Believe me, Richard," answered Isabella, in a tone of witching
tenderness, "believe me, that the happiest day of my life will be that
when I can prove to you the extent of that affection with which you have
inspired me;--and, again I repeat, that if ever I rejoiced in the
prospect of that fortune which, whether my father eventually succeed to
the ducal throne or not, he will be enabled to leave me,--and if ever I
felt proud of that high station which my family enjoys, or indulged in
the hope that my parents may one day attain to sovereign rank,--that
joy, that pride, that hope are all experienced on account of _you_! For,
like you, I care not for the grandeur and ostentation of palaces;--but
it will be a thrice happy day for me, when I can say to thee--'_Richard,
my fortune is all thine, and thou shalt share my rank!_' Because, in
Castelcicala, unlike the usages of your native land, he who espouses a
Princess becomes a Prince; and, when you shall be thus exalted, Richard,
who will dare to remind you of the misfortunes of your past life? That
is why I rejoice in my present rank and future prospects,--a joy that is
experienced solely on account of you!"

"Noble-hearted girl! what kindness--what attention--what devoted love on
my part can ever repay thee for these generous feelings--these endearing
proofs of the tenderest attachment!"

"Do you think that I should love you, Richard, as I do," returned
Isabella, "if I did not know the generosity of your soul--if I did not
appreciate all your virtues? I am well aware that, unfortunately, you
are not rich; and yet you sacrificed--nobly sacrificed your property to
release my parent from a gaol! Oh! how can I ever forget that conduct of
yours? You speak of repaying _me_ for my affection: how much do I not
owe to _you_?"

There was a pause in the conversation, during which the lovers walked up
and down along the edge of the leafless grove, each enjoying reflections
of a pleasurable nature. Isabella leant with charming confidence upon
the arm of that handsome and generous-hearted young man, in whose love
she gloried as if _he_ were the Prince and _she_ were the obscure
individual; and he felt his heart expand with ineffable bliss, as he
contemplated the brilliant prospects which that lovely girl--the
proudly-born Princess spread before the eyes of him--the obscure
individual.

More than an hour and a half had already passed, and Isabella at length
remembered that she must return home.

She intimated to her lover the necessity of separating; and, with fond
embraces and renewed vows, they parted.

Richard watched her receding form until she entered the grove of
evergreens surrounding her father's mansion: he then retraced his steps
towards Richmond.

And never was his heart so light as now!




CHAPTER CXIV.

THE CONTENTS OF THE PACKET.


Alberto of Castelcicala, to conceal his princely rank, when he arrived
in England an exile from his native shores, had adopted the style of
Count Alteroni--this title being the name of an estate which he had
possessed in Italy, but which, together with the remainder of his vast
property, had been confiscated by order of the Grand Duke, his uncle.
The government of Castelcicala was an absolute despotism; and it was
because the Prince, with a view to ameliorate the condition of the
people whom he might one day be called upon to govern, had placed
himself at the head, and openly avowed himself as the patron, of a
political party in the state, whose object was to obtain a constitution,
he had been proscribed by the Grand Duke and the old aristocracy of the
country.

His party advised him to have recourse to arms; and meetings in favour
of the enlightened principles which he advocated were held at the time
throughout the country. But the Prince was resolved never to plunge his
native land into the horrors of a civil war: he preferred exile and
obscurity to such an alternative. His was, indeed, a lofty and patriotic
soul, that knew how to sacrifice his dearest interests to the popular
tranquillity.

Accordingly, on his arrival in London he had adopted a rank
comparatively humble in respect to the exalted station which he in
reality occupied; and to this mode of conduct he was instigated by the
same disinterested motives that had led him to fly from his country
rather than raise the standard of civil strife. He knew that if he
settled in London under his proper title, he could not avoid receiving
those patriotic exiles who had fled from Castelcicala to avoid the
consequences of their liberal opinions. He was averse to the idea of
allowing his dwelling to be made the point of _réunion_ for those who
advocated the enforcement of the popular cause by means of arms; he
would not for a moment consent to permit a nucleus of open rebellion
against the reigning sovereign of Castelcicala, to be formed under his
auspices. He had, therefore, intimated to his friends and adherents that
he intended to retire into private life, until circumstances might place
him in a position to confer upon his native land the charter of
liberties which he believed to be its natural right.

The few English persons who were acquainted with his secret, religiously
kept it. The Tremordyns, Armstrong, and the Earl of Warrington, whom he
numbered amongst his best friends, respected the _incognito_ which his
Highness thought fit to preserve. Thus, Armstrong had not even
communicated the fact to Richard Markham when he introduced him to the
Prince's dwelling; and the reader may now understand the reasons which
led the haughtiest of England's peers, the Earl of Warrington, on the
occasion of his visit to the mansion near Richmond to solicit letters of
introduction for Eliza Sydney, to bend his head with such profound
respect in the presence of the heir presumptive to a throne.

Nor need it now be made a matter of marvel if those letters of
introduction proved such immediate passports for Eliza Sydney into the
first society of Castelcicala;--but little did he who gave them or he
who solicited them,--little did they think that their ulterior effect
would be to open the way for that lady to such an eminence as the one
which she had attained.

We have before explained,--a point, indeed, which the intelligent reader
could not fail to comprehend,--that the chance of Alberto to the
Castelcicalan throne now depended upon the contingency of the marriage
of Angelo III. producing offspring, or not. Scarcely, however, had that
marriage been consummated, when the Minister of Foreign. Affairs wrote
to the Castelcicalan envoy at the court of Queen Victoria, to
communicate to Prince Alberto the intention of the government,
sanctioned by the Grand Duke, to allow him a handsome income, and supply
him with an immediate grant, by way of indemnification for the loss of
his estates. No political condition of any kind being attached to this
concession, the Prince did not hesitate to accept it; and it was even
mentioned in a Montoni newspaper, that the influence of the Grand
Duchess, aided by the friendly feeling of some of the new Ministers
towards the Prince, had procured this act of justice at the hands of
Angelo III.

These few observations may not be deemed superfluous, inasmuch as they
tend to explain the real position of the Prince of Castelcicala--the
father of our charming heroine.

We said it was with a light heart that Richard Markham retraced his
steps to Richmond, after having parted with the Princess Isabella.

He was, moreover, desirous to examine the contents of the packet which
she had placed in his hands,--not because he cared for the money which
was thus returned to him; but because he was anxious to ascertain
whether any note from her father accompanied it.

He, however, restrained his curiosity until he reached Richmond, where
he entered an hotel, ordered a private room, bespoke some refreshment,
and then proceeded to break the seal of the envelope.

Yes--there _was_ a letter, containing a cheque.

The cheque fell unheeded on the carpet: the letter was immediately
perused with avidity;--

     "I cannot sufficiently express my admiration of your noble and
     generous conduct in having liquidated the debts for which I was
     detained in the Queen's Bench prison. I now repay, with unfeigned
     and heart-felt gratitude, that sum which you advanced, for my
     necessities, in a manner so honourable to your own nature and so
     eminently useful to me at that period. I need not say how deeply I
     regret the injurious suspicions which I entertained concerning you
     on a certain occasion: but circumstances were too powerfully
     combined against you to admit of any other impression. You will
     forgive me--for I ask your pardon: I sincerely apologise for all I
     may have said or done on that occasion.

     "And now, my dear Mr. Markham, I am compelled to touch upon a
     subject which, though painful, demands a few observations. That you
     have been unfortunate, I know: that you were never guilty, I am now
     well convinced. I have read a document which proves this. But you
     have inspired my daughter with an affection, which I understand is
     reciprocal, and which never can end otherwise than in
     disappointment to you both. Crush, then, this sentiment in your
     breast; and for the peace of mind of _her_ who is my only child,
     and who never--never can become your wife, I implore you not to see
     her more! Avoid her--as I shall instruct her to avoid you,--my only
     motive being based upon certain circumstances, unknown to you,
     which render your union an impossibility. I address you as a
     friend--as a father I write to you; your generous heart will teach
     you how to respect my wishes.

     "One more subject must not be forgotten. I am well aware that you
     are not as wealthy as you once were. Thank God, my pecuniary means
     have ceased to be a subject of anxiety to me. You aided me when I
     was in need and in distress: allow me to offer you a trifling
     assistance towards enabling you to build up your fortunes. This is
     an object, which, with your great talents, you cannot fail to
     accomplish. Remember, I do not offer this small aid as an acquittal
     of my deep obligation towards you: no--my gratitude is intense--and
     the circumstances under which you befriended me leave me ever your
     debtor. But as a friend, I offer you the use of my purse;--as a
     friend I place in your hands a sum of money which you can use
     during your pleasure, and return to me at your convenience. Should
     that sum be insufficient to forward your views, hesitate not to
     apply to me for more.

     "And now, farewell--at least for the present; and believe that no
     one will be more delighted to hear of your success in life, than

"Your very sincere friend,
"ALTERONI."



Markham picked up the cheque: it was for five thousand pounds.

We must endeavour to explain the nature of the feelings which the
contents of the Prince's letter created within him.

He saw with delight that the illustrious exile once more addressed him
as a friend, and that all suspicions of his guilt had been extirpated
from the mind of that nobleman. But, on the other hand, the barrier
between himself and Isabella seemed to be rendered insuperable by the
positive terms in which the Prince bade him eradicate his passion from
his bosom. That barrier was no doubt twofold: the father of Isabella
never could consent to the union of his daughter with one whom the world
had stamped with ignominy, although innocent:--and, chiefly, the Italian
Prince--the probable heir to a throne--might aspire to a far, far higher
connexion for his child. Then Richard's thoughts were directed to the
handsome sum of money which the Prince had placed at his disposal; and
he could not do otherwise than admire the delicate manner in which it
was proffered,--a manner that scarcely admitted of a refusal. And yet
Richard was resolved to return the surplus above the amount which he had
disbursed to procure the Prince's liberation from prison.

Thus was it with mingled feelings of joy and melancholy that Markham
reviewed the contents of that letter.

Still he clung to Hope,--for Isabella had bade him hope; and he thought
that the same good Providence which had thus far reconciled him to the
father of his beloved, might in time accomplish more striking miracles
in his favour.

But, alas! it must indeed be a miracle that could link his fate with the
high destinies of the ducal house of Castelcicala!

Isabella, instead of being the daughter of an obscure count, was the
only child of one who, if he were not to become himself the sovereign of
the most powerful petty state in Europe, would at all events occupy a
station next only to the sovereign whenever circumstances should allow
him to return to his native land.

But, on the other hand, Isabella was faithful and true; and what might
not be expected from woman's love?

In a word, Markham was rather inclined to hope than to despair; and the
incidents of that morning imparted to his soul a solace which was a
recompense for much, very much of past suffering.

Having partaken of some refreshment, Richard returned to London, and
repaired to the bank where the cheque was made payable.

He only drew for the amount actually due to him, and desired that the
surplus might be retained in behalf of Count Alteroni (under which name
the Prince was known at the bankers' establishment).

On his return home, Richard addressed the following letter to the
Italian nobleman:--

     "A thousand thanks, my dear lord, for your most kind and courteous
     letter. To find that you have at length become convinced that I was
     unfortunate, and _never_ guilty, is a source of happiness the
     extent of which I cannot describe.

     "Your wishes in respect to the attachment which I certainly
     entertain for the Signora Isabella, shall be so far complied
     with--that I will not venture to present myself at your abode. As
     for extinguishing that affection which burns in my heart--mortal
     power cannot accomplish the task.

     "It was with unfeigned delight that I understood from your
     lordship's letter that your position not only enabled you to return
     the trifle which I once ventured to use in your behalf, but also
     most generously to offer me the means of building up my fallen
     fortunes. My lord, I am unable to profit by your kindness; the
     stigma under which I lie--and with tears I write these words--is a
     bar to any legitimate speculation with a hope of success. Moreover,
     I have sufficient for my wants; and am therefore, in one sense,
     rich. Excuse me if I have not availed myself of your noble
     offer--an offer that scarcely admits of refusal in consequence of
     the delicacy and kindness with which it was made. Nevertheless, I
     am bound to decline it--with the most sincere gratitude; at the
     same time observing, that should need ever press me, I shall not
     hesitate to have recourse to the friendship with which you honour
     me.

     "In the earnest hope that happiness and health may attend upon
     yourself and amiable family,

"I remain, my dear lord,
"Your most grateful and faithful servant,
"RICHARD MARKHAM."



It will be seen that the tone of this letter was somewhat constrained;
but, although Richard endeavoured to write with apparent ease, as if
ignorant of his correspondent's real rank, he could not forget that he
was addressing himself to the Prince of Castelcicala.




CHAPTER CXV.

THE TREASURE.--A NEW IDEA.


Alas! that we should be compelled to turn from such bright scenes as
woman's love and lovers' hope, to deeds of infamy and crime.

But so goes the world; and no faithful historian can venture to deviate
from the rule.

Sad, and dismal, and dark, are many of the phases which this narrative
has yet to show; but we can also promise our reader that there will not
be wanting bright and cheering scenes to afford relief to his eye.

Chequered, indeed, are the ways of life: varied and diversified are all
its paths.

And, oh! let him who is wearied with the load of existence, while
wending through the rough and craggy places of the world, and when
rudely jostled by the world's unfeeling crowd,--let him remember that
there is another sphere beyond, where the ways are smooth and pleasant,
and where the voice of lamentation is never heard,--a sphere where
angels alone shall be the guides of the elect, and where the sound of
grateful harmony shall never cease,--a sphere, whose name is HEAVEN!

Again we say, alas! that we should be compelled to divert the attention
of our reader from scenes of mundane bliss and the contemplation of the
purest love, to deeds of iniquity and hatred.

But to our task.

It was about five o'clock in the evening of the day that witnessed the
incidents of the two preceding chapters, and that had succeeded the
night on which the unhappy Viola had signed a deed surrendering up half
her property to her unprincipled husband,--that the Resurrection Man
returned home to his dwelling in Globe Town.

But before he ascended to the apartments inhabited by himself and his
mistress with a fearful name, he entered the lower part of the building,
and, having lighted a candle, descended to the subterranean vaults.

In the first place he went into a cell opposite to that which was still
tenanted by Viola, who, it will be remembered, had received a solemn
promise to be restored to her own abode that evening at nine o'clock.

The Resurrection Man entered the cell to which we have alluded, and
which was empty.

He raised a stone from the floor, and drew from a hole of about a foot
deep, a large leathern bag, the contents of which sent forth the welcome
metallic sound of gold as he took it in his hand.

The miscreant seated himself upon the cold floor of the cell, and poured
forth into his hat the glittering contents of the bag. His eyes sparkled
with delight as he surveyed the treasure.

He took a few of the coins up in his hand, and let them drop one by one
back again into his hat--his glances greedily fixed upon the gold as he
thus toyed with it.

"Two hundred good sterling sovereigns here already," he mused within
himself,--"two hundred pounds earned with toil, trouble, daring, and
danger. Two hundred pounds are a decent provision for any man in my line
of life! And now," he continued, taking a smaller canvass bag from his
pocket, "there is more to add to swell the treasury. Here is a hundred
pounds--my half of the sum paid by Tomlinson this afternoon for keeping
the secret about his old clerk. The Buffer has got his share; but I
warrant he will hoard none of it as I do! Thank my stars, within the
last year I have learnt to be economical and saving. I mean to have
something for my old age; unless----"

And his countenance suddenly assumed an expression perfectly hideous, as
he reflected upon the probability of his career being cut short by the
hand of the law.

But, in another moment, he grew composed--that is to say, desperately
hardened; and he then proceeded with his occupation and his musings.

"Well, here is my share of the two hundred pounds that the
chicken-hearted, contemptible, cowardly Tomlinson paid for a secret
which a little calm reflection might have told him that I dared not
reveal. That's a hundred pounds to add to my sinking fund;"--and here
the miscreant smiled. "Now," he continued, "comes the grand swag--three
hundred pounds from Chichester,--and not too much for the trouble I have
had in _his_ affair! Two hundred before--Tomlinson's hundred--and
Chichester's three hundred,--that makes six hundred pounds of good
sterling gold, the property of Mr. Anthony Tidkins!"

And here the Resurrection Man laughed outright:--it was a horrible
chuckle--the triumph of a miscreant of a most atrocious nature.

But he was happy--happy after his own fashion;--happy in counting and
contemplating the produce of his turpitude.

While he was consigning his wealth to the larger bag, and gloating over
the gold as he passed it through his hand, he was suddenly alarmed by a
slight sound in the passage.

It seemed like a low footstep.

He listened, but it was not repeated.

For nearly a minute did he remain motionless, and almost breathless, in
a state of painful attention; but not another sound met his ear.

Then, recovering from the state of uneasy suspense into which that
incident had thrown him, he rose from the floor, and hurried into the
passage which divided the two rows of cells.

All was quiet.

Ashamed of himself for his childish alarm, and muttering a curse at his
folly for having given way to that fear, he returned into the cell,
buried his treasure and covered the place with the stone. He then
carefully locked the door of the dungeon.

He crossed the passage, and proceeded gently to open the door leading
into the cell occupied by Viola. When he entered this vault, he found
the lamp extinguished; but by the glare of his candle, he perceived the
unhappy woman stretched in a profound slumber upon the bed.

"All right," he muttered to himself,--"and just as I expected. She will
sleep some hours yet, for the wine was well drugged; and thus we can
convey her back again to her house in a state of insensibility. When she
awakes in her own bed, her servants will assure her that all she has
passed through was a mere dream; and by this plan she will be so
bewildered, that she will actually fancy she has been delirious, and
that her brain has wandered. This was Chichester's suggestion; and I
must give him credit for it. True--she will sooner or later discover
that the departure of half her property is no dream; but then the first
burst of passion will have gone by, and she will consider it prudent to
hold her tongue. Well--let her sleep: at nine o'clock Chichester and
Tomlinson will come, and then she shall be removed."

At that instant an idea struck the Resurrection Man. Hitherto he had
worked as Chichester's agent, and by Chichester's directions, in this
affair: what if he were to turn the business to some good account for
himself? The lady had only parted with half her property: she had eight
thousand pounds left. Might not all, or a decent portion of this sum
thus remaining, pass into the hands of the Resurrection Man? His _mode
of treatment_ had elicited the first concession: some additional horrors
might extort a further grant. The idea was excellent: fool that he was
for not having thought of it before!

Thus reasoned Anthony Tidkins.

The more he thought of the new plot which had just entered his head, the
more he grew enamoured of it. He was well aware that neither Chichester
nor Tomlinson would dare to adopt measures to resist his will; and with
a grin of savage delight, he exclaimed aloud, "By God, it shall be
done!"

He then removed the bottle of wine from the cell, so that when Viola
awoke she might not repeat her dose--supposing that she should be
ignorant of the cause of her long lethargic slumber; for the
Resurrection Man was not aware of the sudden effect which it had
produced upon her, but imagined that the drugged liquid was only
powerful enough to operate gradually. He next replenished the lamp with
oil from a bottle which stood in one corner of the cell, and, having
lighted the lamp, withdrew, carefully bolting and locking the door
behind him.

He ascended from the subterranean prison, replaced the stone trap-door,
and issued from the ground-floor of the house. He observed that the door
leading into the alley was locked as he had left it when he entered; and
this circumstance reassured him relative to the little incident which
had temporarily disturbed him when counting his money in the cell.

Many circumstances combined to put the Resurrection Man into an
excellent humour.

He had that day added four hundred pounds to his hidden treasure; he saw
business of all kinds multiplying upon his hands, and promising a golden
harvest; and he had hit upon a scheme which, he had no doubt, would
produce him a larger sum than he had ever yet realised even in his
dreams.

It was therefore with a smiling countenance that he entered the
up-stairs room where the Rattlesnake was busily employed in spreading
the contents of her cupboard upon the table.

"Well, Meg, you see I am home before my time," he exclaimed. "I don't
want any dinner: I took some at a chop-house in town, as I had to wait
on business. But leave the lush: I am in a humour for a glass of
grog;--and you and I, Meg, will sit down and have a cozy chat together."

"So we will, Tony," returned the woman, with a manner even more
wheedling and fawning than she had ever before used towards her terrible
paramour. "You seem in excellent spirits, Tony."

"Yes, Meg--excellent: I have done a good day's work--and now I will
enjoy myself till nine o'clock, when I have got to meet two gentlemen
close by here on another little matter."

"Ah! you seldom tell me what you are doing, Tony," said the Rattlesnake.

"No--no: I don't like trusting women a bit farther than I can see them.
Such things as getting up a body or so--well and good; but serious
things, Meg--serious things, never!"

"Well, just as you like," returned Margaret Flathers, affecting a smile
as if she were quite satisfied; but as she turned to replace the meat in
the cupboard, her countenance involuntarily assumed an expression of
mysterious triumph.

"Come, now--sit down," said the Resurrection Man: "give me a pipe, and
brew me my lush. There--that's a good girl."

Tidkins lighted his pipe, and smoked for some moments in silence.

"I tell you what, Meg," he exclaimed, after a pause; "you shall sing me
a song. I feel in such an uncommon good humour this evening--in such
excellent spirits. No--I won't have a song: I tell you what you shall
do."

"What?" said Margaret, as she mixed two glasses of gin and water.

"You shall tell me all about the coal-mines, you know--your own history.
You told it me once before; but then I wasn't in a humour to hear you. I
missed half, and have forgot t' other half. So now, come--let's have the
Life and Adventures of Miss Margaret Flathers."

The Resurrection Man laughed at this joke--as he considered and meant it
to be; and the Rattlesnake, who never dared to thwart him in any thing,
and who apparently had some additional motive to humour him on this
occasion, hastened to comply with his request--or rather command.

She accordingly related her history, the phraseology of which we have
taken the liberty materially to correct and amend, in the following
manner.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER CXVI.

THE RATTLESNAKE'S HISTORY.[82]


"I was born in a coal-mine in Staffordshire. My father was a married
man, with five or six children by his wife: my mother was a single
woman, who worked for him in the pit. I was, therefore, illegitimate;
but this circumstance was neither considered disgraceful to my mother
nor to myself, morality being on so low a scale amongst the mining
population generally, as almost to amount to promiscuous intercourse. My
mother was only eighteen when I was born. She worked in the pit up to
the very hour of my birth; and when she found the labour-pains coming
on, she threw off the belt and chain with which she had been dragging a
heavy corf (or wicker basket), full of coal, up a slanting
road,--retired to a damp cave in a narrow passage leading to the foot of
the shaft, and there gave birth to her child. That child was myself. She
wrapped me up in her petticoat, which was all the clothing she had on at
the time, and crawled with me, along the passage, which was about two
feet and a half high, to the bottom of the shaft. There she got into the
basket, and was drawn up a height of about two hundred and thirty
feet--holding the rope with her right hand, and supporting me on her
left arm. She often told me those particulars, and said how she thought
she should faint as she was ascending in the rickety vehicle, and how
difficult she found it to maintain her hold of the rope, weak and
enfeebled as she was. She, however, reached the top in safety, and
hastened home to her miserable hovel--for she was an orphan, and lived
by herself. In a week she was up again, and back to her work in the pit;
and she hired a bit of a girl, about seven or eight years old, to take
care of me.

"How my infancy was passed I, of course, can only form an idea by the
mode of treatment generally adopted towards babies in the mining
districts, and under such circumstances as those connected with my
birth. My mother would, perhaps, come up from the pit once, in the
middle of the day, to give me my natural nourishment; and when I
screamed during her absence, the little girl, who acted as my nurse,
most probably thrust a teaspoonful of some strong opiate down my throat
to make me sleep and keep me quiet. Many children are killed by this
treatment; but the reason of death, in such cases, is seldom known,
because the Coroner's assistance is seldom required in the mining
districts.

"When I was seven years old, my mother one day told me that it was now
high time for me to go down with her into the pit, and earn some money
by my own labour. My father, who now and then called to see me of a
Sunday, and brought me a cake or a toy, also declared that I was old
enough to help my mother. So it was decided that I should go down into
the pit. I remember that I was very much frightened at the idea, and
cried very bitterly when the dreaded day came. It was a cold winter's
morning--I recollect that well; and the snow was very thick upon the
ground. I shivered with chilliness and terror as my mother led me to the
pit. She gave me a good scolding because I whimpered; and then a good
beating because I cried lustily. But every thing combined to make me
afraid. It was as early as five in that cold wintry morning that I was
proceeding to a scene of labour which I knew to be far, far under the
earth. The dense darkness of the hour was not even relieved by the white
snow upon the ground; but over the country were seen blazing fires on
every side,--fires which appeared to me to be issuing from the very
bowels of the earth, but which were in reality burning upon the surface,
for the purpose of converting coal into coke: there were also blazing
fields of bituminous shale; and all the tall chimneys of the great
towers of the iron furnaces vomited forth flames,--the whole scene thus
forming a picture well calculated to appal and startle an infant mind.

"I remember at this moment what my feelings were then--as well as if the
incident I am relating had only occurred yesterday. During the day-light
I had seen the lofty chimneys giving vent to columns of dense smoke, the
furnaces putting forth torrents of lurid flame, and the coke-fires
burning upon the ground: but that was the first time I had ever beheld
those meteors blazing amidst utter darkness; and I was afraid--I was
afraid.

"The shaft was perfectly round, and not more than four feet in diameter.
The mode of ascent and descent was precisely that of a well, with this
difference--that, instead of a bucket there was a stout iron bar about
three feet long attached in the middle, and suspended horizontally, to
the end of the rope. From each end of this bar hung chains with hooks,
to draw up the baskets of coal. This apparatus was called the
_clatch-harness_. Two people ascended or descended at a time by these
means. They had to sit cross-legged, as it were, upon the transverse
bar, and cling to the rope. Thus, the person who got on first sate upon
the bar, and the other person sate a-straddle on the first one's thighs.
An old woman presided at the wheel which wound up or lowered the rope
sustaining the clatch-harness; and as she was by no means averse to a
dram, the lives of the persons employed in the mine were constantly at
the mercy of that old drunken harridan. Moreover, there seemed to me to
be great danger in the way in which the miners got on and off the
clatch-harness. One moment's giddiness--a missing of the hold of the
rope--and down to the bottom of the shaft headlong! When the
clatch-harness was drawn up to the top, the old woman made the handle
fast by a bolt drawn out from the upright post, and then, grasping a
hand of both persons on the harness at the same time, brought them by
main force to land. A false step on the part of that old woman,--the
failure of the bolt which stopped the rotatory motion of the roller on
which the rope was wound,--or the slipping of the hands which she
grasped in hers,--and a terrible accident must have ensued!

"But to return to my first descent into the pit. My mother, who was
dressed in a loose jacket, open in front, and trousers (which, besides
her shoes, were the only articles of clothing on her, she wearing
neither shift nor stockings), leapt upon the clatch-iron as nimbly as a
sailor in the rigging of his ship. She then received me from the
outstretched arm of the old woman, and made me sit in the easiest and
safest posture she could imagine. But when I found myself being
gradually lowered down into a depth as black as night, I felt too
terror-struck even to cry out; and had not my mother held me tight with
one hand, I should have fallen precipitately into that hideous dark
profundity.

"At length we reached the bottom, where my mother lifted me, half dead
with giddiness and fright, from the clatch-iron. I felt the soil cold,
damp, and muddy, under my feet. A lamp was burning in a shade suspended
in a little recess in the side of the shaft; and my mother lighted a bit
of candle which she had brought with her, and which she stuck into a
piece of clay to hold it by. Then I perceived a long dark passage, about
two feet and a half high, branching off from the foot of the shaft. My
mother went on her hands and knees, and told me to creep along with her.
The passage was nearly six feet wide; and thus there was plenty of room
for me to keep abreast of her. Had not this been the case, I am sure
that I never should have had the courage either to precede, or follow
her; for nothing could be more hideous to my infantine imagination than
that low, yawning, black-mouthed cavern, running into the very bowels of
the earth, and leading I knew not whither. Indeed, as I walked in a
painfully stooping posture along by my mother's side, my fancy conjured
up all kinds of horrors. I trembled lest some invisible hand should
suddenly push forth from the side of the passage, and clutch me in its
grasp: I dreaded lest every step I took might precipitate me into some
tremendous abyss or deep well: I thought that the echoes which I heard
afar off, and which were the sounds of the miner's pickaxe or the
rolling corves on the rails, were terrific warnings that the earth was
falling in, and would bury us alive: then, when the light of my mother's
candle suddenly fell upon some human being groping his or her way along
in darkness, I shuddered at the idea of encountering some ferocious
monster or hideous spectre:--in a word, my feelings, as I toiled along
that subterranean passage, were of so terrific a nature that they
produced upon my memory an impression which never can be effaced, and
which makes me turn cold all over as I contemplate those feelings now!

"You must remember that I had been reared in a complete state of mental
darkness; and that no enlightened instruction had dispelled the clouds
of superstition which naturally obscure the juvenile mind. I could not
read: I had not even been taught my alphabet. I had not heard of such a
name as JESUS CHRIST; and all the mention of GOD that had ever met my
ears, was in the curses and execrations which fell from the lips of my
father, my mother, her acquaintances, and even the little girl who had
nursed me. You cannot wonder, then, if I was so appalled, when I first
found myself in that strange and terrific place.

"At length we reached the end of that passage, and struck into another,
which echoed with the noise of pickaxes. In a few moments I saw the
_undergoers_ (or miners) lying on their sides, and with their pickaxes
breaking away the coal. They did not work to a greater height than two
feet, for fear, as I subsequently learnt, that they should endanger the
security of the roof of the passage, the seam of coal not being a thick
one. I well remember my infantine alarm and horror when I perceived that
these men were naked--stark naked. But my mother did not seem to be the
least abashed or dismayed: on the contrary, she laughed and exchanged a
joke with each one as we passed. In fact, I afterwards discovered that
Bet Flathers was a great favourite with the miners.

"Well, we went on, until we suddenly came upon a scene that astonished
me not a little. The passage abruptly opened into a large room,--an
immense cave, hollowed out of the coal in a seam that I since learnt to
be twenty feet in thickness. This cave was lighted by a great number of
candles; and at a table sate about twenty individuals--men, women, and
children--all at breakfast. There they were, as black as
negroes--eating, laughing, chattering, and drinking. But, to my surprise
and disgust, I saw that the women and young girls were all naked from
the waist upwards, and many of the men completely so. And yet there was
no shame--no embarrassment! But the language that soon met my ears!--I
could not comprehend half of it, but what I _did_ understand, made me
afraid!

"My mother caught me by the hand, and led me to the table, where I found
my father. He gave us some breakfast; and in a short time, the party
broke up--the men, women, and children separating to their respective
places of labour. My mother and myself accompanied one of the men, for
my mother had ceased to work for my father, since she had borne a child
to him, as his wife had insisted upon their separation in respect to
labour in the mine.

"The name of the man for whom my mother worked was Phil Blossom. He was
married, but had no children. His wife was a cripple, having met with
some accident in the mine, and could not work. He was therefore obliged
to employ some one to carry his coal from the place where he worked, to
the cart that conveyed it to the foot of the shaft. Until I went down
into the mine, my mother had carried the coal for him, and also
_hurried_ (or dragged) the cart; but she now made me fill one cart while
she hurried another. Thus, at seven years old, I had to carry about
fifty-six pounds of coal in a wooden _bucket_. When the passage was high
enough I carried it on my back; but when it was too low, I had to drag
or push it along as best I could. Some parts of the passages were only
twenty-two inches in height; this was where the workings were in very
narrow seams; and the difficulty of dragging such a weight, at such an
age, can be better understood than explained. I can well recollect that
when I commenced that terrible labour, the perspiration, commingling
with my tears, poured down my face.

"Phil Blossom worked in a complete state of nudity; and my mother
stripped herself to the waist to perform her task. She had to drag a
cart holding seven hundred weight, a distance of at least two hundred
yards--for ours was a very extensive pit, and had numerous workings and
cuttings running a considerable way underground. The person who does
this duty is called a _hurrier_: the process itself is termed
_tramming_; and the cart is denominated a _skip_. The work was certainly
harder than that of slaves in the West Indies, or convicts in Norfolk
Island. My mother had a girdle round her waist; and to that girdle was
fastened a chain, which passed between her legs and was attached to the
skip. She then had to go down on her hands and knees, with a candle
fastened to a strap on her forehead, and drag the skip through the low
passages, or else to maintain a carved or stooping posture in the high
ones.

"Phil Blossom was what was called a _getter_. He first made a long
straight cut with a pickaxe underneath the part of the seam where he was
working: this was called _holing_: and as it was commenced low down, the
getter was obliged to lie flat on his back or on his side, and work for
a long time in that uneasy manner.

"I did as well as I could with the labour allotted to me; but it was
dreadful work. I was constantly knocking my head against the low roofs
of the passages or against the rough places of the sides: at other times
I fell flat on my face, with the masses of coal upon me; or else I got
knocked down by a cart, or by some collier in the dark, as I toiled
along the passages, my eyes blinded with my tears or with the dust of
the mine.

"Many--many weeks passed away; and at length I grew quite hardened in
respect to those sights and that language which had at first disgusted
me. I became familiar with the constant presence of naked men and
half-naked women; and the most terrible oaths and filthy expressions
ceased to startle me. I walked boldly into the great cavern which I have
before described, and which served as a place of meeting for those who
took their meals in the mine. I associated with the boys and girls that
worked in the pit, and learnt to laugh at an obscene joke, or to
practise petty thefts of candles, food, or even drink, which the
colliers left in the cavern or at their places of work. The mere fact of
the boys and girls in mines all meeting together, without any
control,--without any one to look after them,--is calculated to corrupt
all those who may be well disposed.

"I remained as a carrier of coal along the passages till I was ten years
old. I was then ordered to convey my load, which by this time amounted
to a hundred weight on each occasion, up a ladder to a passage over
where I had hitherto worked. This load was strapped by a leather round
my forehead; and, as the ladder was very rudely formed, and the steps
were nearly two feet apart, it was with great difficulty that I could
keep my balance. I have seen terrible accidents happen to young girls
working in that way. Sometimes the strap, or tagg, round one person's
forehead has broken, and the whole load has fallen on the girl climbing
up behind. Then the latter has been precipitated to the bottom of the
dyke, the great masses of coal falling on the top of her. On other
occasions I have seen the girls lose their balance, and fall off the
ladder--their burden of coals, as in the other case, showering upon them
or their companions behind. The work was indeed most horrible: a
slave-ship could not have been worse.

"If I did not do exactly as Phil Blossom told me, the treatment I
received from him was horrible; and my mother did not dare interfere, or
he would serve her in the same manner. He thrashed me with his fist or
with a stick, until I was bruised all over. My flesh was often marked
with deep wales for weeks together. One day he nipped me with his nails
until he actually cut quite through my ear. He often pulled my hair till
it literally gave way in his hand; and sometimes he would pelt me with
coals. He thought nothing of giving me a kick that would send me with
great violence across the passage, or dash me against the opposite side.
On one occasion he was in such a rage, because I accidentally put out
the candle which he had to light him at his work, that he struck a
random blow at me with his pickaxe in the dark, and cut a great gash in
my head. All the miners in pits _baste_ and _bray_--that is, beat and
flog--their helpers.

"You would be surprised if I was to tell you how many people in the pit
were either killed or severely injured, by accidents, every year. But
there are so many dangers to which the poor miners are exposed! Falling
down the shaft,--the rope sustaining the clatch-harness breaking,--being
drawn over the roller,--the fall of coals out of the corves in their
ascent,--drowning in the mines from the sudden breaking in of water from
old workings,--explosion of gas,--choke-damp,[83]--falling in of the
roofs of passages,--the breaking of ladders or well-staircases,--being
run over by the tram-waggons, or carts dragged by horses,--the explosion
of gunpowder used in breaking away huge masses of coal,--and several
other minor accidents, are all perpetually menacing the life or limbs of
those poor creatures who supply the mineral that cheers so many
thousands of fire-sides!

"Deaths from accidents of this nature were seldom, if ever, brought
under the notice of the coroner: indeed, to save time, it was usual to
bury the poor victims within twenty-four or thirty-six hours after their
decease.

"I earned three shillings a-week when I was ten years old, and my mother
eleven. You may imagine, then, that we ought to have been pretty
comfortable; but our household was just as wretched as any other in the
mining districts. Filth and poverty are the characteristics of the
collier population. Nothing can be more wretched--nothing more miserable
than their dwellings. The huts in which they live are generally from ten
to twelve feet square, each consisting only of one room. I have seen a
man and his wife and eight or ten children all huddling together in that
one room; and yet they might have earned, by their joint labour,
thirty-shillings or more a week. Perhaps a pig, a jackass, or fowls form
part of the family. And then the furniture!--not a comfort--scarcely a
necessary! And yet this absence of even such articles as bedsteads, is
upon principle: the colliers do not like to be encumbered with household
goods, because they are often obliged to _flit_--that is, to leave one
place of work and seek for another. Such a thing as drainage is almost
completely unknown in these districts; and all the filth is permitted to
accumulate before the door. The colliers are a dirty set of people; but,
poor creatures! how can they well be otherwise? They descend into the
mines at a very early hour in the morning: they return home at a very
late hour in the evening, and they are then too tired to attend to
habits of cleanliness. Besides, it is so natural for them to say, '_Why
should we wash ourselves to-night, since to-morrow we must become black
and dirty again?_' or '_Why should we wash ourselves for the sake of
sleeping with a clean skin?_' As for the boys and girls, they are often
so worn out--so thoroughly exhausted, that they go to rest without their
suppers. They cannot keep themselves awake when they get home. I know
that this was often and often my case; and I have preferred--indeed, I
have been compelled by sheer fatigue, to go to bed before my mother
could prepare any thing to eat.

"Again, how can the collier's home possibly be comfortable? He makes his
wife and children toil with him in the mine: he married a woman from the
mine; and neither she nor her daughters know any thing of housekeeping?
How can disorder be prevented from creeping into the collier's dwelling,
when no one is there in the day-time to attend to it? Then all the money
which they can save from the _Tommy-shop_, (of which I shall speak
presently) goes for whiskey. Husband and wife, sons and daughters all
look after the whiskey. The habits of the colliers are hereditarily
depraved: they are perpetuated from father to son, from mother to
daughter; none is better nor worse than his parents were before him.
Rags and filth--squalor and dissipation--crushing toil and hideous
want--ignorance and immorality; these are the features of the collier's
home, and the characteristics of the collier's life.

"Our home was not a whit better than that of any of our
fellow-labourers; nor was my mother less attached to whiskey than her
neighbours.

"But the chief source of poverty and frequent want--amounting at times
almost to starvation--amongst persons earning a sufficiency of wages, is
the _truck system_. This atrociously oppressive method consists of
paying the colliers' wages in goods, or partly in goods, through the
medium of the tommy-shop. The proprietor of a tommy-shop has an
understanding with the owners of the mines in his district; and the
owners agree to pay the persons in their employment once a month, or
once a fortnight. The consequence is that the miners require credit
during the interval; and they are compelled to go to the tommy-shop,
where they can obtain their bread, bacon, cheese, meat, groceries,
potatoes, chandlery, and even clothes. The proprietor of the tommy-shop
sends his book to the clerk of the owner of the mine the day before the
wages are paid; and thus the clerk knows how much to stop from the wages
of each individual, for the benefit of the shopkeeper. If the miners and
their wives do not go to the tommy-shop for their domestic articles,
they instantly lose their employment in the mine, in consequence of the
understanding between their employer and the shopkeeper. Perhaps this
would not be so bad if the tommy-shops were honest; because it is very
handy for the collier to go to a store which contains every article that
he may require. But the tommy-shop charges twenty-five or thirty per
cent. dearer than any other tradesman; so that if a collier and his
family can earn between them thirty shillings a week, he loses seven or
eight shillings out of that amount. In the course of a year about twenty
pounds out of his seventy-five go to the tommy-shop for nothing but
interest on the credit afforded! That interest is divided between the
tommy-shop-keeper and the coal-mine proprietor.

"In the district where my mother and I lived, there was no such thing
at all as payment of wages in the current money of the kingdom. The
tommy-shop-keeper paid the wages for the proprietors once a month: and
how do you think he settled them? In ticket-money! This coinage
consisted of pewter medals, or markers, with the sum that they
represented, and the name of the tommy-shop on them. Thus, there were
half-crowns, shillings, sixpences, and half-pence. But this money could
only be passed at the tommy-shop from which it was issued; and there it
must be taken out in goods. So, you see, that what with the truck-system
and the tommy-shop, the poor miners are regularly swindled out of at
least one fourth part of their fair earnings.

"The wages, in my time, were subject to great changes: I have known men
earn twenty-five shillings a week at one time, and twelve or fifteen at
another. And out of that they were obliged to supply their own candles
and grease for the wheels of the carts or _trams_. The cost of this was
about three-pence a day. Then, again, the fines were frequent and
vexatious: it was calculated that they amounted to a penny a day per
head. These sums all went into the coffers of the coal-owners.

"Such was the state of superstitious ignorance which prevailed in the
mines, that every one believed in ghosts and spirits. Even old men were
often afraid to work in isolated places; and the spots where deaths from
accidents arose were particularly avoided. It was stated that the
spectres of the deceased haunted the scenes of their violent departures
from this world.

"By the time I was twelve years old I was as wild a young she-devil as
any in the mines. Like the other females, I worked with only a pair of
trousers on. But I would not consent to hurry the trams and skips. I saw
that my mother had got a great bald place on her head, where she pushed
the tram forward up sloping passages; and as I was told that even amidst
the black and filth with which I was encrusted, I was a good-looking
wench, I determined not to injure my hair. I may as well observe that a
stranger visiting a mine, and seeing the boys and girls all huddling
together, half-naked, in the caves or obscure nooks, could not possibly
tell one sex from the other. I must say that I think, with regard to bad
language and licentious conduct, the girls were far--far worse than the
boys. It is true that in the neighbourhood of the pits Sunday-schools
were established; but very few parents availed themselves of these means
of obtaining a gratuitous education for their children. When I was
twelve years old, I did not know how to read or write: I was unaware
that there was such a book as the Bible; and all I knew of God and Jesus
Christ was through the oaths and imprecations of the miners.

"It was at that period--I mean when I was twelve years old--that I
determined to abandon the horrible life to which my mother had devoted
me. I had up to that point preserved my health, and had escaped those
maladies and cutaneous eruptions to which miners are liable; but I knew
that my turn must come, sooner or later, to undergo all those
afflictions. I saw nine out of ten of my fellow-labourers pining away.
Some were covered with disgusting boils, caused by the constant dripping
of the water upon their naked flesh in the pits. I saw young persons of
my own age literally growing old in their early youth,--stooping,
asthmatic, consumptive, and enfeebled. When they were washed on Sundays,
they were the pictures of ill-health and premature decay. Many actually
grew deformed in stature; and all were of stunted growth. It is true
that their muscles were singularly developed; but they were otherwise
skin and bone.[84] The young children were for the most part of
contracted features, which, added to their wasted forms, gave them a
strange appearance of ghastliness, when cleansed from the filth of the
mine. The holers, or excavators, were bow-legged and crooked; the
burriers and trammers knock-kneed and high-shouldered. Many--very many
of the miners were affected with diseases of the heart. Then, who ever
saw a person, employed in the pits, live to an advanced age? A miner of
fifty-five was a curiosity: the poor creatures generally drooped at
five-and-thirty, and died off by forty. They invariably seemed oppressed
with care and anxiety: jollity was unknown amongst them. I have seen
jolly-looking butchers, blacksmiths, carpenters, ploughmen, porters, and
so on; but I never beheld a jolly-looking miner. The entire population
that labours in the pits appears to belong to a race that is accursed!

