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THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.




  THE

  MYSTERIES OF LONDON.

  BY

  GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS,

  AUTHOR OF “FAUST,” “PICKWICK ABROAD,” AND “ROBERT MACAIRE.”

  WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS.

  VOL. IV.

  VOL. II. SECOND SERIES.

  LONDON:
  G. VICKERS, 334, STRAND.

  MDCCCXLVIII.


LONDON

WALTER SULLY, BONNER HOUSE PRINTING OFFICE, SEACOAL LANE.




CONTENTS OF VOL. II.


                                                                   PAGE
  CHAPTER CX.--Continuation of the Black’s Visits to his
      Prisoners                                                       1

      CXI.--A Conversation                                            5

      CXII.--The Conversation concluded                              10

      CXIII.--Esther de Medina and Old Death                         12

      CXIV.--Old Death in the Dungeon                                18

      CXV.--Thomas Rainford                                          20

      CXVI.-Old Death                                                22

      CXVII.--An Explanatory Conversation                            26

      CXVIII.--The Insolvent Debtors’ Court                          28

      CXIX.--The Examination of Mr. Frank Curtis                     32

      CXX.--The Lapse of Nineteen Years                              36

      CXXI.--Mr. Hatfield                                            41

      CXXII.--Two of the Reader’s Old Friends                        44

      CXXIII.--A Man of Business                                     46

      CXXIV.--Charles Hatfield                                       48

      CXXV.--The Projected Railway Company                           53

      CXXVI.--Elucidations                                           58

      CXXVII.--The Wanderers                                         63

      CXXVIII.--The Journey continued and concluded                  67

      CXXIX.--The Advertising Agent                                  73

      CXXX.--Perdita                                                 75

      CXXXI.--The Syren’s Arts and Charms                            80

      CXXXII.--The Dangerous Sophistry of a Lovely Woman             86

      CXXXIII.--A Throne Surrounded by Republican Institutions       88

      CXXXIV.--A Painful Scene                                       94

      CXXXV.--Charles Hatfield and Mrs. Fitzhardinge                 99

      CXXXVI.--Infatuation                                          101

      CXXXVII.--Two more Old Acquaintances                          107

      CXXXVIII.--The Money-lender                                   109

      CXXXIX.--The Miser alone in his Dwelling                      112

      CXL.--Fresh Scenes and More Troubles at Home                  116

      CXLI.--The Flight                                             120

      CXLII.--The Dress-maker: a Love Story                         123

      CXLIII.--Conclusion of the History of a Dress-maker:
          a Love Story                                              140

      CXLIV.--Dover                                                 144

      CXLV.--A Mysterious Occurrence.--The Journey continued        148

      CXLVI.--Two Unpleasant Lodgers                                151

      CXLVII.--The Captain’s Ludicrous Adventure                    155

      CXLVIII.--The Charterhouse                                    160

      CXLIX.--A Strange Narrative                                   163

      CL.--The Colonel and the Captain                              168

      CLI.--The Calm--The Tempest                                   170

      CLII.--The Father, the Son, and the Son’s Wife                176

      CLIII.--Father and Son                                        183

      CLIV.--Mrs. Fitzhardinge                                      187

      CLV.--The Mother and Daughter                                 190

      CLVI.--The Half-brothers                                      195

      CLVII.--Political Observations.--The Departure of
          Charles Hatfield                                          199

      CLVIII.--Mrs. Mortimer in London                              202

      CLIX.--Mrs. Mortimer’s Adventures continued                   206

      CLX.--The Husband and Wife                                    210

      CLXI.--Agnes Vernon and her Father                            213

      CLXII.--Laura in Paris                                        217

      CLXIII.--Laura and Rosalie                                    224

      CLXIV.--Laura’s Amour                                         228

      CLXV.--Lord William Trevelyan                                 232

      CLXVI.--A Sketch of Two Brothers.--A Mystery                  237

      CLXVII.--The Lawyer                                           242

      CLXVIII.--The Nobleman and the Lawyer                         246

      CLXIX.--A Scene                                               248

      CLXX.--Agnes and Mrs. Mortimer                                253

      CLXXI.--Jack Rily, the Doctor                                 258

      CLXXII.--A Maiden’s First Love                                263

      CLXXIII.--Hopes Fulfilled                                     266

      CLXXIV.--A Night of Terrors                                   269

      CLXXV.--The Haunted House in Stamford Street                  274

      CLXXVI.--Scenes in the Haunted House                          277

      CLXXVII.--History of the Haunted House in Stamford Street     282

      CLXXVIII.--Conclusion of the History of the Haunted Houses    288

      CLXXIX.--The Ghost.--Agnes and Mrs. Mortimer                  307

      CLXXX.--Agnes and Trevelyan                                   310

      CLXXXI.--Explanations                                         314

      CLXXXII.--Laura Mortimer’s New Intrigues                      316

      CLXXXIII.--An Unexpected Visit and a Dreaded Arrival          320

      CLXXXIV.--Laura and her Mother.--Another Interruption         324

      CLXXXV.--The Lawyer’s Head Clerk                              327

      CLXXXVI.--Dr. Swinton                                         331

      CLXXXVII.--The Lunatic Asylum                                 333

      CLXXXVIII.--The Confessions of a Lunatic                      335

      CLXXXIX.--Scenes in the Lunatic Asylum                        346

      CXC.--A Scene in a Cab                                        349

      CXCI.--The Old Marquis and the Young Lord                     352

      CXCII.--Mrs. Mortimer in London again                         356

      CXCIII.--Jack Rily and Mrs. Mortimer                          358

      CXCIV.--Mother and Daughter again                             363

      CXCV.--Horrors                                                367

      CXCVI.--Resolutions                                           370

      CXCVII.--The Marquis of Delmour                               372

      CXCVIII.--Castelcicala                                        375

      CXCIX.--The Marchioness of Delmour                            378

      CC.--Jack Rily and the Lawyer’s Clerk                         382

      CCI.--Mr. Heathcote and his Clerk                             384

      CCII.--Jack Rily and Vitriol Bob                              388

      CCIII.--The Bengal Arms--Renewed Wanderings                   391

      CCIV.--The Catastrophe                                        394

      CCV.--The Castelcicalan Republic                              397

      CCVI.--Charles Hatfield in London again                       399

      CCVII.--Mr. Green’s Office                                    402

      CCVIII.--Perdita, the Lost One                                405

      CCIX.--Mr. Green’s Mission                                    409

  CONCLUSION OF VOL. II. (Second Series)                            412




ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. II.

SECOND SERIES.


  For Woodcut on page   1 see page        5

  For Woodcut on page   9 see page       13

  For Woodcut on page  17 see page       24

  For Woodcut on page  25 see page       29

  For Woodcut on page  33 see page       36

  For Woodcut on page  41 see page       45

  For Woodcut on page  49 see page       54

  For Woodcut on page  57 see page       63

  For Woodcut on page  65 see page       69

  For Woodcut on page  73 see page       73

  For Woodcut on page  81 see page       82

  For Woodcut on page  89 see page       89

  For Woodcut on page  97 see page       98

  For Woodcut on page 105 see page      110

  For Woodcut on page 113 see page      114

  For Woodcut on page 121 see page      125

  For Woodcut on page 129 see page      131

  For Woodcut on page 137 see page      142

  For Woodcut on page 145 see page      148

  For Woodcut on page 153 see page      158

  For Woodcut on page 161 see page      166

  For Woodcut on page 169 see page      172

  For Woodcut on page 177 see page      178

  For Woodcut on page 185 see page      188

  For Woodcut on page 193 see page      199

  For Woodcut on page 201 see page      204

  PERDITA                               209

  For Woodcut on page 217 see page      219

  For Woodcut on page 225 see page      230

  For Woodcut on page 233 see page      236

  For Woodcut on page 241 see page      243

  For Woodcut on page 249 see page      250

  For Woodcut on page 257 see page      258

  For Woodcut on page 265 see page      267

  For Woodcut on page 273 see page      280

  For Woodcut on page 281 see page      287

  For Woodcut on page 289 see page      295

  For Woodcut on page 297 see page      301

  For Woodcut on page 305 see page      307

  For Woodcut on page 313 see page      316

  For Woodcut on page 321 see page      328

  DR. SWINTON                  329

  For Woodcut on page 337 see page      342

  For Woodcut on page 345 see page      348

  For Woodcut on page 353 see page      355

  For Woodcut on page 361 see page      367

  For Woodcut on page 369 see page      370

  For Woodcut on page 377 see page      383

  For Woodcut on page 385 see page      392

  For Woodcut on page 393 see page      399

  For Woodcut on page 401 see page      408

  For Woodcut on page 409 see page      413




THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.


[Illustration]




CHAPTER CX.

CONTINUATION OF THE BLACK’S VISITS TO HIS PRISONERS.


Having quitted the dungeon in which Josh Pedler was confined, the
Blackamoor proceeded to the next cell; but, instead of opening the
door, he merely drew back a small sliding-lid that covered a grated
trap, and the faint rays of a light streamed from the inside.

“Tidmarsh,” said the Blackamoor, in a feigned tone, “has your mind
grown easier?”

“Yes, sir--oh! yes,” replied the prisoner from the interior of his
dungeon. “Since you allowed me a light and good books, I have been
comparatively a happy man. I know that I deserve punishment--and it
seems to do me good to feel that I am atoning for my offences in this
manner. I am not afraid of being alone now; and when I put out my
light, I am not afraid of being in the dark.”

“You pray with more composure?” said the Black, interrogatively.

“Yes, sir--I can settle my mind to prayer now,” was the answer; “and I
am sure that my prayers are heard. But pray believe, sir, that I never
was so wicked--so very wicked as that bad man who kept me for years in
his employ. I know that I was too willing an instrument in his hands;
and I am sorry for it now. The thing that lays heaviest on my mind, is
the share I had in sending poor Tom Rain to the scaffold.”

“You are sorry for that deed?” enquired the Black, in a low and
slightly tremulous tone.

“Oh! God, forgive me!” exclaimed Tidmarsh, his voice expressing sincere
contrition. “I do indeed deeply--deeply deplore my share in that awful
business; and the ghost of poor Tom Rain used to haunt me when I was
first here. In fact, Tom Rain was ever uppermost in my thoughts;
and--strange though it may seem--it is not the less true, sir, that
your voice appeared to penetrate to my very soul, as if it was Tom Rain
himself that was speaking to me. But I have got over all those ideas
now--since I learnt to pray; and when I grow dull, I read the good
books you have lent me. Sometimes I study the Bible; and I find that
if I pore over it too much, it makes me melancholy. Then I turn to the
Travels and Voyages; and I become tranquil again.”

“Should you not rejoice at any opportunity of retrieving your
character--even in your old age--and earning an honest livelihood for
yourself?” asked the Black.

“Oh! if such a thing could be!” cried the man, in a tone of exultation.
“But, no--it is impossible!” he added, after a pause, and speaking in
an altered voice. “I have sinned too deeply in respect to poor Tom
Rain, to be able to hope for such happiness. God is punishing me in
this world, you being his instrument;--and yet I can scarcely call it
punishment, since you treat me with such kindness. There are times when
I even wish that I was more severely punished _here_, so that I might
expiate all my sins and feel certain about my fate in another world.”

“God is full of forgiveness, Tidmarsh,” said the Black: “I feel that
He is,” he added in a somewhat enthusiastic manner. “The prospect
I distantly hinted at in respect to yourself, may possibly become
practicable. You are old--but you may still have many years to live;
and it would be wrong--it would be detestable not to give you a
full opportunity, sooner or later, of enabling you to testify your
contrition. But I cannot speak farther on this subject at present.
I have brought you some more books: one is a tale--‘_The Vicar of
Wakefield_’--the perusal of which will do you no harm. It will show you
how virtue, though suffering for a time, was rewarded at last. In a few
days I shall myself visit you again.”

The Black closed the trap, and stood away from the door, which Wilton
now opened; and the basket furnished the prisoner with his provisions
and also with some volumes of good and beneficial reading.

The visiting-party next proceeded to the cell in which Toby Bunce
and his wife were confined together; and here, as in the immediately
preceding instance, the Black spoke to them through a sliding trap,
from which a light also gleamed.

“For three days have you now been together, after dwelling some time
apart,” said the Blackamoor, continuing to speak in a feigned tone;
“and I now conjure you to tell me truly whether you would rather be
thus in each other’s company, or separated as before?”

“Oh! leave us together, sir--leave us together, I implore you!” cried
Mrs. Bunce, in a voice of earnest appeal. “We are now the best friends
in the world; and I have promised my husband never to say a cross word
unnecessarily to him again.”

“She seems quite an altered woman, sir,” observed Toby. “But then----”

“But then what?” demanded the Black, seeing that the man hesitated.

“Well, sir--I will speak my mind free,” continued Bunce; “because I’m
no longer afraid to do so. I was going to say that p’rhaps it is this
loneliness in which we are placed that makes Betsy talk as she does;
and that if we was to be again together out of doors----”

“You would not find me change, Toby,” interrupted the woman, but not
in a querulous manner. “I like to hear you read to me from the Bible,
and from the other good books that the gentleman has given us. I wish
we had passed more of our time in this way before we got into all this
trouble. But, pray, sir,” she added, turning towards the door, “do tell
me whether you mean to keep us here all our lives!”

“You must ask me no questions, remember,” said the Black, in a mild
but firm tone. “I have told you this before. Learn to subdue all
impatience, and to become resigned and enduring. You have made others
suffer in the world;--you have been the agents and tools of a wicked
man;--and you now see that heaven is punishing you through the means of
one who has power thus to treat you.”

“Oh! how I wish that I had never known that detestable Bones?”
exclaimed the woman, covering her face with her hands.

“And how I wish that I had stuck to my trade in an honest manner!”
cried Toby Bunce, in a voice of unfeigned contrition.

“Think of all that--repeat those sentences to each other--as often as
you can,” said the Blackamoor. “In the course of a few days I shall
visit you again.”

With these words, he stood back from the door, which Wilton opened; and
the two inmates of the dungeon received supplies of wholesome food and
moral or instructive books.

The party then proceeded farther along the subterranean passage from
which the various cells opened.

“Do you mean, sir, to fulfil your intention of this night visiting
_him_?” enquired Cæsar, addressing his master in a low, faint, and
tremulous tone, as if he were a prey to some vague terror.

The Blackamoor did not immediately answer the question; but, placing
his hand upon his brow, appeared to reflect profoundly for almost the
space of a minute.

Wilton--who seemed acquainted, as well as Cæsar, with all his master’s
secrets--likewise surveyed the Black with mingled curiosity and
apprehension.

“Yes!” at length exclaimed the mysterious personage; “I will now,
for the first time since he has been my prisoner here, hold personal
communication with Benjamin Bones!”

The party proceeded in silence to a cell near the extremity of the long
subterranean passage; and on reaching it, the Black handed the lamp
to Cæsar, at the same time making a sign to that youth and the other
dependants to stand back so that no gleam of the light should penetrate
into the dungeon when the door was opened. They obeyed in profound
silence; and their master immediately entered the cell, closing the
door behind him with that rapidity which is exercised by a brute-tamer
when introducing himself into the cage of a wild beast.

The interior of the dungeon was as dark as pitch,--so dark, that there
was not even that greyish appearance which obscurity frequently wears
to eyes accustomed to it. It was a darkness that might be felt,--a
darkness which seemed to touch and hang upon the visual organs like a
dense black mist.

“Who is it?” demanded the sepulchral voice of Old Death, his tone
marked with a subdued ferocity and a sort of savage growling which
seemed to denote a rancorous hate and pent-up longings for bitter
vengeance against the author or authors of his solitary imprisonment.

“I am the person who keeps you here,” answered the Black, studying to
adopt a voice even more feigned and unlike his natural tones than when
he was ere now addressing Tidmarsh and the Bunces.

Still that voice had in it some peculiarity which appeared to touch
a chord that vibrated to the very core of Old Death’s heart; for he
evidently made a starting movement, as he said hoarsely and thickly,
“But who are you--a spectre or a living being? Tell me who you are!”

“I am a living being like yourself,” was the reply, delivered in a
voice disguised in deeper modulations than before. “Are you afraid of
being visited by spectres?”

There was a long pause, during which the deep silence was interrupted
only by the heavy breathing of Old Death, as if the utter darkness of
the place sate oppressively upon him.

“Are you afraid of spectres, I ask?” demanded the Black, who was
leaning with folded arms against the door, and with his eyes in the
direction where he presumed Old Death to be seated; though not even the
faintest outline of his form could he trace amidst that black obscurity.

“Bring me a light, or let me out--and I will answer all your
questions,” cried Benjamin Bones, his anxiety to obtain his freedom
giving a cadence of earnest appeal to his voice in spite of the
tremendous rage which his bosom cherished against the individual who
had proclaimed himself to be his gaoler.

“Do you deserve mercy?--do you merit the indulgence of man?” asked the
Black, in a tone profoundly solemn.

“What do you know of me?--who are you?--why did you have me brought
here?--and by what right do you keep me in this infernal place?”
demanded Old Death, rapidly and savagely.

“Is it not a just retribution which makes you a prisoner in a
subterranean where you have often imprisoned others?” said the Black.

“Then ’tis that miscreant Ellingham who has put me here!” exclaimed
Bones, in a tone which showed that he was quivering with rage.
“Demon!--fiend!--yes--you are Lord Ellingham--I thought I knew your
voice, although you tried to disguise it. At the first moment I
fancied--but that was stupid,--still it struck me that it was the voice
of Tom Rain which spoke. Ha! ha!” the old wretch chuckled with horrible
ferocity and savage glee--“I did for him--I did for him! I sent him
to the scaffold--I got him hanged--and now he is food for worms!
Ellingham--for I know you _are_ Lord Ellingham--I can have the laugh at
you, you devil, although you keep me here!”

“Miserable old man,” said the Black, in a tone of deep pity, though
still disguised in modulation,--“are you insensible to the whisperings
of conscience?”

“Yes--now that you are here!” cried Benjamin Bones, his clothes
rustling as if with the trembling nervousness of enraged excitement.
“You made me sell you these houses--you took them away from me by
force, as it were; and now you keep me a prisoner here. It is all
through vengeance that you do it--_you_ who pretended to be above all
thoughts or intentions of revenge!”

“As God is my judge, I harbour no such sentiment towards you!” said the
Blackamoor, emphatically. “But will you converse tranquilly and calmly
with me?”

“Well--I will try,” returned Old Death. “What do you want to say to me?”

“To remind you that you are an old--very old man, and that you cannot
hope to live much longer----”

“Fiend! would you kill me in cold blood!” interrupted Bones, in a sort
of shrieking, yelling tone that indicated mingled alarm and rage.

“Had I intended to slay you, I might have done it when you were first
brought here as my prisoner,” answered the Black. “Rest satisfied on
that head----”

“Then you do not mean to kill me?” exclaimed Old Death, with all the
hysterical joy of a coward soul, in spite of his natural and still
untamed ferocity.

“Heaven forbid!” ejaculated the Blackamoor.

“There--now ’tis the voice of Tom Rain once again!” cried Old Death,
evidently shuddering as he spoke. “But, no--I am a fool--you are the
Earl! Yes--tell me--are you not the Earl of Ellingham?”

“No matter who I am,” was the solemn reply. “If you ask me questions, I
will immediately leave you.”

“No--don’t go for a few minutes!” exclaimed Old Death, imploringly. “I
have been here a month,--yes--for I have counted the visits of your
men, who come, as they tell me, every night to bring me food,--and
I know that I have been here a month. In all that time I have only
exchanged a dozen words with human beings--and--and--this solitude is
horrible!”

“You have leisure to ponder on all your crimes,” said the Black.

“Who made you my judge?” demanded Old Death, with a return of his
ferocity of tone and manner. “If you want me to confess all my sins,
and will then set me free, I will do it,” he added in a somewhat
ironical way.

“Confession is useless, without true repentance,” observed the
Blackamoor. “Besides, all your misdeeds are known to me,--your
behaviour to your half-sister, Octavia Manners, years ago--your
treatment of poor Jacob Smith--your machinations to destroy Thomas
Rainford----”

“Then, by all this, am I convinced that you _are_ the Earl of
Ellingham!” cried Old Death. “Ah! my lord,” he immediately added, in
a voice which suddenly changed to a tone of earnest appeal, “do not
keep me here any longer! Let me go--and I will leave London for ever!
Reflect, my lord--I am an old man--a very old man,--you yourself said
so just now,--and you are killing me by keeping me here. Send me out of
the country--any where you choose, however distant--and I will thank
you: but again I say, do not keep me here.”

“When the savage animal goes about preying upon the weak and unwary, he
should be placed under restraint,” said the Blackamoor. “You are not
repentant, Benjamin Bones! A month have you been here--a month have you
been allowed to ponder upon your enormities,--and still your soul is
obdurate. Not many minutes have elapsed since you gloried in one of the
most infamous deeds of your long and wicked life.”

“I spoke of Tom Rain to annoy you--because I was enraged with you
for keeping me here,” returned Old Death, hastily. “There have been
moments,” he added, after a short pause, “when I have felt sorry for
what I did in that respect. I would not do so over again--no, my lord,
I assure you I would not! I wish your poor half-brother was alive
now--I would not seek to injure him, even if I had the power.”

“You speak thus because you have been alone and in the dark,” observed
the Blackamoor, in a mournful voice: “but were you restored to
freedom--to the enjoyment of the light of God’s own sun--and to the
possession of the power of following your career of iniquity, you would
again glory in that dreadful deed.”

“No,” answered Old Death: “I am sorry for it. I know that my nature is
savage and ferocious: but will you tame me by cruelty? And your keeping
me here is downright cruelty--and nothing more or less. It makes me
vindictive--it makes me feel at times as if I hated you.”

“I shall keep you here, nevertheless, for some time longer--aye, and
in the dark,” returned the Blackamoor; “because you seek not to subdue
your revengeful feelings. It is terrible to think that so old a man
should be so inveterately wicked. Do you know that your gang is broken
up--rendered powerless? In the cells of this subterranean are Timothy
Splint--Joshua Pedler--Mrs. Bunce and her husband--and your agent,
Tidmarsh.”

“Then I have no hope _from without_!” growled Old Death, his garments
again rustling with a movement of savage impatience; and for an instant
it struck the Blackamoor that he could see two ferocious eyes gleaming
in the dark--but this was doubtless the mere fancy of the moment.

“Yes,--you are beyond the reach of human aid, unless by _my_ will
and consent,” said the Blackamoor. “Your late companions or tools in
iniquity are all housed safely here;--and, what is more, they are
penitent. Listen for a moment, Benjamin Bones; and may the information
I am about to give you, prove an instructive lesson. Timothy Splint
is at this instant reading the Bible, therein to search for hope and
consolation, which God does not deny to the worst sinners when they are
truly penitent. Joshua Pedler is occupying himself in writing a letter
of advice to a young girl who became his mistress, whom he drove to
prostitution, but who is now earning her livelihood in a respectable
manner. Tidmarsh deplores the folly which made him your instrument;
and he is reading good books. Bunce and his wife are together in the
same dungeon; and the woman is rapidly yielding up to her husband that
empire which she had usurped. They too regret that they ever knew you;
and the Bible is their solace. Of six persons whom I imprisoned in this
place which was once your own property, five are already repentant:
you, who are the sixth, alone remain obdurate and hardened.”

“And my old friends curse me!” moaned the ancient miscreant, his voice
seeming more hollow and sepulchral than ever, as if he were covering
his face with his hands. “What--the people who owe so much to me--the
Bunces--Tidmarsh----”

“Would not speak to you, unless it were to convert you,” added the
Black. “Thus, you perceive, you--who, in the common course of nature,
are of all the six the nearest to the threshold of the tomb,--you, who
have so many years upon your head, and such deep and manifold crimes to
expiate,--_you_, Benjamin Bones,” continued the warning voice, “are the
last to show the slightest--the faintest sign of penitence. Is not this
deplorable? And even now you appear to regret that your late companions
in crime should be in their hearts thus alienated from you. Doubtless
you trusted to the chapter of accidents--to the hazard of chances to
enable them to discover your place of imprisonment and effect your
rescue?”

Old Death groaned heavily, in spite of himself.

“Yes:--such was your hope--such was your idea,” resumed the Black;
“and now you are unmanned by disappointment. Even your friend Jeffreys
turned against you--he led you into the snare which I set for you--he
will not raise an arm to save you from my power. He does not even know
where you are.”

“Then I am abandoned by all the world!” shrieked forth the wretched
miscreant, unable to subdue the agonising emotions which this
conviction excited within him.

“He who finds himself abandoned by all the world, should throw himself
upon his Maker,” said the Blackamoor.

“There--there--’tis the voice of Rainford again!” cried Old Death,
evidently seized with ineffable terror. “But, no--no--you are the Earl
of Ellingham--you must be the Earl! Yet why do you every now and then
imitate the tone of Tom Rain? Is it to frighten me, my lord? Tell
me--is it to frighten me?”

“You seem inaccessible to fear of any kind,” answered the Black,--“I
mean a fear which may be permanent and salutary. You have occasional
qualms of conscience, which you cannot altogether resist, but which
almost immediately pass away. Have you no wish to make your peace with
heaven? Would you pray with a clergyman, were one to visit you?”

“No:--I am unfit for prayer--I should not have the patience to stand
the questioning of a clergyman,” answered Old Death hastily: then,
almost immediately afterwards, he said, “But I was wrong to give such
a reply! Yes--send me a clergyman--let him bring a light--do any thing
to relieve me from this solitude and this darkness. My lord--for I
know that you are the Earl of Ellingham--pray take compassion upon
me! I am an old--a very old man, my lord; and I cannot endure this
confinement. I told you just now that I was sorry for what I did to
your brother-in-law; and you know that I cannot recall him to life.
Neither will you do so by killing me. Have mercy upon me, then, my
lord: let me leave this horrible place----”

“To enter the great world again, and renew your course of crime?”
interrupted the Black. “No--Benjamin Bones, that may not be! Let me
first become assured that you sincerely and truly repent of your
misdeeds--let me be impressed with the conviction that you are sorry
for the crimes which have marked your long life,--and then--_then_,
we will speak of ameliorating your condition. For the present, do not
consider me as your enemy--do not look upon me as a man acting towards
you from vindictive motives only. No:--for were I inclined to vent
on you a miserable spite or a fiendish malignity, the means are not
deficient. I might keep you without food for days together--but each
day your provender is renewed: or I might even kill you outright--and
yet I would not violently injure a hair of your head! To-morrow evening
I will visit you again: in the meantime endeavour to subdue your
feelings so that you may then speak to me without irritation.”

With these words the Black abruptly thrust the door open, and quitted
the dungeon; but at that instant Cæsar, who had been pacing up and down
with Wilton in the immediate vicinity of that particular cell, was so
close to the entrance that the light of the lamp which he carried in
his hand streamed full upon the countenance of his master as the latter
sprang forth from the deep darkness of Old Death’s prison-house.

The glare for a moment showed the interior of the dungeon; and the
Black, mechanically turning his eyes towards the place where he
presumed Benjamin Bones to be, caught a rapid glimpse of the hideous
old man, seated--or rather crouched on his bed, his hands clasped
round his knees, and his form so arched that his knees and chin almost
appeared to meet.

In another instant the dungeon-door was closed violently by the
Blackamoor, who, as he locked and barred it, said in a low and somewhat
reproachful tone to Cæsar, “You should not have been so incautious as
to throw the light upon me just as I was leaving the cell. Old Death
had time, even in that single moment during which the glare flashed
upon my countenance, to observe me distinctly.”

“I am truly sorry, sir, that I should have been go imprudent,” answered
Cæsar, in a tone of vexation at his fault. “But it is impossible that
he could recognise you.”

“I believe so,” observed the Black: “and therefore we will say no
more upon the subject. The old man remains obdurate and hardened,” he
continued, still speaking in a low whisper; “and yet I have hopes of
him as well as of the others.”

Wilton supplied Benjamin Bones with provisions through the trap in
his dungeon-door; and the party then quitted the subterranean by
the mode of egress communicating with the house in Red Lion Street,
Clerkenwell--for the reader now perceives, as indeed he may long ago
have conjectured, that the Black’s dwelling was established in the
quarters lately tenanted by Old Death.




CHAPTER CXI.

A CONVERSATION.


Pass we over another month--eight weeks having now elapsed since the
six prisoners were first consigned to their dungeons, and four weeks
from the date of those visits the description of which has occupied the
two proceeding chapters.

It was between nine and ten o’clock in the evening; and the Blackamoor
was seated in his apartment, looking over some letters, when Cæsar
ushered in Dr. Lascelles.

“Good evening, my dear sir,” said the Blackamoor, shaking the worthy
physician cordially by the hand. “Be seated--and Cæsar will bring us a
bottle of that claret which you so much admire. I am delighted that you
have at length found time to give me an hour or two, in order that I
may enter into full and complete explanations of certain matters----”

“I understand--I understand,” interrupted the doctor, good humouredly.
“Your theory has proved to me more practical than I expected: but I
shall not say any more about it until you have given me all the details
of its progress. And before you begin, I must observe that the case
which took me out of town six weeks ago, and has kept me at Brighton
all the time, has ended most satisfactorily. I have effected a complete
cure.”

“I am delighted to hear tidings so glorious from you, doctor,” said the
Black. “A case which had baffled all the physicians who had previously
been concerned in it, is now conducted to a successful issue by
yourself. It will wondrously and deservedly increase your reputation,
great as that fame already was.”

“My dear friend,” replied the physician, “without for a moment seeking
to recall any thing unpleasant connected with the past, I must inform
you that galvanism was the secret of the grand cure which I have
effected. But let us pass on to another subject,” exclaimed the doctor
hastily, as if considerately turning the discourse from a disagreeable
topic. “I have been absent for six weeks--quite a strange thing for me,
who am so wedded to London; and you are one of the very first of my
friends on whom I call. All day long I have been paying hurried visits
to my patients; and now I come to sit a couple of hours with you. I
suppose you have plenty of news for me?”

“None of any consequence beyond the sphere of my own affairs in this
place,” answered the Black. “You are of course aware that the Earl has
made Esther an offer of his hand----”

“To be sure, my dear friend,” interrupted Lascelles: “that engagement
was contracted, you remember, two or three weeks before I left London,
when summoned to Brighton. But I presume that the Earl is still
ignorant of----”

“All my proceedings?” exclaimed the Black, finishing the sentence for
the physician. “Yes--he remains completely in the dark respecting
every thing. The time may, however, soon come when he shall be made
acquainted with all; and then I do not think he will blame me.”

“Far from it!” cried Lascelles, emphatically: “he doubtless owes you
his happiness, if not his life--for there is no telling what that
miscreant, Old Death, might not have done to gratify his frightful
cravings for vengeance. The monster!” exclaimed the physician,
indignantly: “he would even have inflicted the most terrible outrages
and wrongs upon the amiable Esther and the generous-souled Lady
Hatfield, in order to wound the heart of the Earl.”

“And yet I do not despair of reforming that man, bad as he is,”
observed the Black.

“Reform the Devil!” cried the doctor. “But I will not anticipate by any
hasty opinion of mine the explanations which you are going to give me.
By the bye, have you had any intelligence relative to that Mr. Torrens?”

“Yes,” answered the Black. “Esther received a letter from his daughter
Rosamond a few days ago. The poor girl and her father were on their way
to Switzerland, where they intended to settle in some secluded spot.
The old gentleman is worn down and spirit-broken; and Rosamond states
that she is afraid he is oppressed with some secret care beyond those
with which she is acquainted.”

“And your man Jeffreys?” said Lascelles, interrogatively.

“The next time you visit Hackney, doctor,--should your professional
avocations take you to that suburb,” replied the Blackamoor, “forget
not to look out for the most decent grocer’s shop in Mare Street; and
over the door you will see the name of JOHN JEFFREYS. He entered the
establishment only a few days ago; and I believe he is a reformed man.
I tried his fidelity as well as his steadiness in many ways, during
the last two months; and I have every reason to entertain the best
hopes relative to him. At all events, he has every chance of earning
an honest and good living; for he has purchased an old-established
business, which Wilton previously ascertained to be a profitable
concern.”

“Have you heard or seen anything lately of our friend Sir Christopher
Blunt?” enquired the physician, laughing as he spoke.

“I have not seen him since that memorable night when he fulfilled the
duties of a magistrate in this room,” answered the Black, smiling:
“but I have occasionally heard of him. He is so puffed up with pride
in consequence of the importance which he derived from his adventure
here, that he looks upon himself as a perfect demigod. By the bye,
I saw an advertisement in this day’s papers, announcing the speedy
publication of the ‘_The Life and Times of Sir Christopher Blunt. By
Jeremiah Lykspittal, Esq. With numerous Portraits; and containing a
mass of interesting correspondence between the Subject of the Biography
and the most Eminent Deceased Men of the present Century._’ So ran the
advertisement.”

“At which you of course laughed heartily,” exclaimed the doctor. “But
here is Cæsar with the wine--and long enough he has been in fetching it
up, too.”

The lad made some excuse, placed the decanters and glasses on the
table, and then withdrew.

“Now for the promised explanations, my friend,” cried the physician, as
he helped himself to the purple juice of Bordeaux.

“First,” began the Blackamoor, “I shall speak to you of the six
prisoners generally--or rather of my system, as applied to them. My
belief originally was that bad men should become to a certain extent
the reformers of themselves through the medium of their own thoughts.
It is not sufficient, I reasoned within myself, that criminals should
be merely placed each night in a situation to think and reflect, and
then enjoy the light of the glorious day again. A night’s meditations
may be poignant and provocative of a remorse of a salutary kind:
but when the day dawns, the mind becomes hardened again, and all
disagreeable redactions fly away. The most guilty wretches fear not
spectres in the day-time: ’tis in the darkness and silence of the night
that phantoms haunt them. In a word, then, the natural night is not
long enough to make an impression so deep that the ensuing day can not
easily obliterate it.”

“Good!” exclaimed the physician: “I follow you attentively.”

“These considerations,” resumed the Black, “led me to the conclusion
that a wicked man’s thoughts could only be rendered available as a
means to induce sincere repentance and excite a permanent remorse,
by extending their train to a long, long period. If a night of a few
short hours’ duration would produce a very partial and limited effect
upon the mind of a criminal, I reasoned--why not make _a night_ of
many weeks, and hope for a proportionately grand and striking result?
Accordingly, I resolved to subject those six prisoners to the test; and
I will now give you a detailed account of the consequences.”

“Proceed,” said the physician: “I am becoming deeply interested.”

“The six prisoners were each placed in a separate cell, and not allowed
any light in the first instance,” continued the Blackamoor. “Each
dungeon was plainly but comfortably furnished; and every evening they
were supplied with a sufficiency of food for four-and-twenty hours.
They were ordered to perform their ablutions regularly under pain of
having their meat stopped; and you may be sure that they did not fail
to obey the command. Twice a week the men were shaved by one of my
people; and twice a week also they were supplied with clean linen. The
woman was of course provided with additional changes; and as her health
was more likely to suffer than that of the men, I allowed her to walk
up and down the long subterranean for two hours each day, watched by
Wilton so that she might not communicate with either of the prisoners.
But I am now about to enter on details connected with each individual.”

The physician drew his chair a little closer to the Black.

“Tidmarsh was the first who showed any signs of contrition,” resumed
the latter. “He could not endure that one, long, endless _night_
into which I had plunged him,--a night interrupted only by the short
and regular visits of myself or my people. He was ever alone with
his own thoughts, which no intervals of a long day broke in upon:
the impression created by his thoughts was ever in his mind--the
_continuous night_ kept that impression _there_! By degrees he began to
see the error of his ways--and, when his thoughts were on one occasion
intolerable, and his imagination was filled with frightful images,
he had recourse to prayer. The next time I visited him he assured me
that his prayers had relieved him, but that he could not sufficiently
settle his mind to pray so often as he desired. That was the moment
to give this man a light; and I did so. At the same time I offered
him his choice between the Bible and a Tale-book; and he chose the
former with unaffected readiness. Had he selected the latter, I should
have seen that he craved for amusement only--and he would have had
neither lamp nor books until he had gone through a farther ordeal of
his lonely thoughts in utter darkness. Well--this Tidmarsh, by the aid
of the light, was enabled to study the Bible and settle his soul to
prayer. But a continual and unvaried perusal of the Bible is calculated
to render the mind morbid, and convert a sinner into a grossly
superstitious fanatic. Accordingly, when I saw that Tidmarsh began to
grow gloomy--which was in a very few days--I gave him books of Travels
and Voyages; and his soul was refreshed by the change. The improvement
in that man was far more rapid than I could have possibly anticipated.
During my visits to him, I tested his sincerity in a variety of
ways,--by means of questions so artfully contrived as to admit of
two kinds of answers: namely, one kind hypocritical, and the other
sincere--and at the same time implying a sort of promise of release if
the hypocritical reply were given. But I found him straight-forward
and truly conscientious in his answers. In due time I allowed him
such novels as ‘_The Vicar of Wakefield_,’ ‘_Paul and Virginia_,’
‘_Elizabeth, or the Exiles of Siberia_,’ to read: but I found that he
preferred the Travels, Voyages, and Biographies of good or great men.
Indeed, scarcely six weeks had elapsed from the date of that man’s
incarceration in the dungeon, when I felt convinced that he was so far
a reformed character as to be anxious to earn an honest livelihood
if he were only afforded the chance. Then I removed him from his
dungeon, and lodged him in a room up stairs. He was still in reality
a prisoner, because any attempt to escape on his part would have been
immediately detected--so narrowly yet secretly was he watched. To him,
however, it must have seemed that he was free: but he never evinced the
least inclination to avail himself of the apparent liberty which he
enjoyed. Every circumstance spoke in that man’s favour; and the night
before last he was sent off, in company with one of my dependants, to
Portsmouth, whence they embarked together for the little island of
Alderney, where Tidmarsh is to settle in a small way of business, to
establish which the means will be found him. My retainer will remain
for a few weeks--or perhaps months--so as thoroughly to watch his
conduct; and if during that period, and in a place where there are no
evil temptations, he manifests an uniform steadiness of conduct, I
think we may safely calculate that there is no fear of a relapse.”

“And all this has been effected in two short months!” exclaimed the
physician, with a tone and manner indicative of mingled surprise and
admiration. “I could scarcely have believed it possible.”

“Listen to my next case, doctor,” said the Black; “and you will
see that my system is most salutary. I shall speak of the two
Bunces collectively. The man Bunce I always looked upon rather as
a soft-pated, hen-pecked fool than a radically wicked fellow; and
accordingly, the moment he began to exhibit very serious alarm and
horror at being alone and in the dark, I gave him a lamp and the
Bible. The _length of night_ which I made him endure was not more than
two-thirds of a week. In respect to his wife, the first demonstration
of repentance which she showed, was in a desire to speak to her husband
if only for a few minutes and through the trap-door of his cell. Of
course I issued orders that the request should be complied with; and
it was evident that the woman derived comfort from this indulgence.
Next day she was permitted to converse with him at the trap-door for
nearly half an hour; and then she was overheard begging his pardon for
the ill-treatment which he had so often endured at her hands. For many,
many successive days this short intercourse was allowed them; and on
one occasion, Toby Bunce read her a few verses from the Bible, he being
in his cell with the lamp, and she standing outside his door in the
dark subterranean passage. The manner in which she received the passage
thus read to her, induced me to order that she also should be provided
with a light and a Testament: for the _night_ which she endured, and
which could scarcely be said to have been even interrupted by the daily
walk in the dark passage, was just _three weeks_. It gave me pain,
doctor--oh! it gave me pain, I can assure you, to punish that woman so
severely: but her mind was very obdurate--her heart very hardened;--and
darkness was long before it produced on her the effect which I desired.
At length, a few days after she had been allowed a lamp,--and a little
more than one month ago--I yielded to her earnest entreaties that she
might be lodged with her husband. Then what a change had taken place
in her! She was tamed--completely tamed,--no longer a vixenish shrew,
but questioning her husband mildly and in a conciliating tone relative
to the passages of the Bible, or the Travels and other instructive
books, which he had read to her. Good feelings appeared to establish
themselves rapidly between this couple. I had them put to several
tests. On one occasion Wilton persuaded Toby Bunce that he was not
looking very well, and some little luxury was added to the evening’s
supply of food, it being intimated that the extra dish was expressly
for himself. Wilton remained near the cell, and listened to what passed
within. Bunce insisted upon sharing the delicacy with his wife; and
she would not hear of such a proposal. He urged his offer--she was
positive; and in this point she once again showed a resolution of
her own, but not in a manner to give her husband offence. The very
next day--this was a week ago--I had the pair removed to a chamber
over-head, giving them the same apparent chance of escape as in the
case of Tidmarsh. They did not however seek to avail themselves of it;
and yesterday evening they were separated again--but only for a short
time. In fact, Bunce was last night sent off to Southampton, in company
with one of my people; and thence they doubtless embarked for the
island of Sark this morning. Mrs. Bunce will leave presently, guarded
by my faithful dependant Harding and his wife, who will not only take
her to rejoin her husband in the little islet opposite Guernsey, but
will also stay with them there for a period of six months. Bunce will
follow his trade as a tailor, Harding finding a market for the clothes
which he makes in St. Peter’s Port, which is the capital of Guernsey,
as you are well aware.”

“So far, so good,” exclaimed the physician, highly delighted with
these explanations. “Should your system produce results permanently
beneficial, you may become a great benefactor to the human race; for
it is assuredly far better to reform the wicked by a course of a few
weeks’ training by playing upon their feelings in this manner, than to
subject them to the contamination of a felons’ gaol and inflict years
of exile under circumstances which are utterly repugnant to all hopes
of reformation. But pray answer me one question. Should either of these
Bunces, or Tidmarsh choose to resist the control and authority of your
dependants who have charge of them at present--and should any one of
those quasi-prisoners demand their unconditional freedom--how can your
men exercise a power or sway over them?”

“These quasi-prisoners, as you term them,” answered the Black,
“have not, as a matter of course, the least idea who I really am.
Their minds, somewhat attenuated by their incarceration and all the
mysterious circumstances of their captivity, are to a certain extent
over-awed. They know that they have been, and still believe themselves
to be, in the power of one who wields an authority which they cannot
comprehend; and fear alone, if no better motive, therefore renders
them tractable. This ensures their obedience and their silence at
least for the present. Eventually, when they again become accustomed
to freedom, they will find themselves placed in a position to earn an
honest and very comfortable livelihood--care being taken to keep alive
in their minds the conviction that the business which produces them
their bread and enables them to live respectably, only remains their
own so long as they prove worthy of enjoying its advantages. Now, my
calculations and beliefs are these:--People who have entered upon a
course of crime, continue in it because it is very difficult, and often
impossible, to leave it for honest pursuits. But when once they have
experienced the dreadful effects of crime, and are placed in a way to
act and labour honestly, very few indeed would _by choice_ relapse
into evil courses. Therefore, I conclude and hope that the Bunces on
the one hand, and Tidmarsh on the other, will, if from mere motives of
policy and convenience alone, steadily continue in that honest path in
which they are now placed, and the advantages of which they will soon
experience.”

“Good again,” said that doctor. “If your calculations only applied to
six criminals out of ten, you would be effecting an immense good by
means of your system. But I hope and indeed am inclined to believe that
the proportion in your favour is even larger.”

“I am certain that it is,” answered the Blackamoor. “Well, I now come
to Timothy Splint--the man, who, as you may remember, was the actual
assassin of Sir Henry Courtenay.”

“If you succeed in redeeming that fellow,” exclaimed the physician, “I
shall say that your system can have no exceptions. Stay, though!” he
cried, a thought striking him;--“I had forgotten Old Death. Ah! my dear
friend, you may as well endeavour to tame the boa-constrictor, as to
reform that dreadful man.”

“You shall hear of him in his turn,” said the Black, his tone assuming
a slight degree of mournfulness, as if he were less satisfied in
respect to the application of his system to Old Death, than in either
of the other cases. “For the present,” he observed, “you must have
patience enough to listen to certain details relative to Timothy
Splint.”

“Go on, my dear friend,” cried Dr. Lascelles. “I am all attention--and
patience too, for that matter. Your narrative is too interesting to be
tedious.”

“Timothy Splint,” continued the Blackamoor, “appeared to suffer more
horribly from the darkness than all the others. The spectre of the
murdered baronet was constantly by his side, and even prevented him
from committing self-destruction. For a whole month did his _night_
continue; and during that period he must have endured the most
frightful mental tortures. This was all the better: such a state of
mind naturally drove the man to pray;--and prayer relieved him. I
remember how touchingly, although in his rude style, he assured me
one evening that when he prayed the spectre grew less and less. Now,
notwithstanding I was well pleased to find him in this frame of mind,
I did not choose to encourage superstitious notions: and therefore I
explained to him that the only apparitions which existed were those
that were conjured up by a guilty conscience. At the expiration of, I
think, exactly thirty-one days, I allowed this man a light and a Bible.
Then I pursued the same treatment with him as in respect to Tidmarsh
and the Bunces: I mean, I gave him books of Travels and Voyages and
moral Tales. He seemed very grateful--not only seemed, but really was;
and his hard heart was melted by my kind treatment. A few days ago, he
gave me the outlines of his early life; and I found that circumstances
had driven him into the ways of crime. His reformation was, therefore,
all the easier; because he had a youth of innocence to look back upon
and regret. He moreover assured me that even with his late companion in
crime, Josh Pedler, he had frequently spoken, in mournful mood, of the
unhappiness which often marks the hours of men of lawless character;
and, all these circumstances tended to give strength and consistency to
his declarations that he longed--deeply longed to have an opportunity
of earning an honest livelihood for the future. What to do with him
I scarcely knew. Whenever I reflected on this subject, I remembered
that he was a murderer--stained with the blood of a fellow-creature;
and his case was therefore widely different from that of the Bunces
and Tidmarsh. At length it struck me that emigration to a far-distant
land was the only fitting course to adopt; and I proposed it to him.
He was rejoiced at the idea; for he instantly saw how, by changing his
name, and commencing the world anew in another sphere, he should be
removed from old haunts where either unpleasant reminiscences would
be awakened, or temptations present themselves. Moreover, he beheld
the necessity of repairing to some part of the earth where he stood no
chance of being recognised by either friend or foe. His consent to my
proposed arrangement being thus obtained, and all his best hopes and
feelings being warmly enlisted in the plan, I had then to ascertain
whether any one of my dependants would consent to accompany such a
man on a long voyage and to a far-off clime. Fortunately my enquiries
amongst my retainers were followed by success; and at a very early hour
this morning Timothy Splint and his guardian, or rather companion,
set off for Liverpool, thence to embark for the United States. There,
in the backwoods of the Far West, let us hope that this man--this
murderer, whom the savage law would have _hanged_,”--and the Blackamoor
shuddered, as he pronounced the word,--“let us hope, I say, that
Timothy Splint will some day rise into a substantial farmer, and that
he may yet live to bless the period when he went through the ordeal of
the subterranean dungeon.”

The Black paused, and drank a glass of the cooling claret; for his
mouth had grown parched by the simple fact of giving utterance to _that
one word_ on which he had shudderingly laid so great an emphasis. The
physician, who appeared to guess full well what was passing in his
mind, made no remark; and in a few moments the other continued his
explanations in the ensuing manner:--

[Illustration]

“I now come to Joshua Pedler. His disposition is naturally savage and
brutal; and _a long night of darkness_ produced on him effects which
varied at different periods. His thoughts were dreadful to him; and
sometimes, when I visited him, he would at first speak ferociously.
But a kind word on my part immediately reduced him to meekness. He
had not been many days in the dungeon when, doubtless encouraged by
my manner towards him, he told me that he was not only unhappy on his
own account, but also on that of a young woman whom he had married
according to the rights of the vile class with which he had so long
herded. I immediately undertook to provide for the girl; and Pedler
really demonstrated a sincere gratitude. You need scarcely be told that
I kept my promise. Wilton sought her out; and she was found in a state
of starvation and despair. A comfortable lodging was taken for her;
and when she was somewhat restored to health, needle-work was supplied
her. But all this was done without allowing her to believe that any
other circumstance beyond a mere accidental discovery of her wretched
condition had thus rendered her the object of Wilton’s charity. The
assurance which I gave Pedler that Matilda was provided for, had a most
salutary effect upon his mind; although he frequently afterwards showed
signs of savage impatience. The tenour of his thoughts was chiefly a
regret that he had been so foolish as to pursue an evil career. He
reproached himself for the folly of his wickedness, rather than for
the wickedness itself, he disliked solitude and darkness, but was not
so much influenced by fears as his late companion, Splint. During
the first month he remained in darkness, and never once spoke to me
of prayer. Two or three times he alluded to the Bible, but did not
express a wish to read it. At last he admitted to me his conviction
that the thoughts which oppressed him were beneficial to him, though
most unpleasant. I fancied this to be a favourable opportunity to test
his worthiness to receive some indulgence. I accordingly asked him
if he would like to be able to write to Matilda. My calculation was
just: I had touched him in a vulnerable point;--and he was that night
allowed a lamp and writing-materials. Moreover, on that very occasion,
he shed tears; and I no longer despaired of taming the last remnants of
ferocity which lingered in his nature. A few days afterwards he gave
me a letter to send to Matilda. Of course I opened and read it; for it
was to obtain a precise insight into the real state of his mind that
I had suggested the correspondence with his mistress. The contents of
that document confirmed the hopes I already entertained of him; and
I saw that his affection for that young woman might be made a most
humanizing means in respect to him. I accordingly had her brought into
this house, and lodged in one of the attics. Then I broke to her as
gently as possible the fact that Joshua Pedler was my prisoner. I shall
not pause to describe her joy at receiving intelligence concerning
him; suffice it to say that she read his letter with tearful eyes, and
gladly consented to reply to it. In the evening I took her answer to
the prisoner; and he wept over it like a child. I then knew that his
reformation was a certainty. Two or three days afterwards, he begged
me to allow him a Bible; and his request was of course complied with.
The correspondence that passed between him and Matilda was frequent and
lengthy; and, that he might feel himself under no restraint, I assured
him that I neither saw his letters nor his replies. ’Twas a falsehood
on my part--but a necessary, and therefore an innocent one. For I _did_
peruse all this correspondence; and Matilda was aware of the fact by
which I was enabled to watch the gradual but sudden change that was
taking place in the mind of that man. At length I perceived that I
might in safety think of providing for him elsewhere; and I was as much
embarrassed how to accomplish this aim, as I was in the case of Timothy
Splint. But in the midst of my bewilderment I happened to notice an
advertisement in a daily newspaper, stating that by a particular day
two men, or a man and his wife, were required to undertake the care
of Eddystone Light-house. You may start with surprise, doctor--you
may even smile: but I assure you that this advertisement appeared
most providentially to concur with the object I had in view. Without
a moment’s delay I spoke to Matilda respecting the matter; and she
expressed her readiness to follow my advice in all things, so long as
there was a prospect of her being reunited to Josh Pedler. Her consent
being procured, it was no difficult task to obtain that of the man.
On the contrary, he accepted the proposal with joy and thankfulness.
Wilton soon made the necessary enquiries and arrangements; and at this
moment Joshua Pedler and the young woman are the sole inmates of the
Eddystone Light-house!”

“Thus, my dear friend,” said the physician, counting the names of
the persons upon his fingers, “you have disposed of Tidmarsh in
Alderney--the Bunces are to go to Sark--Splint is bound as an emigrant
to the Far West--and Joshua Pedler is on the Eddystone rock.”

“And Pedler is the only one who is unaccompanied by an agent of mine,”
observed the Black; “because Matilda is a good young woman; and I can
rely upon her. Moreover I should tell you that I procured a license
for them; and Wilton saw them legally married at Plymouth, before they
embarked for the Light-house.”

“I congratulate you upon the success of your projects thus far,” said
the physician. “It is truly wonderful how admirably you have managed
thus to redeem and satisfactorily dispose of some of the greatest
villains that ever lurked in the low dens of this metropolis. But now,
my friend, I wish to hear something of that arch-miscreant, Old Death.”

At this moment the door opened; and one of the Black’s dependants
entered the room.

“The woman Bunce, sir,” he said, “is most anxious to communicate
something to you before she quits London. She declares that she has a
secret preying upon her mind----”

“A secret?” exclaimed the Black.

“Yes, sir--a secret which she says she must reveal to you, as it is too
heavy for her heart to bear. She cried a great deal, and implored me to
come to you.”

“Doctor,” said the Blackamoor, after a few moments’ profound
reflection, “you know wherefore I do not wish that woman to behold my
features--even though they be thus disguised. During her incarceration
I never spoke to her save through the trap of her dungeon door; and
since she has been an inmate of the house I have not visited her. It
will be as well to continue this precaution: do you, then, hasten to
her and receive the confession, whatever it be, which she has to make.”

“Willingly,” replied Lascelles; and he followed the servant from the
room.




CHAPTER CXII.

THE CONVERSATION CONCLUDED.


Upwards of a quarter of an hour had elapsed, when Dr. Lascelles
returned to the apartment in which he had left the Blackamoor.

“Yes,” exclaimed the physician, throwing himself into the chair which
he had recently occupied; “that woman is indeed penitent--truly
penitent!”

“What proof have you acquired of this fact, doctor?” demanded the Black.

“The confession which she has just made to me--or rather the motive
which induced her to make it,” answered Lascelles. “But not to keep
you in suspense, my dear friend, she has revealed something which only
confirms a suspicion that you yourself had long ago entertained, if I
remember right.”

“And that suspicion----”

“Is relative to Jacob Smith,” added Lascelles.

“Ah! the woman has confessed it?” exclaimed the Blackamoor.

“She has confessed that Jacob Smith is her own son, and that Benjamin
Bones is his father,” replied the physician, in a solemn tone.

“My God! what a parent that man has been!” cried the Black, his brows
contracting, and his voice indicating the emotions of horror that
were suddenly excited within him. “When I recall to mind every detail
of the history of poor Jacob,--his neglected infancy--his corrupted
youth,--when I reflect that his own father was the individual who
coolly and deliberately initiated him in the ways of crime----Just
heavens! I begin to think with you that the reformation of such a
monster is an impossibility!”

“Subdue your excitement, my dear friend,” said the doctor; “and let us
converse calmly and reasonably upon these matters.”

“First, then, explain to me the nature of your interview with Mrs.
Bunce,” observed the Black. “I shall listen with earnest attention.”

“I went up stairs to the room in which she is located,” said Lascelles;
“and she rose from a chair the moment I entered; but she started back
in evident disappointment mingled with surprise when she saw me. ‘_It
was not you, sir_,’ she almost immediately observed, ‘_that I wanted
to see. I know that the master of this house is of dark complexion;
for I have caught a glimpse of him when he has visited my dungeon
below._’--I explained to her that I was a friend of yours, and that you
had deputed me to receive any confession which she had to make. She
appeared to hesitate for a moment, and then burst into tears. ‘_I have
been wicked--very wicked, sir_,’ she said, in a voice broken by deep
sobs; ‘_and it is only very lately that I have had my eyes opened to
my sinful life. The dark gentleman, who I suppose is the master here,
has done this good thing for me: and now he is going to provide for me
and my husband. But I shall not go away happy, unless I tell him every
thing that weighs on my soul._’--I spoke a few words of comfort to
her; and in a few minutes she confessed that the lad who bore the name
of Jacob Smith is her own son, born while she was the mistress of Old
Death, and before her marriage with Bunce. I informed her that Jacob
was well provided for and happy; and she seemed deeply grateful for
this assurance. Then I recommended her not to reveal this secret to her
husband when they should be united again; inasmuch as, having entered
on a new phase of existence together, it would be useless and wrong to
acquaint him with a fact calculated only to disturb that harmony. She
promised to follow my advice, and appeared much eased in mind by having
unbosomed her secret to me.”

“You gave her most excellent counsel, doctor,” said the Black: then,
after a few moments’ reflection, he added, “Jacob ought not to be
informed of this secret of his hideous parentage----at least not for
the present.”

“By no means!” exclaimed the physician. “His mind is tranquil--he feels
a certain confidence in himself--and your friendship is his greatest
delight. Let not that salutary equanimity be disturbed.”

“No--it would be wrong and useless,” said the Black, musing. “I
remember that in the course of the long narrative which he gave me of
his life, he mentioned the occasional scintillations of kindness which
marked the conduct of Mrs. Bunce towards him. I also recollect that he
observed to me how there were moments when he thought a great deal of
any gentle words which she ever uttered to him, or any kind treatment
she ever showed him.”

“Nature, my dear friend--Nature!” exclaimed the good physician. “Even
in a woman so bad as she was at the time of which he spoke, there were
certain natural yearnings which she could not altogether subdue; while,
on his part, there existed filial inclinations and tendencies which
he could not understand. How much that villain Benjamin Bones has to
answer for!”

“Alas--alas! I fear that he is beyond redemption!” cried the Black,
bitterly. “But--no,” he added immediately afterwards, in a changed and
more decided tone: “we must not despair!”

“I am now anxiously waiting to hear your report concerning him,”
observed Lascelles.

“He is still in darkness--_his night_ still continues,” was the answer.
“A month has elapsed since I visited him for the first time in his
dungeon; and during the other four weeks that have subsequently passed,
I have had several interviews with him in the same manner. These
interviews have taken place in the utter obscurity of his cell; and I
have been constrained, though with pain and difficulty, to assume a
feigned tone on each of those occasions. At my first visit he declared,
in terror and amazement, that he recognised in my voice something
which reminded him of that of Thomas Rainford; and then he seemed to
be impressed with the conviction that I was the Earl of Ellingham. His
rage against the Earl was deep and terrible; and I saw too plainly
that if he relapsed into a milder tone, it was but to deceive me
as to the real state of his mind, and induce me to grant him some
indulgences--if not his freedom. I visited him again on the following
night; and he spoke less savagely, and more meekly: but I mistrusted
him--yes, I mistrusted him, and I fear with good grounds. I cannot give
you a very satisfactory description of our subsequent meetings. At one
moment he has appeared touched by my language, and has even expressed
penitence and contrition for the past: at the next moment, he has
exhibited all the natural ferocity of his disposition. Sometimes he has
assumed a coaxing manner, and has endeavoured to move me to grant him
a light;--but I have hitherto refused. One thing I must not forget to
mention--which is that never since the first visit I paid him has he
once alluded to the impression made upon him by the sounds of my voice;
and never has he again addressed me as Lord Ellingham. In moments of
excitement or rage, he has demanded in a wild and almost frantic tone
who I am: but seldom waiting for the reply, he has relapsed either into
a humour of stubborn taciturnity, or of a meekness which I knew to be
assumed. Indeed, there are many points in his character and conduct,
since he has been an inmate of the dungeon, which I cannot comprehend.
It is however certain that darkness has not produced on him the same
rapid and important effects as upon the other five: something more
severe in the shape of punishment, or something better calculated to
touch his heart and appeal to his feelings, is requisite. At the same
time, I believe him to be already moved and shaken in his obduracy to
a certain degree: but reformation in respect to him must be a work of
time.”

“On the whole, you have hopes?” said the physician, interrogatively.

“Yes--when I call to memory all the particulars of his conduct and
language from the first occasion of my visits until the last, which
took place yesterday, I can recognise a change,” answered the Black.
“Indeed, I am almost convinced that if it were possible for me to
speak to him at very great length--to argue with him on the folly and
wickedness of his past life--to reason with him unrestrainedly, I
should be able to move him deeply. But the necessity of maintaining
an assumed tone, and the impossibility of taking a light with me so
as to watch the chantings and workings of his countenance and follow
up those appeals or those arguments which appear to have most effect
with him,--in a word, the disguise I am compelled to sustain and the
precautions I am forced to adopt, militate considerably against my
system in respect to _him_.”

“It would be imprudent for _me_ to visit him on your behalf,” observed
the physician. “On that memorable night when Lord Ellingham had him,
Tidmarsh, and Mrs. Bunce in his power in an adjacent room, and wrested
from them all the secrets of their damnable plots and schemes,--on
that occasion, you know, I was present; and Old Death would therefore
cherish only rancorous feelings with regard to me.”

“True,” said the Black, musing: then, suddenly starting from a deep
reverie of a few minutes, he exclaimed, “Doctor, I have thought of a
plan which I hope and trust, for the honour of human nature, may prove
efficacious in respect to that obdurate sinner: but I hesitate--yes, I
hesitate to put it into execution!”

“Explain yourself, my dear friend,” replied Lascelles; “and I will give
you my advice candidly and frankly.”

“In a word, then, doctor,” continued the Blackamoor, “I have such faith
in the soft persuasion of woman, that I am half inclined to conjure
Esther de Medina to assist me in this good work. Would she but consent
to visit this great sinner--or rather to address him through the
sliding-panel of his dungeon door, I am certain that her eloquence,
aided by the musical tones of her voice and the deep feeling which
would characterise her language,--I am certain, I say, that she would
succeed in touching a chord in his heart, which no words--no appeal of
mine can reach.”

The physician heard with attention, and began to reflect profoundly.

“For my part,” continued the Blackamoor, “I believe that the eloquence
of woman, when rightly used and properly directed, is endowed with
an influence and a power almost irresistible. Woman’s mission is to
tame and humanize the ferocity of man’s disposition; and the more
antagonistic are the characters of two beings of opposite sexes thus
to be brought in contact with each other, the better for the purpose.
Now, decidedly no two living creatures can be more dissimilar in all
respects than Benjamin Bones and Esther de Medina,--the former so
savage and unrelenting; the latter so mild and forgiving,--the one
possessing a soul blackened by every possible crime; the other endowed
with every virtue that approximates the nature of woman to that of the
angel!”

“I like your project--I see not the least objection to it, my dear
friend,” said Dr. Lascelles, after a long pause, during which he
pondered deeply on the plan suggested. “Do you think that Miss de
Medina would consent to aid you in this matter?”

“I have no doubt of it,” returned the Black. “You perceive that the
dilemma is somewhat serious, and not slightly embarrassing. I cannot
allow Benjamin Bones to go forth again into the world, to recommence
his vile intrigues: besides, to give him his liberty thus, would be
to defeat the primary object which I had in view in breaking up his
gang. To release him at present is therefore impossible; and I scarcely
feel myself justified in keeping him locked up much longer in a dark
dungeon. It would be unsafe to remove him into one of the apartments of
either this house or that in Turnmill Street; for such a crafty fox can
alone be kept secure by massive stone walls and iron bolts. What, then,
am I to do with him?--how am I to dispose of him? Esther will assist me
in this difficulty; and God send that through her agency, some salutary
impression may be made upon Old Death’s mind!”

“Bear in memory,” exclaimed the physician, an idea suddenly striking
him, “that one of this man’s horrible schemes was to avenge himself on
Lord Ellingham by torturing Esther de Medina.”

“And when he hears her sweet voice revealing to him her knowledge of
his atrocious designs, and sincerely promising him her pardon,--when he
discovers how much virtue and goodness there is in woman,” continued
the Black, in an impassioned tone, “he will be moved--he will be led to
contemplate the blackness of his own heart--he will find himself placed
in such frightful contrast with that forgiving angel----”

“Yes--yes!” cried the physician, emphatically: “it must be done!
You have devised the only means to produce a real and effectual
impression on that bad man’s heart; and if he prove inaccessible to
the persuasiveness of Esther’s tongue, his case may be looked upon as
hopeless.”

The deep-toned bell of Clerkenwell church now struck the hour of
eleven; and scarcely had the sound died away in the silence of night,
when a post-chaise drove up to the door of the house.

“Mrs. Bunce is now about to take her departure,” said the Black.
“Everything is prepared in that respect--Harding and his wife have
already received full instructions and the necessary funds--and the
sooner that the woman is safe out of this mighty city of temptation,
the better.”

The sounds of several footsteps were now heard descending the stairs;
and a minute afterwards, the post-chaise drove rapidly away from the
house.

“Of all my prisoners, Old Death alone remains to be disposed of,”
observed the Black, as soon as the din of the wheels was no longer
audible.

“And it is to be hoped that _he_ will not be a source of difficulty or
embarrassment to you for many weeks more,” said the physician, rising
to take his departure.




CHAPTER CXIII.

ESTHER DE MEDINA AND OLD DEATH.


It was on the third day after the explanations given to Dr. Lascelles,
and between five and six o’clock in the evening, that Esther de Medina
was conducted by the Blackamoor into the subterranean passage, the
latter holding a lamp in his hand.

“Shall I remain near you, Esther?” he enquired, in a whisper.

“No--it is not necessary,” she answered. “I am not afraid of being in
this place, gloomy as it appears; and since I am merely to address the
miserable man through the trap-door of his dungeon, no harm can reach
me.”

Thus speaking, she turned and received the light from her
companion,--her manner being calm and even resolute, though her
countenance was very pale.

“God bless you, Esther!” said the Black, emphatically: “your
willingness to aid me in this important matter is not the least
admirable trait in your character!”

“It is a duty--though a painful one,” responded the beautiful Jewess.
“And now leave me--I would rather proceed alone to the prisoner’s cell.”

“Remember,” said the Blackamoor, “it is the last on the right hand side
of this long subterranean passage.”

He then retraced his way up the stone-staircase communicating with
the house in Red Lion Street, while Esther advanced along the gloomy
cavern, in which the lamp shone but with feeble lustre.

In less than a minute she reached the door of Old Death’s dungeon: and
there she paused for nearly another minute, a sensation of loathing
and horror preventing her from immediately announcing her presence to
the terrible inmate of that cell. For the Black, in order to prepare
her as fully and completely as possible for her philanthropic mission,
had been compelled to reveal to her all the details of those dreadful
designs which Benjamin Bones had cherished against herself and Lady
Hatfield, and which had been made known through the medium of John
Jeffreys. It was therefore natural that Esther de Medina should
shrink from the bare idea of holding the slightest communication with
a miscreant of so ferocious a character: but a short--a very short
interval of reflection was soon sufficient to arm her with the courage
necessary to support the ordeal.

Drawing back the sliding-panel which covered the small aperture in the
upper part of the massive door, she said in her soft, musical voice,
“Prisoner, will you grant me your attention for a few minutes?”

“Who are you?” demanded Old Death, starting as if from a lethargic
state--a movement that was indicated by the sudden rustling of his
garments and the creaking of the bed whereon he was placed.

“I am Esther de Medina,” was the answer; and the beautiful Jewess
allowed the lamp to cast its light upon her countenance, which was so
close to the aperture that Old Death caught a momentary but perfect
view of her features.

She then placed the lamp upon the ground, thus again leaving the
interior of the cell in complete darkness.

“Yes--it is Miss Esther de Medina!” exclaimed Benjamin Bones, in a
voice which he endeavoured to render as mild and conciliatory as
possible. “Dear young lady, open the door, and let me out of this
horrible place. I am sure you possess a good heart----”

“A heart good enough to forgive you for the dreadful atrocity which you
contemplated against me upwards of two months ago,” interrupted Esther,
scarcely able to subdue a shuddering sensation which came over her.
“Yes--I know every thing,” she continued: “you would have entrapped
me into your power--you would have deprived me of the blessing of
sight,--and yet I never, never injured you.”

“But you say that you forgive me!” cried Old Death, impatiently.
“Open the door, then, my sweet young lady--and I will find means to
reward you well. Listen,” he exclaimed, approaching the trap, and
speaking in a confidential kind of hollow, murmuring whisper,--“don’t
be offended at what I am going to say--but I know that you are fond
of jewellery--and it is natural for such a beautiful creature as you
are----”

“Silence, sir!” interrupted Esther, indignantly. “I am well aware to
what you allude; and it is time to undeceive you on that head,” she
added, in a proud tone: “indeed, there is no longer any necessity for
concealment in that respect! In my turn I desire you to listen--and
listen attentively. You entertain a belief so prejudicial to my
character, that I cannot allow even such an one as _you_ to cherish
it another minute. Know, then, that I have a sister so like myself in
outward appearance----”

“By Satan! it must be so,” ejaculated Old Death, a light breaking in
upon his mind as in a single moment he took a rapid survey of all the
circumstances which had originally led him to suppose that Esther
was the thief of Mr. Gordon’s diamonds and the mistress of Tom Rain.
“Yes--yes--I understand it all now!” he added, in a tone that appeared
to imply vexation at his former blindness in respect to these matters.

“With pain and sorrow am I thus compelled to allude to a sister who is
so dear--so very dear to me,” resumed Esther: “but this explanation was
necessary--not only for my own sake, but likewise to convince you of
the folly and wickedness of endeavouring to induce _me_, by the promise
of reward or bribe, to draw back the bolts of your prison-door. No--my
visit to you is inspired by the earnest desire to move your soul to the
contemplation of all the dreadful deeds which have marked your life----”

“Then you will not set me free?” exclaimed Old Death, in a tone of
subdued rage and latent ferocity.

“Not now--not now,” repeated Esther. “But listen to me attentively!”

“Go on,” growled the inmate of the dungeon, as he retreated from the
door, and threw himself upon his bed again.

“If you entertain the slightest hope that you will ever be allowed
an opportunity to re-enter on a course of wickedness and crime, you
are sadly mistaken,” continued Esther, speaking in a conciliatory and
yet energetic tone. “Even were you liberated this moment, measures
would be adopted to render you completely powerless for the future
in respect to the perpetration of fresh enormities. Reflect, then,
whether it will not be better for you to devote the remainder of your
days--and in the ordinary course of nature they must necessarily be
few--to the important duty of making your peace with heaven! Do not
despair of pardon--oh! no--do not despair! You see that I, who am a
mortal being, can forgive you for the wrongs you meditated against
me,--and surely the mercy of heaven is greater than that of human
creatures! Yes--repent ere it be too late; and God will not cast you
off eternally. _His_ mercy is infinite: _His_ pardon is never asked in
vain by the penitent sinner.”

“Continue to speak to me thus,” cried Old Death, in a tone strangely
subdued and wondrously meek, considering the ferocious excitement which
so lately animated him.

“Oh! I sincerely hope that you will recognise the error of your ways,
ere it be indeed too late!” exclaimed Esther, in a tone of enthusiasm
deeply felt by her generous soul. “Consider your advanced age--and
think how soon the hand of Death may be laid upon you! Then how
wretched--how awful would your feelings be,--and how would you shudder
at the idea of being about to stand in the presence of that Almighty
Power whose laws and mandates you have so often violated! For, after
all, what have you gained by your long, long career of wickedness? All
your treasures were annihilated in one hour----”

“Yes--yes,” interrupted Old Death, in a voice half suffocated with
emotions which the Jewess fondly believed to be those of remorse.

“The hoardings of many years and the produce of innumerable misdeeds
were thus swept away,” she continued, impressively; “and Providence
at length decreed that you should become a prisoner in the very place
where you had so long ruled as a master. Does not heaven, then, afford
you solemn and significant warnings that your career of crime is no
more to be pursued with success?--and do not those warnings move your
heart to repentance and remorse? Neglect not such warnings as these, I
conjure you!”

“Your words do me good, young lady!” exclaimed Old Death. “I am glad
that you have come thus to speak to me.”

“And shall you ponder upon what I have said?” she demanded.

“Yes. But you will not leave me yet?--and you will come again?” he
said, in a voice indicative of suspense and anxiety relative to the
answer that was to be given.

“I will return to-morrow,” observed Esther.

“Thank you!” exclaimed Old Death, his tone now denoting a profound
emotion.

But Esther did not immediately leave the vicinity of the cell on the
present occasion. Believing that she had succeeded in making some
salutary impression upon him, she was desirous of following up the
promising commencement of her mission; and she accordingly continued to
reason with him for nearly half-an-hour longer. In the course of the
observations and arguments which she addressed to the ancient sinner,
she displayed a sound judgment and a deep but enlightened religious
feeling: there was nothing bigoted--nothing fanatical in her language.
She indulged in no quotations from the Old Testament--the book that
formed the basis of her own nation’s creed: but she expatiated on the
goodness of the Creator--the hope that exists for penitent sinners--the
terrors of a death-bed without previous repentance--and the folly, as
well as the wickedness, of the course already pursued by the prisoner.
Old Death interrupted her but seldom; and when he did interject an
observation, it was in a tone and of a nature calculated to inspire the
charming Jewess with the hope that her mission had not been undertaken
in vain.

At length she quitted the vicinity of the cell, having reiterated her
promise to return on the following day.

And this pledge was faithfully kept;--and again do we find the Hebrew
maiden persevering in her humane--her noble task of awakening proper
feelings in the breast of a terrible sinner. To her question whether
he had meditated upon his spiritual condition, Old Death replied
earnestly and eagerly in the affirmative; and throughout this second
visit, he not only sought to retain the young lady near him--or rather
at his door--as long as possible, but likewise seemed sincere in his
endeavours to inspire her with the belief that her reasoning and her
representations had not been thrown away upon him.

On the third day, Esther fancied that there was even a still more
striking change in his language when he responded to her questions or
her remarks; and not once, during the hour that she remained standing
outside his dungeon, addressing him in a style of fervid eloquence
which came from her very heart,--not once, we say, did he give the
least sign of that ferocity and savage impatience which characterised
his behaviour on the first occasion of her visit.

For a fortnight did the Hebrew maiden continue her visits regularly,
without however venturing to enter the dungeon. On the fifteenth day
she found the prisoner anxiously expecting her arrival as usual; and
almost immediately after she had drawn aside the panel and announced
her presence, he said, “Oh! dear young lady, I am so glad you are come!
I have been thinking so much--so very much over all you have lately
told me; and I have felt comforted by repeating to myself the arguments
you advance urging me to repentance. Ah! Miss, I have been a dreadful
sinner--a dreadful sinner; and I see that I am righteously punished.
But though I am penitent, you have no confidence in me yet--and that
gives me pain. Yon are afraid to trust yourself with me! Do you think
that I would harm you?”

“I hope not,” replied Esther; “and you shall not much longer have to
accuse me of want of confidence in you. I am pleased to observe that
you at length _feel_ how shocking it is to become an object of mistrust
and suspicion.”

“You are an angel, young lady!” exclaimed Benjamin Bones, approaching
the door on the outer side of which stood the Hebrew maiden. “No one on
earth save yourself could have made such an impression upon my mind,
and in so short a time. But will you promise me one thing?”

“Name your request,” said Esther.

“That you will not send any man to converse with me,” answered Old
Death. “You are of the gentle sex--and that is why your sweet voice has
had such power and influence with me. Had that gentleman--whoever he
is--continued to visit me, he would have done no good. I suspect my own
sex:--I do not think that men can be so sincere--so conscientious----”

“The gentleman to whom you allude will not visit you again without your
consent,” interrupted Esther. “I have undertaken this mission, and will
fulfil it to the utmost of my ability. I have now something important
to communicate,--important indeed, I should imagine, to one who has
been so long in darkness. In a word, I intend to give you a lamp----”

“Oh! excellent young lady!” cried Benjamin Bones, in a voice expressive
of the most unfeigned joy. “Make haste and open the door--give me the
light----”

“Nay--I must not manifest too much confidence, in you all at once. See
what it is to have been so long the votary of crime and wickedness--you
inspire a mistrust which cannot be dissipated in a moment.”

“What can I do to convince you of my penitence--my gratitude?” demanded
Old Death, in an earnest--anxious tone.

“Leave me to judge for myself relative to your state of mind,”
said Esther. “You perceive that I already begin to entertain hopes
concerning you: the proof is that I now give you a lamp--and a book
also, if you have a sincere inclination to examine its pages.”

As she uttered these words, Esther unfastened the grating which covered
the aperture, and passed the lamp through to Old Death--then the volume
to which she had alluded.

The light flashed upon his countenance as he received the lamp; and it
struck Esther that there was something hideous even in the expression
of joy which now animated those repulsive features:--but she knew that
looks which had grown sinister and become stamped with ferocious menace
during the lapse of many, many years, could not be changed nor improved
in a moment, however great were the moral reformation that had taken
place within.

“Thanks, dear young lady--a thousand thanks!” exclaimed Old Death, as
he placed the lamp upon the table: then, after a few minutes’ pause,
during which he looked into the book, he said in a tone of surprise,
“But you have brought me a Bible containing the New as well as the Old
Testament--and yet yourself only believe in the latter?”

“I respect the religion of the Christian, although I have been taught
to put no faith in it,” answered Esther de Medina, in a modest and
subdued tone. “But I must now depart: and to-morrow I shall visit you
again.”

Esther withdrew, in the firm belief that a most salutary impression
had been made upon the mind of one of the greatest criminals of modern
times. Her report was received with the most heart-felt joy by the
Blackamoor; and he was enthusiastic in his expressions of gratitude
towards the beautiful maiden for her exertions in what may unaffectedly
be denominated “a good cause.”

“Do you return to Finchley Manor with me this evening?” she asked,
cutting short his compliments with a good-humoured smile.

“No--I have particular business to attend to, Esther,” he replied. “But
you may tell a certain young lady,” he added, now smiling in his turn,
“that I shall be sure to see her to-morrow evening.”

“To-morrow!” repeated Esther. “You forget----”

“Ah! I did indeed forget,” interrupted the Black. “To-morrow is the
day on which Arthur returns to town; and I must not risk a visit to
the Manor. The fortnight of his absence has soon expired, methinks:
but doubtless in that time he has made all the necessary preparation
to render his country seat in Kent fitting and comfortable to receive
his bride,” observed the Black, smiling again. “Nay--do not blush,
Esther: he is a noble fellow, and well deserving of all your love! And,
by the bye, this absence on his part has proved most serviceable in
one sense,” he continued, again assuming a serious tone: “for had he
remained in town, you never would have been able to devote the time you
have given each day to the reformation of that wretched man below.”

“To speak candidly,” observed Esther, “I foresee a considerable
difficulty relative to my future visits to the unhappy prisoner: but I
feared to mention my embarrassment in this respect--I fancied that you
might suppose me to be wearied of the task I had undertaken----”

“I know you too well to entertain such an injurious suspicion,”
interrupted the Black, hastily and emphatically. “But it is natural,
now that Arthur and yourself are so shortly to be united, that he
should seek your society as often and for as long a period each day as
circumstances will permit----”

“Yes,” observed Esther, with a modest blush: “and though his welfare
is so deeply interested in our present enterprise--though, in a word,
so many grave and important interests depend upon the success of our
endeavours to humanize and reform that wretched prisoner, and disarm
him for the future--still I could not stoop to any falsehood or
subterfuge to account to the Earl of Ellingham for my daily absence
from home for several hours. It is true that my father is in the secret
of our proceedings--that he even approved of the course which you
suggested, and which I have adopted----”

“Stay! an idea strikes me!” suddenly ejaculated the Black. “You told
me ere now that Benjamin Bones implored you to continue your visits to
him, and not allow me to take your place; and from this circumstance
we have both drawn favourable auguries relative to his ultimate
and complete repentance. He already looks upon you as his guardian
angel--the means of his salvation; and it would be perhaps productive
of evil results--it might even lead to a moral reaction on his
part--were he to believe that you had deserted him. You have so well
prepared the way in the grand work of reformation with regard to this
man, that _another_ might now undertake _your_ duties--and Benjamin
Bones would still continue to believe that it is the same Esther de
Medina who visits him.”

“I understand you,” said the Hebrew maiden, evidently rejoiced at
a suggestion which relieved her mind from the fear of a serious
difficulty. “But would _you_ be satisfied with such an arrangement?”

“I see no alternative,” replied the Black. “Arthur will call daily at
Finchley Manor--and your frequent absence would, to say the least of
it, appear strange.”

“Oh! wherefore not allow Arthur at once to be made acquainted with the
whole truth?” demanded Esther, in an earnest and appealing manner.

“No--no--that may not be!” exclaimed the Blackamoor. “My projects must
first be carried out to the very end: for it would be my pride and
my triumph, when all danger shall have passed away, to say to him,
‘_Arthur, you were surrounded by perils which you did not suspect:
demons were plotting every kind of atrocity against your peace;--and
I have annihilated all their schemes, and tamed the schemers
themselves!_’ Urge me not therefore, my dear Esther, to deviate from
the course which I have chalked out for myself, and which I consider
to be to some extent an atonement for the misdeeds of my own life.
Yes--for he who accomplishes a great good, assuredly expiates a great
amount of evil.”

“For heaven’s sake, recur not to the past!” murmured the beautiful
Jewess, turning pale and shuddering at the crowd of unpleasant--nay
awful reminiscences which her companion’s language recalled to her mind.

“No--let us deliberate only for the present,” exclaimed the Black; “and
the more I think of the plan which I have suggested, the more suitable
does it appear. Yes,” he continued, “this is the only alternative. Let
_your_ visits to Benjamin Bones cease, Esther--and yet let him still
continue to believe that he is not neglected nor deserted by Miss de
Medina. I need say no more: the rest lies with you.”

“I understand you,” returned the Hebrew maiden; “and it shall be as you
desire.”

She then took her departure.




CHAPTER CXIV.

OLD DEATH IN THE DUNGEON.


It was five o’clock in the evening of the following day; and Old Death
was crouched up, like a wild beast, upon his bed in the dungeon, which
was now lighted by the lamp that Esther de Medina had given him.

His natural emaciation had so frightfully increased, that he seemed
but a skeleton in the clothes which hung upon him as if they had never
been made for one so thin as he. The skirts of his old grey coat were
wrapped around his wasted shanks--for, though it was now the month of
May, yet it was cold in that dungeon. His countenance was wan and
ghastly;--but its expression was little calculated to excite pity--for
any thing more diabolically ferocious than the old miscreant’s aspect,
cannot be well conceived. His face was the horrible reflex of a mind
filled with passions and longings of so savage and inhuman a nature,
that the mere thought makes one shudder.

“She will come presently,” he muttered to himself, with a kind of
subdued growling which indicated the fury of his pent-up rage: “she
will come presently,” he repeated, his eyes glaring like those of a
hyena beneath his shaggy, over-hanging brows; “and perhaps it will be
for to-day! Who knows? she may think me penitent enough to be no longer
dangerous: and then--then----”

He paused, and ground his jaws savagely together as if they were filled
with teeth; and his hands were clenched with such spasmodic violence
that the long nails ran into the palms.

“For two months and a half,” he continued at length, and still musing
to himself, “has the fiend--the infernal wretch--my mortal enemy, kept
me here! For two months and a half have I been his prisoner! Perdition
seize upon him! That man was sent into the world to be my ruin--to
thwart me--to persecute me! From the first moment I ever met him six or
seven months ago, all has gone wrong with me. But the day of vengeance
must and shall come,--yes--vengeance--vengeance--though it costs me
my life. Ah! he fancies that I am ignorant of his secret: and yet I
understand it all now--yes--all, all! Rapid as was the gleam of the
lamp which showed me his features the first time he ever visited me
here, so quick did a light flash to my mind--so quick did the truth
break upon me! Yes--yes--I understand it all _now_;”--and he chuckled
in a scarcely audible manner, yet the more horribly menacing because
it was so subdued and low. “But how can it be?--how could he have been
saved?” he asked himself, in his sombre musings: then, after a brief
pause, during which he rocked to and fro on the bed, he continued,
“Never mind the _how_! That such is the fact I am confident--and that
is enough for me! Yes--yes--that is enough for me! Fool that I was ever
for a moment to suspect him to be Lord Ellingham! And yet I should
have clung to this belief, had not the lamp glared upon his face as
he darted out of the cell! Ah! ah! he little thinks that I know him
now--that I have known him ever since the moment when the light showed
me his features, blackened as they were! Ah! ah!” again chuckled Old
Death: “I fancy that I have lulled them into an idea of my penitence!
They imagine that the work of reformation has begun with me! Ah! ha!
I played my cards well there! I did not whine and weep too soon--I
appeared to be precious tough, and precious obstinate; and my slow
conversion seemed all the more natural. They will fall all the easier
into the snare: they----”

At this moment a slight noise at the door of the cell made the ancient
miscreant start; and he instantaneously composed his features into as
mournful and sanctimonious an expression as such a horribly hang-dog
countenance could possibly assume.

The trap-door opened; and a sweet, musical voice said, “I am here
again, according to my promise: you see that I do not desert you.”

“Ah my dear young lady,” cried Old Death, affecting a tremulous tone,
“you are too good to such a dreadful sinner as I have been! My God!
when I think of all the atrocity that I once planned against you, I
feel inclined to implore you to depart from even the vicinity of such a
wretch as me!”

“Have you not been already assured that you are fully and completely
forgiven in reference to the wickedness to which you allude?” demanded
the young lady, whose beautiful countenance was now plainly visible to
Old Death through the grating over the aperture in the door.

“Yes, Miss de Medina,” returned the wretch, assuming a still more
penitent tone; “but I cannot forgive myself. You are an angel, dear
young lady--and I am a demon. I know I am! All last night I endeavoured
to read the Bible that you gave me yesterday: but I cannot settle my
mind to the task. I want some one to read it to me--if only for half
an hour every day. But this cannot be--I am aware it cannot! You--the
only person living that could have made such an impression upon me--are
afraid to enter my cell. You told me so yesterday. But am I not a human
being?--am I a wild beast? Ah! dear young lady--I could not injure
you!”--and the old miscreant appeared to weep.

“Do you think it would console you if I were to place confidence in
you--enter your cell--and read you a portion of the Word of God?”

“Why do you tantalize an old, old man who is miserable enough as it
is?” asked Old Death, in return to this question. “Do you suppose that
I am not weighed down to the very dust by an awful load of crime?
If you are afraid to come into the cell, send me a clergyman. But,
no--no,” he added, as if yielding to the sudden influence of a second
thought: “I will pray with no one but yourself! You have been my good
angel--you first touched my heart. I must wait till you have sufficient
confidence in me to follow up the blessed work you have already begun
so well. Yes--yes--even if I must remain here for a whole year, I will
not receive consolation from any one but you!”

“If I only thought that you were so far advanced in the path of
penitence----”

“Can you doubt it?” hastily demanded the prisoner. “Have you such
little confidence in your own powers of persuasion? Oh! my dear young
lady,” continued the wretch, falling upon his knees on the floor of
the cell, and joining his hands together, “have pity upon me--have
pity upon me! Your mistrust of me pierces like a dagger to my heart. I
crave--I long to be able to show you my gratitude;--and that can only
be by proving my contrition. Dear young lady, have mercy on an old, old
man, who would embrace the very ground on which you tread!”

“It would be wicked--it would be a crime to refuse your demand,” said
the sweet, musical voice, now tremulous with emotion, of her whom the
demon-hearted hypocrite called his good angel. “Stay--I will fetch the
key--and on my return I will read the Bible to you.”

And the Hebrew lady hurried away from the vicinity of the dungeon; and,
having ascended the spiral stone staircase with rapid steps, entered
the apartment usually inhabited by the Blackamoor. But he was not
there: and she paused--uncertain how to act; for she now remembered
that he had gone out for a short time immediately after giving her
certain instructions relative to the conduct she was to maintain
towards Old Death.

[Illustration]

“I should not like to do this without his consent,” she murmured to
herself: “and yet the prisoner is so penitent--so contrite, that it
would be a sin--nay, a crime, not to confirm the salutary impression
which is now so strong upon him. Yes--yes,” she continued: “I will take
this step upon my own responsibility! Surely _he_ will not blame me for
thus exceeding his instructions, when the cause is so good and the need
seems so urgent!”

Thus speaking, she took down a large key from a nail inside a cupboard,
and retraced her way to the subterranean.

In the meantime--during the ten minutes which her absence lasted--Old
Death was agitated by a thousand conflicting thoughts. At one moment
an infernal joy filled his heart, and he rubbed his hands together
in horrible and fiend-like glee: at the next instant his countenance
became convulsed with the hideous workings of his fears lest something
should occur to prevent the Jewess from entering his cell. He seemed
to live an age in that ten minutes; and he felt that if the terrific
excitement which he thus endured, were to last for an hour, it would
crush and overwhelm him. All the worst passions of his diabolical
nature were set in motion like the waves of the sea: and in that short
space of time were awakened feelings which, for intensity of awful
spite and inveterate malignity, were probably never before nor since
paralleled in the breast of man!

At length there was a slight rustling of a silk dress and the sound
of a gentle though hasty tread in the passage without; and in a few
moments the beautiful countenance of the Jewess appeared at the grated
aperture.

“Blessed young lady!” exclaimed Old Death, suddenly exercising an
immense mastery over his ferocious passions, and assuming a tone of
mingled gratitude and hope.

“Heaven grant that the step which I am now taking may have a
permanently beneficial effect!” said the Jewess, in a voice profoundly
sincere, as she placed the key in the lock.

Then, with her gentle hands, she drew back the massive bolts; and in
another moment she entered the dungeon in which the greatest miscreant
that ever disgraced human nature was crouched upon the bed, like a
tiger ready to spring from its lair.

For upwards of a minute this dreadful man could scarcely believe his
eyes--could scarcely credit his own senses. Was it possible that she
was there--there, in his presence--there, in his power? It appeared to
be a dream; and a momentary dizziness seized upon him.

“Give me the Bible,” said the Jewess, taking the chair; “and do you
draw near me.”

“Here is the book,” observed Old Death, in a deep tone which might
well be mistaken for the sign of solemn feelings, and was indeed so
interpreted.

The lady placed the sacred volume upon the table before her, and began
to turn over its leaves in order to find the passage which she deemed
most appropriate and suitable for the circumstances of the occasion.
Having discovered the chapter which she sought, she raised her eyes
towards Old Death’s countenance in order to assure herself that he was
in readiness for her to begin; but a sudden sensation of horror and
apprehension seized upon her, as she caught a glimpse of the diabolical
expression of those features on which the pale light of the flickering
lamp fell with sinister effect.

Then, with a howl of ferocious rage, that old man, whom the deep
craving after a bloody vengeance now rendered as strong as a
giant,--that old man precipitated himself upon the terrified Jewess
with all the fury of a ravenous monster, the chair broke down beneath
the shock; and with dreadful shrieks and appalling screams the Hebrew
lady fell upon the dungeon-floor, held tight in the grasp of the
miscreant, who was uppermost.

In another instant those shrieks and screams yielded to subdued moans;
for his fingers had fixed themselves round her throat like an iron
vice. Desperate--desperate were her struggles,--the struggles of
the agony of death: but Benjamin Bones seemed to gather energy and
force from the mere act of this strong resistance;--and as his grasp
tightened round his victim’s neck, low but savage growls escaped his
lips.

By degrees the struggling grew less violent--and a gurgling sound
succeeded the moans of the Jewish lady. Tighter--and more tightly still
were pressed the demon’s fingers, until his long nails entered her soft
and palpitating flesh. Oh! it was horrible--horrible,--this scene of
ruthless murder in that subterranean dungeon!

At length the movements of the victim became mere convulsive spasms:
but her large dark eyes, now unnaturally brilliant, glared up at Old
Death, fixedly and appallingly. Nevertheless, he was not terrified--he
was not stricken with remorse! No--still, still he clung to his victim,
his own eyes looking down ferociously into hers, and the workings of
his countenance displaying a fiend-like triumph--a savage glory in the
awful deed which he was perpetrating.

Nearly five minutes had elapsed from the instant when the murderer
first sprang upon the unfortunate Jewess: and now, suddenly starting to
his feet, he seized the lamp and dashed it upon her head. A low moan
escaped her--and all was silent.

Yes--all was silent, and all was darkness too; for the light had been
extinguished:--and Old Death precipitated himself from the dungeon.

He hurried along the subterranean, which he knew so well,--hurried
along towards the spiral stair-case, wondering whether he should
be enabled to effect his escape, yet almost reckless and desperate
as to what might become of him, now that his savage vengeance was
accomplished.

He ascended the stone steps--he entered the room which had for years
and years served him as a bed-chamber, before he had been compelled to
dispose of the house to Lord Ellingham. He passed into the laboratory:
and as yet he had proceeded without interruption. Joy! joy! he should
escape yet--the adjoining room, now fitted up as a handsome parlour,
was likewise untenanted at the moment:--joy! joy! he is descending the
stair-case leading to the hall!

Is it possible that he will escape? Fortune seems to favour the
diabolical murderer; and his hand is now upon the latch of the
front-door--he stands as it were once more upon the threshold of
that great world which is so wide and has so many channels for the
machinations of the wicked! The house seems deserted--not a questioning
voice falls upon his ear,--not the step of a human foot, save his own,
interrupts the silence of the place! Yes--it appears as if escape be
now a certainty,--escape for him who dared not hope for it, and did
not even think of it, when intent on the all-absorbing scheme of his
vengeance!

And now the front-door opens to his touch: but--ah! he has blood upon
his hands--the blood that had flowed from the neck of the murdered
Jewess. He starts back--he hesitates for a moment,--but only for a
moment: Old Death is not the man to remain long uncertain how to
proceed in such a strait!

Thrusting his hands--his gore-stained hands--into his pockets, the
demon-hearted monster issues as coolly and calmly from the house
as if it were his own and he had nothing to fear. The fresh air of
heaven--untasted by him for ten long weeks--comes gushing upon his
face: he is free--he is free!

“Ah!” is the hasty ejaculation which now falls on his ear: he looks
around--a man is bounding, flying towards him--and in another instant
he is in the grasp of the Blackamoor.

A short and desperate struggle takes place; and a crowd immediately
gathers near--for the Sessions are being held at Hicks’s Hall, on
Clerkenwell Green, so that the neighbourhood presents the bustling
appearance usual on such occasions.

“Seize him--hold him!” yells forth Old Death, as his powerful opponent
hurls him towards the house-door, which the miscreant had not closed
behind him.

“He is a mad-man--escaped from a lunatic asylum!” exclaimed the
Blackamoor, horrible apprehensions filling his soul relative to the
Jewess--for his eyes had caught sight of the blood upon Old Death’s
hands.

“No--no--I am not a mad-man!” shrieked out the latter. “Seize him--hold
him, I say:--_he has escaped the scaffold--he is_ TOM RAIN, _the
highwayman_!”

At that dreadful announcement the Blackamoor was struck speechless and
motionless, as if a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet; and in the next
instant he was in the grasp of Dykes and Bingham, who, having business
at the Sessions House, happened to be amongst the crowd gathered at the
entrance of Red Lion Street.

“Yes--seize him--hold him tight!” yelled Benjamin Bones: “he is Tom
Rain, I tell you--his face is coloured purposely--but I knew that he is
Tom Rain!”

“And hold that miscreant also!” ejaculated Rainford--for he indeed the
Blackamoor was: “seize him--let him not escape!” he cried, recovering
the power of speech, as his eyes again caught a glimpse of the
blood-stained hands of Old Death. “There has been murder committed in
this house----My God! my God!”

The crowd had now not only increased to such an extent as to render
the way perfectly impassable; but a tremendous sensation suddenly
seized upon the assemblage,--the news that Tom Rain, the celebrated
highwayman, had escaped death by some miraculous means, and was once
more in custody, circulating like wild-fire. Dykes and Bingham, knowing
that in such a case the sympathies of the mob were most likely to turn
in favour of the prisoner, hurried him and Old Death into the house,
whither they were followed by three or four other constables; and the
door was immediately closed in the face of the crowd, and secured
within.

On reaching the sitting-room the first-floor, the party halted; and Old
Death, now completely overcome by the excitement of the incidents which
had so rapidly succeeded each other in a short half-hour, threw himself
exhausted into a chair.

“Well, Mr. Rainford,” said Dykes, with something like a malicious grin,
“I am sorry for this business--but how, in the name of all that’s
wonderful, did you escape after being so deuced well hung as I seed you
was with, my own eyes?”

“Silence!” ejaculated Rainford, in an imperious tone: “and come with me
at once down below. For, as sure as you are there, murder--a horrible
murder has been committed by that wretch,” pointing to Old Death, who
now quivered beneath his furious looks; “and, if you doubt it, behold
the blood upon his hands!” added Tom Rain, with a cold shudder.

“Bring him along with us, Bingham,” said Dykes, addressing his brother
officer.

“No--no--I won’t go down there again!” yelled forth the murderer, his
countenance becoming convulsed with horror; for he was now afraid of
his crime, in the revulsion of his feelings.

“Well--let him stay here in custody,” observed Dykes; “and me and a
couple of the runners will go with Mr. Rainford.”

The officer and the two myrmidons whom he had selected, accordingly
proceeded with Tom Rain into the room where the trap-door of the spiral
stair-case had been left open by Old Death; and the constables surveyed
each other with, mingled apprehension and astonishment.

“You are not afraid?” exclaimed Rainford, in a contemptuous tone, as
he lighted a lamp: then, with impatient excitement, he cried, “Do your
duty, and come with me. Life may still be left in her--come--come!”

“Yes--yes: we shall go along with you, sure enough,” growled Dykes, as
he led the way, followed by Rainford--the two runners closing the rear.

In three minutes more the little party entered the dungeon which had so
lately been the prison-house of Old Death: and there what a dreadful
spectacle met their eyes! The murdered lady was stretched upon the
floor--her countenance horribly discoloured and swollen--the forehead
completely smashed by the blow inflicted by the lamp which had been
dashed at her--and her eyes staring with a stony glare, as if about to
start out of their sockets.

“O Tamar! Tamar! my dearest--best beloved Tamar!” cried Tom Rain, in a
tone of bitter--bitter anguish, as he threw himself upon his knees by
the side of the corpse.

The officers, rude in heart, and rendered obdurate as they were by the
very nature of their profession, stood back in respectful silence at
this outburst of sorrow from the lips of the resuscitated highwayman.

“My God!” murmured the unhappy man, clasping his hands together; “who
shall break these fearful tidings to your father and your sister? And
will they not reproach me?--will they not attribute this frightful
calamity to that project of reformation which I had devised in behalf
of Benjamin Bones? O Tamar--my dearest Tamar--who could have foreseen
that such a terrible destiny was in store for thee!”

And, bowing down his head, he wept bitterly.

Suddenly loud voices were heard from the top of the spiral stair-case,
summoning Dykes thither.

“Come along, sir--it is useless to remain here!” cried the officer,
speaking hastily but respectfully to Tom Rain, who suffered himself to
be led away--or rather, he did not offer any resistance to those who
conducted him thence.

“Well--what now!” demanded Dykes, hurrying up the steps, at the head of
which his friend Bingham was continuing to shout after him.

“Why--don’t you know,” was the reply, “that Government has offered a
reward for the diskivery of the chap wot carried off Sir Christopher
Blunt and Dr. Lascelles--about that there Torrens’s affair----”

“Well--what then?” cried Dykes, impatiently.

“Blowed if it ain’t Tom Rain,” responded Bingham: “he did it--and we’ve
knabbed him. So that’s a cool two hundred and fifty a piece!”

“By goles!” ejaculated Dykes, his countenance expanding into the most
glorious humour possible, as if all remembrance of the horrible scene
he had just witnessed were banished from his mind: “this is good news,
though,” he added, as he emerged from the stair-case into the little
back room with which it communicated. “But how do you know that the
chap as kidnapped the knight and the doctor is Mr. Rainford?”

“Because I’ve been talking with old Ben Bones,” answered Bingham; “and
he told me as how he’d been kidnapped too, and kept a prisoner down
there for a matter of ten weeks;--and how there was a lot on ’em--and
Josh Pedler and Tim Splint among the rest. So, when he mentioned them
names, I pricks up my ears--and I asks him a question or two; and I
find that they was all kidnapped just at the time that the Torrens
affair was a-making sich a noise: so it’s a clear case.”

“Clear enough, to be sure!” exclaimed Dykes.

“Ben Bones doesn’t seem to know any thing about that affair,” continued
Dykes: “cos why, he was lugged off and took down in that there place
afore the business was made public by Sir Christopher and the doctor.
But, I say--what has happened below?”

“A young o’oman killed--that’s all,” answered Dykes. “So here’s a
pretty day’s business for us, Bingham: a man that had been hung, took
up fust--then a murder diskivered, and the murderer in our power--and
now this here affair about the Government reward. Well--we’ve been
rather slack lately--and a little okkipation’s quite a blessin’.”

Thus conversing together, Mr. Dykes and Mr. Bingham returned to the
apartment where Old Death was still sitting in a chair, watched by a
couple of constables: but the moment Rainford, who had only a confused
idea, of what was passing around him, was led into that room, he
started back in horror--exclaiming, “No--no: I cannot bear to be in the
company of this dreadful man!”

Old Death, to whom he pointed, grinned in savage triumph: but Rainford
had already rushed back into the laboratory, attended by Dykes and
two runners. Almost at the same instant, the lad Cæsar who had heard
from the crowd outside enough to convince him that Rainford had been
discovered, and also that a person answering the description of Old
Death had first denounced the resuscitated highwayman, and had then
himself been arrested on a charge of murder,--Cæsar, we say, now made
his appearance, and threw himself at his master’s feet, exclaiming
wildly, “Oh! no--my generous friend--my more than father--they shall
not take you from us!”

“Jacob,” said Tom Rain, raising the distracted youth, who was no other
than the reader’s former acquaintance, Jacob Smith,--“do not yield
to grief. We have need of all our courage on this occasion. I have
received a frightful blow--wounded I am in the tenderest point--oh!
I can scarcely restrain my anguish, while conjuring you to be calm!
And yet it is necessary to meet my afflictions face to face! Hasten,
then, to Finchley--and break the sad intelligence to Mr. de Medina and
Esther: tell them, Jacob--as gently as you can--tell them that Benjamin
Bones has crowned all his enormities by----”

“My God! it is then too true!” ejaculated the youth; covering his face
with his hands.

“Yes--Tamar is no more!” added Rainford, tears gushing from his eyes.
“My poor wife has been brutally--foully murdered by that miscreant!”

Jacob Smith hurried away, his own heart feeling as if it were about to
break.

“And now,” said Tom Rain, suddenly turning towards Dykes, “I appeal to
you as men to allow me to superintend the removal of the remains of
that lady, who was my wife, to a chamber in this house; and then, that
duty being performed, I shall be ready to accompany you whithersoever
you may choose to conduct me.”

“We are not particular for an hour or so, Mr. Rainford,” returned
Dykes. “Indeed, it would be better to let the crowd disperse a little;
and if so be you don’t mind staying here a bit, we’ll wait till dark.
The evenings is long now, you see----”

“I should have wished to remain here until the relatives of the
deceased lady had time to arrive and take charge of the body,”
interrupted Tom Rain: “but I dared not ask such a favour at your hands.
As it is, however, I thank you.”

“But you must likewise let old Ben Bones stay here, until after dusk
at least,” urged Dykes: “for if it was knowed to the people outside
that it was the ancient fence who had killed a woman, they’d be after
tearing him to pieces. So we must smuggle him out presently.”

Rainford gave his consent to the proposition: he was too sick at
heart--too profoundly overwhelmed by misfortune, to attempt to argue
any question that might arise from the lamentable incidents of that
evening.




CHAPTER CXV.

THOMAS RAINFORD.


The arrest of Tom Rain and Old Death took place at about twenty minutes
to six on the evening in question; and by ten o’clock that night the
news were circulated throughout every quarter of the metropolis.

The incidents involved in the double arrestation were well adapted
to produce as much excitement as the extraordinary adventures of Sir
Christopher Blunt and Dr. Lascelles ten weeks previously.

In the first place, a man who had been publicly executed at Horsemonger
Lane, was now discovered to be alive, having been doubtless
resuscitated in some extraordinary way; although the more credulous and
wonder-loving portion of the community were firmly convinced that Tom
Rain had never been hanged at all, but that the body of some prisoner
recently deceased at the time was ushered through the dreadful ordeal
instead of the formidable highwayman.

In the second place, this said Thomas Rainford was said to be the
mysterious personage who, usurping the attributes of justice, had
kidnapped Dr. Lascelles and Sir Christopher Blunt, and had somehow
or another disposed of the real murderers of Sir Henry Courtenay,
after having devised the necessary means to prove and make public the
innocence of Mr. Torrens.

In the third place, a notorious fence, named Benjamin Bones, who had
defied the police and the laws for many, many years, had at last
fatally entangled himself with justice, by committing a diabolical
murder upon the person of Thomas Rainford’s wife.

And, in the fourth place, it had been discovered that there were
situate two houses in the very heart of London having a subterraneous
passage connecting them, and this subterranean communicating with
several dark and gloomy dungeons, decently furnished, and in which
half-a-dozen prisoners had recently been confined. One of these
prisoners was now known to be Benjamin Bones; but what had become of
the other five?

Such were the circumstances which took the whole town by storm,
and produced a tremendous sensation from one end of London to the
other--the intelligence reaching even Lady Hatfield, retired and
secluded as was her mode of living.

Shortly after ten o’clock on that eventful evening, a private carriage
drove up to the house in Red Lion Street; and Mr. de Medina, Esther,
and Lord Ellingham alighted. Jacob Smith leapt down from the box;
and in a few moments the entire party entered the dwelling, thus
disappearing from the gaze of the assembled crowd.

The Jew, his daughter, and the young nobleman were immediately
conducted by one of Rainford’s dependants into the apartment where
the unhappy husband of the murdered Tamar was pacing up and down,
Dykes sitting in a corner watching his movements. The prisoner was
no longer disguised: during the interval which had elapsed since his
arrest, he had, by the officer’s express desire, washed off the black
dye from his face and hands; and he now wore his natural aspect in one
sense--though, in another, his expressive countenance was altered by
the despair that filled his soul.

“Oh! Thomas--what terrible afflictions have occurred!” exclaimed Lord
Ellingham, as he flew into his half-brother’s arms.

“You will not reproach me, Arthur-----Oh! do not augment my grief!”
cried Rainford: and he wept bitter tears.

“No one will reproach you, excellent young man,” said Mr. de
Medina, taking the hand of his bereaved son-in-law. “But----Oh! my
daughter--my daughter, Tamar! Great God! thou hast chosen to afflict me
deeply--deeply!”

In the meantime, Esther de Medina had thrown herself into a chair,
giving way to the wildest paroxysms of grief--the Earl of Ellingham
having vainly accosted her with the hope of importing some slight
consolation. But, alas! he himself was a prey to the most poignant
anguish: and, even had he been more calm, how was it possible to
comfort Esther de Medina for the loss--the cruel assassination--of that
sister whom she loved so tenderly and so well?

“Thomas,” at length said the Earl, approaching his half-brother,
“has Jacob Smith told us the dreadful tale correctly?--and is
it--he--Benjamin Bones--who has done this? My God! I have scarcely been
able to comprehend all the terrible particulars!”

“It is true--it is too true--I know that it is!” exclaimed Mr. de
Medina, shaking his head in despair. “Yes--Tamar is no more; but--at
least--let me behold her remains!”

Rainford turned an appealing glance towards Dykes, as much as to
say, “You surely will allow me to proceed unwatched and unguarded along
with these mourners to the chamber where the corpse lies?”

But Dykes, who understood the meaning of that glance, said in a
respectful though firm tone, “I dare not trust you out of my sight!”

“I will be answerable for him, officer!” cried the Earl of Ellingham.
“Do you know me? I----”

“I know who you are, my lord,” answered Dykes; “but I cannot oblige
you.”

“Is not grief such as that which you now contemplate,” said the
nobleman, indicating the weeping father and sister of the deceased
lady,--“is not such grief as this too solemn for the intrusion of a
stranger?”

“Since your lordship forces me to speak plain,” returned Dykes, “Mr.
Rainford is my prisoner on two charges----”

“On two charges!” ejaculated the Earl: then, remembering all that his
brother had passed through, he said mournfully, “But, just heavens!
_one_ is enough!”

“As your lordship observes,” began Dykes, “one is----”

At that moment another private carriage rattled up to the door of
the house, and a lady, alighting with feverish impatience, was
instantaneously admitted into the dwelling. In less than a minute she
was ushered by Jacob Smith into the room where the mourning party were
assembled.

“Lady Hatfield!” cried Tom Rain, the moment she raised her veil: and,
as if her presence were another blow on such an occasion, he staggered
and would have, fallen had not the Earl of Ellingham caught him in his
arms.

“Pardon this intrusion,” said Georgiana, advancing into the middle of
the apartment; “and believe me when I assure you that nothing save the
hope of being in some degree able to lighten the afflictions which
pour upon you all--nothing,” she added emphatically, “but such a hope
as this would have induced me to break upon your privacy. The dreadful
rumours current in the metropolis reached me ere now--and I flew
hither, only--alas! to hear them confirmed. But--Mr. Rainford----”

She stopped short--trembled--and seemed for an instant overcome by
feelings of an unutterable nature. The bitterness--the intensity of
grief which oppressed the others, was in some degree absorbed for the
moment by the profound interest which the presence of Lady Hatfield
excited, her words having given promise of hopes the nature whereof
defied all conjecture.

But suspense on the part of her listeners was not destined to last long.

“Mr. Rainford,” she resumed, exercising a powerful control over her
emotions, “you have sustained an affliction so great that it is almost
impossible to impart consolation to you. Yet--even in the midst of such
woe as this which has overtaken you--it may at least be a satisfaction
to learn that the judgment of a criminal tribunal no longer hangs over
you--that the past is indeed the past, and cannot be revived----”

“Georgiana!” cried the Earl of Ellingham, surveying her in profound
astonishment; “what mean you?”

“I mean that Thomas Rainford is pardoned!” exclaimed Lady Hatfield: “I
mean,” she continued, the wildest astonishment having sealed the lips
of all who heard her,--“I mean that the sentence passed upon him months
ago is dissolved--annihilated;--and here is the royal decree--bearing
the Sovereign’s seal--and countersigned by the Secretary of the Home
Department! ’Tis a full pardon for Thomas Rainford!”

Thus speaking, she handed Lord Ellingham a paper: but it fell from his
hands--for his half-brother had sunk senseless upon the floor.

Water was speedily procured and all the usual means adopted to restore
him. It was, however, some time ere he gave signs of life; and then,
beckoning Georgiana towards him, he said in a faint tone, “May the
great God above us bless you--for you are an angel!”

It was undoubtedly an immense alleviation of the general sorrow to
learn that Rainford had received a full pardon for all those offences
which had drawn down on his head the sentence of death pronounced at
the Old Bailey; and the Earl of Ellingham, having now hastily glanced
over the paper which decreed this act of royal mercy, submitted it to
the examination of Mr. Dykes.

“Well, my lord,” said that officer, “I see and hear plain enough that
one of the charges on which I held Mr. Rainford prisoner, is knocked
on the head; and I’m glad of it--’specially as ’tis the most serious
of the two. But I must still keep him in custody, he being the man who
kidnapped Sir Christopher Blunt and Dr. Lascelles----”

“Wait--one moment!” exclaimed Rainford, a sudden thought flashing to
his mind and restoring him to the wonted energies of his character.

While all present watched his movements with breathless interest, he
hastened to a writing desk standing on a table in a recess; and thence
he took a pocket-book, which he opened, and the contents of which he
scanned rapidly as he turned over the various papers one after the
other.

“Here it is!” he cried triumphantly at last; and, drawing forth a slip
of paper, he handed it to Lord Ellingham, who mechanically read it
aloud:--

    “We acknowledge a sense of deep obligation to the bearer
    of this memorandum, the said bearer having rendered us
    special service; and we hold ourselves bound to grant him
    any boon which he may demand at our hands, so that it be not
    inconsistent with our royal honour, nor prejudicial to the
    interests of the State.

    “Given this 3rd of March, in the year 1827.

  “GEORGE REX.” (L.S.)

“You are saved, Thomas--you are saved, in all respects!” exclaimed
Mr. de Medina, pressing with affectionate warmth the hand of his
son-in-law, while tears trickled down the old man’s venerable
countenance.

“All this is so truly astonishing,” cried the Earl of Ellingham, “that
I am bewildered. How you, my excellent friend--my sister,” he added,
turning towards Lady Hatfield, “obtained the royal pardon for Thomas
Rainford, I well know--indeed, I have all along known.”

“You!” ejaculated Georgiana, in profound astonishment.

“Yes--I overheard your interview with the King in the Blue Velvet
Closet at Carlton House,” continued the Earl; “and now I comprehend all
the greatness and generosity of your conduct! Oh! and you must pardon
me too, for having become a listener on that occasion, and for having
ever since entertained suspicions most injurious to your honour.”

“The remainder of the tale can then be told by myself,” said Tom Rain,
hastily: “for it was I--I, the Blackamoor--the negro--who saved your
ladyship from insult and outrage, also at Carlton House. But--” he
continued, glancing in a significant manner towards Dykes,--“all these
explanations shall be for another and more convenient opportunity.
In the meantime, Arthur,” he added, “it is for you to repair at once
to the Home Secretary, and obtain from him all we require to ensure
my complete freedom, by virtue of that acknowledgment bearing the
sign-manual of the King.”

The Earl of Ellingham instantaneously undertook this commission,
although at so late an hour; but he fortunately happened to be aware
that the Secretary for the Home Department had a reception that
evening, and was therefore certain to be at home.

Dykes, who had been led on from one source of astonishment to
another, and who perceived that Thomas Rainford not only possessed
powerful friends, but likewise the patronage and favour of the King
himself,--the worthy Mr. Dykes, we say, now volunteered to withdraw
into another room, merely requesting his prisoner to pledge his honour
not to leave the house until the order of the Secretary of State should
fully and completely release him from custody. The promise was given
forthwith; and Dykes repaired to the apartment where Old Death was
still remaining in the custody of Bingham and the other constables.

Immediately after the officer had retired, Georgiana rose to take her
departure. This was the first time that she had ever seen the Medinas;
but she accosted them with the affability of a well-bred lady, and
proffered them her deepest and sincerest sympathy on account of the
dreadful loss which they had sustained. They received these proofs of
friendship in a manner which denoted the gratitude of their hearts; and
Georgiana, on taking leave, shook them cordially by the hand.

Then, extending her hand likewise to him whose mere name had hitherto
been sufficient to send a cold shudder through her entire form,--yes,
extending her hand to him also, in the true spirit of Christian
forgiveness,--but without raising her eyes to his countenance, she
said, “Mr. Rainford, may you yet know many years of happiness!”

He pressed her hand with grateful fervour--and a tear dropped upon it:
but he could not utter a word. His heart was too full to allow him to
express his thanks--his admiration of the noble conduct of that woman
whom, in a moment of delirium, as it were, he had outraged and ruined!
Ah! bitter--bitter were thy reminiscences as thus thou didst stand
before thy generous benefactress, Tom Rain!

Mr. de Medina--perceiving that his son-in-law was overcome by emotions
which were not altogether intelligible to him--offered his arm to
escort Lady Hatfield to her carriage; and Georgiana drove home with a
heart rejoicing at the good she had done--for Lord Ellingham’s sake!

The Jew returned to the apartment where he had left Esther and
Rainford; and there they all three mingled their grief together, for
the loss of the lovely and much-loved Tamar.

But over this scene we shall draw a veil: sorrow such as they
experienced cannot be adequately described. Neither shall we do more
than allude to the violence of the grief and the poignancy of the
anguish which were felt when they repaired to the chamber to which the
remains of the murdered Tamar had been conveyed. The reader does not
require to be informed that this was a ceremony of the most painful
description.

While, therefore, Mr. de Medina, Esther, and Rainford, are mingling
their tears and lamentations,--while, too, the Earl of Ellingham is
absent on his mission to the Home Secretary, armed with the document
which bore the autograph and seal of George the Fourth,--we shall
request our reader to accompany us to the apartment where Old Death
remains in the custody of Bingham and the subordinate officials.




CHAPTER CXVI.

OLD DEATH.


When Dykes made his appearance in the room just alluded to, he found
Benjamin Bones rocking himself to and fro on the chair in which he was
seated, while Bingham and the runners were partaking of refreshments at
the table.

The old miscreant was horribly pale; end there was a wild glaring of
the eyes which enhanced the ghastly expression of his countenance. The
man was in fact hideous to behold.

Now that he had leisure for reflection, and that the excitement
attending the perpetration of his bloody vengeance had passed away, he
had become fearfully alive to the awful predicament in which be stood;
nevertheless his entire aspect denoted dogged obduracy; and could he
have recalled the past, it is more than probable that he would have
played precisely the same part over again.

“Well, Mr. Dykes,” said Bingham, as the worthy thus addressed entered
the room, “will you jine us here in a bit of grub? You see, we’re
pitching into the cold jint like bricks; and the beer is fust-rate.”

“So is the pickles,” growled one of the runners, who was naturally of a
surly disposition, and could not help speaking in a grunting tone even
when best pleased.

“Come, sit down with us,” urged Mr. Bingham. “But, I say though, what
have you done with Tom Rain?”

“Done with, him, indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Dykes, swelling with the
importance of a man who had astounding news to communicate: “what
hasn’t he done for his-self, you mean?”

“Has he cut his throat--or taken poison?” demanded Old Death, eagerly.

“Not he!” cried Dykes. “Why--you cursed old fence, you’ve always got
wicked notions in your head--you have. Mr. Rainford is a genelman,
every inch of him--and I always knowed it. He’s got a power of slap-up
friends as won’t leave him long in the lurch, I can tell you.”

And the officer bestowed a significant wink upon his listeners, whose
curiosity he had now worked up to the highest pitch.

“What--what has he done?” gasped Old Death, terribly excited with
suspense. “Do you mean to say----that is--has he----_escaped_?” he
demanded, scarcely able to give utterance to the word; so fearful was
he lest Tom Rain, against whom he cherished a fiend-like hatred, should
not again figure upon the scaffold.

“Patience--patience,” said Mr. Dykes, taking a chair. “In the fust
place, you must know, that in comes a lady--and who should she be but
that very same Lady Hatfield as I’m sure Tom Rain robbed some months
ago near Hounslow, although I couldn’t bring the thing home to him at
the time----”

“Well--well,” muttered Old Death, the agony of whose suspense was
perfectly excruciating.

“But fust I should tell you,” resumed Mr. Dykes, “that Miss de Medina
comes in with her father and Lord Ellingham----”

Old Death gave vent to a savage growl.

“And now I understand all about that diamond affair, Bingham, you
know,” continued the officer; “_for, although one of the sisters is
a corpse and her face is disfigured_, I never in my life see such a
likeness as there is between them.”

We should observe that Old Death had already learnt, from the
communications which had been made in his presence by the runners who
were first in charge of Tom Rain on this eventful evening, that it was
not Esther de Medina whom he had slain, but Tamar--the wife of the man
whom he considered to be his most mortal enemy.

“But as I was a-saying,” continued Dykes, “in comes Lady Hatfield; and,
behold ye! she makes a regular set speech to prepare us all for what’s
about to take place; and then she tells us plump that Tom Rain has
received his Majesty’s free pardon!”

“No--no!” yelled forth Old Death: “it’s a lie--it’s a lie!”

“Hold your tongue, you cursed fence!” exclaimed Mr. Dykes, deeply
indignant at having his word thus unceremoniously called in question.
“Lady Hatfield had the paper with her, all reglar according to the
stattit in that case made and purwided.”

“It’s a forgery--a rank forgery!” shrieked Benjamin Bones, his
countenance becoming truly appalling with its hideous workings. “And
you have let him go, upon that pretence----you----you have----”

And he fell back in his chair, gasping for breath.

“Wot an inweterate old scoundrel it is,” observed Bingham. “Here--give
him a glass of beer, Bill; for, by goles, he’ll suffocate--and the
scaffold will be cheated of its dues after all.”

The runner, to whom the command was addressed, approached Old Death and
offered him a tumbler of porter: but the savage monster repulsed it
brutally, ferocious growls escaping from his breast.

“Well--leave him alone, then,” said Bingham.

The runner accordingly resumed his seat and his attack upon the cold
viands at the same time.

“I tell you what it is, Mr. Ben Bones,” exclaimed Dykes: “I have seen
a many free pardons--’specially where genelmen that got into trouble
was concerned, for it’s seldom that a poor devil has interest enough to
get such a thing--and I know precious well that the one I see just now,
was as reglar as possible. It had the King’s own name--his sign-mangle,
they call it--and his precious big seal--and the Home Secretary’s
signatur underneath.”

“He will escape--he will escape yet!” yelled forth Old Death, clasping
his hands together, as if in mortal agony. “The wretch--he will escape
the gibbet--he--he----”

And again he gasped in so frightful a manner that his eyes seemed to be
starting from his head, and his attenuated frame literally writhed in
convulsive spasms.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, after a long pause, during which his shocking
appearance had produced a dead silence of horror and amazement: “I have
thought of something”--and he grinned malignantly. “Did you not say
that men had been spirited away--in that Torrens’ affair----”

“To be sure I did,” answered Bingham, to whom the question was
addressed: “and Tom Rain did it. Well, what about that, Mr. Dykes?”

“Why--that seems to be knocked on the head also,” was the reply:
“though I have no doubt we shall get the reward, because we did our
dooty in arresting him; and if so be that the Home Secretary chooses to
grant him a pardon in that respect also----”

“He won’t--he won’t!” ejaculated Old Death, with feverish--nay, with
hysterical excitement. “He does not dare do it! No--no--Tom Rain must
swing for that, at all events! ’Tis as good as being accessory to
the murder--’tis shielding the murderers! Ha! ah! he will swing for
that--he will swing for that!”

“I’m blessed if he will, though,” said Dykes, bluntly; “for it seems
that he’s got a paper signed by the King which will put him all
to rights--and though I don’t exactly understand that part of the
business, I’m pretty sure Tom Rain is in no danger. Lord Ellingham has
got the matter in hand; and he has gone up to the Home Office. That’s
why I left Mr. Rainford at liberty--just taking his word of honour that
he wouldn’t bolt.”

“He’ll deceive you--he’ll run away--he’ll escape!” cried Old Death.
“You are mad to trust him! Go--seize on him again--put hand-cuffs----”

“Yes--on _you_, in no time--if you don’t hold your tongue,” interrupted
Mr. Dykes. “But ain’t all this a rummy business, though?” he demanded,
turning towards Bingham and the subordinate officials. “The old Jew
seems a most respectable gentleman--I’d take his bail for any amount,
if I was a magistrate. And really his daughter is a sweet young o’oman:
the Earl’s going to marry her, I’ll swear to it.”

“Mr. Dykes--Mr. Dykes,” whispered Old Death in his ear; and the
officer, turning suddenly round again, perceived that the tall, gaunt
form of the fence was close behind him.

“Well--what do you want?” demanded the functionary.

“One word--one word only,” murmured Bones, in a low, guttural,
sepulchral tone, while his frame shook with nervous excitement: “one
word, I say--only one word.”

“Now, then--what is it?” asked Dykes, suffering the old man to draw him
towards the recess containing the door which opened into the laboratory.

“I must speak to you in private--I have something particular to tell
you,” was the urgent and impatient reply. “Come into this room--I
shan’t keep you a moment.”

“Well--I suppose I must humour you,” said the officer, in a surly tone.
“One should look upon you as a dead man; for besides your nick-name,
the law will soon make you one in right good earnest.”

With this brutal jest--brutal even in respect to so awful a miscreant
as Old Death--the Bow Street functionary conducted him into the
laboratory, where a light happened to be burning, and the door of which
apartment Benjamin Bones closed cautiously behind them.

“Now, then--make haste, and tell us all you have got to say,” said
Dykes, eyeing the old man suspiciously and in such a meaning fashion as
to imply that any attempt at escape would assuredly prove abortive.

“Mr. Dykes, you are a good man--and a kind man--I know you are,” began
Old Death, in a coaxing tone and with a manner indicating the most
dreadful state of nervous excitement: “you would not like to see a
poor, miserable old creature like myself sent to--to--the scaffold.
No--no--you would not--you would not. But I know that it must be made
worth your while--you understand me--and--and--I will give you all I
have--yes, all I have--several thousand pounds--for I have got several
thousands!” he added, with a ghastly grin. “But no one knows where they
are except myself,--and you and I can go together to the place--and I
will give you every guinea--yes, every guinea, Mr. Dykes--remember,
every guinea I say--if you will agree to this.”

“Agree to what?” demanded Dykes, affecting not to comprehend the old
villain.

“Oh! just as if you didn’t understand me, my dear friend--my good,
kind friend!” exclaimed Benjamin Bones, becoming more coaxing in his
tone, which was as low and subdued as his sepulchral voice would
admit. “Do consider for an instant--an old man like me to be in such
trouble! You wouldn’t be happy if you had it on your mind that you had
been the means--the actual means of sending such a wretched creature
as myself to the scaffold? Speak to me, Mr. Dykes! Five thousand
pounds--yes--five thousand pounds, in good gold guineas--if--if----”

“If what?” asked the officer, with the most provoking determination not
to understand any thing that was not explained in unmistakeable words.

“If you--you will let me escape!” whispered Old Death, while his eyes
seemed to penetrate to the very soul of the man towards whom he bent in
a confidential way as he spoke.

“Now that’s English,” said Dykes, whose countenance gave not the
least indication of the manner in which he intended to receive the
proposition.

“And--and you will agree, won’t you?” asked Bones. “Remember--five
thousand guineas--all to be paid in one lump--this very night----”

“Well, now--it can’t be done, old chap,” interrupted Dykes, in a
cool--almost brutal manner, as if he were glad of the opportunity to
encourage hope for a time, merely for the sake of destroying it with a
rude hand and in an abrupt way.

“It can’t be done,” murmured Old Death, despair seizing upon him: “it
can’t be done, you say?”--and his eyes glanced wildly around.

“Is this all you have to tell me?” demanded the officer. “Because, if
so----”

“Five thousand guineas!--and he refuses it!” ejaculated Bones. “My God!
what will become of me?--what will become of me?”

And still his looks wandered rapidly about the apartment.

“Now, then--let as go back into the next room, if you please,” said
Dykes; “for I don’t see no use in staying here, wasting our time.”

At that instant Old Death’s eyes settled upon something on a shelf
close at hand; and, suddenly springing aside, he seized upon a
bottle--the particular object for which he had been searching with his
eager glances.

Dykes, without even having a moment’s leisure to make a single
conjecture relative to his intentions, but instinctively foreseeing
that something wrong was contemplated, closed upon the old man in an
instant.

With the speed of lightning did Benjamin Bones raise the bottle which
his right hand grasped; and in leas than the twinkling of an eye would
it have been smashed down upon the officer, who, seeing his danger, by
a natural impulse held down his head--when a yell of agony burst from
the lips of the old miscreant.

For, as he raised the bottle, the glass stopper fell out, and the
burning vitriol streamed down on his head and over his countenance, a
few drops only falling upon Dykes, and those principally on his clothes.

The officer instantaneously fell back; and Old Death threw himself on
the floor, where he rolled in horrid agonies--writhing like a stricken
snake, and shrieking franticly, “Oh! my eyes! my eyes!”

Bingham and the subordinate functionaries rushed in from the
adjoining apartment; and, having assured themselves that Dykes
was unhurt--although his escape from the burning fluid was truly
miraculous--they turned their attention towards Old Death. One of
them obtained water, and dashed it over him; but still he rolled and
writhed--uttering dreadful cries, mingled with horrid imprecations--and
rubbing his face madly with his hands. For the miserable wretch was
burnt in an appalling manner; and his sight was gone!

We must pause for a single moment to explain his design--that design
which so signally failed and brought down such frightful consequences
upon himself. Perceiving that all hope of being able to bribe Mr. Dykes
was frustrated, he thought of the only alternative that could possibly
be attempted--an escape. At the same instant that this last idea was
formed, it flashed to his mind that Dr. Lascelles had been accustomed
to keep many deadly poisons and ardent fluids in the laboratory. His
eyes wandered round in search of them; and they lighted upon a large
bottle, labelled “Vitriol.” To break it over the officer’s head,
and escape in the confusion that must ensue by means of the little
chamber which had once been his bed-room, and which, as the reader
may recollect, had two doors--one opening from the laboratory, and
the other into apartments beyond,--this was the hastily conceived but
discomfitted design of Old Death!

The desperate project had failed--and in a desperate manner, too: for
the miscreant had received mortal injuries--and his sufferings were
horrible. A pint of vitriol had streamed over his head--penetrating
beneath his clothes, all down his neck and chest--burning him horribly,
even to his very eyes in their sockets!