"I pondered seriously upon all this; and every circumstance that
occurred, and every scene around me, tended to strengthen my resolution
to quit an employment worse than that of a galley-slave. I saw my mother
wasting all her best energies in that terrible labour, and yet remaining
poor--beggared! Scarcely enough for the present--not a hope for the
future! Sometimes I wept when I contemplated her, although she had but
little claims on my sympathy or affection; nevertheless, when I saw her
bald head--her scalp thickened, inflamed, and sometimes so swollen, that
it was like a bulb filled with spongy matter, and so painful that she
could not bear to touch it,--when I heard her complain of the dreadful
labour of pushing the heavy corves and trams with her sore head,--when I
perceived her spine actually distorted with severe work; her stomach
growing so weak that she frequently vomited her food almost as soon as
it was eaten; her heart so seriously affected that the intervals of
violent palpitation frequently made her faint; her lungs performing
their functions with difficulty; her chest torn with a sharp hacking
cough, accompanied by the expectoration of a large quantity of matter of
a deep black colour, called by colliers the _black-spit_;--when I saw
her thus overwhelmed with a complication of maladies--dying before my
eyes, at the age of thirty-three!--when I looked around, and beheld nine
out of ten of all the persons employed in the pits, whether male or
female, similarly affected,--I shuddered at the bare idea of devoting my
youth to that horrible toil, and then passing to the grave while yet in
the prime of life!

"I thought of running away, and seeking my fortune elsewhere. I knew
that it was no use to acquaint my mother with my distaste for the life
to which she had devoted me: she would only have answered my objections
by means of blows. But while I was still wavering what course to pursue,
a circumstance occurred which I must not forget to relate.

"One morning my candle had accidentally gone out, and I was creeping
along the dark passage to the spot where Phil Blossom was working, to
obtain a light from his candle, when I heard him and my mother
conversing together in a low tone, but with great earnestness of
manner. Curiosity prompted me to stop and listen. 'Are you sure that is
the case?' said Phil.--'Certain,' replied my mother. 'I shall be
confined in about five months.'--'Well,' observed Phil, 'I don't know
what's to be done. My old woman will kick up the devil's delight when
she hears of it. I wish she was out of the way: I would marry you if she
was.'--Then there was a profound silence for some minutes. It was broken
by the man, who said, 'Yes, if the old woman was out of the way you and
I might get married, and then we should live so comfortable together.
I'm sure no man can be cursed with a wife of worse temper than
mine.'--'Yes,' returned my mother, 'she is horrible for that.'--'Do you
think there would be much harm in pushing her down a shaft, or shoving
her head under the wheel of your tram, Bet?' asked Phil, after another
pause.--'There would be no harm,' said my mother, 'if so be we wern't
found out.'--'That's exactly what I mean,' observed Phil.--'But then,'
continued my mother, 'if she didn't happen to _die_ at once, she might
peach, and get us both into a scrape.'--'So she might,' said
Phil.--'I'll tell you what we might do,' exclaimed my mother, in a
joyful tone: 'doesn't your wife come down at one to bring you your
dinner?'--'Yes,' replied Phil Blossom: 'that's all the old cripple is
good for.'--'Well, then,' pursued my mother, 'I'll tell you how we can
manage this business.'--Then they began to whisper, and I could not
gather another word that fell from their lips.

"I was so frightened at what I had heard that I crept quickly but
cautiously back again to my place of labour, and sate down on the lower
steps of the ladder, in the dark--determined to wait till some one
should come, rather than go and ask Phil Blossom for a light. I had
suddenly acquired a perfect horror of that man. I had understood that my
mother was with child by him; and I had heard them coolly plotting the
death of the woman who was an obstacle to their marriage. At my age,
such an idea was calculated to inspire me with terror. I think I sate
for nearly an hour in the dark, my mind filled with thoughts of a nature
which may be well understood. At length a young woman, bearing a corf,
came with a light; and I was no longer left in obscurity. I then plucked
up my courage, took my basket, and went to Phil Blossom for a load of
coal. My mother was not there; and he was working with his pickaxe as
coolly as possible. He asked me what had made me so long in returning
for a load; and I told him I had fallen down a few steps of the ladder
and hurt myself. He said no more on the subject; and I was delighted to
escape without a braying or basting. While I was loading my corf, he
asked me if I should like to have him for a father-in-law. I said 'Yes'
through fear, for I was always afraid of his _nieves_, as the colliers
call their clenched fists. He seemed pleased; and, after a pause, said
that if ever he was my father-in-law, I should always take my _bait_ (or
meals) with him in the cavern. I thanked him, and went on with my work;
but I pretty well comprehended that the removal of Phil's wife by some
means or another had been resolved on.

"Shortly before one o'clock that same day my mother came to the place
where I was carrying the coals, and gave me a _butter-cake_ (as we
called bread and butter), telling me that she was going up out of the
mine, as she must pay a visit to the tommy-shop for some candles and
grease for herself, and some tobacco for Phil Blossom. I did not dare
utter a word expressive of the suspicions which I entertained; but I
felt convinced that this proceeding was in some way connected with the
subject of the conversation which I had overheard. A strange
presentiment induced me to leave my place of work, and creep along the
passage to the foot of the shaft, in order to see whether Phil's wife
would come down at the usual time with his bait. Several _half-marrows_
and _foals_ (as we called the young lads who pushed the trams) were at
the end of the passage just at the foot of the shaft; and we got into
conversation. It is a very curious thing to look up a shaft from the
very bottom; the top seems no bigger than a sugar-basin. Well, the boys
and I were chattering together about different things, when the click of
the clatch-harness at the top of the shaft fell upon my ears. I peeped
up and saw some one get on the clatch: then the creaking of the wheel
and roller was heard. 'Here comes some one's bait, I dare say,' observed
one of the half-marrows.--I wish it was mine,' said another; 'but I
never get any thing to eat from breakfast-time till I go home at
night.'--Scarcely were these words spoken when a piercing scream alarmed
us: there was a rushing sound--the chains of the harness clanked
fearfully--and down came a woman with tremendous violence to the bottom
of the pit, the clatch rattling down immediately after her. A cry of
horror burst from us all; the poor creature had fallen at our very feet.
We rushed forward; but she never moved. The back part of her head was
smashed against a piece of hard mineral at the bottom of the shaft. But
her countenance had escaped injury; and as I cast a hasty glance upon
it, I recognised the well-known face of Phil Blossom's crippled wife!

"One of the boys instantly hastened to acquaint him with the accident.
He came to the spot when his wife lay a mangled heap, stone dead; and he
began to bewail his loss in terms which would have been moving had I not
been aware of their hypocrisy. The half-marrows were, however, deceived
by that well-feigned grief, and did all they could to console him. I
said nothing: I was confounded!

"In due time the cause of the _accident_ was ascertained. It appeared
that my mother had gone up the shaft, but when she got to the top she
struck her foot so forcibly against the upright post of the machinery,
that she lamed herself for the time. The old woman who presided over the
machinery (as I have before said) very kindly offered to go to the
tommy-shop for her, on condition that she would remain there to work the
handle for people coming up or going down. This was agreed to. The very
first person who wanted to go down was Mrs. Blossom; and my mother
alleged that the handle unfortunately slipped out of her hand as she was
unwinding the rope. This explanation satisfied the overseer of the mine:
the intervention of the coroner was not deemed necessary;--my mother
appeared much afflicted at the _accident_: Phil Blossom mourned the
death of his wife with admirable hypocrisy;--the corpse was interred
within forty-eight hours;--and thus was Phil's wife removed without a
suspicion being excited!

"I was now more than ever determined to leave the mine. I saw that my
mother was capable of any thing; and I trembled lest she should take it
into her head to rid herself of me. One day she told me that she was
going to be married to Phil Blossom: I made a remark upon the
singularity of her being united to the very man whose wife had died by
her means;--she darted at me a look of dark suspicion and terrible
ferocity; and, in the next moment, struck me to the ground. From that
instant I felt convinced that I was not safe. Accordingly, one Sunday,
when I was washed quite clean, and had on a tolerably decent frock, I
left the hovel which my mother occupied, and set out on my wanderings.

"I had not a penny in my pocket, nor a friend on the face of the earth
to whom I could apply for advice, protection, or assistance. All that
stood between me and starvation, that I could see, was a piece of bread
and some cheese, which I had taken with me when I left home. I walked as
far as I could without stopping, and must have been about six miles from
the pit where I had worked, when evening came on. It was November, and
the weather was very chilly. I looked round me, almost in despair, to
see if I could discover an asylum for the night. Far behind me the
tremendous chimneys and furnaces vomited forth flames and volumes of
smoke; and the horizon shone as if a whole city was on fire: but in the
spot where I then found myself, all was drear, dark, and lonely. I
walked a little farther, and, to my joy, espied a light. I advanced
towards it, and soon perceived that it emanated from a fire burning in a
species of cave overhung by a high and rugged embankment of earth
belonging to a pit that had most probably ceased to be worked. Crouching
over this fire was a lad of about fifteen, clothed in rags, dirty,
emaciated, and with starvation written upon his countenance. I advanced
towards him, and begged to be allowed to warm myself by his fire. He
answered me in a kind and touching manner; and we soon made confidants
of each other. I told him my history, only suppressing my knowledge that
the death of Phil Blossom's wife arose from premeditation, instead of
accident, as I did not wish to get my mother into a scrape, although I
had no reason to have any regard for her. The lad then acquainted me
with his sad tale. He was an orphan; and his earliest remembrance was
experienced in a workhouse, of which, it appeared, he had become an
inmate shortly after his birth, his parents having been killed at the
same time by the explosion of a fire-damp in the pit in which they had
worked. When the lad was eight years old, the parish authorities
apprenticed him to a miner, who gave him the name of _Skilligalee_, in
consequence of his excessive leanness. This man treated him very badly;
but the poor boy endured all for a period of seven years, because he had
no other asylum than that afforded him by his master. 'At length,' said
the boy, 'a few weeks ago, master got hurt upon the head by the falling
in of some coal where he was working; and from that moment he acted more
like a madman than a human being. He used to seize me by the hair, and
dash me against the side of the pit: sometimes he flogged me with a
strap till my flesh was all raw. I could stand it no longer; so, about
three weeks ago, I ran away. Ever since then I have been living, I can
scarcely tell how. I have slept in the deserted cabins on the pits'
bank, or in the old pits that have done working: I have got what I could
to eat, and have even been glad to devour the bits of candles that the
colliers had left in the pits. All this is as true as I am here.[85]
Yesterday I found some matches in a pit; and that is how I have this
good fire here now. But I am starving!'

"The poor fellow then began to cry. I divided with him my bread and
cheese; and, when we had eaten our morsel, we began to converse upon our
miserable condition. He had as much abhorrence of the mine as I had; he
declared that he would sooner kill himself at once than return to labour
in a pit; and I shared in his resolution. In less than an hour
Skilligalee and myself became intimate friends. Varied and many were the
plans which we proposed to earn a livelihood; but all proved hopeless
when we remembered our penniless condition, and Skilligalee pointed to
his rags. At length he exclaimed in despair, '_There is nothing left to
do but to rob!_'--'_I am afraid that this is our only resource_,' was my
reply.--'_Do you mean it?_' he demanded.--'_Yes!_' I said boldly; and we
exchanged glances full of meaning.

"'_Come with me,_' said Skilligalee. I did not ask any questions, but
followed him. He led the way in silence for upwards of half an hour, and
at length lights suddenly shone between a grove of trees. Skilligalee
leapt over a low fence, and then helped me to climb it. We were then in
a meadow planted with trees--a sort of park, which we traversed, guided
by the lights, towards a large house. We next came to a garden; and,
having passed through this enclosure, we reached the back part of the
premises. Skilligalee went straight up to a particular window, which he
opened. He then crept through, and told me to wait outside. In a few
minutes he returned to the window, and handed me out a large bundle,
wrapped up in a table-cloth. He then crept forth, and closed the window.
We beat a retreat from the scene of our plunder; and returned to the
cave. The fire was still blazing, and Skilligalee fed it with more fuel,
which he obtained by breaking away the wood from an old ruined cabin
close by.

"We next proceeded to open the bundle, which I found to contain a
quantity of food, six silver forks, and six spoons. Skilligalee then
told me that the mansion which we had just robbed was the dwelling of
the owner of the mine wherein he had worked for seven years, and where
he had been so cruelly treated by the pit-man to whom he had been
apprenticed. He said that he had sometimes been sent with messages to
the proprietor, from the overseer in the mine, and that the servants on
those occasions had taken him into the kitchen and given him some food.
He had thus obtained a knowledge of the premises. 'Last night,' he
added, 'I was reduced by hunger to desperation, and I went with the
intention of breaking into the pantry. To my surprise I found the window
open, the spring-bolt being broken. My courage, however, failed me; and
I returned to this cave to suffer all the pangs of hunger. To-night you
came: companionship gave me resolution; and we have got wherewith to
obtain the means of doing something for an honest livelihood.

"We then partook of some of the cold meat and fine white bread which the
pantry had furnished; and, while we thus regaled ourselves, we debated
what we should do with the silver forks and spoons. I said before that I
was decently dressed; but my companion was in rags. It was accordingly
agreed that I should go to the nearest town in the morning, dispose of
the plate, purchase some clothes for Skilligalee, and then rejoin him at
the cave. This matter being decided upon, we laid down and went to
sleep.

"Next morning I washed myself at a neighbouring stream, made myself look
as decent as I could, and set off. Skilligalee had told me how to
proceed. In an hour I reached the town, and went to a pawnbroker's shop.
I said that I was servant to a lady who was in a temporary difficulty
and required a loan. The pawnbroker questioned me so closely that I
began to prevaricate: he called in a constable, and gave me into
custody. I was taken before the magistrate; but I refused to answer a
single question, being determined not to betray my accomplice. The
magistrate remanded me for a week; and I was sent to prison. There I
herded with juvenile thieves and prostitutes; and I cared little for my
incarceration, because I was tolerably, and, at all events, regularly
fed. When I was had up again, the owner of the mansion which I had
helped to rob, was there to identify his property. I, however, still
persisted in my refusal to answer any questions: I was resolved not to
criminate Skilligalee; and I also felt desirous of being sent back to
gaol, as I was certain of there obtaining a bed and a meal. In vain did
the magistrate impress upon me the necessity of giving an explanation of
the manner in which the plate came into my possession, for both he and
the owner of the property were inclined to believe that I was only a
tool, and not the original thief;--I remained dumb, and was remanded for
another week.

"At the expiration of that period, I was again placed before the
magistrate; and, to my surprise, I found Skilligalee in the court. He
was still clothed in his rags, and looked more wretched and famished
than when I first saw him. I gave him a look, and made a sign to assure
him that I would not betray him; but the moment the case was called, he
stood forward and declared that he alone was guilty,--that he had robbed
the house, and that I was merely an instrument of whom he had made use
to dispose of the proceeds of the burglary. I was overcome by this
generosity on his part; and both the magistrate and the owner of the
property were struck by the avowal. The latter declared that he did not
wish to prosecute: the former accordingly inflicted a summary sentence
of imprisonment for a few weeks upon Skilligalee. He then questioned me
about my own condition; and I told him that I had worked in a mine, but
that I had been compelled to run away from home in consequence of the
ill treatment I received at the hands of my mother. I expressed my
determination to put an end to my life sooner than return to her; and
the gentleman, whose house had been robbed, offered to provide for me at
his own expense, if the magistrate would release me. This he agreed to
do; and the gentleman placed me as a boarder in a school kept in the
town by two elderly widows.

"This school was founded for the purpose of furnishing education to the
children of pit-men who were prudent and well disposed enough to pay a
small stipend for that purpose, that stipend being fixed at a very low
rate, as the deficiency in the amount required to maintain the
establishment was supplied by voluntary contribution. There were only a
few boarders--and they were all girls: the great majority of the pupils
consisted of day-scholars. At this school I stayed until I was sixteen,
when the gentleman who had placed me there took me into his service as
housemaid.

"During the whole of that period I had never heard of my mother, or Phil
Blossom. I now felt some curiosity to discover what had become of them;
so, one day, having obtained a holiday for the purpose, I went over to
the pit where I had myself passed so many miserable years. The same old
woman, who had presided at the handle of the roller that raised or
lowered the clatch-harness, during the period of my never-to-be-forgotten
apprenticeship, was there still. She did not recognise me--I was so
altered for the better. Clean, neatly dressed, stout, and tall, I could
not possibly be identified with the dirty, ragged, thin, and
miserable-looking creature who had once toiled in that subterranean
hell. I accosted the old woman, and asked her if a woman named Betsy
Flathers or Blossom worked in the mine. "Bet Blossom!" ejaculated the
old woman: 'why, she's been dead a year!'--'Dead!' I echoed. 'And how
did she die?'--'By falling down the shaft, to be sure,' answered the old
woman.--Although I entertained little affection for my mother, absence
and a knowledge of her character having destroyed all feelings of that
kind, I could not hear this intelligence without experiencing a severe
shock.--'Yes,' continued the old woman, 'it was a sort of judgment on
her, I suppose, for she herself let a poor creature fall down some four
or five years ago, when she took my place at the handle here for a few
minutes while I went to the tommy-shop for her. She married the husband
of the woman who was killed by the fall; and every body knew well enough
afterwards that there wasn't quite so much neglect in the affair as she
had pretended at the time, but a something more serious still. However,
there was no proof; and so the thing was soon forgot. Well, one day,
about a year ago, as I said just now, Phil Blossom came up to me and
asked me to run to the tommy-shop to fetch him some candles. I told him
to mind the wheel, and he said he would. It seems that a few minutes
after I had left on his errand, his wife came up the clatch; and,
according to what a lad, who looked up the shaft at the time, says, she
had just reached the top, when she fell, harness and all, the whole pit
echoing with her horrible screams. She died the moment she touched the
bottom. Phil Blossom was very much cut up about it; but he swore that
the handle slipped out of his hand, and then went whirling round and
round with such force that he couldn't catch it again. I own people
_did_ say that Phil and his second wife led a precious dog-and-cat kind
of a life; but the overseer thought there was no reason to make a stir
about it, and there the matter ended.'--'And what has become of Phil
Blossom?' I inquired.--The old woman pointed down the shaft, as much as
to say that he was still working in the mine.--'Did they have any
children?' I asked.--'Bet had one, I believe,' said the old woman; 'but
it died a few days after it was born, through having too large a dose of
Godfrey's Cordial administered to make it sleep.'--I gave the old woman
a shilling, and turned away from the place, by no means anxious to
encounter Phil Blossom, who, I clearly perceived, had rid himself of my
mother by the same means which she had adopted to dispose of his first
wife.

"As I was returning to my master's house, I had to cross a narrow bridge
over a little stream. I was so occupied with the news I had just heard,
I did not perceive that there was another person advancing from the
opposite side, until I was suddenly caught in the arms of a young man in
the very middle of the bridge. I gave a dreadful scream; but he burst
out into a loud laugh, and exclaimed, 'Well, you needn't be so
frightened at a mere joke.' I knew that voice directly; and glancing at
the young man, who was tolerably well dressed, I immediately recognised
my old friend Skilligalee. It was then my turn to laugh, which I did
very heartily, because he had not the least notion who I was. I,
however, soon told him; and he was quite delighted to meet me. We walked
together to the very identical cave where we had first met when boy and
girl. Now he was a tall young man, and had improved wonderfully. He told
me that he had become acquainted with some excellent fellows when he was
in prison, and that he had profited so well by their advice and example,
that he led a jovial life, did no work, and always had plenty of money.
I asked him how he managed; and he told me, after some hesitation, that
he had turned house-breaker. There was scarcely a gentleman's house,
within twelve miles round, that he had not visited in that quality. He
then proposed that I should meet him on the following Sunday evening,
and take a walk together. I agreed, and we separated.

[Illustration]

"I did not neglect my appointment. Skilligalee was delighted to see me
again; and he proposed that I should leave service, and live with him. I
consented; and----"




CHAPTER CXVII.

THE RATTLESNAKE.


Here the Rattlesnake abruptly broke off.

The Resurrection Man was asleep in his chair. It had not been without a
motive that the woman so readily complied with the desire of the
Resurrection Man that she should amuse him with the history of her life;
and as she saw him gradually becoming more and more drowsy as her
narrative progressed, an ill-concealed expression of joy animated her
countenance.

At length, when the hand of the watch over the mantelpiece pointed to
eight, and the Resurrection Man fell back in his chair fast asleep, she
could hardly suppress an ejaculation of triumph.

She broke off abruptly in the midst of her narrative, and listened.

The nasal sounds that emanated from her companion convinced her that he
slept.

Not a moment was now to be lost.

She knew full well that whenever Anthony Tidkins was overtaken by a nap
in such a manner as the present, he invariably awoke a short time before
the hour at which he had any business to transact; for that strange but
fearful individual exercised a marvellous control over all his natural
wants and propensities.

Rising cautiously from her seat, the Rattlesnake advanced towards the
Resurrection Man, and steadfastly examined his countenance. There could
be no doubt that he slept profoundly.

She was, however, resolved to assure herself as far as possible on that
head; and she purposely agitated the fire-irons against each other.

The Resurrection Man started slightly, but did not awake.

Perfectly satisfied on this point, Margaret Flathers hastened into the
adjoining room, and put on her bonnet and shawl.

Having provided herself with her skeleton keys and some lucifer matches,
she descended the stairs and went out of the house.

It was not, however, without an intense apprehension of danger that she
proceeded to the execution of her scheme. Were the Resurrection Man to
awake suddenly, and entertain any suspicion on discovering her absence,
she knew that her life would not be worth an hour's purchase.

Still the temptation that now lured her to dare this terrific chance was
so great--it was irresistible!

Her hesitation, when she stood in the street, was only of a moment's
existence; and, calling all her courage to her aid, she plunged into the
alley.

The door in that dark passage was opened in another moment: she closed
and locked it carefully, and then entered the back room on the ground
floor.

Having obtained a light, she raised the mysterious trap-door, and boldly
descended the steps leading into the subterranean passage.

One of her keys soon opened the door of the cell in which the
Resurrection Man had buried his treasure; but her joy at this
disappearance of the only difficulty which she had apprehended, was
adulterated by a sentiment of invincible terror, as she still thought of
the possibility of detection by him whose desperate character inspired
her with this tremendous alarm.

Nevertheless, she was resolved to dare every thing in the enterprise
which she had undertaken.

"Fortune seemed to favour me this afternoon when I watched him," she
murmured to herself; "and surely it will not desert me at the last
moment."

Then she boldly entered the cell.

To take up the stone which covered the treasure, and possess herself of
the bag that contained the gold over which she had a few hours
previously beheld the Resurrection Man gloating in so strange a
manner,--this was the work of only a few moments.

She replaced the stone: she clutched the bag with a feeling of wild joy
commingled with terrific alarm; and she was hurrying from the cell, when
something at the opposite side of the passage met her view, and for a
moment riveted her to the spot.

A light was streaming from beneath the door of a dungeon facing the one
on the threshold of which she stood.

Circumstances, which in the excitement of her present daring proceedings
she had forgotten, now rushed like an overwhelming torrent to her
memory.

The mysterious visits of the Resurrection Man in a mask and dark cloak
to that subterranean place,--the bread and water which she had seen in
the cupboard up stairs,--and the fearful scream that on one occasion had
emanated from the depths where she now found herself,--these
circumstances all flashed to her mind.

There was no longer any doubt: a human being--a female, most probably,
judging by the tone of that agonising shriek which now seemed to ring in
her ears as if its vibration had never once ceased--was immured in that
dungeon whence the light streamed!

This conviction dissipated the alarm into which the sudden glare of that
light had plunged the Rattlesnake.

Urged by several motives,--curiosity, a desire to obtain the
reinforcement of a companion in case of the sudden appearance of the
Resurrection Man, and, to do her justice, a feeling of compassion for a
victim whom she believed to be of her own sex,--urged, we say, by these
motives, which all presented themselves to her mind with the rapidity of
lightning, the Rattlesnake hastened to open the door of that dungeon
whence the light emanated.

She boldly entered the cell; and at the same moment Viola awoke.

Starting up from the bed, that unhappy lady glanced wildly around and
exclaimed, "Where am I?"

"Hush! not a word," said the Rattlesnake, advancing towards her. "I am
come to save you--follow me!"

Viola did not hesitate a single moment: the manner in which the woman
addressed her, and a profound sense of the certainty that no treachery
was needed to draw her into any position worse than her present one,
since she was so completely in the power of the terrible master of that
establishment, induced her to yield instantaneous compliance with the
directions of the Rattlesnake.

"Fear nothing, lady," observed the latter; "only be silent, and lose not
a moment."

She then hastened from the cell followed by Viola, who did not even wait
to put on her bonnet and shawl.

They ascended the steps leading to the back-room, both hearts
palpitating violently.

The Rattlesnake did not stop to close the mouth of the subterranean
vaults, but hastened to apply the skeleton key to the door leading into
the alley.

Her hand trembled to such an extent that she could not turn the key.

"O heavens!" she exclaimed in a tone of despair, "if _he_ should come!"

"Have you the right key?" demanded Viola in a hurried tone.

"The one that has opened it before," replied Margaret;--"but it appears
that--it will not turn--and, ah! my God, I hear steps approaching!"

The affrighted woman fell upon her knees, as if already to supplicate
for her life.

Viola listened during half a minute of the most agonising suspense; but
no sound from without met her ears.

"It was a false alarm," she exclaimed; then applying her hand to the
key, she turned it with ease, for fear alone had prevented the
Rattlesnake from moving it.

In another instant the door was opened.

"Thank God!" cried Margaret Flathers, starting from her suppliant
posture, and clutching the bag of gold beneath her left arm.

"Come--let us not lose a moment," said Viola; and she darted into the
alley, followed by the Rattlesnake.

There was no one to oppose their egress; but they could scarcely believe
that they were really safe even when they found themselves in the
street.

And now they ran--they ran, as if that terrible individual, whom they
both feared so profoundly, were at their heels;--they ran, doubting the
fact, the one that she was free, the other that she was safe;--they
ran--they ran, reckless of the way which they were pursuing, but each
alike impressed with the conviction that it was impossible to place too
great a distance between them and the dwelling of the Resurrection Man!

Margaret Flathers carried her treasure as if it were a thing of no
weight: Viola Chichester forgot that she had neither bonnet nor shawl to
protect her against the bitter chill of that wintry evening.

And thus, together, did they pursue their way--the virtuous wife and the
abandoned woman,--the former thinking not what might be the character of
her companion--the latter having now no curiosity to know the
circumstances that had plunged the lady by her side into the captivity
from which she had just been released.

At length they reached the New Church facing the Bethnal Green Road; and
there they halted, both completely out of breath and exhausted.

"We are now safe," said Margaret Flathers.

"We are now safe," echoed Viola Chichester.

"Still this place is lonely----"

"And if that dreadful man were on our track--"

"We might yet repent----"

"Yes--we might yet repent our proceeding."

The minds of those two women--so distinct in all other respects--were
now entirely congenial in reference to one grand absorbing idea.

In spite of the alarm which yet filled their imaginations, they lingered
against the palings surrounding the field at the back of the New Church,
for they were too exhausted to continue their flight for a few moments.

That interval of rest enabled them to direct their attention to other
matters besides the immense danger from which they had just escaped, and
the sense of which was still uppermost in their minds.

"Which way are you going, madam?" asked the Rattlesnake, who saw by
Viola's air--in spite of the disadvantages under which her outward
appearance laboured--that she was not one of the poorer orders.

"My own house is close by," answered Mrs. Chichester. "But you--whither
are _you_ going? Will it not be better for you to come with me--and----"

"No, lady," replied Margaret Flathers; "you are not aware who and what I
am, or you would not make me that generous offer."

"Generous!" exclaimed Viola: "have you not saved me from a fearful
dungeon? It is true that my persecutors promised to release me this
evening: but, alas! _their_ word was not to be depended upon."

"Ah! madam," said Margaret, "if you trusted to Anthony Tidkins to give
you your freedom, you would have been woefully disappointed--unless,
indeed, he had no longer any interest in keeping you a prisoner."

"Well--well," observed Viola, "we will talk of all that hereafter. In
the mean time, I insist upon your accompanying me to my home."

"I will see you safe to your own door, madam," returned Margaret; "and
there I shall leave you."

"And why will you refuse an asylum at my abode?" demanded Viola.

"I dare not remain in London," answered the Rattlesnake. "Oh! you know
not the perseverance, the craft, and the wickedness of the man from
whose power you have just escaped. But there is one favour, madam, which
you can grant me----"

"Name it," exclaimed Viola: "it is already conferred, if within my
power."

"You can have no difficulty in fulfilling my request," said the
Rattlesnake, "because it is simple, and consists only in forbearance. I
mean, madam, that you will amply reward me for the service I have been
able to render you, if you will promise not to take any measures to
punish or molest Anthony Tidkins. He has been more or less good to me;
and I should not like to know that he was injured through me. Besides,
his revenge would only be the more terrible, if ever you or I again fell
into his hands."

"I give you the promise which you require," said Viola; "although I must
confess that it is somewhat repugnant to my feelings to allow such a
wretch to be at large with impunity."

"But for my sake, lady----"

"For your sake, I give my most solemn pledge not to do aught that may
injure that man on account of his past offences."

"A thousand thanks!" ejaculated the Rattlesnake. "Let us now proceed.
But, heavens! you have got nothing on your head nor on your shoulders;
and I did not notice that before! Take my bonnet and shawl, madam--I am
more accustomed to the cold than you."

"No," said Viola; "in five minutes I shall be at my own house. Come--let
us proceed."

Mrs. Chichester and the Rattlesnake hastened towards the Cambridge Heath
gate.

On reaching the door of her abode, Viola again pressed her companion to
accept of her hospitality: but the Rattlesnake firmly, though
respectfully, refused the offer.

"In another hour, madam," she said, "I shall not be in London. _Then_
only shall I consider myself safe."

"At least allow me to supply you with some money for your immediate
purposes. I have none about me, and I know not whether my husband has
left a single shilling in the house; but any of my tradesmen in the
neighbourhood will honour my draft; and if you will walk in for a few
minutes--"

"Thank you, madam--thank you for your kind consideration; but I am well
supplied;" and she shook the bag that she hugged beneath her arm.

Viola heard the jingling of the gold, and ceased to press her offer.

"At all events," she observed, "should you ever require a friend, do not
hesitate to apply to Mrs. Chichester."

"Mrs. Chichester!" ejaculated the Rattlesnake: "surely I have heard that
name before? Oh! I recollect--I have taken to the post-office letters
from Tidkins to a Mr. Chichester, who, I suppose, must be your husband."

"The same," said Viola, with a profound sigh.

"Farewell, madam," cried the Rattlesnake: "I feel that I shall not
breathe with freedom until I am far beyond London. Farewell."

"Farewell," said Mrs. Chichester, extending her hand towards her
deliverer.

Margaret Flathers pressed it warmly, and then hurried away.

Viola knocked at the door, and was speedily admitted once more into her
own dwelling.

The servant who received her, uttered an ejaculation of surprise when
she beheld the condition in which her mistress had returned.

"Make fast the door with chain and bolt, and bring me the key," said
Viola, taking no heed of her domestic's exclamation. "See also that the
shutters of the windows are well secured; and bring me your master's
pistols."

"Mr. Chichester came this morning early, ma'am," returned the servant,
"and took away every thing belonging to him."

"Heaven be thanked!" cried Viola. "Perhaps he will molest me no more?
God grant that the separation may be eternal! Nevertheless, secure the
door and the windows: this house is not safe! To-morrow I shall leave
it, and hire lodgings in the very heart of London. _There_, perhaps,"
she murmured to herself, "no violence can be offered to me!"




CHAPTER CXVIII.

THE TWO MAIDENS.


On a fine frosty morning--about ten days after the incidents just
related,--two young ladies were walking together along the road in the
immediate vicinity of the dwelling of Count Alteroni (for so we had
better continue to call him, until he himself shall choose to throw
aside his incognito).

Did an artist wish to personify the antipodes,--as the ancients did
their rivers, mounts, and groves,--upon his canvass, he could not
possibly have selected for his models two maidens between whom there
existed so great a physical contrast as that which was afforded to the
eye by the young ladies above noticed.

The one was a brunette, and seemed a child of the sunny south; the other
was as fair as ever daughter of our cold northern clime could be:--the
one had the rich red blood mantling beneath a delicate tinge of the
purest and most transparent _bistre_; the other was pale and colourless
as the whitest marble:--the generous mind and elevated intellect of the
one shone through eyes large, black, and impassioned; the almost
infantine candour and artlessness of the other were expressed by means
of orbs of azure blue:--the glossy raven hair of the one was parted in
two rich bands over the high and noble forehead; the flaxen tresses of
the other fell in varied waves of pale auburn and gold, beneath the
bonnet, over the shoulders:--the form of the one was well-rounded but
sylph-like; the symmetry of the other was delicate and slight:--the
appearance of the one excited the most ardent admiration tempered with
respect; that of the other inspired the most lively interest:--the
beauty of the one was faultless, brilliant, and dazzling; that of the
other, ideal, fascinating, and bewitching:--the one, in fine, was a
native of the warm Italian clime; the other, a daughter of Britain's
sea-girt isle.

A shade of profound melancholy hung upon the countenance of Mary-Anne
Gregory. The sprightly--gay--joyous--innocently volatile disposition had
changed to sadness and gloom. Those vermilion lips, which until so
lately were ever wreathed in smiles, now expressed care and sorrow. The
step, though light, was no longer playfully elastic. Time had added but
a few months to the sixteen years which marked the age of Mary-Anne when
we first introduced her to our readers; but thought, and meditation, and
grief had given to the mind the experience of maturity. She was no
longer the gay, lively, flitting, bee-like being that she was when
Richard Markham became her brothers' tutor: her manner was now painfully
tranquil, her air profoundly pensive, her demeanour inconsistently grave
when considered in relation to her years.

It seemed as if there were a canker at the heart of that fair creature;
as if the hidden worm were preying upon the delicate rose-bud ere it
expanded into the bloom of maturity!

And these traits and symptoms were rendered the more apparent by the
contrast afforded by the rich health and youthful vigour which
characterised the Signora Isabella. The hues of the rose were seen
beneath the soft brunette tint of her complexion--for that complexion
was clear and transparent as the stream over which the trees throw a
shade beneath a summer sun.

And both those maidens loved: but the passion of the English girl was
without hope; while that of the noble Italian lady was nurtured by the
fondest aspirations.

But how came those charming creatures thus acquainted with each other?

Perhaps their conversation may elucidate this mystery.

"We have only known each other one short week," said Mary-Anne; "and yet
I feel as if you were sent to me by heaven to become my friend and
confidant--for, oh! it seems to me as if my soul nourished a secret
which consumes it."

"An accident made us acquainted; and that very circumstance immediately
inspired me with a deep interest in your behalf," returned the signora.
"There are occasions when two persons become more intimate in a few
short days, than they otherwise would in as many years."

"You echo my own feelings, signora," said Mary-Anne; "and your goodness
makes me desire to deserve and gain your friendship."

"Your wish is already accomplished, my dear Miss Gregory," observed
Isabella. "You have my friendship; and if you think me worthy of your
confidence, I can sympathise with your sorrows, even if I cannot remove
them."

"How have you divined that the confidence I would impart is associated
with grief?" asked Mary-Anne, hastily.

"I will tell you," replied the beautiful Italian. "When you were riding
on horseback, accompanied by your father, along this road a week ago, I
observed you from my own chamber. Even at that distance, I perceived
something about you that immediately inspired me with interest. I
followed you with my eyes until you were out of sight: and then I still
continued to think of you--wondering, with that idiosyncrasy of thought
which often occurs during a leisure half-hour, who you were. At length
you returned. You were a few paces in front of your father; and I
observed that the horse you rode was a spirited one. Then occurred the
accident: the moment you were thrown so rudely off against the very gate
of our shrubbery, I precipitated myself down the stairs, and, calling
for the servants as I descended, hurried to your assistance. You cannot
remember--because you were insensible--that I was the first to reach the
spot, where your father had already raised you from the ground. Mr.
Gregory was distracted: he thought that you were lost to him for ever.
I, however, ascertained in a moment that you still breathed; and I
directed the servants to convey you to the house. While you were still
stretched in a state of insensibility upon my own bed, I contemplated
you with increasing interest. Then, when you awoke at length, and
spoke,--and when I conversed with you,--it seemed as if I were
irresistibly attracted towards you. I was, indeed, delighted when my
father proposed to Mr. Gregory to allow you to remain a few days with us
until you should be completely recovered from the effects of your fall.
Your father consented, and he left you with us. It was not long before I
perceived that you nourished a profound grief;--I observed the frequent
abstraction of your manner--I noticed your pensive mood. I thought
within myself, '_Is it possible that one so young and interesting should
already be acquainted with sorrow?_' From that hour I have felt deeply
on your account--for, alas! I myself have known what are the effects of
grief!"

"Signora," said Mary-Anne, with tears in her eyes, "I can never repay
you for this kind interest which you manifest towards me. I feel that I
should be happier were I to tell you all that grieves me; but I
tremble--lest you should think me very foolish, and very indiscreet!"

"Foolish we may all be at times," said Isabella; "but indiscreet I am
convinced you never were."

"Is it not indiscreet to nurse a sentiment whose hopes can never be
realised? Is it not indiscreet," added Mary-Anne, hanging down her head,
and speaking in a low tone, "to love one who loves another?"

"No--not indiscreet," answered Isabella, hastily: "for what mortal has
power over the heart?"

"Signora, love is not then a stranger to your breast!" exclaimed
Mary-Anne, glancing with tearful eyes up to the countenance of the
Italian lady.

"I should be unworthy of your confidence, were I to withhold mine," said
Isabella. "Yes--my troth is plighted to one than whom no living soul
possesses more generous, more noble feelings: and yet," she added, with
a sigh, "there are obstacles in the way of our union--obstacles which,
alas! I sometimes think, can never be overcome!"

"Ah! lady, while I can now feel for you--feel most deeply," said
Mary-Anne, "I am, nevertheless, rejoiced that you have thus honoured me
with your confidence. It removes any hesitation--any alarm, on my part,
to unburden my soul to you!"

"Speak, my dear Mary-Anne," returned Isabella: "you will at least be
certain to receive sympathy and consolation from me."

"I shall then reveal my sentiments unreservedly," continued Mary-Anne.
"I have before mentioned to you that I have two brothers, who are now at
college. A few months ago, they were preparing for their collegiate
course of study, and were residing at home in Kentish Town. My father
obtained for them the assistance of a tutor--a young gentleman who had
once been wealthy, but who had been reduced to comparative poverty. Oh!
it was impossible to see that young man without feeling an interest in
him. When I first heard that a tutor was engaged for my brothers, I
immediately pictured to myself a confirmed pedagogue--shabby, dirty,
dogmatic, and ugly. How greatly then was I astonished, when I was
introduced to an elegant and handsome young man, of polished manners,
agreeable conversation, entirely unassuming, courteous, and affable?
There was a partial air of melancholy about him; but his eyes were
lighted with the fire of intellect, and his noble forehead seemed to be
adorned with that unartificial crown of aristocracy which nature bestows
upon her elect. Alas! woe to me was the day when that young man first
entered my father's dwelling. The interest I felt for him soon augmented
to a degree, that I was miserable when he was away. But, when he was
present, oh! then my heart seemed to bound within me like a fawn upon
the hills; and my happiness was of the most ravishing description--I was
gay, frolicksome, and playful: no laugh of a child was so hearty, so
sincere as mine! His voice was music to my ears! He taught me drawing;
but I was too happy to sit still for many minutes together--too happy to
sit next to him! And yet I did not understand my own feelings: in fact,
I never stopped to analyse them. I was carried along by a whirlwind that
left me no leisure for self-examination. When he was absent, my only
thought was upon what he had said when present, and how happy I should
be when he came once more. I had no more idea of the true nature of the
sentiment that animated my soul, than I have at this instant of what
constitutes the happiness of heaven. I knew that I felt happy when he
was there: I know that those feel happy who dwell above;--but I was as
ignorant then of what formed my felicity, as I now am of the bliss
experienced by those who inhabit the Almighty's kingdom. Thus a few
weeks passed away; and then my father announced his intention of
allowing a holiday for a short period. I remember--as well as if it were
an event of yesterday--that this arrangement caused me serious
displeasure; because I understood that our tutor would cease to visit us
during the suspension of the studies. I expressed my annoyance in plain
terms; but this ebullition on my part was most probably considered a
specimen of girlish caprice, or the airs of a spoiled child. And now,
signora--now----"

"Call me Isabella," said the Italian lady, affectionately.

"Now, my dear Isabella," preceded Mary-Anne, "I come to that part of my
narrative which involves an indiscretion that may appear grave in your
eyes--though, God knows, I was at the time entirely ignorant of the
imprudence of the step which I was taking."

"I am prepared to allow every extenuation for one so young, so artless,
and so inexperienced as yourself," observed Isabella.

"Ah! how kind you are," returned Mary-Anne, pressing her companion's
hand. "But let me not hesitate to reveal the indiscretion into which I
was hurried by feelings of a new and powerful nature, I called upon the
young tutor at his own residence! And then, how nobly did he behave! how
generously did he act! He explained to me--by degrees, and in the most
delicate manner possible--the impropriety of the step which I had taken:
he gave me an insight into those rules of feminine propriety, a breach
of which can scarcely be extenuated by the plea of guilelessness;--in a
word, he opened my eyes to the position in which I had placed myself!
But, alas! what did I learn at the same time? He told me that he was
attached to a young lady, who was very beautiful. It then struck me,
with lightning rapidity, that I had no right to offer my _friendship_
(for still I did not dream of _love_) to one on whom another heart had
claims; and I left him with a sincere apology for my conduct."

"I admit that your indiscretion was great," said the pure-minded
Isabella; "but no one possessing a generous heart could hesitate to
sympathise with you, rather than blame."

"For days and days," continued Mary-Anne, "I struggled with my feelings.
I still believed that all I experienced towards the object of my
interest was friendship. But when he resumed his attendance, I found
that it was impossible to conquer the sentiments which agitated my
bosom. God knows--God knows, Isabella, how I reasoned with myself upon
the state of mind in which I existed! I prayed to heaven to relieve me
from the doubts, the anxieties, the uneasiness, which constantly
oppressed me, by restoring me to that state of perfect happiness which
was mine ere I knew that being who, in spite of himself, exercised so
powerful an influence over me. At length my father sent me suddenly, and
without a day's warning, to pass a week with some particular friends at
Twickenham. I was at first inclined to remonstrate with him at this
proceeding; and then it struck me that it would be well if I were to
cease to exist under the spell which the frequent presence of the tutor
at the house seemed to throw around me."

"And all this time you were still unaware of the true nature of the
feelings which animated you?" inquired Isabella.