Rainford, alarmed by the hideous yells which had reached him in another
part of the spacious house, rushed into the laboratory to ascertain
the cause, having begged Mr. de Medina and Esther to await his return.
At the same instant that he entered by one door, Jacob Smith made his
appearance by another; and Dykes hastily explained what had occurred.
Rainford accordingly issued immediate orders to transport the dying
man to a bed-chamber; and fortunately, at this crisis, Dr. Lascelles
arrived at the house.

The physician had been alarmed by the rumours which prevailed relative
to the incidents that had occurred in Red Lion Street: but a few
words, rapidly exchanged with Tom Rain, relieved the doctor of all
apprehensions on account of his friend--and all his attention was now
devoted to Old Death.

[Illustration]

But though the laboratory promptly supplied all the remedies needed in
such a case, their application was vain. They gave relief, it is true:
but they could not arrest the rapid advances which death was making
upon the wretched old man.

“Jacob,” cried the doctor: “Jacob Smith, I say,” he repeated more
impatiently, the lad not having heard his first summons; “hand me that
bottle, and----”

“Jacob Smith!” cried Old Death, his moanings suddenly ceasing at the
mention of that name: “is he here? Then let me tell him----My God!
this burning sensation----Jacob--Jacob--my poor boy----Oh! my eyes--my
eyes----doctor, do something to my eyes--they are like red hot coals in
my head----Jacob--I--I--am your----father!”

“My father!” almost shrieked the lad, in the wildness of his amazement
at these tidings: then, falling on his knees by the bed-side, he
exclaimed, “Oh! if you are indeed my parent----”

“I am--I am, Jacob,” exclaimed the dying wretch: “but these
tortures----why do they tear my flesh with pincers?--why do they put
hot skewers into my eyes? Doctor--doctor----take away the red-hot
iron----lift me out of the fire----take me away, I say--save me--save
me--I am in flames--I am burning----My God! I am burning!”

“Father--father,” cried Jacob, in a tone of agonising appeal; “compose
yourself--think of all your sins--repent----”

“Will no one snatch me from the fire?” yelled forth Old Death,
writhing and tossing upon the bed in mortal pains: “perdition seize
ye, wretches--I am burning--I am in flames--my eyes scorch me--my
flesh is all seared over with red-hot irons----Oh! it is hell--it is
hell! Yes--I am in hell----My God! this is my punishment! Oh! send
me back to the world again--let me retrieve the past--let me live my
existence once more--I will be good--I will not sin! No--no--for hell
is terribly--terrible--and these fires----Oh! horror--horror--snakes
of flame have seized upon me----they are gnawing at my heart--they
have thrust their fiery stings into my eyes--they wind themselves
round and round me--horror--horror--there--I feel them now--Oh!
mercy--mercy----mercy----mer----”

“This is frightful!” whispered Tom Rain to Dr. Lascelles; and all the
others present at the dreadful scene; shuddered from head to foot.

Jacob Smith buried his face in his hands and sobbed convulsively.

The dying man still continued to rave, and shriek, and yell for a
short time longer: but his powers of articulation rapidly failed--his
writhings grew less violent, until they ceased altogether,--and in a
few minutes, the dark spirit which had never spared and never pitied
human creature, fled for ever!




CHAPTER CXVII.

AN EXPLANATORY CONVERSATION.


Three days had elapsed since that eventful evening on which so many
exciting incidents occurred; and the scene now changes to the dwelling
of Dr. Lascelles in Grafton Street.

It was about four in the afternoon and the physician was seated in his
study, Lord Ellingham being his companion at the time.

“At length, my dear doctor,” said the nobleman, “you have found leisure
to accord me an hour to give me those explanations which my afflicted
brother feels himself incapable to enter into at present. The loss of
Tamar, whose funeral is to take place the day after to-morrow, has
proved almost a mortal blow to his generous heart: but the kindness of
Mr. de Medina and Esther, who insisted upon having him with them at
Finchley, must in some degree mitigate his grief. And yet, alas! that
bereaved father and mourning sister have themselves such bitter need of
solace! Just heaven! it was a frightful catastrophe!”

“And the murderer perished in a frightful manner,” added the physician.
“But now that the excitement created by these appalling events, and
by all the other circumstances which Old Death’s crime was the means
of bringing to light, has somewhat subsided,--not only in respect to
the public, but likewise with regard to the minds of those persons
privately interested in the whole affair,--we may venture to converse
upon the topic in the hope of approaching it with some degree of
calmness. In the first place, my dear Arthur, tell me how you fared
with the Home Secretary--I mean, give me the details of your visit to
that Minister.”

“On my arrival at his official residence,” said the Earl, “on the
dreadful night in question, I sent up my card with a message soliciting
an immediate and private audience; and the favour was instantaneously
granted. In as succinct a manner as possible, I explained to the
Minister all that it was necessary to communicate. I told him that
Thomas Rainford, who had been doomed to death and publicly executed,
had survived the frightful ordeal of the scaffold; but relative
to the means or the agents of his resuscitation, I proffered no
explanation--and none was demanded of me. The Minister instantly
recollected the circumstance of having signed a full and complete
pardon on behalf of Rainford, some weeks ago, and at the intercession
of the King; and, doubtless knowing well the wayward character of
George the Fourth, he perhaps thought that the less he enquired into
the business, the better. I then gave him as much information relative
to the recent proceedings of Rainford as was known to myself; and
when the Minister heard that he was the individual who had played so
mysterious a part in the affair of Torrens, his brow lowered. But
I immediately showed him the document signed by George the Fourth;
and I gave him to understand that Rainford was acquainted with such
proofs of the King’s profligacy and unprincipled character, as would
positively compromise the safety of the throne if they were published.
This species of threat I was compelled to hold out, inasmuch as the
Home Secretary seemed inclined to permit matters to take their course
without any interference on his part. But, when he heard that the King
had given that solemn acknowledgment of obligation in order to hush up
some affair of which he was ashamed and likewise seriously alarmed, the
Minister intimated his readiness to do any thing I required to avoid a
scandal that might compromise his royal master. He nevertheless urged
that an immense excitement had already been created in the metropolis,
and which would of course spread to the provinces, by that sudden
discovery that Thomas Rainford had not only escaped the scaffold, but
had actually taken upon himself the functions of a judge in disposing
of the murderers of Sir Henry Courtenay, according to his own caprice
and will. ‘_In fact_,’ said the Minister, ‘_the public will imagine
that Rainford himself was an accomplice in the assassination of the
baronet; and every one will ask what has been done with the two men,
Splint and Pedler, who have thus been spirited away_.’--To this I could
only reply that I was well assured of Rainford’s complete innocence
in respect to the murder of Sir Henry Courtenay; that he had adopted
certain opinions relative to the reformation of criminals, and had
chosen to test his system by applying it to those men; that the men
were no longer in the country, but whither they had been sent I knew
full well Rainford would never divulge to the Government; and that
the Minister must decide between two alternatives--namely, whether he
would dare public opinion in the case, or whether he would have his
royal master seriously compromised. I can assure you, my dear doctor,
that it gave me great pain and was most repugnant to my feelings to be
compelled to hold out any menace of this kind but could I leave a stone
unturned that would serve the interest of my generous half-brother?”

“You already to some extent know the motives which induced Rainford
to return to England instead of proceeding to America, and adopt the
disguise under the cloak of which he broke up Old Death’s gang?” said
the physician, enquiringly.

“I gathered a few rapid and broken details from the Medinas, during
the ride from Finchley to Red Lion Street, on that fatal evening
when Jacob Smith came to the Manor, where I happened to be at the
time, to announce the awful event which had occurred,” replied the
Earl. “But you may readily believe that both Mr. de Medina and Esther
were too profoundly afflicted to be able to give me any very minute
explanations. Moreover, I was myself so terribly excited, and so full
of serious apprehensions----”

“I understand--’twas quite natural,” interrupted the doctor. “But pray
proceed with your narrative of the interview with the Secretary of
State.”

“I have little more to say upon that subject,” observed Lord
Ellingham. “The Minister balanced for some minutes between the
alternatives which I submitted to him, and it was evident that he
felt deeply grieved and chagrined at the consequences of the royal
indiscretions,--indiscretions which had led the King to sign two
important papers, both seriously affecting the proper and legitimate
course of justice. But, in the end, he yielded to the alternative
which was favourable to our wishes; and, placing himself at his desk,
he wrote the order to set Thomas Rainford free, which I delivered to
the Bow Street officers on my return to Red Lion Street shortly after
midnight.”

“It is therefore certain that no further apprehensions need be
entertained on that head?” enquired the physician.

“None,” answered the Earl of Ellingham. “The Coroner’s Inquest,
which sate upon the bodies of Tamar and Benjamin Bones yesterday,
elicited, as you are well aware, the fact that the old man had been
imprisoned by Rainford, and visited first by Esther, and on the last
and fatal occasion by her unfortunate sister, merely with a view to his
reformation and redemption from a course of crime----”

“And, therefore,” added the physician, “public opinion is actually
in favour of Rainford at this moment. But how happened it that Lady
Hatfield was enabled to procure that document which conferred a full
pardon upon him?”

“That woman possesses a most generous--a most noble heart!”
exclaimed the Earl. “The voluptuous monarch sought to render her the
victim of his lust; and it suddenly struck her, when his designs
became unmistakeably apparent, that she might avail herself of the
circumstance to perform an act calculated to exhibit her sincere
friendship for me. She accordingly affected to yield in a certain
measure to his disgusting overtures: she overcame the natural scruples
of a pure soul, so far as to give vague promises and encourage the
King’s passion, in order to obtain from him the document which she
required. And she succeeded. But, on the occasion of that interview
with the King at which he presented her with the precious paper, she
was nearly falling a victim to her generous conduct and to his brutal
violence. An extraordinary combination of circumstances, however,
had led Rainford into the palace on that very evening; and accident
enabled him not only to deliver Georgiana from the power of the King,
but likewise to extort from his Majesty that written promise of deep
obligation which has proved so vitally important to his interests.”

“The entire affair is truly romantic,” observed the doctor. “And now
you wish me to give you in detail an explanation of all Rainford’s late
proceedings?”

“I am already acquainted with much concerning them, and conjecture
enables me to comprehend more,” resumed the nobleman: “at the same
time, I should be pleased to hear a connected account from your lips.”

“It is by no means a disagreeable task for me to narrate incidents
which prove the existence of so many generous traits in the heart of
that man whom I was the means of restoring to life and to the world,”
said Dr. Lascelles; “for since that day on which he opened his eyes
in my laboratory, I have regarded him almost in the light of a son.
I must begin by informing you that Rainford was deeply touched by a
conversation which he had with you, relative to the miseries and crimes
of the poor and ignorant classes of society----”

“That conversation took place in the evening following his
resuscitation,” observed Arthur,--“the same evening on which I captured
Benjamin Bones, as he was ascending from the subterranean.”

“The discourse which yourself and your half-brother had together on
that occasion,” resumed the doctor, “induced him to reflect profoundly
upon the nature of crime--the circumstances which engender, and
afterwards encourage it--and the best modes of producing a reformation.
That train of thought led him to ponder upon other matters, essentially
regarding yourself. For he saw that Benjamin Bones would prove your
most implacable enemy: he knew that old man’s character well--and he
felt assured that he would devise and carry into effect some atrocious
schemes of vengeance against you. These convictions filled Rainford’s
mind with the gloomiest apprehensions, although he contrived to veil
them from you. He trembled lest you should fall into the snares which
that incarnate fiend--God forgive me for speaking ill of the dead--was
certain to spread at your feet; and he resolved to adopt some means
to counteract the effects of that man’s malignant spite. In a word,
he determined, at any sacrifice, to watch over that brother who had
acted so generously and nobly towards him. But not to a soul did he
communicate his ideas, until he had safely embarked, with Tamar,
Jacob Smith, and Charley Watts, on board the American packet-ship at
Havre-de-Grace. Then he revealed his intentions to Tamar; and she
immediately fell into his views--for she knew no will save his own.
The captain of the ship consented, for a reward, to touch at Guernsey;
and there Rainford, his wife, the youth, and the boy, were landed in
the middle of the night. The next morning, your half-brother and Cæsar
appeared in the disguise of blackamoors; and from Saint Peter’s Port,
the capital of the island, they sailed for Weymouth--Tamar with Charley
Watts proceeding by way of Southampton. The rendezvous was London; and
all Rainford’s plans, so far as he could forecast them, were already
arranged. On her arrival in the metropolis, Tamar immediately sent for
her father and sister to the inn at which she alighted; and to them she
communicated her husband’s design. It was of course necessary to keep
the entire scheme concealed from yourself; as it was well known that
you would never rest until you had persuaded your brother to quit the
country again, were you aware of his return. At that time you were not
engaged to Esther; and she had therefore no hesitation in maintaining
this much of duplicity towards you. Subsequently--I mean, after your
engagement together--she felt herself bound still to guard inviolably
a secret that had your welfare as its basis. Well, then, Mr. de Medina
and Esther lent themselves to the project--and cheerfully too, because
they recognised all the importance of allowing Rainford to adopt the
necessary measures to ensure your complete safety. Tamar and Charley
Watts accordingly took up their abode at Finchley Manor, the proper
precautions being taken to enable them to dwell there in the strictest
privacy, and the fidelity of the servants being well assured in respect
to their presence at that house. So far all proceeded satisfactorily;
and in the meantime Rainford, accompanied by Jacob Smith, whom he
named Cæsar, arrived in London. You may conceive my surprise when
one evening, having been informed by my servant that an East Indian
gentleman was waiting to see me in the drawing-room, I proceeded to
that apartment and found myself in the presence of Thomas Rainford! I
did not recognize him at once; but he speedily made himself known to
me; and, when his plans were developed, I readily agreed to aid him
in their accomplishment. As he had expected and indeed calculated, I
had full and complete control over the houses in Red Lion and Turnmill
Streets; and he felt convinced that you would never think of visiting
them. You had purchased them merely to deprive Benjamin Bones of the
power of plunging his victims into the subterranean cells; and you
allowed me the use of the premises for my laboratory. Under all these
circumstances, the house in Red Lion Street was the best suited to
Rainford’s designs; and it was speedily furnished in a suitable manner.
The neighbours believed that a retired East Indian merchant had taken
the place; and therefore no surprise--no excitement was occasioned,
when they perceived that the new tenant had his private carriage
and numerous dependants. But how did Rainford manage to obtain the
assistance of several faithful persons, who were blindly obedient to
his will, and to one of whom--named Wilton--he entrusted his entire
history? They were all poor and deserving persons whom I knew well--men
who had at different times been my patients, and in whom I felt an
interest. Thus, in a very few days, the most complete arrangements were
effected; and just at the moment when Rainford was prepared to commence
operations, and when he had succeeded in tracing the abode of Benjamin
Bones, chance threw him in the way of a certain John Jeffreys, whom
he resolved to render subservient to his purposes in uprooting the
atrocious gang.”

The physician then proceeded to relate the manner in which Rainford
had drawn Jeffreys into his service,--the revelations made to him by
that individual’s unfolding all the dreadful schemes of vengeance
contemplated by Old Death, and directed against the happiness of
the Earl himself,--the projected exhumation of the coffin in Saint
Luke’s church-yard, and the ferocious idea of blinding Lady Hatfield
and Esther de Medina,--the mode in which these diabolical aims were
frustrated by the arrest of all the members of Old Death’s gang,--and
the faithful conduct of Jeffreys. Dr. Lascelles also narrated the
proceedings of Rainford in the difficult affair of Mr. Torrens,--how,
disguised as an old man, and admirably sustaining that character, he
had entrapped Sir Christopher Blunt to the house in Red Lion Street
to preside at the examination of the two prisoners,--and how he (Dr.
Lascelles) had become a party to that transaction,--all of which
particulars are well known to the reader. Finally, the physician made
the Earl acquainted with the nature and the results of the system
of reformation applied to all the members of the gang,--how it had
succeeded in respect to Tidmarsh, the Bunces, Pedler and Splint,--and
how Esther de Medina had deputed her unfortunate sister to visit
Benjamin Bones on that fatal evening which was characterised by a
savage murder!

There was only one point connected with Rainford’s affairs, on which
the Earl and the physician did not touch; and this was the parentage
of little Charley Watts. The doctor was unacquainted with the fact
that Rainford had some years back forcibly violated the person of
Lady Hatfield, and that the issue of this crime was the boy who still
bore the name by which we have just called him. The Earl of Ellingham
naturally veiled the circumstance even from a friend so intimate and
sincere as Lascelles; and though the doctor knew that Lady Hatfield had
been a mother, he also kept this knowledge to himself, and was very far
from suspecting the true history of Charley Watts. Lascelles, it will
be remembered, had made the discovery relative to Georgiana on that
occasion when he attended her in her severe illness, and when he gave
her a soporific, as recorded in the early part of this work: but he had
never mentioned that discovery to a soul;--and the Earl of Ellingham
was as far from supposing that Lady Hatfield’s loss of chastity was
known to the physician, as the physician was from entertaining even the
remotest idea relative to the parentage of the boy.

But Rainford was already aware that this boy was his own son--the issue
of the outrage which he had perpetrated upon Lady Hatfield! Yes--on the
evening before this interview between the Earl of Ellingham and Dr.
Lascelles, the former had so far intruded upon his brother’s profound
grief, as to make to him a revelation which a sense of duty forbade
him to delay. Rainford also learnt, at the same time, that Georgiana
was herself acquainted with the fact of her child being in his
care--placed under his protection as it were by the inscrutable decrees
of Providence! But for the sake of the honour of Lady Hatfield, and of
sparing Rainford from the necessity of giving unpleasant and degrading
explanations to his friends, it had been determined between Lord
Ellingham and himself that the boy should still continue to bear the
name of Watts, and that his real parentage should be unacknowledged--at
least for the present.

In order not to dwell with tedious minuteness upon this portion of our
narrative, we shall briefly state that the funeral of Tamar took place
on the day appointed; and if the tears of heart-felt grief streaming
from the eyes of true mourners can avail for the souls of the departed,
then the spirit of the murdered Jewess must have received ample solace
and full propitiation in those regions to which it had taken wing!

But how deep a gloom had fallen upon the family of Medina;--and
how poignant was the anguish which the bereaved father and sister
experienced for the departed!

Nor less acute was the sorrow of the husband who survived that fair but
prematurely crushed flower of Israel;--for immense was thy love for
her, Tom Rain!




CHAPTER CXVIII.

THE INSOLVENT DEBTORS’ COURT.


Passing through Portugal Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, you may perceive
a low, dingy-looking building, protected by a row of tall iron
railings, and with steps leading to the front entrance. This structure
is of so dubious an aspect that it places the stranger in a profound
state of uncertainty as to whether it be the lobby of a criminal prison
or a Methodist chapel; and the supposed stranger is not a little
surprised when he learns, on inquiry, that this architectural mystery
is neither more nor less than the Court for the Relief of Insolvent
Debtors.

At about nine o’clock in the morning the immediate vicinity of the
Court begins to wear a very business-like appearance: that is to say,
both sides of the street are thronged with the most curious specimens
of human nature which it is possible to encounter outside of Newgate
or of the Bench. The wonder is whence such a host of ill-looking
fellows can have sprung, or whither they can be going, unless it is to
either of the two places just named. Then comes the natural question,
“But who are they?” The answer is at hand: some are the turnkeys of
the County Prisons and the tipstaves of the Bench, having in their
charge prisoners about to be heard at the Court,--others are the usual
hangers-on and errand-seekers who are always to be found lurking about
such places,--while a third set are the friends or else the opposing
creditors of the Insolvents. The public-house opposite the Court, and
the one at the side are also filled with persons of those descriptions;
and before ten o’clock in the morning many pots of porter are disposed
of--many quarterns of gin dispensed in two or three “outs”--and many
screws of tobacco puffed off in smoke.

Inside the Court, business commences in somewhat a more serious manner.
Four or five barristers take their places in a large box divided into
two compartments like pews in a church: a couple of Commissioners seat
themselves on a bench made in very humble imitation indeed of those in
the Courts at Westminster;--a single reporter lounges into the snug
crib so kindly allotted to the representatives of the press;--several
attorneys and attorneys’ clerks gather round the table between the
counsel’s seats and the bench:--the Insolvents are penned up altogether
in a sort of human fold on the right as you go into the tribunal;--and
at the back a crowd of unwashed faces rise amphitheatrically in the
compartment appropriated to the audience. The Commissioners endeavour
to look as much like the Judges of the Land as possible;--the
barristers affect all the consequence and airs of Serjeants-at-Law or
King’s Counsel;--the Insolvents try to seem as happy as if they had
nothing awkward in their schedules to account for;--and the spectators
raise heaven and earth to appear respectable: but each and all of
these attempts are the most decided failures which it is possible
to conceive. A general air of seediness pervades the place: the
professional wigs are dirty and out of curl, and the forensic gowns
thread-bare;--and the disagreeable impression thus created on the mind
of the visitor, is enhanced to no trifling degree by a sickly smell of
perspiration combined with the stale odour of tobacco smoke retained in
the garments of the audience.

Amongst the Insolvents were two individuals whose appearance formed a
most striking contrast. These were Mr. Joshua Sheepshanks and Mr. Frank
Curtis.

The former was dressed in deep black, with a white neck-cloth, and
black cotton gloves a great deal too large for his hands: he had also
put black crape round his hat, in the hope of creating the sympathy
of the Commissioners by producing the impression of having sustained
some serious and recent family loss. His sallow face was elongated with
the awful sanctimoniousness which characterised it: his black hair was
combed sleekly down over his forehead;--and he sate bolt upright on the
hard bench, every now and then raising his eyes to heaven--or rather to
the lanthorn on the roof of the Court--as if in silent prayer.

Mr. Frank Curtis was attired in his habitually flash manner; and as
he lolled back in his seat, he now and then bestowed a significant
wink upon his attorney at the table, or exchanged a few familiar
observations with the tipstaff, whom he had treated to egg-hot at the
public-house opposite before they entered the Court.

But where was Captain O’Blunderbuss? Had he deserted his friend on this
trying occasion? Gentle reader, do not suppose for an instant that
the gallant officer was capable of what he himself would describe to
be the “most bastely maneness”--so long as Frank had a shilling left
in his pocket, or the ability to raise one! The captain, then, _was_
there--and in the vicinity of Mr. Curtis; for the terrible Irishman had
posted himself as near as possible to the box in which the Insolvents
stand to be examined--in the first place, that when Frank should mount
to that “bad eminence,” he might be close by to encourage him with
his looks; and, in the second place, he had taken that particular
stand as the one whence he could best dart ferocious glances at the
Commissioners, in case these functionaries should take it into their
heads to deal harshly with his friend.

And now the business of that day’s proceeding, commenced; and the Clerk
of the Court bawled out in a loud tone--“Joshua Sheepshanks!”

“Here, my Christian friend!” groaned the religious gentleman, drawing
himself slowly up to his full, thin, lanky height, and beginning to
move slowly and solemnly towards the box above-mentioned.

“Now, then--Joshua Sheepshanks!” cried the clerk, in a sharp tone.

“Come--Joshua Sheepshanks--look alive!” grumbled the official who
administers the oaths to the Insolvents.

“Cut along, old fellow,” whispered Frank Curtis, giving the
sanctimonious dissenter a hearty pinch on the leg as he passed by.

Mr. Sheepshanks uttered a low moan--cast up his eyes towards the
lanthorn--muttered something about his having “fallen amongst the
ungodly”--and ended by hoisting himself into the box with some degree
of alacrity, his slow movements having rendered the Court impatient.

“Does any counsel appear for you, Joshua Sheepshanks?” demanded the
clerk.

“None--unless it be the Lord’s will that I should be supported by
divine grace,” answered the dissenting minister, in so doleful a tone
and with such a solemn shaking of the head that the whole Court was
alarmed lest he was about to go off in a fit.

“I appear to oppose on behalf of several creditors,” said Mr.
Bulliwell, one of the leading barristers practising in that Court.

“Oh! the persevering bitterness of those rancorous men!” exclaimed Mr.
Sheepshanks, clasping his hands together, and turning up the whites of
his eyes in an appalling fashion.

“Silence, Insolvent!” cried the clerk, in a sharp tone.

Meantime, the Commissioners had both been taking a long and
simultaneous stare at the religious gentleman; and though one was
purblind and the other in his dotage, they nevertheless seemed to
arrive in the long run at pretty well the same conclusion--which
was, that Mr. Sheepshanks was a dreadful humbug. The glances they
interchanged through their spectacles expressed to each other this
conviction; and the sharper of the two, who rejoiced in the name of
Sneesby, forthwith proceeded to examine the schedule.

“I see that you were once a missionary in the _South-Sea Islands Bible
Circulating Society_, Insolvent?” said this learned functionary.

“Under the divine favour, I was such a vessel in the good cause,”
answered Mr. Sheepshanks, with the invariable nasal twang of hypocrisy.

“A what?” demanded Mr. Commissioner Sneesby, in an impatient tone.

“He says he was a _vessel_, sir,” observed Mr. Bulliwell, the
barrister. “It is a word much in vogue amongst the religious world.”

“Oh! the Insolvent calls himself a vessel--does he?” exclaimed the
Commissioner. “Well--he has come to a pretty anchorage at last.”

“And yet, sir, I can assure you he is no anchorite,” said Mr. Bulliwell.

These were jokes on the part of the Commissioner and the counsel; and
therefore the attorneys, the clerks, and the audience tittered, as in
duty bound when the wig forgot its wisdom and indulged in wit; and the
Insolvents all laughed too--but for another reason. In fact, Mr. Frank
Curtis had applied his right hand to his nose, and extended it in a
fan-like form--or, in other words, he “took a sight” at the learned
Commissioner, and worked an imaginary coffee-mill at the same time with
his left hand.

Order being restored, the business proceeded.

“And, having been a missionary, I observe by your schedule, that
you turned a Dissenting Minister, Insolvent?” said Mr. Commissioner
Sneesby, interrogatively.

“I was a brand snatched from the burning, sir,” replied Mr.
Sheepshanks; “and, having sorely wrestled with Satan----”

“Give me a direct answer, man!” cried the Commissioner, sharply. “Did
you leave an institution connected with the Established Church and
become a dissenter?”

“Heaven so willed it,” responded the sanctimonious insolvent, in a
droning voice: “I had a call--and I obeyed it.”

“Who opposes this man?” enquired the Commissioner.

“Jeremiah Chubbley!” vociferated the Clerk of the Court.

“Here!” growled a man dressed as a bricklayer.

“Now, then, Jeremiah Chubbley--stand up in the witness-box,” continued
the clerk.

“Come, Mr. Chubbley--make haste,” said Mr. Bulliwell, the barrister,
speaking more civilly and using the honorary prefix of _Mister_,
because he had been retained by the individual to whom he applied it.

Mr. Chubbley mounted the witness-box; and while the oath was being
administered to him, both the Commissioners inflicted a long stare
on his countenance just to satisfy themselves by this physiognomical
scrutiny whether he were a trust-worthy person or not;--for
Commissioners in the Insolvents’ Court are great physiognomists--very
great physiognomists indeed.

“Your name is Jeremiah Chubbley?” said Mr. Bulliwell, rising in a
stately manner, and darting a ferocious glance towards Mr. Sheepshanks,
as much as to say--“Now, my man, I am going to elicit things against
you that will prove you to be the greatest rogue in existence.”

“Yes--my name be Chubbley, sir,” answered the opposing creditor. “But I
paid you to tackle that there sneaking-looking chap over there, and not
to ke-vestion me.”

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Bulliwell, blandly, “this is the way of
conducting an opposition where counsel is employed. Your name is
Jeremiah Chubbley; and you are a master-bricklayer, I believe?”

“I told ’ee so a veek ago,” replied the opposing creditor, savagely.

“Yes--yes: but you must tell the learned Commissioners all over again
what you told me,” gently remonstrated Mr. Bulliwell. “I believe you
are the proprietor of a chapel in the Tottenham Court Road?”

“Yes--I be, sir,” responded Mr. Chubbley. “I built she--and a stronger,
better, or more comfortabler place of washup you wouldn’t find in all
London--least ways, barrin’ St. Paul’s.”

“Well--and this chapel was to let some three or four months ago, I
believe?” continued Mr. Bulliwell.

“Yes--it were, sir: and I had blackguards up at the grocer’s round the
corner----”

“Had what, man?” demanded the Commissioners simultaneously, and as it
were in the same breath.

“He means that he put placards up at a neighbouring grocer’s, sir,”
mildly explained Mr. Bulliwell, then, turning again to the opposing
creditor, the learned counsel said, “And I believe that the Insolvent
was attracted by the placards, and applied to you in consequence?”

“He come round to my house, sir, jest as me and my missus was a sitting
down to dinner,” answered Mr. Chubbley. “It was biled pork and greens
we had, I remember; cos says I to my missus, says I----”

“Well--well, Mr. Chubbley,” interrupted the counsel: “we will proceed,
if you please. The Insolvent came round to you, and enquired about the
chapel that was to let?”

“Yes--he did: and he axed a many ke-vestions about the orgin and the
pulpit, and the westry--and so on.”

“And, being satisfied with your replies, he agreed to take the chapel?”

“Yes--and to pay a ke-varter in adwance, which was eleven pound ten,”
answered Mr. Chubbley.

“Well--what took place next?” inquired one of the Commissioners,
growing impatient, while his brother-judge took a nap.

“Please, my lud, he sits down and pitches into the biled pork and
greens,” responded the opposing creditor.

There was a laugh amongst the audience; but as the joke did not arise
from either the bench or the bar, the ushers bawled out “Silence!” as
loudly as they could.

“The Insolvent, I believe, not only omitted to pay the quarter in
advance,” said Mr. Bulliwell, “but succeeded in obtaining from you the
loan of forty pounds?”

“In hard cash--and that’s what aggerewates me and my missus so agin
him,” replied the opposing creditor.

“But in what manner did he obtain those forty pounds?” asked Mr.
Bulliwell. “Tell the learned Commissioners----”

“Vy--one on ’em’s asleep--and so it’s no use a-speaking to he!”
exclaimed Mr. Chubbley.

There was another laugh, which the clerks and ushers immediately
suppressed; and Captain O’Blunderbuss ran a narrow risk of being
ignominiously bundled out of the Court for observing in a tone
somewhat above a whisper, “Be Jasus! and that’s as thrue as that every
rale Irishman loves potheen!” But the best of the business was that
the somnolent Commissioner woke up; and catching the fag end of a
laugh accompanied by the loud cries of “Silence!” on the part of the
officials of the Court, he immediately fancied that some person had
perpetrated a great breach of decorum, and exclaimed in a severe tone,
“Whoever is the cause of disturbance must be turned out.” Hereupon
there was another laugh; and even Mr. Bulliwell himself was compelled
to stoop down and pretend to examine his brief in order to conceal the
mobility of his risible muscles.

“Come, come--let the business proceed,” said Commissioner Sneesby,
anxious to relieve his brother-functionary from any farther
embarrassment; for the latter learned gentleman was quite bewildered by
the renewed hilarity which his words had provoked.

“Tell the bench how the Insolvent obtained from you the forty pounds,
Mr. Chubbley,” exclaimed Mr. Bulliwell.

“Please, sir--my missus has on’y got von eye----”

“Well--and what has that to do with it?” demanded Mr. Commissioner
Sneesby.

“Jest this, my lud--that that ’ere sneaking feller got on the blind
side of she, and began a pitching into she all kind of gammon,--calling
his-self a chosen wessel, and telling her how she would be sartain
sure of going to heaven if we on’y let him have the funds to set up
in business as a preacher. He swore that all the airistocracy was
a-dying to hear him in the pulpit: and so he persuades my missus to be
pew-opener; and he gammons me to call myself a Helder----”

“A what?” exclaimed Commissioner Sneesby.

“An Elder, sir,” observed Mr. Bulliwell: for it is to be remarked that
when Judges at Westminster or Commissioners in Portugal Street cannot
understand any thing--or affect not to do so--the counsel are always
prepared to give them an explanation;--yet when these counsel become
Judges or Commissioners in their turn, they grow just as opaque of
intellect and as slow of comprehension as those whom they were once
accustomed to enlighten.

“Well--go on, man,” said Commissioner Sneesby, addressing himself to
the opposing creditor.

“Well, my lud,” proceeded Mr. Chubbley, “that there sniggering feller
come over us all in sich a vay vith his blessed insinivations, that
we all thought him a perfect saint; and we was glad to vipe off the
dust of sich a man’s shoes, as the sayin’ is. So I goes to my friend
Cheesewright, the grocer, and I says, says I, ‘Cheesey, my boy, you
must be a Helder, too.’ So Cheesewright axes what a Helder is; and when
I tells him that it’s to purside over a chapel in which a reglar saint
holds forth, and that all Helders is booked for the right place in
t’other world, he says, says he, ‘Chubbley, my boy, tip us your fist;
and I’m your man for a Helder too.’”

“And now tell the learned Commissioners what this business has to do
with your opposition to the Insolvent’s discharge,” said Mr. Bulliwell,
seeing that the bench was growing impatient.

“Vy, my luds,” continued Chubbley, scratching his head, “that there
insinivating chap gets Cheesey to lend him his acceptance for thirty
pounds, and he comes to me and gets me to write my name along the back
on it--and so he gets it discounted, and leaves us to pay it.”

Here Mr. Joshua Sheepshanks held up his hands and groaned aloud--as if
in horrified dismay at the construction put upon his conduct.

“Silence, Insolvent!” exclaimed the usher, ferociously.

“And now, Mr. Chubbley,” resumed Mr. Bulliwell, “what answer did you
obtain from the Insolvent when you stated to him that you had heard
certain reports which made you anxious to receive security for the rent
of the chapel, the forty pounds, and the amount of the bill for which
you were liable?”

“He said as how that the chapel hadn’t succeeded as he thought it would
have done--that he’d been disappinted--and that me and Cheesewright
must have patience.”

“And when you told him that you and Mr. Cheesewright would not wait any
longer--what did he say?”

“He said we was a generation of wipers.”

“And when you put him into prison?”

“He sent for me, and said I mustn’t hope to be paid in this world; but
as I’d laid up for myself a treasure in heaven, he expected me to let
him out of quod for nothink.”

There was a general titter in which bench and bar joined; and the only
demure countenances present were those of the creditor who was done,
and Mr. Sheepshanks who had done him. In fact this pious gentleman was
so overcome by the unpleasantness of his position, that he compared
himself, in the religious anguish of his spirit, to the man who went
down to Jericho and fell amongst thieves.

Silence being again restored, two other opposing creditors were
examined in their turn; and their evidence went to prove that Mr.
Joshua Sheepshanks had obtained from them a quantity of goods under
such very questionable pretences, that he might think himself
exceedingly fortunate in having been sent to the King’s Bench instead
of to Newgate.

The opposition having arrived at this stage, Mr. Bulliwell proceeded to
address the Court in a long and furious speech based upon the testimony
that had been given against the Insolvent. The agreeable appellations
of “sanctimonious hypocrite,” “double-faced ranter,” “unprincipled
trader in pious duplicities,” and such like terms, were freely applied
to Mr. Joshua Sheepshanks in the course of this oration. The learned
gentleman dwelt bitterly--but not one atom more severely than the
subject deserved--upon the rascally scoundrelism which is practised
by those persons who are denominated “saints;” and he concluded a
rather eloquent speech by praying the Court to express its sense of the
Insolvent’s criminality by remanding him for as long a period as the
Act of Parliament would allow.

When called upon for any thing he might have to say in his defence,
Mr. Sheepshanks applied a white handkerchief to his eyes; and, after
shaking his head solemnly for several moments, he revealed his
lugubrious countenance once more--purposely elongating it until he
fancied he had tortured himself into as impressive a pitch of misery
as one could wish to behold. He then began a tedious and doleful
dissertation upon the “vanity of earthly things”--marvelled that his
opposing creditors should “prefer the filthy lucre to the welfare of
their immortal souls”--declared that when he first went amongst them he
found them “lamentably benighted,” but that he had “at one time brought
them to a state of grace”--complained that they had treated him as if
he had been “a vessel of wrath,” whereas he flattered himself that he
was in “a most savoury state of godliness”--hinted rather significantly
that he looked upon his present predicament as a “glorious martyrdom
in the good cause”--and wound up with an earnest prayer to the
Commissioners that they would not be “moved by the men of Belial
against him,” but that even as “heaven tempered the wind to the shorn
lamb,” they would modify their judgment according to his lamentable
condition.

To this speech, delivered in the most approved nasal twang of
the dissenting pulpit, and with many doleful moans and frightful
contortions, Commissioner Sneesby listened with exemplary patience:
so, indeed, did his learned brother-judge--but in this latter case it
was with the eyes shut. The moment, however, the harangue was brought
to an end, the eyes alluded to opened slowly and gazed rather vacantly
around: but with judicial keenness, they speedily comprehended the
exact stage of the proceedings; and the possessor of the sleepy optics
forthwith began to consult with his coadjutor in solemn whispers. Their
conversation ran somewhat in the ensuing manner:--

“It is getting on for one o’clock, and I begin to feel quite faint,”
said the somniferous Commissioner.

“A chop and a glass of sherry will do us each good,” observed Mr.
Sneesby.

“Bulliwell does make such long-winded speeches!”

“Well--so he does: but I always pretend to listen to them--and thus he
enjoys the reputation of having _the ear of the Court_.”

“I am going to dine with Serjeant Splutterby this evening--and so I
shall leave at about four o’clock.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Commissioner Sneesby. “I shall sit till six. But
what are we to do with this canting hypocrite of an Insolvent?”

“Six months, I suppose: he is a dreadful villain.”

“Yes--and while you were asleep he made a frightful long speech----”

“Oh! in that case, then, let us give him a twelvemonth--and then for
the chops and the sherry.”

“Good: a twelvemonth--and then the chops and the sherry.”

Mr. Commissioner Sneesby, having thus assented to the suggestions of
his sleepy coadjutor, turned in a solemn manner towards Mr. Joshua
Sheepshanks and addressed that miserable-looking creature in the
following terms:--

“Insolvent, the Court has maturely deliberated upon your case. We
have listened with deep attention to the evidence of the opposing
creditors and the address of the learned counsel on their behalf. We
have likewise followed you with equal care throughout your defence; and
we feel ourselves bound to pronounce an adverse judgment. Your conduct
has been most reprehensible--aggravated, too, by the fact that your
offences have been committed under the cloak of religion. My learned
brother agrees with me in the opinion that your proceedings have been
most fraudulent. We might even use harsher terms; but we will forbear.
The judgment of the Court is that you, Joshua Sheepshanks, be remanded
at the suit of your three opposing creditors for the period of twelve
calendar months from the date of your vesting order.”

“Stand down, Insolvent!” cried the clerk.

The discomfitted Mr. Sheepshanks raised his eyes and hands upwards,
and gave vent to a hollow groan, which made the audience think for a
moment that it was a ghost from the tomb who was passing through the
Insolvents’ Court.

“Silence, Insolvent!” vociferated an official, making much more noise
to enforce his command than the pious gentleman did in provoking the
injunction.

“You must swear to your schedule,” said the usher, as Mr. Sheepshanks
was descending from the box.

“Damn the schedule!” muttered the reverend Insolvent, in a savage
whisper.

“What do you say?” demanded the usher.

“I pray to heaven to have mercy upon my relentless persecutors, even as
I forgive them!” answered Mr. Sheepshanks, with a solemn shake of the
head.

He then quitted the box, and forthwith accompanied the tipstaff who had
charge of him to the public-house opposite, where he drowned his cares
in such a quantity of hot brandy-and-water, that the tipstaff aforesaid
was compelled to put him into a cab and convey him back to the King’s
Bench in a desperate state of intoxication.

In the meantime the two Commissioners retired to partake of their chops
and sherry: the learned counsel likewise withdrew to _their_ private
room, where _they_ also refreshed themselves;--the attorneys stole
away for a quarter of an hour:--and the audience took little portable
dinners of saveloys and biscuits from their pocket-handkerchiefs, so
that the compartment of the Court allotted to spectators suddenly
appeared to have been transformed into a slap-bang shop on an inferior
scale.

The fifteen minutes’ grace having expired, Commissioners, counsel, and
lawyers returned to their places--the audience wiped their mouths--and
the Clerk of the Court called forth the name of “FRANCIS CURTIS!”




CHAPTER CXIX.

THE EXAMINATION OF MR. FRANK CURTIS.


Captain O’Blunderbuss surveyed his friend with a degree of admiration
amounting almost to envy, as the latter leapt nimbly into the box;
but when the two Commissioners inflicted upon the Insolvent the
simultaneous long stare which seemed to form a portion of the judicial
proceedings, the gallant officer fixed upon those learned functionaries
a look of the most ferocious menace,--muttering at the same time
something about the “punching of heads.” As for Mr. Frank Curtis, he
returned the stare of the Commissioners in so deliberately impudent and
yet good-humoured a manner that it was quite evident the physiognomical
discrimination of the bench was at least for once completely set at
naught. In plain terms, the Commissioners did not know what the deuce
to make of the young gentleman.

“I appear for the Insolvent, sir,” said one of the learned counsel, Mr.
Cadgerbreef by name.

“And I attend for an opposing creditor, sir,” observed Mr. Bulliwell.

The Clerk of the Court handed up the schedule to the Commissioners, who
occupied some minutes in looking over it, the document being somewhat a
lengthy one.

“I see you have got upwards of a hundred and fifty creditors,
Insolvent,” said Mr. Commissioner Sneesby, fixing his eyes severely
upon the youthful candidate for the process of white-washing.

“Be Jasus! and my frind’s a jintleman--every inch of him!” cried
Captain O’Blunderbuss: “and no jintleman could think of petitioning the
Court with less than a hunthred and fifty creditors.”

The whole Court was struck with dismay--the bench being perfectly
aghast--at this interruption; while the captain stood as dauntless
and menacing as if he seriously contemplated the challenging of
Commissioners, learned counsel, lawyers, and all. Even the usher was so
astounded by his conduct that he forgot to bawl out his usual noisy cry
for silence.

“Who is this person?” enquired Mr. Commissioner Sneesby, turning
towards his brother-judge, as if the latter knew any better than
himself.

“_Person_, be Jasus! Don’t call me _a person_,” vociferated the gallant
gentleman, stamping his martial foot heavily upon the floor. “Is it me
name ye’d be afther finding out? If so, I’ll hand ye my car-r-d--and
you’ll find that I’m Capthain O’Bluntherbuss, of Bluntherbuss Park,
Connemar-r-ra, Ir-r-reland!” added the Insolvent’s bosom-friend,
rattling the r in such an appalling manner that it seemed as if a
waggon laden with iron bars was passing through the Court.

“Turn him out!” exclaimed Mr. Commissioner Sneesby.

“Be Jasus! and it’ll take tin of ye to do that!” ejaculated the
captain, taking so firm and dauntless a stand that he appeared
literally nailed to the ground. “But we’ll make a compromise, if ye
plaze--and that is, I’ll hould my tongue.”

[Illustration]

“You had better, sir,” said the Commissioner: then, perceiving that
none of the officials seemed inclined to assail the impregnable front
which the ferocious Irishman presented, he thought it prudent to pass
over the interruption and continue the business before the Court. “Who
attends to oppose?” he accordingly demanded.

“Me!” ejaculated a little, dapper-looking, flashily-dressed person,
elbowing his way through the crowd behind the barristers’ seats,
and getting his glossy beaver smashed flat as an opera hat in the
desperate struggle: indeed, what with the smell of onions from one man
and tobacco from another,--what with the squeezing, and pushing, and
crushing--the treading on toes, and the danger of having one’s coat
slit up the back or one’s pocket picked,--it is no easy nor pleasant
matter to transform oneself into a human wedge to be applied to such a
stubborn, compact mass as a multitude in a Court of Justice.

At last, however, the little man succeeded in reaching the
witness-box,--but not without being compelled to smart under the
disagreeable conviction that the studied elegance of his toilette was
entirely marred--his shirt-frill tumbled, his white waistcoat soiled
through contact with a coal-heaver, and all the polish trodden off his
boots.

Adjusting himself as well as he could in the box, he made a profound
bow to the bench, simpered in a familiar fashion towards his counsel,
glanced complacently at the attorneys, and then turned a look of
indignant contempt upon the Insolvent,--so that the little gentleman’s
transitions from excruciating politeness to extreme hauteur were very
interesting indeed.

“Your name is Kicksey Fopperton, I believe?” said Mr. Bulliwell, the
opposing creditor’s own counsel, specially retained and fee’d for the
purpose of getting Mr. Frank Curtis remanded during as lengthened a
period as possible.

“That is my name, sir,” was the answer, delivered with a bland smile
and a half bow.

“What are you, Mr. Fopperton?”

“A tailor by trade, sir;”--for persons of Mr. Fopperton’s calling never
describe themselves briefly as “tailors,” but always as “tailors by
trade.”

“A tailor by trade,” repeated Mr. Bulliwell. “And you carry on
business----”

“In Regent Street, sir,” replied Mr. Fopperton, glancing towards the
bench to notice what effect such a fashionable address had produced
upon the Commissioners: but one was dozing, and the other seemed to be
looking at nothing--just as horses appear when they are standing idle.

“In Regent Street,” repeated Mr. Bulliwell. “And I believe the
Insolvent called upon you, and ordered clothes to a considerable
amount?”

“I have supplied him for the last three years,” answered Mr. Fopperton,
“and never yet saw the colour of his money.”

“You never yet saw the colour of his money. But he has seen the colour
of yours, though?”

“I have discounted bills for him to the amount of a thousand pounds.”

“To the amount of a thousand pounds. Now, on what pretence--or rather,
under what circumstances did the Insolvent introduce himself to you?”
inquired Mr. Bulliwell.

“He drove up to my door in a dashing gig, sir,” answered Mr. Fopperton,
“leapt down, rushed in, and enquired if his friend the Archbishop of
Canterbury had been waiting there for him? I assured him that his Grace
had not visited the shop, to my knowledge, in all his life. ‘_God
bless me!_’ exclaimed Mr. Curtis; ‘_I must have made a mistake, then!
But don’t you make the leather breeches which his Grace wears when he
goes out hunting?_’ I replied that I never made leather breeches at
all. ‘_Nor galligaskins?_’ said Mr. Curtis. ‘_Nor galligaskins, sir_,’
I said. ‘_Then blow me tight_’ says he, ‘_I have come to the wrong
shop. My intimate and particular friend the Archbishop of York_----‘.
I suggested ‘_Canterbury_,’--‘_Canterbury I meant!_’ exclaimed Mr.
Curtis: ‘_his Grace promised to introduce me to his own tailor; and
here have I been promising introductions likewise to Lord Pumpleby and
the Marquis of Dublin, and a whole lot of my fashionable friends. There
is a perfect rage all on a sudden to employ his Grace’s tailor!_’--I
was struck by all this fine-sounding talk, and handed Mr. Curtis my
card. ‘_Egad!_’ said he, laughing, ‘_I’ve a precious good mind to have
a lark, and pit you against his Grace’s tailor. My eyes! what fun it
would be!_’”

“And it ended by the Insolvent actually putting you in competition with
the imaginary tailor which he had conjured up?” enquired Mr. Bulliwell.

“Just so, sir,” returned Mr. Fopperton “and though I heard sometime
afterwards that Mr. Curtis received a handsome income from his uncle
Sir Christopher Blunt, yet I never got a sixpence.”

“Be Jasus! Sir Christopher-r is a regular ould screw!” ejaculated
Captain O’Blunderbuss.

“Eh?--what?” cried the Commissioners, the one awaking from his nap and
the other from his obliviousness.

“Is it afther distur-r-bing ye I’ve been again?” demanded the gallant
gentleman: “then, be the holy poker-r! I ask your pardon--and I’ll
hould my pace!”

With these words the captain put his arms akimbo--pursed up his mouth
in a most extraordinary fashion--and stood as still as a post and as
demure as a methodist parson, to the huge delight of the unwashed
audience.

“It appears,” said Mr. Bulliwell, resuming his examination of the
opposing creditor, “that the Insolvent obtained clothes to the amount
of four hundred pounds, and cash to the amount of a thousand?”

Mr. Fopperton bowed an assent.

“And you have every reason to believe that he only talked about the
Archbishop’s tailor and his noble acquaintances, in order to throw dust
into your eyes?”

“To make a fool of me, sir,” cried Mr. Kicksey Fopperton.

“To make a fool of you,” repeated Mr. Bulliwell.

“And an ass of me, sir!” ejaculated the tailor, with increasing warmth.

“And an ass of you,” echoed the learned counsel.

“Yes, sir--and to make a stupid old owl of me!” vociferated Mr.
Fopperton.

“A stupid old owl of you,” still repeated Mr. Bulliwell, in the most
matter-of-fact style possible: then, perceiving that his client had
exhausted alike his self-reproaching epithets and his breath, the
learned counsel sate down.

Thereupon up rose Mr. Cadgerbreef, who had been retained for the
defence of the Insolvent; and as he pulled his gown over his shoulders
and prepared to cross-examine the opposing creditor, Captain
O’Blunderbuss turned partially round, and forming an arch with his hand
on one side of his mouth, said, in a pretty loud tone however, “Be
Jasus! and if ye don’t make mince mate of him, it’s meself that’ll skin
him alive!”

The learned counsel nodded his head in a significant manner, as much
as to say, “Just wait a moment--and you shall see how I’ll serve
him;”--and the gallant captain appeared satisfied with the tacit
promise thus conveyed.

“Now, Mr. Fopperton,” cried Mr. Cadgerbreef, who was considered to be
particularly skilful in badgering and baiting an opposing creditor,
“you’ll be so kind as to remember that you are upon your oath:” and the
learned counsel glanced towards the bench, as much as to intimate that
the Commissioners were keeping a sharp look out on him, the opposing
creditor aforesaid, and would send him to Newgate without remorse at
the least symptom of perjury that might transpire.

Mr. Fopperton cast his eyes timidly in the same direction; and it
was no doubt some satisfaction to him to observe that the sleepy
Commissioner _was_ fast asleep, and that the other was just going off
into a doze.

“Well, Mr. Fopperton,” exclaimed Mr. Cadgerbreef, in a very loud and
very overbearing tone, “so you have come to oppose the Insolvent’s
discharge--have you? Now answer me this question: have you ever been
in that box yourself?” pointing at the same time in a resolute and
determined manner towards the place occupied by Mr. Curtis.

“Am I bound to answer that question?” asked Mr. Fopperton, becoming
considerably crest-fallen all on a sudden, and appealing meekly to his
own counsel.

“I am afraid you must,” returned Mr. Bulliwell.

“Well, then,sir--I have had the misfortune to pass through this Court,”
said the fashionable tailor, his countenance growing excessively blank.

“You _have_ been insolvent,” exclaimed Mr. Cadgerbreef. “Now, sir,
how often have you petitioned the Court and been discharged from your
liabilities through the proceedings of this Court?”

“Really, sir--I--I----” stammered the West-End tailor, becoming awfully
red in the face.

“Shall I repeat the question, sir?” demanded the learned counsel,
affecting a politeness that was even more galling than his severity had
been.

“You had better answer, Mr. Fopperton,” said Mr. Bulliwell.

“I can’t say--that is--not exactly----”

“Oh! very well--then we shall see!” cried Mr. Cadgerbreef, taking up a
pen, dipping it deep into the ink, and making believe that he was about
to take down the answers to be given to his questions--so as to catch
the opposing creditor out perjuring himself if possible: “will you
swear, Mr. Fopperton, that you have not been insolvent seven times?”

“Yes, sir--I _will_ swear to that,” returned the tailor with alacrity.

“You will swear. Well--will you swear that you have not been insolvent
five times?”

“Yes, sir--I will swear to that too.”

“You will swear to that, too. Now mind what you’re about, Mr.
Fopperton: take care what you say,” cried Mr. Cadgerbreef, in a tone of
awful menace. “Will you swear that you have not been insolvent three
times?”

“No, sir--I--I can’t swear to that,” answered the tailor, looking very
miserable.

“You can’t swear to that. Now, can you deny it?” “No, sir--I cannot,”
said Mr. Fopperton.

“You cannot,” repeated Mr. Cadgerbreef, casting a glance at Captain
O’Blunderbuss, which seemed to say, “I have him now!”--then, again
addressing himself to the opposing creditor, he exclaimed in a
domineering, browbeating manner, “Take care what you are about, Mr.
Fopperton;--and now tell me whether you have not been bankrupt, as well
as insolvent, several times.”

“No--only once bankrupt,” cried Mr. Fopperton, impatiently.

“Well--once bankrupt--and enough too, when coupled with three
insolvencies!” said the learned gentleman, in a tone which very
significantly implied his belief that the opposing creditor was the
greatest scoundrel in the universe. “And pray how much have you ever
paid in the shape of dividend, sir?”

“I really can’t say at this moment: I----”

“Oh! you can’t--can’t you!” cried Mr. Cadgerbreef: “then I’ll see if I
can refresh your memory;”--and, taking out of his pocket a letter from
some friend or relation, he pretended to examine it with very great
attention, as if it contained some damning testimony relative to Mr.
Fopperton’s dealings--although, in reality, it had no more connexion
with him or his affairs than with the man in the moon.

“I think I recollect now, sir,” said the West-End tailor, getting
frightened: “I--I----”

“Well, sir--can you answer my question?” demanded Mr. Cadgerbreef,
laying his fore-finger on the letter in a marked and formal manner,
just as if he were pointing to the very paragraph which furnished all
requisite information respecting the tailor. “I will repeat it again
for you: how much have you ever paid, collectively and under all your
numerous insolvencies and frequent bankruptcies, in the shape of
dividend?”

“Two-pence three farthings in the pound, sir,” answered Mr. Fopperton,
in a low tone.

“Speak out, sir!” vociferated the learned counsel, although he heard
perfectly well what had been said. “Two-pence three farthings in the
pound,” exclaimed the unfortunate Snip, who already repented most
bitterly that, by coming to oppose Mr. Frank Curtis, he had fallen into
the hands of Mr. Cadgerbreef.

“Two-pence three farthings in the pound,” repeated this learned
gentleman, tossing up his head as if in unmitigated abhorrence at such
awful villainy. “And pray, sir, what was the aggregate of liabilities
under all your innumerable insolvencies and your equally numberless
bankruptcies?”

“I never was bankrupt more than once, sir,” mournfully and imploringly
remonstrated the tailor, now worked up to a frightful pitch of
nervousness and misery.

“Don’t shirk my question, sir!” exclaimed the barrister, sternly. “How
much did all your liabilities--”

“Thirty thousand pounds, sir,” hastily cried Mr. Fopperton,
anticipating the repetition of the query on the part of the learned
gentleman.

“Be Jasus! and he’s a complete villain!” said Captain O’Blunderbuss,
in such a loud tone that both the Commissioners woke up: whereupon the
gallant officer affected to be seized with a sudden inclination to gaze
up abstractedly at the sky-light, just for all the world as if he were
quite innocent of any fresh interruption.

“Now, Mr. Fopperton,” exclaimed Mr. Cadgerbreef, seeing that the
Commissioners were all attention just at this moment, and taking
a skilful advantage of the circumstance, “under your numerous
insolvencies and frequent bankruptcies--don’t interrupt me, sir--you
have paid two-pence three farthings in the pound, on aggregate
liabilities amounting to thirty thousand pounds. The Court will be
pleased to notice these facts. And yet, Mr. Fopperton, we find you
discounting a thousand pounds’ worth of bills for my client, the
Insolvent. The Court will again please to take a note of this fact.”

Of course the Commissioners could not help making--or at least
affecting to make the memoranda suggested by the learned counsel: so
the sleepy one scrawled a zig-zag line across his note-book, and the
other hit off a rapid sketch of Captain O’Blunderbuss’s face, Mr.
Commissioner Sneesby being very proficient in that style of drawing.
The two functionaries then laid down their pens, and looked as solemn
and serious as if they had actually and positively taken the notes in
the most business-like manner possible.

“Now, sir,” continued Mr. Cadgerbreef, once more turning to the
opposing creditor, “will you tell the Court how much hard cash you gave
the Insolvent for his acceptance of one thousand pounds?”

“Really, sir, the occurrence is so long ago--I--I----”

“Will you swear, man, that you gave him two hundred pounds?” demanded
the learned counsel, impatiently.

“Yes, sir--I will,” was the instantaneous answer.

“Will you swear that you gave him four hundred?”--and Mr. Cadgerbreef
dipped his pen into the ink with an air of awful determination.

“Why--no--I can’t exactly----” stammered the tailor, every instant
becoming more and more nervous.

“Will you swear that you gave him three hundred and twenty pounds in
hard cash for that bill?” demanded Mr. Cadgerbreef.

“That was just what I did pay in money,” replied Mr. Fopperton, in a
hesitating manner.

“That was just what you did pay. Now tell the earned Commissioners what
else you gave the Insolvent for that bill.”

“There was three hundred and twenty in cash--and four hundred and
twenty in wines, pictures, and other objects of value----”

“Come--that only gives us seven hundred and forty,” cried the
barrister: “how do you make up the rest?”

“A hundred pounds _discount_, sir--and----”

“A hundred pounds discount. Well--what next?”

“Sixty pounds _commission_, sir--and----”

“Sixty pounds commission. You have still another hundred to account
for, Mr. Fopperton,” said the learned counsel, sharply. “Come--about
that other hundred? and mind what you tell the Commissioners.”

“Well, sir--the hundred pounds was for _bonus_,” answered the
fashionable tailor.

“That will do, sir: you may stand down,” said Mr. Cadgerbreef, looking
significantly at the learned Commissioners, with a view of impressing
it on their minds that he had just succeeded in fully unmasking a most
awful rogue.

Mr. Bulliwell now rose and made a very furious speech against the
Insolvent; so that a stranger unacquainted with the practice of English
Courts of Justice, would have fancied that the learned counsel had
some bitter and deadly motive of personal hatred against the young
gentleman;--whereas all that apparent venom--that seeming spite--that
assumed virulence--and that fierce eloquence were purchased by Mr.
Kicksey Fopperton for a couple of guineas. The speech was cheap--yes,
very cheap, when we take into consideration the almost excruciating
pains that the learned gentleman took to get Frank Curtis remanded
to prison for six months. So much perspiration--such frantic
gesticulation--and such impassioned declamation were well worth the
money; and if it did Mr. Bulliwell good to earn his two guineas on such
terms, it must have been equally satisfactory to Mr. Kicksey Fopperton
to obtain so good a two guineas’ worth.

During the delivery of this oration, Captain O’Blunderbuss could
scarcely contain his fury: as insulting epithet after epithet poured
from the lips of Mr. Bulliwell, who was always more eloquent when
conducting an opposition than when arguing a defence, the gallant
Irishman literally foamed at the mouth;--and it was only in the hope
of Mr. Cadgerbreef’s ability to mend the business, that he succeeded
in controlling his passion. At length Mr. Bulliwell sate down; and the
captain muttered in a pretty audible tone, “Blood and thunther! he
shall repint of this as long as he lives, if my frind is sent back to
the Binch!”

Mr. Cadgerbreef rose to defend his client, Frank Curtis; and as
the best means of making that young gentleman appear white was to
represent the opposing creditor as particularly black, the learned
counsel forthwith began to depict Mr. Kicksey Fopperton’s character
in such sable dyes that the unfortunate tailor soon found himself
held up to execration as a species of moral blackamoor. In fact, the
poor little man was stunned--astounded--paralysed by the vituperative
eloquence of Mr. Cadgerbreef; and as the learned counsel proceeded to
denounce his “numerous insolvencies” and “his frequent bankruptcies”
as proofs of unmitigated depravity,--as he dwelt upon the features
of the bill-transaction, and spoke with loathing of the _discount_,
with disgust of the _commission_, and with perfect horror of the
_bonus_,--Mr. Fopperton began to say to himself, “Well, upon my word, I
begin to fear that I am indeed a most unprincipled scoundrel: but the
fact was never brought home to me so forcibly before!”

In the meantime Captain O’Blunderbuss was in perfect ecstacies:
he forgot all that Mr. Bulliwell had said, in listening to the
counter-declamation of Mr. Cadgerbreef;--and his delight was expressed
in frequent ejaculatory outbursts, such as “Be Jasus, and there ye have
him!” but which passed comparatively unnoticed amidst the thundering
din of the learned counsel’s torrent of words. As for Mr. Frank Curtis,
he had cared little for the violent assault made upon him by Mr.
Bulliwell; but he was immensely pleased at the slaughterous attack
effected by Mr. Cadgerbreef on the dismayed and horrified tailor.

The defence being concluded, the two learned Commissioners consulted
with each other in whispers; and when they had exchanged a few remarks
having no more reference to the case before them than to the affairs of
the Chinese Empire, Mr. Commissioner Sneesby proceeded to deliver the
judgment of the Court.

Looking as awfully solemn as possible, he said, “Insolvent, it is
perfectly clear that you have run a career of extravagance and folly
which must be summarily checked. While enjoying a handsome allowance
from your worthy uncle, you contracted numerous debts in a most
reckless manner; and it is probable that Sir Christopher Blunt withdrew
that allowance in consequence of your spendthrift habits. Insolvent,
the Court is of opinion that you cannot be allowed your freedom again
until you shall have passed a certain time in confinement, both as a
punishment for the past and as a warning for the future. The judgment
of the Court is, therefore, that you be remanded at the suit of your
opposing creditor, Mr. Fopperton, for the space of five calendar months
from the date of your vesting order.”

“Thin bad luck to ye, ye slapy-headed ould scoundrels!” vociferated
Captain O’Blunderbuss.

“Holloa, there!” cried the usher, unable to pass over such a flagrant
breach of decorum as this, in spite of the awe with which the terrible
Irishman inspired him; and, springing towards the captain, the official
clutched him by the collar--while, to use the words of the newspaper
reporter, “the most tremendous sensation pervaded the Court.”

But Gorman O’Blunderbuss was not the man to be thus assailed with
impunity; and, knocking down the usher with one hand and Mr. Kicksey
Fopperton on the top of him with the other, he made a desperate rush
from the tribunal, no opposition being offered to his exit.

A few minutes afterwards he was joined at the public-house over the
way by his friend Frank Curtis and the tipstaff who had charge of the
latter; and the three worthies, following the example of the pious Mr.
Joshua Sheepshanks, drank spirits-and-water until they were compelled
to return to the King’s Bench in a hackney-coach.




CHAPTER CXX.

THE LAPSE OF NINETEEN YEARS.


How easy is it to record upon paper the sweeping words--“Nineteen years
had passed away since the occurrences just related:”--how easy is it
with a few moments’ manipulation of the pen to leap over a period
embracing almost the fifth part of a century!

Nineteen years!--a few short syllables--a drop of ink--a scrap of
paper--and a minute’s trouble,--these are all that the novelist needs
to enable him to pass by the deeds of nineteen years!

Oh! this very power compels us to look with suspicion upon the utility
of our own avocations,--to reflect how far removed from _the_ natural
is even the _most_ natural of the works of fiction,--and to feel the
nothingness of all the efforts of the imagination when placed in
contrast with the stern and stubborn facts of the real world!

For though the novelist, exercising a despotic power over the offspring
of his fancy, may dispose of years--aye, even of centuries, with a dash
of his pen,--yet of Time, as the universe actually experiences its
march, not one instant can he stay--not one instant accelerate.

Great Kings, who have proclaimed themselves demigods and compelled the
millions to abase themselves round their mighty thrones,--at whose
awful nod whole nations have trembled as if at the frown of Olympian
Jove, and whose impatient stamp on the marble pavement of their palaces
has seemed to shake the earth to its very centre,--proud and haughty
monarchs such as these have been powerless in the hands of Time as
infants in the grasp of a Giant. Though heads would fall at their
command, yet not a hair of their own could they prevent from turning
gray: though at their beck whole provinces were de-populated, yet not a
single moment could they add to their own lives!

TIME is a sovereign more potent than all the imperial rulers that ever
wore the Tyrian purple,--stronger than the bravest warriors that ever
led conquering armies over desolated lands,--less easy to be moved to
mercy than the fiercest tyrants that ever grasped earthly sceptres.

To those who, being in misery, look forward to the certain happiness
that already gleams upon them with orient flickerings from the
distance, Time is slow--oh! so slow, that his feet seem heavy with
iron weights and his wings with lead:--but to those who, being as yet
happy, behold unmistakeable auguries of approaching affliction, Time
is rapid--oh! so rapid, that his feet appear to glide glancingly along
like those of a sportive boy in pursuit of a butterfly, and his wings
are as light and buoyant as the fleetest of birds.

The wicked man, stretched upon the bed of death, cries out, “Oh! for
leisure to repent!”--but Time disregardeth his agonising prayer, and
saith, “Die!” The invalid, racked with excruciating pains, and wearied
of an existence which knows no relief from suffering, exclaims, “Oh!
that death would snatch me away!”--but Time accordeth not the shrieking
aspiration, and saith, “Live on!”

Passionless and without feeling though he be, Time shows caprices
in which the giddiest and most wilful girl would be ashamed to
indulge,--sparing where he ought to slay--slaying where he ought to
spare: insensible to all motives, incompetent to form designs, he
appears to act with a method of contradictions and on a system of
studied irregularities.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Nineteen years had passed away since the occurrences related in the
preceding chapters!”--Such is the sweeping assertion which we have now
to make.

Nineteen years!--how much joy had been experienced, how much misery
felt, during that interval: what vast changes had taken place over the
whole earth!

In these islands that period was marked with the names of three
sovereigns:--George the Fourth--William the Fourth--Victoria.

The debaucheries, vices, and profligacies of George lessened the
value of Monarchy even in the eyes of its stanchest supporters: the
utter incompetency, weakness, and even downright silliness of William
reduced it to a still greater discount;--and the accession of Victoria
proclaimed the grand fact that Monarchy is a farce, since a mere
school-girl can be put up as the throned puppet of the Punch-and-Judy
show of Royalty.

During nineteen years, then, did the value of Monarchy experience a
rapid and signal decline: and, though it still endures, it is hastening
with whirlwind speed to total annihilation. Men are becoming too wise
to maintain a throne which may either be filled by a voluptuary, a
fool, or a doll: they see something radically and flagrantly bad in an
institution which is fraught with such frightful contingencies;--and
they look forward to a convenient moment and a proper opportunity to
effect, by moral means, and without violence, a complete change. The
throne is worm-eaten--its velvet is in holes and covered with dust:
and no earthly power can repair the wood nor patch up the cloth. It
is old--ricketty--and good-for-nothing; and the magisterial seat of a
President, elected by the nation at large, must displace it. Monarchy
falling, will drag down the ancient Aristocracy along with it; and
the twenty-six millions of these realms all starting fair together on
a principle of universal equality, those who succeed in reaching the
goals of VIRTUE and TALENT will constitute and form a new Aristocracy.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nineteen years had passed away since the occurrences related in the
preceding chapters; and it was now the summer of 1846.

The July sun gave forth a heat of intense sultriness; and not a breath
of air fanned the stifling streets of the West-End, nor agitated the
green foliage of St. James’s Park. Nevertheless all that fashionable
quarter of London which lies within the immediate vicinity of the old
palace that gives its name to the park just mentioned, presented a
bustling and animated appearance; for Queen Victoria was to hold a
grand reception at noon that day.

Pall Mall was thronged with well-dressed persons of both sexes;--and
the windows and balconies in that thoroughfare were crowded with
elegantly-attired ladies and gentlemen, who were either the occupants
of the houses at the casements of which they were thus stationed, or
had hired seats at the shops where the cupidity of the proprietors
turned to advantage the curiosity of the public.

It was evident, then, that the reception to be holden this day was of
no ordinary character, and that some great or illustrious personage was
expected to attend the royal levee. For, amongst the thousands that
thronged the streets, an immense anxiety to secure the best places
prevailed; and in all quarters was the eager question asked--“But is it
certain that the Prince will come this way?”

We must pause for a few minutes to notice a group occupying the balcony
of the drawing-room windows at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham.
This group consisted of six persons--three gentlemen, and three ladies.

The first of the three gentlemen was a fine, handsome, noble-looking
man of about forty-five years of age--with a countenance indicating
feelings of the most lofty honour, great generosity, and a splendid
intellect. This was the Earl of Ellingham.

Near him stood an old and venerable gentleman, whose years were verging
fast to three-score-and-ten, but whose small, restless, sparkling eyes
beamed with the fires of genius, and whose compressed lips showed
that although he had consented to become a spectator of the gay scene
about to take place, his thoughts frequently wandered to subjects of a
more serious kind and more congenial to his nature. This was Sir John
Lascelles--the most eminent physician of the age, and who had received
the honour of knighthood in recompense for the great services which he
had rendered to the art of medicine.

The third gentleman was about twenty-five years of age. Tall, handsome,
well-formed, and genteel in appearance, he seemed a fit and suitable
companion for the lovely girl who leant upon his arm, and of whom we
shall speak more fully anon. The fine young man at present alluded to,
was called by the name of Charles Hatfield: but in the former portion
of this work he was known, when a little boy, to the reader as Charley
Watts.

The first of the three ladies was about thirty-seven years of age;
and her beauty, in the finest, chastest, and most elevated Hebrew
style, was admirably preserved. The lapse of years had only matured
her charms, and not impaired them: time had touched not the pearly
whiteness of her teeth, nor dimmed the brilliant lustre of her large
dark eyes. Her hair was still of the deepest and glossiest jet,--silken
and luxuriant, as when we first described it in the fourth chapter
of our narrative:--for she of whom we are speaking now, was Esther,
Countess of Ellingham.

Conversing with the noble Jewess--for she clung to the faith of her
forefathers--was a lady whose style of beauty was of that magnificent
and voluptuous kind which sets the beholder at naught in his
calculations and conjectures relative to the age of the object of his
admiration;--for though forty-four years had passed over the head of
Lady Hatfield, she was still endowed with a loveliness that, though
matured, seemed to have known only the lapse of summers and never to
have passed through the snowy storms of as many winters.

And now we must speak more in detail of that charming girl to whom we
alluded ere now, and who was leaning on the arm of Lady Hatfield’s
son. Ravishingly beautiful was this young creature of seventeen--with
the aquiline countenance of her mother, and the Saxon complexion of
her father. Yes--lovely indeed was Lady Frances Ellingham, the only
issue of the alliance which took place between the Earl and Esther
one year after the murder of Tamar, and consequently eighteen years
previous to the period of which we are now writing. Much of the
description which we gave of Esther in the opening of our tale, would
apply to the charms of her daughter, whose forehead was high, broad,
and intelligent,--whose mouth was small, and revealing in smiles teeth
white as orient pearls,--whose eyes were large and dark,--and whose
figure was tall, sylph-like, and graceful. But Lady Frances Ellingham’s
hair, though dark, was several shades less jetty than that of her
mother; and her complexion was delicately clear, with a slight tinge of
rich carnation appearing beneath the dazzling purity of the skin.

Such was the interesting group of six persons stationed in the balcony
of the Earl of Ellingham’s mansion. But while they are awaiting the
presence of the illustrious individual who is expected to pass through
Pall Mall to the Queen’s levee at St. James’s palace, we will place on
record a few short facts that will render less obscure to our readers
the interval of nineteen years over which we have thought fit to leap
in our narrative.

For a long--long time after the murder of Tamar, Tom Rain appeared
inaccessible to consolation: but at last his naturally strong mind and
vigorous intellect began to exercise their energies--the former to
combat against the deep and depressing sense of affliction--and the
latter to teach him the necessity of putting forth all his powers in
the struggle, not only on account of the inutility of repinings, but
likewise for the sake of those who were interested in him. It was,
however, chiefly on the occasion of Lord Ellingham’s marriage with
Esther de Medina, that Rainford perceptibly rallied; for it did his
generous heart good to behold the happiness of his half-brother. As
time wore on, Tom Rain recovered much of his former cheerfulness; and
after the lapse of three years from the date of Tamar’s death, he began
to listen with attention, if not with interest, to the representations
made to him by the Earl, urging him to the performance of a duty which
it was now in his power to fulfil. Arthur reminded him of Georgiana
Hatfield’s generous conduct in obtaining the royal pardon,--he assured
Rainford that her ladyship no longer thought of him with abhorrence and
aversion, but would cheerfully bestow her hand on the father of her
child,--and the nobleman moreover advised the alliance on the ground
that the boy would then dwell with both his parents. The death of Mr.
de Medina, which happened about that time, delayed the negociations
thus commenced; but at the expiration of a year the proposal was
revived, and the necessary arrangements were speedily adjusted. In
fine, it was settled that Rainford should abandon the name by which
he had hitherto been known, and assume that of Hatfield,--that the
boy should be thenceforth called in the same manner, but should be
brought up in the belief that he was Rainford’s nephew,--and that after
the marriage, which was to be solemnized in the most private manner
possible, the wedded pair should proceed to the continent, and there
reside for some years. All these arrangements were duly carried out.
Rainford--whom we shall henceforth call by his wife’s name--became
the husband of Lady Georgiana Hatfield;--and, taking with them their
child, who was represented to be their nephew, they forthwith repaired
to Italy, where they dwelt for nearly fifteen years. Thus, on their
return to London, only a few weeks before the date up to which we have
now brought the incidents of our tale, all the stirring circumstances
once associated with the name of Tom Rain were pretty well forgotten;
and none, save those few who were in the secret, suspected that the
pleasant, gentlemanly, good-natured Mr. Hatfield was identical with the
individual who nineteen years previously had filled all England with
his fame.

While we have been thus digressing, the sensation amongst the crowds
in Pall Mall has increased;--for the carriages of several eminent or
illustrious personages have passed along in their way to the royal
levee.

In the balcony at the Earl of Ellingham’s drawing-room window, a
degree of curiosity and excitement prevailed which certainly could not
have been aroused on the part of the intelligent individuals there
assembled, by the mere display of gorgeous equipages. Let us see
whether the conversation passing in that balcony will throw any light
upon the subject.

“Well,” exclaimed Sir John Lascelles, almost in a petulant tone, “I
wonder how much longer your cynosure of attraction will be before
he makes his appearance? Truly, it was worth while for my friend
Ellingham here, to drag me away from my experiments in order to catch a
glimpse of a foreign Prince----”

“Nay, doctor,” interrupted the Earl, smiling: “It was precisely because
this illustrious Prince is _not_ a foreigner--but an Englishman by
birth and a true Briton in his noble heart--that I thought you would be
pleased to join those who are desirous to behold a youthful hero whose
name occupies so memorable a page in history.”

“Well, well,” said the physician, somewhat more mildly: “I will have
patience--and since you assure us that the object of all curiosity is
indeed an Englishman----”

“Surely you can neither doubt the fact, nor be ignorant of his great
achievements, doctor?” exclaimed the Earl. “But if you wish to receive
positive assurances as to his Royal Highness’s English parentage, Lady
Hatfield will satisfy you.”

“Yes--truly,” observed Georgiana. “When we were staying in Italy, we
not only became as it were eye-witnesses of the great Revolution which
was conducted to so signally triumphant an issue by the young hero of
whom you are speaking; but we subsequently had the honour of forming
the acquaintance of his Royal Highness and that of his Princess, who is
as amiable as she is beautiful.”

“And now that the Prince has come to visit his native land once more,”
said Charles Hatfield, his eyes flashing the fires of that enthusiasm
which filled his soul, “the people assemble in crowds to do honour
to their illustrious fellow-countryman. Oh! how delicious must his
feelings be, when he reflects that as an obscure individual he once
moved, unnoticed and unknown, amidst the mazes of this great city,--and
that by his own brilliant merits he has raised himself to that pinnacle
of rank and glory which renders him the admiration of the myriads now
assembled to welcome his presence.”

“Well spoken, my dear Charles,” exclaimed Lady Hatfield. “Look up and
down the street--it is literally paved and walled with human faces!
In the balconies on either side of this house--and opposite too--I
recognise many ladies and peers of the highest rank. Yes--Charles, you
are right: the feelings of the Prince must indeed be joyous when he
reflects that this vast congregation of all classes has gathered to do
honour to the fellow-countryman of whom they are so justly proud.”

“History teems with examples of bold, bad, and ambitious men usurping
power and decorating themselves with lofty titles,” continued Charles,
addressing himself partly to Lady Hatfield and partly to the beautiful
Lady Frances Ellingham: “but in the present instance we have a young
Englishman, of generous soul, enlightened opinions, and even rigorous
rectitude of conduct, raising himself from nothing as it were and
acquiring the proudest titular distinctions. For what a glorious
elevation was it from plain _Mr. Richard Markham_ to _His Royal
Highness Field-Marshal the Prince of Montoni, Captain-General of the
Castelcicalan Army, and Heir-Apparent to the Grand-Ducal Throne_!”

Scarcely had Charles Hatfield enunciated these sounding titles in a
tone which afforded full evidence of the enthusiasm that filled his
soul as he thought of the splendid career of Richard Markham,[1] when
far-off shouts of welcome and of joy suddenly reached the ears of the
group on the balcony:--then those sounds came nearer and nearer, as the
crowd took up the cries from the direction where they commenced;--and
never was Royalty saluted with a more cordial greeting than that which
now welcomed the hero of Castelcicala.

“Long live the Prince of Montoni! God save Richard Markham!” were the
words sent up by thousands and thousands of voices to the blue arch of
heaven.

In a short time a handsome carriage, drawn by four magnificent horses,
came in sight of the spectators in the balcony; and nothing could now
exceed the enthusiasm of Charles Hatfield, as he once more beheld the
object of his heroic idolatry--that fine young Prince whom he had so
often admired and envied when in the vast square of the ducal palace of
Montoni his Royal Highness reviewed the garrison of the Castelcicalan
capital.

The Prince, who was accompanied in his carriage by two aides-de-camp,
wore the uniform of his high military rank: his breast was covered with
Orders; and in his hand he carried his plumed hat, which he had removed
from his brow through respect to the generous British public from whom
he now received so enthusiastic a welcome.

His Royal Highness was in the prime and glory of his manhood. He was
thirty years of age: his dark hair, which he wore rather long and which
curled naturally, enclosed a forehead that appeared to be the seat of
genius of the highest order;--and his fine black eyes were bright with
the fire of intelligence and the animation of complete happiness. His
magnificent uniform set off his symmetrical and graceful figure to
its fullest advantage; and he acknowledged with affability and modest
condescension the demonstrations of joy and welcome which marked his
progress.

As his equipage passed opposite the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham,
his eyes were attracted to the balcony; and, recognising Lady Hatfield
and the enthusiastic Charles, he bowed to them in a manner which
testified the pleasure he experienced at again beholding those whose
acquaintance he had formed in the ducal capital of Castelcicala.

“He is certainly a very fine young man,” said Sir John Lascelles. “I
have seldom seen a countenance so expressive of vast mental resources:”
then, after a short pause, the worthy physician added, “I would give
much for a cast of his head.”

The Earl was about to make some reply, when his own name was suddenly
shouted forth by a voice in the street: and that name, taken up by
tongue after tongue, was echoed by thousands of individuals who were
delighted to associate the stanch friend of the industrious classes of
England with their enthusiastic welcomings of the royal champion of
constitutional freedom in Italy.

“Long live the Marshal-Prince of Montoni! three cheers for the Earl
of Ellingham!” were now the cries that made the very welkin ring; and
these shouts were prolonged for some time, until the carriage of his
Royal Highness turned into the court-yard of St. James’s palace, and
the Earl on his side withdrew from the balcony.

“You sigh, Charles?” said Lady Frances Ellingham, in a low and somewhat
anxious tone, and speaking apart to him whom she believed to be Lady
Hatfield’s _nephew_.

“I was only thinking, dear Fanny,” answered the young gentleman, “that
much and earnestly as I may strive to elevate myself, it will never be
my good fortune to have such opportunities as the Prince of Montoni
found for distinguishing his name and acquiring on immense reputation.”

“Are you envious of him, Charles?” enquired the beautiful maiden, in a
somewhat reproachful tone. “I thought that you recked not for titles
and high rank----”

“No--not when they are hereditary,” hastily replied Charles Hatfield:
“and this assurance I have often given you in secret--because I should
not like to make such an observation before your noble father, whose
title _is_ hereditary. But I admire--yes, and I envy too, the honours
which a great man acquires by his own merits! Do you imagine that the
English people would have assembled in vast crowds to hail and welcome
one of their own royal Dukes? No, indeed! And yet they seem as if they
could not testify their joy in too lively a manner, when the Prince of
Montoni appears amongst them.”

While this little dialogue was taking place in one part of the spacious
drawing-room at the Earl of Ellingham’s mansion, the nobleman himself
was conversing with his wife and Lady Hatfield in another--the entire
group having withdrawn from the balcony, and Sir John Lascelles having
quitted the apartment.

“Yes,” said the Earl, in answer to a question put to him by Lady
Hatfield; “I have understood that the Prince proposes to stay some
weeks in London. The Princess Isabella has not accompanied him--her
royal parents, the Grand Duke Alberto and the Grand Duchess, being
loth to part with her. The Prince has taken up his abode--at least,
so states the morning newspaper--at Markham Place, the house where
he was born and where all his youth and a portion of his manhood
were passed. Accordingly, as you desire, Georgiana, I will call upon
his Royal Highness to-morrow; and I will request him to accept of an
entertainment at this mansion.”

“How did it occur,” enquired the Countess of Ellingham, “that Thomas
was not with us just now to behold the progress of the Prince to St.
James’s?”

“You know, dear Esther,” answered Lady Hatfield, “that my husband loves
privacy and seclusion, and especially avoids appearing in crowded
places. He fears to be recognised,” she added, sinking her voice so as
to be inaudible to Charles and Lady Frances, who were at the opposite
end of the apartment: “and he is perhaps right--although so many years
have elapsed since those occurrences----”

“To which we will not refer,” interrupted Lord Ellingham, hastily. “How
very seriously the young people appear to be conversing together,” he
added, glancing towards Charles Hatfield and Lady Frances.

“Charles has imbibed certain romantic ideas and hopes of distinguishing
himself in the world,” observed Georgiana; “and I think it right to
encourage such noble--such generous aspirations. But your charming
daughter is evidently remonstrating with him upon some point: and yet
the two cousins appear to be much attached to each other,” she added,
with rather an anxious look at the Earl, as if she were uncertain how
he might receive the observation, into which she threw a degree of
significancy.

“You have mentioned a circumstance which gives me much pleasure--nay,
not only myself, but likewise my dearest Esther,” said the nobleman.
“We have already adopted it as the basis of many happy plans for the
future----”

“Yes,” observed the Countess of Ellingham, emphatically: “an alliance
between Charles and our beloved daughter, would prove a source of
felicity and satisfaction to us all.”

“Arthur--and you, too, dear Esther,” murmured Lady Hatfield, in a tone
indicative of deep emotions, “I thank you for these assurances. All
my earthly ambition--my sole hope, would be accomplished on the day
that such an union took place. Alas! poor boy--it is distressing--Oh!
it is distressing to be compelled to veil from him the real secret
of his parentage--to hear him at times question me relative to his
parents--his _supposed_ parents, who are represented to be no more!
Yes--and it is cruel, too, to be forced to deceive him--to hear him
call me his _aunt_--I, who am his _mother_!”

“Georgiana--dearest Georgiana, do not thus afflict yourself!” murmured
Esther, pressing Lady Hatfield’s hand in a tender manner, and speaking
in a tone of consolation and sweet sympathy.

But almost at the same instant a piercing scream burst from Georgiana’s
lips; and she fell senseless into the arms of the Countess of
Ellingham--while the Earl, turning mechanically and hastily round,
beheld Charles standing close behind him,--pale--astounded--petrified!
For the young man had advanced unperceived--and his tread unheard on
the thick, soft carpet--towards the group formed by Lady Hatfield, the
nobleman, and the Countess: and his ears had caught these words--“to
hear him call me _aunt_--I, who am his _mother_!”

For a few instants he stood motionless--amazed and stupefied by what he
had heard:--but, suddenly recovering the power of movement and yielding
to the ineffable sensations which were excited in his breast, he sprang
forward--and catching his still insensible parent in his arms, he
cried, “Oh! my dearest mother--my beloved, my adored mother--open your
eyes--look upon me----”

“His mother!” exclaimed Lady Frances, overwhelmed with surprise,
and unable, in the innocence of her virgin heart, to form even the
slightest notion that might serve as a clue to what was still so deep a
mystery to her.

“Yes--my dearest Fanny,” said the Earl, hastily drawing his daughter
aside and speaking to her in a low and rapid tone: “Charles is indeed
the _son_--and not the _nephew_--of Mr. Hatfield and Lady Georgiana.
But reasons of an imperious necessity--reasons which you are too young
to comprehend, and too discreet to enquire into----”

“My dear father, I seek to know no more than it may please you to tell
me,” interrupted the young lady, with a decision as amiable as it was
dutiful and re-assuring: “and my behaviour shall henceforth be as if I
had not been accidentally made the spectatress of this scene.”

“You are my own beloved--darling daughter!” exclaimed the Earl
enthusiastically, as he pressed his lips to the pure and chaste
forehead of the charming countenance that was upturned so lovingly
towards his own.

By this time Lady Hatfield had been recovered through the kind
attentions of Esther; and, awaking to consciousness, she clasped
her son to her bosom, murmuring in a faint tone and broken voice,
“Now you have learnt my secret, Charles--a secret which--But another
time--another time, you shall know all! Oh! Charles--I feel so much
happiness and so much sorrow--strangely blended--at this moment----”

“Compose yourself, dearest--dearest parent!” exclaimed the young man,
his tears flowing freely. “I now know that you are my mother--and I
care to know nothing more! Never--never shall I question you concerning
the past: the enjoyment of the present, and the hope which gilds the
future--these are enough for me!”

[Illustration]

“My poor boy!” murmured Lady Hatfield, straining him to her breast: “I
feel as if an immense weight were taken from my mind--I seem to drink
of a purer source of happiness than I have ever yet known----Oh! why
did I ever hesitate to tell thee that thou wast my son!”

And again she pressed him closer and closer still to her bosom,
covering his brow and cheeks with kisses; while tears flowed from the
eyes of the Countess and of Lady Frances at the touching spectacle--and
the Earl turned aside to conceal his emotions.




CHAPTER CXXI.

MR. HATFIELD.


In the meantime Sir John Lascelles had repaired to the library in the
Earl of Ellingham’s mansion; and there he found, as he had anticipated,
his friend Mr. Hatfield--_late_ Tom Rain.

This individual was now in his fiftieth year; and he was much changed
by time as well as by art. He still possessed the fine teeth which
caused the beholder to forget the somewhat coarse thickness of the
lips;--but the laugh that came from those lips, when he was in a happy
mood, was more subdued and quiet than when the reader first made his
acquaintance many years previously to the present date. Though never
inclined to corpulency, he had nevertheless become thinner: yet his
form was still upright, muscular, and well-knit. In his calm moments,
especially when he was alone, a slight shade of melancholy appeared
upon his countenance;--and he even sighed at times as he thought upon
the past

These were the changes which the lapse of years had effected in regard
to him; and the appliances of art rendered it still more difficult to
recognise in the Mr. Hatfield of 1846 the rollicking Tom Rain of 1827.
For his hair and whiskers were dyed a very dark hue; and his attire was
a plain suit of black.

Was he happy? Yes--to a certain extent, in spite of the shade
of melancholy and the occasional sighs. His was a disposition
originally so gay and joyous, that it could not be completely
subdued--only mellowed down. Years of rigorous integrity--boundless
charity--never-failing philanthropy--and innumerable good deeds, had
established in his mind a confidence that the errors of his early
life were fully expiated;--and so complacently could he look upon the
present, that he no longer reproached himself for the past.

This was the usual tenour of his mind: but, as we have already hinted,
there were now and then moody intervals in which thought became
painful. These were, however, of no frequent occurrence;--and, thus--on
the whole--we may assert that Mr. Hatfield _was_ happy.

The conduct of Lady Georgiana towards him, from the moment of their
union, had been of an affectionate and touching nature. She studied
to enact the part of the tender wife--the sincere friend--and the
amiable woman: and she succeeded fully. Espousing him at first solely
on account of their child, she soon began to like her husband--next to
admire him--eventually to love him. She found him to be possessed of
numerous good qualities--noble and generous feelings--and sentiments
far more refined than she could possibly have anticipated. The terms on
which he lived with her, therefore, aided in insuring his happiness;
and the fine principles as well as handsome appearance of their son,
were a source of profound delight to them both.

Mr. de Medina had died possessed of great wealth--one half of which
was bequeathed to Mr. Hatfield. This amount, joined to Lady Hatfield’s
fortune, rendered them very wealthy; and their riches were almost
doubled by the demise of Sir Ralph Walsingham, Georgiana’s uncle, who
left them all his fine estates. Thus their income might be calculated
at thirty thousand a-year; and no inconsiderable portion of this
splendid revenue was devoted to humane and charitable purposes.

When Sir John Lascelles entered the library, as above stated, Mr.
Hatfield hastened to welcome him with all the affectionate assiduity
of a son receiving a visit from a kind and venerable parent; and the
worthy physician evidently experienced a greater elasticity of feeling
towards Mr. Hatfield than to any other friend whom he possessed on
earth. The one never could forget that he owed his life to the science
of the doctor: the other looked on Hatfield as a person whom he had
actually restored to the world, and as a living proof of the triumph
which had crowned long years of research in respect to a particular
study.

“My dear friend,” said Sir John Lascelles, when they were both seated,
“I have just witnessed a spectacle that I must candidly admit to have
been very gratifying. The English are a most generous-hearted people,
and are quick also in the appreciation of sterling merit. The Earl’s
name was just now coupled with the shouts of applause that welcomed the
Prince of Montoni.”

“I am rejoiced to hear these tidings,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “Indeed,
it struck me, as the sounds of the myriad voices reached my ears in the
seclusion of this room, remote though it be from the apartment whence
you have just come,--it struck me, I say, that I heard my brother’s
name mentioned. For nineteen years has Arthur now struggled in the
interests of the middle and industrious classes: session after session
has he passed in review the miseries and the wrongs endured by the sons
and daughters of toil;--and what has he experienced from the several
Administrations which have succeeded each other during that period?
Though Whigs and Tories have held the reins of power in their turns,
the treatment received by my brother has been uniformly the same. The
most strenuous opposition to all his grand proposals has been offered;
and when some trifling point has been conceded, ’twas as if a boon were
conferred instead of an act of justice done. But although Arthur has
thus failed in inducing the Government to adopt large and comprehensive
measures for the relief, benefit, and elevation of the industrious
classes, he has at least succeeded in giving such an impetus to Liberal
sentiments out of doors--beyond the walls of the Senate-house--that
he has taught millions to think, who never thought before, upon
their political condition. Though baffled in the Legislative
Assembly--though thwarted by the old school of aristocracy, and the
supporters of those vile abuses which are summed up in the phrase
‘_the landed interest_’--though opposed with unmitigated hostility by
the worshippers of ‘_the wisdom of our ancestors_,’--nevertheless,
Arthur has returned undaunted to the charge. Never disheartened--never
cast down--always courageous in the People’s Cause, he has fearlessly
exposed the rottenness of our antiquated institutions, and mercilessly
torn away the veil from our worn-out systems. The millions recognise
and appreciate his conscientious--his unwearied strivings in their
behalf; and they adore him as their champion. Unassuming--honest--and
free from all selfishness as he is, it must nevertheless have been a
proud moment for my brother when he heard his name associated ere now
with that of the illustrious Prince who achieved the liberation of
Castelcicala beneath the walls of Montoni.”

“The gratitude of the industrious classes is the most welcome reward
that a well-intentioned and a true patriot can possibly experience,”
observed Sir John Lascelles. “The Earl certainly seemed pleased with
the high but merited compliment thus paid to him--although not for
one minute did he seek it, when he appeared at the balcony; for I
noticed that he rather endeavoured to conceal himself behind the
window-curtain. But speaking of the Prince--he is a very handsome young
man.”

“The Castelcicalans absolutely worship him,” said Mr. Hatfield; “and
they look upon him as in every way fitted to succeed the Grand Duke
Alberto, whenever death shall snatch away that great and enlightened
sovereign from the throne.”

“It was in the Castelcicalan capital that poor Jacob Smith breathed his
last--was it not?” enquired the physician.

“Yes--in the suburbs of Montoni,” answered Mr. Hatfield. “As you are
well aware, the poor youth never recovered the shock which he sustained
on learning that he owed his being to that dreadful man--Benjamin
Bones; and the horrible way in which that remorseless wretch died,
augmented the weight of the fearful blow caused by that discovery.
Jacob scarcely ever rallied--scarcely ever held up his head afterwards:
the only gleam of happiness which he knew was afforded by the good
tidings that we received relative to the Bunces--and even that was
insufficient to sustain his drooping spirit. He languished away--for
six years he pined in sorrow, accessible to no consolation that
travelling, change of scenery, or our attentions could impart. It was
several years before the Great Revolution, which, conducted by Richard
Markham, gave freedom to Castelcicala and raised up that hero to a
princely rank,--it was some years before this glorious era, that Jacob
Smith--for he always retained that name--breathed his last. We buried
him in a picturesque cemetery on the banks of the river Ferretti; and a
cross--according to the custom of that Catholic country--was placed to
mark his last home.”

“Poor fellow!” exclaimed the doctor. “He was always sickly--and
the discovery of his hideous parentage was too much for so weak a
constitution. And now let us turn to another subject:--have you
received the letters which you expected concerning the various
individuals----”

“I know to whom you allude,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield; “and I have now
before me,” he added, glancing at several letters, “the correspondence
relating to those persons. Timothy Splint still remains the occupant
of a fine farm in the backwoods of the United States; and the last
nineteen years of his existence have proved the sincere penitence
which he feels for the crimes of his earlier days. He possesses a
competency--if not positive wealth. By his marriage with the daughter
of a neighbouring settler, he has a numerous family; and he brings up
his children in the ways of morality and virtue. Indeed, I am well
aware _that he has lived to bless the period when he went through the
ordeal of the subterranean dungeon_.”

“You prophesied that he would!” exclaimed Sir John Lascelles.
“Yes--those were the very words which you used when speaking of him to
me nineteen years ago. I recollect them perfectly;--for age has not
impaired my memory, thank heaven!”

“I now come to Joshua Pedler,” resumed Mr. Hatfield, “You will
remember, my dear doctor, that this man and his wife Matilda were
appointed to the charge of the Eddystone Light-house. There they
remained for six or seven years--as indeed I wrote to you to this
effect a long time ago----”

“Yes--and then you sent them out as emigrants to Canada,” interrupted
Sir John Lascelles; “and they continued to do well. What say your last
accounts concerning them?”

“They are still happy--contented--and prosperous,” answered Mr.
Hatfield. “Their shop at Quebec thrives admirably; and they have
managed to put by several hundred pounds. Pedler says that the sweetest
bread he has ever eaten in his life, has been that which he has earned
by his honest toils. I have reason to feel convinced, moreover, that he
is kind and good towards his wife, and that his only regret is their
not having any children.”

“And the Bunces are still living in St. Peter’s-Port, after having
acquired a competency in the Island of Sark?” enquired the physician.

“Yes--they are still in the capital of Guernsey,” was the response.
“Bunce tells me in his letter that his wife’s health does not improve;
in fact, she doubtless received a cruel shock when she heard of the
death of Jacob Smith--for it had been her hope that he might some day
take up his abode with her and her husband--a hope which she however
nourished in secret.”

“Bunce himself has never learnt the real parentage of Jacob, I
believe?” said the physician. “Indeed, I remember you told me the other
day that his wife, always bearing in mind the injunctions you conveyed
to her through Mrs. Harding, had retained as a profound secret her
former illicit connexion with Benjamin Bones.”

“Yes--it was useless to make a revelation which would only have
troubled their domestic peace,” said Mr. Hatfield. “Harding divined the
hope that the woman had formed relative to Jacob--and in his letters he
communicated his ideas to me. But even if death had spared Jacob, he
would not have quitted me--no, not though it were to dwell with his own
mother!”

“And Jeffreys?” asked the physician: “what of him?”

“He is well pleased that he removed last summer from Hackney to
Liverpool. The money he had saved during a period of eighteen years
at his shop in the London suburb, enabled him to take a very handsome
establishment in the great commercial town in the north; and he is
carrying on a large and flourishing business.”

“Thus, in every instance, save that of Old Death, have you succeeded in
reclaiming those wicked people whose reform you took in hand,” said Sir
John Lascelles. “Tidmarsh died tranquilly in his bed in the Island of
Alderney--and the others still exist, worthy members of society.”

With these words the physician rose and took his leave; and almost
immediately after he had quitted the library, the Earl of Ellingham
entered, closing the door behind him with the caution of one who has
some important or mysterious communication to make.

“Arthur, you have evil tidings for me?” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield,
advancing towards his noble half-brother.

“Nay--they can scarcely be called evil, Thomas,” was the reply: “and
yet--’twould perhaps have been better----”

“Speak! Keep me not in suspense,” interrupted the other.

“Charles--your son----”

“Ah! he has discovered his parentage!” cried Hatfield. “Yes--I am sure
that this is the circumstance which you came to communicate;”--and he
walked twice up and down the room in an agitated manner: then, suddenly
turning towards his brother, he said, “How did this occur, Arthur?”

The Earl related the incident just as it had taken place, not
forgetting the short but impressive dialogue which he had with his own
daughter, Lady Frances, respecting the sudden and accidental revelation
of the secret of Charles Hatfield’s birth.

“After all, I am not sorry that this has so happened,” observed the
nobleman’s half-brother. “Sooner or later the truth must have been
confided to my son--my dear son;--and since the secret may still be
preserved in respect to the world and to those whom we would not wish
to become acquainted with it----”

“Sir John Lascelles himself does not even suspect it,” interrupted
Arthur. “It is known but to our immediate family--and Georgiana’s
honour is as safe as ever it was. The breath of scandal cannot reach
it.”

“Thanks, my dear brother--a thousand thanks for this assurance!”
exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “And now let my son come hither to embrace me
as his father:--but, Arthur,” he added, sinking his voice to a low and
solemn tune, “let him not enquire into the motives which induced his
parents to envelop his birth in mystery. Enjoin him to forbear from any
attempt to gratify his curiosity in that respect!”

“I hope--indeed, I believe that you have no painful ordeal of such a
nature to apprehend,” replied the Earl of Ellingham; and having thus
spoken, he quitted the library.

Two minutes elapsed, during which Mr. Hatfield once more paced the
apartment in an agitated manner: for, knowing the fine spirit of
his son, he trembled lest it should be checked or even broken by the
mortifying suspicion that he was illegitimate!

“A falsehood is abhorrent to me,” he thought within himself: “and
yet--if he should question me respecting his birth--I dare not avow the
truth! I must not confess to my own son that his being resulted from
an atrocious outrage perpetrated by myself:--nor must I permit him to
suspect the honour of his mother! Silence on my part, I now perceive,
would engender such suspicion in respect to her; and she must not lose
one particle of the dignity of virtue in the eyes of her own offspring!
Alas! painful position!--and, Oh! with what foolish and short-sighted
haste did I ere now affirm that I was not sorry for the discovery which
he had made!”

At this moment the door opened, and Charles sprang forward into his
father’s arms, which were extended to receive him.

For some minutes they remained silent--each too profoundly the prey to
ineffable emotions to give utterance to a syllable.

“I am proud--I am rejoiced to be able to call you by the sacred name
of _Father_!” at length exclaimed Charles, speaking with the abrupt
loosening of the tongue which was caused by a sudden impulse. “But are
you--are you well pleased that accident should have thus revealed to
me----”

“Charles--my dear boy,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, summoning all his
firmness to his aid, “you must be aware that weighty reasons--the
weightiest reasons--could alone have induced your mother and myself
to practise a deception towards you and the world in respect to the
degree of relationship in which you really stood with regard to us. Is
it sufficient for you to know at last that you _are_ our son?--or do
you demand of me an explanation wherefore you must still pass as our
_nephew_?”

“Oh! then Lord Ellingham spoke truly as he brought me hither just
now!” cried Charles, in a tone of vexation: then, in another moment
brightening up, he added feelingly, “But by what right do I dare to
question the conduct of parents who have ever treated me so kindly?
No--my dear father--I seek not any explanation at your hands--I am
content to obey your wishes in all things.”

“Generous youth!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “Though you must pass as my
nephew, Charles, yet in all respects shall you continue to be treated
as my son! You are doubtless aware that I am rich--very rich;--and all
that your mother and myself possess is bequeathed to you.”

“One word, father--only one word!” cried Charles. “I have an ardent
longing to ask a single question--and yet I dare not--no--I cannot
tutor my lips to frame the words----”

“Speak!” said, Mr. Hatfield, emphatically: “I can almost divine the
question you hesitate to put to me.”

“Ah! my dear father--I would rather know the truth at once than remain
in suspense, a prey to a thousand wild conjectures--the truth regarding
one point--and only one!” repeated the young man, in an earnest
and imploring tone. “And imagine not,” he continued, speaking with
increased warmth and rapidity, “that I should ever look less lovingly
or less respectfully upon my dear mother--if----”

“Set that suspicion at rest, my son,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, in a
solemn manner. “Your mother has ever been an angel of innocence and
purity! As God is my judge she has never been guilty of weakness or
frailty--no--never--never!” he added emphatically.

“And therefore no stigma is upon my birth?” asked Charles, his heart
palpitating--or rather fluttering violently, as he awaited the response.

“None!” replied his father, with an effort which was, however,
unnoticed by the young man in the excitement of his own feelings.

“God be thanked!” exclaimed he, wringing Mr. Hatfield’s hand in
gratitude for this assurance. “And now I seek to learn no more.”




CHAPTER CXXII.

TWO OF THE READER’S OLD FRIENDS.


Bucklersbury--a tortuous street, leading from Cheapside to
Walbrook--abounds in dining-rooms, where for fifteen pence the “City
man” can procure a meal somewhat on the “cheap and nasty” principle.
There’s ten-pence for a plate of meat, cut off a joint--two-pence, a
pint of porter--a penny, potatoes--a penny, bread--and a penny the
waiter.

The moment a person enters one of these establishments and seats
himself at a table, a waiter with a dirty apron to his waist, and
a ditto napkin over his arm, rushes up, and gabbles through the
bill-of-fare, just in the same rapid and unintelligible manner as an
oath is administered to a juryman or a witness in a court of justice.

It was while the preceding scenes were taking place at the West End of
London, that two gentlemen lounged into a dining-room in Bucklersbury,
and took their places, facing each other, at one of the numerous
little tables that were spread with dirty cloths and strewn in a
random fashion with knives, forks, salt-sellars, pepper-boxes, and
vinegar-cruets,--all in preparation for the afternoon’s process of
“feeding.”

Scarcely had the two gentlemen thus brought themselves to an anchor,
when the waiter darted up to them as if the necessity of speed were
a matter of life or death;--and, heedless whether the visitors were
attending to him or not, the domestic functionary hurried over the list
of delicacies at that moment in readiness in the kitchen.

“Roast beef--biled beef--roast leg of pork--biled leg of pork and pease
pudding--fillet of veal and ’am--beef steak pie--biled leg of mutton
and caper sarse--greens--colliflowers--and taturs. Give your orders,
gentle-_men_.”

But were the rapidity of the waiter’s utterance properly represented
in print, his repetition of the bill-of-fare would more properly stand
thus:--

“Roast beef biled beef roast leg of pork biled leg of pork and pease
pudding fillet of veal and ’am beefsteak pie biled leg of mutton
and caper sarse greens colliflowers and taturs give your orders
gentle-_men_!”

“Well--what shall we have, old fellow?” said the younger gentleman of
the two to his companion.

“Be Jasus! ’an it’s afther boiled leg of por-r-rk and paze pudding that
I am, my frind!” was the emphatic reply, delivered with a ferocious
look at the waiter as much as to let that individual know that he had
better not have any of his nonsense--although nothing was farther from
the poor devil’s thoughts at the moment.

“Very good, sir!” cried the waiter. “Biled pork and pease pudding!”
he shouted out for the behoof of the young lady within the bar at the
remote end of the room.

“And the same for me,” said the Irishman’s companion.

“Same for gentle-_man_!” bawled the waiter, again addressing himself to
the young lady just alluded to. “Ale or stout, gentle-_men_?”

“Porther--a pint!” exclaimed the ferocious Hibernian.

“Pale ale for me,” intimated his friend.

“Pint of porter and pint palale for gentle-_men_!” vociferated the
waiter. “Weggitubles--bread?” he next demanded.

“No bread--greens!” ejaculated the Irishman.

“Bread and potatoes for me,” said his companion.

“One bread--one greens--one taturs--for gentle-_men_!” cried the
waiter, thus conveying his last instructions to the young lady who
officiated at the bar; and the said young lady sent each fresh order
down a pipe communicating with the kitchen--her own voice being as
affected and her manner as lackadaisical as the waiter was natural,
rapid, and bustling.

But before the various luxuries thus commanded were hoisted from the
kitchen to the bar by means of the moveable dumb-waiter that worked
up and down between the two places just mentioned,--we must pause
to inform our readers--if indeed they have not already suspected
the fact--that the two visitors to the dining-establishment in
Bucklersbury, were our old friends Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr.
Francis Curtis!

The gallant Irishman had now numbered sixty-four years; and although
the lapse of time had rendered his head completely bald, and turned his
whiskers and moustachios to a bright silver, the ferocity of his aspect
remained unaltered, and his fiery disposition was unsubdued. He was
still the terrible Captain O’Blunderbuss--ready to exchange shots with
any one and on all occasions--and more devoted to poteen than ever. His
form was as erect as when in the prime of life; and his military coat,
all frogged and braided, was buttoned over an ample chest that no stoop
had contracted. The captain had grown somewhat stouter than when we
took leave of him nineteen years previously to our present date; but
his physical strength seemed to have remained unimpaired.

Frank Curtis was now forty-three. He also had “filled out,” as the
phrase is; but his countenance, in fattening, had lost nothing of its
ignoble expression of self-sufficiency and impudent conceit; and his
manner was as flippant as ever. Neither had he laid aside any portion
of his mendacious habits, but had rather added thereto by varying the
style of his boastings and the nature of his lies. He continued to
dress in a flashy way--delighting in a hat of strange appearance, and
in a waistcoat concentrating in a yard of stuff all the colours which
have existence and name upon earth.

We must however admit--for the truth cannot be blinked in this
respect--that there was a certain air of seediness about both the
captain and Mr. Frank Curtis, which neither the bullying insolence
of the former nor the impertinent self-sufficiency of the latter
could altogether throw into the shade. It was evident that they had
lost the confidence of their tailors and hatters--and even of their
washerwomen;--for their garments might have been less thread-bare, and
their wristbands a trifle cleaner. We say “wristbands,” because those
were the only portions of their shirts which met the eye--the captain’s
frogged coat and Mr. Curtis’s faded double-breasted waistcoat being
each buttoned up to its owner’s throat.

“Waiter-r!” vociferated the gallant officer, when about a minute and a
half had elapsed from the time that the orders had been given for the
repast.

“Yes, sir--coming, sir,” cried the functionary thus addressed, as he
hurried away in quite another direction.

“Be Jasus!” ejaculated the captain, thumping his fist so vigorously
down upon the table that the pepper box danced the polka with the
mustard-pot, and the knives and forks performed a _pas de quatre_. “Is
that boiled por-r-rk and paze pudding afther coming to-day at all, at
all?”

“Just coming, sir!” said the waiter, under no excitement whatever,
though in an immense bustle--for waiters always remain cool and
imperturbable when most in a hurry.

“If it don’t come in sivin seconds, ye villain,” thundered the captain,
“I’ll skin ye alive!”

“Very good, sir,” said the waiter, as he hastened to attend upon some
new-comers.

“The beauty of the French eating-houses is that the moment you order
things they appear on the table by magic,” observed Frank Curtis, in
a tone loud enough to let every one present know that he had been in
France. “When I was in Paris--on that secret mission from the English
Government, you know, captain-----”

“Be Jasus! and I remimber quite well,” exclaimed the gallant officer.
“’Twas at the same time that I wint to offer my swor-r-d and services
to the Imperor of the Tur-r-rks--the Sulthan, I mane.”

“Just so,” said Frank. “Well--as I was going to tell you----”

“Two biled pork--two pease pudding--for gentle-_men_,” cried the waiter
at this juncture, as he set the plates upon the table. “One--bread--one
greens--one taturs--for gentle-_men_.”

The captain and Mr. Curtis fell to work upon the delicacies thus placed
before them; and after an interval of silence, during which the boiled
pork and _et ceteras_ disappeared with astonishing rapidity, the latter
leaning across the table, said in a low whisper, “It was a deuced lucky
thing that I met my friend Styles just now; for if he hadn’t lent me
this sovereign, we might have gone without dinner as well as without
breakfast.”

“Be Jasus! and that’s thrue enough, Frank!” returned the gallant
officer, likewise in _sotto voce_. “Where did ye appint to mate Misther
Styles again this afternoon?”

“At a nice quiet little public that I know of--where there’s a good
parlour and capital spirits,” answered Mr. Curtis.

“Ah! the thrue potheen--the rale cratur!” said the captain. “Well
that’s a blissing, at all evints! And, be Jasus! I hope your frind
Misther Styles will be after putting us up to do a something, as he
suggisted--for, be the power-r-rs! Frank, it’s hard work looking about
for the sinews of war-r-r!”

“Styles is a splendid fellow, captain,” replied Mr. Curtis, smacking
his lips after his last glass of pale ale--or “palale,” as the waiter
denominated it. “Why, God bless you! It was him who got up the London
and Paris Balloon Conveyance Company, with Parachute Branches to Dover
and Calais.”

“And how came it to fail?” demanded the gallant officer.

“Simply because it was never meant to succeed,” answered Frank, in
a matter-of-fact way. “The object was to make money by showing the
balloons and parachutes that were to be used in the business; and the
press took up the affair quite seriously. As long as curiosity was kept
alive, Styles cleared upwards of five guineas a-day by the admissions
at a shilling a head. Ah! he’s a clever fellow--a deuced clever fellow,
I can tell you. But it’s pretty near time we went to meet him: for,
though he hasn’t any thing particular to do at present, he always
pretends to be in a hurry, and never waits one minute over the hour for
an appointment:--that’s the way he has got himself the character of a
man of punctuality and business-habits.”

“Waiter-r!” vociferated Captain O’Blunderbuss.

“Coming, sir!” cried the functionary thus adjured: then, rushing up to
the table, he said interrogatively, “Cheese, gentle-_men_?”

“No. What’s to pay?” demanded Curtis.

The waiter enumerated the items in a rapid manner and mentioned the
amount, which was forthwith discharged by Frank, who ostentatiously
threw down a sovereign as if he had plenty more of the same kind
of coin in his pocket. On receiving his change, he gave the waiter
sixpence--a specimen of liberality which induced that discriminating
personage to disregard all the other demands made at the moment upon
his services, until he had duly escorted the two gentlemen to the door.

Upon quitting the dining-rooms, Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank
Curtis proceeded arm-in-arm into Cheapside; and, on catching a glimpse
of the clock of Bow Church, the latter gentleman said, “We are in lots
of time. It’s only half-past two--and we’re to meet Styles at three at
a public in Fleet Street. So we needn’t gallop along as if a troop of
sheriffs’ officers were at our heels.”

“Be Jasus! d’ye remember what fine fun we had with the snaking
scoundrels up in Baker Street?” cried the gallant officer. “Why--it
must be upwards of twenty years ago--or nineteen at the laste!”

“Yes--and do you remember what larks we had in the Bench too, during
the time that the sleepy old Commissioners remanded me for?” said
Curtis.

“Be the holy poker-r! and I’ve forgotten nothing of all that same!”
ejaculated the captain. “But it was a sad blow to ye, my frind, when
Sir Christopher-r died without laving ye a single sixpence!”

“I can’t bear to think of it, captain--although a dozen years or more
have passed since then. But who do you think I saw the other day,
riding in her carriage just as if she had been a lady all her life?”

“Be Jasus! and ye mane Sir Christopher’s wife that was!” exclaimed the
gallant officer. “Had she got the fine stout livery-servant standing up
behind as usual?”

“Yes--and young Blunt was inside,” added Curtis. “He’s as like the
stout footman as ever a lad was to a middle-aged man in this world--the
same pudding face--sandy hair--stupid-looking eyes----”

“Now be the power-rs! I think you’re too hard upon the footman, Frank!”
interrupted the captain. “He’s not such an ugly fellow as you would
be afther making him out. I don’t say, for insthance, that he’s so
handsome as you, my dear frind--or yet so well made as me, Frank----”

“Very far from it, captain,” cried Mr. Curtis. “I don’t think that
we’re the worst looking chaps in Cheapside at this moment. That’s
exactly what Styles said to us this morning. ‘_I want a couple of
genteel fellows like you_,’ says he, ‘_to join me in something that I
have in hand._’”

“We’re the very boys to co-operate with him, Frank!” exclaimed the
captain: “and what’s more, you and me can play into ache-other’s hands.
’Tisn’t for nothing that we’ve been frinds for the last twinty years.”

“In which time we’ve seen many ups and downs, captain,” observed
Frank,--“had many a good dinner, and gone many a time without
one--spent many a guinea, and seen many a day when we didn’t know where
the devil to get a shilling----”

“Be the power-rs! and had many a rar-r lar-r-rk into the bargin!”
said Captain O’Blunderbuss. “D’ye renumber our gitting into the
station-house the night afther your dear wife left ye to jine the old
gintleman that fell in love with her, and----”

“And who was kind enough to take her off my hands, children and
all!” exclaimed Frank, laughing heartily. “Ah! that was a glorious
business--that was--I mean, old Shipley relieving me of my dear spouse
and the five responsibilities.”

“And didn’t I conduct the bargin for ye?” demanded the captain. “Didn’t
I make him pony down a thousand pounds to prevint an action of _crim.
con._? Be the potheen of ould Ireland--I did that same business as nate
and clane as iver such a thing was setthled in this wor-r-rld!”

“True enough, captain,” said Frank. “But it’s just on the stroke of
three, I declare!” he exclaimed, glancing up at Saint Bride’s, which
they were now passing. “How we must have dawdled along! I wish you
wouldn’t loiter to stare at the gals so, captain,” he added, laughing.

“Be Jasus! and it’s yourself, Frank, that ogles all the lasses that
we mate,” cried the captain, throwing back an insinuation that was
intended as a friendly compliment. “But which is the place, me boy?”

“Here,” said Curtis, turning into a public-house in Fleet Street just
as the clock struck three.




CHAPTER CXXIII.

A MAN OF BUSINESS.


Mr. Bubbleton Styles was a gentleman of about fifty years of age.
Short, thin, dapper, and active,--with a high, bald forehead, and small
restless, twinging eyes,--he seemed a perfect man of business--an
impression that was enhanced by a certain sly knowingness which he
had assumed years before, and which was now habitual to him. He was
uneducated and ignorant: but he had studied the manner in which
well-instructed persons spoke--he compared their language with his
own--and he had actually weeded his style of speech of the solecisms
and grammatical errors that originally characterised it. He had not,
however, been able to improve himself in spelling, with equal facility;
and therefore he took care never to write a letter. He always had some
plausible excuse for throwing this duty in business matters upon some
other person more competent than himself.

Astute and cunning, he forebore from touching on topics which he did
not understand: but if the conversation did turn, in spite of his
endeavours to the contrary, on subjects whereof he was ignorant, he
so artfully managed his observations that even those who knew him
well were far from suspecting that he was otherwise than profoundly
acquainted with the matter under discussion. Every body thought him
a very shrewd fellow;--and he had a habit of looking so knowing and
critical when any one was speaking, that his opinion, when subsequently
delivered, was received with respect and deemed an authority.

The reader may therefore perceive that Mr. Bubbleton Styles was a
thorough man of the world. He took care never to commit himself.
In small money transactions he was always regular and correct: he
therefore escaped the imputation of meanness, and actually acquired
at a cheap rate the denomination of “an honourable character.” The
consequence was, that when he failed--which was very often indeed--in
large transactions, he was considered merely as “a spirited but
unsuccessful speculator,”--never as a dishonest person.

He had an office in the City: but were any of his friends to ask, “What
_is_ Styles?” the answer would be a vague generality--such as, “Oh! he
is a City man, you know--engaged in business and all that!”--a reply
leaving the enquirer just as wise as he was before. And yet, at his
office, there were all the symptoms and evidence of “business,”--a
letter-box at the door--a clerk engaged in writing at the desk--a pile
of letters here, and a heap of account-books there--samples of many
kinds of goods on the mantel and shelves--mysterious-looking bales and
hampers on the floor--files covered with dingy papers, looking like
invoices and bills of lading--and the words _Bills for Acceptance_
labelled over a slit in the board-work that enclosed the desk. Thus the
place had a very business-like aspect: and yet no one could define what
was the precise nature of the business carried on there.

But we have travelled to Mr. Bubbleton Styles’s office in Crosby
Hall Chambers; whereas Mr. Bubbleton Styles himself is just now in a
tavern-parlour in Fleet Street.

The clock had just _begun_ to strike three as Captain O’Blunderbuss and
Mr. Frank Curtis entered the public-house: and by the time they reached
the aforesaid parlour it was six seconds _past_ three.

There sate Mr. Bubbleton Styles--with his silver watch in his hand,
and gazing at the Dutch clock over the mantel-piece, as if he were
anxiously comparing the two dials, and found himself much put out
because there happened to be a slight difference between them.

“If I thought it was my watch that was wrong,” he said aloud,
apparently in a musing manner, but really because he caught a glimpse
of the entrance of Curtis and Blunderbuss at the moment, and he never
lost an opportunity of impressing even his best friends with an idea of
his punctuality,--“if I thought it was my watch that was wrong, I would
trample it to pieces beneath my heel.”

“No--don’t do that, old fellow!” exclaimed Frank, advancing towards
him. “Much better give it to me!”

“I would not do any thing so prejudicial to a friend as present him
with a watch that went irregularly,” returned Mr. Styles, in a solemn
tone. “But the fault is _not_ with my watch, I am convinced: it lies
with that rascally old clock. However, you are only six seconds after
your time: I should have allowed you the full minute--and then I should
have waited no longer. Come, sit down, Curtis--Captain O’Blunderbuss,
sit down; I have just one hour to devote to you. As the clock strikes
four, I must be off. What will you take?”

“Potheen for me, if ye plaze,” said the gallant officer.

“Brandy for me,” observed Frank.

“And wine-and-water for me,” added Mr. Bubbleton Styles. “I never take
spirits until after supper.”

The various beverages required, were immediately ordered and supplied;
and the three gentlemen proceeded to business, the parlour at the
tavern--or rather public-house--being occupied only by themselves at
the moment.

“Well, old fellow,” said Mr. Frank Curtis, addressing himself to Mr.
Styles, “what good thing can you put us up to?”

“A speculation that will enrich us all three,” replied the gentleman
thus appealed to. “I do not mind telling you that I have been rather
unfortunate lately in one or two enterprises--and I want something
to set me square again. I have a few bills coming due in a couple or
three months, and would not have them dishonoured on any account. Thank
God! however, I have no paltry debts--no mean milk-scores--no peddling
affairs. I always avoid them. Still I must make a bold stroke for the
sake of my larger transactions;--and I presume that neither of you are
averse to earning a little money easily and speedily.”

“Arrah! and be Jasus! that’s the most wilcome thing ye could be
afther saying to me, my frind!” exclaimed the captain, surveying the
speculator with deep admiration.

“Now,” continued Mr. Styles, “I have been thinking that we three can
work the oracle well together--and I propose----”

“What?” demanded Mr. Curtis, anxiously.

“Hould your tongue--and have patience, Frank!” ejaculated the gallant
officer. “It shall be your turn to spake prisintly. Well, sir--and what
is it, thin, that ye’re afther proposing!”

“A Railway!” returned Mr. Bubbleton Styles.

“Divil a betther idea could ye have formed!” cried the captain,
enthusiastically.

“Glorious!” exclaimed Curtis, in an equally impassioned tone of
approval.

“Don’t be excited--take things calmly--in a business-like way,” said
Mr. Bubbleton Styles. “It is now twenty minutes past three: we have
forty minutes more to converse upon the subject. Much may be done in
that time. Here,” continued the speculator, drawing a skeleton-map of
England from his pocket, and spreading it on the table; “you see this
line drawn almost longitudinally from one end of Great Britain to the
other? Well--that is my projected Railway. You perceive, we start from
Beachy Head in Sussex--right on, as straight as we can go, to Cape
Wrath on the northern coast of Scotland. Of course we avoid as much as
possible placing any portion of our line in competition with railways
already existing; but we shall have Branches to all the principal
cities and manufacturing towns, and Single Lines wherever they may be
asked for.”

“Capital, be Jasus!” exclaimed the Hibernian officer, unable to
restrain the exuberance of his delight at this magnificent scheme. “And
be what title d’ye mane to call this purty little bantling of yours,
Misther Styles?”

“The Grand British Longitudinal Railway,” answered the speculator, in a
measured and emphatic manner.

The captain was so elated by the grandeur and vast comprehensiveness of
this denomination, that he rang the bell with furious excitement, and
ordered the waiter to replenish the glasses.

“Now,” continued Mr. Bubbleton Styles, “having expounded my views, it
is necessary to take into consideration the mode of procedure. Of
course I am the promoter of the scheme; and to-morrow I shall register
it. This will only cost five pounds--and then the thing is secured to
us. ‘_Provisionally Registered, pursuant to 7 and 8 Victoria, cap.
110_;’--and so forth. Capital £8,000,000, in 400,000 shares of £20
each. Deposit, £2 2s. per share. You, Frank, must be the Secretary; and
you, captain, Consulting Engineer.”

“Is it an Ingineer ye’d be afther making of me in my ould age?” cried
the gallant officer: “for, be the power-rs! I’ve forgot more than I
ever knew of that same!”

“Oh! the place will be quite a sinecure--good pay and nothing to do,”
said Mr. Styles. “We shall have a regular Engineer, as a matter of
course; but it will look business-like to speak in the prospectus
of having ‘_secured the valuable services of that eminent Military
Engineer, Captain O’Blunderbuss, of Blunderbuss Park, Ireland; who,
having surveyed the whole of the proposed line, in concert with the
Company’s Civil Engineer, has reported most favourably of the scheme,
and has offered suggestions which will produce a saving to the Company
of nearly half a million sterling in the progress of the works_.’ This
is the way to manage business, gentlemen,” added Mr. Styles, glancing
in a satisfied manner at his two companions, one after the other: then,
looking at his watch, he exclaimed, “Just ten minutes more to stay--and
I must be off! Now, we have settled that I am to be Promoter--you,
Curtis, are to be Secretary--and you, captain, Consulting Engineer.
This evening I will draw up the prospectus: we must have about thirty
good names for the Provisional Committee--and by to-morrow afternoon
the document will be printed and ready.”

“You will not have time to call on the people to ask them to let you
put down their names?” said Frank Curtis, conceiving at the moment that
his friend was going a trifle too fast.

“Nonsense, my dear fellow!” exclaimed Mr. Bubbleton Styles: “I know
that I can take the liberty of using the names of at least half of
my intended Provisional Committee-men; and the others will not think
of contradicting the prospectus, when they see that we have got Mr.
Podgson as chairman.”

“What--Podgson!” cried Mr. Curtis, almost wild with joy and surprise.
“You don’t mean to say that you’ve got Podgson?”

“Not yet,” answered the speculator, with his characteristic coolness:
“but I _shall_ have him by this time to-morrow.”

“I thought that you had not spoken of your scheme to a soul before you
met me and the captain this morning----”

“Neither had I--and Podgson is totally unaware at this moment that
such a project is in existence,” interrupted Mr. Styles, calmly and
deliberately. “But I know how to deal with him: I have read his
character from a distance;--and, although I have never yet exchanged
a word with him in my life, depend upon it I shall hook him as our
chairman before I am twenty-four hours older. Three minutes more!”
cried the speculator: then, as if to make the most of the hundred and
eighty seconds at his disposal, Mr. Styles closed the present interview
in the following business-like and highly gratifying manner:--“You are
both as shabby as you well can be; and you must obtain new clothes as
soon as possible. Here is a ten-pound note for each of you. Moreover
you must get respectable lodgings at once; and you can give a reference
to me. To-morrow, at three o’clock punctually, there will be chops and
sherry in readiness at my office--and I shall expect you both. Not a
moment before three, remember--because you will be interrupting me: and
if you’re a moment after, I shall decline any farther transactions with
you. So good bye--I haven’t time to shake hands.”

Thus speaking, Mr. Styles rushed from the room, it being four o’clock
to an instant;--and it is perhaps as well to observe that this perfect
man of business had only made an appointment with his friends at the
public-house in Fleet Street, because he had another gentleman to meet
in the neighbourhood at six minutes past four.




CHAPTER CXXIV.

CHARLES HATFIELD.


It was past midnight; and in only one chamber throughout the Earl of
Ellingham’s spacious mansion was a light still burning.

In that chamber Charles Hatfield was pacing to and fro--his mind filled
with thoughts of so bewildering, exciting, and painful a nature, that
he felt the inutility of endeavouring to escape from them by retiring
to his couch.

This young man of twenty-five years of age,--so handsome,
so intelligent, and with the certainly of inheriting vast
riches,--possessing the most brilliant worldly prospects,
and knowing himself to be the object of his parents’ devoted
affection--entertaining, too, a profound love for the beautiful Lady
Frances Ellingham, and having every reason to hope that his passion
was reciprocated,--this young man, with so many advantages in respect
to position, and so many sources of felicity within his view,--Charles
Hatfield was restless and unhappy.

The striking incident which had marked the day--the sudden discovery
that those whom he had hitherto looked upon as his uncle and his
aunt, were in reality his parents,--the assurance which he had
received respecting the honour of his mother and the legitimacy of his
birth,--then the mysterious fact that his parentage was still to remain
a secret to the world,--all these circumstances combined to torment
him with doubts and misgivings--to excite his curiosity to a painful
degree--and to animate him with an ardent longing to penetrate into all
that was so obscure and suspicious.

It was true that he had promised his mother never to question her
relative to a subject that might be disagreeable to her;--for the
moment, too, he had been satisfied with the assurances of his
legitimacy which he had received from the lips of his father. But
when he found himself alone in his own bed-chamber--surrounded by the
stillness of night--he could no longer check the natural current of his
reflections:--the deep silence in which the mansion was enveloped--the
secluded position of his apartment--and the slightly romantic turn of
his mind,--all united to give an impulse to thoughts which were so
intimately associated with subjects of mysterious and strange import.

Then, many circumstances, remembered in connexion with his
early boyhood, but until now never before pondered upon
with serious attention,--recollections, hitherto vague and
disjointed,--gradually assumed a more intelligible aspect to his mental
contemplation:--memory exerted herself with all her energy, to fill
up blanks and bring vividly forward those reminiscences that until
this moment had been like dim and misty vapours floating before the
mind’s eye:--he fixed his gaze intently on the past, until the feeblest
glimmerings assumed a bolder and more comprehensible light;--and by
degrees the confusion of his ideas relative to his early being, yielded
to something like order--so that he became enabled to fit incidents
into their proper places, and even make some accurate calculations with
regard to the dates of particular occurrences.

[Illustration]

In a word, a light had streamed in upon his soul--illuminating many
of the hitherto unexplored cells of his memory,--giving significancy
to recollections on which he had never before paused to ponder, and
investing with importance various reminiscences that had not until this
period engaged his serious attention.

Naturally of a happy--cheerful disposition,--and intent on soaring
aspirations relative to the future, rather than on speculations and
wanderings connected with the past,--he had never until now been
struck with certain facts which, though having a dwelling-place in his
memory, had failed to occupy his meditations or excite any thing like
suspicions in his mind.

But _the incident_ of the day had set him to work, in the silence of
his chamber and the depth of night, to call forth all those sleeping
reminiscences--examine them one by one--connect them together--make
them up as well as he could into a continuous history--and from the
aggregate deduce a variety of truths intimately regarding himself.