"Oh! yes--I was indeed," answered Mary-Anne: "but a fearful occurrence
was speedily destined to open my eyes! I remained a few days with my
kind friends at Twickenham, and then returned home. I there learnt that
the tutor had ceased to attend at the house, as my brothers were to
proceed, at the commencement of January, to college. I know not whether
my father had some motive for the conduct which he thus pursued, in
abruptly dismissing the tutor and sending me away while he adopted that
step; nor can I say whether any particular reason prompted him to do all
that he could to amuse my mind on my return home. It is, nevertheless,
certain that he exerted himself to provide amusements for me: he
purchased two horses, and accompanied me in frequent equestrian
exercises; he took me to concerts and the theatres; and supplied me with
entertaining books of travel and adventure, music, and pictures. But my
mind was intent only upon one absorbing idea; nor could it be weaned
from that feeling which it nursed in favour of the young tutor. I,
however, acceded to all my father's plans of diversion; and it was one
evening at the theatre that the veil fell from my eyes! I accompanied my
father to witness a new drama. The action of the piece was deeply
interesting; the poetry was of a nature to touch the inmost soul. There
was a passage in which the heroine described her hopeless love: I
listened--I drank in every word--I hung upon each syllable of that fine
speech as if my own destiny were intimately linked with the scene
enacting before me. As she proceeded, I was painfully surprised by the
similitude existing between the feelings that _she_ described and that
_I_ felt. At length a light dawned in upon my soul;--then did I begin to
comprehend the real nature of the sentiments that filled my own
soul;--then could I read my own heart! I perceived that I loved
tenderly, deeply, unalterably! I heard no more of the drama--I saw
nothing more of its progress: I sate absorbed in deep reflection upon
the conviction that had so suddenly reached me. When I awoke from my
reverie, the tragedy----"

"A tragedy?" said Isabella, hastily.

"Yes--the tragedy was finished, and the author, holding the hand of the
heroine of his piece, stood before the public. Merciful heavens! the
great tragic writer who had thus suddenly burst upon the world, was no
other than the young tutor!"

"The tutor!" exclaimed Isabella, a strange suspicion suddenly entering
her mind.

"Yes--he whom I had just discovered that I loved," answered Mary-Anne.

"May I inquire his name?" said Isabella, in a tremulous tone, and with a
palpitating heart.

"There can be no indiscretion in revealing it," returned Miss Gregory;
"for it is not probable that you have ever heard of Mr. Richard
Markham."

"Unhappy girl!" exclaimed Isabella, in a tone of deep sympathy--but
without the least feeling of jealousy; "it is now my duty to return your
confidence with a reciprocal frankness. But, alas! what I am about to
say cannot tend to soothe your sorrows, since--as I fondly believe--it
will only confirm you in the impression that the affections of him whom
_you_ love are fixed elsewhere."

"You speak mysteriously, Isabella," said Mary-Anne: "pray, explain
yourself."

"I will--and without reserve," continued the signora, a blush mantling
upon her beauteous countenance. "So far from Mr. Richard Markham being a
stranger to me, Mary-Anne, he is----"

"He is--" repeated Miss Gregory, mechanically.

"He is the hope of my happiness--the one to whom my vow of constancy and
love is pledged----"

"You the object of his attachment!" ejaculated Mary-Anne, clinging to
Isabella for support: "Oh! forgive me--forgive me, that I have dared to
love him also!"

"Alas! dear girl, I have nothing to forgive," said Isabella,
affectionately: "I deeply--deeply compassionate your lot. And, oh!
believe me," continued the generous Italian Princess,--"believe me when
I say that no feeling of petty jealousy--no sentiment unworthy the
honourable affection which I bear towards Richard Markham--can ever
impair the friendship that has commenced, and shall continue, between
you and me!"

"Oh! how noble is your disposition, Isabella!" exclaimed Mary-Anne. "But
your generous assurance shall not meet with an ungrateful return. So far
from feeling jealous of you,--_envious_ I must be, to some extent,--I
offer you the most sincere congratulations on your engagement to one who
is so well worthy of your love--in spite of what the world may say
against him;--for that he could be guilty of the deed of which that
horrible man accused him----"

"He is not guilty," answered Isabella, firmly. "The story is a long one;
but I will tell thee all."

The signora then related to her companion the narrative of the
misfortunes and sufferings of Richard Markham.

Mary-Anne listened with profound attention, and, when Isabella
terminated her history, exclaimed, "Oh! I knew that he was all of
honourable, great, and generous, that human nature could be!"

A profound silence then ensued between the two young ladies, and lasted
for some minutes.

At length it was broken by Mary-Anne.

"Oh! well might _he_ have said," she exclaimed, in a sudden ebullition
of feeling, as she gazed upon the countenance of the signora,--"well
might he have said that his heart was devoted to a lady who was very
beautiful! And he might also have observed, as good as she was lovely!"

"Nay--you must not flatter me," returned Isabella.

"You need not hesitate to hear the truth from my lips," said Mary-Anne.
"God grant that I may live to see you happily united: I shall then die
in peace."

"It is wrong to talk of dying at your age," observed Isabella. "Time
will mitigate that passion which has made you unhappy----"

"Oh! Isabella, do _you_ believe that true and sincere love can ever
succumb to time?" exclaimed Mary-Anne, almost reproachfully.

"Time cannot extinguish it; but time may soften its pangs," said the
Italian lady, desirous to console her unfortunate friend.

"But time will only ripen, and not eradicate, the canker which gnaws at
the heart," persisted Miss Gregory; "and _mine_," she added with a
mournful pathos of tone that showed how deeply she felt the truth of
what she said,--"_mine_ has received a wound whose effects may be
comparatively slow, but which is not the less mortal. A few years,
perhaps, and my earthly career must end. I shall wither like the early
flowers, that peep forth prematurely to greet a deceptive gleam of
sunshine which they mistake for spring:--I shall pass away at that age
when my contemporaries are in the full enjoyment of life, vigour, and
happiness! Yes--I feel it here--_here_;"--and she pressed her hand upon
her heart.

"No, my dear friend," said Isabella, affected even to tears; "your
prospect is not so gloomy as you would depict it. There is one star that
burns in the same heaven which is above us all;--and that star is Hope."

"Hope!" ejaculated Mary-Anne, bitterly: "ah! where does hope exist for
me? Is not hope extinguished in my heart for ever?"

"In the one sense, hope is dead," answered Isabella, mildly; "but hope
beams not only in one sphere. The attentions of your friends--the
kindness of your relations, will combine to cheer your path; and surely
this conviction must be allied to hopes of tranquillity, peace, and even
happiness! Consider, Mary-Anne--you have a father who is still in the
vigour of his years: you will live for him! You have brothers who must
soon enter upon their respective careers in the great world: you must
live for them! You have friends who are devoted to you: you will live
for them also! Oh! do not speak of death with levity: do not seem to
invite its presence! We do not live for ourselves only: we live for
others. To yield to those feelings which facilitate the ravages of
sorrow and encourage the inroads of grief, is to perpetrate a slow
suicide. God and man alike require that we should war against our
misfortunes!

"Alas! I have not that great moral courage which characterises your
soul, Isabella," answered Mary-Anne: "I am a weak and fragile plant,
that bends to the lightest gale. How, then, can I resist the terrible
tempest?"

"By exerting that fortitude with which every mind is more or less
endowed, but which cannot be developed without an effort," answered
Isabella.

Mary-Anne sighed, but gave no answer.

The two maidens now felt wearied with the somewhat lengthy walk which
they had taken; and they accordingly retraced their steps to the
mansion.




CHAPTER CXIX.

POOR ELLEN!


It was evening; and a cheerful fire burned in the grate of the
drawing-room at Markham-Place.

Mr. Monroe and his daughter were seated in that apartment; the former
dozing in an arm-chair, the latter reading a novel.

Richard was engaged in a literary pursuit in his library.

From time to time Miss Monroe laid aside her book, and fell into
meditation. Not that she had any particular subject for her reflections;
but the events of her life, when taken together, constituted a theme
from which it was impossible to avert her attention for any lengthened
period.

There was also a topic upon which she pondered more frequently as time
passed on. She knew that in the course of nature,--especially after the
rude shocks which his constitution had received from mental suffering
and bodily privation,--her father could not live much longer. Then, she
was well aware that she could not continue to dwell beneath the same
roof with Richard Markham;--and her pride revolted against the idea of
receiving a direct eleemosynary assistance from him in the shape of a
pecuniary allowance. She had some few pounds treasured up in a savings
bank, and which she had saved from her salary when engaged at the
theatre; but this sum would not maintain her long. She therefore looked,
with occasional anxiety, to the necessity of adopting some course that
should obtain for her a livelihood. Of all the avocations in which she
had been engaged, she preferred that of the stage; and there were times
when she seriously thought of returning to the profession, even during
her father's life-time.

In sooth, it was a pity that one of the brightest ornaments of female
loveliness should have been lowered by circumstances from the pedestal
of virtue and modesty which she would have so eminently adorned. Should
her transcendent loveliness captivate the heart of any individual whose
proposals were alike honourable and eligible, how could she accept the
hand thus extended to her? She must either deceive him in respect to
that wherein no man likes to be deceived; or she must decline the chance
of settling herself advantageously for life. These were the
alternatives;--for in no case could she reveal her shame!

Her fate was not, therefore, a happy one; and the reader need not marvel
if she now and then found reflections of a disagreeable nature stealing
into her soul.

She was now past twenty years of age: and in spite of the severe trials
which she had endured, the sweet freshness of her youthful charms was
totally unimpaired. Her faultless Grecian countenance,--her
classically-shaped head,--her swan-like neck,--her symmetrical
form,--her delicate hands and feet,--all those charms which had been
perpetuated in the works of so many artists--these elements of an almost
superhuman beauty still combined to render her passing lovely!

O Ellen! the soul of the philanthropist must mourn for thee,--for thou
wast not wrongly inclined by nature. On a purer being than thou wast,
ere misery drove thee in an evil moment to an evil course, the sun never
shone:--and now thou hast to rue the shame which thine imperious
destiny, and not thy faults, entailed upon thee!

But to our tale.

Old Mr. Monroe was dozing in the arm-chair; and Ellen had once more
turned her eyes upon her book, when Marian entered the room.

She perceived at a glance that Mr. Monroe was asleep; and, placing her
finger upon her lip to enjoin silence, she put a note into Ellen's hand,
saying it the same time in a low whisper, "Mr. Wentworth's servant has
just brought this, with a request that it should be immediately conveyed
to you. Miss."

Marian then withdrew.

Ellen tore open the note, and read as follows:--

     "I grieve to state that your little Richard has been attacked with
     a sudden and dangerous malady. Come to my house for an hour--if you
     can possibly steal away, without exciting suspicion. My servant
     will convey this to you through your faithful confidant.

"DAVID WENTWORTH."



Ellen flung the note frantically upon the table, and rushed out of the
room.

She hurried up stairs, put on her bonnet and cloak, and, having told
Marian to sit up for her, hastened from the house--one sole idea
occupying her mind,--the danger of her well-beloved child!

When she arrived at Mr. Wentworth's abode, she was received by that
gentleman's wife, who immediately said, "The danger is over--the crisis
is past! Do not alarm yourself--my husband no longer fears for your
son's life. He, however, deemed it to be his duty to send for you."

"Oh! he did well--he acted kindly and considerately," returned Ellen.
"But let me assure myself that my boy is no longer in danger."

Mrs. Wentworth led the way to the chamber where little Richard was now
sleeping tranquilly, the surgeon seated by the bed-side.

From his lips Ellen gathered hope that the perilous crisis had passed:
she nevertheless determined to remain for some time to assure herself
that any return of the spasms might not be fraught with increased
danger. All other considerations were banished from her mind; she
thought not of her father--she remembered not that her absence might
alarm both him and Richard Markham; and when Mr. Wentworth delicately
alluded to that subject, as time slipped by, she uttered some impatient
remark intimating that she should not be at a loss for an excuse to
account for her protracted absence.

Thus the pure and holy maternal feeling was now uppermost in the mind of
that young lady: the danger of her child was the all-absorbing subject
of her thoughts.

Bent over the bed, she tenderly gazed upon the pale countenance of her
child.

Oh! where can the artist find a more charming subject for his pencil, or
the poet a more witching theme for his song, than the young mother
watching over her sleeping infant?

Hour after hour passed; and when the babe awoke, Ellen nursed him in her
arms. In spite of its illness, the little sufferer smiled; but when the
pang of the malady seized upon him, it was Mrs. Wentworth--and not
Ellen--who could pacify him!

Alas! galling indeed to the young mother was this conviction that her
child clung to another rather than to herself.

Nevertheless Ellen watched the babe with the most heartfelt tenderness;
and it was not until near midnight, when the surgeon declared that the
malady had passed without the remotest fear of a relapse, that Ellen
thought of returning home.

She then took her departure, with an intimation that she should call
again in the morning.

She retraced her steps towards the Place, and, passing up the garden,
was admitted through the back entrance by the faithful Marian.

"My child is saved," whispered Ellen to the servant. "Has my father
inquired for me?"

"No, miss," was the reply. "He is still in the drawing-room; and Mr.
Markham is with him."

"They are up late to-night," remarked Ellen. "But I," she continued, "am
weary in mind and body, and shall at once repair to my own room."

Marian gave the young lady a candle, and wished her a good night's rest.

Ellen hastened cautiously up-stairs, and in a few minutes retired to
rest.

She was fatigued, as before intimated; and yet slumber refused to visit
her eyes. Nevertheless, she dozed uneasily,--in that kind of semi-sleep
which weighs down the heavy lids, and yet does not completely shut out
from the mind the consciousness of what is passing around.

A quarter of an hour had probably elapsed since Ellen had sought her
couch, when the door slowly opened; and her father entered the room,
bearing a light in his hand.

The countenance of the old man was ghastly pale; but there was a
wildness in his eyes which bore testimony to the painful feelings that
agitated him within.

He advanced towards the bed, and contemplated the countenance of his
daughter for a few moments with an expression of profound sorrow.

Ellen opened her eyes, and started up in the bed, exclaiming, "My dear
father, in the name of heaven, what is the matter?"

"O God! Ellen," cried the old man, placing the light upon a side-table,
"tell me that it is not true--say but one word, to assure me that you
are the pure and spotless girl I have always deemed you to be!"

"Father!" exclaimed the young lady, a horrible feeling taking possession
of her, "why do you ask me that question?"

"Because a fearful suspicion racks my brain," answered the old man; "and
I could not retire to rest until I knew the truth--be that truth what it
may."

"My dear father--you alarm me cruelly!" said Ellen, her cheeks at one
moment suffused with blushes, and then varying to ashy whiteness.

"In one word, Ellen," exclaimed the old man, "what is the meaning of
that letter?"

And the almost distracted father threw the surgeon's note upon the bed.

In an instant Ellen remembered that she had left it behind her in the
room where she was seated with her father when she received it.

Joining her hands in a paroxysm of the most acute mental agony, she
burst into tears, crying wildly, "Forgive me! forgive me--my dear, dear
father! Do not curse your wretched--wretched daughter!"

And then she bowed her head upon her bosom, and seemed to await her
parent's reply in a state of mind which no pen can describe.

For some moments Mr. Monroe maintained a profound silence: but the
quivering of his lip, and the working of the veins upon his forehead
betrayed the terrible nature of the conflict of feelings which was
taking place within his breast.

At length he also burst into tears, and covering his face with his
hands, exclaimed, "My God! that I had died ere I had experienced this
bitter--bitter hour!"

These words were uttered in a tone of such intense agony, that a mortal
dread for her father's reason and life suddenly sprang up in Ellen's
mind.

Throwing herself from the bed, she fell upon her knees, crying, "Forgive
me, my dear father. Oh! if my child were here, I would hold it in my
arms towards you; and, when its innocent countenance met your eyes, you
would pardon _me_!"

"Ellen! Ellen! thou hast broken thy father's heart," murmured Mr.
Monroe, averting his face from his suppliant daughter. "Oh! heaven be
thanked that thy mother has been snatched from us! But tell me, unhappy
girl, who is the villain that has dishonoured thee--for, in the moment
of my intense agony, when I read the fatal letter that disclosed thy
dishonour and marked the name of thy child, I vilely--ungratefully
accused our generous benefactor of thy ruin."

[Illustration]

"What! Richard?--oh! no, no!" ejaculated Ellen, in a tone of ineffable
anguish; then, as the thought of _who the father of her child really
was_ flashed across her memory, she gave utterance to a terrible moan,
and sank backwards, senseless, upon the floor.

"Ellen! Ellen!" cried the old man: "Ellen--my dearest daughter,
Ellen--oh! I have killed her!"

At that moment Marian, bearing a light, entered the room.

"Water! water!" exclaimed the agonised father: "she is insensible--she
is dying!"

Then hastily filling a tumbler from a decanter of water which stood upon
the toilet-table, he knelt down by the side of his daughter, and bathed
her temples.

In a few moments Ellen partially recovered, and gazed wildly around her.

"My sweet child," murmured the old man, pressing her hand to his lips,
"live--live for me: all shall be forgiven--all forgotten. I was harsh to
thee, my Ellen--to thee who have always been so fond, so tender, and so
good to me."

"Leave her, sir, for the present," said Marian: "allow her to compose
herself. This discovery has been almost too much for her!"

"I will," returned Mr. Monroe. "You must stay with her, good Marian; and
in the morning I will come and see her."

The old man then withdrew.




CHAPTER CXX.

THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER.


It was nine o'clock in the morning.

Ellen was lying, pale and tearful, in her bed, by the side of which sate
her father.

The past night had worked a fearful change in the old man: his
countenance was haggard, his look desolate and forlorn.

At one moment his lips quivered as if with concentrated rage: at another
he wiped tears from his eyes.

Ellen watched him with the deepest interest.

"And you persist in refusing to acquaint me with the name of him who
has dishonoured you?" said the old man, in slow and measured terms.

"Oh! my dear father, why will you persist in torturing me?" exclaimed
Ellen. "Do you think that I have not suffered enough?"

"Oh! I can well believe that you have suffered, Ellen--suffered
profoundly," returned Monroe; "for you were reared in the ways of
virtue; and you could not have fallen into those of crime without a
remorse. Suffered! but how have I not suffered during the last few
hours! When I read that fearful secret, I became a madman. I had but two
ideas: my daughter was a mother, and her child's name was _Richard_!
What could I think? I went straight to the room where our benefactor was
sitting: I closed the door; I approached him, with the rage of a demon
in my breast, and I said, '_Villain! is my daughter's honour the price
of the hospitality which you have shown towards us?_' He was
thunderstruck; and I showed him the letter. He burst into tears,
exclaiming, '_Could you believe me capable of such infernal atrocity?_'
Then we reasoned together; we conversed upon the subject; and his noble
frankness of manner convinced me that I had erred--grossly erred! He
implored me to allow the night to pass ere I revealed to you the
appalling discovery which I had made: he dreaded the effects of my
excited state of mind; he thought that rest would calm me. But there was
no rest for me! I retired to my room; and there--when alone--I felt that
I could not endure meditation. I came to your chamber; and then--O God!
the doubt to which I had yet so fondly clung was dissipated."

"My dear father, if you knew all," said Ellen, weeping, "you would pity
me--oh! you would pity me! Do not think that I surrendered myself to him
who is the father of my child, in a moment of passion: do not imagine
that the weakness was preceded by affection on my part for him who led
me astray!"

"Unhappy girl, what mean you?" ejaculated Mr. Monroe. "Would you rob
yourself of the only plea of extenuation which woman in such a case can
offer? Speak, Ellen!"

"I will tell you all--that is, all I know," added Ellen, with a blush.
"You remember that when we returned to live in that horrible court in
Golden Lane, the second time we were reduced to poverty,--you remember
what fearful privations we endured! At length our misery reached a point
when it became intolerable; and one morning you set out with the
determination of seeking relief from the bounty of Richard Markham."

"I well remember it," said Monroe. "Proceed."

"You can then call to mind the circumstance of my absence when you
returned home to our miserable abode----"

"I do--I do: hours passed--I had gold--and you were absent!" ejaculated
the old man, with feverish impatience.

"And when I returned home--late--" continued Ellen, her voice scarcely
rising above a whisper, and her face, neck, and bosom suffused with
burning blushes, "did I not bring you gold also?"

"Merciful heavens!" cried Monroe, starting from his seat; "say no more,
Ellen--say no more--or I shall go mad! Oh, God! I comprehend it all! You
went and sold yourself to some libertine for gold!"

The old man threw himself into his daughter's arms, and wept bitterly.

"Father--dear father, calm yourself," said Ellen.

"I could not see you want--I had no faith in the success of your appeal
to him who has since been our benefactor--I thought that there was but
_one resource_ left;--but," she added, her eyes kindling with the fire
of pride, while her father sank back into his seat, "I call my God to
witness that I acted not thus for myself. Oh, no! death sooner should
have been my fate. But you, my dear father, you wanted bread; you were
starving; and that was more than I could bear! I sinned but once--_but
once_; and never, never have I ceased to repent of that fatal step--for
my one crime bore its fruit!"

Monroe was convulsed with grief. The tears trickled through the wrinkled
hands with which he covered his venerable countenance; his voice was
lost in agonising sobs, and all he could utter were the words: "Ellen,
my daughter, it is for me to ask pardon of you!"

"No, say not so, dear father--say not so!" ejaculated Miss Monroe,
throwing her arms around him, and kissing his forehead and his hands.
"No, my dear father, it was not your fault, if misery drove me to
despair. But now you perceive," she added, solemnly, "that I was more to
be pitied than to be blamed; and--and," she murmured, the falsehood at
such a moment almost suffocating her, "you understand why I cannot tell
you who was the father of my child!"

There was something so terrible in the idea that a young, virtuous, and
lovely girl had prostituted herself to the first unknown libertine who
had bid a price for her charms,--something so appalling to a father in
the thought that his only child had been urged by excess of misery and
profound affection for him, to such a dismal fate, that Monroe seemed to
sink under the blow!

For some time did his daughter vainly endeavour to solace him; and it
was only when she herself began to rave and beat her bosom with anguish
and in despair, that the old man was recalled to a sense of the
necessity of calming his almost invincible emotions.

The father and daughter were at length restored to partial tranquillity
by each other's endeavours at reciprocal consolation, and were
commingling their tears together, when the door opened.

Markham, followed by Marian, entered the room.

But what was the surprise of Mr. Monroe--what was the joy of Ellen, when
Marian advanced towards the bed, and presented the child to her mother!

"A parent must not be separated from her offspring," said Richard;
"henceforth, Ellen, that infant must be nurtured by thee."

"Oh! good, generous friend, my more than brother!" exclaimed Ellen, with
an ebullition of feeling that might almost be termed a wild paroxysm of
joy; and she pressed the infant to her bosom.

"Richard," said Mr. Monroe, "you possess the noblest soul that ever yet
blessed or adorned a human being."

Marian stooped over the bed, apparently to caress the sleeping infant,
but in reality to whisper these words in Ellen's ears:--"Fear nothing: I
was sent to fetch the child; and Mr. Wentworth will keep your secret
inviolably."

Ellen cast a look of profound gratitude upon Marian; for this welcome
announcement assured her that the surgeon would never admit the fact of
possessing any clue, direct or indirect, to the father of the babe which
she held in her arms.

In a few minutes, when she had recovered herself from the horrible alarm
that had filled her mind lest Markham had himself been to see Mr.
Wentworth, and had learnt that the father of the child was so far known
that he had engaged to furnish the means for its support,--in a few
minutes, we say, she turned to her father, and said: "Our benefactor's
goodness deserves every explanation from us; tell him the extent of my
misfortune--reveal to him the origin and cause of my shame--let nothing
be concealed."

"Ellen," said Richard, "I know all! Forgive me, but I reached the door
of your room when you were telling your sad tale to your father; and I
paused--because I considered that it was improper to interrupt you at
such a moment. And, if I overheard that affecting narrative, it was not
a mean curiosity which made me stop to listen--it was the deep interest
which I now more than ever feel in your behalf."

"And you do not despise me?" said Ellen, hanging down her head.

"Despise you!" ejaculated Richard, "I deeply sympathise with you! Oh,
no! you are not criminal; you are unfortunate. Your soul is pure and
spotless."

"But the world--what will the world think," said Ellen, "when I am seen
with this babe in my arms?"

"The world has not treated you so well, Ellen," returned Markham, "that
its smiles should be deeply valued. Let the world say what it will, it
would be unnatural--inhuman--to separate a mother from her child;
unless, indeed," he added, "it is your desire that that innocent should
be nursed among strangers."

"Oh, no--no!" exclaimed Ellen. "But my unhappy situation shall not
menace your tranquillity; nor shall the tongue of scandal gather food
from the fact of the residence of an unwedded mother beneath your roof.
I will retire, with my father, to some secluded spot----"

"Ellen," interrupted Markham, "were I to permit that arrangement, it
would seem as if I were not sincere in the interest and commiseration,
instead of the blame, which I ere now expressed concerning you. No:
unless you and your father be wearied of the monotonous life which you
lead with me, here will you both continue to dwell; and let the world
indulge in its idle comments as it will."

"Your benevolence finds a reason for every good deed which you
practise," said Ellen. "Ah! Richard, you should have been born a prince,
with a princely fortune: how many thousands would then have been
benefited by your boundless philanthropy."

"My own misfortunes have taught me to feel for those of others,"
answered Richard; "and if the world were more anxious than it is to
substitute sympathy for vituperation, society would not be the compound
of selfishness, slander, envy, and malignity, that it now is."

"It is settled, then, Richard," murmured Ellen, "that my babe shall
henceforth experience a mother's care!"

And Ellen covered her child with kisses and with tears.

At that moment the infant awoke; and a smile played over its innocent
countenance.

Ellen pressed it more closely and more fondly to her bosom.




CHAPTER CXXI.

HIS CHILD!


Mr. Greenwood was sitting in his study,--the handsomely fitted-up room
which we have before described,--the same morning on which the babe was
restored to its mother, through the admirable feeling of Richard
Markham.

Mr. Greenwood was studying speeches for the ensuing session of
Parliament. He employed two secretaries who composed his orations; one
did the dry details, and the other the declamatory and rhetorical
portions. Each received thirty shillings a week, and worked from nine in
the morning until nine at night, with half an hour three times a day for
meals--which said meals were enjoyed at their own expense. And then Mr.
Greenwood hoped to reap all the honours resulting from this drudgery on
the part of his clerks.

The studies of the Member of Parliament were interrupted by the
introduction of Mr. Arthur Chichester.

"I am off to France to-morrow," said this gentleman, throwing himself
lazily upon a sofa; "and I called to see if I could do any thing for you
on that side of the water."

"No, nothing," answered Greenwood. "Do you propose to make a long stay
in France?"

"I shall honour Paris with my presence for about a month," said
Chichester.

"During which time," added Greenwood, with a smile, "you will contrive
to get rid of all the money which Mrs. Viola Chichester so generously
supplied."

"Generously indeed!" said Chichester, laughing heartily. "So far from
thinking of running through the money, I hope to double it. Although the
public gambling-houses have been abolished in France, there is plenty of
play at the private clubs. But you must not imagine that I have a
perfect fortune in my possession: the means adopted to obtain the cash
cost a mint of money: then were five hundred pounds to Tomlinson for his
assistance; five hundred to you for your aid, advice, and
advances--(there is a splendid alliteration for you!)--and three hundred
to poor Anthony Tidkins."

"Poor indeed!" ejaculated Greenwood. "According to what you told me, the
miserable wretch must be in a blessed state of pecuniary nudity."

"It was perfectly true," said Chichester. "When he came to meet me and
Tomlinson on the night that Viola was to be released, in the dark alley
adjoining his house, he was like a furious hyena. It seems that he had
awoke up ten minutes before the hour appointed for our meeting, and then
discovered his loss as I before described it to you."

"I should not like to have such a man as my enemy," observed Greenwood,
carelessly.

"Nor I either. Bless me, how he did swear! I never heard such
imprecations come from a human being's mouth before. He vowed that he
would undertake no other business, nor devote himself to any other
pursuit, until he had traced the woman who had robbed him, and avenged
himself upon her. Flaying alive, he said, was too good for her! Well, I
gave him twenty pounds, poor devil, through good nature; and Tomlinson
gave him ten through fear; for it appears that this Tidkins exercises
some extraordinary influence over that cowardly stock-broker--"

"Ahem!" said Greenwood. "And so poor Tidkins," he added, "did not set
out on his travels after the thief empty-handed?"

"By no means. But he is a useful fellow, and one might want him again."

"True," said Greenwood: "he is one of the necessary implements which men
of the world must make use of at times, to carve out their way to
fortune. Hare you heard any thing of your beloved wife?"

"Nothing more than what I have already told you," answered Chichester.
"She has given up her abode at the Cambridge Heath gate, and taken
apartments at a house in the very heart of the City, and where there are
plenty of other lodgers. She is determined to be secure. However,"
continued Chichester, with a smile, "so long as she holds her tongue
about that little matter--which she seems inclined to do--she need not
fear any further molestation from me."

"I question whether you would have released her that evening, had she
not made her escape," said Greenwood.

"Oh, indeed I should," returned Chichester; "I did not wish to push
things too far; and I really believe that another week's confinement in
that terrible place, which I have described to you, would have turned
her mad in reality. Then again, I should have been afraid of that
cowardly, snivelling fool, Tomlinson, who insisted upon accompanying me
to ensure her release. That man has every inclination to be a downright
rogue; but he lacks the courage."

"Have you seen your friend Harborough lately?" inquired Greenwood.

"To tell you the truth, he is going with me on my present expedition to
Paris. His name, you know, sounds well: Sir Rupert Harborough, Bart.,
son-in-law of Lord Tremordyn,--eh?"

"His name must be somewhat worn out, I should imagine," observed
Greenwood, playing with his watch-chain. "Have you seen Lady Cecilia?"

"No: she has her suite of apartments, and Sir Rupert has his--they do
not interfere with each other. Sir Rupert, however, notices that Lady
Cecilia has a great many visitors of the male sex; and amongst others,
an officer of the grenadier guards, seven feet seven inches high,
including his bear-skin cap."

"Indeed! Lady Cecilia is then becoming a confirmed demirep," observed
Greenwood, without pausing to think who helped to make her so.

"There is no doubt of that," said Chichester. "But you seem up to your
neck in business as usual."

"Yes: I am busily engaged in behalf of the Tory party," answered
Greenwood. "The future Premier has great confidence in me. I have bought
him over seven votes from the Whig side during the recess; and the
moment the Tories succeed to power, I shall be rewarded with a
baronetcy."

"You are making your way famously in the world," said Chichester, rising
to leave.

"Pretty well--pretty well," returned Greenwood, with a complacent smile.

Chichester then shook hands with his friend, and departed.

Half an hour elapsed, during which Mr. Greenwood pursued his studies,
when he was again interrupted by the entrance of a visitor.

This time it was Mr. Tomlinson, the stock-broker.

After having transacted a little pecuniary business together, Greenwood
said, "What have you done with the old man?"

"I have taken a lodging for him in an obscure street of Bethnal Green,
and there he is residing," answered Tomlinson.

"My plan was better," observed Greenwood, dogmatically: "you should have
had him locked up in one of Tidkins's subterranean cells, and allowed
three or four shillings a week for his maintenance."

"Impossible!" cried Tomlinson, indignantly. "I could never have acted so
unmanly--so ungrateful--so atrocious a part."

"Well, just as you please," returned the Member of Parliament: "of
course, you know best."

"We will not discuss that point," said Tomlinson.

"That is precisely what I said some time since to a deputation from the
free and independent electors of Rottenborough, when they sent to
remonstrate with me on a certain portion of my parliamentary conduct,"
observed Mr. Greenwood.

At this moment Lafleur entered and whispered something in his master's
ear.

Tomlinson took his leave, and the valet proceeded to admit Marian into
the presence of his master.

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Greenwood: "any thing wrong, Marian?"

"That may be according to the light in which you view the news I am come
to communicate, sir," replied the servant. "In a word, Miss Monroe's
father and Mr. Markham have discovered all."

"All! no--not _all_!" cried Greenwood, turning deadly pale; "surely
Ellen could not----"

"When I said _all_, sir," replied Marian, "I was wrong. Mr. Monroe and
my master have discovered that Miss Ellen is a mother; and her child is
now with her."

"What! at Markham Place?" demanded Greenwood.

"Yes, sir."

"And is it known also who--what person--the father, I mean----"

"Miss Ellen has maintained _that_ a profound secret, sir," said Marian.

"Thank heaven!" ejaculated Greenwood, now breathing freely. "But Mr.
Wentworth--the surgeon----"

"He has also promised to remain dumb relative to what little he knows.
You are best aware, sir, whether Miss Monroe has studied your wishes, or
your interests, in remaining silent herself relative to you, and in
recommending Mr. Wentworth, through me, to say nothing that may prove
that she is really acquainted with the father of her child."

"But how was the discovery made? Tell me all," exclaimed Greenwood
impatiently.

"The explanation is short. Mr. Wentworth sent a note relative to the
health of the infant, last evening, to Miss Monroe; and she
inadvertently left it upon the table in the same room where her father
was sitting."

"And her father--and Richard--Mr. Markham, I mean," said Greenwood, "are
acquainted but with the bare fact that she is a mother?"

"That is all, sir. But, oh! if you only knew the excuse that Miss Ellen
made to avoid additional explanations," continued Marian, "you
yourself--yes, you, sir, would be affected."

"What was that excuse?" demanded Greenwood.

"I can scarcely believe for one moment that it was true," said Marian,
musing, rather than replying to his question.

"But what was it?" cried the Member of Parliament, impatiently.

"Oh! she spoke of the misery to which her father and herself had once
been reduced, and she said that, prompted by despair, she had sold her
virtue to one whom she knew not--whom she had never seen before nor
since."

"Ah! she said _that_," murmured Greenwood. "And were her father and your
master satisfied?"

"The old man wept well-nigh to break his heart, and Mr. Markham said
that henceforth the child should stay with its mother in his house. Oh!
sir, there lives not a man of nobler disposition than my master: he is
all that is generous, humane, liberal, and upright!"

Mr. Greenwood turned aside, and appeared to contemplate some papers with
deep interest for nearly a minute; and then he passed a handkerchief
rapidly over his face.

Marian thought, as she afterwards informed Ellen, that he wiped tears
from his eyes!

He made no reply, however, to her observations; but rang the bell for
his French valet.

When Lafleur entered the room, Mr. Greenwood said, "You will proceed
immediately to the abode of Mr. Wentworth, at Holloway: you will hand
him from me this bank-note for fifty pounds; and you will say to him
these words: '_As the child has been removed through an unforeseen
occurrence from your care, its father sends you this as a small token of
his gratitude for the kindness you have manifested towards it; and he
hopes that, should you be questioned upon the subject, you will not
reveal the fact that you ever had the slightest communication from its
father._' Go--and return quickly."

Lafleur received the bank-note, bowed, and left the room.

"You can inform Miss Monroe of the step which I have thus taken to
ensure the surgeon's secrecy," said Greenwood, addressing himself to
Marian.

"I shall not fail to do so, sir," answered the servant.

She then withdrew.

When the door closed behind her, Greenwood threw himself back in his
chair, murmuring, "My child beneath Richard's roof!"




CHAPTER CXXII.

A CHANGE OF FORTUNE.


It was about three o'clock in the afternoon that the Earl of Warrington
alighted from his horse at the door of Mrs. Arlington's residence in
Dover Street.

Giving his horse in charge to his mounted groom, the nobleman entered
the dwelling.

The Enchantress received him in the drawing-room; but, to her surprise,
the air of the earl was cold and formal.

He seated himself in a chair at a distance from the sofa which Diana
occupied; and for some moments he uttered not a word.

A sentiment of pride prevented her from saying any thing to elicit an
explanation of his ceremonial manner, because she was not aware that she
was guilty of a fault meriting such treatment.

At length that silence, most embarrassing to both, was broken by the
earl.

"Diana," he said, "we must separate. You have conducted yourself in a
manner that has made me the laughing-stock of all who know me."

"My lord!" exclaimed Diana, perfectly astonished at this accusation;
"you must have been misinformed; or you are bantering me."

"Neither the one nor the other," replied the earl. "You may probably
conceive whether I am inclined to jest, when I state that your kind
consideration towards Sir Rupert Harborough has reached my ears."

"Indeed, my lord!" cried Diana. "I do not attempt to deny that I
forwarded, anonymously, to Sir Rupert Harborough a sum of money to
extricate him from a fearful embarrassment."

"It would be unmanly in me to do more than remind you whence came that
money which you could afford to fling away upon an unprincipled
profligate," said the Earl of Warrington; "at the same time, you cannot
suppose that it is pleasant to my feelings to learn that the world makes
itself merry at my expense."

"Your lordship is aware that I am the last person in existence to do
aught to occasion you the slightest uneasiness. Perhaps I was wrong----"

"You cannot, with your good sense, think otherwise. But let us not
dispute upon the point: the thing is done, and cannot be recalled; but
its effect is fatal to our connection."

"Your lordship does not mean----"

"I mean that we must separate, Diana," interrupted the nobleman, firmly.

"Is my fault irreparable in your eyes?" asked the Enchantress, tears
trickling down her cheeks.

"No man can endure ridicule--and I am particularly sensitive in that
respect."

"But where did you learn that such was the result of my foolish
kindness?" said Diana, almost bewildered by the suddenness with which
this blow had come upon her.

"I will give you every explanation you require, as in duty bound,"
replied the earl. "Captain Fitzhardinge, an officer in the Grenadier
Guards, is an acquaintance of mine. He is a visitor at the house of Sir
Rupert Harborough; and last evening Lady Cecilia Harborough told him
what she called a _capital anecdote_ of how she had cheated her husband
out of a thousand pounds. Then, it appears, they laughed heartily at
this _excellent joke_; and Lady Cecilia proceeded to inform him that she
had discovered whence the handsome subsidy emanated. She concluded, in
terms more galling than polite, by ridiculing the Earl of Warrington,
who was foolish enough to supply Mrs. Arlington so munificently with
money, that she was enabled to spare some for her ancient lovers. You
have asked me for the plain truth, and I have told it, as Captain
Fitzhardinge stated it to me."

"And thus a trivial indiscretion on my part has created all this
mischief," sobbed the Enchantress.

"You have acted most unwisely, Diana: I will not go so far as to say
that you must have had some particular motive in forwarding that money
to one who----"

"Heaven knows the purity of my motive!" exclaimed Diana, wiping away her
tears, and glancing proudly towards the nobleman.

"The world will scarcely admit that purity of motive in such a case was
possible. Consider the inferences that must be drawn----"

"And do you, my lord, believe that any unworthy reason of that kind led
me to assist Sir Rupert Harborough?" demanded the Enchantress.

"If I may judge by your outward conduct towards me, I should give a
decided negative in reply to your question. But we should no longer be
happy in each other's society, while the least ground for unpleasant
suspicions existed. We will, then, separate--but separate as good
friends."

"Be it so, my lord," said Diana, the flush of injured pride dyeing her
cheeks, while she conquered the emotions that rose in her bosom.

"The lease of this house, and every thing it contains, are yours,"
continued the earl, after a moment's pause: "in this pocket-book there
is a cheque----"

"No, my lord," interrupted Diana; "your bounty has already done much for
me--more than you seem to think I have deserved: I cannot accept another
favour at your lordship's hands."

The Earl of Warrington was struck by this answer, which proved that his
mistress was not selfish; and for a few moments he was upon the point of
making overtures for a reconciliation.

But the dread of ridicule--the fear of being laughed at as a man who
kept a mistress for the benefit of others--the horror of being made the
laughing-stock of all the rakes and demireps in London, smothered the
lenient feelings that had awoke in his breast.

"You refuse to accept this token of my friendship, Diana?" he said.

"I must beg most respectfully to decline it, my lord--with fervent
gratitude, nevertheless, for your generosity."

Again the earl wavered.

He looked at that beautiful woman who had been so charming and
fascinating a companion,--who had advised him as a faithful friend in
various matters upon which he had consulted her,--and who, to all
appearances, had conducted herself so well towards him, save in this one
instance;--he gazed upon her for a few moments, and his stern resolves
melted rapidly away.

"Diana," he said, "we----"

At that moment the sounds of voices in the street caused him to turn his
head towards the window; and he perceived Captain Fitzhardinge and
another gentleman riding by on horseback.

They were laughing heartily, and gazing towards the house.

The Earl of Warrington's sensitive mind instantly suggested to him the
idea that the anecdote of the thousand pounds was being again retailed,
and most probably accompanied by the intimation that _that was the house
of the complaisant Earl of Warrington's mistress_!

The Enchantress, with that keen perception which characterises woman,
had seen all that was passing in the earl's mind,--had observed him
waver _twice_, and had felt convinced on the second occasion that he
would court a reconciliation.

But when those voices and that hearty laughter from the street fell upon
her ears, and when she saw the blood rush to the earl's countenance as
he glanced in that direction, she knew that all was over.

The earl rose and said, "Give me your hand, Diana: we will part, as I
said, good friends; and remember that I shall always be ready to serve
you. Farewell!"

"Farewell, my lord," returned Mrs. Arlington, extending her hand, which
the nobleman pressed with lingering tenderness.

Then, afraid of another access of weakness, the Earl of Warrington wrung
her hand warmly, and precipitated himself from the room.

The Enchantress hurried to the window, concealed herself behind the
curtain, and watched him as he mounted his horse to depart.

He did not glance once upwards to the window: perhaps he knew that she
was there!

And yet her pride prompted her to conceal herself in that manner.

When he was out of sight she threw herself upon the sofa and wept.

"Oh! if I had but said one word when his hand pressed mine," she
exclaimed, "I might still have retained him! He is gone!--my best, my
only friend!"

But Diana was not a woman to give way to grief for any length of time.
She possessed great mental fortitude, which, though subdued for a short
space, soon rose predominant over this cruel affliction.

She then began to reflect upon her position.

She had a house beautifully furnished; and she possessed a considerable
sum of _ready_ money. She had therefore no disquietude for the present,
and but little apprehension for the future; for she knew that her
personal beauty and mental qualifications would at any moment bring
another lover to her feet.

But she seriously thought of renouncing the species of life to which she
had for some years been devoted: she longed to live independently and
respectably.

In this frame of mind she passed the remainder of the day, pondering
upon a variety of plans in accordance with her new desire.

She retired early to rest; but, not feeling an inclination to sleep, she
amused herself with a book. The candle stood upon a table by the side of
the bed; and Diana, luxuriously propped up by the downy pillows, culled
the choicest flowers from Byron's miscellaneous poetic wreath.

An hour elapsed; and at length she grew sleepy. The book fell from her
hand, and her eye-lids closed.

Then she remembered no more until she was suddenly aroused by a
sensation of acute pain: she started up, and found the bed enveloped in
flames.

She sprang upon the floor; but her night-dress was on fire:--she threw
herself on the carpet, and rolled over and over in terrible agony,
piercing screams issuing from her lips.

Those screams were echoed by loud cries of "Fire!" from the street; and
then there was a rush of footsteps upon the stairs.

The door of the chamber was forced open; and Diana was caught up in the
arms of a policeman, who had effected an entry into the house through
the ground-floor windows.

She was carried in a state of insensibility down into the parlour, where
a cloak was hastily thrown over her, and she was conveyed to a
neighbouring hotel. Fortunately a medical man was passing at the moment;
and he tendered his aid.

Meantime the fire spread with astonishing rapidity. The servants were
extricated from the burning pile; but little property was saved.

A considerable time elapsed before the engines arrived; and when they
did reach the spot, an adequate supply of water could not be procured,
as the springs were ice-bound by the frost.

An immense crowd collected in the street; and all was bustle or
curiosity.

The broad red flames shot upward with a roar like that of a furnace: the
scene for a great distance round was as light as noon-day; and the
heavens immediately above appeared to be on fire.

At one time the neighbouring houses were endangered; but suddenly the
roof of the burning tenement fell in with a terrific crash; and then the
conflagration seemed smothered.

But in a few minutes the flame shot upwards once more; and another hour
elapsed ere it was completely subdued.