All this was not done through any disrespect for his mother or his
father--any change of fueling in reference to them. No:--he loved them
the more tenderly--the more fervently, now that he knew they were _his
parents_, and not _mere relations_. But if he fell into the train of
thought in which we now find him engaged, it was that he could no more
help yielding to that current of reflections than a child could avoid
being carried whirlingly along the rapids of the Canadian stream which
had engulphed it.

And now let us see into what connected form the meditations and
recollections of Charles Hatfield had settled themselves?

Seating himself at the table, on which he leant his elbows, and
supporting his head on his hands, in which he buried his face, he
pondered in the ensuing manner:--

“My earliest remembrances carry me back to a period when I must
have been about five years old; and then I was accustomed to call a
good woman whose name was Watts, my _mother_. But she died--I forget
precisely under what circumstances; and then, when I was nearly six,
I was taken care of by a gentleman named Rainford. Yes--and he had
a beautiful wife named Tamar;--and this Tamar was the sister of the
Countess of Ellingham. Mr. Rainford and Tamar were very kind to me, I
remember well; but I was not with them long. And now there is so much
confusion in my thoughts--so much bewilderment in my reminiscences
touching that particular period in my life, that I scarcely know how
to render my ideas continuously accurate. I fully recollect, however,
that he whom I grew accustomed to call by the endearing name of
‘_father_’ although I knew that he was not my father--I mean this Mr.
Rainford,--I recollect, I say, that he was absent for some weeks, and
that I pined after him. Then Tamar would reassure me with promises of
his return--but I remember that she used to weep very much--oh! very
much! One day she put on black clothes--and she was going to dress me
in mourning also; but she cried bitterly, and threw the dark garments
away. Next I recollect being taken to the house of Mr. de Medina, where
I saw Esther for the first time--that Esther who is now Countess of
Ellingham. The happiness I experienced that day dwells in my mind;
for I recollect as well as if it were but yesterday, that all Tamar’s
sorrow had suddenly disappeared, and that she gave me the most earnest
promises that I should soon see Mr. Rainford again.[2] And I did behold
him again soon--but it was at some town in France, whither I was taken
by Mr. de Medina and his two daughters.[3] Then we all travelled in
a post-chaise and four--and we repaired to Paris, where I remember
that the Earl of Ellingham and Jacob Smith joined us.[4] Next we went
to Havre-de-Grace--I remember it was that town, because I have seen
it since; and there Mr. de Medina, Esther, and the Earl of Ellingham
left us--Mr. Rainford, Tamar, Jacob Smith, and myself going on board
of a ship.[5] We were not very long at sea, but the next incident
which I remember was travelling alone with Tamar to London, where we
took up our abode at the country-seat of Mr. de Medina.[6] That was
at Finchley. We never went out, I remember--but kept close to our own
room, Esther and Mr. de Medina frequently visiting us. How long we
lived in this manner I cannot recollect: but now my mind settles with
horror on the never-to-be-forgotten lamentation which, child as I was,
struck horror to my soul as it echoed through the dwelling! For Mr.
de Medina and Esther had suddenly learnt that Tamar--the good, kind
Tamar--who had been absent a considerable time that day, was foully and
brutally murdered. Oh! how I cried--how bitterly I wept: but if I asked
any questions--which I must naturally suppose that I did--they were not
answered, or were answered vaguely. Yes--all particulars were carefully
kept from me;--and this was doubtless nothing more than a mere matter
of prudence--for I was but a child of between six and seven! Mr.
Rainford now came back to live at Finchley; but how unhappy he was!
I remember well one evening--a very few days only after the dreadful
death of her whom I was wont to call ‘_my mamma_’--that Mr. Rainford,
after a long conversation in whispers with Lord Ellingham, suddenly
turned towards me--caught me up in his arms--and covered me with
kisses. Yes--that incident has ever remained indelibly impressed upon
my memory![7] It was followed very soon by Tamar’s funeral; and almost
immediately afterwards I was sent to a school at a great distance--for
I remember that Mr. de Medina and Esther themselves took me there, and
that we travelled all day in a post-chaise. Ah! and now I recollect
too--yes--it flashes to my mind, that before they left me they charged
me never to mention the name of Rainford at the school;--for my own
name was at that time Charles Watts. For three years did I remain
there, Mr. de Medina and Esther frequently visiting me, even after she
had become the Countess of Ellingham. Every six months I went home to
Finchley for the holidays, and found Mr. Rainford always staying at Mr.
de Medina’s house, and always ready to receive me with kindness. Then
Mr. de Medina died; and we all went into mourning for him. I returned
to school for another year; and when between ten and eleven I was
suddenly sent for home--that is, to the manor-house at Finchley, which
Mr. Rainford had continued to occupy after Mr. de Medina’s death. But
instead of meeting Mr. Rainford, as I had expected, I was taken into
the presence of a gentleman and a lady, neither of whom I had ever
beheld before. These were Mr. Hatfield and Lady Georgiana!”

Here the young man paused in his meditations, as if to fix all his
powers of thought with as much intensity as possible upon that era of
his life whence dated at it were a new existence. But his ideas came
rushing in upon his soul with such overwhelming force, as literally
to hurry him along; and, obedient to the current of continuous and
self-linking reflections, he thus proceeded in that silent history
which he was repeating to himself:--

“And what were my first impressions on entering into the presence
of Mr. Hatfield and Lady Georgiana? I scarcely know now--for I
remember that the lady snatched me to her bosom--folded me in a fond
embrace--covered me with kisses--and even wept over me. It was the
first time I had ever seen her, to my recollection. Mr. Hatfield then
embraced me in his turn, and with as much fervour as if he had been the
Mr. Rainford whom I had expected to meet and to behold! I was then, as
I just now reckoned, between ten and eleven when all this happened;
and it struck me--I recollect it well--that there was a considerable
likeness between Mr. Rainford and Mr. Hatfield:--but then Mr. Rainford
had light hair, and Mr. Hatfield black,--Mr. Rainford had reddish
whiskers, and those of Mr. Hatfield were dark as jet. Yes: those were
my ideas at the time; but I suppose that they were the offspring of a
delusion. Nevertheless, when I call to mind the features of that Mr.
Rainford who was so good to me in my infancy, it even seems now that I
can recollect a resemblance between them and the countenance of my own
father such as it now is. Still, this is most probably mere fancy;--and
I wish to arrive at truths, not indulge in idle speculations. Well,
then--to go back to that interview,--that first interview between
myself and those who have since turned out to be my parents,--I can
call to mind each look they bestowed upon me--each word they uttered.
They told me that they were my uncle and my aunt--that they were rich,
and intended to have me to live with them altogether thenceforth, and
be recognised as their heir--that Mr. Rainford had gone upon a long,
long voyage to settle in a far-off land, whence perhaps he should never
return--and that they would supply the place of the parents whom I had
lost in my infancy and of the generous friend who had thus quitted his
native shores for ever! There was so much in the voice--manner--and
language of Mr. Hatfield which reminded me of Mr. Rainford, that
this circumstance materially consoled me for the deprivation of
my long-loved protector; and I was moreover just at that age when
kindness, handsome clothes, indulgence, and the change of scene which
immediately followed, were fully calculated to attach me to those who
gave me so many enjoyments. Thus, I am afraid that I was ungrateful to
the memory of Mr. Rainford--by loving Mr. Hatfield too soon and too
well,--for I could not then suspect that he was my father;--no--nor did
I ever until the truth burst so suddenly on me this day! But, ah! it
was nature which prompted that feeling;--and I remember well how joyous
and happy I was when told, on the occasion of that first interview,
that thenceforth I must bear the name of _Hatfield_!”

Here he paused again, as if in doubt whether he had omitted any detail,
reminiscence, or incident which should constitute a link in the
narrative that he was endeavouring, in his progressive thoughts, to
render as complete as possible;--and solemnly--profoundly interesting
would it have been for a human observer, himself unobserved, to have
contemplated that fine and handsome young man, thus devoting the hours
when others slept to the task of tracing, by memorial efforts, his
career from the days of infancy to the present moment! But no eye
beheld him save that of Him who beholdeth all things, and who sleepeth
never!

“Scarcely had I thus been taken into the care of Mr. and Lady
Georgiana Hatfield,”--it was thus he proceeded in his continuous
meditations,--“when we repaired to the Continent. Having travelled
through France, we crossed the Alps, and entered the delicious land
of Italy. The Sardinian States were traversed by us in that leisurely
manner which allowed us to view every thing worthy of inspection;--for
some weeks we stayed at Florence, the capital of the beauteous Grand
Duchy of Tuscany;--thence we journeyed to Rome,--and for several months
did we sojourn in the Eternal City. But the health of a young man who
was with us, and whose name was Jacob Smith, required a change of
climate. Mr. Hatfield was deeply attached to this youth, who, on his
side, treated my father with the utmost deference and devotedness.
The Roman physicians recommended the genial air of Montoni; and we
accordingly removed to the sovereign city of Castelcicala. But Jacob
Smith appeared to have some secret sorrow preying upon him; and he
pined away before our very eyes. Yes--he _had_ a secret source of
grief: for I remember well now, that one night he uttered dreadful
screams and ejaculations in his sleep, which awoke and alarmed me--for
I slept in the next room to him. I recollect that I rushed in, fearful
lest his chamber had caught on fire; and that before I could arouse
him, he shrieked forth in thrilling tones--‘_Old Death--Benjamin
Bones--my father! No--no!_’--Poor fellow, he died soon afterwards;
and I wept much--for he was always kind and good to me! But that
ejaculation of ‘_Old Death--Benjamin Bones!_’ even then seemed to
touch some chord within my soul, as if awaking a long dormant but
vague reminiscence: and now again, that name of _Benjamin Bones_--that
frightful appellation of _Old Death_,--Oh! they do not seem so
unfamiliar to me as if I had never heard them mentioned but that once,
and by the lips of Jacob Smith. Were not those names, in fact, in some
way associated with recollections of a much earlier date? Did I never
hear those names pronounced in my earliest boyhood? It appears to me
that I did; and yet I vainly--oh! how vainly endeavour to plunge my
eager glances through the mist--the dense, dark mist, which envelopes
that idea,--reducing the thought to a suspicion so dim and vague that I
dare not adopt it as a link in this history of mine! And yet why does
the name of _Old Death_ produce a kind of shuddering within me, as if
the influence of a very early recollection still partially remained?
Wherefore does the appellation of _Benjamin Bones_ seem more familiar
to me, than I can possibly conceive a reason for? There are moments
when I appear to obtain the least glimmering--the least scintillation
of a light at the remote profundity of this mystery,--a light which for
an instant seems to promise an elucidation of all I wish to know in
that respect, and then becomes suddenly extinguished--leaving me in a
deeper and darker uncertainty than before!”

Charles Hatfield pressed his hands violently to his forehead, as if
to awaken recollections that slumbered too soundly to be otherwise
aroused: but he could not conjure up nor evoke a single idea that was
calculated to throw any light on the obscurity which enveloped every
thing in his mind respecting the two names, the utterance whereof
thrilled to his very soul.

“What means that horrible phrase--_Old Death_?” he asked himself
a hundred times: “and is it in any way connected with the name of
_Benjamin Bones_? Is the phrase a name itself likewise? and if so,
are _Old Death_ and _Benjamin Bones_ one and the same person? Why
should those names produce upon me a disagreeable effect, as if I
suddenly came in contact with a loathsome snake? I know not:--and yet
it is so! The more I ponder upon that night when poor Jacob Smith
shrieked out in his sleep--the more vivid do my recollections become
concerning the horror that convulsed him, and the piercing--tense
anguish which marked his tone! Oh! then, there must have been something
dreadful--appalling--terrible in the associations which the names of
_Old Death_ and _Benjamin Bones_ conjured up in the young man’s mind
at the time; and this Benjamin Bones must have been a bad--a very
bad person. But wherefore do I say ‘_must have been_?’ May he not be
alive now? In a word--what do I know of him? Nothing! nothing! And
yet--and yet, something seems to tell me that I did know more of him
once than I do now! Perhaps, when I was a child, I heard evil things
said of him,--things which have long since fled from my mind, leaving
only a general and very faint impression behind--and that impression
unfavourable to the object of it. Let me not then dwell longer on this
point of my narrative--that narrative which I seek to compile from the
myriads of ideas that until this night have been all scattered in my
brain--never concentrated and reduced to order until now! Yes--from
that chaos of memories, I have succeeded in rescuing reminiscences
and thoughts sufficient to form a somewhat continuous and connected
history;--and heaven must guide me, if its will so be, sooner or later
to clear up all that is still obscure, and gratify my craving--ardent
curiosity unto the fullest extent! But wherefore am I devoured with
this burning desire to know all that there may be to know relative to
myself? Alas! ’tis in my nature: the incident of the day just past
has suddenly aroused that curiosity within me--for I feel, I have an
innate conviction that there is a mystery attached to my birth, the
elucidation of which must some day or another have a powerful influence
upon my destinies! And oh! if it should prove that I am pursuing
investigations which must end in stamping _me_ with the stigma of
illegitimacy, and bringing to light the dishonour of my mother----But,
no--no! this cannot be! My father would not otherwise have given me the
solemn assurance that my mother is _an angel of innocence and purity,
and never has been guilty of weakness or frailty_!”

Again he paused: and now he arose from his seat, and paced the room
for several minutes--agitated by the fear that he was militating
against the wishes, or perhaps even the interests, of kind parents, by
venturing to give full rein to the impetuous curiosity that had seized
upon him. And yet--as ere now observed--he could not restrain the
ardour of that sentiment, which, more powerful than himself, engulphed
him in its onward, eddying influence.

Resuming his seat,--resuming likewise his meditative attitude,--and
with his countenance again buried in his hands,--the young man took up
the chain of his thoughts from that point where he had suddenly broken
off to reflect on the secret and mysterious influence which the words
_Old Death_ and _Benjamin Bones_ produced upon him.

“I reached in my mental narrative that epoch when poor Jacob Smith
died. I was then about thirteen--a little more than thirteen; and I
mourned sincerely for him. Frequently did I visit his grave in the
beautiful cemetery where he was buried; and often--often as I wandered
on the bank of the clear and broad Ferretti, down to whose chrystal
margin that cemetery stretched,--often did I marvel who that departed
youth was--and what secret tie might have linked him to Mr. Hatfield!
Years passed rapidly away,--years unmarked by any incident on which
my mind need pause to ponder: I grew up--happy, gay, and seldom
thinking of the past. The bright and shining future--decked with
all the glorious and golden hues which a sanguine imagination could
devise--was ever the topic of my thoughts. Oh! well do I recollect that
when between eighteen and nineteen years of age, I began to comprehend
the affairs of the great world--to study well the political condition
of nations--and to observe that the State of Castelcicala languished
under the tyranny of the Grand Duke Angelo. Then I longed to become a
hero--to have an army at my command--to achieve the independence, not
only of Castelcicala, but of all Italy. These aspirations continued
until I became an enthusiast in the cause of freedom; and though
of English birth, yet deeply--sincerely did I sympathise with the
generous-hearted Castelcicalans, when the treachery and despotism of
the Grand Duke Angelo called a mighty Austrian army into the State,
to besiege and overawe the capital! But Providence suddenly sent a
champion to rescue a fine country and a noble people from the power
of the invaders. No Castelcicalan native--no Italian patriot watched
the career of Richard Markham with so much anxiety, such burning hope,
and such deep suspense as I! When I heard those persons who were his
best-wishers in their hearts, shake their heads and declare that the
Constitutional Cause could not possibly succeed with so youthful a
leader and such slender resources, I thought otherwise:--yes--I thought
otherwise--because I wished otherwise. Then as victory after victory
marked the progress of the hero--Estella, Piacere, and Abrantani giving
their names to the triumphs of the Constitutional Army,--I longed--Oh!
I longed to fly into the presence of the conqueror, and implore him
to permit me to wield a sword in the same cause. But we were then
prisoners as it were within the walls of Montoni, which was besieged
by the Austrians; and while all was dismay--confusion--and terror
around, I alone seemed to entertain a conviction as to the result.
Nor was I mistaken: the Constitutional Army, under the command of
Richard Markham, advanced to raise the siege--and beneath the walls of
Montoni was fought the most sanguinary action of modern times. From
morning’s dawn till the evening, lasted that terrific encounter;--but
at eight o’clock on that evening the capital was delivered. Yet why
should I now dwell on all these incidents,--why detail to myself all
that followed?--the flight of the Grand Duke Angelo--the accession of
Alberto to the ducal throne--and the subsequent arrival of Richard
Markham, then Prince of Montoni, to settle with his lovely wife, the
Princess Isabella, in the capital of the State which owed so much to
him! Never--never shall I forget the exuberant joy which greeted his
return to Montoni; and to render that day the more remarkable, the
Grand Duke, his father-in-law, had convoked for the first time the
Chambers of Senators and Deputies, instituted by the new Constitution
previously promulgated! And the first act of those Chambers was to
recognise the Prince as heir-apparent to the throne; while the Grand
Duke appointed him Captain-General of the Castelcicalan Army--that
army which he had led to conquest and to glory! It was a joyous and
a memorable day for me when Mr. Hatfield and Lady Georgiana, having
left their cards at the palace, received an invitation to a ball
given by the Grand Duke and Duchess to celebrate the arrival of their
son-in-law and beauteous daughter;--for I was permitted to accompany
those whom I at that time believed to be my uncle and my aunt. Then did
I find myself in the presence of Royalty for the first time; and I was
agreeably disappointed and surprised to discover that condescension,
affability, and great kindness of manner were fully compatible with the
loftiest rank,--for such was the bearing of the Grand Duke Alberto and
his Duchess, as well as of the Prince and Princess of Montoni. From
that time forth I have become almost a worshipper of his Royal Highness
the Prince,--an enthusiastic admirer of his genius, his character, and
his glorious achievements:--to me he appears unrivalled as a warrior,
faultless as a statesman, and estimable as a man,--endowed with every
virtue--every qualification that can ennoble him not only as an
individual who created rank and honours for himself by his high merits,
but who is also the most splendid specimen of Nature’s aristocracy that
the world has ever yet seen!”

The young man raised his head as he reached this climax in his
thoughts; and as the light of the lamp beamed upon his countenance,
it was reflected in eyes brilliant with enthusiasm and with the glow
excited by a heart swelling with the loftiest aspirations.

“Oh! shall I ever be able to raise myself to eminence?” he exclaimed,
clasping his hands together, as if in earnest appeal to heaven: “may
I hope ever to make for myself a name which the whole world shall
pronounce with respect and admiration? But first--first,” he continued,
still speaking aloud and in an excited tone,--“I must satisfy this
ardent curiosity which has seized upon me! Wherefore all these dreadful
mysteries?--wherefore do not my parents acknowledge me as their son,
if I be really legitimate?--why am I still to pass as their nephew?
Are they ashamed of me?--have I ever done aught to bring disgrace
upon their name? No--no: and they gave me that name--their own name
of Hatfield, and of their own accord! But who was the good woman,
Sarah Watts, that I used to call by the title of _mother_?--why was
I entrusted in my infancy to her care?--for what motive was it that
my parents never took charge of me until I was upwards of ten years
of age?--and who was that kind and generous Mr. Rainford that I loved
so much, and whom I have not now heard of for many long--long years?
Oh! I must find the solutions of all these mysteries--the answers to
all these questions! Yes:--whatever be the result,--whatever be the
consequences, I must tear away the veil which conceals so much of _the
past_ from my view!”

Charles Hatfield rose from his chair as he pronounced these last words
with strong emphasis; and, beginning to pace the room in an agitated
manner, he was repeating his impassioned determination to clear up all
that was at present obscure and dark, when a remorse struck to his
soul--producing a sensation that made him reel and stagger!

For had not he said to Lady Georgiana but a few hours previously--“_I
now know that you art my mother--and I care to know nothing more!
Never--never shall I question you concerning the past: the enjoyment of
the present, and the hope which gilds the future--these are enough for
me!_”

And had not he said to his sire--“_By what right do I dare to question
the conduct of parents who have ever treated me to kindly? No--my dear
father--I seek not any explanation at your hands--I am content to obey
your wishes in all things._”

Charles Hatfield was a young man of fine principles and noble feelings;
and the solemn nature of those assurances, striking with suddenness and
force upon his mind, filled him with bitter regret that he should have
ever thought of violating such sacred pledges.

“No--no!” he exclaimed in an impassioned manner,--“I will not play so
vile a part towards my parents--I will not render myself so little
in my own estimation! Let me endeavour, rather, to fly from my
thoughts--to crush, subdue, stifle this wicked curiosity which has
seized upon me--let me indeed be contented with the happiness of the
present and the hopes of the future, and not seek to tear away the veil
that conceals the past! The secrets of my parents must be solemnly
preserved from violation by my profane hands:--how dare I--presumptuous
and wilful young man that I am,--how dare I institute a search into the
private matters and histories of the authors of my being?”

Then--enraged and indignant with himself, in one sense, and satisfied
with the timeous decision to which he had come in another--Charles
Hatfield hastened to retire to his bed, where the exhaustion and
fatigue of long and painful thought soon sealed his eyelids in slumber.

But will he succeed in crushing the sentiments of curiosity which have
been awakened within him?--or is he already preparing the way, by this
night’s long meditation, for a vast amount of sorrow to fall upon and
be endured by many?




CHAPTER CXXV.

THE PROJECTED RAILWAY COMPANY.


It was striking ten by all the clocks at the West End, on the
morning of the day following the incidents which have occupied the
five preceding chapters, when a cab drove with insane speed along a
fashionable street, in that district of the metropolis just alluded to;
and having stopped at the door of the best house in the said street,
out leapt Mr. Bubbleton Styles, with a large roll of papers in his hand.

“I told you that you would not do it by ten o’clock,” said this
gentleman, addressing the reproach, accompanied by an angry look, to
the cab-man.

“Not done it by ten, sir!” exclaimed the astonished and indignant
driver: “vy, it’s on’y jest a-finished strikin’ by every blessed clock
in this here part o’ the town.”

“Just finished striking!” cried Mr. Styles, pulling out his watch:
“it’s a minute and a quarter past ten, I tell you. Here’s your fare.”

“Two bob, all the vay from Crosby Chambers!” growled the man, turning
the money over and over in a discontented fashion in the palm of his
hand: “come, come--that von’t jest do, if _you_ please, sir. You
promised me three bob if I brought you here by ten----”

“And you did not fulfil the bargain,” sharply interrupted Mr.
Styles, as he hurried up the steps of the large house and knocked
at the door, which was immediately opened by a servant in such a
splendid--outrageously splendid livery--that no other indication was
required to distinguish the mansion of a _parvenu_--or, in other words,
a vulgar upstart. “Is Mr. Podgson at home?” demanded Mr. Styles.

“Yes, sir. Walk in, sir. What name, sir?” were the hurried phrases
which came from the domestic’s lips.

“Vell, ain’t ye a-going to pay us the extra bob, you gent?” cried the
cab-man, as he mounted sulkily to his seat and drew a sack round his
knees although it was in the middle of summer--so strong is the force
of habit.

Mr. Styles deigned no reply to this derogatory adjuration; but, having
given his card to the servant, he entered the great man’s great
house--while the cab drove away at a pace which seemed to intimate that
the horse had become as sulky as its master.

The hall was very magnificent: but every thing was new. The
statues--the vases--the marble pillars--the gilding on the doors
that opened into the ground-floor apartments--even to the liveries
of the servants lounging about,--all was new! Mr. Styles was shown
into a small parlour, where the pictures--the mirrors--the mantle
ornaments--the furniture--the carpet--the hangings,--every thing there
was likewise new. The paint scarcely seemed to have dried, nor the
putty in the window-frames to have hardened.

In a few minutes the domestic, who had left Mr. Styles alone during
that interval, returned with the intimation that Mr. Podgson would see
him at once; and the railway projector was forthwith conducted up a
wide and handsome marble stair-case--through a splendidly furnished
ante-room--into a sumptuous apartment, where the great man was seated
at a table covered with railway plans, letters, maps, newspapers,
visitors’ cards, and Acts of Parliament, all scattered about in
a confusion that had been admirably well _studied_ and _purposely
arranged_.

The impression of the _newness_ of every thing in the mansion was
strengthened in the mind of Mr. Bubbleton Styles at every pace which he
had taken from the hall-door into the room where he now found himself.
It appeared as if Mr. Podgson--or Mr. Podgson’s wife--or both, had
endeavoured to the utmost of human power to crowd the apartments, the
stair-cases, the landings, and, in fact, every nook and corner, with as
many evidences of wealth as possible. Fine paintings by old masters,
set in bran new glittering frames, were hung in the very worst lights,
and without the least regard to their relative styles, colouring, or
subjects. Each room had two or three time-pieces in it; and as they
were not in accordance with respect to the hour, Mr. Bubbleton Styles’s
ideas of precision and punctuality received a severe shock when he
heard ten o’clock proclaimed half-a-dozen different times during the
first twenty minutes which elapsed after he first set foot in the
mansion. In a word, the entire aspect of the house was a reflection
of the vulgar, untasteful, and self-sufficient minds of the “stuck-up
people” who, having grown suddenly rich, did not know how to render
their dwelling elegant and comfortable without making it gaudy and
ridiculously ostentatious in its appointments.

Mr. Podgson was a short, stout, thick-set man, with an enormous
stomach, a very wide back, and little stumpy legs. His head seemed to
be stuck on his shoulders without the intervening aid of any neck at
all; and his features were coarsely ugly, and totally inexpressive of
even the slightest spark of intelligence. His tongue appeared to be
much too large for his mouth, his speech being remarkably disagreeable:
indeed, his free utterance seemed to be impeded as if he were always
sucking a large lollipop, or had an enormous quid of tobacco stuck in
his cheek. When he walked, it was with the most ungainly waddle that
can possibly be conceived; and his clothes, though no doubt made by a
fashionable tailor, sate upon him just as if they had been thrown on
with a pitch-fork. Had this man been invested with regal robes,--had he
arrayed himself in the Tyrian purple which Rome’s Emperors were wont to
wear,--he could not have looked otherwise than a low vulgarian,--which
he was!

We shall not pause for a moment to give any account of the rise of Mr.
Podgson from obscurity to that renown which the sudden acquisition
of great wealth established for him. Having sprung from the people,
he turned against the people when he became a rich man. His property
enabled him to _purchase_ a borough; and the instant he found himself
in Parliament, he joined the Protectionists--the bitter enemies of the
popular cause!

Had this man taken his place amongst the Liberals, we should not
have remembered his physical ugliness and his immense vulgarity of
manners: we should have admired and esteemed him. But _he_ to associate
with aristocrats,--to squeeze that squat, podgy form amongst the
“exquisites” and the “exclusives” of the West End,--to affect the most
refined notions, and ape every thing fashionable,--for _him_ to do all
this----Oh! it is really too ridiculous--too ludicrous--too absurd to
permit us to keep our countenance when we think of it!

Persons cannot help being naturally vulgar, any more than they can
help being ugly: but the vulgar should not thrust themselves into
those scenes and spheres where they are certain to stand out in most
ignoble prominency, thereby forcing on all beholders the effect of
the ludicrous contrast;--neither should the ugly adopt such an awful
swagger and assume an air of such insufferable self-complacency as to
render themselves most disagreeably remarkable and conspicuous.

Mr. Podgson had acquired his immense wealth by railway speculations;
and the disgusting sycophants who invariably attach themselves to rich
men with weak minds, had nonsensically dubbed him the _Railway Lion_!
Had they called him the _Railway Elephant_, in allusion to his unwieldy
proportions--or the _Railway Bear_, in reference to his manners--or the
_Railway Donkey_, in respect to his intelligence,--they would have been
more faithful to truth. But the _Railway Lion_ he was;--and it was now
in the presence of this tremendous animal that Mr. Bubbleton Styles
stood.

Without rising from his chair, Mr. Podgson, M.P., waved his hand with
all the majesty of a stage-monarch; and as this gesticulation was
intended to be a fashionable--no, a dignified mode of desiring Mr.
Bubbleton Styles to be seated, Mr. Bubbleton Styles seated himself
accordingly.

Mr. Podgson then stared very hard at his visitor; and this was the
Railway Lion’s method of intimating that he was “all attention.”

“I believe, sir,” said Mr. Styles, in a very polite and courteous
manner--but without any thing like cringing servility,--“I believe,
sir, that you last night received a letter from Alderman Tripes----”

“Oh! ah!” exclaimed Mr. Podgson, in his thick voice: “I remember! My
very particular and intimate friend, Mr. Alderman Tripes, assures me in
his communication that you have a famous project on the tappy----”

Mr. Podgson meant _tapis_--but could not precisely achieve the correct
pronunciation.

“And that project I shall have much pleasure in submitting to you,
sir,” added Mr. Styles, proceeding to unfold the large roll of papers
which he had brought with him.

“Well--I don’t mind--that is, to obleege you, I’ll just look over
them,” said Mr. Podgson, in an indifferent--careless way. “But,” he
added, glancing at the elegant watch which he drew with affected
negligence from his waistcoat pocket, “I’ve got an appointment at a
quarter to eleven--and I must be punctual to the rendy-woo.”

Mr. Styles assured the great man that he would not detain him a moment
beyond the time named for the _rendez-vous_; and, spreading his plans
and maps upon the table, the small speculator began to explain his
objects and views to the large capitalist.

“Who’s the engineer?” enquired the latter: then, looking at the corner
of the plan, and perceiving the name, he cried, “Oh! Dummerley--eh?
Well--he’s a good man--a very good man! I was talking to Lord Noodleton
the other day about him--Lord Noodleton and me are intimate friends,
you know--very intimate----”

“His lordship has reason to be proud of your friendship, sir,” observed
Mr. Styles, adroitly availing himself of the opportunity to pay a
compliment.

“Hem! well--Noodleton _does_ seem grateful,” said, the Railway Lion,
glancing complacently at one of his boots. “But, about this spec of
yours, Mr. Styles? Shall you have a good list of Provisional Committee?”

“First-rate, sir--especially if you will condescend to head it,”
returned the small speculator with a bow to the great one.

“Well--we shall see!” exclaimed Mr. Podgson. “But first as to the
probability of success? Let me just make a calculation or two--nothing
is done without calculations; and I’m rayther quick at figures. Now,
your capital is £8,000,000 in 400,000 shares. Good! Deposit, £2 2_s._
per share. Good again! But about the expenses and receipts--the outlay
and the incomings, on which we may reckon with certainty? Let me
see--twice two’s four--and twice four’s eight--and nine times nine’s
eighty one--and eleven times eleven’s a hundred and twenty one--that
gives us five hundred thousand there--then there’s two hundred thousand
here----Well!” cried the great man, suddenly interrupting himself in
the midst of calculations which, though they were as unintelligible as
the Chinese language to Mr. Styles, it is to be hoped were a trifle
more comprehensive to the gentleman who was making them in a musing,
half-whispering tone, and counting mysteriously on his fingers at the
same time:--“well!” he cried, suddenly desisting from the arithmetical
process with the satisfied air of a man who had arrived at a conviction
by means of the most subtle considerations,--“well, I _do_ think it
will succeed, Mr. Styles--and I----I----”

“Will condescend to become our Chairman, Mr. Podgson?” said the
other, finishing the sentence which the Railway Lion’s extreme
modesty and sensitive bashfulness had left thus incomplete. “I am
well aware, sir,--and the public are well aware likewise--that you
have entered into the grand affairs of the Railway World with no
interested motive,--that you never took a single share with the idea
of making it a means of gain! No--sir--your views have been wholly
and solely to benefit your fellow countrymen. Indeed, you yourself
have proclaimed as much in your place in the House of Commons--and the
civilised world echoes with the mighty truth! You are a benefactor,
sir--a philanthropist--a patriot; and no sordid ideas ever influenced
you! It is upon this ground, and on this ground only,--without even
venturing to hint that there will be five thousand shares reserved for
the Chairman and Provisional Committee-men, and that they are certain
to rise to a high premium the moment they are issued,--without daring
to mention such a thing in _your_ presence, sir--but relying solely
on your known readiness to countenance every fair--legitimate--and
honourable undertaking which promises to benefit our fellow-men
and produce fifty per cent. profits,--’tis upon these grounds, Mr.
Podgson, that I solicit you to become the Chairman of the Grand British
Longitudinal Railway!”

Mr. Styles narrowly watched the effect which this magniloquent oration
produced upon the Railway Lion; and as he beheld the fat, ignoble,
vulgar countenance of that stupendous animal slowly expanding with
satisfaction, he knew that he was as sure of nailing Mr. Podgson for a
Chairman, as he was sure of seeing Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank
Curtis in the afternoon at three o’clock to partake of chops and sherry
at Crosby Hall Chambers.

Nor was Mr. Bubbleton Styles mistaken. In as dignified a manner as
it was in his nature to assume, and in as good English as it was in
his power to employ, the great Mr. Podgson gave his assent to the
proposition; and Mr. Styles was already in the midst of a set speech of
thanks, when a pompous-looking livery-servant entered the room.

“Well, Thomas--what now?” demanded Mr. Podgson.

“Please, sir,” answered the domestic, whose countenance denoted
offended dignity and wounded pride, “there’s a troublesome gentleman
down below who says he must and will have a hinterview with you,
sir----”

“Must and will!” ejaculated the Railway Lion, sinking back in his chair
with an amazement which could not have been greater had some one rushed
in to tell him that the Chinese had invaded England and made a Mandarin
Lord Mayor of London.

“Yes, sir--must and will!” groaned the horrified domestic.

“Well--I never heard such impudence in my life!” exclaimed Mr.
Bubbleton Styles, affecting the deepest indignation--a little piece of
hypocrisy which completely won the Railway Lion’s heart.

“And does this _person_--for you was wrong to call him a
_gentleman_, John,” said Mr. Podgson, somewhat recovering from
his stupefaction,--“does this _person_, who _must_ and _will_ see
_me_--_me_, John--_me_, Mr. Styles,--does this _person_, I say, give
his name or business?”

“Please, sir, he gave me his card,” returned the flunkey; “and here it
be.”

The high and mighty Railway Lion took the pasteboard between the tips
of his thumb and fore-finger; and having glanced at it, he tossed it
with sublime scorn into a waste-paper basket, exclaiming in his rough,
disagreeable voice, “Mr. Clarence Villiers--eh? Well--I suppose I’d
better see him. Don’t move, Mr. Styles: you shall just see how I’ll
serve the insolent fellow that _must_ and _will_ have an interview with
ME!”

The domestic retreated without turning his back upon his master,--or,
in other words, stepped backwards to the door, as if he were quitting
the presence of Royalty; and Mr. Styles again vented his well-affected
indignation and surprise that “people should be so bold and
inconsiderate as to obtrude themselves into the presence of Mr. Podgson
in such a manner.”

“Bold and inconsiderate!” repeated the Railway Lion. “It is owdacious
and intolerable.”

“Shameful!” cried Mr. Styles.

“Perfectly insupportable!” vociferated Mr. Podgson.

“Monstrous in the extreme!” exclaimed Mr. Bubbleton Styles, actually
working himself up into a passion.

“But I’ll put a stop to it!” continued the Railway Lion, dealing a
tremendous blow with his clenched fist upon the table: “I’ll bring in
a Bill next Session, Mr. Styles, to protect public men from insolent
intrusion!”

“It will serve the scoundrels quite right, my dear sir,” responded the
small speculator, approvingly.

“By Gad! I’ll pay the reskels off for it!” exclaimed the mighty man,
who could command hundreds of thousands of pounds, but not the minutest
fraction of his temper.

The door now opened again; and the pompous domestic, whose countenance
was expressive of deep indignation, ushered in the reader’s old
friend--Mr. Clarence Villiers,--now a fine, handsome man, in the prime
of life.

“Well, sir--and what do _you_ want?” demanded Mr. Podgson, with all the
overbearing insolence of a contemptible _parvenu_.

“In the first place, sir,” replied Clarence, speaking in a firm but
gentlemanly tone, and glancing towards the servant who lingered near
the door, “I must take the liberty of advising you to recommend your
lacquey, to treat at least with respect, if not with courtesy, those
persons whom business may bring to your house; for I can assure you
that it required no ordinary forbearance on my part to restrain my hand
from laying this cane across his shoulders.”

“What, sir--you dare, sir----” stammered Mr. Podgson, his vast, ignoble
countenance becoming the colour of scarlet.

“I dare chastise any one who is insolent to me, be he who or what he
may, sir,” answered Villiers, in a very significant way, and in so
determined a tone, too, that the pompous domestic evaporated and the
Railway Lion was struck speechless with amazement--for he felt as if
he were literally bearded in his den! “Being myself a gentleman by
birth and education, and I hope in manners and conduct, I am accustomed
to treat my equals with courtesy and my inferiors with kindness; and
I will tolerate insult from neither. But enough of that subject,
Mr. Podgson,” continued Villiers: “the object of my visit is soon
explained. For many years I have enjoyed a confidential situation in
the service of the Earl of Ellingham----”

“Oh! I really beg your pardon, Mr. Villiers!” exclaimed the Railway
Lion, with a start as if the piles of a voltaic battery had suddenly
been applied to his unwieldy carcase. “I wasn’t aware that you knew
Lord Ellingham--or else----But pray take a chair, Mr. Villiers.”

“Thank you, sir--I would rather stand,” answered Clarence, in a
cold--almost contemptuous tone; for he saw full well that this sudden
politeness was not paid to _himself_, but to his connexion with
aristocracy. “Yesterday afternoon, Mr. Podgson, I returned from the
country by the Western Provinces Railway; and I was most anxious to
reach London at the usual hour for the arrival of that particular
train, inasmuch as the business which I had in hand for my noble
employer was urgent and pressing. Conceive, then, my annoyance when the
train stopped for three quarters of an hour at a midway station--and
without any substantial reason. I remonstrated with the persons on duty
at that station: I even alighted, and saw the clerk. Several other
gentlemen, whose time was likewise precious, joined me in my endeavours
to prevent farther delay,--but all in vain! And the excuse was--_that
the train had to wait for a basket of fruit, for Mrs. Podgson, the lady
of the Chairman of the Company_! Now, sir, with all possible respect
for the fair sex, I submit to you that it is too bad----”

“And pray,sir,” interrupted the mighty Railway Lion, flying into a
furious passion, “why should _not_ my wife receive her fruit in time?
By Gad! sir--the train should have waited an hour for it, had it been
necessary; and it would have been as much as the situations of the
guard and engineer were worth to have continued the journey without
that basket!”

“Then you mean me to understand, sir,” said Villiers, in a calm
and gentlemanly tone which contrasted strongly with the insolent,
overbearing manner of the purse-proud vulgarian-upstart,--“you mean me
to understand that you approve of the conduct of your underlings in
delaying a train containing upwards of a hundred persons, to most of
whom time was precious, for the sake of a basket of fruit!”

“_Approve_ of it!” cried the Railway Lion, astonished that any doubt
should exist upon the point: “why--I _ordered_ it! sir!”

“Then all I can say in comment upon such improper conduct is--that
if the Government and the Legislature have permitted Companies to
grasp these tremendous monopolies in order to use them as instruments
of private convenience, without the slightest regard to the time or
feelings of the public,--then, I for one,” continued Clarence Villiers
emphatically, “protest against so atrocious a despotism; and I begin to
be ashamed of my own country, when I find it becoming the scene of a
petty tyranny that would raise an outcry even in Russia or Austria.”

“Oh! ho! the shoe pinches there--does it,” cried Mr. Podgson, in the
vulgar triumph effected by wealth over the popular interests. “I tell
you what, sir--and I shall not attempt to disguise the matter:--we
_monopolists_, as you call us, have got the railways in our own
hands--and we mean to keep ’em--aye, and to do with ’em just as we
like! Do you know how many hundred miles of railway I’ve got under my
control? Ask the first person you happen to meet--and you’ll be sure to
find out. Well--do you think I won’t use my rights and privileges,--I
may almost say _prerogatives_--eh, Mr. Styles?”

“Oh! decidedly, my dear sir,” exclaimed that gentleman, approvingly.

“Well,” resumed the Railway Lion,--“do you think I won’t use my
prerogatives as I choose and fancy? If Mrs. Podgson wants even so
trifling a thing as a new-laid egg from any particular station, the
train shall wait for it. Talk to me about people’s time--what the devil
do I care for it? People must put up with things as they find ’em. They
can’t help themselves: we’ve knocked all the coaches off the roads--and
you have no alternative but to go with us. But perhaps, when a train is
late at starting, or when it is kept as it was yesterday, some of you
knowing gentlemen will be after taking a post-chaise at the Company’s
expense? I’d just advise you to do it! You’d have to sue us for the
amount--and we’d ruin you in return. To recover five guineas you should
have to pay as many hundreds in law costs. Why, sir--it is perfect
madness to think of fighting great Public Companies;--and we’ll let the
people know it too.”

Having arrived at this liberal and enlightened determination, the
Railway Lion ceased through sheer exhaustion,--the volubility of
passionate declamation not suiting his guttural voice.

“Although, sir, I obtain at your hands no satisfaction for the infamous
delay to which the train was subjected yesterday,” said Mr. Villiers,
who had listened with calm and gentlemanly attention to the furious
mouthings of the upstart,--“I am nevertheless pleased that I should
have taken the trouble to call upon you in reference to the matter. I
have learnt a lesson which I had not expected. I find that the sudden
acquisition of wealth is calculated to set a man who rises _from_ the
People, _against_ the People; and that monopoly is a more tremendous
engine of oppression in the hands of narrow-minded and self-sufficient
persons than even its greatest haters could have conceived. I do not
envy you your riches, sir--nor your sovereign sway over many miles of
railroad--no, nor even the title with which a fulsome and contemptible
flattery has invested you:--for the poorest mechanic who does his duty
towards his fellow-creatures, is a worthier and more estimable being
than you.”

With these words--uttered not savagely, but in a tone of firm and
measured reproach--Clarence Villiers retired from the presence of the
Railway Lion, who appeared for the moment to have had “a calf’s skin”
thrown about “his recreant limbs,” so astounded and amazed was he at
the language which his visitor had _dared_ to address to him.

[Illustration]

“This is the most atrocious proceeding I ever knew in the whole course
of my life!” at length exclaimed Mr. Bubbleton Styles, who in reality
had been much amused by the scene.

“I suppose that the riff-raff--as I always call the People--will be
telling us next that railways are public property!” cried Mr. Podgson:
“but we’ll show ’em the difference--eh, Mr. Styles?--won’t we, Mr.
Styles?”

And the Railway Lion condescendingly thrust his fingers in a jocular
way into the small speculator’s ribs;--and then the great man and the
little man had a hearty laugh together--that of the former being in
the boisterous “ho! ho! ho!” style, and that of the latter in the more
respectful and submissive “he! he! he!” fashion.

Having got upon this very comfortable and pleasant understanding
together, Mr. Podgson and Mr. Styles chatted for about a quarter of
an hour respecting the new railway scheme: and the latter took his
departure, highly delighted with the reception he had experienced and
the success of his visit.

Punctually as the clock struck three that afternoon, did Captain
O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Curtis present themselves at the office in Crosby
Hall Chambers; and as the third stroke was proclaimed by the churches
in the neighbourhood, they entered the speculator’s private room, where
that gentleman was seated at the table with his watch in his hand.

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Styles, returning the watch to his pocket: “this
is business-like--and I am well pleased. The chops, you perceive, are
smoking hot--the sherry, I know, is first-rate.”

Thus speaking, he did the honours of the table and the two guests did
honour to the meal. The chops speedily disappeared--so did a bottle of
wine; and a second was already opened before a word had been uttered on
business matters.

“Now, gentlemen,” at length cried Mr. Styles; “I will give you a toast.
Here’s the health of our Chairman--the Railway Lion!”

“No! you don’t mean to say----” ejaculated Mr. Curtis.

“Hould your tongue, Frank--and let Misther Sthyles say whatever he
chooses!” exclaimed the captain. “Dhrink the toast, man--and that’s all
about it!”

“I can assure you, gentlemen,” continued the promoter of the new
concern, “that I have fulfilled the promise which I made you yesterday.
Podgson is ours!”

“Hooray!” vociferated Frank Curtis.

“Hur-rah-ah!” thundered Captain O’Blunderbuss.

“It is indeed a subject for gratulation,” said Mr. Styles, “The next
point I wish to speak to you about is the prospectus, a proof of
which I have received from the printer. It would have been all ready
for issue by this time, only my interview with the Railway Lion was
prolonged far beyond the hour at which I had expected to be back in the
City again;--and you may be sure that I was in no hurry when engaged
with _him_,” added Mr. Bubbleton Styles, smiling significantly. “Here,
you see,” he continued, displaying the proof of the flaming prospectus
which he had drawn up,--“here is the glorious document. It is
sufficient to set the very Thames on fire. Never were such magnificent
promises--never such brilliant hopes held out! And look--thirty-two
names of the most eminent Aldermen, merchants, Common Councilmen, and
gentlemen----”

“Why--half of them have got F.R.S. to the end of their names!”
ejaculated Frank Curtis: “what the deuce does that mean? And, by Jove!”
he cried, now completely beside himself with astonishment,--“this is
strange! Here’s the ‘_Secretary, Francis Curtis, Esq., F.R.S., M.A.,
M.S.L.S., &c. &c._’ My dear friend Styles----”

“Patience--patience, Frank,” said that gentleman, with bland
complacency. “Those initials stand for various honorary distinctions
which give respectability to the name. For instance, you are
represented as being a _Fellow of the Royal Society_, a _Master of
Arts_, and a _Member of Several Learned Societies_. God bless you, my
dear fellow! even the very _et ceteras_ have their weight in a Railway
Prospectus.”

“But I am nothing of all that you describe!” ejaculated Frank Curtis,
surveying Mr. Styles with an expression of amazement that was quite
ludicrous.

“I am well aware of that,” answered the City gentleman, coolly:
“neither are half the Aldermen or Common-Councilmen F.R.S.’s or any
thing else--unless it is A.S.S.’s. But no Railway scheme can be got up
without this kind of _gammon_--for that is precisely the word; and an
Alderman who would send a poor devil to the treadmill for obtaining
goods under false pretences if he only represented himself as Jones
instead of Noakes, will himself assume any honorary distinction that
is calculated to gull the public. Look at Alderman Higgs Higgs, for
example’s sake! Glance over the list of different Railway schemes--and
amongst the Provisional Committee-men belonging to each you will see
‘_Higgs Higgs, Esq., Alderman, F.R.S., &c. &c._’ Even that consummate
ass, Alderman Sun, has dubbed himself in a similar fashion;--and
therefore I see no reason why Frank Curtis, Esq., or Captain Gorman
O’Blunderbuss, should not be an F.R.S. likewise.”

This explanation was highly satisfactory to the two gentlemen last
mentioned; and on the strength of it they drank bumpers to the success
of the projected enterprise.

“I have duly registered the Company,” observed Mr. Styles; “and I have
had an interview with Dummerley, the Engineer, this afternoon! Oh! I
can assure you that I have not been idle. Dummerley is ready to swear
that he has surveyed the whole line from the south of England to the
north of Scotland----”

“But how is that possible?” demanded Frank, again lost in astonishment:
for, crafty and cunning as he was in petty trickeries, he was
altogether bewildered in the mazes of colossal swindles. “You only
thought of the plan a few days ago--and Dummerley would not have even
had time to travel the whole distance there and back post haste--much
less to survey it leisurely.”

“You are quite green in these matters, Frank,” observed Mr. Styles.

“Green!” ejaculated Captain O’Blunderbuss: “be Jasus! the Imerald Isle
itself isn’t so green as my frind Frank in cer-r-r-tain respicts. But
it’s afther enlightening him ye are, Misther Sthyles--and he’ll be all
the betther for the taching.”

“Dummerley is a regular good fellow, I can assure you,” resumed
the promoter. “‘_You will be the Engineer_,’ said I to him this
afternoon: ‘_I told Podgson that you would._’--‘_Most certainly_,’
he replied.--‘_And in case the Bill should be opposed in Committee,
you will be ready to swear that you particularly surveyed the part
of the line relative to which objections may be raised?_’--‘_Oh!
of course_,’ was his answer.--‘_And you will also swear that your
plans are perfectly correct?_’--‘_As a matter of course_,’ he again
replied.--‘_Well, then_,’ said I, ‘_here’s a five pound note for you;
and now fall to work as hard as you can to get all the plans up in
such a business-like way that they may look legitimate_.’--Dummerley
accordingly took himself off as happy as a prince; and thus every
thing goes on completely in our favour. But it is now three minutes
to five; and at five precisely I step into the Hackney omnibus at the
Flower-Pot,” added Mr. Styles, looking at his watch for the hundredth
time during the last quarter of an hour.

Frank Curtis and Captain O’Blunderbuss took the hint and their
departure; and the promoter of a scheme for raising millions treated
himself with a six-penny ride in an omnibus as far as Cambridge Heath
Gate, in which suburban quarter this great man resided in a six-roomed
house, including the kitchens.




CHAPTER CXXVI.

ELUCIDATIONS.


At the conclusion of the hundred and twenty-fourth chapter we asked
whether Charles Hatfield would succeed in crushing the sentiments of
curiosity that had been awakened within him?

Alas! no--it was impossible!

His better feelings, aroused by the startling remembrance of the
assurances he had respectively given his father and mother, had for
a few hours triumphed over that insatiable longing to penetrate into
the mysteries of the past:--but when he again found himself alone in
his chamber, in the silence of night, he could not subdue the thoughts
which forced themselves upon him, and which were all connected with
those mysteries.

Thus was it that we again find him pacing his chamber while others
slept,--pacing up and down in an agitated and excited manner, and
maintaining a desperate struggle within his own soul.

For the irresistible temptation which beset him, was to ponder once
more and deeply on the incidents of his early days, and to endeavour
to retrieve from the abysses of his memory any other recollections
that might be slumbering there. For the sake of the pledge given
to his mother--for the sake of the assurance made to his father,
he strove,--yes--sincerely, ardently he strove--to vanquish that
temptation: yet he could not--human nature possessed not so grand a
power;--he might have ruled his actions by his will--but his thoughts
defied all controul.

Yielding, therefore, at length to their current, he was whirled along
by the same eddying tide of reflections which had swept him through so
considerable a portion of the preceding night;--and now the efforts of
memory--by one of those superhuman strainings which, while they seem as
if they must break the very fibres of the brain, also appear to evoke
a sudden flash from the depth of some profound cerebral cell,--those
powerful and painful efforts in a moment, as it were, established a
connexion between the name of _Benjamin Bones_ and _the murder of
Tamar_!

Yes: Charles Hatfield suddenly became aware that the name and the
incident were in some way associated:--and he necessarily supposed
that, in his childhood, he had heard facts mentioned which had created
that impression at the time, but the nature of which he could not now
for the life of him recall to memory. This impression was probably
vague even at the period when it was engendered; because Charles
recollected full well that the utmost caution was adopted by those
around him not to discourse upon the particulars of the foul murder
in his presence, nor even to respond otherwise than evasively to the
questions he put,--he being a mere child at the time.

As the young gentleman paced up and down, his mind labouring with the
new reminiscence which had arisen within, it suddenly struck him that
there were means of informing himself of all and every detail of that
murder, whereof he at present entertained only a vague and general
impression of its atrocity. His long absence on the continent had
prevented him from ever, even accidentally, falling in with an English
book of criminal annals, or a file of English newspapers, to which he
might have referred, had the thought struck him so to do. But now what
was to restrain him from making those searches which would throw every
light on an occurrence of such fearful interest?

Scarcely was this idea conceived, when the means of instantaneously
carrying it into execution suggested itself. For Charles Hatfield
remembered that in the well-stored library of the mansion he had
observed a complete set of the _Annual Register_, from the very origin
of that useful work until the most recent date of its publication!

And now he trembled from head to foot--he literally gasped for breath,
at the thought of being enabled to tear away the veil of mystery from
at least one incident which was so materially connected with his
childhood: for Tamar had been as a mother to him during the few months
that he was in her care!

There was in his soul a deep and yet undefined presentiment that
he stood on the threshold of strange discoveries--that important
revelations were about to be made to him;--and, without being
superstitious, he bent to the influence of this solemn but dim
forecasting--this awe-inspiring but vague prescience.

Taking the lamp in his hand, he stole gently from his
chamber--descended the wide and handsome staircase--traversed a
long corridor, in the niches of which stood beautiful specimens of
sculpture--and entered the spacious library.

On each side of the door was a marble statue as large as life; and the
young man started--but only for a moment--as the white and motionless
effigies stood out suddenly as if it were from the deep darkness which
the lamp illumined. It was not that he had forgotten such statues were
there--nor that he was positively frightened at their appearance:--but
his soul was influenced by one of those presentiments which are of
themselves superstitions in character--and moreover he was on the point
of seeking information relative to the details of a foul and horrible
murder.

Instantly recovering himself, and blushing at his fears, he advanced
into the library, closing the door carefully behind him: then,
approaching a particular range of shelves, he reached down the _Annual
Register_ for the year 1827.

In less than a minute he was seated at the table, with the book opened
at the proper place before him;--and greedily--Oh! how greedily he
plunged as it were into its contents.

But--great heavens!--why starts he thus? What discovery has he
made?--what revelation has been afforded him?

He learns, with a frightful sinking of the heart, that Rainford was a
highwayman--that he had been executed at Horsemonger Lane Gaol--that he
had been resuscitated by some means or another with which the writer
was unacquainted--that he had reappeared in London in the disguise
of a Blackamoor--and that he had received the royal pardon for all
his crimes. These details were incidentally given in the course of
the narrative of the foul murder of Tamar, who was represented to
have been Rainford’s wife;--and now also Charles Hatfield discovered
how terrific was the connexion between the name of Benjamin Bones
and the assassination of that ill-fated daughter of Israel. Yes--and
he perceived, too, that _Benjamin Bones_ and _Old Death_ were one
and the same individual;--and he shuddered from head to foot as he
perused--nay, almost rushed through the details of the crime which had
been committed nineteen years previously in the subterranean cells
belonging to a house in Red Lion Street, Clerkenwell!

But Charles Hatfield is not satisfied with what he has already
_devoured_--for we can scarcely use the word _read_:--his curiosity
to know more has become insatiable;--and guided by the hints and the
observations occurring in the narrative of the murder, he refers to an
earlier page in that volume, in order to obtain a full and complete
insight into the trial and condemnation of Rainford--that Rainford whom
he had loved so well!

The whole particulars were given in detail and with accuracy,--the
robbery of Sir Christopher Blunt--the capture of Rainford by Dykes and
his myrmidons in Lock’s Fields--the trial--the condemnation--and the
execution!

Charles read--read on with horrified feelings which often threatened
to get the better of him;--but there was one point in the evidence
which rivetted his attention. Dykes, the officer, in explaining the
mode in which the highwayman had been taken into custody, used these
words:--“_When I and my people gained admittance into the house in
Brandon Street, the prisoner was in bed with his mistress, a Jewess_.”

“Then,” thought Charles Hatfield immediately, “Tamar was not his wife!
Ah! that is clear enough--although the narrative of the murder would
imply otherwise. But the only inference that can be drawn from this
discrepancy, is that the reporter of the assassination was delicately
and judiciously sparing of the feelings of the Medina family--whereas,
in the former case, it was absolutely necessary to record the evidence
just as it was given. Poor Tamar!--no wonder that thy name is never
mentioned now by those who once knew thee--no wonder that even thy
very sister, the Countess of Ellingham, seems to have forgotten thee!”

Thus, Charles Hatfield suddenly adopted the belief that Tamar was not
Rainford’s wife. Neither, indeed, was she at the time when Rainford
was arrested by Mr. Dykes; and it never struck the young man that the
matrimonial ceremony might have been performed between the period of
Rainford’s resuscitation and the murder of the Jewish lady. For when
the nuptial blessing _was_ performed in Paris, Charles--being then
a mere boy--was not present at the proceedings which took place as
privately as possible in the British Ambassador’s Chapel. As for his
suspicion that the Countess of Ellingham was ashamed to breathe the
name of Tamar,--Oh! the reader may judge how erroneous was that belief!
In her heart of hearts did the generous Esther treasure the image of
that dearly-beloved sister;--and if neither herself nor her noble
husband ever breathed her name, it was through kind feelings towards
Mr. Hatfield and motives of delicacy in respect to Georgiana. But
Charles, being as yet ignorant that his father and Rainford were one
and the same person, could not possibly suspect the necessity for the
exercise of such kind feelings on the one hand or such delicacy on the
other.

“And thus,” murmured Charles to himself, as he closed the book which
had made such marvellous and horrifying revelations,--“and thus Thomas
Rainford was a highwayman! The good--kind-hearted--generous man who
loved me, was a felon--a criminal: he passed through the hands of the
public executioner! Oh! my God--what dreadful things have I this night
learnt!” he exclaimed aloud, pressing his hand to his forehead. “But
how came this Thomas Rainford to have the care of me?--how was it that
my parents could have left me so long in his hands--or at his disposal?
Oh! no wonder--no wonder that Mr. de Medina and Esther should have
charged me, when first they left me at school, never to mention the
name of Rainford! And now how many gaps in the earliest portion of my
reminiscences are filled up,--that absence of Mr. Rainford for several
weeks, during which period I pined after him--that constant weeping
of Tamar--then the removal to Mr. de Medina’s house, and the sudden
revival of joy which Tamar experienced there. But--a highwayman--a
felon--a criminal! Oh! what awful mysteries envelop all this matter
still! For the Earl of Ellingham was intimate with Rainford--and it
was said, I remember, that at Mr. de Medina’s death he left to this
same Rainford a large fortune. A fortune to whom?--to the seducer of
his daughter--to one who had passed through the hands of the public
executioner! And Lord Ellingham was intimate with the man who seduced
the sister of his intended wife;--and Esther was friendly likewise
with him who ruined that sister. Gracious God! all this is most
unaccountable--so unaccountable, that I am lost and bewildered! But
most mysterious--ten thousand times the most mysterious of all these
incidents, is that one grand fact to which I cannot but recur,--how
could my parents have left me in the care of a highwayman! ’Tis
true that he received the royal pardon: but that pardon----Ah! the
_Register_ says that it was procured through the interest of Lady
Hatfield--that Dykes, an officer of justice, was present at the time
when that lady announced----Just heavens! a light breaks in upon my
soul----Oh! no--no----and yet that resemblance----May God have mercy
upon me!”

And the young man, groaning bitterly--bitterly, in the anguish of his
spirit, fell back in his chair--covering his face with his hands.

Yes--a light had indeed broken in upon him, elucidating a terrible
mystery in a terrible manner! Lady Georgiana Hatfield had procured the
royal pardon:--Lady Georgiana Hatfield must therefore have had strong
reasons thus to exert herself in behalf of a convicted felon, who had
passed through the hands of the hangman, but had been recalled to life
and restored to the world in some wondrous manner. But of what nature
were those potent reasons? Naturally did it strike Charles Hatfield
that _love_ must have been the cause;--and when he recollected the
resemblance which existed between his own father and that Thomas
Rainford who had once been his friend and protector, it flashed to his
mind that he in whom Lady Hatfield had shown such tender interest--even
to the compromising of her fair fame in the eyes of the world,--he for
whom she had so far stepped aside from the precise course of female
delicacy as to implore the royal pardon,--he it must be who was her
husband!

Yes--yes: it was now as clear as the sun at noon-day:--Mr. Hatfield
and Thomas Rainford were one and the same individual,--and
he--Charles Hatfield--was the son of a highwayman who had been
tried--convicted--and ushered through all the ignominious ordeal of the
scaffold!

For several minutes the young man sat motionless--crushed, stupefied,
astounded by the appalling truth which he had elicited from his fatal
investigations into the past:--for several minutes it must have been a
mere balancing of chances whether he should awake from that dreadful
reverie to the light of reason once more, or suddenly start up a
howling, hopeless maniac!

But this latter condition was not to be his frightful doom.
By degrees--by very slow degrees, he recovered so much of his
self-possession and composure as to be enabled to look his misfortune
in the face, and even fall into additional reflections on the subject.

“Yes--Thomas Rainford and Mr. Hatfield are the same individual--and
_he_ is my father! It was but little more than nineteen years ago
when the trial and the ordeal of the gallows took place--and I am
twenty-five! Was my mother--was Lady Hatfield my father’s _wife_ at
that time? In other words--am I legitimate? ‘_As God is my judge_,’
said my father yesterday, ‘_she has never been guilty of weakness or
frailty_.’ Then what am I to believe? That my father and my mother were
married privately in an honourable manner--and that I was the offspring
of that lawful union;--then, that my father deserted my mother, and
became enamoured of Tamar, whom he took as his mistress;--and, lastly,
that after Tamar’s death, my parents were reunited! This--this must
be the truth--and therefore my father deceived me not when he so
emphatically proclaimed my mother’s virtue and my legitimacy. But--Oh!
my God!--well might he have said that _the weightiest reasons had alone
induced him and my mother to practise a deception towards myself and
the world in respect to the degree of relationship in which I really
stood with regard to them_! Yes--for the world perhaps dates the
marriage of my parents only from the time when they were reunited a few
years after Tamar’s death:--and hence the necessity of calling me their
_nephew_! I understand it all now--Oh! yes, I understand it all too
well! I am legitimate--but I am the son of a highwayman: my God! how
bitterly--bitterly is my curiosity punished this night!”

And now the young man sobbed as if his heart would break.

Whither had flown his dreams of ambition?--where now were his hopes of
emulating the career of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Montoni?

“The son of a highwayman!”--these were the words that fell ten times in
a minute from his tongue:--that was the idea which now sate, dominant
and all-absorbing, but like a leaden weight, upon his soul.

And did he loathe his father?--did he curse the author of his being?

No--no: a thousand times, _no_! Deep--profound--immeasurable was the
pity which he entertained for his sire;--and if he loathed any thing,
it was his own existence--if he cursed aught, it was his own being!

For, oh! terrible indeed was it for that fine young man, of lofty
principles, generous nature, and soaring aspirations,--terrible was it
for _him_ to receive a blow so sudden--a shock so rude--a rebuff so
awful!

Better--better far had it been for him to remain in ignorance of
his parentage,--still to have looked on Mr. Hatfield as his uncle,
and on Lady Georgiana as his aunt,--rather than have learnt a
secret which only prompted him to fathom collateral mysteries and
clear up associated doubts! For the result of those researches was
the elucidation which had flashed on him with almost lightning
effect,--blasting--searing scorching!

“Accursed book!” he suddenly exclaimed, hurling the _Annual Register_
across the apartment, as if the volume were a living thing, and endowed
with human feelings, so as to be susceptible of the venting influence
of his rage.

But in the next moment he reflected that no trace of an untimely
or mysterious visit to that library must remain,--that none must
suspect his pryings or his researches: for not for worlds--no, not for
worlds--would he have his father or mother know that he had made the
discoveries which characterised this memorable night! He accordingly
rose from his seat--raised the volume from the floor--and turned to the
book-case to replace it.

This act, so simple in itself, was destined to lead to a circumstance
thenceforth influencing the entire destiny of Charles Hatfield: for as
he thrust the volume back into the place on the shelf whence he had
taken it, he heard a sharp abrupt sound, like the click of a lock.

He was in that humour when every incident, however trivial, was
calculated to assume an importance in his imagination; and, standing
on a chair, he proceeded to examine the wainscotting at the back of
the shelves--for which purpose he removed several of the books. To
his surprise, he observed a small aperture formed by the opening of a
sliding panel, and which revealed a recess in the wall of about a foot
square,--the violence with which, in his excitement, he had thrust the
book on the shelf, having acted on the secret spring whereby the panel
was fastened.

Under ordinary circumstances, Charles Hatfield would have immediately
closed the recess, in which he beheld a small leathern case and
a packet of letters,--in the same way as he would have abstained
from reading a manuscript lying on a desk or evidently left about
through inadvertence. But, on the present occasion, he was not his
own master:--his honourable feelings were triumphed over by emotions
of the most painful nature;--and it was impossible, in this state of
mind, that he should avoid catching at any circumstance savouring of
mystery,--every such circumstance apparently linking itself with his
own concerns.

Thus, obedient to an impulse which he could not controul, he seized the
leathern case and the documents as if they were a glorious prize; and,
returning to his seat, proceeded to examine them.

The leathern case contained a roll of letters, and other documents
_tied round with a piece of riband so faded that it was impossible to
determine what its colour might have originally been_. The writing in
the papers was, however, still completely legible--the leathern case,
and the total absence of damp in the little recess, having preserved
them for a period of half a century!

Wrapped round the roll of papers in the case, was a letter, addressed
to the Earl of Ellingham; and it instantaneously struck Charles that it
was in the handwriting of his father--Mr. Hatfield! By the comparative
darkness of the ink, it was of a far more recent period than the
documents which it accompanied;--but the precise time when it was
written did not immediately appear, no date being attached to it.

Without pausing to reflect upon the impropriety of violating the
sanctity of correspondence concealed with so much precaution in a
secret recess,--but carried away by the influence of those feelings
which we have above attempted to describe,--Charles Hatfield devoured
the contents of this letter; and though they are already familiar to
the reader, yet for the purposes of our narrative we quote them again:--

    “I have sent you the papers, my dear brother--for so I shall
    make bold to call you still,--to convince you that I did not
    forge an idle tale when we met last. Whatever your motive
    for abandoning me in my last hour may be, I entertain no ill
    feeling towards you: on the contrary, I hope that God may
    prosper you, and give you long life to enjoy that title and
    fortune which in so short a time will be beyond the possibility
    of dispute.

    “I had promised to leave behind me a written narrative of my
    chequered and eventful history for your perusal: but--need I
    explain wherefore I have not fulfilled this promise?

  “T. R.”

“His brother--his dear brother!” gasped Charles Hatfield, as the letter
dropped from his hands; but his eyes remained intently fixed upon it:
“his brother!” he repeated. “My God! then am I the nephew of the Earl
of Ellingham?--am I the cousin of Lady Frances, whom I already love so
well? But----gracious heavens!” he ejaculated, as another and still
more thrilling idea flashed to his mind: “if Mr. Hatfield be indeed
the brother of the Earl of Ellingham--as he assuredly is,--then is he
the elder brother! And if the elder brother, he himself should be the
bearer of the title--and I--I should be a Viscount! But--ah! perhaps my
father is the illegitimate offspring of the late Earl--and that this
is the reason wherefore the family honours and estates have devolved
upon the younger brother! And yet--what mean these words?--‘_give you
long life to enjoy that title and fortune which in so short a time
will be beyond the possibility of dispute_!’ Oh! here again is some
dreadful mystery: just heavens! what a fated--doomed family is ours!
Doubt--uncertainty--secrecy characterise all its history:--at least the
experience of the last two days would lead me so to believe!”

At this moment the young man’s eyes fell upon the roll of paper which
he had taken from the leathern case: and with feverish impatience--yet
still with care, inasmuch as the documents were as fragile with old
age as tinder--he proceeded to examine them.

And, oh! how deep--how intense suddenly became the interest with which
he now perused the diary and the letters of the unfortunate Octavia
Manners! His excitement was stilled--his impatience was subdued: a
deadly pallor succeeded the hectic flush upon his cheeks;--still and
motionless sate he, his eyes devouring the contents of those important
papers!

The frightful treachery of Old Death towards his half-sister, the
beautiful but ill-fated Octavia, was revealed step by step;--but there
was likewise an elucidation which touched a chord that thrilled to the
inmost recesses of young Hatfield’s heart,--and this was the fact that
Octavia was wedded by the late Earl of Ellingham previous to the birth
of the child! Yes--there was the marriage-certificate: there, too, was
the certificate of the child’s baptism;--and that child was therefore,
at its very birth, the heir to the proud title and the entailed estates
of a mighty Earldom!

Here let us pause for a few moments to afford an explanation which now
becomes necessary.

If the reader will refer to the forty-seventh chapter of this
narrative, he will find recorded so much of the history of poor
Octavia Manners as Arthur himself was acquainted with. In relating
that history to Lady Georgiana Hatfield, Arthur had stated that
Octavia fled away from her vile half-brother’s house the very day
after her disgrace was consummated. “For several months no trace
was discovered of her: it was feared she had committed suicide.”
During that interval the first Countess of Ellingham died. At length
the Earl (Arthur’s father) accidentally discovered that Octavia was
living, and that she was in a way to become a mother. “He hastened to
the miserable garret which she occupied, and found her in the most
abject state of poverty--endeavouring to earn a subsistence with her
needle.” All his affection for her revived, with renewed vigour; and
his heart smote him with remorse for the appalling treachery which he
had perpetrated towards her. He saw her ruined in health, character,
and spirits,--ruined by him,--still surpassingly beautiful, but only a
wreck of what she once was;--he saw all this--and he was horror-struck
at the effects of his crime! He threw himself on his knees--he offered
her every possible reparation which it was in his power to make;--and
then--for the sake of the child which she bore in her bosom--she said,
“If you would prove your contrition, my lord--if you would impart one
single gleam of hope, however faint, to my goal--you will make me your
wife! It is not for myself that I demand this boon at your hands,--for
a boon it becomes when the violater espouses the violated,--yes, a
boon in the estimation of the world, though only an act of justice in
the eyes of God! No--it is not for myself; ’tis for our child! Think
not that I--the sister of the marine-store dealer--shall ever assume
the name or adopt the rank of Countess of Ellingham! Let our union
be secret--only let it take place at once, so that our child may be
legitimate!” Thus spoke Octavia Manners on that occasion; and the Earl
of Ellingham, her violater, consented to all that she asked. They were
married with so much privacy that even Miranda--the faithful gipsy girl
who had formed so strong an attachment to Octavia--remained ignorant
of the important occurrence. But the very next day Octavia fled! No
affection had she for the noble who had ruined her--who had been the
cause of her severance from the object of her first and only love: she
had only asked him to marry her for the sake of the honour of their
child’s parentage--and, the ceremony being performed, she withdrew
herself into the strictest solitude and obscurity, to brood over her
woes and sufferings in secret!

Such was the substance of that portion of Octavia’s own diary which
revealed to Charles Hatfield the fact that the injured girl was indeed
the Countess of Ellingham when her child was born! And that child’s
career could be traced--yes, satisfactorily traced--step by step, by
means of the papers which the young man had taken from the leathern
case, and the packet of letters that he had likewise found in the
recess;--and it was evident, beyond the least possibility of doubt,
that the individual whom the world had known as Thomas Rainford, and
whom it now knew as Mr. Hatfield,--it was clear, even beyond the
remotest ground of suspicion to the contrary, that this individual was
the rightful Earl of Ellingham!

Recollect, too, reader, that Charles Hatfield had become firmly
impressed with the belief that he was the _legitimate_ offspring of
his parents;--and now, therefore, conceive the wild enthusiasm of
his delight, when he came to the conclusion that he was in reality a
Viscount by present rank, and had an Earldom in the perspective!

Forgotten was the fact that had ere now stunned and stupefied him,--the
fact that his father was the notorious highwayman, Thomas Rainford:--he
thought of that no more, in the delirium of his rapture at the idea of
having a noble title within his reach. But had he not, on the previous
day, assured Lady Frances Ellingham that he envied only the greatness
which had made itself, and not that which was obtained by the accident
of birth? Yes: and at the time he conscientiously believed that he
spoke his own thoughts correctly. Now, however, that the temptation
appeared to be within his reach, it possessed charms and attractions of
irresistible power!

Recalling to mind the sounding titles of the object of his admiration
and heroic worship, he began to fancy that _the Right Honourable
the Earl of Ellingham_ was not comparatively so very insignificant,
even when uttered after the swelling appellations of _His Royal
Highness Field Marshal the Prince of Montoni, Captain-General of the
Castelcicalan Army, and Heir-apparent to the Grand Ducal Throne_.

Suddenly, as it were, we behold the young man, whose sentiments were
so noble and generous while he deemed himself to be a mere civilian
having every exertion to make in order to rise to eminence,--suddenly
we behold him seized with an insatiable ambition, now that a coronet
appeared to be actually within his reach.

But did he contemplate the immediate adoption of measures to force
his father to wrest the title and estates of the Earldom from Arthur?
We know not all that passed through the mind of Charles Hatfield on
this fatal night:--we can, however, aver that having fully perused the
valuable documents which had made to him such important revelations, he
did not restore them to the secret recess where he had found them, but
secured them about his own person.

Previously to quitting the library, he closed the sliding panel, and
replaced the _Annual Register_ in such a manner that the shelf did not
appear to have been disturbed.

The west-end clocks were striking three, and the light of a July
morning was streaming through the windows of the mansion, when Charles
Hatfield retired to his own chamber. His first care was to consign to
his writing-desk the documents and letters which he now considered to
be the arbiters of his destiny; and, this being performed, he sought
his couch.

But slumber would not visit his eyes:--myriads of conflicting ideas
were in his brain. He felt that he had to play the hypocrite--to keep
a bridle on his tongue--to control every look, and measure every word,
until the time should come for proclaiming all he knew. For the present
he would not distress his parents by allowing them even to suspect
that the things which they considered to be such profound secrets,
were no longer so to him. No:--he would endeavour to appear the same
gay--frank--confiding--affectionate Charles Hatfield that he hitherto
had been!

These were amongst the principal reflections which chased sleep from
his pillow until long past four o’clock;--and when at length his
heavy lids were weighed down through sheer exhaustion of the mental
and physical energies, his slumber was agitated with wild and varying
visions, and he awoke unrefreshed, and still suffering with the fatigue
of his long vigil.




CHAPTER CXXVII.

THE WANDERERS.


The night on which Charles Hatfield made the important discoveries
detailed in the preceding chapter, was marked by other events of a
scarcely less interesting nature.

It was about eleven o’clock--the weather was intensely warm--and not
a breath of air agitated the foliage on the way-side, as two females
toiled slowly and painfully along the high road between Dartford and
Shooter’s Hill.

One was a hideous old harridan whose years could not have been less
than sixty-two or sixty-three; and yet, though her form--once tall,
symmetrical, and on a large scale--was bowed with age and sufferings,
she still possessed considerable physical energy. The countenance was
weather-beaten and tanned to such an extreme that, had she been dressed
in male attire, no delicacy nor feminine cast of features would have
betrayed her real sex: her short grizzled locks were confined by an
old kerchief wound round her head in a gipsy fashion;--and her garb
denoted the utmost penury and distress. Not only did she leave upon
the mind the disagreeable impression of revolting ugliness;--but her
look was sinister and repulsive. The wrinkles beneath her eyes and
about her closely compressed lips, bespoke a ferocious and determined
character,--a soul resolute and nerved to every evil purpose;--and the
acute observer might also mark in that countenance traces of those
stormy and impetuous passions which had influenced her earlier years.

Her companion was a young woman of about nineteen; and though she was
dressed almost as wretchedly as the old harridan, yet how different
was the form which those rags covered! For her figure, though full
even to a maturity beyond her years, was exquisitely modelled,--a
waist not ridiculously small, but still small enough to develop in all
their voluptuous proportions the swelling hips and fine bust. Clothed
in stockings covered with darns, and shod with large clumsy shoes,
were limbs and feet that for symmetry might have been envied by a
queen;--and, as if anxious in the depths of her penury to preserve her
charms as completely as possible, she wore an old pair of gloves upon
her beautifully sculptured hands. Then her face, though sun-burnt was
of a beauty which event an anchorite must have turned to admire,--yet
a beauty of a bold and masculine style, and stamping her rather as a
very handsome than as a very lovely woman. Her features were of the
Roman cast,--the strong facial aquiline denoting a voluptuous and
profoundly sensual disposition;--her fine large grey eyes looked boldly
and wantonly from beneath dark brows majestically arched and almost
meeting between the temples, and above which rose the high, straight,
wide forehead, crowned with intelligence. Her hair was of a dark brown
and singularly luxuriant, glossy, and silken;--and it was evident
that not even the bitter miseries of poverty rendered her indifferent
to the care which that glorious covering required to maintain its
splendour unimpaired. Her mouth was small,--the upper lip thin--the
lower one fuller, but not pouting;--her teeth, the least thing large,
were nevertheless perfectly regular and of pearly whiteness;--and her
chin was prominent, but well rounded. The general expression of her
countenance was indicative of strong passions and fierce desires--great
resolution of purpose--and something approaching even to a resolute
sternness of purpose, amounting almost to implacability. She was not
above the middle height; and her carriage was more commanding than
graceful:--at the same time, it would have struck a beholder that were
she attired in a befitting manner, her gait and gestures would have
been characterised by nothing positively inelegant.

The reader will perceive that great, in many respects, was the contrast
between the mother and daughter--for in such close relationship did the
two females stand to each other: but in some points there was a marked
resemblance. For instance, the countenances of both indicated strong
passions and indomitable resolution;--both were totally devoid of all
moral principle, though they could simulate the sanctity of anchorites
to suit their purposes or serve their interests;--and both could be
implacable enemies, while friendship was a mere name with them at which
their lips would curl into a sneer.

In spite of her natural energies and the somewhat substantial remains
of physical strength, the old woman dragged herself slowly and
painfully along the road towards London; while her daughter exhibited
scarcely less evident symptoms of fatigue--approaching almost to total
exhaustion.

“Perdita,” said the harridan, suddenly breaking a silence that had been
of long duration,--“Perdita,” she repeated, “we cannot reach London
this night: it will be impossible,--I feel it will be impossible.”

“Then we must lie down by the road-side and perish with hunger,”
answered the young woman, who bore, it seemed, the singular Christian
name of _Perdita_.

We have above spoken of contrasts and resemblances in respect to these
two females, who are destined to play no unimportant part in the
forthcoming chapters of our narrative;--but we must pause to observe
that it would be impossible to conceive a greater discrepancy in tones
than that which marked the voices of mother and daughter.

The voice of the old woman was masculine--hoarse--disagreeable--and
grating to the ear; and although she spoke the English language with
the most grammatical punctuality, and there was nothing positively
vulgar in her manner of speech, yet the impression it seemed calculated
to produce upon a stranger was singularly unpleasant. On the other
hand, the whole sphere of harmony has known nothing more melodious than
the voice of Perdita,--a voice which was capable of many modulations,
each characterised by a charm peculiar to itself; for whether she were
speaking in indignation--or in softness,--in outbursting passion--or in
dogged ill-humour,--still were the tones of that voice metallic, rich,
and flowing.

“The heartless wretches!” exclaimed the old woman, again breaking
an interval of silence,--“to thrust us on shore at Deal with only a
shilling in our pockets!”

“This is not the least hardship we have ever endured, mother,” said
Perdita, rather in a tone of remonstrance than consolation. “For my
part, I have scarcely ever seen any thing but privation and misery----”

“You ungrateful wretch!” ejaculated the harridan, furiously. “When
I had but a morsel of bread to give you, did I ever take a portion
for myself! For you, Perdita,” she continued, speaking in a milder
and even more tender tone,--“for you I have gone through sufferings
unknown and unheard of in this country,--for you have I toiled beneath
the scorching South Australian sun of summer, and amidst the noisome
damps of a South Australian winter! Yes--for years and years have I
toiled on--toiled on, that your beauty might not be impaired by want or
privation,--at least that you might endure as little want and privation
as possible.”

“Well--well,” cried the young woman, somewhat softened by her mother’s
words; “don’t let us look back to the past. We are now in England--and
you say that we are not many miles from London. Good! We will endeavour
to sustain each other’s courage and strength to reach the fine city
where you hope to change our rags into silks and satins, and fill our
empty pockets with gold.”

“Yes--and you shall see whether I have deceived you, Perdita!”
exclaimed the harridan, in a tone partaking of enthusiasm. “Nearly
nineteen years have elapsed since I last saw the mighty metropolis;
and, unless its people be much changed, there is a fortune to be made
by an experienced woman and a beautiful girl, leagued together.”

“And you are the experienced woman, mother?” said Perdita, actually
seeking a compliment--for inordinate vanity was amongst her failings.

“Yes--and you are the beautiful girl--and you know it,” returned the
old harridan. “Being of accord as we are together, it is impossible
that we can fail to accomplish our grand designs. Why was it that I
implored you not to accept the offers of marriage which needy settlers
made you in New South Wales? Because your charms can command thousands
of pounds in London; whereas, in that frightful colony, all you could
have hoped to gain was what is termed ‘_a comfortable position_.’ And
to one possessing your notions--your pride--your strong passions--your
soaring disposition,--aye, and to one endowed with your loveliness
too,--a mere _home_ is not sufficient. You require luxuries--although
you have never yet tasted them,--fine clothes--although you have never
yet worn them,--a splendid equipage, although you have never yet known
the use of one! It was for this that I brought you to England,--it was
for this that I besought you to contract no marriage in the colony,--it
was for this that I conjured you to abstain from any connexion that
might become permanent!”

“I am well aware of your motives, mother,” said Perdita. “In a word,”
she added, with a strange mixture of pride and irony, “you considered
my beauty to be more marketable in London than in New South Wales. And
after all that you have told me of the English people and England’s
capital, I am inclined to believe that you have not misled me. But
supposing that I contract some splendid marriage in London--that I find
my way into the highest circles--and that I become the _belle_ of the
great city,--will there not be the constant risk--the ever imminent
chance of falling in with the officers of some of those regiments which
have returned from Sydney or Botany Bay----”

“I see now that you scarcely understand me--that we do not altogether
comprehend each other!” interrupted the old woman, impatiently. “There
is no need for you to count only on the chance of making a good match:
’tis indeed far more probable that you may ensnare some young gentleman
of birth, family, and fortune,--or some old voluptuary of immense
wealth,--and there is more to be gained as the mistress of one of
these, than as a wife. Do not marry, Perdita--do not dream of marriage:
remain independent--and the moment you have ruined one lover, you can
take another. There--that is plain speaking; and now do you comprehend
me?”

“Perfectly,” answered the young woman: then, under the influence of
the wanton thoughts which rushed to her imagination, she said, “Yes--I
comprehend you, and I confess that your views now become more suitable
to mine. I could not chain myself to one individual, with any hope of
being faithful to him:--_love_ is a passion which will never obtain
over me that influence which it so often exercises over the weak, the
simple-minded, or the infatuated.”

“Be not too confident on that point, Perdita,” said the old woman.
“In Sydney and Botany Bay your amours were only the result of a warm
temperament;--for carefully as I watched over you----”

“Now, mother, let us have no moral teachings from your lips!” exclaimed
the young woman, in an imperious and authoritative tone; “for had you
been so very immaculate yourself, I should never have beheld the light
of day, neither would you have passed some eighteen or nineteen years
of your life in a penal colony. And such a colony as it is! Why--let
a pretty girl be hemmed in by all the precautions which a parent
can imagine, circumstances must inevitably lead her astray in South
Australia! And you,--_you_, who know all this so well,--can you wonder
if I were seduced at the early age of thirteen, and if from that period
until your pardon arrived and we embarked to return home, I have not
failed to indulge my fancy without hesitation? On the one side I obeyed
your instructions,--I accepted no offer of marriage, and lived with no
man permanently as his mistress: but, on the other, I hesitated not to
intrigue with the gayest and most dashing officers----”

“Enough! enough!” ejaculated the mother, who, bad as she herself was,
felt a cold chill come over her at this open, audacious, and unblushing
avowal of her daughter’s depravity,--a depravity that was not however
unknown, either in circumstances or extent, to the old woman. “Give me
your arm, Perdita--assist me to mount this hill,--for I am ready to
drop. There! you are a good girl! Ah! Perdita--I was once young and
beautiful as you are now,--well-formed too, and elegant in carriage!
I was a lady in every sense of the word--as far as outward appearance
and manners went. But now--oh! how altered I am! My toothless mouth
was once filled with pearls as white as yours--my bust was as
voluptuous and as firm--my figure was as upright--my feet and ankles
as delicate--and my step as light! Ah! that was many--many years ago,
Perdita!”

[Illustration]

“Shall you not be glad, mother, to visit London again?” demanded the
young woman.

“Yes--for ’tis the only city in the world where adventuresses like
ourselves--beggars, I may say--are certain to succeed. Oh! you have
no idea of what a pandemonium is the great metropolis of England!”
exclaimed the harridan, with strange emphasis. “’Tis a furnace in which
millions of passions, interests, and ideas are ever boiling--boiling
madly and as if in rage: ’tis a scene of immense iniquity and of
boundless luxury--of wondrous intrigues and ineffable enjoyments.”

“Oh! how I long to plunge headlong into that fine city!” cried Perdita.
“It is a vortex that will suit my disposition well.”

“Aye--and play your cards as I shall prompt,” observed her mother; “and
you will speedily be the mistress of all the pleasures which London
can afford. But, oh! I am ready to drop with weariness--I am dying
with hunger and thirst, Perdita: and not a penny have we to purchase a
morsel of bread----”

“I see a strong light yonder--there, mother--in that bye-lane,” said
the young woman. “Shall we repair in that direction--perhaps it may be
a hospitable cottage----”

“No: ’tis a gipsy’s encampment--I can distinguish the cart and the
tent,” interrupted the old wretch. “But the gipsy race are good and
generous; and they will not refuse us a morsel of bread and a cup of
water.”

The two wanderers accordingly proceeded towards the strong light which
Perdita had first discovered, and which proved to be, as her mother
had surmised, the fire of a gipsy encampment situate in a bye-lane.
As they approached, they observed a female form crouching over the
blazing faggots, in spite of the intense sultriness of the weather, and
apparently watching with attention a huge cauldron that was suspended
above the fire in the usual gipsy fashion. When Perdita and her mother
drew nearer still, they obtained a more perfect view of that female,
whose countenance was thrown out in strong relief by the lurid flame;
and they now perceived that she was a very old woman, bent down with
the weight of years, but having nothing in her appearance of that
weird-like character which so generally marks gipsy women of advanced
age. She seemed to be all alone in the encampment at the time;--and her
attitude, which had at first struck the wanderers as being that of a
person watching the culinary process, now assumed a more thoughtful and
serious character.

“Good dame,” said Perdita, “we are sinking with fatigue and famishing
through want; and we crave your hospitality.”

“Ah! a woman as old as myself doubtless?” exclaimed the gipsy-crone,
surveying Perdita’s mother with attention. “Come--sit down--you are
welcome--you are welcome! I am all by myself for the present: my people
have gone to a short distance--on business of their own--but _that_ is
of no matter to you. Young woman,” she continued, addressing herself to
Perdita, “you are strong and active: I was once so myself! Ascend into
the cart--you will find wooden bowls and spoons--and help yourselves to
the contents of the pot. There will be enough for my people when they
come back.”

The old gipsy spoke in so strange--vague--and peculiar a manner that
the wanderers were both impressed with the idea that she must be in
her dotage; and the rapid look of intelligence which passed between
mother and daughter, showed that they had simultaneously entertained
the same idea. Perdita, however, hastened to obey the directions which
she had received; and, returning with the utensils, she and her mother
commenced a hearty meal upon the broth and soddened poultry and meat
which the cauldron contained.

While the two wanderers were thus employed, the old gipsy began
rocking herself to and fro, and uttering her thoughts aloud. First she
addressed herself to her guests: then, by degrees forgetting their
presence, and becoming more and more enshrouded in the mists of her own
failing mind, she still continued her musings in an audible tone.

“An old woman and a young one--eh?--then you are doubtless mother
and daughter? Ah! I wish that I had a daughter so comely to look
upon as yourself, my pretty dear;--but I should not like her to be
quite so bold in her demeanour as yourself. You are very lovely: and
yet methinks you are scarcely as virtuous as you are beautiful. Oh!
now the red blood mantles in your cheeks: but do not take offence.
’Twere a sorry deed on my part to offer insult to those who share my
hospitality. Yes--I wish that I had a daughter, who would love me in
my old age. My own people neglect me: they leave me alone--alone--for
many long hours together;--and then I have no other companions but
my own thoughts. And strange companions are they at times, I can
assure you. Let me see--what was I thinking of when you came up? Oh! I
remember now:--yes--I remember now. Fifty years ago--no--it was about
forty-nine, I nursed a male child,--the child of Octavia Manners and
the Earl of Ellingham. I do not mean this present Earl:--no--no--’twas
the late Earl. The child had a peculiar mark on the right arm: ’twas
near the shoulder. Then I was turned away by the dead Octavia’s
half-brother, Benjamin Bones--a horrible man, who knew no pity. But
the child again fell in my way--Egyptia had it in keeping. Ah! I loved
that child--I would have adopted it as my own. For seven years did I
retain the boy with me--the dear boy, whom methinks I see now. But,
the wretches--they sent him away: they lost him in Winchester--cast
him off purposely on the wide world. Oh! how I regretted that dear,
flaxen-headed boy! They told me he was dead--and I mourned for him.
Years and years passed away: heaven only knows how many--I cannot stop
to count them now. But it must have been twenty or twenty-one years
ago that I met the flaxen-haired boy. Boy! no--no--he was a man--a
fine, dashing, jovial, rollicking man;--yes--and, woe is me--a highway
robber!”

By this time the two wanderers, who had not lost a single word of
all that the gipsy crone was thus uttering aloud in her musings,
became interested in the wild, yet still connected history which she
was relating,--a history that was revealed by the development of her
own thoughts and reminiscences, and which she seemed to experience
a “pleasing pain” in reciting. But it was the elder of the two
listeners--Perdita’s mother--who paid the deepest and most particular
attention to the crone’s audible meditations, and who seemed to
experience a presentiment that they were furnishing a subject which
might be turned to her own and her daughter’s advantage.

“Yes--yes,” continued the old gipsy, “we met in Hampshire--and
circumstances revealed him to me. The mark on the arm then proved
that it was indeed he! I told him the history of his birth--and he
expressed his intention to visit London and seek to recover from Old
Death--that was the villain Benjamin Bones--the money of which he had
been plundered. Alas! poor Tom Rain--you went to the great city to
meet your doom! You were captured--you were tried--you were cast for
death--and you were hanged on the roof of Horsemonger Lane gaol. Yes--I
saw it all with my own eyes: for I was amidst the crowd--drawn thither
by God alone can tell what strange infatuation! And if in the deep
anguish that rent my heart, there was a single gleam of joy--a single
gleam, however faint--’twas to mark how boldly you died, my brave Tom
Rain! Died--died!” exclaimed the old gipsy, now speaking with thrilling
emphasis: “no--no--you did not die! Methought, however, as did the rest
of the multitude, that you were indeed no more: and for years--for many
years--for nineteen years have I held that same belief. And during
that interval, oft--oft have I thought of thee,--thought of thee as
once I knew thee, Tom Rain--a flaxen-headed boy, and before thou didst
bear that name of Rainford! Yes--I have thought of thee--aye, and wept
bitterly, bitterly. But--am I dreaming--am I becoming crazy?--or is
it indeed true that ten days ago, when in London, I saw thee--yes,
thee--alive and in the full enjoyment of health and wealth? Ah! I
recollect--’twas not a dream: no--no--I saw thee,--and I recognised
thee, too, disguised though thou wert. For not even the hair dyed
black--nor the change effected by time--nor the plain and unassuming
garb,--no--naught could deceive me, Tom Rain, in respect to you! I
beheld you in a carriage, with your half-brother the Earl of Ellingham,
and with a fine young man whose countenance was of glorious beauty.”

These words suddenly made Perdita as attentive and interested a
listener as her mother, both having by this time finished their hearty
meal.

“Yes--a young man divinely handsome,” continued the gipsy-crone,
rocking herself to and fro; “with a countenance that would ensnare any
young female heart! And I made enquiries--and I learnt that my Tom Rain
was now Mr. Hatfield, and that this young man was his nephew. Oh! I
know it was Tom Rain: but how came he thus alive?--by what means was
he resuscitated?--who snatched him from the grave? No--no--I am not a
drivelling fool--a dreaming idiot, as my people said: I know full well
that it was he--I could not be mistaken;--and yet, ’tis impossible to
say how he was snatched from death! He is married, too--married to
Lady Georgiana Hatfield, whose name he has taken. And they are now
all dwelling together at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham in Pall
Mall. I longed to go thither and tell Tom Rain--no, Mr. Hatfield, I
mean--that I had recognised him,--tell him that in me he beheld the
Miranda whom he once knew: but my people laughed at me--they told me
that I was in my dotage--that I was dreaming,--I, who have intellects
as keen as ever--and sight so sharp that I knew my dearly-beloved Tom
Rain in spite of his dyed hair and his changed aspect! Then my people
forced me away with them;--but they cannot prevent me from thinking of
Tom Rain as much and as often as I choose!”

The gipsy-crone ceased; and now she seemed to become suddenly aware
again that she was not alone. But not reflecting that she had been
speaking aloud the whole time, and that her two guests had overheard
every syllable she had uttered, she turned towards them, making
some remark of a perfectly indifferent character. It was easy to
perceive that the poor old creature was half demented, in spite of
her self-gratulation on the keenness of her intellects: but Perdita’s
mother was sharp and far-seeing enough to know that many important
truths were evidently commingled with the gipsy’s rhapsodical
reminiscences.

“You have journeyed far to-day?” said Miranda--for such indeed was the
crone’s name.

“Many miles,” replied Perdita’s mother: “but now that we are refreshed
through your kindness, we shall push more speedily on to London.”

“Ah! you are taking that pretty child of yours to the great city, which
we gipsies abhor and never visit unless on urgent occasions,” observed
Miranda. “What is your name, young woman?”

“Perdita,” was the answer.

“Perdita!” repeated the gipsy. “That is a strange name. We have
singular names amongst our race: but I never before heard so remarkable
a one as that which _you_ bear. What does it mean?”

“Have names any meaning at all?” demanded Perdita’s mother, in a tone
of impatience. “But, come, daughter--let us thank this good woman, and
be off!”

The gipsy was however again rocking herself to and fro before the fire,
and seemed to have relapsed into her profound reverie, save that this
time she did not give audible utterance to her musings. She was however
so much absorbed in thought that she did not hear the thanks that were
tendered by the wanderers, nor mark their departure.




CHAPTER CXXVIII.

THE JOURNEY CONTINUED AND CONCLUDED.


Perdita and her mother exchanged not a word until they reached the high
road once more; but when their faces were again turned towards London,
the latter exclaimed in a tone of chuckling triumph, “’Twas a lucky
chance which threw us in with that gipsy!”

“Yes, mother--as far as obtaining a good meal was concerned,” replied
Perdita.

“Silly child! it was the old crone’s talk that elicited the remark
which I just made. Did you not hear the strange facts she suffered to
ooze out in her idiotic musings? Did nothing strike you----”

“Yes: her description of a young man of such divine beauty made so
strong an impression upon me, that my very veins appeared to run with
lightning,” interrupted Perdita.

“Ah!” cried her mother, evidently struck by a sudden thought: “you
were pleased with her allusion to that handsome young gentleman? Well,
Perdita--trust me when I declare emphatically that this same young
gentleman shall sue at your feet for those favours which unasked you
would this moment bestow upon him!”

“Mother, you yourself will soon appear to me to be indulging in
idiotic musings!” cried Perdita, half in delight--half in contemptuous
incredulity. “You never saw this young man--you know nothing of him----”

“Know nothing of him!” repeated her mother, scornfully. “We know
enough, Perdita, to compel a whole family to implore our forbearance
and our mercy,--to reduce that Mr. Hatfield, Lady Georgiana, and their
nephew to the necessity of beseeching our silence on their bended
knees!”

“Do you really put faith in the rhodomontade of that gipsy about the
identity of the Mr. Hatfield of whom she spoke with a certain Tom Rain
who had been hanged?” demanded Perdita, impatiently.

“Yes--because I know it to be true!” ejaculated her mother. “Listen,
Perdita:--you were not born at that time--but it was only a few months
before your birth when the whole metropolis was astounded by the sudden
discovery that Tom Rain, the highwayman, was indeed alive. I was in
London at the time----”

“In Newgate, mother?” asked her daughter, as coolly as if it were the
most common-place question.

“Yes--in Newgate, if you must have me be particular in every detail,”
answered the old harridan, bitterly.

“Where I was born,” remarked Perdita. “One of the first places I shall
request you to show me, will be that same Newgate. But go on--I am
listening attentively.”

“Well, then--I was in Newgate at the time that all London was astounded
by certain discoveries relative to this same Tom Rainford--all brought
about in consequence of a dreadful murder committed by that very
Benjamin Bones whom you heard the gipsy mention. The story is too
long to tell you now; but you shall have it shortly in its fullest
details--for it may regard our interests more nearly than you at
present imagine. One fact I must however state,--which is that Thomas
Rainford was a famous highwayman who was hanged, and that by some means
which never transpired, he was rescued from death--resuscitated, in
fine. He received the royal pardon for all the deeds he had committed
in opposition to the laws; and what afterwards became of him I knew
not----”

“Because you had to leave England in pursuance of your sentence, I
suppose, mother?” added Perdita, enquiringly.

“Precisely so. And now chance throws us in the way of an old crone
who, in the audible musings of dotage, informs us that this same Tom
Rain is actually living under a feigned name--aye, and at the mansion
of the Earl of Ellingham. It is clear that the gipsy had never heard
of the wondrous fact that Rainford appeared in London disguised as a
Blackamoor, only a few months after his execution, as I may call it: it
is evident that the circumstance of his having survived the scaffold
was unknown to her and to her companions. Thus was she struck with
amazement and surprise, as well she might be under such circumstances,
when she beheld him in Lord Ellingham’s carriage. But gipsies go so
little into great cities and towns--hold so little intercourse with any
save their own people--and are so little curious in respect to matters
which do not immediately concern themselves, that it is not surprising
if the old gipsy had never heard reported the well-known fact of
Rainford’s resuscitation.”

“Then you presume that this Rainford is now living, honourably and
respectably, in London, under the name of Hatfield,” said Perdita,
enquiringly; “and you mean to use your knowledge of his real name to
work out our particular aims?”

“You now comprehend me, daughter,” returned the old woman; “and you may
perhaps begin to understand how his nephew shall become bound to you by
silken cords.”

“I have set my mind upon that handsome young man,” said Perdita,
emphatically; “and believe me, I shall omit nothing that will tend to
gratify my passion.”

“Wanton--voluptuous, even as I was,” muttered the harridan to
herself;--“aye, licentious and depraved as was her father!”

“What are you mumbling to yourself, mother?” demanded Perdita.
“Something about me, I warrant.”

“No harm--no harm,” responded the wretch, hastily. “But, to return to
the subject of our conversation, Perdita; what do you think of our
prospects now?--knowing all we do of this Mr. Hatfield, and able as we
are to overwhelm him, his titled wife, and his nephew in disgrace, if
we choose to utter a single word.”

“I think that all will go well enough in respect to money; for _that_
we have the means of extorting,” said Perdita. “But I cannot see how,
by such a course, we shall do otherwise than disgust the nephew, and
make an enemy of him.”

“Ah! short-sighted girl” ejaculated her mother. “We must not commence
with extortion! I know that Lady Georgiana Hatfield was very rich when
I was a resident in London years ago; and it is not probable that she
has become poor since. Then again, this Hatfield or Rainford must be
on intimate terms with the Earl of Ellingham, since he and his family
are residing at that nobleman’s mansion. All this denotes that the
young man can command ample funds at will;--and the young man, then,
must be ensnared by your wiles. But if you surrender yourself to him
immediately----”

“Trust me for knowing how to play my cards well!” interrupted Perdita,
impatiently. “But on our arrival in London to-night, where are we
to find a dwelling-place?--how are we to clothe ourselves decently
to-morrow?--how, in a word, are we to live until all these grand
schemes begin to work?”

“You shall see, Perdita,” answered her mother. “During my long sojourn
in Australia, one person in England wrote to me frequently--one person
sent me sums of money occasionally. Otherwise, Perdita, after I
obtained my ticket of leave, we should have starved: for the labour of
my hands, severely as I toiled, produced not sufficient to maintain us
both. This one person lives in London: I know his address;--and to his
door must we first repair before we can even procure the wherewith to
obtain a bed!”

“Is it the friend who, as you told me, interested himself to procure
your pardon?” demanded Perdita.

“The friend!--the relation you mean,” said her mother, hastily.
“Yes--he is my relation--the only one I possess in the world save
yourself, if a daughter can be called by that name.”

The conversation, which may have served to throw additional light upon
the depraved character of these two women, was interrupted by the
necessity of stepping to the side of the road to permit a cart, which
was on the point of overtaking them, to pass. The vehicle was driven
along at a rapid pace by a sturdy, good-natured butcher; and as it was
whisking by the two females, the pure moon-light falling fully on the
handsome countenance of Perdita, enabled the man to catch a glimpse of
the surpassing beauty of that face.

Instantly pulling up, he said, “Holloa! my good women, you are out
late--or rather early--for ’tis two o’clock in the morning.”

“We are very tired, and are anxious to reach London as soon as
possible,” replied Perdita’s mother.

“I am going as one may say right through London,” observed the butcher:
“in fact, to Oxford Street--and if you like to have a ride, both of
you, I’ll put you down at the nearest point to where your business
leads you.”

The old woman greedily snapped at the offer; and the good-natured
butcher helped her daughter and herself into the cart, which
immediately drove on again at a spanking pace.

And now full soon did the myriad lights of London greet the eyes of
the travellers; and Perdita felt her heart dilate with ineffable
emotions as she drew near that sovereign city of a thousand towers,
pinnacles, and spires,--that mighty Babylon in which all her hopes,
her aims, her ambitious views were centred. A misty haze of light,
resembling a faintly illuminated fog, appeared to hang over the vast
metropolis;--and as the vehicle approached nearer and nearer still,
the countless dwellings began to stand out in relief from the bosom of
that dimly lustrous shroud. On--on the travellers go: the houses are
scattered along the road;--but in a short time they become continuous
ranges of habitations;--and now it may be airily said that the wheels
of the cart rattle on the pavement of London.

But a feeling of disappointment seizes upon Perdita: instead of lordly
mansions, she sees dingy-looking tenements of no considerable size,
and presenting any thing but an imposing appearance, especially at
that sombre hour. Nevertheless, the farther she advances the more
satisfied does she become;--and now the travellers reach that great
junction-point for cross-roads, where stands the Elephant and Castle.

The tap is open--the butcher stops, alights, and disappears inside the
establishment. In a few minutes he returns with a steaming hot glass of
brandy-and-water,--for a good-natured fellow is this butcher;--and he
kindly proffers it to the two females. It was not because Perdita was
so handsome, that he did it: no--it was through pure kindness, and as
much for the sake of her mother as of herself. Nor did the two females
require much pressing to partake of the welcome beverage; and while
they were drinking _their_ glass, their good-hearted friend hurried
back to the tap to enjoy _his own_ reeking jorum.

And now away they speed again--up the Waterloo Road--over the bridge.
Then and there it was that a splendid and soul-stirring spectacle burst
upon the sight of Perdita:--for an instant her admiration was rivetted
to that magnificent piece of masonry constituting the finest viaduct
of the kind in the whole world;--but in the next she threw her glances
right and left, embracing thus rapidly all the splendid features of a
scene bathed in silver by the cloudless lamp of night. The bosom of the
mighty Thames reflected the lights on the banks and the bridges,--those
very lights tracing the course of the proud stream and marking its
ample width:--then her looks dwelt on the mighty dome of Saint Paul’s,
rearing its colossal head to the deep purple summer sky;--and lastly
they ran rapidly along the northern shore, embracing each point of
interest, until they stopped at the New Houses of Parliament, so
gleamingly white in the chaste lustre of the moon.

“Yes, mother,” she whispered, in an exulting tone: “this is indeed a
stupendous city!”

“You have seen nothing of it as yet,” was the reply. “But here we must
alight,” added the old woman, the moment the cart reached the Strand.

The wanderers accordingly descended; and, having proffered their hearty
thanks to the butcher for his kindness, they continued their journey on
foot, their way now lying in the direction of Brompton.

Along the Strand they proceeded--through Spring Gardens--into St.
James’s Park,--Perdita admiring the fine buildings which she passed;
for the morning was now breaking, and each grand feature of that part
of the metropolis emerged slowly and majestically from obscurity.

Perdita’s mother, in pointing out Carlton House to her daughter,
observed, “When I was last in England George the Fourth was King; and
that was his favourite residence.”

They proceeded through the park;--and now Perdita beheld the abode of
the Queen of England--that palace on which so much of the country’s
money has been shamefully squandered, and with the arrangements of
which her Majesty is still dissatisfied! God help Victoria, if she
cannot contrive to make herself comfortable at Buckingham House; we
sincerely hope that she will always find such quarters gratuitously
provided for her, and that she will learn not to grumble at them.
Contrast that palace with the working-man’s home, and then let us see
whether Parliament would be justified in voting another sixpence to
enlarge or improve the sovereign residence. Oh! how loathsome--how
revolting to our mind are the caprices, the selfishness, and the
insolence of Royalty!

The two wanderers now entered the spacious district of Pimlico, which
they traversed painfully--for they had become almost as wearied as when
they were toiling on between Dartford and Shooter’s Hill.

“Shall we soon be there, mother?” enquired Perdita, her handsome
countenance bearing a care-worn expression as if patience and strength
were alike nearly exhausted.

“In less than twenty minutes now,” was the answer, “we shall reach the
place whither we are bound.”

“And suppose your nephew should not be in London?” said Perdita.

“Ah! now you have touched the very chord which vibrates with anguish
to my heart’s core!” exclaimed the old woman. “But let us not yield to
despondency,” she added, almost immediately.

“No--it is useless to meet evils half way,” observed Perdita.

The two proceeded in silence for upwards of a quarter of an hour, until
they reached a particular part of Brompton, when the elder wanderer
said, “It must be somewhere about here that he lives. Ah! Number Seven!
Yes--_this_ is the house, Perdita!” she added, indicating a beautiful
cottage-residence, standing alone in the midst of a pleasant garden.
“But it will be useless for you to accompany me,” continued the hag:
“on the contrary, many reasons, which I will hereafter explain, render
it advisable that my nephew should not come to know you by sight.”

“Just as you please, mother,” said Perdita, in the quiet way which was
habitual to her when she had no inclination either on one side or the
other. “There is a large stone at the angle of the road yonder: I will
rest there until you return.”

“Do so,” replied the old woman; and, having paused for a few moments to
dwell admiringly on the fine symmetry of her daughter’s form as Perdita
repaired slowly towards the point indicated, the harridan advanced to
the door of the house in which her relation dwelt.

She knocked and rang;--and in a few minutes a servant-maid, throwing
open a window, enquired who it was that came at such an unseasonable
hour.

“Is your master at home?” demanded the old woman.

“He is: but----”

“Thank God!” ejaculated the visitor, considerably relieved by this
announcement. “You must inform him that an elderly female wishes to
speak to him on particular business----”

“I cannot venture to disturb him,” answered the servant. “Come at eight
o’clock: master and missus will be up then.”

At this moment another window was opened, and a gentleman, who had
evidently slipped on a dressing-gown in great haste, appeared at the
casement, exclaiming, “I will see you now--at once!”

And in less than a minute the old woman was admitted into the dwelling
by the gentleman who had thus addressed her.

Not a word was uttered,--merely hasty glances of recognition were
exchanged, and those looks dubious on her part and reserved on
his,--until they entered a parlour, the door of which the gentleman
carefully closed, while his visitress sank exhausted upon a sofa.

“I am returned at last, Clarence,” she said, in a low and hoarse
voice,--for she was now evidently much moved at finding herself in
the presence of her relative, and by no means so confident as she had
appeared to her daughter with regard to the reception she was likely to
experience.

“Yes--returned, against my express desire--against the solemn promise
that you sent me to remain in the colony if I procured your pardon!”
exclaimed Mr. Villiers--for it was he--in a reproachful tone.

“Would you have had me bury myself in that horrible place of exile?”
demanded his aunt--Mrs. Torrens, or Mrs. Slingsby, or whatever she now
denominated herself.

“I would have had you keep your pledge so sacredly given,” replied
Clarence; “and on my side I should have fulfilled my engagement by
remitting you forty pounds every half-year. Why--why have you come back
to England?”

“Because I would sooner die than remain in a colony where I have
endured so much,” responded the woman.

“Yes--you have endured much indeed,” said Mr Villiers, still more
bitterly than before: “but it has been your own fault. Do you remember
the interviews I had with you in prison both prior and subsequent
to your condemnation? Did you not exhibit every sign of the deepest
contrition--utter every possible vow of amendment? And what were the
results? Arrived in the colony, you became unruly--profligate--a
perfect scandal where all is scandalous--shameless where every thing is
shameful----”

“Listen to me, Clarence!” exclaimed his aunt, rising from the sofa and
advancing towards him: “it is so easy to reproach--but not so easy
to admit of extenuation for guilt. As God is my judge, my penitence
in Newgate was sincere--my contrition unfeigned! I even longed for
the hour of my departure to arrive, that I might for ever quit a
country where I had played so vile a part, and to some extent retrieve
my character in a penal colony. But when I set foot on board the
convict-ship, I found myself thrown into the depths of a very sink
of immorality,--plunged into an infernal stew of profligacy, from
which escape was impossible. I threw myself on my knees before the
surgeon, and implored him to remove me from that dreadful assemblage
of fiends in female shape: he laughed at me, and bade me return to
my place. Then my companions abused and ill-treated me for having
dared to complain;--and the babe which I bore in my arms was made the
subject of the bitterest taunts and most cutting gibes. I had named
her _Perdita_--as you well know--that her lost and hopeless condition,
through the infamy of her mother, might ever be retained fresh in
my memory, and that the necessity of toiling hard and honourably
for her might be impressed on my soul even by the warning nature of
that very name. But, oh! those wretches, with whom I was forced to
associate, levelled the most cruel jeers and jests against me on
account of that innocent babe; because she was born in Newgate! And
nothing is so galling--nothing so terribly afflicting--nothing so
poignantly cutting, as to insult a woman through the medium of her
illegitimate, helpless babe! My God! what bitter tears I shed on board
that convict-ship,--tears which seemed to sear my very countenance
as they fell, so scalding were they! Then the frightful scenes which
were enacted in our cabin,--the quarrelling that took place, the
imprecations that accompanied even the simplest remark, the obscene
tales that were told,--oh! it was horrible, horrible. I struggled
against the contamination as mortal being never struggled before:--but
it was like a combat between a drowning person and the fury of a
whelming torrent,--a vain, ineffectual, and useless fight, in which I
felt myself to be completely powerless;--until, in despair, I resigned
myself to the flood that was whirling me along in its triumphant
course;--and I found relief even in drinking of that feculent, fœtid
stream from which there was no escape. Yes--thus was I drawn down into
the whirlpool of immoralities and profligacies on the brink of which
the law placed me:--and if my vows of contrition--my asseverations of
penitence proved so many delusions, you must blame the system to which
I was subjected--and not myself.”

“And do you mean, then, to inform me that you endeavoured to be
moral, reserved, pious, and tranquil on board the convict-ship--but
that it was impossible to avoid being dragged into the common abyss
of depravity?” demanded Clarence, now speaking in a mild and even
compassionate tone.

“Most solemnly do I swear that such is the fact!” exclaimed his aunt,
with an emphasis which spoke volumes in favour of her sincerity.

“Then are you to be pitied, poor woman,” said Clarence; “and the
Government of that day most bear all the blame of your relapse and
subsequent depravity. But where is your daughter Perdita?”

“She is in the neighbourhood--waiting for me,” was the answer. “I
did not choose to bring her beneath your roof. Indeed, naught save
necessity--necessity the most stern--should have led me hither.”

“The accounts which I received from a correspondent at Sydney, spoke,
alas! most unfavourably of your daughter,” observed Clarence. “My God!
could you not at least have saved her from entering the paths that lead
to perdition?”

“Behold, now, how ready you are to blame me!” cried his aunt, in
a voice expressive of vexation. “I was allotted as a servant to a
free-settler in the penal colony; and the man made me his mistress.
There was no compliance on my part in the first instance: ’twas
absolute compulsion. Then I yielded to my fate, seeing that it was
useless to contend against it. I had to work hard all day; and the
moment Perdita was able to run alone, she played in the streets with
the other poor children of Sydney. I could not prevent it--do all I
would to endeavour to keep her in doors. Well, at last I obtained a
ticket of leave, and tried to earn a livelihood by the toil of my
own hands. But to do this, I was compelled to be out all day;--and
then, where was Perdita? Where was she?” almost screamed the woman,
becoming much excited: “why--_lost_--as her name implies;--not
lost as you lose an object and can find it no more,--but lost
_morally_--irretrievably lost! ’Tis true that I imparted to her as
much knowledge as I myself possessed or had leisure to instil into
her--and that to do this I deprived myself of my natural rest. But
how could I teach her virtue?--how could I read the Bible with her?
My story was known throughout the colony;--and Perdita learnt before
even she had intelligence to understand the meaning of the facts,
that she was a bastard--born in Newgate, the great criminal prison of
London--and that her mother was every thing infamous and vile! My God!
circumstances would not allow me to nurture her in moral ways, even if
I had possessed the inclination: but by the time she was old enough
to learn, I had myself become as deeply steeped in profligacy as any
other woman in the colony. Can you wonder, then, that she soon fell
into the ways of vice? Beautiful as she was--and is--she soon attracted
notice;--and your fine English officers--the gentlemen sent out to
protect the colony,--_they_ were the authors of her ruin--and they
encouraged her in a career of infamy. Oh! Clarence, it is a frightful
thing for me to stand before you--you, who are my own nephew--and
have to make such horrible revelations: but you reproach me for my
own wickedness--you would seek to represent me as the cause of my
daughter’s wickedness--and I am forced to explain to you the appalling
nature of the influences acting upon us, and the circumstances
surrounding us. Now--now, I could weep in humiliation;--but an hour
hence, I shall be obdurate and hardened as ever. The world has made me
so.”

“And now what do you propose to do?” enquired Clarence. “It is
impossible for me even to advise you in the frightful position in which
you are placed, and since you have acted so completely in opposition
to my counsel by returning to England. Pecuniary assistance--_that_ I
can afford you to a limited amount----”

“Give me fifty guineas, Clarence--and you shall never see me more,”
interrupted his aunt.

“I will spare you a hundred,” answered the generous-hearted young man;
and quitting the room, he returned in a few minutes, bringing the money
in a bag. “Here,” he said,--“take that, my poor aunt--and may God make
it prosper in your hands. But, oh! suffer not your daughter to continue
in the ways of vice and depravity: remember that she possesses an
immortal soul--and that there is another world in which an account must
be given for the conduct pursued in this.”

The old woman made no answer; but, clutching the bag eagerly, she
secured it amongst her tattered garments. Then, ashamed of the greedy
impatience which she had manifested, and seeking to avert her nephew’s
attention from the fact by turning the conversation into another
channel, she said, “I hope you continue to enjoy that happiness,
Clarence, which yourself and your excellent Adelais so much deserve!”

“Thank God! my felicity is as complete as man’s can be in this world,”
was the reply. “Having now for upwards of nineteen years held the good
situation which my kind patron, the Earl of Ellingham, gave me, I
have enjoyed a certain means of existence--have acquired influential
friends--and have been enabled to rear my sons and daughters in a way
which, I hope, will be salutary to them on their entrance into life.”

“And that man--my husband--have you heard of him lately?” enquired
Villiers’ aunt, in a low tone and hesitating way.

“Never since the occasion--and that is now nine years ago--when he
wrote to announce the death of poor Rosamond at Geneva. I mentioned
that fact to you in a letter which accompanied one of the remittances I
made to Sydney on your behalf----”

“And from that time you have received no tidings of my husband?”

“Not once!” replied Villiers. “Whether he be alive or dead--what has
become of him, I cannot tell you. This uncertainty relative to her
father’s fate is a cause of uneasiness to Adelais:--but every state and
station in life has its annoyances and its sorrows. Poor Rosamond! she
fell into a slow decline shortly after leaving England--and for nearly
ten years did she linger on, wasting away! Adelais and I saw her once
during that period: we visited Switzerland on purpose. Then how deeply
was my wife shocked when she behold the wreck that remained of her once
lovely and blooming sister. But I cannot dwell upon that episode in our
lives----”

“No--no,” exclaimed Perdita’s mother, now in haste to depart. “I
will not distress you,” she added, with a hypocritical appearance
of sympathy, “by exacting the painful narrative from you. Farewell,
Clarence--farewell.”

The generous-hearted Villiers proffered his hand to his aunt,--that
aunt who was once so fine a woman, so elegantly dressed, and the
mistress of a splendid mansion,--but who was now hideous to look upon,
clothed in rags, and as yet homeless on the face of the earth!

For a few instants her heart swelled with profound emotions as she
pressed that hand which was thus kindly extended to her, and tears rose
to the very brims of her eyes, but did not run over.

Then she hurried away from his presence:--and the moment she set foot
on the threshold of the dwelling--or rather, when its door closed
behind her--she subdued the feelings that had well nigh overpowered
her; and gave all her attention--all her interest--all her thoughts to
the precious bag which she had concealed amongst her garments.

“Well, mother, I thought you were never coming back!” cried Perdita,
in a reproachful tone: then, perceiving by the old woman’s countenance
that she had good news, she allowed her own to brighten up, as she
hurried to meet her.

“Perdita--we have now the means----”

“Of obtaining shelter and a breakfast, I hope?”

“Of purchasing good clothes--taking fine lodgings----”

“Oh! then your nephew--or relation of some kind, whatever he may
be--has behaved well!” cried the young woman, overjoyed by this
intelligence.

“A hundred guineas, Perdita--a hundred guineas in this bag!” exclaimed
her mother, shaking the precious object of her avaricious worship:
then, again concealing it beneath her rags, she said, “But come,
Perdita: let us betake ourselves to another quarter of the town--for I
have promised Clarence Villiers that he shall see my face no more.”

The old hag and the handsome young woman retraced their way into the
heart of London; and, arriving in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden,
they entered an early breakfast-house, where they partook of a copious
meal, to which appetite and good spirits enabled them to do honour.

The repast being despatched, the elder of the two wanderers had
a few minutes’ whispering conversation with the landlady of the
establishment; the result of which was that a bed-room was speedily
placed at the disposal of the guests, who retired to partake of a few
hours’ most necessary repose.

It was near mid-day when the mother and daughter rose; and then another
interview with the landlady was shortly followed, in obedience to the
instructions given her, by the arrival of a woman who sold second-hand
female apparel, and who came laden with band-boxes. The contents
thereof were speedily examined; and the wanderers having selected the
articles which seemed most appropriate for their temporary use, the
slop-seller was well paid and dismissed.

And now Perdita and her parent began to assume each a very different
appearance from that which they had so recently worn. Copious ablutions
and decent clothing made the elder less revoltingly ugly, and the
younger more strikingly beautiful.

As they thus performed their toilette together, in the little chamber
of the coffee-house, the mother surveyed, with pride and admiration,
the features and form of her daughter,--calculating at the same time
how large a fortune the judicious sale of such loveliness was likely to
amass;--while on her side the young woman stood in superb complacency
before the glass, exercising a thousand little arts to render the
details of her toilette as perfect as circumstances would admit.

Perdita’s dark brown hair was combed out with the utmost care, and
arranged in simple bands, glossy and massive on either side of her
fine forehead. By chance she had obtained from the second-hand dealer
a gown which precisely fitted her, and which, being very low in the
body, displayed her full and swelling bust to its greatest advantage.
The darned stockings and the clumsy shoes wore superseded by more
fitting articles; and now the robust leg, the slender ancle, and the
long narrow foot were as faultless in proportion as if a sculptor had
modelled them to his own exquisite but voluptuous taste. A neat straw
bonnet and an ample shawl completed her attire;--and now well, but by
no means splendidly nor elegantly dressed, Perdita appeared a creature
so exceedingly handsome, that even her mother was surprised as much as
she was delighted.

And, as for the old woman herself, she had assumed an air of greater
respectability than at first might have appeared possible--seeing
that her look was sinister and repulsive, and her countenance so
weather-beaten and marred by suffering!

Forth went the mother and daughter into the streets of London;--and
their first care was to purchase a variety of articles of attire of a
far better kind than that which they had just procured,--likewise a
little jewellery and the necessary _paraphernalia_ of the toilette. The
goods were all sent to the coffee-house where they had hired a chamber;
and a couple of large trunks were the last objects they bought, and
which were despatched to the same place.

These matters having been accomplished, the old woman conducted her
daughter into the fashionable quarter of Regent Street; and there
Perdita beheld enough to excite her wonder and her admiration. The
magnificent shops--the fine buildings--the splendid equipages--and the
handsomely dressed gentlemen on horseback, all shared her attention in
their turns:--nor was she, an observer, unobserved--for many an old
voluptuary and stripling gallant paused to bestow a second glance upon
the plainly but decently dressed young female whoso countenance was so
strikingly beautiful, and in whose looks there was a subdued wantonness
engendering the most voluptuous sensations.

To Perdita’s mother how altered did London seem! Here was a street
which she had never seen before--there a street had been pulled down
to make way for some great thoroughfare. Here buildings once familiar
had disappeared: there strange edifices had sprung up! In Regent Street
she looked for the shops at which she had been accustomed to deal long
years before, when she dwelt in the immediate neighbourhood, and when
she was deemed a _saint_: but most of the establishments she sought had
changed their proprietors and their nature,--a grocer’s having become
a book-seller’s, a milliner’s a china warehouse, and so on. She had a
great mind to pass into Burlington Street; but she had not quite the
necessary courage to do _that_--at least for the present.

Having threaded Regent Street from Oxford Circus to Waterloo Place, the
two women turned into Pall Mall West, along which they proceeded for
a short distance; when the mother suddenly clasped her daughter’s arm
almost violently, exclaiming in a hasty whisper at the same time, “This
is the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham!”

Scarcely were these words uttered, when the door was opened, and forth
came Charles Hatfield. Passing by the two females without noticing
that he had immediately become the object of their most earnest
attention,--and indeed, without observing them at all, so deeply was he
absorbed in thought,--he moved on at a slow and uncertain pace, as if
he had merely come out to seek the fresh air, and having no particular
destination.

Yes:--he had indeed become the cynosure of attraction on the part
of the old woman and her daughter,--the former devouring him with
her eyes, in order to read his character and disposition in his
countenance, and assure herself from that physiognomical perusal that
he was fitted for her purpose,--and the latter embracing with a look
of ardent, wanton scrutiny every feature of his fine face and every
proportion of his symmetrical form.

He passed on:--and for a few minutes the mother and daughter preserved
a deep silence, each occupied with her own thoughts.

“That young man may be rendered pliant and docile according to our
will,” said the old woman at length.

“He is beyond all doubt the one whom the gipsy alluded to in such
glowing colours,” observed Perdita, with a voluptuous languor in the
eyes, a flushing of the cheeks, and a slow but deep heaving of the
bosom.

“And he has something on his mind--that is clear!” added the old woman.

“Which we will soon make him divulge to us,” said Perdita. “But how do
you intend to proceed in order to form his acquaintance?”

“Oh! nothing is more easy!” returned her mother. “In the first place we
must take handsome lodgings. I know of a nice, quiet, retired street
in the neighbourhood. Come along, Perdita--we must not waste valuable
time.”

The two women repaired direct to Suffolk Street, Pall Mall East; and in
the window of a house of handsome appearance they saw a card announcing
furnished apartments to be let. The lodgings were speedily inspected
and hired, the prepayment of a month’s rent immediately ensuring the
good opinion of the landlady and rendering references unnecessary.

Back to the coffee-house in the vicinity of Covent Garden did the
wanderers hasten; and in a few minutes all their packages and new
purchases were transported to a hackney coach, which was fetched from
the nearest stand. The coffee-house keeper was liberally rewarded, and
a handsome fee was bestowed upon the driver of the vehicle to induce
him to state, in case of being questioned in Suffolk Street, that he
had brought the ladies from some respectable hotel.

All these matters being arranged, the mother and daughter proceeded in
the hackney-coach to their new lodgings, where they at once took up
their quarters under the imposing name of Mrs. and Miss Fitzhardinge.

Had the worthy butcher who a few hours previously took pity on the two
ragged, sinking mendicants, and sustained their strength and courage
by means of hot brandy-and-water at the Elephant and Castle,--had he
now beheld Mrs. and Miss Fitzhardinge sitting down, elegantly attired,
at a well spread dinner-table, and at the fashionable time of six
in the evening,--he would not for an instant have supposed that the
way-worn beggars of the morning’s adventure and the ladies of Suffolk
Street, Pall Mall, were identical: or if, by chance, he should have
recognised Perdita’s handsome countenance, he would have thought that
the delusions of enchantment had been practised upon him or her.

And now we have prepared the way, with due prefatory explanation, for
one of the most striking and remarkable episodes in this narrative--an
episode showing how Perdita’s arts and Perdita’s beauty accomplished
aims which women of less enterprise than herself and her mother would
have deemed impossible.

Oh! fatal influence--that influence which the depraved and wanton
Perdita wielded by means of her transcendant charms!

[Illustration]




CHAPTER CXXIX.

THE ADVERTISING AGENT.


On the day after the one the incidents of which have just been related,
Mr. Bubbleton Styles called, precisely as the clock struck eleven in
the forenoon, upon an advertising agent dwelling in the immediate
vicinity of Cornhill.

The agent, knowing that Mr. Styles was the registered promoter of a
scheme which had obtained the patronage of the high and mighty Mr.
Podgson, was particularly civil and urbane; and having bowed him into
the private office, and presented him with a chair, he said, “Now, Mr.
Styles, sir--what can I do for you?”

“I intend to give the newspapers a round of advertisements,” answered
the City gentleman, pulling out his prospectuses.

“Softly--softly, my dear sir,” exclaimed the agent: “you must be guided
by me in this. If you went to the generality of agents, they would
say, ‘_Oh! advertise by all means in every paper in existence_:’--but I,
Mr. Styles, am a little more conscientious. There are some journals,
in fact, which are perfectly useless as advertising media: it would be
money completely thrown away.”

“I am much obliged to you for your kindness,” said Mr. Styles. “Of
course we shall advertise in the _Times_.”

“As a matter of course!” cried the agent. “’Tis the great daily
Leviathan which every body sees, no matter what his politics may be.
The _Morning Chronicle_, too, is a good medium: the _Herald_, _Post_,
and _Advertiser_ must likewise be included;--and it would be folly to
omit the _Sun_, _Globe_, and _Standard_.”

“Well--and what about the _Daily News_ and the _Express_?” asked Mr.
Styles, apparently astonished that no reference should have been made
to those print.

“The _Daily News_!” ejaculated the agent, in perfect wonderment: “the
_Express_!” he cried, in horrified amazement. “Excuse me, my dear
friend--but are you mad? have you taken leave of your senses?”

“I hope not,” responded Mr. Styles, in his usual calm, business-like
manner. “What makes you think so?”

“What makes me think so!” repeated the agent: “why, the idea that
you should for an instant entertain the notion of advertising in
those contemptible abortions! They are a perfect disgrace to
newspaper literature, sir,” proceeded the agent, who was speaking
conscientiously, and indeed truly. “Did you ever happen to read the
_Daily News_?”

“I have never seen the paper in my life,” answered Mr. Styles: “I had
only heard of it.”

“And you are not likely to see it,” returned the agent, “unless you go
into the heart of Wapping or explore the back slums of Whitechapel. No
respectable newsman keeps it: not that newsmen are more particular than
other shop-keepers--but they only keep what they can sell, Mr. Styles.
As for the _Express_, it is a regular cheat of an evening paper--made
up entirely of the articles in the _Daily News_, without even having
the bad grammar and the typographical errors corrected. But both prints
are the most contemptible threepenny things I ever saw in my life; and
one would be inclined to fancy that all the real newspaper talent had
been absorbed by the pre-existing journals, leaving only the meanest
literary scrubs in London to _do_ the _News_ and the _Express_.”

“And yet I thought that the _News_ had been started under the auspices
of Mr. Charles Dickens--the immortal _Boz_?” said Mr. Styles,
interrogatively.