The newspapers announced next morning that Mrs. Arlington's property
was not insured, and that the lady herself lay in a most precarious
state at the hotel to which she had been conveyed.




CHAPTER CXXIII.

ARISTOCRATIC MORALS.


It was still dark, though past seven o'clock, on the morning which
succeeded the fire, when a somewhat strange scene occurred at the house
of Sir Rupert Harborough in Tavistock Square.

The baronet, in his slippers and dressing-gown, cautiously descended the
stairs, guiding himself with his left hand placed upon the balustrade,
and conducting a young female with his right.

They maintained a profound silence, and stole down so carefully that it
was easy to perceive they were fearful of alarming the household.

But while he was still descending the stairs, leading the young female,
who was fully dressed even to her bonnet and shawl, the following
thoughts passed rapidly through the mind of the baronet.

"After all, it is absurd for me to take this trouble to get my new
mistress secretly out of the house. Why should she not walk boldly in
and out, night or day, I wonder? 'Pon my honour, I have a great mind
that she should! But, no--whatever agreement exists between me and Lady
Cecilia, a certain degree of decency must be observed before the
servants, and for the sake of one's character with the neighbours. After
all, prudence is perhaps the best system."

His thoughts were at this moment interrupted by steps upon the stairs,
which evidently were not the echoes of those of himself and his
paramour.

He paused and listened.

Those steps were descending with great apparent caution, and yet a
little more heavily than was quite consistent with entire secrecy.

The baronet led his mistress hastily after him, crossed the hall, and
then drew her along with him into an obscure corner near the front-door.

"Silence, Caroline--silence," he whispered: "it is most likely the
housemaid."

The baronet and his mistress accordingly remained as quiet as mice in
the corner where they were concealed.

Meantime the steps gradually drew nearer and nearer; and now and then a
low and suppressed whisper on the stairs met the baronet's ears.

A vague suspicion that some adventure, which those who were interested
in it were anxious to conduct with as much secrecy as possible, was in
progress, now entered the mind of Sir Rupert Harborough. He accordingly
became all attention.

And now the steps ceased to echo upon the stairs, but advanced towards
the front door.

The hall was pitch-dark; but the baronet was satisfied that two
persons--a male and female--were the actors in the proceeding which now
interested him; and all doubt on this head was banished from his mind
when they halted within a few feet of the corner where he and his
mistress were concealed.

Then the whispering between the two persons whose conduct he was
watching re-commenced.

"Farewell, dearest Cecilia," said the low and subdued voice of a man.

"Farewell, beloved Fitzhardinge," answered another voice, with whose
intonation, in spite of the whisper in which it spoke, the baronet was
full well acquainted.

Then there was the billing murmur of kisses, which continued for some
moments.

"When shall we meet again, dearest?" demanded Fitzhardinge, still in the
same low tone.

"To-night--at the usual hour I will admit you," returned Lady Cecilia.
"Sir Rupert goes to France to-night with his splendid friend
Chichester."

"Thank heaven for that blessing!" said the Grenadier Guardsman. "And
now, adieu, sweet Cecilia, until this evening! But, tell me, before I
depart--shall I always find you the same warm, loving, devoted, fond
creature you now are?"

"Always--always to _you_," was the murmuring reply.

Then kisses were exchanged again.

"And am I indeed the first whom you have ever really loved? am I the
only one who has ever tasted the pleasures of heaven in your arms, save
your husband?" continued the officer, intoxicated with the reminiscences
of the night of bliss which he had enjoyed with his paramour: "Oh! tell
me so once again--only once!"

"You know that you alone could have tempted me to weakness,
Fitzhardinge," answered the fair, but guilty patrician lady: "you alone
could have induced me to forget my marriage vows!"

"Now I shall depart happy, my beloved Cecilia," said the officer; and
again he imprinted burning kisses upon the lady's lips.

He then turned towards the front-door, and endeavoured to remove the
chain: but it had become entangled with the key in some way or another;
and he could not detach it.

"What is the matter?" inquired Cecilia, anxiously.

"This infernal chain is fast," answered the officer; "and all I can do
will not move it."

"Let me try," said the lady; but her attempt was as vain as that of her
lover.

"What is to be done?" asked Fitzhardinge.

"God knows!" returned Cecilia; "and it is growing late! In half-an-hour
it will be day-light. Besides, the servants will be about presently."

"The devil!" said the officer, impatiently.

"Stay," whispered Lady Cecilia: "I will go to the kitchen and obtain a
light. Do not move from this spot: I will not be a moment."

She then glided away; and the officer remained at his post as motionless
and as silent as a statue, for fear of alarming the inmates of the
house. His thoughts were not, however, of the most pleasureable kind;
and during the two minutes that Lady Cecilia was absent, his mind
rapidly pictured all the probable consequences of detection--exposure,
ridicule, law-suit, damages, the Queen's Bench prison, the divorce of
the lady, and the necessity under which he should labour of making her
his own wife.

This gloomy perspective was suddenly enlivened by the gleam of a candle
at the further end of the hall, and which was immediately followed by
the appearance of Lady Cecilia, with the light.

Still the corner in which Sir Rupert and his paramour were concealed was
veiled in obscurity; while the baronet obtained a full view of the tall
Guardsman, dressed in plain clothes, standing within a couple of yards
of his hiding-place, and also of Lady Cecilia, attired in a loose
dressing-gown, as she advanced rapidly towards the place where her lover
awaited her.

But when Cecilia reached the immediate vicinity of the front door, the
gleam of the candle fell upon that nook which had hitherto remained
buried in obscurity.

A scream escaped the lady's lips, and the candle fell from her hands.

Fortunately it was not extinguished: Sir Rupert rushed forward and
caught it up in time to preserve the light.

Then, at a single glance, those four persons became aware of each
other's position.

A loud laugh escaped the lips of the baronet.

"Sir," said the officer, advancing towards him, "for all our sakes avoid
exposure; but if you require any satisfaction at my hands, you know who
I am and where I reside."

"Satisfaction!" exclaimed Lady Cecilia, ironically; for she had
recovered her presence of mind the moment she had perceived the
equivocal position in which her husband himself was placed in respect to
the female who stood quivering and quaking behind him: "what
satisfaction can Sir Rupert Harborough require, when he admits such a
creature as that into his house?"

And she pointed with a disdain and a disgust by no means affected,
towards her husband's paramour.

"Creature indeed!" cried the young woman, now irritated and excited in
her turn: "I think I am as honest as you, my lady, at all events."

"Wretch!" murmured Cecilia between her teeth, as if the sight of the
_creature_ filled her with abhorrence and loathing.

Ah! haughty lady! thou couldst thyself sin through lust: but thou
couldst not brook the sight of one who sinned for bread!

The young woman, over-awed by the air of insuperable disgust which
marked the proud patrician at that moment, recoiled from her presence
and burst into tears.

"Come, enough of this folly," said Sir Rupert, impatiently: "we shall
have the servants here in a moment. Perhaps you and this gentleman," he
continued, "will step into that room for a moment, while I open the door
for my little companion here."

Lady Cecilia tossed her head disdainfully, darted a look of sovereign
contempt upon the abashed Caroline, and beckoned Captain Fitzhardinge to
follow her into the adjacent parlour.

Sir Rupert retained the light. He opened the door, the chain of which
had only become entangled round the key, and dismissed his paramour, who
was delighted to escape from that house where the terrible looks of the
lady had so disconcerted her.

The baronet then repaired to the parlour, and, having locked the door to
prevent the intrusion of the servants, threw himself upon the sofa.

"Well, on my honour!" he exclaimed, bursting into a loud fit of
laughter, "this is one of the most pleasant adventures that ever I heard
or read of--'pon my honour!"

"Have you requested me to wait here in order to contribute to your
hilarity, sir?" demanded Captain Fitzhardinge, indignantly.

"My dear fellow," returned the baronet, "let us laugh in concert! Oh! I
can assure you that you need fear no law-suits nor pistols from me!"

"_Fear_, sir!" ejaculated the Guardsman: "I do not understand the word."

"Well--_expect_, then, if that will suit you better, my dear captain,"
continued Sir Rupert Harborough. "You see that my wife and myself act as
we please, independently of each other."

"Sir Rupert!" exclaimed Cecilia, who was by no means anxious that her
lover should be made acquainted with the terms of the agreement into
which she and her husband had entered a short time previously, and the
nature of which the reader will remember.

"My dear Cecilia," observed the baronet, "is it not much better that
your _friend_ should be made acquainted with the grounds on which you
have admitted him as your sworn knight and only love?"

"Cease this bantering, sir," cried Captain Fitzhardinge. "Have I not
already said that I am willing to give you any satisfaction which you
may require?"

"And must I again tell you, my dear fellow," returned the baronet, with
an affectation of familiarity, which only made his words the more
bitter,--"must I again tell you that I require no satisfaction--that I
have none to ask, and you none to give? But I cannot allow you to
consider me a grovelling coward:--I must explain to you the grounds on
which my forbearance is based."

"Proceed, sir," said Captain Fitzhardinge, coolly.

"You will then allow me to retire to my own room?" exclaimed Lady
Cecilia, rising from the chair in which she had thrown herself.

"No, my dear," said the baronet, gently forcing her back into her seat:
"you must remain to corroborate the truth of what I am about to state to
this gentleman."

Lady Cecilia resumed the chair from which she had risen, and made no
reply.

"In one word, Captain Fitzhardinge," continued the baronet, "there is a
mutual understanding between my wife and myself, that we shall follow
our own inclinations, whims, and caprices, without reference to the ties
which bind us, or the vows which we pledged at church some years ago.
All this may seem very strange: it is nevertheless true. Therefore, I
have no more right to quarrel with Lady Cecilia on _your_ account, than
she has to abuse me on account of that young person whom you saw in the
house just now. Now, then, my dear captain," continued the baronet, his
tone again becoming bitterly ironical, "you may at your ease
congratulate yourself upon being the only person that Lady Cecilia has
ever loved, and the only one on whom she has ever bestowed her favours
with the exception of her husband."

"Then I am to understand, sir," said the officer, perfectly astounded at
the turn which the affair had taken, "that you do not consider yourself
offended or aggrieved by the--the----"

"Not a whit!" ejaculated the baronet. "On the contrary--I have no doubt
we shall be excellent friends in future."

The captain bowed, and rose to depart.

Sir Rupert unlocked and opened the door for him, and then ushered him,
with affected politeness, out of the house.

When he returned to the parlour, he found Lady Cecilia red with
indignation.

"What means this scene, Sir Rupert," she said, "after our mutual
compact?"

"My dear," answered the baronet, calmly, "you treated my little friend
in a most unpleasant manner, and I thought myself justified in
retaliating to a certain extent. Besides, I was compelled to give an
explanation to a man who would have otherwise looked upon me as a coward
for failing to demand satisfaction of him."

"But did you not consider that you have rendered me contemptible in his
eyes?" demanded Lady Cecilia, bursting with spite.

[Illustration]

"Never fear," said the baronet. "Confiding in your sweet assurances that
he alone has ever possessed your love, and that he alone, save your
husband, has ever been blest with the proofs of that affection, he will
return ere long to your arms. Besides, am I not going to France to-night
with my splendid friend Chichester?"

"This is cruel, Sir Rupert. If an accident made you acquainted with the
conversation which passed between us----"

"An accident indeed!" interrupted Sir Rupert Harborough, laughing
affectedly. "'Pon my honour, the entire adventure was one of the
drollest that ever occurred! But let us say no more upon the subject!
Adhere to the compact on your side, and insult not _my_ friends----"

"But a prostitute in my house!" ejaculated Lady Cecilia, still loathing
the idea.

"And my wife's paramour in my house!" cried Sir Rupert.

"Oh! there is something refined in an amour with one's equal," said Lady
Cecilia: "but a wretch of that description----"

"Enough of this!" cried the baronet. "The servants are already about:
let us each retire to our own rooms."

And this suggestion was immediately adopted.




CHAPTER CXXIV.

THE INTRIGUES OF A DEMIREP.


Lady Cecilia retired to her own chamber, locked the door, threw herself
upon the bed, and burst into tears.

Oh! at that moment how the hated her husband;--how she hated herself!

She wept not in regret of her evil ways: she poured forth tears of spite
when she thought of the opinion that her new lover must form of her,
after the explanation given by Sir Rupert.

For Captain Fitzhardinge was rich and confiding; and the fair patrician
had calculated upon rendering him subservient alike to her necessities
and her licentiousness.

But, now--what must he think of one who bestowed upon him those favours
that were alienated from her husband by a formal compact? What opinion
could he entertain of a woman who sinned deliberately by virtue of an
understanding with him whom she had sworn to respect and obey?

It could not be supposed that the morality of Captain Fitzhardinge was
of a very elevated nature: but in the occurrence of that morning there
was something calculated to shock the mind the least delicate--the least
refined.

Yea--Lady Cecilia wept; for she thought of all this!

And then her rage against her husband knew no bounds.

"The wretch--the cowardly wretch!" she exclaimed aloud, as she almost
gnashed her teeth with rage: "was he not born to be my ruin? From the
moment that I saw him first until the present hour, has he not been an
evil genius in my way? Yes--oh! yes: he is a demon sent to torture me in
this world for my faults and failings! Seduced by him when I was very
young, I might have been plunged into disgrace and infamy, had not my
father purchased his consent to espouse me. Then the large sum that was
paid to save my honour was squandered in the payment of his debts, or in
ministering to his extravagances. Now, what is our position? what is
_my_ position? Shunned by my own father and mother, I am left dependent
on him who knows not how to obtain enough for himself; or else I--I, the
daughter of a peer, must sell myself to some Mr. Greenwood or Captain
Fitzhardinge for the means to support my rank! Oh! it is atrocious: I
begin to loathe myself! Would that I were the mistress of some wealthy
man who would be constant and kind towards me, rather than the wife of
this beggared baronet!"

Lady Cecilia rose from the bed, advanced towards the mirror, and
smoothed her hair. Then she perceived that her eyes were red with
weeping.

"Absurd!" she exclaimed, a contemptuous smile curling her lips: "why
should I shed tears upon the past which no human power can recall?
Rather let me avail myself of the present, and endeavour to provide for
the future. Am I not young? and does not my glass tell me that I am
beautiful? Even the immaculate--the taintless--the exemplary rector of
Saint David's paid me a compliment on my good looks when I met him at
Lady Marlborough's, a few days ago. Yes--and methought that if the most
evangelical of evangelical clergymen of the Established Church could for
a moment be moved by my smile,--if that admired preacher, who publicly
avows that he refrains from marriage upon principle,--if that holy
minister who is quoted as a pattern to his class, and an example for the
whole world,--if _he_ could whisper a word savouring of a compliment in
my ear, and then seem ashamed of the moment of weakness into which his
admiration had betrayed him;--if my charms could effect so great a
miracle as this, what may they not do for me in helping me on to
fortune?"

She paused and considered herself for some minutes in the glass opposite
to her.

"Yes," she cried, again breaking silence, "I will no longer remain in
the same house with my unprincipled and heartless husband: I will no
longer breathe the tainted atmosphere which he inhabits. His very name
is associated in my mind with forgery and felony! I will break the
shackle which yet partially binds me to him; I will emancipate myself
from the restraint and thraldom wherein I now exist. Fitzhardinge is
rich and loving: perhaps he may still feel the influence of the silken
chain which I threw around his heart. We will see! If he come gladly
back to my feet, my aim is won: if not--well,"--and she smiled,
complacently,--"there are others as rich, as handsome, and as easily
enchained as he!"

Lady Cecilia proceeded to her desk and wrote the following note:--

     "Come to me, dearest Fitzhardinge, at three precisely this
     afternoon: I have much to say respecting the specious falsehoods
     which Sir Rupert uttered this morning in order to conceal the
     natural cowardice of his disposition. He was afraid to involve
     himself in a quarrel with you; and he excused his unmanly
     forbearance by means of assertions that reflected upon me. Come,
     then, to me at three: I shall be alone, and at home only to you."

This note was immediately conveyed to Captain Fitzhardinge by Cecilia's
lady's-maid, who was the confidant of her mistress's intrigues.

Having despatched her missive, the baronet's wife proceeded to the
duties of the toilet.

This employment, breakfast, the newspaper, and a novel, wiled away the
time until about one o'clock, when Lady Cecilia, having ascertained that
her husband had gone out half an hour previously, descended to the
drawing-room.

She was attired in a simple and unpretending manner; but then she knew
that this style became her best.

She was determined to captivate that day; and certainly she had seldom
appeared to greater advantage.

Her rich auburn hair,--of a hue as warm as the disposition which it
characterised,--fell in long hyperion ringlets upon her sloping
shoulders: her blue eyes were expressive of a feeling of languid
voluptuousness; and her pure complexion was set off by the dark dress
that she wore.

The time-piece upon the mantel had scarcely struck two, when a loud
double-knock at the front-door resounded through the house.

Lady Cecilia started from her seat, for she had forgotten to instruct
the servants "that she was only at home to Captain Fitzhardinge." But
she was too late to remedy her neglect; the summons was already answered
ere she had gained the landing on which the drawing-room opened.

She accordingly returned to the sofa, and composed herself to receive
the visitor, whoever it might be.

In a few moments the servant announced the Earl of Warrington.

With this nobleman Lady Cecilia was only very slightly acquainted, she
having met him on two or three occasions, some years previously, at her
father's house.

"I must apologise, Lady Harborough, for this intrusion," said the earl;
"but I trust to your kindness to pardon me in that respect, and to
afford me a little information concerning a matter which has suddenly
assumed an air of importance in my eyes."

"No apology is necessary for the honour which your lordship confers upon
me by visiting my humble abode," answered Lady Cecilia; "and with regard
to the subject to which your lordship alludes, I shall be happy to
furnish any information in my power."

"Your ladyship's courtesy encourages me to proceed," continued the earl.
"Forgive me if I must direct your attention to one of those pieces of
gossip--I will not say scandal--which so often become current in the
sphere in which we move. I allude to an anecdote relative to a certain
mysterious remittance of a thousand pounds which was forwarded to Sir
Rupert Harborough, and which your ladyship undertook to disburse for his
advantage."

"Your lordship places the matter in as delicate a light as possible,"
said Lady Cecilia, affecting to laugh heartily in order to conceal the
shame which she really experienced at this reference to her unworthy
action; "but it was only a pleasant trick which I played Sir Rupert. The
truth is, Sir Rupert is not the most generous of men towards his wife;
and when I found that some honourable person was repaying him a debt
contracted a long time previously, I thought that, as the amount fell so
providentially into my hands, I could not do better than appropriate it
to the liquidation of the arrears of pin-money due to me."

"Very just, madam," said the earl, forcing himself to smile at the
incident which Lady Cecilia represented in the light of a venial little
advantage taken by a wife against her husband. "I believe that the
amount was forwarded anonymously?"

"To tell you the candid truth, my lord," answered Lady Cecilia, "the
whole affair was so strange and romantic, that I kept, as a great
curiosity, the letter which accompanied the bank-note. If you possess
any interest in the matter----"

"Your ladyship _knows_ that I am not seeking this information without
_some_ object," said the earl, emphatically. "Would it be indiscreet,"
he added, in a less serious tone, "to request a glimpse at that great
curiosity?"

"Oh! by no means," returned Lady Cecilia, who affected to treat the
whole matter as an excellent joke; then, rising from her seat, she
hastened to her work-box, and in a few moments produced the letter. "It
was not so scented with musk when I received it," she added, laughing;
"but it was redolent of a far more grateful flavour--that of this
world's mammon."

"I believe mammon is the deity whom we all more or less adore," observed
the Earl of Warrington, gallantly taking up the tone of chit-chat,
rather than formality, which Lady Cecilia endeavoured to infuse into the
conversation: then, as he received the letter from her hand, he said,
"May I be permitted to read it?"

"Oh! certainly, my lord: and, if you have any curiosity in the matter,
you are welcome to retain it," answered Lady Cecilia.

"With your leave I will do so," said the earl.

"And now that I have replied to all your lordship's queries," continued
Lady Cecilia, "may I ask one in my turn?"

The earl bowed, and smiled.

"Who was the indiscreet eave's-dropper or tale-bearer that gave your
lordship the hint concerning this business?" asked the baronet's wife.

"Methinks that your ladyship has been at no pains to conceal the
affair," said the earl: "and what hundreds have talked about cannot well
be charged against an individual tale-bearer."

"Nay, my lord, I mentioned it but to two persons," exclaimed Cecilia;
"the first was to Sir Rupert Harborough--in a moment of pique; and the
other was to a--a--particular friend----"

"I am not indiscreet enough to ask for names," interrupted the earl,
rising; and he hastened to take his leave, ere Lady Cecilia could
reiterate her question relative to the person who had communicated to
him the fact of the intercepted thousand pounds.

It was now nearly three o'clock; and Lady Cecilia again composed herself
to receive Captain Fitzhardinge.

Punctual to the hour, that officer was introduced into the drawing-room.

But his manner, instead of being all love and tenderness, was simply
polite and friendly.

"Fitzhardinge," said the lady, "I perceive that you have allowed
yourself to be prejudiced against me."

"Not prejudiced, Lady Cecilia," answered the guardsman; "but I confess
that I am no longer under the influence of a blind passion. The conduct
of your husband this morning was that of a man who was acting
consistently with the circumstances which he explained, and not that of
an individual who was playing a part in order to disguise the innate
cowardice of his disposition. No, Cecilia--your husband is not a
coward--whatever else he may be! And now one word relative to myself. So
long as I believed that you made to me, as a proof of love, the generous
sacrifice of conjugal fidelity,--so long as I believed that an affection
for me alone induced you to violate your marriage-vow,--then the dream
was sweet, though not the less criminal! But when I discovered that you
made no sacrifice to me,--that you came not to my arms warm with a love
that trembled at detection, but secure in the existence of a heartless
compact with your husband,--then my eyes were opened, and I saw that
Lady Cecilia Harborough had risked nothing of all that she had pretended
to risk--sacrificed nothing of all that she had affected to
sacrifice--for the sake of Captain Fitzhardinge! Thus the delusion was
destroyed; and although our amour might be based upon more impunity than
I had ever conceived, it would be the less sweet! The charm--the spell
is broken!"

"And have you come here to tell me all this--to insult me with your
moralisings?" demanded Lady Cecilia, the fire of indignation and wounded
pride displacing the languid voluptuousness which had at first reigned
in the expression of her eyes.

"No! not to insult you, Cecilia," answered the officer; "but to explain
in an open and candid manner the motive which leads me to say: '_Let us
forget the past, as it regards each other!_'"

"Be it so," said Lady Cecilia, deeply humiliated, and now hating the
handsome officer much more than she had ever liked him. "In that case,
sir, we can have nothing more to say to each other."

Captain Fitzhardinge bowed, and withdrew.

Lady Cecilia fell back upon the sofa, murmuring, "Beaten--beaten!
defeated in this hope!"

And tears came into her eyes.

But in a few moments she exclaimed, "How foolish is this grief! how
useless this indignation! Sorrow and hatred are the consuming enemies of
female beauty! Did I not say ere now that there were others in the world
as rich, as handsome, and as confiding as Captain Fitzhardinge?"

As she uttered these words aloud, the haughty beauty wiped her eyes and
composed her countenance.

She rose and advanced towards the mirror to assure herself that her
appearance indicated naught of those tears which she had shed; and as
she contemplated her features with a very pardonable pride, the
reminiscence of the compliment which the clergyman of Saint David's had
paid her flashed to her mind.

She smiled triumphantly as she pondered upon it; and that vague,
shadowy, unsubstantial phrase of flattery, that now formed the topic of
her thoughts, gradually assumed a more palpable shape in her
imagination,--became invested with a significant meaning,--then grew
into a revelation of passion,--and was at length embodied into a perfect
romance of love with all its enjoyments and blisses.

The ardent soul of that frail woman converted the immaculate clergyman
into an admirer betrayed in an unguarded moment into a confession of
love,--then changed him into a suitor kneeling at her feet,--and by
rapid degrees carried him on, through all the mystic phases of passion,
until he became a happy lover reclining on her bosom.

With a presumption which only characterises minds of her warm
temperament and loose ideas of morality, Cecilia triumphed in the
half-hour's impassioned reverie which succeeded the departure of Captain
Fitzhardinge, over the ascetic virtue and self-denying integrity which
public opinion ascribed to the rector of Saint David's.

Then, when some trifling incident aroused her from this wild and
romantic dream, she did not smile at its folly--she regarded it as a
species of inspiration prompting her in which direction to play the
artillery of her charms.

"Yes," she exclaimed, musing aloud; "he once said, '_I never saw you
look so well as you appear this evening:_'--these words shall be a motto
to a new chapter in my life!"

And she smiled triumphantly as if her daring aim were already
accomplished!

"Thirty-six years of age," she abruptly resumed her
musings,--"wealthy--handsome--unmarried, _from principle_,"--and here an
erratic smile of mingled satisfaction and irony played on her rosy
lips,--"and yet fond of society, the Reverend Reginald Tracy must no
longer be permitted to remain proof against woman's beauty--aye, and
woman's wiles. Oh! no--he shall repeat to me, but far more tenderly, the
words he uttered the other evening: his passing compliment shall become
a permanent expression of his sentiments! But his character--his
disposition? must I not study _them_? If that be necessary, the task is
ready to hand!"

She rose from the sofa, and having selected an ecclesiastical magazine
from some books that stood upon a cheffonier, returned to her seat to
peruse at leisure a sketch which the work contained of the character,
ministry, and popularity of the rector of Saint David's.




CHAPTER CXXV.

THE RECONCILIATION.


In the meantime the Earl of Warrington drove to the hotel in Dover
Street, where Diana Arlington lay; and, upon inquiry, he ascertained
that a nurse and the medical attendant were with her.

He desired to be conducted to a private room, and then despatched the
waiter to request the professional gentleman to step thither for a few
moments.

"What name shall I say, sir?" asked the servant, who was unacquainted
with the earl's person.

"It is needless to mention any name," replied the nobleman; "I shall not
detain the gentleman five minutes."

The servant disappeared, and in a few moments returned, followed by the
medical attendant.

The waiter introduced him into the apartment, and then withdrew.

"I believe, sir," said the earl, "that you are attending upon the lady
who experienced so severe an accident last night?"

"I was by chance passing through Dover Street when the flames burst
forth," was the reply: "and I gave an immediate alarm to the police. I
remained upon the spot to ascertain if my professional services could be
rendered available; and it was well that I did so."

"The lady then is much injured?" said the earl, in a tone expressive of
emotion.

"Seriously injured," answered the surgeon; "and as I live at some
distance from this neighbourhood, I considered it proper to remain with
the patient all night. Indeed, I have not left her for a moment since
the accident occurred."

"Your attention shall be nobly recompensed, sir," said the earl. "Here
is my card, and I am your debtor."

The surgeon bowed low as his eye glanced upon the name of the individual
in whose presence he stood.

"And now," continued the nobleman, "answer me one question--candidly and
sincerely. Will your patient be scarred by the effects of the fire?"

"My lord, that is more than I can answer for," returned the surgeon.
"Fortunately, medical assistance was rendered the moment after the
accident occurred; and this circumstance should inspire great hope!"

"Then I _will_ hope," said the earl. "How long an interval do you
imagine must elapse ere she may be pronounced convalescent? Or rather, I
should have asked, is she in any positive danger?"

"There is always danger--great danger in these cases, my lord. But,
should the fever subside in a few days, I should recommend the removal
of the patient to some quiet neighbourhood--afar from the bustle of the
West End."

"You said that you yourself resided some distance from hence?" observed
the earl, after a few moments' reflection.

"My abode is in Lower Holloway, my lord," answered the surgeon; "and my
name is Wentworth."

"Holloway is quiet and retired," said the earl; "but is not the air too
bleak there at this season?"

"It is pure and wholesome, my lord; and the spot is tranquil, and devoid
of the bustle of crowds and the din of carriages."

"Wherever Mrs. Arlington may remain until her recovery," said the Earl,
"she must receive all the attentions which can be lavished upon her; and
in nothing must she be thwarted where gold can procure her the
gratification of her wishes."

"I would offer to place my house at the lady's disposal, my lord--and
the attention of Mrs. Wentworth would be unremitting--but----"

"Name the obstacle," said the earl. "Perhaps you consider that the
position of the lady with regard to myself,--a position the nature of
which you may have divined,--is somewhat too equivocal to permit your
wife----"

"No, my lord; medical men have no scruples of that kind. I hesitated
because I feared that my abode would be too humble----"

"Then let that obstacle vanish this moment," interrupted the earl. "It
is my wish that Mrs. Arlington should be removed to your house so soon
as the step can be taken with safety to herself: you will then devote
yourself to her cure; and on you I place my reliance. I have been unjust
to her, Mr Wentworth," continued the nobleman, pressing the surgeon's
hand, and speaking in a low but hurried tone,--"I have been unjust to
her--but I will make her ample reparation--that is, provided you can
preserve her beauty,--for we are all mortal--and I confess to a
weakness,--but no matter! Say--you will do your best!"

"My lord, I am poor, and struggling with the world," answered the
surgeon, "and, I may say without vanity--because I possess certificates
from eminent medical men under whom I have studied--that I am not
ignorant of my profession. My lord, I have every inducement to devote
all the knowledge I possess to the aim which you desire. My attentions
shall be unwearied and unremitting; and if I succeed----"

"If you succeed in restoring her to me in that perfection of beauty
which invested her when I took leave of her yesterday,--without a mark,
without a scar,--your fortune shall be my care, and you will have no
need to entertain anxiety relative to the future, with the Earl of
Warrington as your patron."

"At present, my lord, all I can say is--_I will do my best_," rejoined
Mr. Wentworth.

"And at present I can ask no more," exclaimed the earl: then, after a
moment's pause, he said, "May I be allowed to see your patient for a few
moments?"

The surgeon hesitated.

"I know why you dislike this proposal," observed the nobleman: "you are
afraid that, when I contemplate the altered countenance of that woman
who was lately so beautiful, I shall despair of her complete cure."

"Such is, indeed, my impression," answered Mr. Wentworth. "Those
symptoms and appearances which are most alarming to persons unacquainted
with the medical art, are frequently the least causes of alarm to the
professional man."

"Then let me _speak_ to her, and not _see_ her," said the earl.

"I understand your lordship: in a few minutes I will return."

And the surgeon withdrew.

During his absence the earl paced the room in an agitated and excited
manner, which was quite inconsistent with the usual equanimity and even
gravity of his temperament.

Ten minutes had elapsed when the surgeon came back.

"Will your lordship follow me?"

Mr. Wentworth led the way to the chamber in which Diana Arlington lay.

The shutters were closed, and the curtains were drawn around the bed:
the room was nearly dark, a few straggling gleams of light alone forcing
their way through the chinks in the shutters.

When the earl entered the apartment, the surgeon remained in the passage
outside: the nurse had already been directed to retire for a short time.

The nobleman approached the bed, and seating himself in a chair by the
side, said, "Diana, can you forgive me for my cruelty of yesterday?"

"I never entertained a feeling of resentment, my lord, and therefore
have nothing to forgive," was the answer, delivered in a low and
plaintive tone.

"I did you a serious wrong, Diana," continued the earl; "but I am not
too proud to confess my error. I trembled at the idea of ridicule: hence
the hastiness of my conduct. And then, there was a suspicion in my
mind--a suspicion which made me uneasy, very uneasy--but which is now
dispelled. I have read your letter which accompanied the bank-note
addressed to Sir Rupert Harborough; and I am satisfied in respect to the
integrity--nay, the generosity of your motives."

"It was kind of you, my lord, to take the steps necessary to reinstate
me in your good opinion," murmured Diana from her couch, in a tone
evidently subdued by deep emotion.

"There was no kindness in the performance of an act of justice,"
returned the earl. "When I read in this morning's newspaper the sad
account of that terrible accident of last night, my heart smote me for
my conduct towards you. Then I reflected upon all the happiness which I
had enjoyed in your society, and I was moved--deeply, profoundly moved!
I despatched a servant to this hotel to inquire if you were really so
seriously injured as the journal represented; and he brought me back
word that your life was no longer in positive danger, but----"

"But that I shall be a hideous object for the remainder of my days,"
added Diana, with somewhat of bitterness in her manner.

"God forbid!" cried the earl, energetically: "Mr. Wentworth seems to
promise----"

"Alas! the medical art prompts its professors to console the mind in
order to heal the body; but I am not foolish enough to yield to a hope
so baseless!"

These words were uttered in a tone of the most profound melancholy.

"Diana, you _must_ hope," exclaimed the Earl of Warrington: "you will
recover--yes, you will recover; and even if a slight trace of this
accident----"

"A slight trace!" almost screamed Diana--and the earl could hear her
roll herself convulsively over on her pillow: "a slight trace, my lord!
I shall be disfigured for life: nothing can save me! My countenance will
be seared as with a red-hot-iron--my neck will be covered with deep
scars--my arms, my entire body will be furrowed with crimson and purple
marks! O God! it is hard to suffer thus!"

And then she burst into an agonising flood of tears.

The earl allowed her to weep without interruption: he knew that her mind
would be relieved by that outpouring of feeling.

And he was right: in a few minutes she said, "Pardon me--I am weak, I am
foolish. And now proceed to tell me how you became possessed of that
note which I sent with the money to Sir Rupert Harborough."

The Earl of Warrington then related the particulars of his interview
with Lady Cecilia.

"And now that I have done an act of justice, and convinced myself of the
purity of the motives which induced you to act in the manner that
created my displeasure," continued the earl, "let us talk of yourself. I
have made arrangements with Mr. Wentworth which, I hope, will meet your
approval and conduce to your benefit. When you can be removed with
safety, you shall be conveyed from the bustle of an hotel in a crowded
neighbourhood to the tranquil retirement of Mr. Wentworth's abode at
Holloway. I am induced to place reliance upon the skill and talent of
that man--I scarcely know why."

"Oh! yes--he is no doubt very clever," said the patient; "for his
treatment of me speedily gave me relief from the acuteness of the agony
which I at first experienced."

"Every thing shall be done to conduce to your comfort, Diana," resumed
the nobleman. "My upholsterer shall send down to Mr. Wentworth's house
the furniture that may be required for the rooms which you are to
occupy; and my steward shall supply him with ample funds."

"How kind--how good you are," murmured Diana.

"But I shall not attempt to see you," continued the earl, "until your
recovery is announced to me--your complete recovery; and then----"

He checked himself; and there was a long silence.

Suddenly the earl arose.

"Farewell, Diana--my presence is not calculated to calm you," he
exclaimed. "I shall now leave you--but, remember, I watch over you from
a distance. Farewell!"

"Farewell--till we meet again," said Diana. "But--oh! how shall I dread
that day! And--if my worst fears should be confirmed--if I really become
the horrible, scarred, hideous object which I dread,--then--then we
shall never meet more,--for I will fly from the world and bury myself in
some deep solitude whither none who ever knew me in my bright days shall
trace me!"

"You will not be forced to adopt such an alternative, Diana--believe me
you will not!" exclaimed the earl. "At all events--let us hope,--let us
_both_ hope!"

The earl hastily withdrew.

In the passage he encountered the surgeon, to whom he reiterated his
instructions relative to the attention to be shown towards the patient.

"Mr. Wentworth," he said, in an emphatic tone, "remember all that I have
told you. Gold shall be placed at your disposal with no niggard hand;
spare no expense! That lady's complete restoration to her pristine
beauty is your care: think of naught save that one grand aim!"

"My lord," answered the surgeon, "I can only repeat the words I used
just now--_I will do my best_!"

The earl pressed his hand warmly, and hurried away--more affected by the
incidents of that day than he had been for many, many years.




CHAPTER CXXVI.

THE RECTOR OF SAINT DAVID'S.


It is not necessary to explain to our readers the precise locality of
the splendid Chapel of Ease known by the name of Saint David's. Suffice
it to say, that it is situate not a hundred miles from Russell or
Tavistock Square; and that the clergyman attached to it at the period of
which we are writing was the Rev. Reginald Tracy.

It was Sunday morning.

A crowd of well-dressed persons, of both sexes, poured into the chapel
of Saint David's. The street was lined with carriages; and when each in
its turn drew up at the door of the sacred edifice, the _élite_ of the
aristocracy might have been observed to alight and hasten to form part
of the immense congregation assembled to hear the most popular preacher
of the day.

The interior of the chapel was vast, and of a convenient oblong form. It
was lofty, and beautifully fitted up. On three sides were large and
roomy galleries, amphitheatrically arranged with pews. The magnificent
organ stood in the gallery over the entrance; and at the further end was
the communion-table. The pulpit, with its annexed reading-desk, stood a
little in front of the altar, and facing the organ. The pews both of the
galleries and the body of the church were provided with soft cushions;
for this was a proprietary chapel, and there was but a slender
accommodation for the poor. Indeed, this class occupied plain benches in
the aisles, and were compelled to enter by a small side-door so that
they might not mingle with the crowd of elegantly dressed ladies and
fashionable gentlemen that poured into the chapel through the grand
entrance in front.

A policeman maintained order at the side-door, which admitted the
humbler classes; but two beadles, wearing huge cocked hats and ample
blue cloaks bedizened with broad gold-lace, and holding gilt wands in
their hands, cleared the way for the wealthy, the great, and the proud,
who enjoyed the privilege of entrance by means of the front gates.

"This way, my lord. Pray step this way, my lady," said the polite
beadles, in their blandest tones. "The pew-opener is in attendance, my
lord. My lady, here is the hymn-book, which your ladyship commanded me
to procure for your ladyship. My lord, take care of the step. This door,
ladies, if you please. Gentlemen, this way, if you would be so
condescending. Yes, sir--certainly, sir--the pew-opener will find _you_
a seat, sir--immediately, sir. Ladies, this way is less crowded. You
will find the left aisle comparatively empty. My lord, straight forward,
if your lordship will be so good. Ladies, the pew-opener is in
attendance. This way, ladies and gentlemen!"

And at the side-door the policeman might be heard vociferating in
somewhat like the following manner:--

"Now, then, you young woman, where the deuce are you pushing to? Want to
get a good place, eh? What! with sich a rag of a shawl as that
there?--I'm afeard I can't admit you. Now, boy, stand back, or I'll show
you the reason why. I say, old woman, you ain't wanted here; we doesn't
take in vimen with red cloaks. You'd better go to the dissenting chapel
round the corner, you had: that's good enow for you. Holloa! what's this
mean? a sweep in his Sunday toggery. Come, come; that's rayther too
strong, chummy. You toddle off, now. Here, young woman, you may come in;
you may--'cos you're very pretty: that way, my dear. Holloa! here comes
a feller without a nose. No--no--that won't do at no price; my orders is
partickler; no von comes here vithout a nose. Vy, you'd frighten all the
great ladies out o' their vits. They already complains of the riff-raff
that comes to this here chapel; so we must try and keep it
_se_-lect--just like Gibbs's westry. Ha! ha! now then, who's that
blaigaird a-talking so loud there? It's on'y me as can talk here at this
door, 'cos I'm official--I am. This vay, young woman: push the door, my
dear. Well, if you ain't married, I'm sure you ought to be. Now, then,
who's that a guffawing like a rhinoceros? I'll clap a stopper on your
mug, I will. Come, come; you go back, old chap: no workus-livery here;
this is the wrong shop for the workus people; this is--I can tell yer.
Vell, you're a genteel couple, I don't think--coming to a
pro-pri-_ai_-tory chapel vithout no gloves, and fists as black as
tinkers. Stand back there, boys, and let that young gal vith the yaller
ribands come up: she's decent, she is. Yes, my dear,--you may go in, my
dear. Now, then, stand back--no more comes in this mornin': the orgin's
begun."

With these words the policeman thrust the poor people violently down the
steps, entered the chapel, and closed the door in their faces.

The interior was crowded throughout; and it was very evident that
curiosity and fashion, more than devotion, had congregated in that
chapel the rank, wealth, and beauty that filled the pews below and
above.

The solemn swell of the organ pealed through the sacred edifice; and
then arose the morning hymn, sung by a select corps of choristers and
by twelve youths belonging to the school of a celebrated professor of
Music for the Millions.

A venerable clergyman, with hair as white as his own surplice, occupied
the reading-desk; and in a pew close by the pulpit, was the cynosure
that attracted all eyes--the Rev. Reginald Tracy.

The tall commanding form of this clergyman would have rendered him
conspicuous amongst the congregation, had no other circumstance tended
to endow him with popularity. His countenance was eminently handsome:
his high and open forehead was set off, but not shaded, by dark brown
hair which curled naturally; his hazel eyes beamed with the fire of a
brilliant intellect; his Roman nose, small mouth, and well-turned chin
formed a profile at once pleasing and commanding; and his large
well-curled whiskers, meeting beneath his chin, confirmed the manly
beauty of that proud and imposing countenance.

There was a profound, but totally unassuming, sense of the solemnity of
the scene and of the sanctity of his profession in his manner and
deportment: his voice did not join in the hymn, but his mind evidently
followed the words, as he from time to time glanced at the book which he
held in his hand.

Doubtless he was well aware--but nothing in his demeanour seemed to
indicate this consciousness--that he was the centre of all attraction:
though not servilely meek nor hypocritically austere, he was still
surrounded by a halo of religious fervour which commanded the most
profound respect.

And towards him were turned hundreds of bright eyes; and the glances of
fair maids dwelt upon his countenance rather than on their books.

The hymn ceased, and the service proceeded.

At length the anthem succeeding the communion-service, filled the chapel
with its solemn echoes, accompanied by the pealing of the magnificent
organ. Then a simultaneous sensation pervaded the entire congregation,
and all eyes were directed towards the Rev. Reginald Tracy, who was now
ascending the steps to the pulpit.

The anthem was ended; the congregation resumed their seats; and the
preacher commenced.

It is not, however, our intention to treat our readers to a sermon:
suffice it to say, that the eloquence and matter of the discourse which
the Rev. Reginald Tracy delivered upon this occasion, were well
calculated to sustain his high reputation.

But of the attentive audience, no individual seemed to be more deeply
impressed with his sermon than Lady Cecilia Harborough, who sate in a
pew near the pulpit--next indeed to the one which the clergyman himself
had occupied during the former part of the service.

She was alone; for on the previous day she had hired that pew for her
own especial use.

Whenever the eyes of the preacher were turned in the direction where she
sate, she appeared to be wiping away tears from her cheeks; for the
sermon was on a solemn and pathetic subject.

More than once she fancied that _he_ observed her; and her heart beat
triumphantly in her bosom.

When the sermon was concluded she remained in her pew, and allowed the
rest of the congregation to leave the chapel ere she moved from her
seat. At length the sacred edifice was deserted, save by herself and two
or three officials connected with the establishment.

In a few minutes the pew-opener--an elderly matron-like person--accosted
her, and said, "If you please, ma'am, the doors will be closed almost
directly."

"Could you--could you oblige me with a glass of water?" faltered Lady
Cecilia: "I feel as if I were about to faint."

"Oh! certainly, ma'am," answered the pew-opener; and she hurried to the
vestry.

Presently she returned, accompanied by the Rev. Reginald Tracy himself.

"Is the lady very unwell?" inquired the clergyman of the pew-opener, as
they advanced together towards Lady Cecilia's seat.

"She seems very languid--quite overcome, sir," was the answer. "But this
is the pew."

The clergyman stepped forward, and instantly recognised the fair
indisposed.

"Lady Harborough!" he exclaimed. "Is your ladyship unwell?"

And taking the tumbler of water from the pew-opener, he handed it to the
baronet's wife.

"It is nothing--the heat, I suppose," murmured Lady Cecilia; and she
drank a portion of the water. "Thank you, Mr. Tracy, for your attention:
I feel better--much better now."

"Will your ladyship step into the vestry and sit down for a few
minutes?" inquired the clergyman, really concerned at the presumed
indisposition of the lady.

"If it would not be indiscreet, I should esteem it a favour," answered
Cecilia, still speaking in a tremulous and faltering tone.

Reginald Tracy instantly proffered his arm to the lady, and conducted
her to the vestry, where the venerable clergyman who had read the
service was calmly discussing a glass of sherry.

"I am ashamed--perfectly ashamed to give you all this trouble, Mr.
Tracy," said Cecilia, as she accepted the chair which was offered her;
"but the heat of the chapel--and, to tell the truth, the emotions which
your beautiful discourse aroused within me--quite overcame me."

"The chapel was, indeed, very much crowded," answered Reginald Tracy,
touched by the homage rendered to his talent in the second cause which
Lady Cecilia alleged for her indisposition.

"Nevertheless, this little incident will not in future prevent me from
becoming one of the most regular of your congregation," observed
Cecilia, with a smile.

Mr. Tracy bowed, and smiled also.

Both had brilliant teeth, and it was impossible for either to fail to
notice this beautiful feature in each other.

"I feel quite recovered now," said Cecilia, after a short pause, "and
will return home. I offer you my best thanks for this kind attention on
your part."

"Do not mention it, Lady Harborough. But I cannot permit you to return
alone, after this indisposition: allow me to conduct you as far as your
own door?"

"I could not think of taking you out of your way--"

"It happens that I have a call to make in Tavistock Square, and am
actually going that way," interrupted Reginald Tracy.

Lady Cecilia, like a well-bred person as she was, offered no farther
objection, but accepted the clergyman's escort to her own abode.

During the short walk she rendered herself as agreeable as possible;
though purposely conversing upon topics suitable to the sabbath, and to
the profession of her companion. She also introduced one or two
delicate, and apparently unsophisticated, allusions to the eloquence
which had produced so deep an impression upon a crowded congregation,
and the profound attention with which the sermon was received. Then she
artfully, but with admirably assumed sincerity, questioned Mr. Tracy
upon two or three passages in that discourse, and suffered him to
perceive that not one word of it had been lost upon her.

Mr. Reginald Tracy was mortal like any other human being, and was not
exempt from some of the weaknesses of that mortality. It was impossible
for him not to experience a partial sentiment of pride and satisfaction
at the impression which his eloquence had evidently made upon a young
and beautiful woman; and that feeling became in the least degree more
tender by the fact that this young and beautiful woman was leaning upon
his arm.

Then how could he feel otherwise than flattered when, with her witching
eyes upturned towards his countenance, she questioned him--so meekly and
so sincerely, as he thought--upon the very passages of his sermon which
he himself considered to be the best, and which he had studied to render
the most effective? He _was_ flattered--he smiled, and endeavoured to
render himself agreeable to so charming a woman.

At length they reached the door of Lady Harborough's abode. The syren
invited him to walk in, as a matter of course; but Mr. Tracy was
compelled to forego that pleasure. He was really engaged elsewhere; or
there is no saying but that he might have stepped in--only for a few
minutes.

Lady Cecilia extended her hand to him at parting, and held his for just
two or three moments, while she renewed her thanks for his attention.
The action was perfectly natural; and yet the gentle contact of that
delicate hand produced upon Reginald Tracy a sensation which he had
never before experienced. It seemed to impart a glow of warmth and
pleasure to his entire frame.

At length they separated; and as the Rector of Saint David's pursued his
walk, he found his mind from time to time wandering away from more
serious reflections, and reverting to the half hour which he had passed
so agreeably in the society of Lady Harborough.




CHAPTER CXXVII.

BLANDISHMENTS.


Lady Cecilia took very good care not to appear at chapel that evening.
She was well aware that common politeness--if no other motive--would
induce the Rev. Reginald Tracy to call on the following day to inquire
after her health.

Accordingly, on the Monday, she took more than usual pains with her
toilet.

Sir Rupert Harborough had departed with his "splendid friend" Chichester
for the Continent; and she was completely her own mistress. She had no
one to interfere with her plans or pursuits, for her lady's maid was
entirely devoted to her interests. However others suffered or waited in
respect to pecuniary matters, Sarah--the aforesaid lady's maid, or
_cameriste_--was always well and regularly paid.

It was by no means an uninteresting scene to behold the attention and
zeal with which Sarah seconded her mistress's determination to make the
most of her charms upon the present occasion.

Lady Cecilia was seated near her toilet-table, with a little gilt-edged
oval-shaped mirror in her hands, which reposed in her lap; and Sarah was
engaged in arranging the really beautiful hair of her mistress.

"What o'clock is it, Sarah?" inquired Lady Cecilia, casting a complacent
glance at herself in the large looking-glass upon her toilet-table.

"It must be nearly one, my lady," was the reply.

"Then you have no time to lose, Sarah. The ringlets are quite divine;
pray take equal pains with the back-hair. Do you think that I look
better in ringlets or in bands?"

"In ringlets, my lady."

"And if I had my hair in bands, and asked you the same question, you
would reply, '_In bands_.'"

"Your ladyship cannot think that I am so insincere," said the
_cameriste_.

"Do you fancy me in this dress, Sarah?" asked the lady, heedless of her
domestic's observation.

"I prefer the blue watered-silk," was the answer.

"Then why did you not recommend it in the first instance?"

"Your ladyship never required my advice."

"True. Have you finished?"

"No hairdresser from Bond Street, or the Burlington Arcade, could have
performed his task better, my lady," replied Sarah.

"Yes--it is very well--very well, indeed," said Cecilia, surveying
herself in the mirror. "I will now descend to the drawing-room."

When she reached that apartment, the artful woman spread on the table a
few books on serious subjects; she then amused herself with a volume of
a new novel.

The clock had just struck two, when a double-knock was heard at the
front-door.

Lady Cecilia thrust the novel under the cushion of the sofa, and took up
"Sturm's Reflections."

The Rev. Mr. Tracy was announced.

Lady Cecilia rose and received him with a charming languor of manner.

"I have called to satisfy myself that your ladyship has recovered from
the indisposition of yesterday," said the rector.

"Not altogether," answered Cecilia. "Indeed, after I returned home,
yesterday, I experienced a relapse."

"I observed that you were not at chapel in the evening, and I feared
that such might be the case."

It was with difficulty that Lady Cecilia could suppress a smile of joy
and triumph as this ingenuous and unsophisticated announcement met her
ears. He had thought of her! he had noticed her absence!

"I can assure you that nothing save indisposition could have induced me
to remain away from a place where one gathers so much matter for useful
and serious meditation," answered the lady.

"And yet the world generally forgets the doctrines which are enunciated
from the pulpit, an hour after their delivery," observed Reginald.

"Yes--when they are doled forth by ministers who have neither talent nor
eloquence to make a profound impression," said Cecilia, artfully
conveying a compliment without appearing to mean one at the moment. "I
believe that our churches would be much better frequented, were the
clergy less dogmatic, less obscure; and did they address themselves more
to the hearts of their hearers than they do."

"I believe it is necessary to appeal to the heart, and not be satisfied
with merely reaching the ears," said the rector, modestly.

[Illustration]

"And wherever the pastor possesses the rare talent of moving the
feeling,--of exciting the mind to salutary reflection, as well as merely
expounding points of doctrine,--thither will the multitude flock, high
and low, rich and poor. Oh!" exclaimed Cecilia, as if carried away by
the enthusiasm of the subject, "how grand--how noble a situation does
that man occupy, who, by the magic of his voice and the power of his
mind, can collect the thousands around his pulpit! I can understand how
an impression may be easily made upon the half-educated or totally
ignorant classes of society: but to cast a spell upon the intelligent,
the well-informed, and the erudite,--to congregate the aristocracy of
the realm to listen to the words that flow from his mouth,--oh! great,
indeed, must be the influence of such a man!"

"You consider, then, Lady Cecilia, that the upper classes need powerful
inducements to attend to the truths of religion?" said Reginald,
irresistibly charmed by the witching eloquence that had marked the
language of the beautiful woman in whose society he found himself.

"I consider--but, if I tell you my thoughts," said Cecilia, suddenly
checking herself, "I shall unavoidably pay a high compliment to you; and
that neither----"

"Let me hear your ladyship's sentiments in any case," said the
clergyman, fearful of losing those honied words which produced upon him
an impression such as he had never experienced in his life before.

"I believe," continued Cecilia, "that the upper classes in this country
are very irreligious. I do not say that they are infidels: no--they all
cherish a profound conviction of the truths of the gospel. But their
mode of life--their indolent and luxurious habits, militate against a
due regard to religious ceremonials. How is it, then, that they are
aroused from their apathy? They hear of some great preacher, and
curiosity in the first instance prompts them to visit the place of his
ministry. They go--almost as they would repair to see a new play. But
when they listen to his words--when they drink, in spite of themselves,
large draughts of the fervour which animates _him_--when he appeals to
their hearts, then they begin to perceive that there is something more
in religion than an observance of a cold ceremonial; and they go home
'_to reflect_!'"

"You believe that to be the case?" said the rector, delighted at this
description of an influence and an effect which he could not do
otherwise than know to be associated with his own ministry.

"I feel convinced that such is the fact," answered Lady Cecilia; then,
lowering her tone in a mysterious manner, and leaning towards him, she
added, "Many of my friends have confessed that such has been the case in
respect to their attendance at your chapel--and such was the case with
myself!"

"With you, Lady Cecilia?" exclaimed the clergyman, vainly endeavouring
to conceal the triumph which he experienced at this announcement.

"Yes, with me," continued the artful woman. "For, to be candid with you,
Mr. Tracy, I need consolation of some kind--and the solace of religion
is the most natural and the most effective. My domestic life," she
proceeded, in a deeply pathetic tone, "is far from a happy one. Sir
Rupert thinks more of his own pleasures than of his wife;--he does more
than neglect me--he abandons me for weeks and weeks together."

She put her handkerchief to her eyes.

Mr. Tracy drew his chair closer to the sofa on which she was seated: it
was only a mechanical movement on his part--the movement of one who
draws nearer as the conversation becomes more confidential.

"But why should I intrude my sorrows upon you?" suddenly exclaimed
Cecilia. "And yet if it be not to the minister of religion to whom we
poor creatures must unburden our woes, where else can we seek for
consolation? from what other source can we hope to receive lessons of
resignation and patience?"

"True," said the rector. "And that has often appeared to me the best and
redeeming feature in the Roman Catholic world, where the individual
places reliance upon his priest, and looks to him for spiritual support
and aid."

"Ah! would that our creed permitted us the same privilege!" said Lady
Cecilia, with great apparent enthusiasm.

"I know of no rule nor law which forbids the exercise of such a
privilege," said Reginald; "unless, indeed, usage and custom be
predominant, and will admit of no exceptions."

"For my part, I despise such customs and usages, when they tend to the
exclusion of those delightful outpourings of confidence which the
individual pants to breathe into the ears of the pastor in whom implicit
faith can be placed. In how many cases could the good clergyman advise
his parishioners, to the maintenance of their domestic comfort? how many
heart-burnings in families would not such a minister be enabled to
soothe? Oh! sir, I feel that your eloquence could teach me how to bear,
unrepiningly, and even cheerfully, all the sorrows of my own domestic
hearth!"

"Then look upon me as a friend, my dear Lady Cecilia," said the
clergyman, drawing his chair a little closer still: "look upon me as a
friend; and happy indeed shall I be if my humble agency or advice can
contribute to smooth the path of life for even only one individual!"

"Mr. Tracy, I accept your preferred friendship--I accept it as sincerely
as it is offered," exclaimed Lady Cecilia; and she extended her hand
towards him.

He took it. It was soft and warm, and it gently pressed his. He returned
the pressure:--was it not the token, the pledge of friendship? He
thought so--and he meant no harm.

But again did the contact of that soft and warm hand awake within his
breast a flame till then unknown; and his cheeks flushed, and his eyes
met those of the fair--the fascinating creature, who craved his
friendship!

"Henceforth," said Cecilia, who now saw that her intrigue was
progressing towards a complete triumph--even more rapidly than she had
ever anticipated--"henceforth you will have no votary more constant in
attendance than I; but, on your part, you must occasionally spare from
your valuable time a single half hour wherein to impart to me the
consolations I so much require."

"Be not afraid, Lady Cecilia," said the rector, who now felt himself
attracted towards that woman by a spell of irresistible influence: "I
shall not forget that you have ingenuously and frankly sought my
spiritual aid; and I should be false to the holy cause in which I have
embarked, were I to withhold it."

"I thank you--deeply, sincerely thank you," exclaimed Cecilia. "But
judge for yourself whether I do not seek solace, in my domestic
afflictions, from the proper source! This is the book which I was
reading when you called."

Cecilia took up Sturm's "Reflections," and opened the book at random.

"There," she said; "it was this page which I was perusing."

She held the book in her hands as she reclined, rather than sate, upon
the sofa; and the clergyman was compelled to lean over her to obtain a
glimpse of the page to which she pointed.

His hair touched hers: she did not move her head. Their faces were close
to each other. But not an impure thought entered his soul: still he was
again excited by that thrilling sensation which came over him whenever
he touched her.

She affected not to perceive that their hair commingled, but pointed to
the page, and expatiated upon its contents.

In a moment of abstraction, for which he could not account, and against
the influence of which he was not proof, Reginald Tracy's eyes wandered
from the book to the form which reclined, beneath his glance, as it
were, upon the sofa. That glance swept the well-proportioned undulations
of the slight but charming figure which was voluptuously stretched upon
the cushions.

Suddenly Cecilia left off speaking, and turned her eyes upward to his
countenance. Their glances met; and Reginald did not immediately avert
his head. There was something in the depths of those melting blue orbs
which fascinated him.

Still he suspected not his extreme danger; and when he rose to depart,
it was simply because he felt like a man flushed with wine, and who
requires air.

He took his leave; and Cecilia reminded him that she should expect to
see him soon again.

Can there be a doubt as to his answer?

When he regarded his watch, on reaching the street, he was astounded to
perceive that two hours had slipped away since he entered the house.

And a deep flush suddenly overspread his countenance as he beheld the
viper-like eyes of a hideous old hag, who was standing near the steps of
the front-door, fixed upon him with a leer which for an instant struck a
chill to his heart by its ominous and yet dim significancy.




CHAPTER CXXVIII.

TEMPTATION.


"He will come again on Wednesday," said Lady Cecilia to herself, as she
heard the front door close behind the Rev. Reginald Tracy.

This wily woman was well-acquainted with the human heart: she had
discovered the weak side of the rector of Saint David's: she assailed
him by means of his vulnerable point; she directed her way to his heart
through the avenue of his _vanity_.

Yes--Reginald Tracy was vain,--as vain as a man who was admired and
sought after by all classes, was likely to be rendered,--as vain as a
spoiled child of the public could be.

His life had, moreover, been so pure, so chaste, so ascetic, that the
fierce passions which agitate other men were unknown to him; and, as all
mortals must be characterised by some failing, his was a habit of
self-admiration!

Venial and insignificant was this foible, so long as no advantage was
taken of it by designing or worldly-minded persons; but even our
lightest defects, as well as our most "pleasant vices," may be made the
means of our ruin.

Vanity is a noxious weed which, when nurtured by the dews of flattery,
spreads its poisonous roots throughout the fertile soil of the heart;
and each root springs up into a plant more venomous, more rank; more
baleful than its predecessor.

The life of Reginald Tracy had been singularly pure. He had even passed
through the ordeal of a college career without affixing the least stain
on the chastity of his soul. Yet with all his austerity of virtue, he
was characterised by no austerity of manner: he mixed freely in society,
and hesitated not to frequent the ball-room--although he did not dance.
He could be a pleasant companion: at the same time he never uttered a
word upon which he had to retrospect with regret. When amongst men, no
obscene jest nor ribald allusion was vented in his presence; and yet he
was never voted "a bore." In a word, he was one of those men who possess
the rare talent of maintaining a character for every virtue, and of
being held up as a pattern and an example, without creating a single
enemy--without even being compelled to encounter the irony of the
libertine, and without producing a feeling of restraint or embarrassment
in the society which he frequented.

Such was Reginald Tracy; and it was this man,--who at the age of
thirty-six could look back with complacency upon a spotless life,--a
life unsullied by a single fault,--an existence devoid of the slightest
dereliction from moral propriety,--it was this good, this holy, this
saint-like man whom the daring Cecilia undertook to subdue.

Reginald, Reginald! the day of thy temptation has now come: thou
standest upon a pinnacle of the temple--the tempter is by thy
side;--take good heed of thyself, Reginald Tracy!

"He will come again on Wednesday," had said Lady Cecilia.

The prediction was fulfilled!

The morning had been so inclement that no one would have stirred abroad
unless actuated by important motives. The rain had fallen in
torrents,--beating violently against the windows, and inundating the
streets. It had, however, ceased at noon; but the sky remained covered
with black clouds; and at three o'clock on that gloomy winter-day it was
dark and sombre as if night were at hand.

But in spite of that inauspicious weather, the Rev. Reginald Tracy
knocked at Lady Cecilia Harborough's door at the hour which we have just
mentioned.

The designing creature received the clergyman with a smile, exclaiming
at the same time, "It is indeed kind of you to visit me on such a day as
this. I have been so happy--so resigned--so possessed with the most
complete mental tranquillity since you manifested sympathy and interest
in my behalf, that your presence appears to be that of a good angel!"

"It is our duty to sustain those who droop, and console those who
suffer," answered the rector.

"Delightful task!" ejaculated Cecilia. "What a pure and holy
satisfaction must you enjoy, when you reflect upon the amount of comfort
which your lessons impart to the world-wearied and sinking spirit.
Believe me, many an one has entered the gates of your chapel with a
weight upon his soul almost too heavy for him to bear, and has issued
forth carrying his burden of care lightly, if not cheerfully, along!"

"Do you really imagine that my humble agency can produce such good
results in the cause of heaven?" asked Reginald, fixing a glance of
mingled tenderness and satisfaction upon the charming countenance of
Cecilia.

"I do--I do," she answered, with apparent enthusiasm; "I can judge by
the effect which your admirable discourse of last Sunday morning
produced upon myself. For--let me not deceive you," she continued,
hanging down her head, and speaking in a tremulous and tender
voice,--"let me not deceive you--it was not the heat of the chapel which
overcame me--it was your eloquence! I dared not confess this to you at
first; but now--now that I can look upon you as a friend--I need have no
secret from you."

She took his hand as she uttered these words, and pressed it in a manner
which he conceived to be indicative of grateful fervour; and without a
thought of evil--but with an undefinable sensation of pleasure to which
until lately he had been all his life a stranger--he returned that
pressure.

Lady Cecilia did not withdraw her hand, but allowed it to linger in his;
and he retained it under the influence of that sensation which caused
his veins to flow with liquid fire.

He was sitting on the sofa by her side, and his eyes wandered from her
countenance over the outlines of her form.

"Oh! how can the man who accompanied you to the altar, and there swore
to love and cherish you," he exclaimed, in an ebullition of impassioned
feelings such as he had never known before,--"how can that man find it
in his heart to neglect--to abandon you,--you who are evidently all
gentleness, amiability, and candour!"

"He has no heart--no soul for any one save himself," answered Cecilia.
"And now tell me--relieve my mind from a most painful suspense upon one
point! Am I criminal in the eyes of heaven, because I have ceased to
love one whom I vowed to love, but whose conduct has quenched all the
affection that I once experienced for him?"

"You must not harden your heart against him," said Reginald; "but by
your resignation, your uncomplaining patience, your meekness, and your
constant devotion to his interests, you must seek to bring him back to
the paths of duty and love."

"I might as well essay to teach the hyena gratitude," answered Cecilia.

"You speak too bitterly," rejoined the rector of Saint David's; and yet
he was not altogether displeased at the aversion which Lady Cecilia's
language manifested towards her husband.

"Alas! we have no power over volition," said she; "and that doctrine is
a severe one which enjoins us to kiss the hand that strikes us."

"True," observed Reginald. "I know not how it is--but I feel that I am
at this moment unaccountably deficient in argument to meet your
objections; and yet----"

He paused, for he felt embarrassed; but he knew not why.

"Oh! you can appreciate the difficulty of enjoining a love towards one
who merits hatred," exclaimed Cecilia, now skilfully availing herself of
the crisis to which she had so artfully conducted the conversation. "You
see that you are deficient in reasoning to enforce the alleged necessity
of maintaining, cherishing, and nourishing respect and veneration for a
husband who has forfeited all claims to such feelings on the part of his
injured wife. At all events, do not tell me that I am criminal in
ceasing to love one who oppresses me;--do not say that I offend heaven
by ceasing to kiss the hand that rudely repulses all my overtures of
affection;--oh! tell me not _that_--or you will make me very, very
miserable indeed!"

Lady Cecilia's bosom was convulsed with sobs as she uttered these words
in a rapid and impassioned manner; and as she ceased speaking her head
fell upon Reginald's shoulder.

"Compose yourself--compose yourself, Lady Cecilia," exclaimed the
clergyman, alarmed by this ebullition of grief, the sincerity of which
he could not for one moment suspect. "Do not give way to
sorrow--remember the lessons of resignation and patience which you have
heard from my lips--remember----"

But the lady sobbed as if her heart would break: her head reclined upon
his shoulder--her forehead touched his face--her hand was still clasped
in his.

"Oh Reginald!--Reginald!" she murmured, "I cannot love my husband
more--no--it is impossible! I love another!"

"You love another!" ejaculated the rector, his whole frame trembling
with an ineffable feeling of mingled joy and suspense.

"Yes--and now reproach, revile me--leave me--spurn me--treat me with
contempt!" continued Cecilia: "do all this if you will; but never, never
can you prevent me from idolizing--adoring you!"

"Cecilia!" cried Reginald Tracy, starting from his seat; "you know not
what you are saying!"

"Alas! I know but too well the feelings which my words express,"
returned the lady, clasping her hands together, and sobbing violently.
"Hear me for a few minutes, and then leave me to the misery of my
fate--a hopeless love, and a breaking heart!"

"Speak, then, and unburden your mind to me without reserve," said
Reginald, resuming his seat upon the sofa, and inviting a confidence the
thought of which produced in his mind emotions of bliss and burning joy,
the power of which was irresistible.

"Yes, I will speak, even though I render myself contemptible in your
sight," continued Cecilia, wiping her eyes and affecting to resume that
calmness which she had never lost more than the impassioned actress on
the stage, when enacting some melo-dramatic part. "For months and months
past I have cherished for you a feeling, the true nature of which has
only revealed itself to me within the last few days. In the first
instance, I admired your character and your talents: I respected you;
and respect and admiration soon ripened into another feeling. You do not
know the heart of woman; but it is ever moved by a contemplation of the
sublime characteristics of remarkable men--like you. I met you in
society, and I almost worshipped the ground on which you trod. I
listened to your conversation: not a word was lost to me! During long
and sleepless nights your image was ever present to my mind. You became
an idol that I adored. At length you yourself, one evening, innocently
and unconsciously, fanned the flame that was engendered in my heart: you
told me that _I looked well_. That passing compliment rendered me your
devoted slave. I thought that no human happiness could be greater than
that of pleasing you. I resolved to attend your chapel from that period.
I obtained the pew that was nearest to the pulpit; and when you preached
I was electrified. Oh! you saw how I was overcome! Your attention to me
on that occasion threw additional chains around me. Then you called on
me the day before yesterday, and you spoke so kindly that I was every
moment on the point of falling at your feet, and exclaiming,--'_Forgive
me, but I now know that I love you!_' You proffered me your friendship:
how joyously I accepted the sacred gift! And that friendship--oh! let me
not forfeit it now--for the love which my heart cherishes for you shall
be as pure and taintless as that friendship with which you have blessed
me!"

Reginald had listened to this strange confession with the most profound
attention;--yes, and with the deepest interest.

A young and beautiful woman had avowed her love for him--she sate near
him;--his hand still thrilled with the pressure of hers--his cheek was
still warm and flushed with the contact of her white and polished
forehead;--the room was involved in obscurity and silence.

She had insinuated herself, in an incredibly short space of time, into
his heart, by flattering his vanity and exciting those desires which had
hitherto slumbered so profoundly in his breast, but which were now ready
to burst for with the violence of the long pent-up volcano.

He trembled--he hesitated. At one moment he was inclined to rush from
the house, as if from the presence of the tempter; and then he
remembered that the love which she had avowed was as pure as his
friendship!

Nevertheless, the struggle in his mind was terrific.

Cecilia understood it all.

"You hate me--you despise me," she suddenly exclaimed, covering her face
with her hands. "Oh! do not crush me with your contempt--do not abandon
me to the conviction of your abhorrence! Reginald--take pity upon me:
forgive me for loving you--forgive me--on my knees I implore you!"

She threw herself before him: she took his hand and pressed it to her
lips.

She covered it with kisses.

"Cecilia," murmured the rector, making a faint effort to withdraw his
hand.

"No--no, you shall not leave me thus," she exclaimed, with apparent
wildness: "I should die if you went away, without telling me that you
forgive me! No, you must not leave me thus!"

"Rise, Cecilia--rise--in the name of heaven, rise!" exclaimed Reginald,
alarmed lest they should be discovered in that equivocal position:
"rise, and I will forgive you. I will do all that you desire--I will not
leave you until you are composed."

"And you will return and see me again? you will not withdraw your
friendship?" demanded Cecilia, in a soft and melting tone.

"No--never, never!" cried Reginald, enthusiastically, as if he suddenly
abandoned himself to the torrent of passion which now swept through his
soul.

"Oh! thank you--thank you for that assurance!" exclaimed Cecilia; and,
as if yielding to an unconquerable burst of feeling, she threw herself
into his arms: "you shall be as a brother to me; and our friendship, our
love, shall be eternal!"

Her rich red mouth was pressed upon the rector's lips; her arms were
wound around him; and for a moment he yielded to the intoxicating
delight of that pleasure so new to him.

But ere he was entirely culpable, his guardian genius struck his soul
with a sudden remorse; and, disengaging himself from the syren's arms,
he imprinted one long--burning--delicious kiss upon her lips; then,
murmuring, "To-morrow, to-morrow, dearest Cecilia, I will see thee
again," rushed from the room.

"He is mine!" exclaimed the lady, as the door closed behind him;
"irrevocably mine!"




CHAPTER CXXIX.

THE FALL.


Reginald Tracy returned to his own abode, his breast agitated with a
variety of conflicting feelings.

He pushed his old housekeeper, who announced to him that dinner was
ready, rudely aside, and hurried up to his own chamber.

There he threw himself upon his knees, and endeavoured to pray to be
released from temptation.

For he now comprehended all the dangers which beset him, although he
suspected not the perfidy and artifice of the tempter.

But not a word of supplication could he utter from the mouth which still
burned with the thrilling kisses of the beautiful Cecilia.

He rose from his knees, and paced the room wildly,--at one moment vowing
never to see that syren more,--at another longing to rush back to her
arms.

The animal passions of that man were strong by nature and threatened to
be insatiable whenever let loose; but they had slumbered from his birth,
beneath the lethargic influence of high principle and asceticism.

Moreover, they had never been tempted until the present time; and now
that temptation came so suddenly, and in so sweet a guise,--came with
such irresistible blandishments,--came, in a word, so accompanied with
all that could flatter his vanity or minister unto his pride,--that he
knew not how to resist its influence.

And at one moment that man of unblemished character and lofty principle
fell upon his knees, grovelling as it were at the foot-stool of Him whom
he served,--anxious, yearning to crave for courage to escape from the
peril that awaited him,--and yet unable to breathe a syllable of prayer.
Then he walked in a wild and excited manner up and down, murmuring the
name of Cecilia,--pondering upon her charms,--plunging into voluptuous
reveries and dreams of vaguely comprehended bliss,--until his desires
became of that fiery, hot, and unruly nature, which triumphed over all
other considerations.

It was an interesting--and yet an awful spectacle, to behold that man,
who could look back over a life of spotless and unblemished purity, now
engaged in a terrific warfare with the demons of passion that were
raging to cast off their chains, and were struggling furiously for
dominion over the proud being who had hitherto held them in silence and
in bondage.

But those demons had acquired strength during their long repose; and now
that the day of rebellion had arrived, they maintained an avenging and
desperate conflict with him who had long been their master. They were
like a people goaded to desperation by the atrocities of a blood-thirsty
tyrant: they fought a battle in which there was to be no quarter, but
wherein one side or the other must succumb.

Hour after hour passed; and still he sustained the conflict with the new
feelings which had been excited within him, and which were rapidly
crushing all the better sentiments of his soul. At length he retired to
bed, a prey to a mental uneasiness which amounted to a torture.

His sleep was agitated and filled with visions by no means calculated to
calm the fever of his blood. He awoke in the morning excited, unsettled,
and with a desperate longing after pleasures which were as yet vague and
undefined to him.

But still a sense of the awful danger which menaced him stole into his
mind from time to time; and he shuddered as if he were about to commit a
crime.

He left the table, where the morning's meal was untasted, and repaired
to his study. But his books had no longer any charm for him: he could
not settle his mind to read or write.

He went out, and rambled in all directions, reckless whither he
went--but anxious to throw off the spell which had fallen upon him.

Vain was this attempt.

The air was piercing and cold; but his brow was burning. He felt that
his cheeks were flushed; and his eyes seemed to shoot forth fire.

"My God! what is the matter with me?" he exclaimed, in his anguish, as
he entered Hyde Park, the comparative loneliness of which at that season
he thought calculated to soothe his troubled thoughts. "I have tried to
pray--and last night, for the first time in my life, I sought my pillow,
unable to implore the blessings of my Maker. Oh! what spell has
overtaken me? what influence is upon me? Cecilia--Cecilia--is it indeed
thou that hast thus changed me?"

He went on,--now musing upon all that had passed within the few
preceding days--now breaking forth into wild and passionate
exclamations.

He left the Park, and walked rapidly through the streets of the West
End.

"No," he said within himself, "I will never see her more. I will conquer
these horrible feelings--I will triumph over the mad desires, the fiery
cravings which have converted the heaven of my heart into a raging hell!
Oh! why is she so beautiful? why did she say that she loved me? Was it
to disturb me in my peaceful career--to wean me from my God? No--no: she
yielded to an impulse which she could not control;--she loves me--she
loves me--she loves me!"

There was a species of insanity in his manner as he thus addressed
himself,--not speaking with the lips, but with the heart,--unheard by
those who passed him by, but with a voice which vibrated like thunder in
his own ears.

"Yes--she loves me," he continued; "but I must fly from her--I must
avoid her as if she were a venomous serpent. I dare not trust myself
again in her presence: and not for worlds--not for worlds would I be
with her alone once more. No,--I must forget her--I must tear her image
from my heart--I must trample it under foot!"

He paused as he spoke: he stood still--for he was exhausted.

But how was it that the demon of mischief had, with an under-current of
irresistible influence, carried him on, in spite of the forceful flow of
the above reflections, to the very goal of destruction!

He was in Tavistock Square.

He was at the door of Lady Cecilia Harborough's house.

And now for one minute a terrific conflict again raged within him. It
seemed as if he collected all his remaining courage to struggle with the
demons in his heart; but he was weak with the protracted contest--and
they were more powerful than ever.

"I will see her once more," he said, yielding to the influence of his
passions: "I will tell her that I stand upon an abyss--I will implore
her to have mercy upon me, and permit me to retreat ere yet it be too
late!"

His good genius held him faintly back; but his passions goaded him on:
he obeyed the latter impulse; he rushed up the steps and knocked at the
door.

"Even now I might retreat," he said to himself: "there is still time! I
will--I will!"

He turned, and was already half-way down the steps, when the door was
opened.

His good resolutions vanished, and he entered the house.

In a few moments more he was in the presence of Lady Cecilia,--Lady
Cecilia--looking more bewitching, more captivating than ever!

She had expected him, and had resolved that this visit, on his part,
should crown her triumph.

It was in a small parlour adjoining her own boudoir that she received
him.

The luxurious sofa was placed near the cheerful fire: the heavy curtains
were drawn over the windows in such a manner as to darken the room.

Cecilia was attired in a black silk dress, that she had purposely chosen
to enhance the transparent brilliancy of her complexion, and to display
the dazzling whiteness of a bust, which, though of small proportions,
was of perfect contour.

She was reclining languidly upon the cushions which were piled on one
end of the sofa, and her little feet peeped from beneath the skirts of
her dress.

She did not rise when Reginald entered the room, but invited him to take
a seat near her upon the sofa.

So bewitchingly beautiful did she appear, as the strong glare of the
fire played upon her countenance, amidst the semi-obscurity of the room,
that he could not resist the signal.

He accordingly sate down by her side.

"Your visit to-day," said Cecilia, "proves to me that you have forgiven
the indiscreet confession into which I was yesterday led in a moment of
weakness."

"I am come as a friend--as a true and sincere _friend_," returned
Reginald, with considerable emphasis upon the last word. "But I know not
whether my occupations, my duties, in a word--will permit me to visit
you again for some time----"

"Oh! do not deprive me of the pleasure of your society from time to
time," interrupted Cecilia, divining all that was passing in the
rector's soul, and well aware, by the tremulous tone in which he spoke,
that his good resolutions were but unequal opponents to the fury of his
newly awakened passions.

"Listen, Lady Cecilia," answered Reginald; "and I will tell you frankly
the real motives which most compel me to forego the pleasure of your
society in future. I tremble for myself!"

"You tremble for yourself!" repeated Cecilia, with ill-concealed joy.
"Do you think me, then, so very formidable?"

"Formidable--oh! no," ejaculated Reginald, darting an impassioned glance
upon his ravishing companion. "But I consider that you are very
beautiful--too beautiful for me thus to seek your presence with
impunity."

"Then would you sever that bond of friendship which you yourself
proposed so generously, so kindly?" asked Lady Cecilia, placing her hand
upon that of the rector, and approaching her countenance towards his as
if to read the answer in his eyes.

"It must be so--it must be so--for my peace of mind, Cecilia!" cried
Reginald, thrilled by that electric touch, and receiving into his own
soul no small portion of that same voluptuousness which animated the
fair patrician at that moment.

"It must be so,--oh! cruel resolve!" said Cecilia, pressing his hand
between both of hers. "But let me not advance my selfish feelings as a
barrier to your interest. Oh! no, Reginald--I would sacrifice every
thing to give you pleasure! You shall go--you shall leave me; but you
will sometimes think of me--you will occasionally devote a thought to
her who has dared to love you!"

"Dared to love me!" exclaimed the rector;--"and what if I---- but no--it
is madness!"

"Speak--tell me what you were about to say," murmured Cecilia, in a
melting tone.

"I was on the point of asking what you would think--what opinion you
would form of me, if I were to confess that I also dared to love you?"

"I should reply that such happiness never could descend upon me," said
Cecilia.

"And yet it is true--it is true! I cannot conceal it from myself,"
exclaimed Reginald, giving way to the influence of his emotions: "it is
true that I love you!"

"Oh! am I indeed so blest?" faltered Cecilia. "Tell me once more that
you love me!"

"Love you!" cried the rector, unable to wrestle longer with his mad
desires: "I worship--I adore you--I will die for you!"

He caught her in his arms, and covered her with burning and impassioned
kisses.

       *       *       *       *       *

       *       *       *       *       *

Oh, Reginald! and hast thou at length fallen? Have a few short days
sufficed to undo and render as naught the purity--the chastity of years?

Where was thy guardian angel in that hour?

Whither had fled that proud virtue which raised thee so high above thy
fellow-men, and which gave to thine eloquence the galvanic effect of the
most sublime truth?

Look back--look back, with bitterness and sorrow, upon the brilliant
career through which thou hast run up to this hour, and curse the
madness that prompted thee to darken so bright a destiny!

For thou hast plucked thine own crown of integrity from thy brow, and
hast trampled it under foot.

Henceforth, in thine own heart, wilt thou know thyself as a hypocrite
and a deceiver!

       *       *       *       *       *

       *       *       *       *       *

It was past eleven o'clock when Reginald Tracy issued from the abode of
Lady Cecilia Harborough.

The night was dark; but from time to time the moon shone for a short
interval, as the clouds were swept away from its face.

Reginald paused for a moment upon the steps of the door, and gazed
upwards.

The tempestuous aspect of the heavens alarmed him; and a superstitious
dread crept, like a death-shudder, over his entire frame; for it seemed
to him as if the mansion of the Almighty had put on its sable garb in
mourning for a soul that was lost unto the blessings of eternity.

Deeply imbued as he was with a sense of the grand truths of the gospel,
this sudden and awful idea speedily assumed so dread a shape in his
mind, that he felt alarmed, as if a tremendous gulph were about to open
beneath his feet.

He hurried on, hoping to outstrip his thoughts; but that idea pursued
him,--haunted him,--every moment increasing in terrific solemnity, until
it wore the appearance of a mighty truth instead of a phantom of the
imagination.

Again he looked upwards; and the dense sombre clouds, which rolled
rapidly like huge black billows over each other, imparted fresh terrors
to his guilty soul.

Then his feverish and excited imagination began to invest those clouds
with fantastic shapes; and he traced in the midst of the heavens a
mighty black hand, the fore-finger of which pointed menacingly
_downwards_.

The more he gazed--the more palpable to his mind that apparition became.
Half sinking with terror--oppressed with an astounding, a crushing
consciousness of his adulterous guilt--the wretched man went wildly on,
reckless of the way which he pursued, and every minute casting
horror-stricken glances up to the colossal black hand which seemed
suspended over his head.

Suddenly a deafening peal of thunder burst above him: he looked
frantically up--the hand appeared to wave in a convulsive manner--then
the clouds parted, rolling pell-mell over each other,--and the terrific
sign was broken into a hundred moving masses.

Never did erring mortal so acutely feel his guilt as Reginald Tracy on
this fearful night.

The storm burst forth; and he ran madly on, without aim--a prey to the
most appalling reflections.

It was not of this world that he now thought,--it was not on its
reproaches, its blame, or its punishment, that his mental looks were
fixed;--but it was of eternity that he was afraid.

He trembled when he thought of that Maker whose praise he had so lately
sung with pride, and hope, and joy,--and whose name he dared not now
invoke!

Oh! his punishment had already begun.

       *       *       *       *       *

       *       *       *       *       *

Weak, wearied, subdued,--drenched with the rain that had accompanied the
storm; and in state of mind bordering upon madness and despair, the
wretched man reached his home at four o'clock in the morning.

But whither he had wandered, and which way he had taken,--whether he had
continued running on, or had rested once or often during that terrific
night, he never remembered.

He retired to bed, and slept during several hours. When he awoke, the
sun was shining gloriously through his casement; but the horrors and the
congenial reflections of darkness had left too fearful an impression
upon his mind to be readily effaced; for he was not so inured to vice as
to treat with levity the events of the past night,--events which to his
superstitious imagination had assumed the aspect of celestial warning
and divine menace.




CHAPTER CXXX.

MENTAL STRUGGLES.


The rector of Saint David's fell upon his knees, and, turning his face
towards the casement through which the sun glanced so cheerfully into
the chamber, poured forth his soul to the Being of whose universal
dominion that radiance seemed an emblem.

Reginald could now pray. He had sinned deeply, and he implored pardon;
for he conceived that heaven had deigned to convey a special warning to
his mind through the medium of the clouds and the storm of the preceding
night.

"Oh! I am not yet totally lost!" he exclaimed, joining his hands
fervently together: "I am not yet an outcast from divine mercy! Heaven
itself manifests an interest in my welfare: dare I neglect the warning?
No--no! I have sinned--but there is repentance. Upon my otherwise
spotless life there is one stain; but tears of regret shall be shed
unceasingly until the mark be washed away! And thou, temptress--never
more must we meet as we have lately met; I must shun thee as my evil
genius! Yet I do not blame thee--for I myself was fond, and being fond,
was weak. If I fell, and can yet aspire to pardon and forgiveness,--I
who was strong,--what extenuation may not exist for thee--a poor, weak
woman! Oh! let the light of divine grace shine in upon my soul, even as
these bright beams of the orb of day penetrate with cheering influence
to my very heart! Let me rise up from the depths of sin, stronger than
when I fell,--so that sad experience may tend to confirm my resolves to
pursue the paths of chastity and virtue!"

Thus spoke aloud Reginald Tracy, as he knelt in his chamber the day
after his fall: thus did he breathe vows of future self-denial and
purity.

He rose resigned, and penitent,--though at intervals a species of
struggle took place in his breast--a conflict between his
recently-experienced sensations of amorous delight and his present
resolutions of abstinence from carnal pleasures.

In a moment when his better feelings were predominant, he wrote a brief
letter to Lady Cecilia, imploring her to forget all that had taken place
between them, and enjoining her, if she entertained the slightest
interest in his earthly and immortal welfare, never to seek to see him
again.

Then Reginald gathered all his most valued books around him, and plunged
into his studies with an earnestness which augured well for the strength
and permanency of his good resolutions.

This occupation was for a few minutes disturbed by a note from Lady
Cecilia, imploring a last interview ere they parted for ever:--but the
rector was immoveable in his present precautionary conduct; and he
answered her, not angrily, but firmly, to beseech her not to "lead him
into temptation."

Yes, this man of fiery passions wrestled gallantly with his
inclinations: the combat was at times a fearful one; but he exerted all
his strength, and all his power, and all his energy, to subdue those
desires which were smouldering, and were not quenched, at the bottom of
his soul.

It was in the evening of the fourth day after the rector's fall from the
pedestal of his purity, that his studies were interrupted by the
entrance of his housekeeper, who informed him that a gentleman desired
to speak to him.

The rector ordered the visitor to be admitted; and Mr. Richard Markham
was announced.

The object of our hero's call was speedily explained.

Mr. Monroe was lying in a dangerous state, and his life was despaired
of. Mr. Wentworth, the surgeon, who attended upon him, had recommended
him to settle all his earthly affairs, and prepare his soul to meet his
Creator; and the old man, who was fully sensible of the importance of
this advice, had expressed a wish to receive spiritual consolation from
a minister whose sanctity had become proverbial.

"The desire of my dying friend," added Markham, "must serve as an
apology for my intrusion upon you; but, I implore you, reverend sir, not
to hesitate to soothe by your much-coveted presence the passage of a
fellow-creature from this world to a better."

But for a moment the rector _did_ hesitate:--was he fit to administer
divine consolation to another,--he who was still deeply dyed with sin
himself?

Such was the thought which floated rapidly through his imagination.

Richard urged his request with eloquence.

Reginald Tracy felt that he could offer no sufficient excuse, short of
the revelation of his own guilt, for refusing to attend the death-bed of
one who craved his presence; and he agreed to accompany the young man to
Markham Place.

Richard had a vehicle at the door; and in a short time they reached our
hero's abode.

Reginald was conducted to the room where Monroe lay.

Hanging over the pillow, on which the invalid reclined, was a charming
female form, from whose bosom deep sobs emanated, and rendered almost
inaudible the words of strangely commingled hope and despair which she
addressed to her father.

She did not hear the door open; and it was only when Richard approached
the bed, and whispered that the Reverend Mr. Tracy was present, that she
raised her tearful countenance.

Then did the eyes of the rector glance upon one of the most lovely
beings whom Nature ever invested with all her choicest gifts; and--even
in that solemn moment when he stood by the bed of one who was pronounced
to be dying--his soul was stirred by the presence of that transcendent
beauty.