“So it was,” replied the advertising agent: “but the name of Charles
Dickens was rather damnatory than useful to a newspaper-speculation.
Every one must admit that _Boz_ is a great novelist--a very great
novelist indeed--the Fielding of his age; but he is totally incapable
of writing for a newspaper. The proprietors of the _News_ made a
tremendous splash with his name; but they only created a quagmire for
themselves to flounder in. When their paper was first coming out, every
body thought it was to do wonders. The _Times_ was to lose half its
subscribers; and the _Chronicle_ was to be ruined altogether. But,
alas! never did so labouring a mountain produce such a contemptible
mouse; and people began to fancy that the wags engaged on _Punch_ had
started the _Daily News_ as a grand parody on the newspaper press. The
leaders were rubbish--the criticisms of new works, mere nonsense--the
dramatic reviews, utter balderdash. It however seems that in the lowest
depths there is a deeper still even with the bathos of journalists;
for when the _News_ tumbled down (which it soon did) to a two-penny
halfpenny print, the rubbish, the nonsense, and the balderdash became
more astounding still. There is a young man named Bilk who does the
‘_moral department_’ of the paper; and he is the most grovelling
ass that ever was created. He undertakes to review a whole batch
of cheap publications in a lump; but what he calls _reviewing_ is
nothing else than _abusing_ the works with an insolence so cool, and
a rashness so indiscriminate that he must be as consummate a coxcomb
as he is an unprincipled ruffian. The _News_ affects a moral tone, and
entrusts its conscience to this half-buffoon--half-barbarian, in the
hope that the lucubrations of the ungrammatical scribe may acquire
for it the reputation of a serious, sober, and sedate journal. The
despicable being to whom I allude is the son of the proprietor of the
_Assinœum_--a paper which Bulwer mauled and exposed so terribly in one
of his admirable novels many years ago. The articles in the _Assinœum_
may be termed TWADDLE UPON STILTS----”

“You are really very inveterate in your denunciations of these prints,”
observed Mr. Styles, who having an hour to spare, did not experience
any impatience in listening to the agent’s remarks.

“Not at all inveterate--only justly indignant,” was the answer. “I am
indignant, because I admire the newspaper press of Great Britain--I
am proud of it--I glory in belonging to the country which possesses
it; and therefore when I see journalism prostituted to the lowest
and meanest purposes--when I behold such despicable abortions as the
_Daily News_ and the _Express_ daring to show themselves in that
sphere where respectability and talent alone existed until those
threepenny things made their appearance,--I am angry--I am disgusted!
Only see how the _News_ has been tinkered and hacked about with the
idea of making it a property. First it was five-pence--then it was
two-pence halfpenny--next it was three-pence;--and yet with all this
derogatory experimentalising, the owners have failed to make it a
property. What a miserable thing does it look, with its beggarly
three columns of advertisements! The _Times_ has as many in a day as
the _News_ has had altogether since its sickly existence began. The
very Parliamentary Reporters engaged upon the _News_ are ashamed of
their connexion with such a scurvy affair; and the doorkeeper of the
Gallery of the House of Commons looks on them with kind commiseration,
knowing how degrading it must be to their feelings to take their places
in the seats allotted to the representatives of that three-penny
hodgepodge. You never see the _News_ quoted from nor alluded to by
its contemporaries. It is not recognised as a member of the newspaper
press. It has tried all imaginable kinds of manœuvres to force itself
into notoriety,--sometimes currying favour with the superior journals,
and at others abusing them; but all to no purpose. Its contemporaries
will _not_ notice it: they will not be bullied nor coaxed into such
condescension. Why--would you believe that the very Editor is heartily
ashamed of his post: but he knows that if he resigned it, he should be
compelled to relapse into the lowest walks of penny-a-lining, whence he
was dragged forth to conduct the _thing_.”

“How is it possible that such a contemptible journal continues in
existence?” asked Mr. Styles.

“There! now you puzzle me indeed!” exclaimed the advertising agent.
“The question you have put to me involves one of the greatest mysteries
of London; and I am quite incapable of affording you the solution. Time
will however show: for, in this case, time _must_ clear up all doubt
and uncertainty regarding the matter. For the present, however, take my
advice and refrain from advertising in a paper which is contemptible in
circulation and influence--scurrilous[8] or hypocritical, according to
circumstances, in its literary articles--and wishy-washy in the extreme
in its leaders.”

“Well, I am excessively obliged to you for this most useful warning,”
observed Mr. Bubbleton Styles. “You have nothing to say against the
_Weekly Dispatch_--the _Sunday Times_--_Bell’s Life in London_----”

“All good papers!” exclaimed the advertising agent. “But here is a
list of those metropolitan and provincial journals in which I should
recommend you to advertise.”

“I place myself entirely in your hands,” answered the promoter of the
grandest railway scheme ever devised: and, thrusting his hands into
his breeches pockets, he rattled a little silver and a great many
halfpence, saying, “Shall I give you a hundred or so in advance? or
will you send in the account----”

“Pray do not think of offering any sum in advance, Mr. Styles--my
dear Mr. Styles!” cried the agent. “It is but a trifle: three
hundred guineas will cover the outlay for this first batch of
advertisements--and I will send in my little account to the secretary
when the Board meets.”

“Very good,” rejoined the promoter;--and, having come to this excellent
understanding, the two gentlemen parted--Mr. Styles betaking himself to
Garraway’s Coffee-house, where he ate his lunch standing at the bar,
and afterwards returning to his office at Crosby Hall Chambers.




CHAPTER CXXX.

PERDITA.


A week had elapsed since the arrival of Mrs. and Miss Fitzhardinge in
the great metropolis; and as yet they appeared to be no nearer to an
acquaintanceship with Charles Hatfield than they were on the day when
they first beheld him issue from Lord Ellingham’s mansion;--for that it
was he whom they had seen on the occasion alluded to, the mother had
satisfactorily ascertained.

Indeed, the old woman had not been idle. Every evening, for a couple of
hours, did she watch in the immediate vicinity of the Earl’s dwelling
to obtain an interview with the young man: but he did not appear to go
out after dusk.

Mrs. Fitzhardinge accordingly began to think of changing her tactics,
and endeavouring to catch him in the day-time, when fortune at last
favoured her views;--for on the eighth night of her loiterings in Pall
Mall, she had the satisfaction of seeing him sally forth shortly after
nine o’clock.

Unhesitatingly accosting him, she said, “Mr. Hatfield, will you accord
me your attention for a few moments?”

The young man turned towards her, and beheld a very ugly,
plainly-attired, old lady: he nevertheless answered her respectfully,
because she had addressed him in a manner denoting genteel breeding.
We should observe, too, that she had purposely assumed a humble
apparel on the occasion of these evening watchings, in order to avoid
the chance of attracting the attention of passers-by or policemen, who
would naturally have wondered to see a handsomely apparelled person
thus loitering about.

“Certainly, madam,” replied Charles: “I will listen to any thing you
may have to say to me. Will you walk into the house which I have just
left: ’tis the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham.”

“I know well who lives there, Mr. Hatfield,” answered the old woman;
“and it is precisely because I wish to speak to you alone, that I have
accosted you in the street. Can you pardon such boldness?”

“If your business with me be of importance, madam,” said Charles, “no
apology can be necessary on your part.”

“Yes--my business is indeed of importance,” returned Mrs. Fitzhardinge,
with mysterious emphasis. “But I cannot speak to you here----”

“I have already requested you to accompany me to the house where I am
residing with my relatives and friends,” said Charles, with the least
indication of impatience in his manner.

“And I have already assured you that I am anxious to converse with you
alone,” responded the old woman, nothing daunted. “Do not mistrust
me, sir--do not suppose that I have accosted you for the purpose of
soliciting any assistance of a pecuniary kind----”

“Then, madam, what _do_ you require of me?” asked Charles, hastily.

“Ten minutes’ private conversation--on matters of importance--of deep
importance to yourself!” replied Mrs. Fitzhardinge, as rapidly and as
firmly as the other had spoken: then, before he had time to make any
rejoinder, she added, “For your own sake, Mr. Hatfield--if for no other
consideration--you will accompany me to my own dwelling, which is close
at hand. What! you hesitate? Then continue to cherish the secret grief
which weighs upon your mind----”

“Ah! what did you say?” ejaculated the young man, starting as if a
chord had been touched so as to vibrate to his very heart’s core.

“I mean that if you refuse to accompany me, you will repent the loss of
an opportunity to receive revelations nearly concerning yourself, and
which opportunity may not speedily occur again.”

As Mrs. Fitzhardinge uttered these words, she fixed a strange,
mysterious, and almost ominous look upon Charles Hatfield, who was
bewildered and amazed by her language. The old woman had dealt her
random shots with good effect; and she experienced an inward triumph at
her skill, and a sure conviction of its success.

“Who are you? and what do you know of me?” demanded Charles, breaking
silence abruptly after more than a minute’s pause, and speaking in a
tone of earnestness denoting mingled suspense, wonder, and curiosity.

“My name is Fitzhardinge,” replied the old woman; “and I know
all--every thing concerning you,--aye, much more than you can possibly
suspect. But not another word of explanation will I utter here; and you
may now decide whether you will at once accompany me----”

“I _will_ accompany you, madam,” interrupted Charles Hatfield, in a
decided manner. “In which direction does your abode lie?”

“Five minutes will take us thither,” was the answer.

The old woman and the young gentleman now proceeded in silence towards
Suffolk Street, Pall Mall--the latter wondering who his companion might
be, what she could possibly have to communicate to him, and how she
had acquired the information which she alleged to be so important and
was about to impart. He naturally associated the promised revelations
with the mysterious circumstances which he had so recently fathomed
by means of the letters and manuscripts found in the secret recess of
the library at Lord Ellingham’s mansion;--and yet he was at a loss to
conceive how a Mrs. Fitzhardinge, whose name was entirely strange to
him, could possibly have any connexion with his own family affairs.
At one moment he fancied that the proceeding on her part was nothing
more nor less than a plot to inveigle him to some den for predatory
purposes: for he had heard that London abounded in such horrible
places, and also in persons who adopted every kind of stratagem to
lure the unwary into those fatal snares. But when he considered the
quarter of the great metropolis in which his companion evidently
resided, as she had assured him that her abode was only a few minutes’
walk from the spot where she had first accosted him,--when he again
noticed the respectability of her appearance, and reflected that there
was something superior in her manners, language, and address,--and
lastly, when he remembered that amidst circumstances so complicated
and mysterious as those which regarded his own family, it was highly
possible for that aged female to be interested in them in some way or
another,--he blamed himself for his misgivings, and resolved to see the
end of the adventure.

Scarcely was his mind thus made up, when Mrs. Fitzhardinge turned
into Suffolk Street; and in less than another minute, she knocked in
an authoritative manner at the door of a handsome house. The summons
was instantaneously responded to by a respectable female-servant; and
Charles Hatfield followed the old lady up a wide stair-case lighted
by a lamp which a statue in a niche held in its hand. On reaching the
first landing, Mrs. Fitzhardinge threw open a door, saying, “Walk into
this room, Mr. Hatfield: I will join you in a few moments.”

Charles entered--and the door immediately closed behind him.

The young man found himself in a well-furnished apartment, in which
the light of the wax candles placed upon the mantel was reflected in a
handsome mirror. The atmosphere was rendered perfumed and refreshing by
vases of fresh flowers tastefully disposed around: and on a side-table
stood a large globe filled with the clearest water, in which gold and
silver fish were disporting. The curtains were closed over the windows;
but still the room was cool and the air grateful in that sultry summer
season.

These observations were made at a rapid glance;--and then Charles
Hatfield’s looks were concentrated in the cynosure which instantly
absorbed all interest--all attention. For, half sitting, half reclining
upon the sofa, was a being of such transcendant beauty that never in
the wildest of his dreams had he conceived the like. When reading a
novel or a poem, his imagination had often depicted to itself the
semblance of the heroine--and this mental portraiture was invariably
drawn with the utmost perfection of form and feature which impassioned
and enthusiastic youth could devise. But no flight--no soaring of that
fervid imagination had ever yet idealised such dazzling, brilliant
charms as those which now met his astonished gaze,--charms that
intoxicated while they delighted, and that ravished while they infused
a warm voluptuousness into the soul of the beholder.

And, in sooth, well might Charles Hatfield experience ineffable
feelings and tender emotions as he contemplated the fiend in an angel’s
shape that was half reclining on the sofa; for Perdita was surpassingly
lovely on this occasion! She was attired in a light pink muslin dress,
made very low in the body, so that her neck and shoulders were set
off in all their dazzling whiteness against the deep purple velvet
of the sofa--and her full, swelling, firm bosom was more than half
revealed. Her hair was arranged in long ringlets, glittering like
hyperions, luxuriant, and sweeping those glowing globes that appeared
to heave to their caresses. Her large grey eyes beamed with voluptuous
languor, although a brilliant light shone in the depths of the dark
pupils;--and her vermilion lips, parted with a smile, displayed the
white and even rows of pearls, so faultless in their beauty. The
slightly sun-burnt tinge of her face appeared to be the rich hue of
an Italian complexion--the carnation glow of health, and youth, and
warm blood animating her cheeks. Then her arms were naked,--those arms
which were dazzlingly white, robust, and yet admirably modelled, and
which seemed ready to stretch out and clasp a favoured lover to the
panting breast. One foot was raised on the sofa--the other rested on
an ottoman;--and thus, as Charles Hatfield’s eyes swept the rich and
fine proportions--the undulating contours of that splendid form, it
seemed to him as if a halo of voluptuousness surrounded this enchanting
being--a very perfume of beauty enveloped her in its intoxicating
influence.

She had heard him ascending the stairs--and she had purposely placed
herself in an attitude which should seem as if he had disturbed
her unexpectedly, and thus serve as an apology for the negligent
abandonment of limb which gave to her position an air alike wanton
and lascivious. While she, therefore, affected to gaze on him in
soft surprise, he was intently devouring her with looks of unfeigned
amazement;--and while she still retained that voluptuous attitude as
if unwittingly, he was rivetted to the spot near the door where he had
stopped short on first catching sight of her. This dumb-show on the
part of both,--artificial with her, and real with him,--lasted for
nearly a minute;--and during that time Perdita had an opportunity of
surveying the young man’s handsome appearance with even more searching
scrutiny than when she had seen him in Pall Mall the very day of her
arrival in London,--while, on his side, Charles Hatfield had leisure
to scan a combination of charms such as transcended all his ideal
creations, and which, had he beheld them in a picture, he would have
declared to be impossible of realization.

Again must we observe how different was this elegantly-attired,
captivating creature as she now appeared, from the ragged, way-worn
wanderer that she was when first we introduced her to our readers! But
oh! dangerous--trebly dangerous Perdita,--a snake with the loveliest
skin--a demon with the most heavenly form--utter profligacy in the most
witching guise!

And now the young man, who has been brought within the sphere of this
perilous influence, recovers his self-possession so far as to be able
to stammer forth an apology for what he conceives to be an intrusion
occasioned by some strange mistake.

“No excuse is necessary, sir,” replies Perdita; “The lady whom you
state to have conducted you hither, is my mother; and she has doubtless
sought her chamber for a few minutes to change her attire. Pray be
seated.”

But Charles Hatfield once more stood still--rivetted to the spot,
after having advanced a few paces towards Perdita;--for the sound of
her voice, so sweetly musical--so enchantingly harmonious, appeared to
inspire him with ecstatic emotions and infuse an ineffable delight into
his very soul.

Then Perdita arose from the sofa, and indicating a chair close by,
again invited the young man to be seated,--accomplishing this courtesy
with so ravishing a grace and such a charming smile, that he felt
himself intoxicated--bewildered--enchanted by the magic of her beauty,
the melody of her silver tones, and the soft persuasion of her manner.
For the consciousness of almost superhuman beauty had rendered Perdita
emulative of every art and taught her to study every movement which
might invest her with a winning way and a witching power;--and thus
this singular young woman had acquired a politeness so complete that it
seemed intuitive, and a polish so refined that it appeared to have been
gained by long and unvaried association with the highest classes.

Sinking into the chair thus gracefully offered him, Charles Hatfield
could not take his eyes off the magnificent creature who remained
standing for a few seconds after he was seated; for, affecting to alter
the position of one of the wax candles on the mantel, as if it were too
near the mirror, she placed herself in such an attitude that the young
man might obtain a perfect view of the flowing outlines of her glorious
form,--the splendid arching of the swan-like neck--the luxurious
fulness of the bust--the tapering slenderness of the waist--the
plump and rounded arms--the large, projecting hips--and the finely
proportioned feet and ankles.

The effect thus produced by the artful, designing creature, whose
voluptuous position seemed all natural and all unstudied, was precisely
that which she had intended;--for Charles Hatfield experienced a
delirium of emotions till then unknown--and he felt that he could
almost spring from his seat, catch that bewitching form in his
arms, and, covering her with kisses, exclaim, “Pardon me--but I am
mad--intoxicated--raving with passion!”

“My mother will not be many minutes, sir,” said Perdita, now returning
to her seat upon the sofa; “and in the meantime I must solicit you to
exercise your patience--for I am afraid you will find me but a dull
companion.”

“Impossible!” cried Charles, enthusiastically; then fearing that he had
spoken in too decided and earnest a manner to one who was a perfect
stranger, he added in a more subdued and reserved tone, “But perhaps
I am intruding on your privacy, as I am afraid that when I entered--I
mean, I fear that I--I disturbed you----”

“I certainly was not aware that my mother expected a visitor this
evening,” answered Perdita; “and it is I who should apologise, inasmuch
as you caught me in such a lounging, lazy attitude. But since I have
been in London I have experienced a heaviness in the atmosphere that
engenders indolence--for I have hitherto been accustomed to the
country.”

“Then you have not long resided in London, Miss Fitzhardinge?” said
Charles, hazarding this mode of address with the determination of
ascertaining whether the beautiful young woman were married or single.

“We have only been in this city for one week,” she replied in an
acquiescent way which convinced him that she had not changed the
parental name by means of wedlock--a discovery that infused a secret
glow of pleasure into his very soul, though at the same instant his
heart smote him as if he were already playing a treacherous part in
respect to Lady Frances Ellingham. “No,” continued Perdita, “we have
not long resided in London. Urgent affairs have compelled my mother
to visit the capital; and as our stay is likely to be of considerable
duration, we are about to take a house. For my part, I am not sorry
that we are thus to settle in London: for, in spite of its oppressive
atmosphere, its smoke, and its noise, it has many attractions.”

“You have already seen enough, then, to induce you to prefer London to
the country, Miss Fitzhardinge?” said Charles, now admiring the fine
aquiline profile of which he was suffered to obtain a perfect view, as
Perdita half averted her looks on purpose, though quite in a natural
manner.

“I have seen enough to render me an enthusiastic admirer of your great
city,” she replied, now turning her full countenance upon him, and
smiling so as to display her brilliant teeth: “but I am anxious to
behold more, and my wish cannot very readily be gratified. For, save
our attorney, we have no acquaintances--no friends in London: we are
perfect strangers here--and we cannot very well ask our solicitor to
escort us to the theatre and to those places of amusement which ladies
would hardly choose to visit unless accompanied and protected by a
gentleman.”

“Is it possible that _you_, Miss Fitzhardinge, should have to
experience the want of such a _chaperon_?” demanded Charles Hatfield,
again hurried by his enthusiasm into language too little reserved and
distant for a perfect stranger to address to a young lady:--at least,
so he thought and feared immediately after he had made the observation.

“It is very possible,” replied Perdita, in a mild and almost plaintive
tone. “In the country we had numerous friends; but here----”

And the artful creature, stopping short, stooped down to pick up her
handkerchief as if to apply it to her eyes:--at the same instant
Charles, obeying the impulse of polite attention, bent down also to
save the lady the trouble and perform the little act of courtesy, when
their hair--their very cheeks came in contact,--accidentally as the
confused and bewildered Charles imagined, but intentionally on the part
of the wanton and astute Perdita.

And that contact--Oh! it was thrilling in the extreme; and Charles
Hatfield felt as if his veins ran with liquid fire;--for the perfume
exhaled from the lady’s hair--the velvety feeling of the luxuriant
curls--the softness and the warmth of her carnation cheek--and then the
view which he could not possibly avoid for a moment obtaining of the
glowing breast which her stooping posture completely revealed,--all
this was sufficient to madden him with passion and excite him to a
degree when all self-command becomes nearly impossible. But he still
possessed a sufficiency of mental energy to controul himself; and,
stammering forth an awkward apology, he hurriedly observed, “Would you
not think me too bold, Miss Fitzhardinge, I should be proud to offer my
services as a _chaperon_ to yourself--and your mother,” he added for
decency’s sake.

The instant this offer was made,--made without the least forethought
and in the confusion of the young man’s mind arising from the incidents
just related,--he repented of his rashness: he would have given worlds
to be able to recall the proposal. For, in a moment to his mind flashed
the image of the lovely Lady Frances Ellingham--the reflection that
he was offering his attentions to a young person totally unknown to
him--the remembrance that he had many matters of importance to occupy
his leisure--and the general impression that he had committed himself
in a most singularly foolish and inconsiderate manner.

Perdita saw what was passing in his mind: at least, she perceived that
he repented of the proposal which he had so precipitately made, and
which it had rejoiced her so much to receive;--and she resolved to
conquer his scruples--overcome his repugnance--and confirm him in the
act of vassalage to which her transcendent charms and her wanton arts
had already prompted him.

Laying her soft warm hand upon his, and approaching her countenance so
near to his own that her fragrant breath fanned his cheek, she said,
in a tone apparently of deep emotion, “Mr. Hatfield, this proposal is
so generous--so kind--so unexpected, that I know not how to answer you
otherwise than by expressing my sincere gratitude. And yet--so frankly
have you made the offer, that it would be a miserable affectation on
my part to hesitate or to appear leas candid and open in accepting
it. I _do_ therefore accept it, my dear sir--and with renewed thanks.
And think not that in constituting yourself the friend--for in such a
light must I henceforth consider you--of Miss Fitzhardinge, you are
doing aught derogatory to yourself. No: for my mother is descended from
an old and illustrious family,--a family which has enumerated amongst
its members personages of rank, eminence, and renown;--and should
the Chancery suit which she has come to London to prosecute, result
favourably to her, she will recover an enormous fortune that has been
accumulating for years through remaining in a dormant state.”

While Perdita was delivering this tissue of falsehoods with an air of
the most profound sincerity, she still kept her hand upon that of the
young man--still retained her countenance near his own--and likewise
fixed upon him looks at once languishing, tender, and voluptuous.

Again did he lose all power of sober reflection and, completely
yielding to the influence which the syren had in so short a time
gained over him, he said, “I shall be proud and delighted to act as
your escort, Miss Fitzhardinge. But you just now addressed me by my
name--and yet I thought you were unprepared for my presence here this
evening.”

“I was well aware that my mother wished to see you on particular
business,” said Perdita, having a ready reply for every question that
might be put to her; “and therefore when I saw you enter the room, I
concluded that you must be Mr. Charles Hatfield.”

“And are you acquainted with the nature of the business concerning
which Mrs. Fitzhardinge desired to speak with me?” inquired the young
man, wondering why the old lady did not make her appearance.

“Yes--I am well informed on that subject,” returned Perdita; “but
pray do not ask me to talk to you on business! I detest the very
name! And now perhaps you will consider me a silly--flighty--volatile
creature----”

“I consider you to be an angel of beauty!” exclaimed Charles, unable
to restrain the raptures which hurried him on to this impassioned
ejaculation.

“I was told before I came to London that the gentlemen of the great
metropolis were very fond of paying silly young ladies vain and empty
compliments,” said Perdita, looking with good-humoured archness at her
companion, while her eyes beamed with wickedness and her bosom heaved
visibly.

“Is it the first time that you have been assured of your beauty?” asked
Charles, still carried away by an uncontroullable influence.

“No--not precisely the first,” responded Perdita, with a _naiveté_
so admirably assumed that her companion believed it to be completely
genuine. “There was a young gentleman--or rather a nobleman, but I must
not mention his name--in the country, who offered me his hand;--and he
paid me many very fine compliments.”

“And you accepted the proposal? you are engaged to him?” exclaimed
Charles, with a strange fluttering of the heart.

“Neither the one nor the other,” answered Perdita. “I could not love
him--and therefore I declined the honour. My mother was angry with me,
and talked a great deal about the excellence of the match and so forth:
but I was obstinate--yes, very obstinate, Mr. Hatfield,” she said
archly; “for never--never,” she continued, her tone suddenly becoming
earnest and her manner serious,--“never could I bestow my hand where I
cannot likewise give my heart!”

“And you have resolved wisely, Miss Fitzhardinge!” exclaimed Charles.
“Matrimony without sincere affection can afford no promise of
happiness. But one so beautiful as yourself--impressed too with such
sterling sentiments and harbouring such pure principles--oh, you will
prove indeed a treasure to the man who is fortunate enough to secure
your heart and hand!”

“Again you compliment me, Mr. Hatfield,” said Perdita, looking
down and blushing,--for even her very blushes she could command at
pleasure. “In reference, however, to the observation you have just
made, I should remark that I have never yet met with one of your sex
whom I could comprehend fully and who could understand me. I admire
openness, candour and sincerity,--that generous frankness, too, which
at once establishes friendship and dissipates cold formality. For I
believe that the trammels of ceremonial politeness positively spoil the
heart,--tutoring it to curb its enthusiasm where enthusiasm would be so
natural! I know not how to express myself clearly; but what I mean to
imply is this--that I am a believer in the possibility of friendship at
first sight----”

“And of love at first sight also?” exclaimed Charles Hatfleld, in an
impassioned tone.

“Yes--and of love at first sight also,” repeated Perdita, again hanging
down her head--again commanding a deep blush--and likewise speaking in
a low, melting tone of deep emotion, as she drew a long sigh.

“Was it that possibility of experiencing the feeling of friendship at
first sight, which led you to accept my proposed services as an escort
to the places of public amusement?” enquired Charles.

“Wherefore do you seek thus to probe the secret feelings of my soul?”
asked Perdita, turning upon him a look indicative of mingled pleasure
and amazement.

“Have I offended you by the question, charming lady?” exclaimed Charles.

“Oh! I do not so readily take offence, Mr. Hatfield,” cried Perdita.
“But--frank, candid, and ingenuous though I believe myself to be--I
still have my little feelings of pride, and I could not think of making
an avowal to a gentleman otherwise than as a reciprocity.”

“Then were I to declare sincerely and solemnly--and on my honour as a
man--that it was a sentiment of friendship, experienced at first sight
and according to your own doctrine, which prompted me to offer my
services as a _chaperon_,” said Charles, hastily and enthusiastically,
“would you deign to answer my question?”

“Such a declaration on your part, sir, would necessarily elicit--nay,
demand some kind of a response on mine,” returned the artful beauty,
looking down, and tapping the carpet with her foot in such a manner
that her ankle peeped from beneath her dress, and the young man’s eyes
could catch a glimpse of the exquisitely white skin through the net
work of the dainty silk stocking.

Charles hesitated: an avowal of friendship trembled on his tongue--but
he thought how dangerous such a confession would be--he thought, too,
of Lady Frances Ellingham!

And Perdita again perceived that he hesitated; and instantly had
recourse to a new artifice to display her charms to their utmost
advantage. Stooping down, she affected to arrange the ottoman in the
most convenient manner for her feet;--but, in this attitude which
seemed so natural, ingenuous, and artless, she revealed so much of
the treasures of her bosom that no room was left for imaginings--and
Charles Hatfield felt himself seized with a delirium in which he would
have made over his soul to Satan had such been the price demanded for
the possession of Perdita.

“Miss Fitzhardinge,” he said, his voice almost subdued and his tongue
parched through the maddening fierceness of passion, “on my honour as
a gentleman, I swear that the offer I ere now made you was dictated
by a feeling of friendship! Yes--of a friendship that sprang up in my
soul in a single instant--that took birth in a moment--a friendship
that prompted me to declare how proud and delighted I should be to act
as your escort! For I am candid, frank, and ingenuous as I perceive
_you_ to be,--and I will give you another proof of the existence of
these qualities in respect to myself--even at the risk of offending
you. From the first moment that I set foot in this room until now, I
have experienced emotions such as I never felt before. In my delirium
I apostrophised you as an angel of beauty;--and an angel of beauty
must you indeed be to exercise such prompt--such speedy--such witching
influence as that which has enthralled me. For it appears as if there
were a spell upon me--an enchantment, from which there is no escape.
Sweet lady, pardon me for having spoken thus frankly----”

“I again assure you that I do not very readily take offence,” answered
Perdita: then, laying her hand upon his--for the designing woman sought
to excite him almost to madness--and again approaching her countenance
so near his own that he could look into the depth of her large, wanton
eyes,--she said, “You have made a certain avowal, and you have a
right to expect a candid and unreserved reply from me. Then learn,
Mr. Hatfield, that never should I have accepted your services as a
_chaperon_--never should we have talked thus familiarly--never would
you have been suffered to read so much of my disposition as within the
last hour you have learnt--had not I likewise experienced a feeling of
friendship at first sight for you!”

“Oh! my God--this is happiness so unhoped--so unlooked for--so
unexpected, that I am bewildered-dazzled--amazed!” murmured the young
man, a mist obscuring his brain--and yet a glorious, lustrous, golden
mist through which he seemed to catch glimpses of paradise. “Friendship
did you say, charming lady? Yet is not friendship a dangerous word for
lips like ours to breathe--and a dangerous sentiment for hearts like
ours to feel?”

“You speak as if you were under an apprehension that you are doing
wrong?” said Perdita, in a tone of soft reproach. “Oh! is this
candour and frankness? If you regret that you have pledged me your
friendship--for such I augur of your words--I release you, Mr.
Hatfield, from the bond: nay--I should be too proud to ask you to
adhere to it!”

And now the young man beheld the fascinating woman in a new phasis
of her charms;--for, with that ready versatility of aspect and
demeanour which she had so completely at her command, she suddenly
invested herself with all the majesty of sublime haughtiness;--no
longer melting, tender, wanton, and voluptuous as Venus--but terrible,
domineering, superb, and imperious as Juno,--no longer wearing the
cestus of the Goddess of Love--but grasping, as the Queen of Heaven,
the thunders of Olympian Jove.

Her eyes flashed fire--her cheeks flushed--her nostrils dilated--her
lip curled--her neck arched proudly rather than gracefully--her bosom
heaved as if it would burst the low corsage which only half restrained
it--and her very form seemed to draw itself up into a height, which,
even as she sate and of middling stature as she was, appeared colossal
at that moment to the astounded gaze of the young man.

Never was artifice more successful--never was triumph more complete,
on one side;--never was defeat more signal--never was humiliation more
contrite, on the other. For, overwhelmed as it were by the sovereign
majesty of that anger which he believed himself to have provoked,
Charles Hatfield fell upon his knees before the haughty beauty, and
seizing both her hands in his, he extravagantly devoured them with
kisses, exclaiming, “Pardon--pardon!”

“Yes--yes: it is as frankly accorded as sincerely demanded!” exclaimed
Perdita, not offering to withdraw her hands from the lips which were
now glued to them: and in an instant her whole manner and appearance
changed again--and when Charles Hatfield ventured to look up into the
syren’s face, he saw her bending over him with cheeks flushed it is
true, but not by anger--and with eyes that seemed to swim in wanton,
liquid languor.

Rising from his suppliant posture, and now taking a seat by the side
of Perdita on the sofa,--relinquishing her hands at the same time,
for fear of giving offence by retaining them,--the infatuated young
man, drunk with passion, said in a low murmuring tone, “We have not
been acquainted more than one hour, and we have exchanged vows of
friendship--is it not so?”

“Yes--if you do not repent now, and never will repent of that pledge on
your part,” answered the dangerous young woman, who thus conducted her
designing machinations with such consummate skill.

“No--never, never!” cried Hatfield. “And now we know each other as well
as if we had been intimate since our infancy! To you, then, henceforth
I am _Charles_; and you are to me----”

“_Perdita_,” said she.

“Oh! beautiful--singular--and yet ominous name!” exclaimed the young
gentleman. “Yes--you are my friend--my dear friend Perdita! And now,
Perdita, I will avail myself of this romantic yet not the less sincere
friendship that is established between us, to ask you what caprice or
fancy gave you so remarkable a Christian name?”

“Because in my infancy--shortly after my birth, and before I was
baptised--I was lost,--or rather stolen by gipsies,” answered Perdita,
investing herself and her history with as much of the charm of
mysticism as possible: “and when I was recovered from the kidnappers by
my parents, they christened me Perdita--or THE LOST ONE.”

“Every thing connected with you seems to be imbued with deep and
enthralling interest, my dear friend,” said Charles: “a supernatural
halo appears to surround you! Your beauty is of a nature so superior
to aught of female loveliness that I ever before beheld--your voice
has something so indescribably melting and musical that it awakens
echoes in the inmost recesses of the soul--your history is strange,
wild, and impressive in its very commencement--your disposition
is characterised by a frankness and candour so generous that it
inspires and reciprocates profound friendship the instant it meets a
kindred spirit--and then there is about you a something so witching,
so captivating, so enchanting, that the best and most virtuous of
men would lose all sense of duty, did you--sweet syren that you
are--undertake to lead them astray.”

“If I have indeed found a kindred spirit in you, Charles,” said
Perdita, taking his hand and pressing it as if in grateful and innocent
rapture to her heaving bosom--an act which only tended to inflame the
young man almost to madness,--“I shall have gained that which I have
long sought, and never yet found. For my heart has hitherto been as
complete a stranger to a sincere friendship as to love! When I spoke
ere now of our friends in the country, I meant those acquaintances whom
custom denominates by the other title.”

“Perdita--my friend Perdita, the amity that we have pledged each other
shall be eternal!” exclaimed Charles, in an impassioned tone.

“And you will return to visit me to-morrow?” said the young woman, her
fine grey eyes beaming with an unsettled lustre, as if the mingled
voluptuousness of day and night met in those splendid, eloquent orbs.

“Yes--oh! yes!” cried Charles, as if it were unnecessary to have asked
the question. “And now I shall leave you, Perdita: I shall depart to
feast my imagination on the pleasures of this interview.”

Thus speaking, the young man pressed Perdita’s hand to his lips, and
hurried from the room, intoxicated with a delirium of bliss, and
scarcely conscious of where he was or whither he was going.




CHAPTER CXXXI.

THE SYREN’S ARTS AND CHARMS.


On gaining the street, Charles Hatfield hurried along like one
demented,--positively reeling with the influence which Perdita’s
charms, allurements, and arts had shed upon him,--and feeling within
his soul a glow of such ineffable happiness that he appeared to have
been snatched from the world and wafted to Elysium. Had he just
quitted a banquet where his head had been pillowed on the bosom of
beauty, and the fair hands of the charmer had held to his lips brimming
goblets of champagne of which he had drunk deeply, he would not have
experienced a more extraordinary degree of excitement, nor such
felicitous sensations.

[Illustration]

But the moment of reaction came; and though the revulsion was slow, yet
it was powerful--and even painful.

He had found his way into Saint James’s Park; and hurrying to the most
secluded quarter, he was still giving rein to the luxuriousness of his
thoughts, when it suddenly flashed to his mind that he had not received
from the lips of Mrs. Fitzhardinge the important communications which
she had promised him. Indeed, he had not seen her again from the moment
when she showed him into the drawing-room where he had found the lovely
creature to whom his friendship--his eternal friendship was so solemnly
plighted.

Striking his repeater,--for obscurity reigned in that portion of the
park where he now was, and he could not see the position of the hands
of his watch,--he was amazed to discover that his interview with
Perdita had lasted two hours.

Two hours!--and it scarcely seemed to have occupied ten minutes!

But now his reasoning faculties returned;--and he began to ask himself
innumerable questions.

“Wherefore was I conducted to that house? was it really to receive
important revelations from the mother? or only to be thrown into
the way of the daughter? Why did not the mother make her appearance
once during those two hours which I passed with the daughter? Was it
a stratagem devised by designing women to ensnare me? or was Mrs.
Fitzhardinge unexpectedly prevented from joining us so soon as she
had intended? My God! I am bewildered--I know not what to think! For
if they be women of evil repute and having sinister aims in view,
Perdita would not have given me to understand that they are at ease
in their circumstances, and hope to be even rich very shortly? But
that young creature--so beautiful,--so indescribably--so enchantingly
beautiful,--what object could she have in pledging her friendship to
me--to _me_, a stranger whom she had never seen before? Fool that I am!
wherefore did I give a similar promise to her? Oh! it was in a moment
of delirium--of enchantment--of intoxication;--and might it not also
have been the same with her? Ah! that belief would denote a boundless
vanity on my part;--and yet women have their sudden caprices--their
instantaneous attachments, as well as men! Yes--it must be so--Perdita
loves me!--she loves me--and I already love her deeply--madly, in
return!”

But scarcely had these thoughts passed through his brain, when his
heart smote him painfully--severely,--reproaching him with his
treachery towards Lady Frances Ellingham, and suggesting a comparison
between the retiring, bashful beauty of this charming young creature,
and the warm, impassioned, bold loveliness of the syren Perdita.

The more Charles Hatfield pondered upon the strange scene that had
taken place in Suffolk Street, the less satisfied did he feel with
himself. He saw that his conduct had been rash, precipitate, and
thoughtless;--and yet there was something so pleasurable in what he
blamed himself for, that he was not altogether contrite. Indeed, he
felt--he admitted to his own secret soul, that had he the power of
recalling the last two hours, he should act precisely in the same
manner over again. For when he thought of Perdita,--remembered her
witcheries--dwelt on her faultless charms--and recalled to mind the
mystic fascination of her language and the delicious tones of her
voice,--his imagination grew inflamed--his blood ran rapidly and hotly
in his veins--and it seemed that were she Satan in female shape, he
could sell his soul to her!

It was late when he returned to Ellingham House; and he repaired at
once to his chamber. But he could not sleep: the image of Perdita
haunted him;--and were it not so unseasonable an hour he would have
returned to Suffolk Street under pretence of soliciting the promised
revelations from Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

When he retired to rest, and sleep did at last visit his eyes,
that beauteous image followed him in his dreams. He thought that
he was seated by the side of the witching fair one on the sofa,
and that she was reclining, half-embraced, on his breast, with her
countenance, flushed and wanton in expression, upturned towards
his own. This delicious position appeared to last for a long--long
time, neither uttering a word, but drinking deep draughts of love
from each other’s eyes. Then he fancied that he stooped to press his
lips to her delicious mouth;--but at that instant the lovely face
changed--elongating, and undergoing so horrible a transformation
that his eyes were fixed in appalling fascination upon it,--while,
at the same time, he became sensible that the soft and supple form
which he held in his arms was undergoing a rapid and signal change
likewise,--till the whole being, lately so charming, so tender, and
so loving, was changed into a hideous serpent. A terrible cry escaped
him--and he awoke!

The rays of the gorgeous sun were streaming in at the window, as
Charles Hatfield started from his slumber; and, to his surprise, he
found his father standing by the side of the bed.

“You have been labouring under the influence of an unpleasant dream,
Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, taking his son’s hand.

“Yes--’twas indeed a hideous dream!” exclaimed the young man,
shuddering at the idea which still pursued him.

“And was that dream a reflex of any thoughts which occupy you when
awake?” asked his father, in a kind and anxious tone.

Charles surveyed his parent with astonishment, and then became
absolutely crimson in the face;--for this early and unusual visit
seemed to imply that its object was in some way connected with matters
that had lately been occupying, as the reader knows, no inconsiderable
share of the young man’s reflections--we mean, the family secrets into
which he had so strangely penetrated.

“Yes, Charles,” continued Mr. Hatfield; “I feared that you had
something upon your mind; and your manner now confirms that
apprehension. For the last week you have not been the same gay, happy,
lively being you so lately were;--and, although you have endeavoured
to conceal your sorrow from observation, yet it has not escaped the
eyes of your affectionate mother and myself. Tell me, Charles--tell me
candidly, I implore you--is it in consequence of the discovery that we
are your parents, and not mere relatives----”

“Oh! my dear father,” exclaimed the young man, “that discovery made me
happy, I solemnly assure you!”

“Then wherefore are you melancholy and thoughtful at times?” asked Mr.
Hatfield, in a tone of deep interest.

“Melancholy and thoughtful!” repeated Charles, mechanically.

“Yes, my dear son: and even at this moment----”

“Even at this moment,” still repeated Charles, whose imagination was
wandering to Suffolk Street, the influence of his dream having been
to fill his soul with a more profound terror than he had ever before
experienced from the worst of sleep’s delusions.

“Yes--even at this moment you are abstracted--your ideas are
unsettled--and there is a wildness in your looks which terrifies me!”
cried Mr. Hatfield, speaking with strong emphasis and in an earnest
manner. “Charles! again I implore you to tell me the cause of this
change which has so lately come over you!”

“Dear father, why will you press me on the subject?” cried the young
man, now brought to himself, yet knowing not how to reply. “Oh! believe
me--believe me, it will be better for us both that you do not persist
in questioning me!”

“On the contrary, Charles,” returned Mr. Hatfield, speaking more
seriously and firmly than before, “it will be far more satisfactory
to me--yes, and to your mother also--to be made the depositors of
your secret cares. You have assured me that you are not unhappy on
account of the discovery made on the day when the Prince of Montoni
was received at Court; and therefore I must conjecture the existence
of some other cause of grief. Charles, my dear boy,” added his father,
gazing steadfastly upon him, “you love Lady Frances--and you are
fearful of avowing your passion?”

The young man had expected that his father was about to speak on some
of those family matters into the mysterious depths of which he had
penetrated; and, therefore, when Mr. Hatfield addressed to him that
species of interrogative accusation, Charles experienced a relief which
betrayed itself as well in the brightening up of his countenance as in
the surprise wherewith he regarded his parent.

“Ah! now I have penetrated your secret!” cried the latter: then,
wringing his son’s hand, he said impressively, “Fear nothing--but hope
every thing, Charles;--and if you have reason to believe that Lady
Frances reciprocates your attachment, hesitate not to offer her your
hand.”

With these words, Mr. Hatfield hurried from the room, leaving his son
amazed and bewildered at the turn which the scene had so unexpectedly
taken.

“Yes,” exclaimed the young man aloud, after a long pause, during which
he reflected profoundly alike on his fearful dream and his father’s
suggestion; “I will banish Perdita from my memory--for that vision was
a providential warning! The most deadly serpents often wear the most
beauteous skins;--and Perdita--the syren Perdita--has secret ends of
her own to serve in thus throwing her silken chains round me. There is
mischief in her fascination:--the honey of her lips will turn to gall
and bitterness in the mouth of him who presses them! And Frances--my
charming cousin Frances, who knows not that she is thus related to
me,--sweet Lady Frances is endowed with every quality calculated to
ensure my happiness. Yes--I will adopt my father’s counsel: I will
secure the hand of this amiable girl! Then, although I must sooner or
later compel my sire to wrest the earldom from his younger brother,
the blow will fall the less severely on the latter, inasmuch as his
daughter will become a Viscountess in espousing me, and a Countess at
my father’s death!”

Thus reasoned Charles Hatfield, as he performed the duties of the
toilette; and when he descended to the breakfast-parlour, there was so
fine a glow of animation on his countenance, and so much happiness in
his bright eyes, that his parents were rejoiced to mark the change.
They did not, however, make any audible observation on the subject;
but the rapid and significant glances which they dealt at each other,
expressed the delight that filled their souls.

Lady Frances looked more than usually beautiful and interesting on this
occasion: at least so thought Charles Hatfield, as, seating himself by
her side, he ministered to her the attentions of the breakfast table.

The conversation turned upon an important event which was to take place
in the evening--the Prince of Montoni having accepted the Earl of
Ellingham’s invitation to a banquet at the lordly mansion in Pall Mall.
It was resolved, in order to render befitting honour to the illustrious
guest, that the entertainment should be of the most sumptuous
description; and no expense was to be spared on the occasion. A select
number of the noble Earl’s acquaintances were invited; and these were
chosen not on account of great names and sounding titles,--but on the
score of personal merit and consideration.

Soon after breakfast Charles Hatfield and Lady Frances found themselves
alone together in the apartment; and the young maiden, approaching her
companion, said in her artless, fascinating manner, “I am delighted
to see that you have recovered your natural gaiety. Do you know,
Mr. Charles, that you have latterly been most desperately moody and
reserved?”

“Not towards you, I hope, dear Fanny,” he replied. “Not for worlds,” he
added emphatically, “would I give you cause to think ill of me.”

“As for thinking ill of you, Charles,” she observed, “_that_ would
be impossible! But may I not seek to know the reasons of your late
unhappiness?”

“Let us not discourse upon the past, Fanny,” said the young man,
earnestly. “I am happy now, at all events--happier, too, than ever,
because I perceive that my welfare is not altogether indifferent to
you.”

“Far from it,” observed Lady Frances, with the ingenuous emphasis of
her extreme artlessness. “Do we not live beneath the same roof?--are we
not friends?--are not our parents very dear friends to each other?--and
is it not therefore natural that I should feel interested in all that
concerns your happiness?”

“Adorable creature!” exclaimed Charles, as he drew a rapid contrast
between the charming _naiveté_ of the beautiful Lady Frances and the
forward, bold manner of the voluptuously lovely Perdita: then, taking
his cousin’s hand, and gazing tenderly upon her innocent countenance,
he said, “Fanny, were our parents to sanction our marriage, would you
consent to be mine?”

Lady Frances withdrew her hand hastily; and, blushing deeply, she gazed
for a few seconds in the most unfeigned surprise on her companion.

“You are not offended with me?” asked Charles. “I had hoped--I had
flattered myself----”

“No--I am not offended with you,” returned Fanny, now casting down her
eyes and blushing even more deeply than before: “but I fear--I tremble
lest I am doing wrong thus to listen to you----”

“A virtuous affection is no crime,” said the young man, hastily. “And
now, my dearest Frances, if you feel that you _can_ love me, I will at
once declare to your noble parents the attachment--the deep attachment
which I experience towards you.”

“Whatever my father and mother counsel, will become a law for me,”
answered Lady Frances, in a low and tremulous tone, which convinced the
suitor that he was not indifferent to her.

Charles pressed her hand to his lips, and hurried from the room with
the intention of immediately seeking the Earl of Ellingham; but in the
passage he encountered a domestic who gave him a note which had just
been left by a messenger. The address was in an elegant female hand;
and the word “Private” was written in the corner. Charles hastened to
his own apartment, and read the note, the contents of which ran as
follow:----

    “MY DEAREST FRIEND,--Before you see my mother again, I must
    have a few words with you in private. She is compelled to visit
    her solicitor at mid-day, and will be absent for at least two
    hours. I shall expect you as soon after twelve as possible.

  “PERDITA FITZHARDINGE.”

“No--I will not accept the invitation!” exclaimed the young man,
aloud: then, gazing again at the note, he murmured, “What a charming
hand-writing--and how beautiful does her mystic and romantic name
appear upon paper! _Perdita!_--’tis a name which possesses an
irresistible attraction! But--oh! that dream! And yet it was but a
dream--and a very silly dream, the more I contemplate it. Heavenly
warnings are not sent by such means; and Lady Frances might as well
have been the subject of the vision as Perdita. What can she require
with me? She must have a few words with me in private before I see her
mother again. Then her mother expects and intends to have an interview
with me--and she must therefore have certain communications to make,
after all. This does not appear like delusion nor trickery:--no--the
old lady really has matters of import to discuss with me;--and I
should be wrong--I should perhaps be criminally neglectful of my
own interests, were I not to hear whatever she may have to state.
And, Perdita--it would be at least rude and ungentlemanly on my part
not to attend to this missive, the nature of which appears to be
urgent. Yes--I will call on Perdita: ’tis already verging close upon
mid-day--and there is no time to be lost. But--after all that has
passed between dear Frances and myself this morning--I shall be as
distant and reserved as politeness will admit: I shall arm myself
against the fascinations of the syren;--and if she offer to release me
from the pledge of friendship so inconsiderately given, I shall not
fail to accept with joy the proposed emancipation.”

But, before he repaired to Suffolk Street, did he not seek his father
to communicate to him the important fact that he had duly followed his
counsel and solicited the hand of Lady Frances?--or did he not obtain
an interview with the Earl and acquaint him with the nature of the
conversation which had taken place between himself and that nobleman’s
daughter?

Alas! no:--for it was close upon twelve when the young man received
Perdita’s note;--and he thought that it did not precisely signify for
an hour or two when he might make those statements; whereas it was
necessary to see the syren without delay.

Thus reasoned Charles Hatfield to himself;--and the reader will agree
with us in deciding that the necessity which constituted the excuse for
his conduct, was not quite so urgent as he chose to fancy it.

Moreover,--since Charles Hatfield resolved to appear as reserved and
formal as he well might be, towards Perdita,--it was assuredly strange
that he should devote more than usual attention to his toilette,
arranging his hair in the most becoming style, and surveying with
inward satisfaction his very handsome countenance in the mirror.

The clock struck twelve as he quitted the house;--and it was impossible
to conceal from himself the fact that he was rejoiced at having an
excuse to call upon Perdita.

Then, as he proceeded with some degree of rapidity towards Suffolk
Street, he could not possibly prevent his imagination from indulging
in exciting conjectures how Perdita would be dressed--how she would
look by day-light--and how she would receive him when she observed his
studied coolness and his constraint of manner.

“Poor girl!” he murmured to himself: “if she really hoped to find a
sincere friend in me, how will she bear the disappointment which is
in store for her? It grieves me--Oh! it grieves me to be compelled to
inflict a wound upon her gentle heart; but duty--yes, my duty towards
Lady Frances leaves me no alternative.”

With a beating heart he knocked at the door;--and in less than a minute
he was conducted to the drawing-room, where Perdita was waiting to
receive him.

The young lady was dressed in an elegant morning wrapper; and, the
weather being intensely hot, the ribbands which should have fastened
it round her neck, were left untied, so that it remained open at
the bosom. Her hair was arranged in bands, and she wore a cap of
the slightest material, but the snowy whiteness of which enhanced
the glossy richness of those luxuriant masses that crowned her fine
forehead. Her large grey eyes, with their dark pupils, were as bright
and lustrous as on the preceding evening; and the noon-day sun
detracted not from the exquisite whiteness of the neck and shoulders,
and the healthy hues of the complexion of the countenance, which had
shone to such advantage by candle-light.

No: Perdita was as ravishingly beautiful on this occasion, as on the
former;--and there was a freshness--yes, even an appearance of virgin
freshness, about her, matured and developed as her charms were, which
counteracted the impression that her wanton looks and the forwardness
of her manner might otherwise have created in respect to her virtue.
Her depravity in Australia had not impaired her loveliness, nor marred
the youthfulness of her beauty: her face--her figure afforded not an
intimation that she had been steeped in licentious enjoyments from the
age of thirteen until she embarked on board the ship that wafted her to
England.

The moment Charles Hatfield entered the room, he was struck by the
enchanting loveliness of Perdita as much as he had been on the
preceding evening--indeed, as completely as if this were the first time
that he had ever seen her. For an instant he stopped short as if he
dared not proceed farther within the sphere of that Circean influence
which a warning voice within his soul seemed to declare was alluring
him on to total destruction but, fascinated as is the tremulous bird by
the eye of the serpent, he advanced towards the beautiful creature who
rose from the sofa to receive him.

Then as he felt her warm hand in his,--as her countenance beamed upon
him in all the glory of its loveliness,--as her soft, musical, and
delicious voice flowed upon his ear, borne on a breath fragrant as the
perfume of flowers, and issuing from lips that seemed to have robbed
the rose of its tint,--he felt his stern resolves thawing within him,
and experienced the impossibility of manifesting coolness towards a
creature of such exquisite charms and such rare fascinations.

“I thank you, my dear friend, for this punctuality,” she said, gently
drawing him to a seat by her side on the sofa, when she resumed
her place. “Have you thought of all that passed between us last
evening?--and have you reflected that we played the part of silly
children in pledging eternal friendship, total strangers as we were to
each other?--or did you regard the proceeding as a natural and solemn
compact, to be inviolably maintained?”

“Wherefore these questions, Perdita?” enquired Charles, dazzled by
the impassioned looks that were fixed upon him. “Have you yourself
repented----”

“I never repent of any thing that I may do,” answered Perdita, hastily.
“I do nothing without being convinced beforehand that I am acting
judiciously and properly; and when I most appear to be the child of
impulse, I am on those occasions the most considerate, cautious, and
reflective. But this may not be the case with you: and, therefore, it
was incumbent upon me to ascertain your feeling in respect----”

“In respect to that friendship which I have sworn!” exclaimed Charles,
no longer master of himself. “Not for world’s would I recall the pledge
I gave----”

“Then we are friends--friends in the manner I had hoped we should be,”
said the young woman. “But it was necessary that I should be assured of
this before I spoke to you on a subject which otherwise would have been
indifferent to you,” she added, bending on her companion a look that
seemed to invite him to kiss the red, pouting lips which, now parting
with a delicious smile, revealed her somewhat large, but pearly, even,
and admirably shaped teeth.

“Proceed, my dearest--dearest friend,” exclaimed Charles, no longer
thinking of Lady Frances, but totally absorbed in the fascination which
attracted him towards the bewitching Perdita.

“You call me your friend--and it is as a friend that I wish to consult
you, Charles,” said the young woman, heaving a deep sigh. “You must
know that, singular being that I may appear to you, and even unmaidenly
hasty in forming so sincere a friendship----”

“No--no: you obeyed the dictates of a generous heart--a heart as
ingenuous and innocent as it is fervid and warm,” cried Charles,
seizing one of her hands and pressing it in both his own.

“Ah! now you comprehend my sentiments just as I would have explained
them had I been able to find language for the purpose!” she said,
abandoning her hand to him as if unwittingly. “But, as I was about to
observe, I am all candour and frankness:--that is my deposition;--and
when you left me last evening, I immediately hastened to my mother, who
was seized with a sudden indisposition which prevented her from joining
us in this room; and to her I revealed at once and unhesitatingly every
word of the conversation that had occurred between you and me.”

“And she doubtless reproached you for opening your heart so freely to
one who was a complete stranger to you?” said Charles, now fearful lest
Mrs. Fitzhardinge should forbid his visits to Perdita in future.

“She reproached me indeed--but mildly and blandly,” answered the
deceitful young woman, assuming a plaintive tone; “and yet not so
mildly as was her wont on former occasions--for it appears that she has
formed certain views in regard to me--views of marriage----”

“Marriage, Perdita!” repeated Charles Hatfield, bitterly.

“Yes,” she responded, her voice growing more mournful still. “A man of
immense wealth--and with a noble title, but whose name I do not even
yet know, and whom I have never seen----”

“Oh! this is infamous, thus to dispose of you to a person whom perhaps
you may never be able to love!” cried Charles, with strange emphasis
and excitement of manner.

“Love! I shall hate and abhor him, even though he be handsome and
amiable beyond all conception,” exclaimed Perdita. “I shall detest him
for the mere fact that I am compelled to espouse him.”

“But will you yield with docility to an arrangement which seems to
me--pardon the freedom with which I speak of your mother--to be
indelicate and unjust?” demanded the young man.

“Alas! I fear that I have no alternative save to yield with as good a
grace as I can assume,” answered Perdita, tears now starting to her
eyes, and trembling on her long dark lashes; “for the nobleman whom my
mother would thus force me to wed, is her opponent in the law-suit--and
he has discovered a means of establishing his claims beyond all
possibility of farther dispute.”

“Oh! I understand the dreadful selfishness that is now at work in
respect to you!” cried Charles. “He will allow your mother to enjoy the
fortune, provided you are immolated--sacrificed----”

“Yes: those are the terms;--and now you may easily comprehend how I
shrink from such a fate!” exclaimed the young woman, sobbing profoundly.

“But this nobleman--who is he? what is his name?” demanded Hatfield,
powerfully excited.

“I know so little of my mother’s private affairs, that I am unable to
answer the questions,” said Perdita. “To speak candidly, she refused
even to mention the name or the age of this unknown suitor for my hand:
and therefore I apprehend the worst. Indeed, from an observation which
she inadvertently dropped, I am convinced that he is old--very old----”

“And you who are so young--and so beautiful!” cried Charles Hatfield,
gazing upon her with admiration--nay, with adoration and enthusiastic
worship. “It were an infamy--a crime--a diabolical crime, thus to
sacrifice you!”

“Yet such is my mother’s intention,” murmured Perdita; “and therefore
was it that she reproached me for vowing a permanent friendship with
you.”

“Then Mrs. Fitzhardinge will immolate you on the altar of
selfishness--she will sell you for gold,--sell you, perhaps, to an old
man who may be hideous, and who is certain to be loathsome to you?”
exclaimed Charles, speaking with all the rapidity of wild excitement.

“Yes:--and it was not until last night that I was aware of the
frightful arrangement which my mother had thus made--the dreadful
compact to which she had assented. It seems that this nobleman had
heard of me--and the description given of my appearance pleased him; so
that when he yesterday discovered the existence of some paper which at
once annihilated all my mother’s previously conceived hopes of gaining
the law-suit, he promised his hateful conditions.”

“And Mrs. Fitzhardinge has now sought her attorney----”

“For the purpose of declaring that I assent to this most unnatural
union!” added Perdita, with the well-feigned emphasis of violent sorrow.

“But was it possible that you could hold out to your mother even the
faintest prospect of thus sacrificing all your happiness suddenly and
in a moment?” demanded Charles.

“When I beheld my mother weep--heard her implore and beseech--and was
made aware of the ruin that threatened her unless I agreed to the
proposals of this unknown suitor, I wept also--and, my tears choking
me, my silence was taken for assent. Then my mother departed to visit
her solicitor: and in my despair I despatched a note to you, praying
you to call on me during her absence.”

“My God! what counsel--what advice can I give you?” exclaimed Charles,
bewildered by the tale which was told so plausibly that not a doubt
of its truth existed in his mind. “I cannot see you sacrificed
thus:--yet how can I save you? Oh! were I possessed of a fortune, I
would bestow it upon your mother that she might leave you free and
unshackled to obey only the dictates of your own will--follow your own
inclinations--and bestow your hand where you could likewise grant your
affections!”

“Ah! my generous friend,” murmured Perdita, advancing her countenance
towards his own as if unwittingly and in the excitement of her
feelings: “how deeply grateful to you am I for these assurances! I
knew that I should receive your sympathy--if not your aid,--your
commiseration--if not your assistance.”

“How can I assist you, dearest Perdita?” exclaimed Charles, pressing
her hand violently in his own. “The liberality of my pa----my uncle and
aunt, I mean--have enabled me to accumulate some seven or eight hundred
pounds--for my allowance is far more liberal than my expenditure:
and that amount is at your mother’s service. But it is so small--so
contemptibly small in comparison with the fortune which she doubtless
hopes to acquire----”

“Nevertheless, it may procure a delay, by rescuing my mother from the
immediate embarrassments in which this sudden change in the aspect of
her affairs has plunged her,” said Perdita: “for, to speak candidly to
you, her solicitor has been advancing her a regular income during the
time that the suit has lasted;--and now, since all hope of gaining it
is destroyed, no farther supplies can be expected from that quarter.”

“Yes--it may procure a delay,” said Charles, in a musing tone; “and
with leisure to reflect calmly--deliberately--much may be done! O
Perdita--never, never could I see you thus sacrificed to a man whom you
would abhor!”

“Generous friend--’twas heaven who sent you to me!” exclaimed the young
woman, drooping her head upon his breast, and weeping,--weeping tears
of gratitude, as he fondly believed.

He threw his arms around her--he pressed her to his heart--he clasped
her with such fervour that the embrace was passionately violent--he
strained her as it were to the seat of his very soul: then, hastily
loosening his hold, he raised her face--her warm, blushing face--and
on her lips he imprinted a thousand rapturous kisses,--those lips that
were literally glued to his own. He looked into her eyes, and read
love, desire, and passion in those orbs, now melting with languor and
wantonness;--for Perdita herself had almost entirely lost all power
of self-controul, and clung to him as if inviting the full extreme of
voluptuous enjoyment. He felt her bosom heaving against his chest;
and, maddened with excitement, his daring hand invaded the treasures
of those swelling, palpitating globes, so snowy in their whiteness--so
warm with their licentious fires.

But at that instant Perdita recovered her presence of mind: and it
flashed to her memory that it was no part of her scheme to surrender
herself completely up to him until she had ensnared his affections so
fully--so inextricably, that all subsequent escape or estrangement,
through repentance and remorse, should be impossible.

Accordingly--wresting herself from his embrace, and retreating to the
farther end of the sofa, she hastily arranged her cap and dishevelled
hair--drew the wrapper over her breast--and, turning upon him eyes that
still seemed to swim in liquid languor, said in a half-reproachful
manner, “Oh! Charles--is this friendship? would you ruin me?”

“Sweetest--dearest creature,” exclaimed the young man, “did I not tell
you yester-night that _friendship_ was a sentiment dangerous for us
to feel, and a word perilous for our tongues to utter? O Perdita--it
is not friendship that I feel for you: ’tis love--ardent, sincere,
and devoted love! And ’twas not friendship at first sight that I
experienced for you the moment I last evening set foot in this room:
but ’twas love--love, my Perdita--such love as never before did man
entertain for woman!”

“And it was because I love you, Charles,” murmured Perdita, in her
softest, tenderest tones, “that I loathe and abhor the idea of that
union which my mother has so inconsiderately--so rashly--so cruelly
planned for me!”

“You love me, Perdita!” ejaculated the young man, wild with joy:
“oh! thanks--ten thousand thanks for that assurance, my own sweet
Perdita! I was happy in the possession of your friendship: but I am
now mad--demented in the confidence of owning your love! For the love
of such a being as yourself is something that would make a paradise of
the blackest and most barren desert on the face of the earth! Is it
possible, then, that I possess your love, Perdita--dearest Perdita? Oh!
tell me so once more: it is so delicious to hear such an avowal from
your lips!”

“Yes, Charles--I love you--I do indeed love you,” replied the young
woman, throwing as much softness into her melting tones, as much
witchery into her manner, and as much voluptuous languor into her
glances as she possibly could.

It was like a scene of enchantment for that young man of wild and
fervid impulses; and he was completely--wholly absorbed in its magic
interest,--an interest so enthralling, so captivating that he felt as
if he had been suddenly wafted into a new world of delights unknown in
this sublunary sphere. Lady Frances was forgotten--his parents, his
ambitious aims, and even his admiration of the Prince of Montoni,--all,
all were forgotten in the delirium of passion which had seized upon him.

“You love me--you do indeed love me!” he exclaimed; and, approaching
the object of his worship, he again wound his arms around her--again
drank in the sweetness of her moist red lips.

“Charles--Charles,” she murmured; “you are gloriously handsome--and I
adore you!”

But as she thus spoke, she once more disengaged herself from his
maddened embrace--for she felt that her own passions, ever violent,
were raging to a degree that became almost uncontroullable.

“And now listen to me--patiently and tranquilly if you can; and I
will lay down the conditions on which our complete happiness may
be based,--conditions which have for their elements that generous
confidence, that mutual reliance, and that candour and frankness which
alone constitute pure affection.”

“Proceed, dearest Perdita,” said Hatfield: “I am all attention--and
your voice is sweeter in my ears than the most delicious music.”

Perdita once more arranged her cap and the massive bands of her glossy
hair: then, turning with a simulation of charming artlessness towards
her companion, she addressed him in the following manner.




CHAPTER CXXXII.

THE DANGEROUS SOPHISTRY OF A LOVELY WOMAN.


“You are now about to discover a new phasis in my character, dear
Charles; and perhaps you will look upon my notions and opinions as
unmaidenly and bold--if not positively immoral. But remember that I
am not like the generality of my sex; and that my sentiments, though
audacious as innovations, are nevertheless as sincerely believed in as
they are tenaciously clung to by me.”

“It is because you are so different from other women, not only in the
loveliness of your person, but also in the tone and strength of your
mind,” said Charles, “that I am thus enamoured of you--yes, and proud
too of possessing your affection in return.”

“But I am about to preach a doctrine which you may think repugnant to
the befitting delicacy of my sex,” returned Perdita: “for it is of the
uselessness of the marriage rites that I have now to discourse.”

“Proceed, dearest,” said Charles; “and I will frankly give you my
opinion on your views in this respect.”