"Oh! sir," exclaimed Ellen, in that musical voice which was now rendered
tremulous by deep emotions, "how grateful am I for this prompt attention
to the wish of my dear--dear father!"

"I deserve no gratitude for the performance of a Christian duty,"
answered the rector, as he approached the bed.

Markham took Ellen's hand and led her from the chamber, in order to
allow unrestrained converse between the clergyman and the invalid.

An hour elapsed, and the bell of the sick-room rang.

Ellen hurried thither, and found her father composed and resigned to
meet his fate. The rector sate by his bed-side.

"This holy man," said Monroe, "has taught me how to die like a true
Christian. Weep not, dearest Ellen; we shall meet again hereafter."

"Oh, my dearest father," exclaimed the young lady, bursting into an
agony of tears; "it is I--I who have murdered you! My conduct----"

"Silence, Ellen--accuse not yourself in that dreadful manner,"
interrupted her father.

Reginald was astonished at the words which had just fallen from the
daughter's lips; and he surveyed her with increased interest and
curiosity.

At that moment Mr. Wentworth entered the room. He found the invalid
better, and his countenance was animated with a ray of hope.

This expression of his inward feelings was not lost upon Ellen; and she
interrogated him with a rapid and imploring glance.

"Mr. Monroe must be kept very--very quiet," said the surgeon in a
whisper, which was addressed to both Ellen and Reginald Tracy.

"And then--there is hope?" murmured Ellen in breathless suspense.

"Yes--there is hope," repeated the surgeon solemnly.

"May heaven be thanked for that assurance on your part," said Ellen,
fervently.

The rector contemplated her with an admiration which he could not
restrain; and, in spite of himself, the thought flashed across his mind,
how far more lovely was Miss Ellen Monroe than Lady Cecilia Harborough!

Then, indignant with himself for having allowed the comparison to force
itself upon his attention, he rose to take his departure.

The invalid had just sunk into a deep slumber; and Mr. Wentworth
intimated his intention of passing the night by his side.

"I will call again to-morrow morning," said Reginald, addressing Miss
Monroe; "for I perceive that this gentleman is not without hopes."

"Thank you--thank you, sir, for your kindness," answered Ellen with
grateful enthusiasm. "Your presence seems to have brought a blessing
into this sick-room."

She extended her hand towards him, and he pressed it for a moment in
his.

His whole frame seemed electrified with a sudden glow; and he hurried
somewhat abruptly from the room.

When he reached his own abode once more, he felt a profound melancholy
steal into his soul; for he seemed more lonely, and more solitary than
he ever yet had been.

He retired to rest, and his dreams were filled with the images of
Cecilia and Ellen.

When he awoke in the morning, he was discontented with himself--with the
whole world: he experienced vague longings after excitement or change of
scene;--he could not settle himself, as on the four previous days, to
his studies--his books were hateful to him. He wandered about his
house--from room to room--as if in search of something which he could
not define, and which he did not discover: he was pursued by ideas
only dimly comprehensible, but which were at variance with his
recently formed resolutions of purity and virtue. He was
restless--discontented--uneasy.

At length he remembered his promise to return to Markham Place. The idea
seemed to give him pleasure: he longed to see Ellen Monroe once
more;--and yet he did not choose to make this admission to himself.

With a beating heart did he cross the threshold of the house in which
that delightful vision had burst, as it were, upon his sight on the
previous evening. He was immediately conducted to the sick-room, where
Ellen was sitting alone by her father's bed-side.

[Illustration]

The old man slept.

Ellen rose and tripped lightly to meet him, a smile upon her charming,
though pale and somewhat careworn countenance.

Laying her hand gently upon his, she whispered, "He will recover! Mr.
Wentworth assures me that he will recover!"

"Most sincerely do I congratulate you upon this happy change," said
Reginald. "I can well comprehend the feelings of an affectionate
daughter who is allowed to hope that her parent may be restored to her."

"Yes, sir--and so good a father as mine!" added Ellen. "But it was all
my fault----"

Then, suddenly checking herself, she cast down her eyes, and blushed
deeply.

"Your fault, Miss Monroe?" repeated the rector, inspired with the most
lively curiosity to penetrate the mystery of that self-accusation which
he had now heard for the second time: "I cannot believe that any fault
of yours--you whom I found hanging over your beloved father----"

"Let us speak no more upon that subject," interrupted Ellen, vexed with
herself for having so unguardedly said what she had relative to the
primal cause of her father's dangerous illness. "He will
recover--something tells me that he will recover; and then--oh! how I
will cherish him--how I will exert myself to make the remainder of his
days happy!"

Her countenance became flushed as she spoke; and Reginald's glances were
fixed, by a species of invincible fascination, upon the beautiful being
in whose presence he stood.

He felt at that moment that he could sacrifice every thing for her love.

The surgeon and Richard Markham now entered the apartment; and Reginald
received the thanks of our young hero for the attention which he had
shown to the old man whose life had ceased to be despaired of.

After a somewhat protracted visit, the rector took his leave.

But throughout that day Ellen alone occupied all his thoughts. What
fault of hers could have thrown her father upon a bed of sickness,
whose only termination was at one time anticipated to be in death? what
could have been the conduct of so fond a daughter to have produced such
terrible results? Had she strayed from the path of virtue? This was the
only feasible solution of such a mystery. Then a terrible pang of
jealousy shot through his breast.

And why should he be jealous? What was that young girl to him?

He was jealous, because his ardent passions instinctively attracted him
towards that beautiful creature;--and she was every thing to him,
because she _was_ so beautiful, and because he desired her!

Yes--a new flame now burnt in his heart--a flame as violent, as
relentless, as fierce, as that which had already made him the slave of
Lady Cecilia Harborough. But was he this time to become a slave or a
victim?

He sat down and reasoned with himself. He endeavoured to crush the
feelings of licentiousness which had been re-awakened in his heart.

But as vainly might he have endeavoured to lull the Maelstroom with a
breath, or to subdue the rage of Vesuvius with a drop of water!

Such was his frame of mind, when an old woman sought his presence in the
evening.

He had made it a rule, throughout his career, never to be difficult of
access to those who wished to see him; and now that he felt the fabric
of his fair fame to be tottering upon the verge of a precipice, he was
not inclined to deviate from any of those outward forms which had aided
in the consecration of his renown. He accordingly ordered his house
keeper to admit the old woman to his presence.

The instant a hag, with a horribly wrinkled countenance, entered his
study, he started--for that repulsive face was not altogether unknown to
him.

Then, in another moment, he remembered that he had once seen her
standing at the door of Lady Cecilia Harborough's abode in Tavistock
Square; and that the glance which she had thrown upon him, on that
occasion had for an instant struck him with sinister foreboding.

The old woman seated herself, and, without any preamble, said: "A man of
great learning like you, reverend sir, cannot be otherwise than a man of
great taste. This conviction has emboldened me to call upon you in
preference to any other, relative to a most perfect work of art which
fortune has thrown in my way."

Reginald gazed upon the old woman in speechless astonishment: her
mysterious--indeed, incomprehensible language, induced him to believe
that she was some unfortunate creature bereaved of her right senses.

"Listen to me for a few minutes, reverend sir," continued the hag, "and
I will explain my meaning to you. Your charity, as well as your taste,
is about to be appealed to."

"Speak," said the clergyman, somewhat impatiently, for he longed to be
left alone again with his reflections, which had just assumed a most
voluptuous complexion when his privacy was thus intruded upon.

"I will not detain you long--I will not detain you long," cried the old
hag. "You must know, reverend sir, that a foreign sculptor--a poor
Italian--came some few months ago to lodge at my humble dwelling. He was
in the deepest distress, and had not the means to procure either marble
or tools. I am very poor--very poor, myself, sir; but I could not see a
fellow-creature starving. I bought him marble--and I bought him tools.
He went to work, toiling day and night almost unweariedly; and a week
ago he put the finishing stroke to the statue of a nymph. His art has
enabled him, by means of colour, to give a life-like appearance to that
admirable work of art; so that as you contemplate it, it seems to you as
if the eyes were animated, the lips breathed, and the bosom rose and
sank with respiration."

"And your artist is, no doubt, anxious to dispose of his statue?" said
the rector.

"Precisely so," answered the hag. "I do not profess to be a judge
myself; but I can speak of the effect which it produced upon me. When I
saw it finished--standing upon its pedestal--I was about to address it
as a living being."

"The effect must, then, be indeed striking," observed Reginald, with the
voluptuous train of whose ideas this picture was well adapted to
associate.

"Were you to judge for yourself, reverend sir," said the old hag, "you
would find that I have not overrated the perfection of this masterpiece.
The sculptor demands but a small price for his statue: it would be a
charity were you to purchase it yourself, or recommend one of your
friends to do so."

"When and where could I see this matchless work of art?" asked Reginald,
whose curiosity was now strangely excited.

"At my own humble dwelling in Golden Lane is this statue concealed,"
replied the horrible old hag; "and no mortal eyes, save the sculptor's
and mine own, have yet glanced upon it. If you will accompany me now,
you can inspect it without delay."

Reginald referred to his watch, and found that it was past nine o'clock.
The evening was pitch dark; and he did not, therefore, dread being seen
in the company of that hideous old woman. Besides, even if he were--was
he not often summoned at all hours to attend upon the last moments of
some dying sinner?

"I will proceed with you at once to your abode," said the rector, after
a few moments' hesitation.

"And you will do well," answered the hag; "for I can promise you a fine
treat in what you are about to see."

While the rector stepped aside to put on his cloak and hat, a strange
smile curled the lips of the wrinkled harridan; but as Reginald again
turned towards her, her countenance instantly resumed its wonted
composure.

They then went out together.




CHAPTER CXXXI.

THE STATUE.


The old woman led the way at a rapid pace towards Golden Lane, the
rector following her at a little distance.

Although there was nothing improbable in the tale which the hag had told
him, and nothing improper in the step which he was taking,--nevertheless
he experienced a vague and indefinable idea of doing wrong.

Something told him that he ought to retreat; and at the same time a
superior influence urged him onward.

And, therefore, he followed the old woman.

The wrinkled creature pursued her way, and at length turned into the
dark and dirty court with which the reader is already well acquainted.

"This is a strange place, you will say," observed the old woman, as she
pushed open the door of one of the houses in that court,--"this is a
strange place to contain such a treasure."

"And for that reason the treasure should not long be allowed to remain
here," answered the clergyman.

The hag chuckled:--the sound was between a hollow laugh and a
death-rattle; and it seemed horrible to the ears of Reginald Tracy.

The old woman then slowly ascended the narrow and dark staircase, until
she reached the landing, where she drew a key from her pocket, and
leisurely applied it to the lock of a door.

She fumbled about so long with the key, muttering to herself all the
while, that Reginald thought she would never open the door, and he
offered to assist her.

But at that moment the key turned in the lock, and the door was slowly
opened.

The hag beckoned the rector to follow her; and he found himself in a
tolerably large room, decently furnished, and with an excellent fire
burning in the grate.

There were no candles lighted; nor did the hag offer to provide
any;--but the contents of the apartment were plainly visible by means of
the strong glare of the fire.

Heavy curtains of a dark colour covered the windows: the floor was
carpeted; the chairs and tables were of plain but solid material; and a
large mirror stood over the mantel.

At the farther end of the room was a second door, which was now closed,
but evidently communicated with an inner chamber.

"I gave the poor artist the best rooms in my house," observed the hag,
as she placed a chair near the fire for the rector. "The statue stands
in the adjoining chamber; you can inspect it at once, while I----"

She mumbled the remainder of the sentence in such a way that it was
wholly unintelligible to the rector, and then left the room.

For a few minutes Reginald stood before the fire, uncertain what course
to pursue. He now began to think that the entire proceeding was somewhat
extraordinary; and the singular manner in which the old hag had left
him, inspired him with a feeling not entirely free from alarm.

But for what purpose could he have been inveigled thither, if it were
not really to behold the marvellous statue? and, perhaps, after, all,
the old woman had only left him in order to fetch the candles or to
summon the artist? Moreover, had she not informed him that the statue
was in the next room, and that he might inspect it at once? It was
therefore easy to satisfy himself whether he had been deceived or not.

Ashamed of his transient fears, he threw off his hat and cloak, and
advanced towards the door communicating with the inner chamber.

Even then he hesitated for a minute as his fingers grasped the handle;
but, at length, he boldly entered the room.

The moment the door was thrown open, he perceived by the light of the
fire which burned in the front apartment, that the inner one was a small
and comfortably fitted-up bed-chamber. It was involved in a more than
semi-obscurity; but not to such an extent as to conceal from Reginald
Tracy's penetrating glance the semblance of a female form standing upon
a low pedestal in the most remote corner of the room.

"I am not then deceived!" he exclaimed aloud, as he advanced nearer
towards the statue.

By this time his eyes had become accustomed to the obscurity of the
chamber, into which the glimmer of the fire threw a faint but mellowed
light. Still, in somewhat bold relief, against the dark wall, stood the
object of his interest,--seeming a beautiful model of a female form, the
colouring of which was that of life. It was naked to the middle; the
arms were gracefully rounded; and one hand sustained the falling drapery
which, being also coloured, produced upon the mind of the beholder the
effect of real garments.

Lost in wonder at the success with which the sculptor had performed his
work,--and experiencing feelings of a soft and voluptuous
nature,--Reginald drew closer to the statue. At that moment the light of
the fire played upon its countenance; and it seemed to him as if the
lips moved with a faint smile. Then, how was his surprise increased,
when the conviction flashed to his mind that the face he was gazing upon
was well known to him!

"O Cecilia, Cecilia!" he ejaculated aloud: "hast thou sent thy statue
hither to compel me to fall at its feet and worship the senseless stone,
while thou--the sweet original--art elsewhere, speculating perhaps upon
the emotions which this phantasmagorian sport was calculated to conjure
up within me! Ah! Cecilia, if thou wast resolved to subdue me once
more--if thou couldst not rest until I became thy slave again,--oh! why
not have invited me to meet thine own sweet self, instead of this
speechless, motionless, passionless image,--a counterpart of thee only
in external loveliness! Yes--there it is perfect:--the hair--the
brow--the eyes--the mouth---- Heavens! those lips seem to smile once
more; those eyes sparkle with real fire! Cecilia--Cecilia--"

And Reginald Tracy was afraid--he scarcely knew wherefore: the entire
adventure of the evening appeared to be a dream.

"Yes--yes!" he suddenly exclaimed, after having steadfastly contemplated
the form before him for some moments,--standing at a distance of only
three or four paces,--afraid to advance nearer, unwilling to retreat
altogether,--"yes!" he exclaimed, "there is something more than mere
senseless marble here! The eyes shoot fire--the lips smile--the bosom
heaves---- Oh! Cecilia--Cecilia, it is yourself!"

As he spoke he rushed forward: the statue burst from chill marble into
warmth and life;--it was indeed the beauteous but wily Cecilia--who
returned his embrace and hung around his neck;--and the rector was again
subdued--again enslaved!

       *       *       *       *       *

       *       *       *       *       *

"And you will pardon me for the little stratagem which I adopted to
bring you back to my arms?" said Cecilia.

"How can I do otherwise than pardon you?" murmured the rector, whose
licentious soul was occupied only with gross delights, and who would at
that moment have dared exposure and disgrace rather than tear himself
away from the syren on whose bosom his head was pillowed. "Oh! Cecilia,
I have had a violent struggle with my feelings; but I shall now contend
against them no more. No! from this instant I abandon all hope of
empire--all wish for dominion over myself: I yield myself up to the
pleasures of love and to thee! Sweet Cecilia, thou hast taught me how
ineffable is the bliss which mortals may taste in this world;--and after
all, the sure present is preferable to the uncertain future!"

"Reginald--beloved Reginald, didst thou imagine that I would resign thee
so easily as thou wouldst have resigned me!" said Lady Cecilia. "Oh! you
know not the heart of woman! There were but two alternatives for me--to
bring you back, or to avenge myself on you."

"Avenge yourself!" exclaimed Reginald, starting.

"Yes," replied the wily creature, purposely adopting this discourse in
order to enchain her lover in future; "a woman who fondly--madly loves,
as I love, Reginald--will not so willingly part with the object of her
affection! What,--could you suppose that I would surrender myself to you
one day to be abandoned the next? No--never, never would I permit myself
to be made the victim of a caprice! You wrote to me to implore me not to
seek to see you again: I requested one last interview--you refused me my
demand! Then I smarted sorely; but I said to myself, '_He loves me_';
and I added, '_I love him also_.' I accordingly resolved to attempt one
grand effort to draw the anchorite from his cell. Chance threw in my way
the old woman whom I sent to you, and in whose house we now are----"

"And what chance was that?" demanded Reginald, who entertained a strong
and yet unaccountable aversion for that old hag.

"I will tell you all, dearest Reginald," answered Cecilia. "The evening
after I received your cruel note desiring that all might end between us,
I was going out with the intention of calling upon _you_--yes, of
throwing myself at your feet----"

"Imprudent Cecilia!" murmured the rector, imprinting a kiss upon her
lips.

"Yes--I was on the point of leaving my own abode to seek yours,"
continued Cecilia, "when I heard a hoarse and ominous voice muttering
behind me. I looked round, and perceived that old wretch. She smiled--or
rather, leered significantly, and said, '_Happy, happy lady--to enjoy
the rector of Saint David's love!_'"

"She said _that_!" cried Reginald. "How could she divine what passed
between us?"

"She has since explained to me how she one evening saw you leave my
house--with a certain wildness in your manner----"

"True! true!" ejaculated the rector; "and the mind of the old woman
being perhaps naturally evil, she conceived evil of others on the
faintest suspicion."

"Exactly," answered Cecilia. "When she accosted me in that manner, I was
so wretched, so miserable at the idea of being separated from you----"

"Sweetest creature! I was, indeed, ungrateful in return for so much
love!"

"I was so unhappy that I was even glad to speak of thee to such a wretch
as that old creature. Then she uttered words of consolation, and we
talked together--talked for an hour in the cold, damp street----"

"Poor Cecilia!" murmured Reginald.

"What would I not dare for you?" said the wily woman, pressing him
warmly in her snowy arms. "And now you can guess the rest--how the old
woman proposed that some stratagem should be invented to bring the
recreant back to my arms----"

"And you have thus blindly confided yourself--not only _your_ secret,
but _mine_ also--to a perfect stranger? O, Cecilia--was this prudent?"
exclaimed Reginald in alarm.

"Does love know prudence?" asked the lady. "But fear not: gold will seal
the lips of our confidant; and better is it for her obscure dwelling to
be the scene of our loves than for our caresses to be exchanged at my
abode, where the intrusion of a servant at any moment----"

"True!" interrupted Reginald. "And yet upon what a fearful abyss does my
reputation now seem to tremble!"

"_Yours!_" ejaculated Lady Cecilia, almost scornfully,--for she was
resolved to put an end to these repinings on the part of her lover: "Oh!
can you be so selfish as to think only of yourself? Should you be
detected, you are ruined only in your profession, and not as a man--for
with the man there is no dishonour in illicit love;--but if I be
detected, am I not lost as a wife, and as a woman? Will not all the
wrath of an avenging society light upon me? For it is upon us--upon poor
woman--that contumely, and shame, and disgrace fall!"

"Forgive me, dearest Cecilia," murmured the rector, clasping the frail
beauty in his arms. "I have been unjust to you--I have thought only of
myself, unmindful of the immense sacrifice that is made by thee! But,
forgive me, I say--and never again shall the expression of my cowardly
alarms--my egotistical terrors impair our happiness! I love you--I love
you, my Cecilia: Oh! heaven knows how sincerely--how madly I love you!"

"And you will love me always?" whispered Cecilia.

"Always! for ever--and ever!" answered the rector, now
intoxicated--delirious with joy, and reckless of all consequences.

       *       *       *       *       *

       *       *       *       *       *

The barrier was now completely broken down; and the rector gave way to
the violence of the passion which hurried him along.

That man, so full of vigour, and in the prime of his physical strength,
abandoned himself without restraint to the fury of those desires which
burnt the more madly--the more wildly, from having been so long pent-up.

Day after day did he meet his guilty paramour; and on each occasion did
he reflect less upon the necessity of caution. He passed hours and hours
together with her at her abode; and at length he ventured to receive her
at his own residence, when his housekeeper had retired to rest.

But he did not neglect his professional duties on the Sabbath;--and he
now became an accomplished hypocrite. He ascended the pulpit as usual,
and charmed thousands with his discourse as heretofore. Indeed his
eloquence improved, for the simulated earnestness which displaced the
tone of heart-felt conviction that he had once experienced, seemed more
impassioned, and was more impressive than the natural ebullition of his
feelings.

Thus as he progressed in the ways of vice, his reputation increased in
sanctity.

But the moment he escaped from the duties of his profession, he flew to
the arms of her who had seduced him from his career of purity; and so
infatuated was he with her who had been his tutoress in the ways of
amorous pleasure, that he joyfully placed his purse at the disposal of
her extravagance.

Thus was Lady Cecilia triumphant in all points with regard to the once
immaculate, but now sensual and voluptuous rector of Saint David's.




CHAPTER CXXXII.

AN OLD FRIEND.


Let us now return to the Rattlesnake, whom we left in the act of flying
from the pursuit which she knew would be undertaken in respect to her
by the Resurrection Man.

Having bade farewell to Mrs. Chichester at Cambridge Heath, Margaret
Flathers, with her well-filled bag under her arm, hastened along the
road leading to Hackney.

She cared not which direction she pursued, provided she placed a
considerable distance between herself and London; for so terrible was
the dread under which she laboured from her knowledge of the desperate
character and profound cunning of the Resurrection Man, that she
conceived it to be impossible for her to be safe so long as she was
within even a wide circuit of the great metropolis.

Having passed through Hackney, she speedily left the main road, and
struck at random across the fields, careful only to pursue a course
which she felt convinced must remove her farther and further from
London.

Unweariedly for two long hours did she hurry on her way, until she fell,
overcome with weariness, beneath a large tree, whose gigantic leafless
boughs creaked ominously in the darkness over her head.

The night was fearfully cold--the grass was damp--and the wind moaned
gloomily through the trees.

The Rattlesnake was hungry and thirsty; but she had not food nor drink
to satisfy the cravings of nature. In that solitude,--without a light
gleaming through the obscurity as a beacon of hospitality,--she felt
that her gold was then and there no better to her than the cold soil
upon which she rested her weary limbs.

At length, worn out by fatigue and want, she fell asleep.

When she awoke the sun was shining.

But where was she?

Close at hand burnt a blazing fire, fed with wood and turf, and sending
up a dense smoke into the fine frosty air. To an iron rod, fastened
horizontally to two upright stakes, was suspended a huge caldron, the
bubbling of which reached her ears, and the savour of whose contents was
wafted most agreeably to her nostrils.

Grouped around the fire, and anxiously watching the culinary process,
were two women, four men, and a boy.

Two of the men were not characterised by that swarthy complexion and
those black elf-locks which distinguished their two male companions, the
women, and the boy.

Of the two man thus especially alluded to, as not being of the gipsy
race, to which their companions evidently belonged,--the first was about
forty years of age and possessed a herculean form. His countenance was
weather-beaten and indicated the endurance of great hardship: indeed, he
had been abroad to far-off climes, and had gone through privations of an
almost incredible nature. He was, however, taciturn and reserved, and
ever seemed brooding upon some secret grief or absorbing sentiment of a
darker nature: nevertheless, the little he had chosen to tell his
present companions relative to his former history had obtained for him
the name of the _Traveller_; and by no other appellation was he known
amongst them.

The other man, whose complexion proclaimed him not to be of the Egyptian
race, was apparently verging towards thirty; and, although slight, he
was well-built and uncommonly active. His name will transpire presently.

The elder of the two male gipsies was a man of nearly eighty years of
age. His hair was as white as driven snow; and his bald head was
protected from the cold wind by only a thin faded green silk skull-cap.
His beard, as white as his hair, hung down over his breast, and formed a
strange contrast with his swarthy countenance and piercing black eyes,
the fires of which were not dimmed with age. This individual was the
King of the Gipsies, and rejoiced in the assumed name of Zingary.

The other male gipsy was the King's son, and was a fine tall handsome
fellow of about thirty-five, dark as a Spaniard, and with fine Roman
features.

The two women were also very discrepant in respect to age: one was
nearly sixty, and was the Queen of the Gipsies, her assumed name being
Aischa: the other was a pretty brunette, with fine laughing eyes and
brilliant teeth, and was the wife of Morcar, the King's son. Her name
was Eva; and she was the mother of the boy before alluded to, and who
was between eight and nine years old.

We have thought it as well to state all these particulars at once in
order to avoid confusion; although the Rattlesnake was not immediately
aware of them.

When the Rattlesnake awoke up and surveyed this strange groups, she
instinctively felt for her bag of gold; and a scream of dismay escaped
her lips when she perceived that it was gone.

A loud burst of laughter emanated from the gipsies,--for by this general
name we shall denominate the band, although two members of it were not
of the race;--and the fair-complexioned man, whose name we have not yet
stated, exclaimed, "Don't alarm yourself, my dear young woman: we have
banked the rag[86] for fear that a buzman[87] should have nabbed you
with it in your possession. But you shall have your reg'lars out of it,
mind, whenever you want to pursue your way. Only, as you've happened to
trespass upon the dominions of his high mightiness King Zingary, you
must pay toll."

While this individual was speaking, the Rattlesnake, who had first been
struck by the tone of his voice, considered him with great attention,
and seemed to forget the loss she had sustained in the interest with
which she contemplated the person addressing her.

At length, when he had ceased to speak, she started from the ground,
advanced towards him, and exclaimed in an excited tone, "Have not you
and I met before?"

"Not unlikely, my dear," was the reply. "Perhaps under the screw[88]--or
in the Holy Land,[89] which I visit from time to time--or else in the
bottom of a coal-hell[90] in the county of Stafford."

"It is! it is!" ejaculated the Rattlesnake, ready to spring towards him,
and throw her arms around his neck. "Don't you remember me now?"

"Remember you?" repeated the man slowly; and he gazed upon the
Rattlesnake's countenance for some moments;--then, as if a sudden light
dawned in upon him, he started from the ground in his turn, crying, "May
I never drink rum slim[91] again if it isn't my old flame, Meg
Flathers!"

And they flew into each other's arms.

"Your Majesty," said Skilligalee,--for this was the individual whose
name we for a moment suppressed,--"Your Majesty," he exclaimed, when
this embrace was over, "allow me to present to you my wife, the lovely
and accomplished Margaret Flathers."

"She is welcome," said Zingary gravely. "Young woman, sit down and be
welcome. We ask no questions whether you are our comrade's splice[92]
or not: it is enough for us that he acknowledges you as such.
Aischa--welcome a daughter; Eva--greet a sister."

The old and the young gipsy women advanced towards the Rattlesnake and
took each a hand.

"I welcome you, daughter," said Aischa.

"I greet you, sister," said Eva.

They then each kissed her forehead, and resumed their seats close by the
fire.

"And I greet you too, my gal," exclaimed Morcar, thrusting out his large
muscular hand, and giving that of the Rattlesnake a friendly squeeze.

"And now sit down," said the King, "and moisten your chaffer."[93]

"Ah! do," cried Morcar; "for you must want it after sleeping underneath
that tree on the top of the hill, exposed to the cold wind and damp."

This observation led the Rattlesnake to cast a glance around her; and
she found that the gipsy-camp was at the bottom of a deep valley, on the
brow of which stood the tree to which the King's son pointed, and
beneath which she had sunk exhausted on the preceding night.

Meantime Skilligalee had visited a covered van, which stood at a little
distance, and near which an old horse was quietly munching the contents
of a capacious nose-bag; and in a few moments he returned, bearing with
him a large stone bottle that might have held two gallons of liquor.

From his pocket he produced a small horn-cup and, pouring forth a bumper
of rum, he handed it to the queen.

"No--there first," laconically said Aischa, pointing towards the
Rattlesnake, who was accordingly compelled to drain the horn before her
majesty.

"Good--isn't it?" asked Skilligalee, with a sly wink.

"I felt very cold--and it has revived me," replied the Rattlesnake.

"And the contents of that pot will put you right altogether," said
Skilligalee, pointing to the caldron that was simmering over the fire.
"Beg pardon, majesty," he added, turning towards the queen, and pouring
forth another dram.

Aischa drank the contents of the horn-cup without winking; and
Skilligalee proceeded to do the honours of the bottle to the rest of the
company.

Having served the king, Eva, and Morcar, he approached the Traveller,
who had sat a silent spectator of all that passed.

"Now, friend, your turn is come."

"Thank you," said the man, drily; and having tossed off the liquor, he
muttered, grinding his teeth savagely, "And some one else's turn must
come too, sooner or later."

"Always brooding upon the same thing," exclaimed the laughing,
light-hearted Skilligalee.

"And if you had been served by a villain as I was," returned the
Traveller, brutally, "you would long for the time to come to settle up
accounts with him. Thank my stars! we shall be in London to-morrow, and
then--then----"

The remainder of the man's words were lost in mutterings, which, to
judge by the terrific workings of his countenance, the violence with
which he ground his teeth, and the convulsive rage indicated by the
manner in which he clenched his fist, must have been a direful portent.

But a few words which he had uttered, struck sudden dismay to the heart
of the Rattlesnake.

"Are you going to London?" she whispered, in a tone of alarm, to
Skilligalee, who had now resumed his seat by her side.

"Ah! indeed are we, my dear," was the reply. "The royal palace in the
Holy Land is prepared for our reception; and this night at nine o'clock
does his majesty make his triumphant entry, disguised as a
timber-merchant,[94] into that part of his dominions."

"To London!" gasped the Rattlesnake. "Then--then--I cannot accompany
you--I----"

"What have you to fear?" demanded Skilligalee. "Have you not me to
defend you individually, and his majesty's protection to shield you
generally?"

"No--no," returned Margaret Flathers; "I cannot--will not return to
London. I hate the place--I detest it--I abhor it! I am not even now as
far from it as I could wish--not half."

"Far from it?" ejaculated Skilligalee, with a merry laugh. "Why, you can
almost hear the sounds of the cabs and hackney-coaches where we are
now."

"What!" cried Margaret. "How far are we from London? tell me--speak!"

"When you are on the top of that place where I found you sleeping early
this morning," answered Skilligalee, "you can see Hornsey Wood on the
next hill--about two miles off."

"My God! then in spite of all my care last night, I must have gone a
strange round," said Margaret, speaking rather to herself than to her
companion.

"Ah! I see how it is, Meg," observed Skilligalee; "you are in trouble
about that gold. Well--never mind, old gal--so much the more reason for
me to protect you. Now I tell you what it is: not all the buzmen in
London can find you out at our crib in the Holy Land; and so you shall
come along with us, and you shall keep in doors the whole time: we'll
take care of you. What do you think of that?"

"Skilligalee," whispered Margaret, "I am not afraid of the police: they
don't trouble themselves about me. But there is a certain man that seeks
my life----"

"Oh! if that's all," interrupted her companion, "make yourself perfectly
easy. You don't know yet what defences and fortifications the king has
got to his palace: a regiment of swaddles[95] would never storm it, or
take it by surprise."

"And you really think that I shall be safe?" asked the Rattlesnake,
hesitating; for these assurances of protection began to please her more
than the idea of being compelled to wander alone about the country.

"Think!" cried Skilligalee, "I don't think--I'm certain. Trust to
me--and all will be right. Besides, do you not pay toll to his majesty?
and where can you find a more powerful protector than King Zingary? You
will see what he can do, when once we arrive at the palace in the Holy
Land."

"But--but--will he keep all my gold?" asked the Rattlesnake,
hesitatingly.

"Not all, my dear," answered Skilligalee. "One third goes to the
Box;[96] another third to be divided amongst all us here who picked you
up; and the other remains at your own disposal. Are you content?"

"Quite," said the Rattlesnake, knowing full well that it was no use to
remonstrate, and not unwilling, moreover, to pay handsomely for the
protection promised to her.

While this conversation took place between the Rattlesnake and
Skilligalee, the two women had prepared the repast. The king had in the
meantime amused himself with what, in his own lingo, he termed "cocking
a broseley;"[97]--the boy fetched the platters, knives, forks, spoons,
and other articles necessary for the meal, from the van;--Morcar went to
look after the horse;--and the Traveller was buried in a profound
reverie. Thus the discourse of Margaret Flathers and her companion was
as private and unrestrained as if no one had been by.

And now the immediate vicinity of the fire presented an animated and
even comfortable appearance. Upon a huge earthenware dish was piled a
stew, which sent forth a most inviting odour. A goose, a sucking-pig,
three fowls, a couple of rabbits, and an immense quantity of vegetables,
greeted the eye and pleased the olfactory nerve; and a couple of jolly
brown quartern loaves flanked the feast. Every guest was furnished with
a horn snicker:[98] salt, pepper, and mustard were also provided, to
give a zest to the food. Then Skilligalee paid another visit to the
van,--for he, it appears, was butler in ordinary to his Majesty King
Zingary,--and returned laden with a second enormous bottle, filled to
the bung with the very best malt liquor that ever aided to immortalise
Barclay and Perkins.

"All is ready," said Eva, in a respectful manner to her father-in-law,
the King.

Zingary stroked down his beard in a majestic manner, murmured a grace in
a language totally incomprehensible to the Rattlesnake, and then helped
himself to a portion of the mess.

This was the signal for the attack; and Margaret Flathers was by no
means sorry to receive upon her platter, from the gallant and attentive
Skilligalee, a good proportion of the savoury comestibles.

The Traveller did his duty in respect to the repast; but he seldom
joined in the gay discourse which seasoned it, apparently brooding over
the one absorbing idea of vengeance, which now seemed to constitute the
only object for which that man lived.

Margaret Flathers could not help noticing the great respect which all
present paid to the King and Queen of the Gipsies. Their majesties
joined familiarly in the conversation; and it was evident from their
remarks, especially those of Zingary, that they had travelled over every
inch of Great Britain, not a crevice or corner of which was unknown to
them. Margaret also gathered from their discourse that they had visited
foreign countries in their youth; and Zingary boasted more than once of
the intimate terms upon which he stood with the sovereigns of the
Gipsies of Spain and Bohemia.

Morcar listened to his father with deep attention and marked respect;
and expressed, with deference, his own opinions upon the various topics
of discourse. Eva spoke little, but she was an interested listener; and
from time to time she bestowed a caress upon her boy, or exchanged a
glance or a smile of affection with her husband.

In a word, the members of the royal family of the gipsies appeared to
exist upon the most comfortable terms with each other.

When the meal was over, Skilligalee beckoned Margaret Flathers aside,
and said, "We will go and seat ourselves under the brow of yonder hill,
and pass an hour in conversation. I have much to tell you, and you must
have something to tell me."

"I have--I have indeed!" exclaimed Margaret, as she accompanied
Skilligalee to the spot indicated, where they seated themselves on some
large blocks of wood that lay there half buried in the soil.

"I have often read and heard of the King of the Gipsies," said Margaret;
"but I always imagined that he was a fabulous character. Is that old man
yonder really the King; or has he only assumed the distinction by way of
amusement?"

"He is as much the sovereign of the gipsies, Margaret," answered
Skilligalee, with unusual solemnity, "as Victoria is the Queen of
England; and more so, for the whole tribe pays him a blind and implicit
obedience."

"How came the king and his family with such strange names as those by
which I heard them call each other?" inquired the Rattlesnake.

"The Gipsies in England are of two distinct races, although united under
one ruler," replied Skilligalee. "They are Egyptian and Bohemian, and
the royal family always adopts names likely to please both parties:
_Zingary_ and _Aischa_ are, amongst the gipsies, supposed to be Egyptian
names; _Morcar_ and _Eva_ are held as Bohemian. The parents who have
Egyptian names, give Bohemian ones to their children; so that the rulers
of the tribe are alternately looked upon as Egyptian and Bohemian."

"Then Morcar and Eva will be king and queen at the death of Zingary?"
said the Rattlesnake.

"Just so," replied Skilligalee.

"Now tell me, who is that moody, melancholy, scowling fellow that you
call the Traveller?" continued Margaret.

"We know but little of him," was the answer. "He joined us--or rather,
we picked him up in a state of starvation, a few miles from Liverpool,
about six weeks or two months ago; and the king has allowed him to tramp
with us, because he is without friends or money. Moreover, he was
anxious to get to London; and, for some reason or other, he is afraid to
be seen on the high-roads, or in the towns and villages. So our
wandering life just suited his convenience; and he feels himself safe in
our company. He seldom speaks about his own affairs; but he has said
enough to enable us to understand that he has suffered deeply in
consequence of the treachery of some person in whom he had put
confidence, or who was his pal in former times; and he is going up to
London with the hope of finding out his enemy. He seems a desperate
fellow; and I should not like to be the person that has offended him."

"He is not a gipsy?" said Margaret, interrogatively.

"No--not a whit more than myself," answered Skilligalee; "and I dare say
he will leave us in London. As he was with us when we banked your rag,
he will have his reg'lars, and that will set him up."

"And you have no idea what he has been, or who he is?" inquired the
Rattlesnake.

"We never ask questions, Meg; we listen to all that is told us, but we
never seek to pry into secrets. The king was quite contented with seeing
your well filled bag; but if you remained in his company for a hundred
years from this time, he would never ask you how you came by it. All
impertinent curiosity is against the laws of the Zingarees."

"Zingarees! who are they?" exclaimed the Rattlesnake.

"The Gipsies--with another name--that's all, Meg," replied Skilligalee.
"But I was telling you about the man that we call the Traveller. When
his heart has been the least thing warmed with sluicing his bolt[99]
and cocking his broseley, he has told us strange stories of foreign
countries, so that even old Zingary, who has travelled a good deal, has
turned up the whites of his eyes. But there is no doubt that the sulky
stranger has seen much, and gone through much also. He talks of the Cape
of Good Hope and Cape Horn, and Australia, and heaven only knows what
distant places, almost as well as you and I should about the coal-hells
in Staffordshire."

"And does he mean to kill the man that has offended him?" demanded the
Rattlesnake.

"I'll warrant he does," was the answer; "for all that he possessed in
the world, when we picked him up nearly frozen to death in a pit where
he had crept for shelter,--all that he possessed besides his rags, was a
long dagger, which he calls a poniard: it is as bright as silver, and so
flexible that you can bend it double without breaking it. So determined
is he to bury it some half dozen inches in his enemy's heart, that he
wouldn't even sell it, it appears, when famishing for a morsel of
bread."

"He seems a desperate-looking fellow," observed the Rattlesnake. "I
never beard of so terrible a man--except one; and hell doesn't contain a
greater demon than him. But I will tell you all about that another time:
you must answer me my questions first."

"Oh! of course," exclaimed Skilligalee, with a merry laugh; "because you
are the lady, and I am the gentleman. What else do you want to know?"

"Why, the king is going up to London?"

"He always does at this season of the year, to meet the chiefs of the
different districts, and settle a good deal of business. But you will
see all about it when once we get up into the Holy Land--that is, if
you've made up your mind to go with us."

"I have," answered the Rattlesnake. "And now tell me all that has
happened to you since we parted in that hurried manner--you know how."

"Well--I will," cried Skilligalee: "so listen attentively, as all
story-tellers say."

Then, clearing his throat with a loud hem, he commenced his narrative in
the following manner.




CHAPTER CXXXIII.

SKILLIGALEE'S HISTORY.


"You remember the day we parted, after having lived together for nearly
six months. I gave you two guineas to find your way up to London, where
I recommended you to proceed to seek your fortune; and I told you that I
had as much left for myself, to help me to get away from a part of the
country where the numerous burglaries I had committed had put all the
constables on the alert after me. But in reality I had but two or three
shillings remaining in my pocket. I knew that if I told you the real
state of my finances, you would not accept so much as I had given you;
but I was afraid that you might be implicated in my difficulties, and so
I was determined that you should have sufficient to convey you clear
away from Staffordshire.

"Well, when we parted, I walked along the road leading away from the
village, as disconsolate as might be; and yet you know that I am not
naturally of a very mournful disposition. It was nine o'clock in the
evening, if you remember, when I put you into the waggon that was to
take you to London. I went on until I reached a lonely public-house, by
the way-side. It was then eleven o'clock; and I was both tired and
hungry. I entered the _Three Compasses_ (which was the sign of the
public-house), and sat down in the parlour. There was another traveller
there--a short stout man, with a very red face, and who was committing
desperate havoc upon a large cheese and loaf, from which he, however,
occasionally diverted his attention, in order to pay his respects to a
pot of porter. I ordered some refreshment, and inquired if I could be
accommodated with a bed. The old widow woman who kept the place, said
that the only bed she had to spare was already engaged by the gentleman
then at supper, but that I might sleep in the hay-loft if I chose.
Thereupon the red-faced man gave a long stare at me, shrugged his
shoulders, and went on eating. I suppose that my appearance was not
respectable enough to induce him to resign half of his bed for my
accommodation; and, indeed, I was dreadfully shabby--almost in rags, as
you may well remember. So I accepted the offer of the hay-loft; and
retired to that place as soon as I had finished my supper.

"But as I clambered up the ladder to my roosting-place, my unfortunate
trousers caught a nail; and one leg was split completely down to the
foot. I was now in a most wretched dilemma, not knowing how I should
contrive to mend my luckless inexpressibles. But I soon fell asleep, in
spite of my unpleasant reflections; and when I awoke, the dawn of the
mild spring morning was just breaking. I examined my garment, and was
reduced to despair at its appearance. At length I resolved to dress
myself, go down stairs, borrow a needle and thread of the old woman, and
be my own tailor. When I descended into the yard, I found a lad busily
employed in cleaning a pair of boots, while a pair of trousers lay upon
a bench, neatly folded up, having evidently gone through the process of
brushing. I immediately recognised the stout drab pantaloons which the
red-faced man wore on the preceding evening; and my eyes dwelt longingly
upon them. In reply to my questions, the boy said that his grandmother
(the old widow who kept the public-house) was not up yet, but that he
could get me a needle and thread, as he knew where she kept her
work-bag. I begged him to do so; and he very obligingly went into the
house for that purpose.

"The moment he had disappeared I snatched up the red-faced man's drab
trousers in one hand, and his excellent pair of bluchers in the other:
then, without waiting to look behind me, I jumped over the fence which
separated the stable-yard from the fields, and was speedily scampering
across the open country as fast as my legs would carry me. When I had
run about a mile, I reached a little grove, situated on the bank of a
stream: and there I halted.

"The red-faced gentleman's boots were a wonderful improvement upon my
old broken shoes; but his pantaloons fitted somewhat awkwardly, being a
world too wide round the waist, and a foot too short in the legs.
However, they were better than my old tattered unmentionables, and I
could not complain that they were dear!

"I pursued my way along the banks of the stream until past mid-day, when
I came to a village, where I halted at a public-house to take some
refreshment. My two or three shillings were still unchanged, because I
had not paid a single penny for my entertainment at the _Three
Compasses_. While I sate enjoying my bread and cheese and beer, I
revolved in my mind various plans to better my condition. But my
attention was speedily averted from that topic to the conversation of
two old men, who were sitting at another table in the tap-room.

[Illustration]

"'So poor old Joe Dobbin's scapegrace nephew is coming home at last?'
said one.--'Yea,' replied the other: 'he has been seeking his fortune,
as a sailor, all over the world, for the last ten years; and now that he
hasn't a penny, and is a-weary of a sea-faring life, he has written to
say that he is coming home to his poor old blind uncle.'--'Ah! Tom
Tittlebat has been a wild 'un in his day, I'll answer for it,' said the
first old man. 'But his uncle seems quite delighted at the idea of
seeing him again,' observed the other old fellow.--'He says that he
shall persuade upon Tom to stay at home and take care of him; and then
he'll be able to turn away cross old Margery, who robs him and
ill-treats him in a shameful manner.'

"I devoured every word of this conversation; and my mind was instantly
made up. I accordingly joined in the discourse, called for some ale, of
which I made the two old fellows partake, and so artfully pumped them
that in half an hour I knew all about old blind Dobbin and his graceless
nephew Tom Tittlebat, without having appeared even to ask a single
question concerning them. At length, when I had my lesson complete. I
burst out into a hearty laugh, and cried out, 'What, Master Buckley,
don't you remember me then? and you, good Master Dottings, am I quite a
stranger to _you_ too?' The old men stared; and then, with another
hearty laugh I boldly announced myself to be Tom Tittlebat. You should
have seen the old fellows--how glad they were! One swore that he had all
along suspected who I was; and the other vowed that my features were
unchanged since he last saw me, although my face was a little tanned!
Then I called for more ale, and plied the old boys well, so that they
might help to favour the imposture which I meditated.

"Away we went to the cottage inhabited by old Dobbin, my two aged
companions really showing me the way, while I pretended to be quite
familiar with it. The moment we came in sight of my alleged uncle's
residence, old Buckley and Dottings (whose names I had found out from
their own discourse with me) hobbled forward, exclaiming, 'Here's the
prodigal returned, Brother Dobbin!'--'Kill the fatted calf, Brother
Dobbin!' And in a few moments I was in my alleged uncle's arms.

"Then the fatted calf was indeed killed. Dame Margery, the old man's
housekeeper, was compelled to bustle about to prepare a copious
supper--a duty which she performed with a very bad grace, and with
sundry suspicious leers and side-glances towards me. I took no notice of
her ill-humour, but rattled away about my adventures by sea and land
till the three old men were quite astounded at the marvellous things I
had seen and the tremendous perils that I had escaped. Buckley and
Dottings were invited to stay to supper; and a merry meal we had. When
the things were cleared away, I undertook to brew the punch, assuring
the old folks that the compound would be made according to a recipe
which I had obtained from the king of the Inaccessible Islands.

"Well, the punch was made; and there it stood steaming in an enormous
bowl upon the table. I was determined to enjoy myself; for I purposed to
pack up every thing portable during the night and decamp before dawn,
for fear that the rightful nephew should return before I had turned my
trick to advantage. So I filled the tumblers, and plied the punch to
such an extent that even old Margery's ill-humour was overcome by the
gaiety of the scene; and she consented to sit down and join us.

"I was just in the middle of a most exciting account of a conflict which
I had with a shark at the South Pole, when a loud knock at the door
resounded through the house. Margery hastened to obey the summons; and
Old Dobbin observed, 'I shouldn't be surprised if this was my cousin
George, for I wrote to him the day before yesterday to say that my
nephew Tom was coming home, and invited him down to pass a week or so on
the happy occasion.' I heard this remark; but the punch had produced
such an effect upon me, that I felt no uneasiness. I thought I should be
able to get over cousin George as easily as I had done Uncle Dobbin; and
so I amused myself by filling the glasses round from the second bowl,
which had only just been mixed.

"Meantime Dame Margery, having answered the door, returned, exclaiming,
'It be Master George,' and followed by a person whom her tall gaunt form
in some measure hid from me until they were both close to the table.
Then what a dreadful scene took place! In cousin George, to my horror
and dismay, I beheld the red-faced man that I'd met at the _Three
Compasses_, and whose drab trousers adorned me at that very moment!

"I leapt from my seat, and was making as fast as I could to the door,
when cousin George shouted out, 'Holloa! who have we here?'--and,
springing forward, he collared me in a moment. 'What's the matter?
what's the matter?' demanded old Dobbin.--'My stars! what's this mean?'
exclaimed Dame Margery.--'Why, it means that this fellow is a robber,
and has got on my breeches and boots!' vociferated cousin George,
growing purple in the face with rage, and giving me a violent
shake.--'Your breeches!' cried old Buckley.--'Your boots!' mumbled old
Dottings.--'Yes, to be sure!' shouted the red-faced man. 'Go and fetch a
constable.'--Why, you don't mean that nephew Tom has done this?' said
old Dobbin.--'Nephew Tom!' exclaimed cousin George, letting go his hold
upon my coat: 'no!'--'But I say _yes_, though,' said I, putting a bold
face upon the matter: 'I knew you directly when I met you at the _Three
Compasses_ last night, and only did it by way of a lark.'

"But this turn did not serve me. While I spoke, cousin George surveyed
me attentively; and, again rushing upon me, he roared out, 'He's a
cheat! he's an impostor! Tom has a mole on the left cheek, and he's
none: Tom has a cut over the right eye, and he hasn't. Go for a
constable.'--'Well, I thought all along he was a rogue,' cried Dame
Margery, hurrying off to execute this most unpleasant order.

"My case now seemed desperate; and not a moment was to be lost. Casting
my eyes rapidly around in search of some weapon of defence or avenue of
escape, I espied the punch-bowl, three parts full of steaming liquor,
within my reach. With the rapidity of lightning I seized it, and dashed
it over like a hat upon cousin George's head. He uttered a terrific yell
as the hot punch streamed down him; and I precipitated myself from the
room as if a blood-hound was at my heels.

"Away I scudded--a hue and cry after me: but I ran like a race-horse;
and in a few minutes was beyond the sound of the '_Stop, thief_,' raised
by cousin George's ominous voice.

"That was an excellent adventure; I have often and often laughed at it
since, and wondered whether the real Tom Tittlebat ever did return. At
all events I kept cousin George's trousers and boots; but they got me
into more scrapes yet.

"I strolled along through the fields, diverting myself with reflection
upon the past, and pondering upon what might be in store for the future,
until I reached a large market town, where I went boldly to the tap-room
of the principal tavern. I ordered an excellent supper, with plenty of
ale, feeling convinced that some lucky adventure would enable me to pay
for my cheer--for I had now but one shilling left, the remainder of my
money having been spent at the inn where I met the two old acquaintances
of blind Dobbin.

"The tap-room was filled with people; and the conversation was pretty
general. There was, however, one individual who took no part in the
discourse, but sate apart in an obscure corner smoking his pipe. He did
not even appear to listen to what was said around him; but maintained
his eyes moodily fixed on the floor. His horrible sallow complexion,
deep wrinkles, and large mustache, gave him an aspect very far from
inviting. Nevertheless, I endeavoured to enter into conversation with
him--simply, I suppose, because he appeared to be so reserved, and my
curiosity was excited with respect to him; but he threw upon me a look
of the most sovereign contempt, and made me no answer. I shrank back
from the fierce glance of his dark black eyes, and felt abashed and
cowed--I scarcely knew why. But soon recovering my usual good spirits, I
also called for my pipe and my pot, and mingled in the conversation.
Rattling away with my anecdotes, and now and then singing a snatch of a
song, I speedily made myself so agreeable to the drovers and waggoners
assembled in the tap-room, that they called for punch and invited me to
partake of it with them.

"At twelve o'clock the waiter came in, and bawled out, '_Any more
orders, gentlemen? any more orders?_' No answer being given, he said,
'_I will receive each gentleman's account, if you please._'--This
announcement came like a clap of thunder upon me: I had but a shilling
in my pocket, and owed nearly three. What to do I could not tell.
Meantime the waiter went round, collecting the money due to him from
each individual; and the nearer he drew to the table where I was
sitting, the more fidgetty I became. As I glanced round me with feverish
anxiety, I saw the dark black eyes of the sallow-faced stranger fixed
upon me; and I thought that they glared with fiendish delight, as if
they had penetrated my secret. I felt ashamed--and my eyes fell beneath
the demon-like glance. In another moment the waiter stood before me.
'Now, sir--if you please, sir: steak, one shilling--taturs,
penny--bread, penny--fourteen-pence; two pints of ale, eight-pence--screw
of bakker, penny--pot porter, four-pence,--that's two-and-three, sir.' I
sat aghast for a few minutes, and then began to fumble in my pockets,
the waiter every moment growing more impatient. At that instant the
sallow-faced stranger pointed to the bench on which I was sitting, and
said in a surly tone, 'No wonder, young man, that you can't find your
money in your pocket, when you let it roll about in all directions.' He
then sank back into his corner, and seemed to take no more notice of me
or my concerns. I thought he had a mind to banter me; but, turning my
eyes towards the place which he had indicated, to my surprise I
perceived a couple of half-crowns lying there. I am sure the waiter must
have seen how my countenance brightened up with sudden joy; but he made
no remark; and I paid my bill. He then passed on to the sallow-faced
man, who settled his own account, and hastily left the room, without
condescending to cast another glance upon me.

"I was at a loss to make out whether the sallow-faced stranger had done
a most generous action, or whether some one else had dropped the money
there, and he had really fancied it to be mine. I did not, however, lose
much time in conjecture; but, taking the whole affair for a good omen,
ordered another glass, and then went jovially to bed. I awoke early, had
some breakfast, and went out to take a stroll in the town. I naturally
directed my steps towards the market-place, knowing that it was
market-day, and hoping to find a watch or a purse in the crowd.

"Elbowing my way through the graziers, drovers, and butchers, I got into
the middle of the market, and there a most extraordinary spectacle met
my eyes. A man was leading a woman along by a halter, which was tied
round her neck. At first, I thought that a public execution was about to
take place; but, seeing no gibbet--no police--no sheriffs--and no
clergyman,--and observing, at a second glance, that the woman was
giggling and laughing very much unlike a person just going to be hanged,
I was at a loss to account for so strange a sight. The crowd appeared to
enjoy the fun--for fun it evidently was--excessively; and, at length, I
learnt that '_Bob Fosset, the dog's-meat-man, was about to sell his wife
to Will Wyatt, the costermonger._' And, sure enough, such was the fact.
Bob Fossett led his wife--a comely-looking woman enough--to the centre
of the market, and tied the halter to a sheep-pen. He then mounted on
the top bar of the pen, and shouted out: '_I hereby put up my wife,
Jenny Fossett, to public auction; and I declare that she shall go to the
highest bidder._'--'_So I will, Bob_,' cried the woman.--'_Hooray, Bob
Fossett_,' bawled the crowd assembled; and then there was such laughing,
and joking, and sky-larking, it seemed for all the world just like a
fair. Well, Will Wyatt steps forward, and exclaims: '_I bid one shilling
for that woman._'--'_One shilling bid,_' said Bob Fossett.--'_One
shilling and a pot of beer_,' cries some wag in the crowd.--'_One
shilling and a pot of beer is bid_,' shouts Fossett; '_who bids any
more?_'--'_One shilling and a gallon of beer!_' bawls Will Wyatt.--'_One
shilling and a gallon of beer for this woman!_' cries Bob Fossett:
'_who'll advance on that? Going for one shilling and a gallon of beer:
going--going,--will no one bid?--gone! Will Wyatt, my lad, that woman's
yours!_' So Will Wyatt steps forward, kisses the woman, takes off the
halter, and tacks her under his arm as cozy as if they'd just been
spliced at church. Then they all three went off to the nearest
public-house, the crowds hooraying, and shouting, and squeaking, and
roaring, as they made way for the party to pass along. I determined to
see the remainder of the fun, and so I followed them to the
public-house.

"The moment we entered the parlour, I saw a person sitting in one
corner, whose face seemed more or less familiar to me. He was a fine,
tall, powerfully-built man; and his countenance was very handsome, but
so dark that he appeared to be an East-Indian. But it was the peculiar
expression of the mouth, and the piercing glance of the eyes, that
struck me. I looked--and looked again; and thought that a slight smile
curled the stranger's lips as I surveyed him, although he did not seem
to take any notice of me, or even to know that I was staring at him.
'Well,' I thought to myself, 'if you are not my sallow-faced friend of
last-sight, I'm terribly mistaken--that's all;' for I knew too much of
disguises myself to be bothered by the difference of complexions. So I
went and sat down close by him; and, having ordered something to drink,
at length boldly whispered to him, '_I have seen you before._'--'_Very
likely,_' answered the man, coolly; '_but take care of yourself, or you
may still get into a scrape on account of cousin George's breeches._'
With these words he rose, drained his glass, and walked coolly out of
the room.

"You may imagine how astonished I was at the ominous words which he had
whispered in my ear; but, collecting my ideas, I began to feel alarmed
for my safety; and, having no longer any interest in the party whom I
had followed into the public-house, I abruptly departed--without
partaking of, or paying for, the refreshment which I had ordered.
Hurrying away from the place, I got out of the town as quick as
possible; and, avoiding the main-road, struck into the fields.

"I wandered about for two or three days, until all my money was gone;
and I was one afternoon roaming along a by-lane, wondering what was to
become of me, and thinking that it would be much better to break into
some house, as a last and desperate resource, when I suddenly
encountered a man and woman at the turning of the road. They were
dressed as poor country people; but the darkness of their complexions
immediately struck my attention; and, at a second glance, I recognised
in the man the very person who had whispered those mysterious words in
my ears, concerning cousin George's trousers, and whom I could almost
certainly identify with the sallow-faced stranger. 'What, not got rid of
cousin George's trousers yet!' he exclaimed, laughing heartily; and the
woman, who seemed to understand the joke, joined in her companion's
mirth.--'Who are you?' I said, 'and how do you happen to know about that
little adventure of mine?'--'You see that I _do_ know all about it'
returned the man, with another laugh; 'and you may perhaps be surprised
when I tell you that I consider the abstraction of the trousers to be
even a more pleasant freak than the personation of Tom Tittlebat.--'The
deuce!' I cried, now completely bewildered: 'if you are a constable, say
so, and we will have a fight for it; if not, tell me who you are, and
how you came to be acquainted with my affairs.'--'I am certainly no
constable,' answered the man, 'or I might have apprehended you some days
since on two several occasions, and when there would have been no
necessity to fight for it. As to how I know any thing about you, ask no
questions, because you will receive no satisfactory answers. But if you
wish to earn a shilling or two, say so; and you can do it within an
hour.'--I professed my willingness to serve this strange
individual.--'Come with us,' he said; and, striking into a narrow path,
he led the way for about half-a-mile across the fields, until we came in
sight of a large farm-house. 'You see that farm,' he said: 'now listen
attentively. You must go there, and under any pretence you can think of,
obtain admission into the kitchen, or get into conversation with one of
the servants, so as to glean all the information you can about the
family. There's three daughters: find out whether they are engaged to be
married, or who the young men are that principally visit at the house,
and all particulars of that kind. We will wait for you in yonder copse.'

"The stranger and his companion hastened away towards the place where I
was to meet them again, and I proceeded towards the farm. It was by no
means difficult to gain admittance into the kitchen of that hospitable
establishment: a simple request for a cup of milk led to an invitation
from a buxom cook and a smart servant-maid to walk in and rest myself a
little. Then bread and cheese, and a foaming tankard of home-brewed were
set before me; and, while I ate and drank, I gradually drew the two
women into the conversation which suited my purpose. They proclaimed the
praises of 'master and missis;' and told me how the old people were very
well off; and how Miss Jemima, the eldest daughter, was engaged to a
young farmer in the neighbourhood; how Miss Mary, the second daughter,
had been courted by an officer in the army who had been quartered in the
neighbouring town, but who had since left, and had never written to her
afterwards; and how Miss Frances, the youngest, had been very melancholy
ever since she had visited an aunt at Stafford, where it was well known
an attorney's clerk had paid her very great attention. These, and
various other particulars relative to the family, were related to me in
the course of conversation; and, having remained at the farm for a
couple of hours, I was about to take my leave, as well informed relative
to the inmates as if I had lived with them all my life. But just as I
was rising to depart, I espied a purse lying in a work-box upon a shelf;
and I began to reflect how I could make it my own. Accident served my
purpose: the cook insisted upon drawing me some more ale, and went into
the cellar for that purpose; and the maid-servant stepped to the door of
the kitchen to receive a can of milk which a boy brought there at the
moment. To dart toward the shelf and secure the purse was the work of an
instant; and when the maid turned towards me again, I was sitting as
composedly as if I had never left my chair. The cook made her appearance
with the ale, of which I drank; and I then took my leave, with many
thanks for the kind entertainment I had received.

"I proceeded to the copse, where I found my strange employer and his
female companion waiting for me. I told them all that I had gleaned
relative to the farmer and his family; and they were highly delighted
with the information so procured. The man gave me five shillings, and
told me that he did not require my services any farther. I was not sorry
to get away from the neighbourhood; and, taking leave of the persons who
had employed me in so singular a service, pursued my way. When at a
convenient distance from the spot where I had left them, I examined the
purse, and, to my joy, found that it contained four sovereigns and about
seven shillings in silver.

"Considerably cheered at this change in my pecuniary position, I pursued
my way until long after dusk, when I entered a village where I
determined to put up for the night. Having supped at a public-house, I
inquired about a bed, and found that I could be accommodated with one in
a double-bedded room, the other being already retained by a traveller
who had arrived before me, but who had stepped out, I was informed, to
transact some business with certain inhabitants of his acquaintance.
Being tired, I went up to the room where I was to sleep, before the
return of the person who was to occupy the other bed; but before I
sought my own nest I looked about for a secure spot where I could
conceal my purse, as I fancied that my companion might probably be no
more honest than myself. I accordingly hid my treasure between the
mattress and the sacking; and, putting my clothes under my pillow, lay
down to rest. I soon fell into a deep sleep, from which I did not awake
until aroused by the noise of some one moving about the room. I started
up, and rubbing my eyes, asked what o'clock it was. The person who
occupied the other bed was shaving himself at a looking-glass, with his
back turned towards me; but the moment my voice fell upon his ears, he
started round; and--to my horror--I recognised but too well, beneath a
thick coat of lather, the never-to-be-forgotten countenance of cousin
George.

"Here was a precious scrape! The red-faced man was deaf to my prayers
for mercy, and alarmed the whole house. Landlord, boots, ostler, and
pot-boy rushed up stairs, while cousin George vociferated, 'Fetch a
constable! this is the rogue who stole my breeches and boots. Fetch a
constable, I say! Here's the villain that imposed upon poor old blind
Dobbin. Fetch a constable!' A constable was accordingly fetched; and I
was duly given into his charge. While I was huddling on my clothes,
cousin George exclaimed, with savage malignity, 'Ah! there's the boots,
the scoundrel! There's the drab trousers, the scamp!' and I really
believe he would have wrested them from me had it not been necessary for
me to wear them in order to accompany the constable.

"I did not choose to drag forth my purse from its place of concealment,
for fear it might involve me in a worse dilemma than that in which I
found myself, and which, after all, was not particularly serious. I
however left it beneath the mattress, with deep regret, and was led away
by the constable, every soul in the public-house turning out to witness
my departure. The landlord, moreover, gave me a parting blessing after a
fashion--accusing me as a thief who had run up a score of three
shillings and seven-pence halfpenny at his house, without the slightest
means of paying it! To this very natural conclusion he came, inasmuch as
the constable, upon searching me, had found nothing in my pockets.

"The clergyman of the village was a justice of the peace; and before his
worshipful reverence was I accordingly taken. He was an elderly man,
very corpulent and very stern; and he frowned upon me in a ferocious
manner when I was conducted into the library, where he intended to hear
the case. Cousin George, who had only shaved one side of his face, and
had a black bristly beard over the other, stepped forward and stated the
entire case, which comprised the theft of his garments and the imposture
practised upon his relative. In the latter business, however, the
magistrate refused to interfere, and confined his attention to the
abstraction of the trousers and boots. I, of course, set up the usual
defence,--'_Had never seen the gentleman before in my life--had bought
the trousers and boots of a man that I met at a public house, and whose
name I did not know; that I was an honest hard-working young fellow, out
of employment; and had never been in trouble before._' The magistrate
was, however, obstinate, and would not believe a word I uttered. He
accordingly ordered me to be committed for trial at the sessions; and I
was moved to an out-house, there to wait in the custody of the
constable, until my _mittimus_ was made out, and a cart was obtained to
take me to the county gaol. Cousin George, satisfied with what he had
done so far, threw a glance of triumph upon me as I was moved away from
the magistrate's library.

"While I was pent up in the out-house, I went up to the window and
looked out upon that open country which seemed the scene of a freedom
now lost to me. As I was standing there, pondering on my condition, and
wondering whether the numerous burglaries which I had committed in a
neighbourhood not very far distant, would be brought against me, my
attention was suddenly attracted to a number of people who were
advancing rapidly towards the house. As they drew near, to my surprise I
recognised the swarthy stranger and his female companion, both evidently
in the custody of two constables, and followed by the cook,
maid-servant, and other persons belonging to the farm-house. An idea of
the real truth instantly flashed through my mind; and I felt sorry--very
sorry for the two poor creatures who, I had no doubt, were suffering
under a suspicion of the robbery which I had perpetrated. Moreover, I
could not help thinking that the swarthy man and the sallow-faced man
were one and the same person, and that the two half-crowns had been
purposely thrown in my way by him, at the inn in the market-town, to
relieve me from that embarrassment into which his keen eyes had
penetrated. These reflections suddenly filled me with deep interest in
the stranger and his female companion.

"The procession passed the window (from which I drew back), and entered
the magistrate's house. Half-an-hour passed away; and then the
clergyman's man-servant made his appearance with a jug of ale and some
bread and meat for the constable who had me in charge. But nothing was
given to me, either to eat or drink! 'There's a new case on in the
library,' said the servant.--'Ah! what's that?' inquired the
constable.--'Two gipsies,' was the answer, 'man and woman, have been
prigging a purse down at farmer Clodhopper's. The purse belonged to a
young servant gal, and was missed out of her work-box just after the
gipsies had left the house last night. But the constables were put on
the scent, and soon found the thieves.'--'And was the purse recovered?'
asked the officer who had me in custody.--'Deuce a bit of it,' said the
servant, 'those gipsies know a trick worth two of that. It seems that
they went down to the farm late last night, and told all the young
ladies and servant girls their fortunes; so they were taken into the
kitchen and fed with the best, besides all the money they'd had given to
them by the young ladies and the servants. Not content with all that,
they stole the purse, the vagabonds!'--'No, they didn't, though!' I
exclaimed, stepping forward; for somehow or another my blood boiled and
my heart ached to think that those two poor creatures should be punished
for a crime of which they were innocent. Besides, I made sure that all
my past offences would be brought against me at the assizes; and I knew
in that case that I should be booked for transportation; so one robbery
more or less could not make much difference to me. Well, both the
constable and the servant stared when I spoke in that manner. 'Yes,' I
continued, 'it is perfectly true that those two gipsies are innocent of
the theft; and if you will take me before his worship again, I will
prove my words.' The constable accordingly conducted me back to the
library.

"The moment I entered the room, the gipsy-man and his companion
exhibited the greatest surprise and interest. I gave them a re-assuring
glance; and then, turning towards the magistrate, I said, 'Your worship,
these two poor creatures are innocent of the crime imputed to
them.'--'How do you know?' demanded the justice roughly, for his
lunch-time was now drawing near.--'Because I stole it myself,' was my
answer. The greatest astonishment pervaded the assembly; joy animated
the countenance of the two gipsies; while the cook and maid servant
cried out, '_Dear me!_' and '_Who would have thought it!_' as loud as
they could. The justice looked tremendous savage, and declared that he
would order the room to be cleared of strangers if they interrupted the
business in that indecent manner! I was then called upon to explain the
assertion which I had made.--'These two persons,' I said, pointing
towards the gipsies, 'are accused of stealing a purse from farmer
Clodhopper's kitchen?'--'They are. Well?'--'Then they didn't steal it,
because I stole it myself; and these servants can prove that I was there
yesterday afternoon.'--'So he was!' exclaimed the cook and maid in the
same breath.--'And now,' I continued, 'if you will send and search under
the mattress of the bed which I slept in last night at the public-house
where I was arrested, you will find the purse.' But this trouble was
avoided; for scarcely had I uttered these words, when in came the
landlord of that public-house, holding the purse in his hands. His wife,
it appeared, had found it when making the beds; and suspicion instantly
pointed to me as the person who had placed it in the spot where it was
discovered. This circumstance brought the case safe home to me; and the
gipsies were instantly discharged, with a warning to take care of
themselves in future!

"Nothing could exceed the looks of deep gratitude which those two
innocent persons cast upon me as they left the room:--but that of the
man was significant of something more than a mere sense of obligation
for the act of duty which I had done. I don't know how it was, too--but,
rogue as I was, I felt an inward satisfaction at the part which I had
just performed.

"I was taken back to the out-house, with another serious charge hanging
over my head; and the cart was every moment expected to convey me to the
county gaol. But time slipped away, and it did not arrive. At length the
constable became impatient, and talked about the impropriety of trifling
with the time of a public officer like him, adding that he didn't know
if he shouldn't write to the prime minister about it. Presently the
man-servant came in with some dinner for him--but not a bite nor a sup
for me! Neither did the constable offer me any thing. 'Here's a pretty
business,' says the servant; 'the man that was to drive you over to the
county gaol has got drunk somehow or other, and can't go; and the horse
has suddenly gone dead lame.'--'What's to be done, then?' cried the
constable.--'Why, you must wait till the man's sober, and the veterinary
surgeon has looked to the horse.'

"And sure enough we did wait until eight o'clock in the evening before
we started; and then no thanks to the man nor the veterinary surgeon,
for the former was still too tipsy to move, and the latter could do
nothing for the horse. However, another man came forward, at a late
hour, and offered his services. He not only cured the horse in a few
minutes, but also undertook to drive the cart. The constable accordingly
put a pair of handcuffs on me and took me out into the yard where the
vehicle was waiting. A man with a sallow face and bushy red hair, was
already seated in front, holding the whip and reins; and as I mounted he
gave me a look which I immediately understood. That man was no other
than my friend, the swarthy gipsy, so well disguised that his own mother
would have scarcely known him.

"Away we went at a rattling pace: it was soon dark, and the constable
told the driver not to go at such a rate. But he did not obey the
command: on the contrary, he whipped the horse the more; and the cart
bounded along the road as if it was for wager. The constable swore and
prayed by turns: the driver laughed; and presently the cart upset into a
dry ditch. 'Run for your liberty!' cried the driver to me, as he pulled
me from the ditch; and I followed him across the fields with a speed
that was increased by hearing the constable shouting '_Stop, thief!_'
behind me. But in a very few minutes those cries became fainter and
fainter, until they at length ceased altogether. Still my deliverer
pursued his way, and at such a rate, too, that I was scarcely able to
keep up with him.

"At length we stopped in a thicket, and sat down to rest. My deliverer
took a file from his pocket and worked away at my manacles with such a
skill and energy, that in a few minutes I was relieved from them. He
then produced some food, and I made a hearty meal. When the meal was
over, my companion condescended to give me an explanation of certain
matters which had hitherto remained wrapped up in some degree of
mystery.

"'You must be informed,' he said, 'that my name is Morcar, and that I am
the son of Zingary, king of the gipsies. The female whom you saw with me
yesterday and this morning, is my wife. A considerable portion of the
money earned by our race consists of fees paid by the simple and
credulous, for having their fortunes told. In order to obtain the
necessary information relative to the inhabitants of those places or
dwellings which we visit, we are compelled to assume many disguises, or
to make use of the agency of others, not connected with us, to gather
that information for us. Some days ago, at an early hour in the morning,
I was loitering about in the neighbourhood of the _Three Compasses_, and
from behind a hedge saw you make off with the boots and trousers which a
boy had been brushing in the yard. Chance led me that same afternoon to
the village where you played your famous trick upon old Dobbin; and, as
the story spread like wild-fire through the place immediately after your
detection by cousin George, I could not avoid hearing all the
particulars. I got a lift in a cart from that village to the market-town
where I met you the same night at the inn. I could not help admiring
your boldness and ingenuity; and, while I sat quietly smoking my pipe in
the tap-room, listening to the discourse of the inmates, and picking up
a variety of information, to be turned to future account, I noticed your
embarrassment at the appearance of the waiter to collect the money owing
by each individual. I had made a good day's work in a certain way, and
was disposed to be liberal: accordingly, at a moment when you were
turned in another direction, I placed the two half-crowns close by where
you sate on the bench. Next day I threw off what I call my '_sallow
disguise_', and repaired to another public-house, near the market, to
glean additional information, all of which our women have since turned
to ample profit. Then I was enabled to give you a warning which was
really important to you, as old Dobbin's cousin George had actually
arrived that morning in the town to attend the market. A few days
afterwards I was roving with my wife along the by-lanes in the
neighbourhood of Clodhopper's farm, endeavouring by some means to glean
what we could concerning the young women at that place--for our finest
harvests are always reaped at farm-houses. Again I met you; and I made
you the instrument of my design. But,' added Morcar, with a smile, 'you
went farther than you were instructed: you did a thing which _we_ never
do--I mean, steal money. We take for our use a sucking-pig, a fowl, or a
goose; and we do not consider that stealing. We also snare rabbits and
game; and we look upon it as no crime. However, you saw the scrape into
which that business of the purse got me and my wife this morning. You
saved us, and I vowed to save you also. The moment I was discharged I
went to the stable where the horse that was to convey you to gaol was
kept, and bribed the ostler to drive a nail into his foot so as to touch
the flesh. Then I found the man who was to drive you, and plied him so
well with liquor that he was unable to perform his duty. My object was
to delay your journey until the evening, because I knew that I could
ensure your escape in the dark. You have seen how well my plans have
succeeded, because you are now free.'

"You may suppose that I thanked my kind deliverer most sincerely for all
he had done to serve me. He, however, cut me short in my expressions of
gratitude, by saying, 'What are you going to do? If you will join us,
you will be assured of your daily food, and will be more or less
protected from danger. My father has a van, in which you can at any time
hide when concealment is necessary; and we will do all we can to serve
you, for I still consider myself to be indebted to you on account of
your generous conduct of this morning. I could have borne punishment
myself; but the idea of my wife being plunged into such misery--no,
never--never!'

"I accepted the welcome offers of Morcar, and that very night was
conducted to the encampment where his father and mother had taken up
their quarters. Eva presented her son to me, saying, 'You have preserved
for this little one a father and mother: henceforth the Zingarees will
know thee as a friend!' From that moment I have lived with the gipsies
until the present time; and, though some years have passed away since I
first joined them, I have not yet become weary of our wandering mode of
existence."




CHAPTER CXXXIV.

THE PALACE IN THE HOLY LAND.


The wanderer amidst the crowded thoroughfares of the multitudinous
metropolis cannot be unacquainted with that assemblage of densely
populated streets and lanes which is situate between High Street (St.
Giles's) and Great Russell Street (Bloomsbury).

The district alluded to is called the Holy Land.

There poverty hides its head through shame, and crime lurks concealed
through fear;--there every thing that is squalid, hideous, debauched,
and immoral, makes its dwelling;--there woman is as far removed from the
angel as Satan is from the Godhead, and man is as closely allied to the
brute as the idiot is to the baboon;--there days are spent in idleness,
and nights in dissipation;--there no refinement of habit or of speech is
known, but male and female alike wallow in obscene debauchery and filthy
ideas;--there garments are patched with pieces of various dyes, and
language is disfigured with words of a revolting slang;--there the
natural ruffianism and brutal instincts of the human heart are
unrepressed by social ties or conventional decencies;--there infamy is
no disgrace, crime no reproach, vice no stain.

Such is the Holy Land.

In a dark and gloomy alley, connecting two of the longer streets in this
district, stood a large house four storeys high, and with windows of
such narrow dimensions that they seemed intended to admit the light of
day only by small instalments.

Four steep stone steps, each only about six inches broad, led to the
front door, which always stood open during the day-time.

This front-door gave admittance into a small square compartment, which
was denominated "the lobby," and from which a second door opened into
the house.

The inner door just alluded to was kept constantly shut, save when
admittance was demanded by any one who had the right of entry into the
habitation. But even that admittance was never granted without
precaution. In the ceiling of the little hall or lobby described, there
was a small trap-door, let into the floor of the room above; and by
these means the sentinel on duty up-stairs was enabled to reconnoitre
every one who knocked at the inner door.

The interior of the house resembled a small barrack. The apartments on
the ground floor were used as day-rooms or refectories, and were fitted
up with long tables and forms. The floors were strewed with sand; and
the appearance of the place was more cleanly and comfortable than might
have been expected in such a neighbourhood. The lower panes of the
windows were smeared with a whitewash, which prevented passers-by from
peering from the street into the apartments.

The upper storeys were all used as dormitories, some being allotted to
the male and others to the female inmates of the house. These rooms were
furnished with mattresses, blankets, and coverlids; but there were no
bedsteads. The aspect of the dormitories was as cleanly as that of the
day-rooms.

To the ceiling over the landing-place of the second floor was hung a
large bell, to the wheel of which were attached numerous ropes, which
branched off, through holes in the walls and floors, in all directions,
so that an alarm could be rung from every room in that spacious
tenement.

Behind the house there was a large yard, surrounded by the dead walls
which formed the sides of other buildings; thus, in no way, was the
dwelling which we have described, overlooked by the neighbours. At the
bottom of the yard was a door opening into a court which communicated
with another street; and thus a convenient mode of egress was secured to
any one who might find it prudent to beat a precipitate retreat from the
house.

We have now endeavoured to furnish the reader with an idea of King
Zingary's Palace in the Holy Land.

In order to complete the description, it only remains for us to state
that the various precautions to which we have alluded, in connexion with
the Palace, were adopted for the protection and safety of those inmates
who, either in the course of their avocations or otherwise, might happen
to render themselves obnoxious to the myrmidons of the law. Not that the
pursuits of the subjects of King Zingary necessarily comprised practices
which rendered their headquarters liable to constant visits from the
police: but persons accustomed to a vagabond kind of existence, could
not be otherwise than often tempted into lawless courses; and his
Majesty did not dare disown or discard a dependant who thus became
involved in danger. Moreover, the protection of the gipsies was
frequently accorded to persons who rendered them a service, or who could
pay for such succour, as in the respective cases of Skilligalee and the
Rattlesnake: or it was not unusually granted upon motives of humanity,
as in reference to the man called the Traveller. This intercourse with
characters of all descriptions was another reason for the adoption of
precautionary measures at the Palace; but seldom--very seldom was it
that the necessity of those measures was justified by events, the police
being well aware that no good ever resulted from a visit to the royal
mansion in the Holy Land.

It was ten o'clock at night; and the king of the gipsies was presiding
at the banqueting-table in his palace.

Upwards of sixty gipsies, male and female, were assembled round the
board. These consisted of the chiefs of the different districts into
which the gipsy kingdom was divided, with their wives and daughters.

Skilligalee, the Rattlesnake, and the Traveller were also seated at the
table, and were honoured as the king's guests.

The meal was over; and the board was covered with bottles containing
various descriptions of liquor, drinking mugs, pipes, and tobacco.

With all the solemn gravity of a chairman at a public dinner, Zingary
rapped his knuckles upon the table, and commanded those present to fill
their glasses.

The order was obeyed by both men and women; and the king then spoke as
follows:--

"Most loyal and dutiful friends, this is the hundred and thirty-first
anniversary of the institution of that custom in virtue of which the
provincial rulers of the united races of Egyptians and Bohemians in
England assemble together once every year at the Palace. A hundred and
thirty-one years ago, this house was purchased by my grandfather King
Sisman, and bequeathed to his descendants to serve as the head-quarters
and central point of our administration. There is scarcely an individual
of the united races who has not experienced the hospitality of this
Palace. Every worthy Zingaree who visits the metropolis enjoys his bed
and his board without fee and without price for seven days in our
mansion, the superintendence of which is so ably conducted, while we are
absent, by our brother on my right." Here the king glanced towards a
venerable-looking gipsy who sate next to him. "In his hands our
treasures are safe; and to-morrow he will place before you an account of
the remittances he has received from the provincial districts, and the
expenditures he has made in the maintenance of this establishment. You
will find, I have reason to believe, a considerable balance in our
favour. Let us then celebrate with a bumper the hundred and thirty-first
anniversary of the opening of our royal palace!"

This toast was drunk without noise--without hurrahs--without
clamour,--but not the less sincerely on that account.

"My pretty Eva," said the king, after a pause, "will now oblige us with
a song?"

Zingary's daughter-in-law did not require to be pressed to exhibit her
vocal powers; but in a sweet voice she sang the following air:--

                 THE GIPSY'S HOME.

    Oh! who is so blythe, and happy, and free
    As the ever-wandering Zingaree?
    'Tis his at his own wild will to roam;
    And in each fair scene does he find a home,--
                              Does he find a home!

    The sunny slope, or the shady grove,
    Where nightingales sing and lovers rove;
    The fields where the golden harvests wave,
    And the verdant bank which the streamlets lave,
                              Are by turns his home.

    The busy town with its selfish crowd,
    The city where dwell the great and proud,
    The haunts of the mighty multitude,
    Where the strong are raised and the weak subdued,
                              Are to him no home.

    Oh! ever happy--and ever free,
    Who is so blest as the Zingaree?--
    Where nature puts on her gayest vest,
    Where flowers are sweetest and fruits are best,
                              Oh! there is his home.

"Thank you, sweet Eva," said the king, when the gipsy woman had
concluded her song, in the chorus of which the other females had joined
in a low and subdued tone. "Ours is indeed a happy life," continued
Zingary. "When roving over the broad country, we enjoy a freedom unknown
to the rest of the world. No impost or taxes have we then to pay: we
drink of the stream at pleasure, and never feel alarmed lest our water
should be cut off. We can choose pleasant paths, and yet pay no
paving-rate. The sun lights us by day, and the stars by night; and no
one comes to remind us that we owe two quarters' gas. We pitch our tents
where we will, but are not afraid of a ground-landlord. We do not look
forward with fear and trembling to Lady-day or Michaelmas, for the
broker cannot distress us. We move where we like, without dreading an
accusation of _shooting the moon_. In fine, we are as free and
independent as the inhabitants of the desert. A health, then, to the
united races of Zingarees!"

This toast was drunk in silence, like the former; and the king then
called upon the pretty dark-eyed daughter of one of the chiefs to favour
the company with a song.

The request was complied with in the following manner:--

        "COME HITHER, FAIR MAIDEN."

    Come hither, fair maiden! and listen to me,
    I've a store of good tidings to tell unto thee--
    Bright hopes to call smiles to those sweet lips of thine,
    And visions of bliss little short of divine.

    Come hither, fair maiden! the poor Zingaree
    Hath promise of love and of fortune for thee:
    Away from the future the dark cloud shall fly,
    And years yet unborn be revealed to thine eye.

    Come hither, fair maiden! no more shall thou be
    Alarmed lest the fates act unkindly to thee;--
    The planet that governed the hour of thy birth
    Shall guide thee to all the fair spots of the earth!

    Come hither, fair maiden! futurity's sea
    Shall roll on no longer unfathomed by thee;
    With me canst thou plunge in its dark depths, and know
    How rich are the pearls that Hope treasures below.

In this manner did the gipsies pass the evening, until the clock struck
eleven, when they separated to their dormitories.

The Rattlesnake was astonished to observe the order and regularity which
prevailed with the strange association amongst which accident had thrown
her. The festival had passed without noise and without intemperance; the
presence of the king and queen seemed alone sufficient to maintain
tranquillity and prevent enjoyment from passing the barriers of
propriety.

We need not, however, linger upon this portion of our tale. Suffice it
to say that a fortnight glided away, during which the king of the
gipsies was detained in the metropolis by the business which he had to
transact with his chiefs. The Rattlesnake did not venture out of the
house; and Skilligalee was her constant companion.

The Traveller meantime disguised himself in a manner which would have
defied the penetrating eyes of even a parent, had he met his own mother;
and from morning until evening did he prowl about London, in search of
the _one individual_ against whom he nourished the most terrible hatred.
But, every evening, when he returned home to the Gipsy Palace, his
countenance was more gloomy and his brow more lowering; and, if
questioned relative to the causes of his rage or grief, he replied in a
savage tone, "Another day is gone--and _he_ still lives: but I will
never rest until I trace him out."

And then he would grind his teeth like a hyena.




CHAPTER CXXXV.

THE PROPOSAL.--UNEXPECTED MEETINGS.


Return we once more to Markham Place.

Mr. Monroe had so far recovered from the malady into which the dread
discovery of his daughter's dishonour had plunged him, as to be enabled
to rise from his bed and sit by the fire in his chamber.

Ellen was constant in her attentions to the old man; and, with her child
in her arms, did she keep him company.

By a strange idiosyncrasy of our nature, Mr. Monroe, instead of
abhorring the sight of the infant which proclaimed his well-beloved
daughter's shame, entertained the most ardent affection for the innocent
cause of that disgrace; and he rapidly recovered health and spirits, as
he sate contemplating that young unwedded mother nursing her
sin-begotten babe.

Richard Markham pursued his studies, though rather for amusement than
with any desire of gain, inasmuch as the money repaid him by Count
Alteroni had once more restored him to a condition of comfort, although
not of affluence.

His mind was far more easy and tranquil than it had wont to be; for he
knew that he was beloved by Isabella; and, although she was a high-born
princess of Europe, he felt convinced that no circumstances could
alienate her affections from him.

One evening, when the year 1840 was about three weeks old, Whittingham
introduced Mr. Gregory into our hero's library.

The countenance of that gentleman wore a melancholy expression;--his
pace was sedate and solemn;--his voice was low and mournful. Markham was
shocked when he beheld his altered appearance.

"Mr. Markham," said the visitor, as he seated himself at Richard's
request, "you are, perhaps, surprised to see me here, especially after
the manner in which we parted. I am come to demand a favour, and not to
reproach you:--indeed, I have no right to use the word _reproach_
towards you at all. You conducted yourself like an honourable man in
respect to me: you taught my sons no lessons save those by which they
have profited. If you erred in early life, you have no doubt
repented;--and shall man dare to withhold that pardon which the Lord
vouchsafes to all who implore it? I beheld your triumph at the
theatre--would to God that nothing had sullied it! I beheld your
fall--and I commisserated you. But before that there were
reasons--cogent reasons which forbade me to continue the cultivation of
your friendship; and as a man of honour and of good taste, you have not
sought mine since we parted."

[Illustration]

"Before you proceed farther," said Richard,--"for I see that you have
some business of more or less importance to discuss with me,--allow me
to inform you that I was not overpowered by guilt on that fatal night
when I was so cruelly denounced at the theatre. The consciousness of
crime did not strike me level with the dust. I fell beneath a reaction
of feelings too powerful for human nature to struggle with. The proofs
of my innocence----"

"Your innocence!" cried Mr. Gregory, now strangely agitated; "your
innocence, say you?"

"Yes--my innocence," repeated Markham, his cheeks flushed with a noble
pride; "for I can glory in that innocence, and assert it boldly and
without fear of contradiction."

"In the name of God, explain your meaning!" exclaimed Mr. Gregory, so
excited that he could scarcely draw his breath.

"I mean that I was the victim of the most infernal treachery ever
planned," cried our hero; and he then related the whole particulars of
his early misfortunes to Mr. Gregory.

"Oh! now, indeed, I can make my proposal to you with joy and honour!"
cried this gentleman; "for you must know, Mr. Markham, that my daughter
loves you, and has for some time loved you with the most pure, the most
holy, and the most ardent affection! But you saw that she loved you--you
were not blind to that passion which her ingenuous nature would not
allow her to conceal: you knew that her heart was fondly devoted to
you."

"And most solemnly I declare," cried Markham, "that neither by word nor
deed did I ever encourage that feeling in Miss Gregory's heart."

"I believe you," said the father of that young lady; "for I noticed that
you were often reserved when she was gay and friendly towards you. And
it was to separate her from the object of her affection that I parted
with you as the tutor of my sons; for it was not until the disclosure at
the theatre that I learnt the sad accusation under which you had
laboured in your early youth."

Mr. Gregory paused for a moment, and then continued thus:--

"I hoped that my daughter's happiness was not altogether compromised by
her love for you;--I removed her to a change of scene; and there an
accident threw her into the society of a charming family, with whom she
passed about ten days. At the beginning of this week I fetched her home
to my house in Kentish Town; but I found that she was more melancholy
than ever. Her naturally joyous and lively disposition has changed to
mourning and sorrow. I have not, however, told her that I am acquainted
with her secret: I know not whether she even suspects that I have
penetrated it. I have studiously avoided all mention of your name; and
she never alludes to you by word. But she thinks of you always! She
nourished a flame which consumes her! Now I am come, Mr. Markham, to
propose to you the hand of my daughter,--to propose it to you with
frankness and candour! I know that the step which I am taking is an
unusual one--perhaps an improper one;--but the safety--the
happiness--the life of my daughter compels me thus to depart from the
usages of society. If your heart be not otherwise engaged--and I never
heard you hint that such was the case,--and if you think that the charms
and accomplishments of Mary-Anne are worthy of your notice,--in addition
to the handsome fortune which my means enable me to settle upon her,--in
that case----"

"My dear sir," interrupted Richard, pressing Mr. Gregory's hands warmly
in his own,--"you have honoured me with this proposal;--and, under other
circumstances, I should have been no doubt gratified--but--it is
impossible!"

"Impossible!" repeated Mr. Gregory, a cloud coming over his countenance.

"Yes--impossible! I appreciate your daughter's great merits--I admire
her personal beauty--I respect her excellent qualities,--and I could
have loved her dearly as a sister;--but my heart--_that_ is not mine to
give!"

"What? You love another!" ejaculated Mr. Gregory.

"For some time my affections have been devoted to a young lady, who has
confessed a reciprocal attachment to me----"

"Enough--enough!" cried the unhappy father: "for my poor daughter there
is now no hope! But you, Mr. Markham, will forget that this proposal was
ever made;--you will bury the particulars of this visit of mine in
oblivion?"

"With me the secret of your daughter's heart is sacred."

Mr. Gregory wrung the hand of our hero, and took his leave.

It is scarcely necessary to observe that Mary-Anne had not communicated
to her father one word of the conversation which had taken place a few
days previously between herself and Isabella, relative to Richard
Markham, and which has duly been narrated in a recent chapter; neither
was Richard aware that Mr. Gregory and his daughter had accidentally
formed the acquaintance of Count Alteroni's family.

So affected was Richard by the interview which had just taken place,
that he sought the fresh air in order to calm his mind, and divert his
thoughts from the contemplation of the unhappy condition of a lovely
young creature whose heart was so disinterestedly devoted to him.

He walked towards London: the night was fine, frosty, and moonlight; and
he was induced to prolong his ramble. He recollected that he required a
particular work which was published by a bookseller in Great Russell
Street, Bloomsbury; and thither did he proceed.

He entered the shop, made the purchase which he needed, and then
repaired to the bottom of Tottenham Court Road, where it joins Oxford
Street, in order to obtain a conveyance to take him home.

But as he turned the corner of Great Russell Street, an individual
coming in the opposite direction knocked somewhat violently against him.

"Why the devil don't you use your eyes?" exclaimed the fellow brutally.

Richard started back and uttered a cry of mingled astonishment and
horror; for the tone of the voice which had just addressed him was
familiar--oh! too familiar--to his ears.

"Wretch!" he ejaculated, almost instantly recovering his presence of
mind, and precipitating himself upon the other; "we have met at last
where you shall not escape me!"

"Damnation! Richard Markham!" growled the Resurrection Man--for it was
he; then, with a sudden jerk, rather characterised by a particular knack
than by any extraordinary degree of strength, he disengaged himself from
the grasp of our hero, and, turning on his heels, darted off at full
speed towards Saint Giles's.

All this was only the work of a single instant; but as soon as the
Resurrection Man thus escaped, Richard gave the alarm, and in a moment a
policeman and several persons who had witnessed the encounter (for it
was but a little past nine o'clock in the evening) joined in the
pursuit.

The Resurrection Man rushed along with desperate speed,--took the first
turning to the left, and plunged into the dark and narrow streets lying
between Great Russell Street and High Street.

London was as well known to the miscreant as if it were a mere village,
whose topography may be learnt in an hour. This knowledge stood him in
good stead on the present occasion: he dived down one street--merged
into another--dodged down courts, and up alleys--and at length rushed
into a sort of lobby, the front door of which stood open, but the inner
door of which was shut.

At that inner door he knocked violently.

A trap was opened above, and a light streamed down upon him.

"What do you want?" cried a gruff voice, speaking through the trap-door
in the ceiling.

"Open--open!" exclaimed the Resurrection Man; "let me in, and I will
reward you well."

The trap was closed; the lobby was again pitch-dark, as it was before
the light streamed down into it; and in a few moments the house-door was
opened.

The Resurrection Man rushed in: the door was closed once more; and the
villain exclaimed, "I have done them, by God!"

"Who are you?" asked the man who had opened the door, and who had the
appearance of a gipsy.

"Judging by the way in which your house is secured, my good friend," was
the reply, "there can be no harm in telling you that I am persecuted by
blue-bottles--a race which cannot be altogether unknown to you."

"That's enough," said the gipsy; "you are safe here. Follow me."

The gipsy led the Resurrection Man into one of the lower rooms, where
King Zingary, Morcar, and five or six gipsy-chiefs were carousing. The
Rattlesnake was up stairs with the other women; the Traveller was not
yet returned from his day's hunt after his enemy; and the greater number
of the gipsies had already taken their departure from London.

The Resurrection Man was well aware that the gipsies had an
establishment in that district of London; but he had never been
previously acquainted with its precise whereabouts. It, however, now
instantly struck him that accident had led him into that very
establishment.

Advancing towards Zingary, he said, "If I am not mistaken, this is the
crib where the famous race of Bohemians and Egyptians are accustomed to
meet in London. I claim of them hospitality for a few hours."

"As long as suits your interests, friend," answered the King. "Sit down,
and do as we do."

The Resurrection Man needed no second invitation. He took the seat
offered him near the royal chair, and, in pursuance of another
invitation, speedily made himself comfortable with a snicker of rum-flim
and a broseley.

"Booze and be merry," said the King: "we shall have nothing to interrupt
our merriment to-night; the women have all gone to roost, that they may
get up early, for we leave the Holy Land to-morrow morning. At five
o'clock we depart. But you, my friend," he continued, addressing himself
to the Resurrection Man, "are welcome to remain here a day or two, if
such a plan suits your safety, as I suppose it does. We leave an
intendant of our royal palace behind us."

At this moment Skilligalee entered the room, and took his seat at the
board.

"All is quiet up stairs, your majesty," said this individual; "and so I
suppose the women are gone to the downy. They all seem glad at the idea
of leaving London to-morrow morning."

"And none more so, I think, than your Margaret," observed the King, with
a laugh. "She seems dreadfully afraid of that man who, she says, is in
pursuit of her."

The Resurrection Man was immediately struck by these remarks: he became
all attention, but said nothing.

"If you knew all," cried Skilligalee, "you would not blame her. It
appears that the fellow is a perfect demon. His regular trade is in dead
bodies; and so he can't be very nice."

"It is the Rattlesnake--it _must_ be!" said the Resurrection Man to
himself.

But not a muscle of his countenance moved; and he sat smoking his pipe
as coolly as if he had heard nothing capable of exciting him.
Nevertheless, within him there were emotions of the most fiendish
triumph--of the most hellish delight; for his victim was near--and the
hour of vengeance approached.

Then it struck him that his purpose might be defeated, were the
Rattlesnake, who had evidently made friends of the gipsies, to meet him
in their presence. But he recollected that the women were stated to have
already retired to rest; and he felt more easy on this head. Again, he
asked himself how he was to discover the room in which she slept;--and
to this question all his ingenuity could answer nothing more than that
he must trust to circumstances.

And accident did serve his infernal purposes even in this respect.

The gipsies, not dreaming that their conversation could have any
ulterior interest to him, continued it upon the same topic.

"Poor Meg is terribly put out because she has lost all her companions up
stairs," continued Skilligalee. "She couldn't bear the idea of sleeping
all alone in the great room just over this."

"Then she should get married, and have a husband to take care of her,"
said the Resurrection Man, with a coarse laugh;--but his remark was
merely for the purpose of clearing up a doubt.

"And so she has some one to take care of her," cried Skilligalee; "and
that's me. But there's one rule in this place--men sleep in their rooms,
and women in theirs."

"We can't split the palace into a hundred different bed-chambers,"
observed Zingary.

"Certainly not," said the Resurrection Man. "But surely the lady you are
talking of can't be afraid in such a fortress as this?"

"But she is, though," answered Skilligalee. "The women that occupied the
same room with her went away this morning, because the court is going
out of town again," he added, with a jovial laugh. "Meg wanted to move
into her majesty's room; but Aischa and Eva told her that she must learn
to get rid of her stupid fears."

"And very properly," said the Resurrection Man.

"But never mind these matters of talk," cried Skilligalee; "they're only
domestic, after all. Come, I'll sing you a song, as it's the last night
we shall be here."

Skilligalee accordingly chanted a merry lay; and the conversation
afterwards turned upon a variety of topics, none of which possessed
sufficient interest to be recorded in our pages.

At length a clock in the passage struck eleven; and King Zingary
instantly rose from his seat.

This was a signal for the revellers to retire.

"Skilligalee," said the King, "you will tell the trap-faker[100] that
the Traveller is the only one out; and you will conduct our new guest to
the strangers' ward. Lieges and friends, good-night."

The king withdrew; the other gipsy-chiefs dispersed to their
dormitories; and Skilligalee proceeded to conduct the Resurrection Man
to the room where he was to sleep.

If any doubt had remained in the mind of Anthony Tidkins relative to the
identity of the Margaret then in that house with the Margaret whom he
sought, it would have been dispelled by the mention of the name of
Skilligalee--a name which had occurred in the Rattlesnake's history of
her life. The Resurrection Man immediately comprehended that she had
fallen in with her old companion.

Skilligalee lighted a candle, and led the way up stairs. On the first
floor, he looked into the porter's lodge, which was immediately over,
and corresponded in size with, the lobby below.

"Trap-faker, old fellow," he said, "the Traveller is out late to-night;
but I suppose he means to come back. He's the only one abroad."

"All right," returned the porter: "I'll attend to him."

Skilligalee then conducted the Resurrection Man up another flight of
stairs, and into a room which Tidkins knew, from what had been already
said, to be immediately over the one where Margaret Flathers slept.
Skilligalee left the Resurrection Man a candle, wished him good night,
and retired to the room in which he slept.

The moment the Resurrection Man was alone, his hideous countenance threw
aside its constraint composure, and assumed an expression so truly
fiend-like, that, had a spectator been by, it must have inspired
sentiments of terror. Like every greedy and avaricious man, he
entertained the most ferocious hatred against the person who had robbed
him of his treasure;--and now that the means of revenge were within his
reach, together with a hope of recovering his gold, (for he resolved to
converse with the Rattlesnake ere he killed her), he experienced that
kind of demoniac joy which invariably characterises the triumph of the
ruffian.

Beneath the rough upper coat which the Resurrection Man wore, he had a
pair of loaded pistols; and in his pocket he carried a clasp-knife, with
a blade as long, pointed, and sharp as a dagger.

Thus armed to the very teeth, as it were,--and moreover endowed with
that reckless kind of daring which we have seen him exercise on so many
different occasions,--the Resurrection Man was as desperate and
formidable a villain as any Italian bravo that ever wielded the elastic
steel of Milan, or any Spanish bandit whose hand was familiar with the
bright blade of Albaceta.

An hour passed away; and profound silence reigned throughout the Palace
in the Holy Land.

The Resurrection Man, with a candle in his left hand, and his right
ready to grasp a weapon of defence, stole cautiously from his room.

He descended the stairs, and proceeded to the apartment in which the
Rattlesnake slept.

The door yielded to his hand--and he entered the chamber.

It was a large room, with twelve mattresses spread upon the floor; but
only one of the beds was occupied--and that was by Margaret Flathers.

The intended victim slept.

Anthony Tidkins approached the bed, placed the candle upon the floor,
knelt down, and bent over the bolster.

"Margaret!" he said, in a low tone, giving her a gentle shake by the
shoulder at the same time.

She opened her eyes; and at the same moment the Resurrection Man clapped
his hand tightly upon her mouth. But this precaution was unnecessary;
for, without it, profound terror would have sealed the lips of the
affrighted woman.

"If you cause an alarm," muttered the Resurrection Man, in a low but
hoarse and dogged tone, "I'll cut your throat that minute. I want to
speak to you; and if you tell me the truth I will do you no harm."

The Rattlesnake clasped her hands together, and cast a glance of the
most humble and earnest supplication up into the countenance of the
demon whose sudden appearance--_there_--and at the still hour of
night--leaning over her in so menacing a manner, and with dark resolve
expressed in his foreboding face,--had struck such terror to her inmost
soul.

"Now, mind," added the Resurrection Man,--"one word to disturb the
house--and you die!"

He then withdrew his hand from her mouth; but she scarcely breathed more
freely. Her alarm would not have been of a more appalling character, had
she awoke to find herself encircled in the horrible coils of a
boa-constrictor.

"You see, Margaret," continued Tidkins, "no one can escape me: sooner or
later I fall in with those who thwart or injure me. But we have not much
time for idle chattering. In one word; what have you done with the money
you stole from me?"

"The gipsies have got it all," answered the woman, scarcely able to
articulate through intense terror; "but a part of it is mine whenever I
choose to claim it."

"Who has got it? Where is it kept?" demanded the Resurrection Man,
speaking in a low and sullen whisper.

"The king of the gipsies."

"What--the old fool with a white beard?"

"The same."

"And where does he keep it, I say?"

"I have been told that the bag containing the gipsies' treasure is
always placed under his bolster."

"Are you sure of that?" asked the Resurrection Man.

"Certain," was the reply: and now Margaret Flathers began to breathe
more freely; for she thought that the object of the terrible individual
present was not to kill her, but to obtain back his gold.

"Has any of it been spent?"

"No--no," answered the Rattlesnake, eagerly; although she well knew that
a third had been already divided between the royal family, the
Traveller, and Skilligalee--those being the persons who had found her
asleep beneath the tree, and possessed themselves of her treasure in the
first instance.

"Do you know where the king, as you call him, sleeps?" proceeded the
Resurrection Man.

"Yes--I am acquainted with every nook and corner of this place," replied
Margaret, her presence of mind gradually returning to her aid.

"But he does not sleep alone," said the Resurrection Man: "I know all
about _that_. How many men occupy the same room with him?"

"Only his son Morcar."

"Are they armed?"

"No," answered the Rattlesnake; "they have nothing--or fancy they have
nothing--to fear: this house is so well guarded!"

"Now listen," said the Resurrection Man, after a pause: "I have no time
to waste in words. Will you conduct me to the room where this king of
yours sleeps, and help me to get back my gold? or will you have your
throat cut this minute?" And as he uttered these terrific words, he
coolly drew his clasp-knife from his pocket.

"Oh! put away that horrid thing, and I will do all you tell me!" said
the Rattlesnake, clasping her hands again together, while a cold shudder
passed over her entire frame.

"Well--I don't want to do you any harm," returned Tidkins, with
difficulty suppressing a sardonic smile. "But I warn you, that if you
attempt any treachery, I will shoot you upon the spot without an
instant's hesitation, let the consequences be what they may."

And this time he showed her the butt-ends of his pistols in the
side-pocket of his rough coat.

"You need not threaten me, Tony," said the woman, endeavouring to assume
an insinuating tone; but the dark scowl with which the Resurrection Man
surveyed her as she thus addressed him, instantly checked that partial
overture towards reconciliation and confidence.

"None of that nonsense with me, Meg," whispered Tidkins; "it has
deceived me before. But I warn you! So now jump up and lead the way to
the king's room."

The Resurrection Man rose from his kneeling posture over the bed, which,
as our readers have been already informed, was made up on the floor;
and Margaret Flathers got up.

"Shall I dress myself?" she said.

"What for? You don't think that you're going away with me--do you? No,
no; I shall leave you in the excellent company which you have chosen for
yourself, and with your friend Skilligalee."

The Rattlesnake made no reply; but she marvelled how the Resurrection
Man became acquainted with so many particulars concerning her
companions.

"Take the light, and go first," said the Resurrection Man; and, pulling
off his heavy shoes, he prepared to follow her.

Margaret Flathers took the candle in her hand, and led the way
cautiously to the room in which Zingary and Morcar slept.

The door was a-jar--and she entered, followed by the Resurrection Man.

The king and Morcar were fast asleep in their beds, which were also
spread on the floor.

The Resurrection Man drew a pistol from his pocket, and advanced to the
head of the king's couch.

The Rattlesnake remained in the middle of the room, holding the candle.

Tidkins cautiously introduced his hand beneath the bolster; and, to his
inexpressible joy, his fingers came in contact with a bag evidently
containing no small quantity of coin.

By the sudden flash of delight which overspread his countenance, the
Rattlesnake perceived that her words had not misled him; and she
rejoiced in her turn--for she had dreaded the consequences of any
disappointment experienced on his part.

A difficult task yet remained for the Resurrection Man to perform: he
had to draw the bag, as gently as he could, from beneath the king's
head. At one moment a horrible idea entered his imagination;--he thought
of cutting the old man's throat, in order to abstract the treasure
without molestation. But then, there was the other man who might happen
to awake! Accordingly he abandoned this horrible scheme, and commenced
his task of slowly removing the bag.

But just at the moment when this difficulty seemed entirely overcome,
Morcar started up in the next bed, and uttered a loud cry.

The candle fell from the hands of the Rattlesnake, and was extinguished.
Availing himself of the darkness into which the room was thus suddenly
plunged, the Resurrection Man seized the bag, and darted towards the
door.

But scarcely had he set foot in the adjacent passage, when the deep
tones of a bell suddenly boomed throughout the house; and the notes of
the tocsin were instantly responded to by the clamour of voices and the
rushing of many persons from the various rooms to know the cause of the
alarm.

The entire house was now in confusion: the alarm, which Morcar rang,
awoke every one throughout the establishment.

Meantime, the Resurrection Man had precipitated himself down stairs, and
had already begun to unbolt the front door, when lights appeared, and in
another moment he was surrounded by the gipsy chiefs, and pinioned by
them.

"Villain!" cried Morcar, tearing the bag of gold from his grasp: "is
this the reward of our hospitality?"

"It's mine--and I can prove it," thundered the Resurrection Man. "But
let me go--I don't want to hurt any of you--and you needn't hurt me."

"Ah! that voice!" ejaculated the Traveller, who had just reached the
bottom of the stairs as Tidkins uttered those words: then, before a
single arm could even be stretched out to restrain him, he rushed with
the fury of a demon upon the Resurrection Man, and planted his long
dagger in the miscreant's breast.

Tidkins fell: a cry of horror broke from the gipsies; and the Traveller
was instantly secured.

"He is not dead--but he is dying," exclaimed Morcar, raising the
Resurrection Man in his arms.

"Tell him, then," cried the Traveller, in a tone of mingled triumph and
joy,--"tell him that the man who was transported four years ago by his
infernal treachery has at length been avenged,--tell him that he dies by
the hand of Crankey Jem!"

These words seemed to animate the Resurrection Man for a few moments: he
made an effort to speak--but his tongue refused to articulate the curses
which his imagination prompted; and, turning a glance of the most
diabolical hatred upon the avenger, he sank back insensible in the arms
of Morcar.

The gipsies conveyed him up stairs, and placed him on a bed, where
Aischa, who, like many females of her race, possessed no inconsiderable
amount of medical knowledge, immediately attended upon him.




CHAPTER CXXXVI.

THE SECRET TRIBUNAL.


Half an hour after the occurrences just related, a strange and terribly
romantic scene took place at the Gipsies' Palace in Saint Giles's.

The principal room on the ground-floor was lighted up with numerous
candles. At the head of the long table sate King Zingary, clad in a
black robe or gown, and wearing a black cap upon his head.

The gipsies, who had all dressed themselves in the interval which had
occurred since the alarm, were seated at the board,--the men on one
side, the women on the other.

Aischa alone was absent.

At the lower end of the table sat Margaret Flathers,--her countenance
deadly pale, and her eyes wildly glancing upon those around her, as if
to inquire the meaning of this solemn conclave.

Skilligalee was also present; but his looks were downcast and sombre.

Such an assembly, in the middle of the night, and succeeding so rapidly
upon the dread incidents which had already occurred, was enough to
strike terror to the soul of Margaret Flathers; for she knew that this
meeting, at which so much awful ceremony seemed to preside, bore some
reference to _herself_.

At length Zingary spoke.

"Margaret," he said, in a solemn tone, "you are now in the presence of
the secret tribunal of the united races of Zingarees. Our association,
existing by conventional rules and laws of its own making, and to a
certain degree independent of those which govern the country wherein we
dwell, has been compelled to frame severe statutes to meet extreme
cases. One of our customs is hospitality; and you have seen enough of us
to know that we ask but few questions of those who seek our charity or
our protection. It necessarily happens that persons who so come amongst
us, learn much of our mode of life and many of our proceedings. But the
basest ingratitude alone could reward our generous hospitality with a
treacherous betrayal of any matters, the communication of which might
militate against our interests. Although we have no sympathy and no
dealings with the thieves and rogues of this great metropolis, we never
refuse them the security of this establishment, when accident or
previous acquaintance with its existence leads them to seek the safety
of its walls. This conduct on our part has been pursued upon grounds of
generosity and policy;--generosity, because we believe that half the
criminals in existence are rather the victims of bad laws than of their
own perverse natures;--policy, because we wish to keep on good terms
with all orders and classes who live in violation of the law. It,
however, behoves us to adopt as much precaution as possible against
treachery, and to punish treachery where we detect it, and when the
perpetrator of it is in our power. With this view the secret tribunal
was instituted at the same time that this establishment was first
opened, more than a century ago. Margaret, you are now in the presence
of that tribunal, and you are accused of treachery and ingratitude of
the very blackest dye."

This address was delivered with a solemnity which made a deep impression
upon all present. No slang phrases, no low synonymes disfigured the
language of King Zingary. He spoke in a manner becoming the chief of a
vastly ramified association which had made laws for the protection of
its own interests.

Margaret surveyed the aged individual who thus addressed her, with wild
astonishment and vague alarm. But so confused were her ideas that she
could not make any reply.

"What are the facts of this case?" continued King Zingary, after a
pause: "you, Margaret, are discovered by us one morning, sleeping in the
open air, and nearly dead with the cold. You have a treasure with you,
which we might have appropriated altogether to ourselves, but a third of
which has been held at your disposal--yours at any time you might choose
to demand it. You come amongst us; you are treated by us with even more
than usual attention and kindness; and you are allowed to associate with
our wives and daughters without the least restraint. A fortnight
scarcely elapses, when you conduct a robber into my room, and point to
him the place where he may find the treasure belonging to the
association."

"Hear me--hear me!" ejaculated Margaret, now recovering the power of
speech; "hear me--and I will explain all."

"Speak," said the king.

"I am not guilty of premeditated ingratitude," continued the
Rattlesnake: "I awoke in the middle of the night, and found a fiend in
human shape hanging over me. That man was the one whom I had been so
anxious to avoid--of whom I was so afraid. I admit that I had robbed him
of the gold which you found with me; but I was not bound to tell you
_that_ before now. Well--I awoke, and he was hanging over me! How he
came into the house, you best know; how he knew that I was an inmate of
it, I cannot explain; how he discovered my room is also a mystery.
Nevertheless--he did find me out; and with dreadful threats of instant
death he made me lead him to your apartment to get back his gold. That
is the whole truth."

A smile of incredulity played upon the lips of Zingary.

"Why did you not give the alarm, when once you were in my chamber?" he
demanded. "Even if I am old and feeble, was not Morcar there? and could
you not in one moment have summoned the others to your aid, by touching
the bell-rope within your reach?"

"And, had I done so, that instant would have been my last. The fearful
man, whom I obeyed, would have shot me dead on the spot," answered the
Rattlesnake.

"And do you not know how to die rather than betray your companions?"
asked the king.

"I am but a woman--a weak woman," exclaimed Margaret; "and--oh!
no--no--I could not die so horrible a death!"

"Our women would die in such a cause," said Zingary; "and those who join
us and live with us must learn our customs and our habits."

"Remember how sudden was the appearance of that man--how awful were his
threats--in the middle of the night--and a knife, I may say, at my very
throat----"

"It is a most extraordinary thing, that the very man whom you so much
dreaded should have happened to seek our hospitality within a fortnight
after you had joined us. Am I wrong if I entertain a suspicion in that
respect? You knew that the bag, which every night was deposited beneath
my head, contained not only the greater part of the gold which you
brought us, but also the year's contributions from the tribes and
districts: you knew all this, because we had no secrets from you. Then,
perhaps, you were tired of our company; and you imagined that it would
be an easy thing to make your peace with that man whom you so much
feared, by putting him in possession of a larger treasure than the one
you plundered from him,--a treasure, too, which you might hope to share
with him."

"As I live, that was not the case!" cried the Rattlesnake,
energetically. "You know that I have never stirred out of this house
once since I first crossed the threshold: how, then, could I communicate
with that man?"

"Where there is a will, there generally is a way, Margaret," answered
the king. "Have you any thing further to urge in your defence?"

"I have told the truth," replied the woman; "what more can I say?"

"Then you may retire," said Zingary.

Two gipsy-men led her from the room; and those who remained behind
proceeded to deliberate upon the case.

The whole affair was viewed in an aspect most unfavourable to the
Rattlesnake; and when Skilligalee volunteered an argument in her
defence, he was reminded that he only sate at that board by sufferance,
because he was known to be faithfully attached to the Zingarees, but
that he was not one of either race.

When the question had been duly discussed by the Secret Tribunal, the
king put the point at issue to the vote--_Guilty_, or _Not Guilty_.

The decision of the majority was "Guilty."

The Rattlesnake was then ordered to be brought back to the room.

When she again stood in the presence of her judges, Zingary addressed
her in the following manner:--

"This tribunal, Margaret, has duly deliberated upon the case in which
you are so especially interested. The result of that deliberation is,
that you are found guilty of the blackest treachery and ingratitude. The
founders of this tribunal wisely ordained that it should only pronounce
one penalty in all cases which terminated in convictions; and that
penalty is one which does not enable the criminal to return to the world
to seek at the hands of the country's tribunals redress for what such
criminal might deem to be an injustice practised by this court. That
penalty is death!"

"Death!" wildly screamed Margaret Flathers: "oh, no--you would not,
could not murder me in cold blood!"

"Death," solemnly repeated Zingary;--"death in the usual manner,
according to the laws which this Tribunal was instituted to dispense."

"Death!" again cried the unhappy woman, scarcely believing what she
heard: "no--it is impossible! You will not kill me--you cannot cut me
off so soon! I am not prepared to die--I have led a wicked life, and
must have time to repent. Spare me! But--do not keep me in this dreadful
suspense! Oh! I can understand that you wish to strike me with
terror--to read me a terrible lesson. Well--you have succeeded! Expel me
from your society--thrust me out of your house; but----"

"Remove her," interrupted Zingary, firmly; but at the same time a tear
trickled down his countenance.

The two gipsies who had before led the Rattlesnake from the room, now
dragged her forcibly away; while her piercing screams struck to the
hearts of those who heard them.

"When is the sentence to be executed?" inquired Skilligalee, in a
subdued and mournful tone.

"Within the hour," answered the king. "You may converse with her up to
the fatal moment."

Skilligalee bowed, and left the room.

"Let the Traveller be now introduced," said Zingary.

Crankey Jem,--against whom, the reader may remember, the Resurrection
Man had turned Crown evidence at the same sessions of the Central
Criminal Court at which Richard Markham and Eliza Sidney were tried and
condemned,--was now brought into the room.

"You have conducted yourself in a manner calculated to involve us all in
a most serious difficulty," said the king, addressing this individual;
"and we are compelled to rid ourselves of your presence without delay.
You have been treated with hospitality by us: reward us by maintaining
the most profound secresy relative to all you have seen or heard since
you have been our companion and guest. Depart--and may you always be
ready and willing to serve a Zingaree."

"I will--I will," answered Jem: "night and day--in any case--I will risk
my life for one of you. I do not blame you for expelling me; in fact, I
should have left you in the morning of my own accord. London is no place
for an escaped convict; and I shall not be sorry to leave it. But,
answer me one question before I go: is _that man_ dead?"

"We shall give you no information on that head," answered Zingary.
"Depart, my friend--and trouble us with your presence no longer. You
have gold--and may you prosper."

Crankey Jem bowed to the gipsies; and, having thanked them for their
hospitality and kindness towards him, took his departure from the
palace.

The gipsies retained their seats; but not a word was spoken by any one
present.

At length the great bell on the staircase was struck three times. At
this signal the king rose and walked slowly out of the room, followed by
the other gipsies.

The procession moved with solemn pace, and in dead silence, to the back
part of the house, where it descended a flight of stone steps into a
place used as a scullery. There Skilligalee, Margaret Flathers, and the
two gipsy-gaolers who had charge of the criminal, were waiting.

A single candle burned in the place, and its dim fitful light rather
augmented than diminished the gloom.

Margaret was absorbed in the most profound grief and terror; and her
mental sufferings were revealed in heart-rending sobs.

The nature of her doom had already been communicated to her!

Skilligalee's countenance was ashy pale; but, much as he felt, he knew
the Zingarees too well to undertake the vain task of imploring their
mercy on behalf of the culprit.

"Is every thing ready?" demanded the king.

"Every thing," answered one of the gipsy-gaolers.

With these words the man opened a massive door leading into a cellar, at
the end of which there was another door, affording admittance into a
second and smaller vault.

"Margaret," cried the king, in a loud tone, "your doom is prepared.
Brethren, take warning against treachery and ingratitude from this last
act of justice!"

The two gipsies who had been entrusted with the custody of the criminal,
raised her between them, and bore her through the first cellar into the
interior vault.

But she uttered not a scream--nor a sob: she had fallen into a state of
apathy bordering upon insensibility, the moment the rough hands of those
men had touched her.

Skilligalee's lips were compressed; and he evidently experienced immense
difficulty in restraining his feelings.

Margaret was deposited on a mattress in the inner cell: a loaf of bread
and pitcher of water had already been placed upon a shelf in one corner
of the dungeon.

The door was then closed and carefully bolted.

The door of the outer cellar was also shut; and thus was the wretched
woman entombed alive.

But as the procession of Zingarees turned to leave the vicinity of that
fearful scene of punishment, a faint shriek--though not the less
expressive of bitter agony in consequence of its indistinctness--fell
upon the ears of those who had witnessed the sepulture of a living
being.




EPILOGUE TO VOLUME I.


Thus far have we pursued our adventurous theme; and though we have
already told so much, how much more does there remain yet to tell!

Said we not, at the outset, that we would introduce our readers to a
city of strange contrasts? and who shall say that we have not fulfilled
our promise?

But as yet we have only drawn the veil partially aside from the mighty
panorama of grandeur and misery which it is our task to display:--the
reader has still to be initiated more deeply into the MYSTERIES OF
LONDON.

We have a grand moral to work out--a great lesson to teach every class
of society;--a moral and a lesson whose themes are

                       WEALTH. | POVERTY.

For we have constituted ourselves the scourge of the oppressor, and the
champion of the oppressed: we have taken virtue by the hand to raise it,
and we have seized upon vice to expose it; we have no fear of those who
sit in high places; but we dwell as emphatically upon the failings of
the educated and rich, as on the immorality of the ignorant and poor.

We invite all those who have been deceived to come around us, and we
will unmask the deceiver;--we seek the company of them that drag the
chains of tyranny along the rough thoroughfares of the world, that we
may put the tyrant to shame;--we gather around us all those who suffer
from vicious institutions, that we may expose the rottenness of the
social heart.

Crime, oppression, and injustice prosper for a time; but, with nations
as with individuals, the day of retribution must come. Such is the
lesson which we have yet to teach.

And let those who have perused what we have already written, pause ere
they deduce therefrom a general moral;--for as yet they cannot
anticipate our design, nor read our end.

No:--for we have yet more to write, and they have more to learn, of the
MYSTERIES OF LONDON.

Strange as many of the incidents already recorded may be deemed,--wild
and fanciful as much of our narrative up to this point may appear,--we
have yet events more strange, and episodes more seemingly wild and
fanciful, to narrate in the ensuing volume.

For the word "LONDON" constitutes a theme whose details, whether of good
or of evil, are inexhaustible: nor knew we, when we took up our pen to
enter upon the subject, how vast--how mighty--how comprehensive it might
be!

Ye, then, who have borne with us thus far, condescend to follow us on to
the end:--we can promise that the spirit which has animated us up to
this point will not flag as we prosecute our undertaking;--and, at the
close, we feel convinced that more than one will be enabled to
retrospect over some good and useful sentiment which will have been
awakened in his soul by the perusal of "THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON."

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

P. P. THOMS, PRINTER, 12, WARWICK SQUARE, LONDON.

FOOTNOTES:

 [1] Booty, plunder.

 [2] Secured.

 [3] White Upper Coat: synonymous with "White Poodle."

 [4] Handkerchief.

 [5] Pocket.

 [6] Strip.

 [7] Pawn the coat.

 [8] Gin.

 [9] Stomach.

 [10] Head.

 [11] Judges.

 [12] Transported.

 [13] Barrister.

 [14] Teeth.

 [15] A thief who sneaks down areas to see what he can steal In
 kitchens.

 [16] Prison.

 [17] Burglary.

 [18] West-street, Smithfield.

 [19] Gave him a share.

 [20] Informer.

 [21] Turnkey.

 [22] The Hulks.

 [23] Waistcoat-pocket.

 [24] Hands.

 [25] Stealing a lady's reticule from her pretty arm.

 [26] The Burglar.

 [27] Public-house.

 [28] Gunpowder.

 [29] A companion.

 [30] Chaplain.

 [31] The Gallows.

 [32] Passing forged notes.

 [33] Friends.

 [34] Informed.

 [35] Sixpence.

 [36] Bad Meat.

 [37] Dark lantern.

 [38] Implements used by burglars.

 [39] Receiver of Stolen Goods.

 [40] Swell-mobites.

 [41] Swell-mobites who affect to be dissenting ministers, and preach
 in the open air in order to collect crowds, upon whose pockets their
 confederates work.

 [42] Common thieves.

 [43] Thieves who steal pocket-handkerchiefs.

 [44] Swell-mobites, who steal from the compters in shops, while their
 confederates make some trifling purchase. These thieves often contrive
 to empty the till.

 [45] Persons who pass false money.

 [46] Persons who pass forged bank-notes at races, fairs, etc.

 [47] Common Cheats.

 [48] Gentlemanly--agreeable.

 [49] Hands.

 [50] Hanging.

 [51] Inform, give warning.

 [52] Sovereigns.

 [53] Flash houses.

 [54] A thief who frequents theatres.

 [55] Pulpit

 [56] A Jew fence: a receiver of stolen goods.

 [57] 1s. 6d.

 [58] The drop.

 [59] A watch seal.

 [60] Served to deceive the unwary.

 [61] Pocket book.

 [62] Watch.

 [63] Jack Ketch.

 [64] Utterer of false sovereigns.

 [65] A convict returned from transportation before his time.

 [66] Hanged.

 [67] A juvenile thief.

 [68] Privately whipped in prison.

 [69] This song is entirely original.

 [70] Burst it open.

 [71] Surgeon.

 [72] The author begs it to be fully understood that his own sentiments
 relative to courts and court etiquette, &c., must not be identified
 with the opinions of these ladles who are now conversing together.

 [73] Four-penny piece.

 [74] "We have not gone to bed."

 [75] The causes which produce prostitution are as follows:

 I. Natural causes:--1. Licentiousness of inclination. 2. Irritability
 of temper. 3. Pride and love of dress. 4. Dishonesty, and desire of
 property. 5. Indolence.

 II. Accidental causes:--1. Seduction. 2. Inconsiderate and ill-sorted
 marriages. 3. Inadequate remuneration for female work. 4. Want of
 employment. 5. Intemperance. 6. Poverty. 7. Want of proper looking
 after their servants on the part of masters and mistresses. 8.
 Ignorance. 9. Bad example of parents. 10. Harsh and unkind treatment
 by parents and other relations. 11. Attendance on evening dancing
 schools, and dancing parties. 12. Theatre going. 13. The publication
 of improper works, and obscene prints. 14. The countenance and reward
 given to vice. 15. The small encouragement given to virtue.

 The proportions amongst those females who have deviated from the path
 of virtue may be quoted as follows:--

 1. One-fourth from being servants in taverns and public-houses, where
 they have been seduced by men frequenting these places of dissipation
 and temptation.

 2. One-fourth from the intermixture of the sexes in factories, and
 those employed in workhouses, shops, &c.

 3. One-fourth by procuresses, or females who visit country towns,
 markets, and places of worship, for the purpose of decoying
 good-looking girls of all classes.

 4. One-fourth may be divided into four classes:--1. Such as being
 indolent, or possessing bad tempers, leave their situations. 2.
 Those who are driven to that awful course by young men making false
 promises. 3. Children who have been urged by their mothers to become
 prostitutes for a livelihood. 4. Daughters of clergymen, half-pay
 officers, &c., who are left portionless orphans.

 [76] "The process of parliamentary reporting, and the qualifications
 of those by whom the task is performed, cannot be adequately described
 within the narrow limits of this article; but it is hoped that the
 reader may be enabled to form some idea of both from the following
 brief outline. Every publication not copying from, or abridging
 any other, but giving original reports, keeps one of a series of
 reporters constantly in the gallery of the lords, and another in
 the commons. These, like sentinels, are at stated periods relieved
 by their colleagues, when they take advantage of the interval to
 transcribe their notes, in order to be ready again to resume the duty
 of note-taking, and afterwards that of transcription for the press.
 A succession of reporters for each establishment is thus maintained;
 and the process of writing from their notes is never interrupted until
 an account of the whole debates of the evening has been committed to
 the hands of the primer. There are only seven publications for which
 a reporter is constantly in attendance; and these include the London
 morning papers, from which all others that give debates are under
 the necessity of copying or abridging them. The number of reporters
 maintained by each varies from ten or eleven to seventeen or eighteen.
 They are for the most part gentlemen of liberal education--many
 have graduated at the Universities of Oxford, Cambridge, Edinburgh,
 Glasgow, or Dublin; and they must all possess a competent knowledge
 of the multifarious subjects which come under the consideration of
 Parliament. The expedition and ability with which their duties are
 performed must be admitted by every one who attends a debate and
 afterwards reads a newspaper, while the correctness and rapidity with
 which their manuscript is put in type and printed, has long been a
 subject of surprise and admiration."--_The Parliamentary Companion._

 [77] Commencement of Book V.

 [78] The French terms for the various steps and features of the
 ballet-dance are--_jetés_, _balances_, _rondes de jambes_, _fouettes_,
 _cabrioles_, _pirouettes sur le coude-pied_, _sauts de basques_, _pas
 de bourrés_, and _entre-chats à quatre_, _à six_, and _à huit_.

 [79] The Dietary Table of Clerkenwell New Prison, already quoted at
 page 190, is as follows:--

  +------------+-----------+------------+-----------+-----------+
  |            |   Soup.   |   Gruel.   |   Meat.   |   Bread.  |
  |            +-----------+------------+-----------+-----------+
  |            |  _Pints._ |  _Pints._  | _Ounces._ | _Ounces._ |
  |            |           |            |           |           |
  |Monday      |     ..    |     2½     |    ..     |    20     |
  |Tuesday     |     ..    |     1½     |     6     |    20     |
  |Wednesday   |     ..    |     2½     |    ..     |    20     |
  |Thursday    |     ..    |     2½     |    ..     |    20     |
  |Friday      |      1    |     1½     |    ..     |    20     |
  |Saturday    |     ..    |     1½     |     6     |    20     |
  |Sunday      |      1    |     1½     |    ..     |    20     |
  |            +-----------+------------+-----------+-----------+
  |Total Weekly|           |            |           |           |
  |  Allowance |      2    |    13½     |    12     |   140     |
  +------------+-----------+------------+-----------+-----------+


 [80] It is too frequently the habit to throw the blame of the
 diabolical nature of some of the clauses of the New Poor Law upon
 the masters of workhouses: whereas the whole vituperation should
 be levelled against the guardians who issue the dietary-tables,
 from the conditions of which the masters dare not deviate. We have
 no doubt that there are many masters of workhouses who are humane
 and kind-hearted men. Indeed, having inspected several of those
 establishments for the purpose of collecting information to aid us
 in the episode to which this note is appended, we have been enabled
 to ascertain that such is really the fact. Amongst others, we must
 signalize the Edmonton and Tottenham Union House, the master of which
 is Mr. Barraclough. This gentleman is a man of a most benevolent
 heart, and exerts himself in every way to ameliorate the condition
 of those entrusted to his charge. The guardians of that particular
 Union are, moreover, worthy, liberal-minded and considerate men, who
 sanction and encourage Mr. Barraclough in his humane endeavours to
 make the inmates of the workhouse as little sensible of their degraded
 condition as possible. Would that all boards of guardians merited the
 same encomium!

 [81] The products of ordinary combustion are sufficiently poisonous.
 The gases produced by the decomposition of the dead are partially
 soluble in water; and a fatty pellicle is instantly formed in large
 quantities. The wood, saturated with these dissolved gases, and used
 as fuel (a frequent occurrence in poor neighbourhoods, and in the
 vicinity of metropolitan grave-yards), must diffuse, in addition to
 the exhalations constantly given off from bodies in vaults, and on
 the earth's surface, vast volumes of gaseous poison. Hence many of
 those maladies whose source, symptoms, and principles defy medical
 experience either to explain or cure.

 [82] In case the reader should doubt the accuracy of any of the
 statements relative to the employment of the youth of both sexes
 in the English coal-mines, which he may find in this chapter, we
 beg to refer him to the "_Report_ and _Appendix to the Report_, of
 the Children's Employment Commission, presented to Both Houses of
 Parliament by command of Her Majesty, in 1842."

 [83] "Explosions of carbonated hydrogen gas, which is usually called
 by the miners 'sulphur,' sometimes prove very destructive, not only
 by scorching to death, but by the suffocation of foul air after the
 explosion is over, and also by the violence by which persons are
 driven before it, or are smothered by the ruins thrown down upon
 them."--_Appendix to First Report._

 [84] "Amongst the children and young persons I remarked that some of
 the muscles were developed to a degree amounting to a deformity; for
 example, the muscles of the back and loins stood from the body, and
 appeared almost like a rope passing under the skin."--_Report._

 [85] See _Report_, page 43, section 194.

 [86] Secured the money.

 [87] Informer--spy.

 [88] In prison.

 [89] St. Giles's.

 [90] Coal-mine.

 [91] Rum-punch.

 [92] Wife.

 [93] Take something to drink.

 [94] Beggar with Matches.

 [95] Soldiers.

 [96] Treasury

 [97] Smoking a pipe.

 [98] Drinking mug.

 [99] Drinking

 [100] The porter.