“Ah! now you encourage me to open my heart to you, my dear friend,”
exclaimed Perdita; “and you do not affect the sanctimonious hypocrite,
who frowns even before he has heard the argument broached. Thus stands
our present position in my estimation:--We love each other----”

“Devotedly--earnestly,” added Charles, with strong emphasis, the image
of Lady Frances being as completely banished from his mind as if such a
person as that charming creature did not exist in the world.

“Yes--we love each other devotedly and earnestly,” continued Perdita;
“and the extent as well as the ardour of our passion is a something
which should remain a solemn and sacred mystery to the vulgar and
curious observer. ’Tis a secret which we should cherish between
ourselves,--a secret whose charm is spoilt, or at all events marred,
by being revealed to others who are indifferent to us. This is one
reason wherefore I consider the pompous ceremony of marriage to be
actually detrimental to the fervid, ardent, and warm attachment
which seeks to hide itself in the bosoms of the fond couple who
entertain it. Then, again, I should not be happy were I to have the
conviction that I was so enchained to you by legal trammels that
you could not cast me off did I become displeasing to you;--for I
should never know whether you still clung to me through the endurance
of real affection, or because an indissoluble bond forged by human
legislation united us. No:--I would rather that our love rested
upon its own basis alone--existing by its own vitality, and through
no borrowed and artificial auxiliary,--that it should be a mutual
confidence--a mutual reliance,--free and independent in one sense,
and compulsory in none. If on these terms you will take thy Perdita
to thine arms, Charles--then indeed shall I gladly become thine:--but
if our union must be characterised by solemn ceremonies and cold,
inanimate rites--then, heartbreaking as the alternative will be, I can
never--never be more to thee than a sincere and faithful friend.”

“Dearest Perdita,” exclaimed Charles, “I receive all these confessions
of your peculiar sentiments as new proofs of your love for me! For by
the very nature of the conditions which you stipulate, you convince me
of the trust which you repose in my fidelity and honour.”

“Yes--because in defiance of the opinion of the world, I surrender
myself up to you, to be a wife in every thing save in respect to that
ceremony which is the first object of a virtuous woman’s thoughts,”
murmured Perdita. “And now, dear Charles, do you entertain a mean
opinion of my principles, because I dare to chalk out a path of
happiness according to my own fancy?”

“No--no. Perdita!” cried the young man, pressing to his lips the hand
which was extended to him with such an appearance of ingenuousness
that it quite enchanted him. “But how is it possible that you--so
young--should have pondered so seriously on the subject of love and of
marriage? For you have assured me that you never loved till now----”

“Though nineteen summers have not yet passed over my head,” interrupted
Perdita, “my mind has travelled much in the realms of thought and
meditation;--and though, as I will candidly confess to you, I have read
but little, yet have I pondered much.”

“And there is about you a mystery as charming and as interesting as
your loveliness is indescribably great,” said Charles: “and you know,
angel that you are, how I adore you!”

“Then if we plight our faith to each other to-day, as solemnly and as
emphatically as yester-night we vowed an eternal friendship, shall
you ever repent the step you will have taken?” asked Perdita, gazing
affectionately on her handsome companion, whose looks seemed to devour
her.

“Repent!--what, repent the step that makes you mine?” he exclaimed.
“No--never, never!”

“And you take me as your wife on the conditions I have named--that I am
to be a wife, and no wife?” said Perdita, her musical voice sounding
soft as a silver bell and tremulously clear,--ravishment in her tone,
love in her eyes, and warmth in the tender pressure of the hand which
the young man had grasped.

“Yes--I take you as my wife on those conditions,” he returned, pressing
her to his bosom. “But there are still many things to be considered, my
Perdita,” he observed, after a short pause, during which they exchanged
the most rapturous kisses. “In the first place, your mother----”

“I shall boldly acquaint her with what I have done,” said Perdita; “and
she will not seal my unhappiness by an opposition--which, after all,
would be vain and useless,” added the syren.

“And will not Mrs. Fitzhardinge recoil in horror from the idea that her
daughter should have formed this connexion, without bearing the legal
name of a wife?” demanded Charles, gazing earnestly on her beautiful
countenance.

“Leave me to make my mother a convert to my own principles respecting
marriage,” was the reply. “And now, with regard to yourself, my
Charles,--you need be under no restraint. Continue to dwell with
your family--and visit me as frequently as you can. In fact, I shall
of course expect you to pass as much of your time as possible with
me,--but never when your relatives and friends require your presence.”

“Oh! on these terms we shall indeed be supremely happy!” cried Charles.
“And now you are my wife?”

“Yes--and you are my husband,” blushingly answered the syren, as she
drooped her head upon his breast.

He wound his arms around her; and then their lips met in warm and
luscious kisses. Charles grew bolder: his hand wandered to Perdita’s
glowing bosom,--and Perdita no longer restrained him--no longer
shrank back. Still, however, she did not choose to surrender herself
immediately: a little more tantalization would only rivet his
enthusiastic attachment and confirm the madness of his devouring
passion;--and, accordingly--at the moment when, wild with desire,
he was about to claim the privilege of a husband, she started from
his arms, exclaiming, “Hush! my mother has returned--I hear her
approaching!”

They separated--retreating to the ends of the sofa; and Perdita
arranged her disordered hair once more.

No one however came: it was a false alarm,--as Perdita indeed well knew
it to be.

“You must leave me now, Charles,” she said; “for my mother cannot
be long ere she comes back. To-morrow, at mid-day, I shall be again
alone--for I am aware that she will have to pay another visit to her
attorney. Come, then, at that hour--and I will tell you all that has
passed between my parent and myself.”

“Not an instant later than twelve to-morrow shall I be!” exclaimed
Charles. “And now,--forgive me for returning for a moment to worldly
affairs--quitting the paradise of happiness to which you have raised
me, my Perdita,--but in respect to the small sum----”

“Oh! I had forgotten all our arrangements with regard to that matter,”
said Perdita: “and, indeed--I detest and abominate money-affairs.
But now--as your wife, dearest Charles--I may mention my wishes on
that head without a blush. I should therefore be pleased if you could
forward the amount to me in the course of the afternoon; and I will use
it to the best possible advantage with my mother.”

“In less than an hour it shall be here in an envelope, sealed,
and addressed to yourself,” said Charles. “Farewell, my sweet
Perdita--farewell, until to-morrow!”

They embraced each other fervently; and Charles Hatfield took his
departure.

Before he returned home, he walked into the park to collect his
scattered thoughts and acquire some degree of composure. His
perfidy--his infamous treachery towards Lady Frances now burst upon him
in all its hideousness. That very morning had he demanded his cousin’s
hand in marriage;--and within an hour afterwards he had solemnly
contracted a strange and scarcely comprehensible union with Perdita
Fitzhardinge.

His conduct seemed vile in the extreme: his heart, smote him painfully.

Yet was he so completely infatuated with Perdita, that he could
not calmly contemplate the idea of breaking with her for ever. He
was like a gambler who loathes himself for his ready yielding to a
ruinous vice--but who nevertheless returns with renewed zest to the
gaming-table.

For Charles thought of the happiness which he had so nearly attained
on this eventful day, and which he felt assured must await him on the
morrow:--he could not banish from his imagination the recollection
of those charms which had plunged him into a perfect delirium of
passion;--and the more he thought on the witching loveliness of
Perdita, the less inclined was he to resign her.

Then came the almost inevitable results of the sophistry which the
designing woman had called to her aid,--results which may be explained
the more completely by following the current of the young man’s
thoughts.

“After all, I am not indissolubly bound to Perdita--nor has she for
ever linked her destiny with mine. No marriage ceremony has taken
place between us--nor will any. I am not inextricably fastened to
her apron-strings. And yet--and yet, is it honourable of me to make
such calculations, the inferences to be drawn from which I am ashamed
even to express to my own secret self? No--no: because no legal ties
exist between us, I am the more imperiously bound to remain faithfully
attached to her! Beautiful--enchanting--mysterious Perdita, how hast
thou enthralled me! But--my God! am I not your willing slave?--do I
not accept the yoke which thou hast thrown upon me?--would I release
myself from those silken chains, even were I able? No--ten thousand
times _no_, my adored--my worshipped Perdita! I care not whether thou
dost exercise a supernatural enchantment over me: if thou art Satan in
a female shape--or a serpent, as my dream appeared to give warning--I
cannot cease to love thee,--no--never--never!”

But what of Lady Frances Ellingham? Oh! it was rash--it was indiscreet
of him to solicit her hand;--but had he not acted in pursuance of
the advice of his father?--and had he gone so far as to be unable to
retreat?

Alas! Charles Hatfield, the sophistry of Perdita has rendered thee
sophistical, until thou dost stand on the very threshold of--villainy!

Reckless art thou of the whisperings of conscience:--thou art
infatuated with the fatal beauty of thy Perdita--and the hope, the
burning hope of tasting in her arms the pleasures of paradise, renders
thee studious only to subdue the remorse that whispers to thee the name
of the outraged Lady Frances Ellingham!

Having wandered in the park for upwards of half an hour, Charles
Hatfield bethought himself of the promise to send the amount of his
savings to his beauteous Perdita; and, hastening home, he sought his
chamber, which he reached unperceived by any one save the domestic
who gave him admission. That he was thus unobserved, was a source of
satisfaction,--inasmuch as he felt that his cheeks were flushed, and he
feared lest his appearance might seem singular.

Opening his desk he took from a secret drawer the Bank-notes which
constituted his savings; and enveloping them in a sheet of paper, he
issued forth again to leave the parcel at the house in Suffolk Street.
This being done, Charles returned to the park, where he roamed about
until the hour arrived when it was necessary for him to return home in
order to dress for dinner.

The reader must not forget that a splendid banquet was to take place
that evening at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham,--a banquet given
in honour of the Prince of Montoni, and at which his Royal Highness was
to be present.

As the hour approached, Charles Hatfield felt his heart beat; and all
his admiration of the illustrious hero revived;--so that his mind was
labouring under no inconsiderable degree of excitement, as he thought
of Perdita on the one hand--the Prince on the other--and also of Lady
Frances Ellingham!




CHAPTER CXXXIII.

A THRONE SURROUNDED BY REPUBLICAN INSTITUTIONS.


The entertainment was of the most splendid description--worthy of the
hospitality and taste of the noble host and hostess.

The Prince of Montoni was dressed in plain clothes: but on his breast
gleamed the star denoting his rank; and on his left leg he wore the
English Garter, his Royal Highness having been admitted on the previous
day a member of that illustrious Order.

He was seated on the right of the Countess of Ellingham, Lady Frances
being next to him, and Charles Hatfield occupying the place immediately
following. In addition to these personages and the Earl of Ellingham,
Mr. Hatfield, and Lady Georgiana there were Sir John Lascelles,
Clarence Villiers and Adelais, and the select few who had been invited
to the banquet on this occasion.

The Prince was naturally of a modest and unassuming
disposition,--though endowed with ample dignity to maintain his lofty
rank and honourably fill his high position,--yet bearing himself so
condescendingly and affably, that every one felt completely at ease in
his presence. Even Sir John Lascelles, who had grown somewhat morose,
and difficult to please in his old age, was quite delighted with the
youthful hero, whose conversation was characterised by so much sound
sense and such a total absence of obtrusiveness.

Charles Hatfield was delighted at the thought of being once more in
company with the object of his worship; and he seemed to hang upon
every word that fell from the lips of the Prince of Montoni, as if he
were listening to a demigod.

[Illustration]

When the ladies had retired, the conversation turned upon political
matters; and the Earl of Ellingham questioned the Prince relative to
the condition of the Castelcicalans, whom report, newspapers, and
books represented to be in the highest possible state of civilisation
prosperity, and happiness.

“His Sovereign Highness, my revered father-in-law,” said the Prince,
“has exerted himself in all possible ways to render his people
contented and flourishing. The task may seem to be difficult for a
monarch to undertake; but it really is not so. Honourable, upright,
and liberal-minded Ministers are to be found in all countries, if
the sovereign have but the discrimination to select them: indeed, a
Chamber of Deputies, rightly constituted, will be sure to indicate the
most efficient and trust-worthy men to whom the responsibilities of
government may be safely confided. Every man in Castelcicala, having a
habitation in which he may be said to be settled,--no matter whether it
be a house of his own, or a mere lodging,--has the right of suffrage.
The elections take place by ballot; and thus, considering that all save
absolute mendicants have the power of voting, and seeing likewise the
immense number of voters that there are, bribery is almost impossible.
But to ensure, as much as mortal means can, the purity of election,
any attempt at bribery or intimidation is counted a misdemeanor, and
is punished by a fine, imprisonment, and the loss of civil rights for
a period of seven years. Under these circumstances our elections take
place in an orderly, quiet, and honest manner: the people conduct
themselves with propriety, because they recognise the generous
confidence reposed in them by their sovereign, and endeavour to render
themselves worthy of it.”

“When your Royal Highness liberated Castelcicala and opened the way for
the Grand Duke Alberto to the throne,” said Sir John Lascelles, who had
listened attentively to the Prince’s observations, “the Castelcicalans
were in a state of abject slavery. Were these boons of consummate
freedom conferred upon them in a moment?--and if so, were the people
prepared in any way to receive them?”

“A nation in slavery, Sir John,” answered the Prince, “is like a body
in a condition of deep disease. Now, would you restore that body to
perfect health all in a moment, if you had the power?--or would you
only effect the restoration by slow and almost imperceptible degrees?”

“As a conscientious and an honest man, I should of course adopt the
mode of instantaneous cure,” replied the physician.

“Then, Sir John, your question whether the Castelcicalans were prepared
to receive the consummation of their freedom in a moment, is answered,”
said the Prince, smiling. “Believe me, those statesmen who talk of the
necessity of gradual reform are either weak and timid, or else in their
hearts opposed to the interests of the people. Freedom is a nation’s
right; and a right cannot be recognised too suddenly nor too frankly.
Were your fortune in the grasp of a rapacious monarch, should you be
contented by receiving it in small instalments according to his caprice
and good pleasure? No: certainly not! You would demand and expect to
receive the whole at once--and would consider yourself the victim of a
monstrous tyranny, were your claims refused, or ridiculed, or set at
naught. Yes, Sir John--the Castelcicalans obtained in a moment, as it
were, their emancipation from tyranny and oppression. Immediately after
His Sovereign Highness ascended the throne of that powerful State, he
promulgated a decree, not merely conceding universal suffrage as a
boon, but at once proclaiming it as the recognised right of the people.
He did not say, ‘_I give it to you_:’ but he said, ‘_I do not for an
instant attempt to withhold it_.’ The people saw that they were not
treated as children, but as a free and enlightened nation; and they
generously proffered gratitude, and testified their admiration and
respect for their monarch. The Chambers assembled in due time--both
Senators and Deputies being elected, and the principle of an hereditary
Peerage being totally eschewed. Not even is the President of the
Senate appointed by the Grand Duke: he is chosen by his compeers, as
is the President of the Chamber of Deputies. The Grand Duke pledged
himself to retain in power or to nominate only those Ministers whom
the parliamentary majority pointed out; and, accordingly, the Cabinet
which I had the honour to appoint during the period when I exercised
the functions of Regent, immediately after the battle of Montoni, has
remained in office ever since that time--because it is supported by
the majority. There is an Opposition in both Chambers,--an Opposition
consisting of the Aristocracy of the Old School, High Churchmen, and
a few very wealthy landowners; and indeed an Opposition is necessary
to all good government, because were measures passed by universal
acclamation, there would be no sifting of all their details to the very
bottom. The Progressist Ministry in Castelcicala is therefore rather
thankful to the Opposition than otherwise;--but the popular voice is
entirely in favour of the Ministerial party.”

“The Grand Duke is therefore almost a cypher in Castelcicala?” observed
Sir John Lascelles.

“Not so,” returned the Prince, mildly but firmly. “There must be
a chief magistrate--an executive--in every State; and he is that
chief magistrate. Do you suppose that the task of discriminating and
rewarding merit,--in patronising the arts and sciences,--in raising the
humble but deserving individual,--and in performing all the various
services to a country which the supreme ruler must ever have the
opportunity of doing,--do you not suppose, Sir John Lascelles, that
these are duties which render a good Prince any thing but a cypher?
It is true that Castelcicala has a Throne: but it is surrounded by
Republican Institutions;--and it matters very little whether Alberto be
called President, Grand Duke, Emperor, or King. There is nothing in the
name of the office: all that merits our attention is the extent of the
privileges of that office.”

“But the sovereignty of Castelcicala is hereditary,” said Sir John
Lascelles; “and yet your Royal Highness is an opponent to the
hereditary peerage. If the principle be objectionable in the one
case----”

“Pardon me for interrupting you, sir,” exclaimed the Prince: “but you
are arguing on a false premise. The hereditary principle is abolished
even in respect to the sovereignty. Alberto voluntarily abdicated this
dynastic privilege; and one of his first acts was to place his diadem
at the disposal of the Chambers. He told them that he was willing to
obey the sovereign will of the people. The Chambers confirmed him in
his high office; and of their own accord they honoured me by naming
me the heir-apparent to the throne. But the hereditary principle
is virtually annihilated; because one generation cannot bind its
successor; and the law which thus appointed me as the heir-apparent,
may be repealed by a new Chamber. It is monstrous to suppose that the
hereditary principle can be tolerated by a nation knowing its own power
and appreciating its own interests: for that principle may give you a
good sovereign to-day, and a tyrant, an idiot, or a degraded sensualist
to-morrow.”

“I admit the force of your Royal Highness’s argument,” said Lascelles;
“and if I object, it is rather to seek information on these subjects
than to question the excellence of the system of government introduced
into Castelcicala. I would now deferentially seek to learn how far that
system has benefitted the people of your Highness’s adopted country?”

“In the first place, Sir John,” returned the Prince, “the people have
the elections entirely in their own hands, and return to Parliament
representatives who do not buy their seats, but who are chosen on
account of their merits. At least, this observation applies to the
great majority of the Senators and Deputies. The elections take place
every two years; so that ample opportunity is allowed the constituents
of getting rid of persons who may chance to deceive them or prove
incapable; while a sufficient space of time is afforded for giving the
representatives a fair trial. The result of these arrangements is,
that the majority of the representatives legislate for the interests
of the mass--and not of the few. Good measures are the consequence;
and the happiness of the people is promoted, while civilisation
progresses rapidly, and the prosperity of the country increases daily.
My lord,” continued the Prince, turning towards the Earl of Ellingham,
“history has recorded the memorable speech which your lordship
delivered nineteen years ago in the House of Lords--the speech that
first introduced your lordship to the world as the generous defender,
vindicator, and champion of the People;--and it rejoices me unfeignedly
to be enabled to inform you, my noble friend--for so you will permit
me to call you--that the speech I allude to, and all your subsequent
orations on the same subject have been studied, weighed, and debated
upon in the Councils of the Sovereign of Castelcicala.”

The Earl acknowledged the compliment in befitting terms; and the Prince
of Montoni continued in the following manner:--

“To prove to your lordship that it is no idle flattery--of which,
indeed, I am incapable--that I am now addressing to you, I will at
once inform you that every suggestion which your lordship’s first
and grandest oration contained, has been carried out with complete
success in Castelcicala. Anticipating the pleasure of being enabled
this evening to give your lordship some account of the condition of the
Castelcicalans, I had furnished myself with a copy of the memorable
speech to which I have already several times alluded; and I will now
explain in detail the results of your lordship’s views, as exemplified
in their application to the Grand Duchy.”

The Prince produced a manuscript; and, spreading it before him, his
Royal Highness continued in the ensuing terms,--addressing himself to a
most attentive and delighted audience:--

“Your lordship stated that it was too frequently alleged that the
industrious classes are thoughtless, improvident, ungrateful, and
intellectually dull: but this assertion you emphatically denied; and
you proceeded to reason thus:--‘Despair, produced by their unhappy
condition, naturally led to dissipation in many instances; but were
the working man placed in a position so that his livelihood should be
rendered less precarious than it now was--were his labour adequately
remunerated--were he more fairly paid by the representatives of
property--were a scale of wages established, having a fixed minimum,
but no fixed maximum, the increased comfort thus ensured to him would
naturally remove from his mind those cares which drove him to the
public-house.’--Well, my lord and gentlemen,” continued the Prince,
“the suggestion has been adopted in Castelcicala: a fixed minimum for
wages has been established--the lowest amount of payment ensuring
a sum sufficient to enable the working man to maintain himself and
his family in respectability. The results may almost be said to have
been instantaneous. Crime diminished rapidly: statistical returns
soon proved that intemperance experienced a remarkable decrease;
and such was the falling off in the consumption of spirituous
liquors, beer, and tobacco, that the Government found it necessary
to grant a compensation to the licensed victuallers, publicans, and
tobacconists who suffered by this change in the habits of the people.
Even _employers_ speedily began to recognise the advantage of the
new state of things in the improved condition of their _employed_,
the increase and the excellence of the labour they obtained, and the
superiority of their agriculture or their manufactures. No _maximum_
of wages has been fixed in Castelcicala; and when I left the country
a month ago, those wages were higher than ever they were known to be
before. The demand for labour has greatly increased; and, though the
territory be densely populated, employment may be found for all. If a
man be now a pauper or mendicant in Castelcicala, it must be either
through physical infirmity, or through his unwillingness to work. Of
this latter, however, we have comparatively few examples--emulation
and patriotism acting powerfully in a country where so much happiness
and such prosperity prevail. Now, with a slight alteration in your
lordship’s speech, one of the most remarkable passages in that speech
reads thus when applied to Castelcicala:--‘There is no fixed _maximum_
of wages, because wages are always to be increased in proportion to
the value of productive labour to employers: but there is a _minimum_
established, to obviate the cruel and disastrous effects of those
periods when labour exceeds the demand in the market. This is not
considered unfair towards employers, because when the markets are
brisk and trade is flourishing, they (the employers) reap the greatest
benefit from that activity, and enrich themselves in a very short
time; therefore, when markets are dull and trade is stagnant, they are
still compelled to pay such wages as enable their employed to live
comfortably. The profits gained during prosperous seasons not only
enable employers to enjoy handsome incomes, but also to accumulate
considerable savings; and as the best wages scarcely enable the
employed to make any thing like an adequate provision for periods of
distress, it is not deemed fair that the representatives of property
should use the labour of the working classes just when it suits them,
and discard it or only use it on a miserable recompense when it does
not so well suit them. For the labour of the employed not only makes
annual incomes for the employers, but also permanent fortunes; and
the value of that labour is not calculated as lasting only just as
long as it is available for the purpose of producing large profits.
Labour is recognised in Castelcicala and positively stated to be the
working man’s _capital_, and bears constant interest, as well as money
placed in the funds--that interest of course increasing in proportion
to the briskness of markets; but never depreciating below a standard
value--much less being discarded as valueless altogether, in times of
depression. A thousand pounds always obtains three per cent. interest,
under any circumstances; and, at particular periods, is worth six or
seven per cent. Labour is considered by the Castelcicalans in the
same light. Stagnant markets diminish the profits of employers, but
do not ruin them: if they do not obtain profit enough to live upon,
they have the accumulations of good seasons to fall back upon. But how
different used to be the case with the employed! To them stagnation
of business was ruin--starvation--death;--the breaking up of their
little homes--the sudden check of their children’s education--the cause
of demoralisation and degradation--and the necessity of applying to
the parish! All these terrible evils have been completely annihilated
by the system introduced into Castelcicala. The supply and demand of
labour are necessarily unequal at many times, and in many districts;
and the Government has therefore adopted measures to prevent those
frightful fluctuations in wages which carry desolation into the homes
of thousands of hard-working, industrious, and deserving families.
In fact, a law has been passed to ensure the working-man against the
casualty of being employed at a price below remuneration.’--Thus, my
lord, you perceive that so far your views have been most successfully
carried out: they are no longer a theory--I have seen them reduced to
positive practice; and I pledge myself most solemnly and sacredly to
the admirable working of this enlightened reformatory system.”

“Would that I could see my own fellow-countrymen rendered thus
happy--raised thus high in the social sphere--and thus tenderly cared
for by their rulers!” exclaimed Lord Ellingham, in the impassioned tone
of the most earnest and heart-felt sincerity.

“The day must come,” observed the Prince of Montoni, “when the English
people will recognise all the grand truths which you enunciated
nineteen years ago from your place in the House of Lords. And, if in
England you have failed to convince the aristocracy and the landowners
of the wickedness of the course they are pursuing,--are not your
labours in some degree rewarded by the knowledge that your lordship’s
plans have been carried out to the very letter in the Grand Duchy of
Castelcicala,--yes, and carried out too with such unequivocal success?”

“The information which your Royal Highness now imparts, gives me the
most unfeigned pleasure,” said the Earl. “I had indeed read and heard
of the recent grand improvements which had taken place in that Italian
State where there is a Throne surrounded by Republican Institutions:
but I was not aware--indeed, the loftiest flights of vanity never
could have suggested to me that my views and theories had in any way
contributed to the prosperity of the MODEL STATE, as the Liberals in
England now denominate Castelcicala.”

“To convince you, my lord, how far your ideas have been applied to
the elevation of Castelcicala to its present proud eminence,” said
the Prince, “I will again refer to a passage in your lordship’s ever
memorable speech, and point a few contrasts. ‘In England the poor
are not allowed to have a stake in the country:’ I have shown you
that the very reverse is the case in the Grand Duchy. ‘In England
there are no small properties: the land is in the possession of a few
individuals comparatively; and thus the landed interest constitutes
a tremendous monopoly, most unjust and oppressive to the industrious
classes.’--In Castelcicala the law of primogeniture is annihilated;
there no man can leave his estate solely to his eldest son; it must
be divided amongst all his male children equally, a charge being
fixed upon it for the support of his daughters. Thus the territory is
rapidly undergoing a process of sub-division, which admits thousands
to the enjoyment of a real stake in the country, and breaks down the
tremendous monopoly of the landed interest. In Castelcicala, moreover,
‘property is compelled to maintain labour as long as labour seeks
for employment and occupation.’ What now, then, is the condition of
the Castelcicalan people? Being well treated, rendered free, and
having every possible avenue opened to them for the attainment of
real property, ‘the working-classes are not driven by their cares and
troubles to the excessive use of alcoholic liquors; they do not become
demoralized by being compelled to migrate from place to place in search
of employment--they are not forced to go upon the tramp, sleeping
in hideous dens of vice, where numbers are forced to herd together
without reference to age or sex: they are not unsettled in all their
little arrangements to bring up their children creditably and with due
reference to instruction;--they are not made discontented, anxious for
any change no matter what, vindictive towards a society which renders
them outcasts, and sullen or reckless in their general conduct.’--On
the contrary, they feel settled in their condition; they know that the
cottage which constitutes their home, is not held upon a precarious
tenure: they never feel the sickening conviction that if they have
bread and meat to-day, they may have only bread to-morrow, and no food
at all the day after. The industrious classes in Castelcicala are no
longer the mere slaves and tools of the wealthy classes: they are no
longer retained in bondage--no longer kept in absolute serfdom by an
oligarchy. I now pass to another subject,” said the Prince: “and here
again I refer to the speech of the Earl of Ellingham--applying to
Castelcicala the observations which he used in reference to England.
The Castelcicalan industrious classes, then, ‘were ground down by
indirect taxes, in which shape they actually contributed more to
the revenue, in proportion to their means, than the rich. The only
luxuries which the poor enjoyed, and which had become as it were
necessaries--namely, tea, sugar, tobacco, beer, and spirits,--were
the most productive sources of revenue. If aristocrats reproached the
poor for dirty habits, as he well knew that it was their custom to do,
he would ask them why soap was made an article subject to so heavy a
tax? It was a contemptible fallacy to suppose that because the poor
contributed little or nothing in the shape of direct taxation to the
revenue, they were positively untaxed. The real fact was that the poor
paid more in direct taxes than the rich did in both direct and in
indirect ways, when the relative means of the two parties were taken
into consideration.’--Such was the state of the industrious classes of
Castelcicala until their voice was heard in the legislative assemblies;
and all taxes upon the necessaries of life were speedily removed.
Luxuries alone were left to bear the weight of taxation--the duties
upon carriages, livery servants, armorial bearings, hunters, racers,
hounds, and foreign wines being doubled.”

The Prince of Montoni paused; and the Earl of Ellingham exchanged
a rapid but significant glance with Mr. Hatfield--for they both
remembered the time when, nineteen years previously, and when the
latter lay on the bed in Old Death’s house, they had conversed upon the
best means of ameliorating the condition of the suffering millions.

His Royal Highness, finding that his auditors were most anxious that
he should continue his explanations, and perceiving that Sir John
Lascelles had become especially interested therein, resumed his subject
in the following manner:--

“The inequality of the laws, and their incongruity, severity, and
injustice towards the poor, long constituted a crying evil in
Castelcicala. ‘Every advantage was given to the rich in the way of
procuring bail in those cases where security for personal appearance
was required; but no poor man could possibly give such security.
He must go to prison, and there herd with felons of the blackest
dye. Perhaps on trial his innocence would transpire; and then what
recompense had he for his long incarceration--his home broken up during
his absence--and his ruined family? It was possible--nay, it often
happened that a man would lie thus in prison for four or five months
previously to trial; and during that period it would be strange indeed
if he escaped gaol contamination.’--In order to remedy these evils,
vast facilities were afforded in respect to bail, the respectability
and not the monied qualifications of the sureties being considered.
Thus a working man may be bailed by any two of his associates who can
obtain a good character from their employer: this of course applies
to charges of a lighter kind, heavier responsibility being required
where a serious accusation is involved. But even should an accused
have to go to prison until his trial, he is not placed in a felons’
gaol: he is not, while still untried, subjected to that indignity
and contamination. He is confined in a building having no connexion
with a prison, and termed _A House of Detention_. Again, the judges
have the power to order a compensation to every one whose innocence
transpires on trial; and I must inform you that the trial may take
place as soon after committal as the individual chooses. All depends
on the speed which he makes in getting up his defence. When committed,
he is asked if he have the means of retaining counsel: if he prove to
the magistrate that he is poor, a barrister is immediately provided
for him. The trial may come on the very next day; for there are local
Courts throughout the Grand Duchy, and these courts have no recess--no
holiday. Were I, on my return to Castelcicala, to inform a person not
well acquainted with English laws and customs, that in this very same
enlightened England a man may languish several months in a common gaol
awaiting his trial, I should scarcely be believed.”

“And what is the nature of the punishments inflicted in the country of
your Royal Highness’s adoption?” enquired Sir John Lascelles.

“I will tell you,” said the Prince. “In the first place we have
abolished the punishment of death, as barbarian, un-Christian, and
demoralizing. Murder is punished by imprisonment for life; and
imprisonment, fine, confiscation of property in the cases of single
men having no persons dependent on them, and the loss of civil
rights--these are the penalties used amongst us. The individual who is
condemned to imprisonment, is not on that account rendered an useless
member of society. Every criminal gaol is an assemblage of workshops
where all trades and manufactures are carried on; and each prisoner
must work at his own trade, or be taught one. If he have a family
out-of-doors, his earnings go to support that family: if he have none,
they accumulate until the day of his release. Should he refuse to work,
he is put upon bread and water; and this fare soon compels him to adopt
habits of industry in order to obtain plentiful and wholesome meals.
Castelcicalan prisons resemble vast factories rather than gaols; and
so admirable--so salutary--so reformatory is the discipline maintained
in them, that a prisoner on his emancipation finds no difficulty in
obtaining work again. Employers consider, in such a case, that he has
expiated an offence which should not be remembered to his prejudice;
and he begins the world again with a new character. He has, as it
were, passed through a criminal bankruptcy court, and obtained his
certificate. Should he, however, experience any difficulty in finding
employment, the local authorities are bound to supply him with work at
the average rate of wages. The results of all these arrangements are
striking. In the first place, a Castelcicalan prison is reformatory
instead of being a sink of contaminating iniquity: secondly, a man on
leaving a criminal gaol, is not forced back into the ways of vice. If
he relapse, it must be through determined wickedness: but relapses are
very, very rare in the Grand Duchy--for happily those individuals are
few who remain in the ways of crime for crime’s sake! And now, my lord,
you will perceive how far the framers of all these salutary enactments
respecting prisoners and prison discipline, were indebted to the
following passage in your speech:--‘The criminal laws of England are
only calculated to produce widely spread demoralization--to propagate
vice--to render crime terribly prolific. A man no matter what his
offence may have been--should be deemed innocent and untainted again,
when he has paid the penalty of his misdeeds; because to brand a human
being eternally, is to fly in the face of the Almighty and assert that
there should be no such thing as forgiveness, and that there is no such
thing as repentance. But the nature of punishments in England is so to
brand the individual, and so to dare the majesty of heaven. For the
gaols are perfect nests of infamy--sinks of iniquity, imprisonment in
which necessarily fastens an indelible stigma upon the individual. He
either comes forth tainted; or else it is supposed that he must be so.
Under these circumstances, he vainly endeavours to obtain employment;
and, utterly failing in his attempt to earn an honest livelihood, he
is compelled perforce to relapse into habits of crime and lawlessness.
This fact accounts for an immense amount of the demoralization which
the Bishops so much deplore, but the true causes of which they
obstinately refuse to acknowledge. The criminal gaols are moral
pest-houses, in which no cures are effected, but where the contagious
malady becomes more virulent. Society should not immure offenders
solely for the sake of punishment--but with a view to reformation of
character.’”

“Castelcicala has the honour of having taken the initiative in all the
great and glorious reforms which you suggested,” said Mr. Hatfield,
turning with admiration towards the Earl of Effingham. “In England
reform is much talked of; and when a small concession is made--for a
_concession_ it is in this country, to all intents and purposes--the
people congratulate themselves as if their complete emancipation were
at hand.”

“There is a passage in the Earl’s speech,” resumed the Prince, “which
particularly struck the Grand Duke and the Ministers when they were
deliberating upon the proposed reforms and ameliorations to be
introduced to the Chambers. That passage ran thus:--‘When a poor man
is oppressed by a rich one, it is vain and ludicrous to assert that
the Courts of Law are open to him: law is a luxury in which only those
who possess ample means can indulge. In a case where some grievous
injury is sustained by a poor man--the seduction of his wife or
daughter, for instance--redress or recompense is impossible, unless
some attorney takes up the case on speculation; and this is a practice
most demoralizing and pernicious. But if left entirely unassisted in
that respect, the poor man can no more go to Westminster Hall than he
can afford to dine at Long’s Hotel.’--Now in Castelcicala, a plan has
been adopted which seems to meet the difficulties set forth in the
Earl of Ellingham’s speech, and which does not involve the additional
danger of rendering law so cheap as to encourage litigation in every
paltry quarrel. To every Local Court are attached officers denominated
the _Peoples’ Attorneys-General_; and any poor man having a ground
of complaint against a neighbour, addresses himself to one of those
officers, who immediately examines into the affair, and if he see
that the plaint be well founded, he prosecutes on behalf of the poor
man. These officers are paid fixed salaries by the Government, and
dare not take fees. They are selected with care, and are as incapable
of bribery as the judges themselves;--and thus every means is taken
to guarantee the poor man justice. Seduction and adultery are not
made mere pecuniary matters in Castelcicala: they are punished by
imprisonment;--and the penalty is very heavy in a case where a rich
man debauches a poor man’s daughter. I now pass on to the subject
of Education; and your treatment of this subject, my dear Earl, in
your speech, is not the least remarkable portion of the oration.
You declared that ‘it was positively shocking to think that such
care should be taken to convert negroes to Christianity thousands of
miles off, while the most deplorable ignorance prevailed at home.
The Church enjoys revenues the amount of which actually bring the
ministers of the gospel into discredit, as evidencing their avaricious
and grasping disposition;--while the people remain as uneducated as
if not a single shilling were devoted to spiritual pastors or lay
instructors.’ You boldly ‘accused both houses of Parliament and the
upper classes generally of being anxious to keep the masses in a
state of ignorance. Where instruction is imparted gratuitously, it
is entirely of a sectarian nature; just as if men required to study
grammar, history, arithmetic, or astronomy on Church of England
principles. The whole land is over-run by clergymen, who live upon the
fat of it--Universities and public schools have been richly endowed for
the purpose of propagating knowledge and encouraging learning,--and
yet the people are lamentably ignorant. It is a wicked and impudent
falsehood to declare that they are intellectually dull or averse to
mental improvement. Common sense--that best of sense--is the special
characteristic of the working classes; and those who can read are
absolutely greedy in their anxiety to procure books, newspapers, and
cheap publications for perusal. The fact is, that the mind of the
industrious population is a rich soil, wherein all good seed will
speedily take root, shoot up, and bring forth fruit to perfection:
but the apprehensions or narrow prejudices of the upper classes--the
oligarchy--will not permit the seed to be sown. Now as the soil must
naturally produce something, even of its own accord, it too often gives
birth to rank weeds; and this is made a matter of scorn, reviling,
and reproach. But the real objects of that scorn--that reviling--and
that reproach, are those who obstinately and wickedly neglect to
put the good soil to the full test of fertilisation.’--All these
observations,” continued his Royal Highness, “were as applicable to
Castelcicala a short time back as they have ever been and still are in
England. But the reforms in the Church and in the Educational System
were not the least important of those which characterised the new
order of things. The two institutions were separated, and rendered
entirely independent of each other, the Church being abandoned entirely
to the voluntary principle, and the duty of educating the people
being attached to the State, a Minister of Public Instruction being
appointed. All sectarianism in education is now abolished: the system
is entirely secular. The schoolmasters are appointed by the municipal
corporations in the various localities, and their salaries are paid by
the State. They are all laymen; for it is now a principle established
in the Grand Duchy that parents shall train up their children in the
creed which they may prefer. Thus Protestants, Catholics, and Jews
all receive the blessings and benefits of the secular education; no
tampering with religious opinions--no proselytism being permitted. The
whole scheme is on the broadest basis of liberality; and the people
are delighted with its working. As for the Church, it is entirely
separated from the State; and the order of Bishops has been suppressed.
The Catholic religion is still that of the great majority: but it is
shorn of its pomp; and ecclesiastical ostentation and vain display
have received a blow which they will never recover. The result is,
that the Christian creed has been restored to something resembling its
primitive simplicity, and such as its Divine Founder intended. I have
now, my lord and gentlemen, given you a hasty, but I hope intelligible
sketch of the condition of Castelcicala at the present day; and it only
remains for me to sum up the reforms which have been accomplished,
and which completely carry out the views and the theories so ably
propounded by you, my dear Earl, nineteen years ago. In the first
place, there is a Throne surrounded by Republican Institutions; and
the hereditary principle as well as the law of primogeniture have been
annihilated--never to be revived. Then, we have adopted ‘a _minimum_
rate of wages, to prevent the sudden fluctuation of such wages, and to
compel property to give constant employment to labour:--indirect taxes
upon the necessaries of life have been abolished;--the laws and their
administration are equitably proportioned to the relative conditions
of the rich and the poor;--a general system of national education
has been established, and intrusted to laymen, totally distinct from
religious instruction and sectarian tenets;--a complete reformation in
the system of prison discipline has taken place; and establishments
have been founded for the purpose of affording work to persons upon
leaving criminal gaols, as a means of their obtaining an honest
livelihood and retrieving their characters prior to seeking employment
for themselves;--and the franchise has been so extended as to give
every man who earns his own bread by the sweat of his brow, a stake and
interest in the country’s welfare.’”

The Prince ceased speaking; and those who had been his auditors
expressed their sincerest thanks for the gratifying explanations he
had given them with so much readiness and affability. Nor less were
they charmed to find that a truly liberal and enlightened system
of policy would stand such remarkable tests, and work so well. The
question, whether the nations of Europe are civilised enough to receive
Republican Institutions, was completely solved, to their satisfaction;
and even Sir John Lascelles, who was somewhat tainted with the
doctrines of the Old School, acknowledged himself to be a convert.

The party then joined the ladies in the drawing-room where political
subjects gave way to discourse upon less serious topics;--and when the
company took their departure, the inmates of the lordly mansion did
not separate to retire to their respective chambers until they had
exchanged many enthusiastic comments upon the character, disposition,
talents, and bearing of his Royal Highness, the Prince of Montoni.




CHAPTER CXXXIV.

A PAINFUL SCENE.


We deemed it advisable to break as little as possible, by comment or
extraneous explanation, the thread of the Prince of Montoni’s discourse
upon the reform that had been introduced into the Grand Duchy of
Castelcicala. We therefore refrained from giving any account of the
manner in which Charles Hatfield listened, and received--or rather,
greedily drank in--the narrative of his Royal Highness.

To say that the young man heard with enthusiasm, were to convey but
a feeble idea of his emotions as he hung upon every sentence--every
word, that fell from the lips of the Earl’s illustrious guest:--when,
however, we declare that even Perdita’s image fell into the back-ground
of his mind, during the whole time that the Prince was discoursing, our
readers may form some notion of the nature of that impression which was
made upon him.

On retiring to his chamber at about one o’clock in the morning, Charles
Hatfield thought not of seeking his couch: but, throwing himself into
an arm-chair, he gave way to the agitating--conflicting--turbulent
ideas which had been excited in his soul.

“The modesty of the Prince,” he thought, “concealed the fact that
nearly all the reforms which he detailed, were suggested by himself.
Oh! what would I give to be enabled to raise myself to eminence in
the world! Twenty years of my life?--Ah! yes--willingly--willingly
would I yield up a quarter of my probable existence to gain a name,
honoured and renowned as that of the Prince of Montoni! And is not rank
within my grasp? Can I not in a moment--by the waving of my hand, as it
were--place upon my brow the coronet of a Viscount? May I not yet stand
before the world as the heir-apparent to the Earldom of Ellingham?
Yes;--and if once I find my way into the supreme legislative assembly,
shall I not be enabled to advocate the cause of the People, and
obtain a glorious renown? It were trifling with my own interests--it
were wronging myself, to abstain from asserting my just rights! If
my father choose to remain a simple commoner and allow his younger
brother to wear the honours and hold the estates of a proud Earldom, am
I to be bound by his will? No--no: and my father acts not a parent’s
part towards me in thus keeping me in obscurity. ’Tis clear that my
sire’s early life renders him desirous to shun all circumstances that
may attract attention towards him: ’tis clear--my God! how dreadful
to think of!--’tis clear, I say, that he feels the impropriety of a
highwayman laying claim to a lordly title! Oh! the sins of the father
are indeed visited on the child in my case! But I am innocent: my life
has been spotless and pure--my character is untarnished. Wherefore
should I suffer for my parent’s crimes? It is unjust--most unjust; and
even filial duty, in its best and holiest sense, cannot compel me to
renounce the distinctions to which by birth I am the heir! No--no: a
young man of my ambition--my talents--my feelings--my burning hopes,
must not immolate himself for the sake of a father who acts unjustly
towards him. For how stands the case between us? The question is
whether a parent should make any and every sacrifice for his child; or
whether the child must make all possible sacrifices for his father. In
asserting his rights, claiming his title, and thereby enabling me to
assume my own, he doubtless would have to make a sacrifice: he must
declare who he is--my God!--the Resuscitated Highwayman! But, on the
other hand, in consenting to keep his secret, do I not wilfully blind
myself to my own interests--wantonly thrust aside those opportunities
of gaining distinction and acquiring renown which are within my
reach--crush with suicidal hand the glorious aspirations which I have
formed--and purposely trample on all the hopes that are developing
themselves before me?”

Charles Hatfield rose--paced the room in an agitated manner--then,
reseating himself, again plunged into his ominous reflections.

“I have read that those who yield to the influence of false
sentimentalism, never rise in the world. He who would attain to the
pinnacle of eminence, must harden his heart,--even as did Napoleon,
when he put away from him that charming Josephine who loved him with
such pure and fervid devotion. Yes--family, kith, and kindred must
be sacrificed--all sacrificed--by him who follows the dictates of
his ambition. And yet--and yet, did not Richard Markham rise by his
virtues, as much as by his talents and heroism, to that eminence which
enabled him to take his place amongst the mightiest Princes of Europe?
Oh! but _he_ had opportunities which may never occur again--he is
the one in the thousand whom Fortune takes by the hand. If I remain
obscure--unknown--plain _Mr. Charles Hatfield_--I am but an unit amidst
the millions which, constitute the mass called _the People_. But if I
suddenly stand forth as a Viscount, and the heir of a wealthy Earldom,
shall I not at once be placed in a position to carve out a career for
myself? Oh! how glorious--how thrilling would it be, to have the power
of saying to my Perdita, ‘_Beautiful angel! I am not the obscure young
man I appear to be: in me behold Viscount Marston, the heir to the
Earldom of Ellingham!_’ Ah! Perdita, then would you feel honoured in
my love--and I should not be compelled to evince my gratitude to thee
for loving me! Charming, adorable Perdita--thine image is coupled with
the bright dream of ambition that now animates me;--for when I shall
have distinguished myself in the Senate, how delicious will it be to
see thee welcome with pride and admiration my return to thine arms,--to
behold thy fine eyes fixed upon me, eloquently proclaiming how proud
thou art to own the love of a man who is filling the world with his
fame! Yes--I must assert my rights:--but how? Oh! I will confide all
to Perdita--and she possesses a mind so strong and an intellect so
powerful, that she will assist me with her counsel in this difficulty.
And it will be so sweet to receive advice from her lips--so delightful
to mark the interest which she will take in my affairs!”

Again he rose from his seat: for a sudden thought had struck
him--accompanied by a severe pang,--a pang that went through his heart
like a barbed arrow.

“My mother!--my poor mother!” he murmured to himself: “Oh! what a blow
will it be to _her_ if I compel my father--compel her husband--to
assert his claims to the Earldom of Ellingham! And yet--was I not for
years neglected by her?--did she care for me--did she even have me to
dwell with her during my infancy? No--no: I was abandoned to the woman
Watts;--and had I become a thief in the streets--a prowling, houseless
vagabond--my mother would have been to blame!”

Thus was it that this young man, having imbibed from Perdita the art
and facility of sophistical reasoning,--thus was it that he crushed all
the naturally generous feelings of his soul, and struggled desperately
to subdue the promptings of his really good disposition.

Love and ambition produced these baneful effects!

But his love,--was it a pure and honest love inspired by a virtuous
being?--or was it a frenzy engendered and sustained by a depraved and
designing woman endowed with the most glorious beauty?

And his ambition,--was it that fine spirit of emulation which warms the
generous heart, and prompts the enlightened mind to seek distinction
for the sake of being enabled, by means of influence and high position,
to benefit the human race?--or was it a selfish craving after rank and
power, in order to enjoy the sweets of applause, become the object of
servile flattery, and obtain the honour ever shown in this country to
sounding titles and a proud aristocracy?

The reader can answer these questions for himself.

Having passed nearly two hours in the wild reverie which suggested
schemes so menacing in their nature to his own and his parents’
happiness, Charles Hatfield retired to rest;--and in his dreams he
beheld a variety of scenes and images, incongruously grouped and
confusedly jumbled together,--the voluptuous form of Perdita stretched
in a witching undress on the sofa, and extending her arms to welcome
him to her embraces,--the Marshal Prince of Montoni, seated on
horseback, surrounded by a brilliant staff,--thousands and thousands of
persons gathered together to witness the passing of a gay cavalcade,
of which he fancied himself to be the leader as well as the hero of the
occasion,--and then his father and mother kneeling and weeping at his
feet, and proffering some prayer to which he refused to accede. Then he
thought that he was roving in a delicious garden, where the singing of
birds, the hues of the flowers, and the fragrance of aromatic shrubs
made every thing delightful to the senses, and where Perdita was his
companion. She appeared to be clad in the loose and scanty drapery
which heathen goddesses are represented to wear,--fastened by a clasp
on the left shoulder, flowing so as to leave the right bosom entirely
bare, and confined by a zone to the waist. Airily, airily they tripped
along together, until they beheld a temple standing at a distance:
then Perdita suddenly assumed the majesty of a queen--and conducting
her lover to a shrine within the temple, made him kneel down while she
crowned him with a wreath of flowers, while unseen minstrels poured
forth a strain of delicious music.

Under the influence of this last dream he awoke;--and the image of
Perdita still remained uppermost in his mind.

Then as he performed the functions of the toilette, he reconsidered
all the arguments and plans--repeated to himself all the sophistical
reasoning--into which he had fallen before he retired to rest;--and,
hardening his heart in respect to his parents,--yes, and hardening it,
too, with regard to Lady Frances Ellingham,--he resolved to sacrifice
all and every thing to the two idols of his soul--ambition and Perdita!

In this frame of mind he descended to the breakfast-parlour, where the
Earl and Countess of Ellingham, Lady Frances, Mr. Hatfield, and Lady
Georgiana were already assembled. Charles assumed as gay an appearance
as possible: for he was resolved to mask his knowledge of all the
family secrets as well as his sinister designs, until he should have
consulted with Perdita. But in spite of himself, there was a certain
constraint and embarrassment in his manner when he spoke to Lady
Frances; and this artless, beautiful young creature surveyed him with
astonishment and grief.

The fact was that the heart of Charles Hatfield smote him for the vile
and perfidious part he had enacted towards his cousin; and he scarcely
dared to look her in the face.

Her parents and his own, as well as she herself, noticed the
peculiarity of his demeanour in this respect; and Lady Georgiana was
so affected by his apparent coolness towards the Earl’s daughter that
it was with difficulty she could restrain herself from questioning
him then and there on the subject. A hasty whisper, however, from her
husband sealed her tongue and gave her the assurance that he would soon
ascertain the cause of their son’s altered behaviour towards the young
lady who was already looked upon as his future wife.

Accordingly, when the morning repast was concluded, Mr. Hatfield
beckoned his son to follow him to the library; and now Charles was
struck with a sudden fear--conscience exciting the apprehension
that his schemings were discovered and seen through by an outraged,
indignant father.

On entering the library, Mr. Hatfield motioned him to take a seat near
him: then, fixing his eyes upon the young man’s countenance, he said,
“Charles, has any misunderstanding occurred between Lady Frances and
yourself?”

“No--not that I am aware of,” returned Charles, considerably relieved
by the question that indicated the nature of the colloquy which it
opened. “Wherefore should you entertain such an idea?”

“Because your manner towards Lady Frances at the breakfast-table was
cool, constrained, and embarrassed,” said Mr. Hatfield. “She herself
noticed the circumstance; and I observed that Lord and Lady Ellingham
were pained by it likewise. As for your mother, Charles--she was deeply
grieved; and I was both hurt and annoyed.”

“I am sorry, my dear father--but--but, I was not aware of any
difference in my demeanour towards her ladyship,” stammered Charles,
unskilled as yet in the arts of duplicity and guile.

“My son--my dear son, do not attempt to deceive me!” exclaimed Mr.
Hatfield, emphatically. “Lady Frances, in the artlessness of her
soul--in the confiding candour of her amiable nature--yesterday
acquainted her mother, the Countess of Ellingham, with all that had
taken place between yourself and her in the morning. You made her an
offer of your hand, in pursuance of the counsel which I gave you;--and
her parents will cheerfully yield an assent to your suit. Indeed, the
Earl expected to see you on the subject yesterday afternoon; but it
appears that immediately after your interview with Lady Frances, you
went out and remained absent for some hours. How you dispose of your
time, it is not for me to enquire: you are of an age when you are
entitled to be your own master. But this I implore of you,--lose no
time in seeking a private interview with the Earl, and soliciting him
to accord you the hand of his daughter. ’Tis a mere ceremony which
a parent, and a personage of his standing, naturally expects you to
perform;--and I promise you that there is no chance of a refusal.”

“My dear father,” said Charles, the natural candour of his nature
asserting its empire; “I was too hasty in proposing to Lady Frances.
Would to God that I could recall the step I thus rashly took!”

Mr. Hatfield surveyed his son in profound astonishment for nearly a
minute: then, breaking forth indignantly, he exclaimed, “What, sir! you
have dared to trifle with the affections of an amiable and accomplished
girl?--you decline a match which is so desirable in every point of
view, and on which your mother’s heart is set?”

“I must decline the honour of this alliance,” answered the young man,
speaking with a courage which even surprised himself.

“Do you know, Charles,” demanded his father, with on utterance almost
suffocated by indescribable emotions,--“do you know that your conduct
is that of a villain? And shall it be said that you--_you_, a young man
of whom such lofty expectations have been formed----”

“By whom have these expectations been formed?” suddenly cried the
rebellious son, his choler rising as all his wrongs, real or imaginary,
rushed to his mind,--those wrongs which he believed himself to have
received and to be still enduring at the hands of his parents.

“By whom?” repeated Mr. Hatfield, much pained by the tone, words, and
manner of the young man. “By whom should such hopes be experienced,
save by your parents?”

“My parents!” cried Charles, with withering irony. “Wherefore am I not
acknowledged as your son?--why do you not proclaim yourselves to be my
parents? Was not the discovery on my part a matter of mere chance?--and
should I not have been kept for ever ignorant of the fact, had not an
accident revealed it to me?”

[Illustration]

“Oh! my God!--this is retribution!” murmured Mr. Hatfield, bowing
himself down, and covering his face with his hands.

At that moment the door opened--and Lady Georgiana, pale as death and
scarcely able to support herself on her tottering limbs, made her
appearance.

Unable to endure the state of suspense in which she had been plunged
relative to the altered manner of her son towards Lady Frances at the
breakfast-table,--and having a vague presentiment that some unpleasant
scene was occurring between him and her husband in the library,--she
had determined to repair thither and relieve herself at once from an
uncertainty that was intolerable. But upon reaching the door she heard
Charles talking loudly and bitterly: she instinctively paused;--and
those terrible questions which he addressed to his father, smote upon
_her_ ear like the voice of the Angel of Death.

Staggering into the room, she mechanically closed the door behind
her; and then leant against it for support. Her fine--her handsome
countenance denoted the most poignant anguish: it was absolutely
distorted--while a frightful pallor overspread it.

“My mother--my dear mother!” exclaimed Charles, bounding towards
her;--for his soul was touched by the pitiable appearance which she
presented to his view.

“Just heaven! Charles--what have you said to your father!” she asked,
in a tone of despair;--and flinging herself into her son’s arms, she
gave vent to a flood of tears.

“I implore your pardon, my dear parents, if in a moment of haste and
impatience I said aught that can give you offence,” exclaimed the young
man: “but I was not master of my emotions--for you, my father, had
termed me a _villain_!”

“Let us not recriminate,” said Mr. Hatfield, rising and taking his
son by the hand, Lady Georgiana having in the meantime sunk into the
chair to which Charles conducted her. “I was wrong to address you thus
harshly: but your refusal to form an alliance with Lady Frances, to
whom you only yesterday imparted a confession of attachment----”

“O Charles! is it possible that your parents are to experience such
bitterness of disappointment as this?” exclaimed Lady Georgiana,
turning a look of appeal--of earnest appeal--upon her son. “You know
not how profound will be my sorrow if you thus enact a perfidious part
towards Lady Frances Ellingham!”

“Would you have me wed when my heart is not fixed?” demanded Charles,
warmly. “I laboured under a delusion: I fancied that I loved Lady
Frances as one whom I should wish to make my wife--but I now find
that it was only with the affection of a brother or of a very sincere
friend that I in reality regarded her! Yesterday morning you, my dear
father, entered my chamber, at a moment when the confusion of ideas
caused by unpleasant dreams was scarcely dissipated;--you urged me to
confess an attachment to Lady Frances--to seek her hand;--and I obeyed
you! But I acted under an impulse for which I could not account;--I
yielded to some unknown influence which I could not resist. And yet it
was not love, my dear parents;--no--it was not love! In making Lady
Frances my wife I should only ensure the unhappiness of an excellent--a
beautiful--an accomplished girl----”

“You admit all her admirable qualities, Charles,” interrupted his
mother; “and yet you refuse to avail yourself of an opportunity to
secure so precious a prize--to link your fortunes with one who is
certain to make the best of wives!”

“It is truly incomprehensible!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, whose knowledge
of the world and large experience of the human heart convinced him that
there was something more at the bottom of his son’s conduct than the
alleged reasons for so abruptly breaking off a match that, he thought,
must appear in every way so eligible and advantageous to the young man.

“My dear parents, this scene is most painful to us all,” said Charles,
who, glancing rapidly at the time-piece upon the mantel, saw that the
hour was approaching for his to visit Perdita.

His father, observing that impatient look cast towards the clock,
instantly comprehended that his son had some appointment to keep;
and connecting this discovery with the strangeness of his conduct in
respect to Lady Frances, it flashed to his mind in a moment that the
young man had formed some attachment elsewhere.

“Charles,” he accordingly said, turning abruptly towards his son and
looking him full in the face, “you love another?”

The young man became red as scarlet, and stammered out a few
unintelligible words, which his father soon cut short.

“Now we have discovered the truth! But surely you have formed no
unworthy attachment?--surely you cannot love one whom you are ashamed
to name?” cried Mr. Hatfield.

“Speak, Charles--speak! Answer your father!” said Lady Georgiana, in an
imploring tone, as she perceived her son turn away towards the mantel.

For rebellious thoughts again rose in the mind of the young man;--and
he felt hurt and vexed that his conduct should thus be questioned by
parents who never had acknowledged him as their son until the necessity
was forced upon them by his accidental discovery of the secret of his
birth, and who now kept him out of what he conceived to be his just
rights. Moreover, was he not twenty-five years old?--and was that
an age at which he should thus be tutored and treated like a child?
Lastly, it was verging fast upon twelve; and had he not assured his
Perdita that he would not be a minute later mid-day?

“Charles, why do you not answer me?” asked Mr. Hatfield, approaching
him: “wherefore do you treat your parents with contempt?”

“Wherefore did my parents treat me with such unnatural neglect as
to bring me up as their nephew?” demanded the young man, turning
abruptly--almost savagely round upon his father. “Wherefore do they
now pass me off to the world in that latter capacity?” he cried,
becoming fearfully excited.

Lady Georgiana uttered a faint scream, covered her face with her hands,
and fell back in her chair sobbing bitterly.

“You speak of unnatural conduct!” cried Mr. Hatfield, growing excited
in his turn. “Tell me at once, Charles--do you mean to throw off all
allegiance to your parents? If so--remember that it is in our power
to deprive you of the immense fortune which is otherwise destined for
you----”

“Ah! menaces!” ejaculated the young man: and darting upon his father a
look of mingled regret and anger--of united sorrow and indignation,--a
look so strange, so ominous that Mr. Hatfield started with horror,--he
rushed from the room.

“Stay! stay!” cried Lady Georgiana, springing towards the door.

But her son heeded her not: he obeyed not her voice;--and the unhappy
mother sank upon the floor, gasping for utterance, and feeling as if
her heart would break with the wretched sensations that filled her
bosom.

Mr. Hatfield hastened to raise his wife--to place her in a chair--and
to breath words of consolation in her ears.

When she was somewhat recovered, she clasped her hands convulsively
together; and, looking up appealingly into his face, said, “Is this a
reality? or is it a dream?”

“Alas! it is a terrible reality,” responded Mr. Hatfield, in a tone of
mingled bitterness and sorrow.

“And what can it all mean?” asked Lady Georgiana, wildly: for she was
bewildered by the strangeness of her son’s conduct--amazed by the
sudden alteration of his manner from respect to insolent indifference
towards his parents.

“Heaven alone can solve that question for us at present,” returned her
husband. “Can it be that he has learnt any thing--that he suspects
aught of the past? No--no: that is impossible! But ever since the
discovery of his real parentage, he has been altered;--sometimes moody
and thoughtful--at others petulant and hasty,--now unnaturally gay and
excited--then deeply depressed and melancholy,--but never unruly and
overbearing, disobedient and rebellious, as he has shown himself this
forenoon.”

“’Tis easy to perceive, I fear, that he is troubled by the mystery
which induced us to conceal his position with regard to us,” said Lady
Georgiana;--“and likewise--yes, likewise,” she added hesitatingly, “the
circumstance that he still passes as our nephew weighs upon his mind!”

“Oh! this is a terrible retribution for my sins!--an awful punishment
for the foul misdeeds of my earlier years!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield,
wringing his hands bitterly.

“My dear husband,” said Lady Georgiana, whose turn it now was to
console; “give not way thus to your sorrow! Let us hope that he will
repent of this strange unruliness of conduct----”

“Alas! I have sad forebodings of evil!” cried the unhappy man. “I
fear that he has formed some unworthy connexion, Georgiana: but let
us dissemble our sorrow--let us not afflict the Earl and the amiable
Esther by giving them any account of the occurrences of this day.”

“And yet what can we say respecting the union that was contemplated
between their amiable daughter and our son?” demanded Lady Georgiana,
in an anxious tone.

“We will by some means find an excuse for the embarrassment and
coldness of manner which Charles exhibited at the breakfast-table,”
returned Mr. Hatfield; “and I will seek the earliest opportunity to
reason with him fully and calmly upon the subject.”

“If he should have formed an attachment elsewhere----”

“That is scarcely probable, when we come to look calmly at the
matter--since he yesterday morning declared his affection to Frances.”

“Alas! ’tis a mystery which pains and alarms me,” said Lady Georgiana.

“A mystery which I will penetrate, my dear wife!” exclaimed Mr.
Hatfield, in a resolute--almost stern tone of voice. “But for the
present, it is useless to hazard a conjecture.”




CHAPTER CXXXV.

CHARLES HATFIELD AND MRS. FITZHARDINGE.


It was a little after twelve o’clock when Charles Hatfield reached the
house in Suffolk Street.

“Is Miss Fitzhardinge at home?” he enquired of the female servant who
answered his summons at the door.

“Have the kindness to walk up into the drawing-room, sir,” was the
response; and, with beating heart, the young man followed the domestic
into the apartment where he expected again to behold his beauteous
Perdita.

But, to his disappointment--a disappointment which he could not
conceal, he found himself in the presence of her mother.

“Be seated, sir,” she said, coldly and formally indicating a chair,
into which Charles Hatfield fell as if in obedience to the command of a
witch. “I have many matters whereon to converse with you; and, to speak
candidly, scarcely know how to commence. One subject personally regards
you: another intimately relates to my own interests. But I will begin
with that which so nearly concerns yourself.”

“I am all attention, madam,” said Charles, endeavouring to assume as
respectful a demeanour as possible, but in reality glancing with much
impatience towards the door--as if by his eager looks inviting the
entrance of Perdita.

“My daughter will not interrupt us, Mr. Hatfield,” exclaimed Mrs.
Fitzhardinge, with an affectation of malice which seemed ominous and
foreboding to the young man. “Indeed, whether you will ever see her
again, depends upon the result of our present interview.”

“My God! madam,” cried Charles, in an imploring tone; “have I offended
your beautiful daughter--or yourself?”

“I am not precisely offended, Mr. Hatfield,” said the old woman,
assuming a more conciliatory manner: “but certain explanations are
necessary between us;--and indeed, it depends entirely on yourself
whether you ever behold Perdita again.”

“Then I shall behold her again, madam,” returned Charles, emphatically.
“And now I can really listen to you with attention----”

“And perhaps with patience,” added Mrs. Fitzhardinge, her rigid
features at length relaxing into a faint smile. “But I will not tax
that patience longer than I can help. Firstly, then, we are to speak of
the matters which concern yourself. And now--will you not be surprised
when I assure you that I am acquainted with many strange and marvellous
secrets connected with your family?”

“Ah!” ejaculated Charles, starting.

“But perhaps I even know more than you yourself are acquainted with?”
said Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

“No, madam--no: that is impossible!” he cried, emphatically.

“Do any of those secrets give you pain to contemplate?” she asked,
fixing her eyes searchingly upon him. “Pardon me for thus questioning
you----”

“And why, madam, do you so question me?” he demanded, almost angrily.

“Because I am as yet ignorant to what extent your knowledge may go in
certain respects,” she replied.

“Then believe me, madam--believe me,” cried Charles Hatfield, bitterly,
“when I assure you that I know much more than you can possibly have an
idea of!”

“Is the name of Rainford familiar to you?” asked the old woman,
steadily watching the effect of her question.

“Madam,” exclaimed Charles, starting from his seat, and approaching
Mrs. Fitzhardinge in a threatening manner, “would you taunt me with the
infamy of my birth?--for I see that it is no secret to you! But imagine
not--if such indeed be your idea--that I am unworthy the love of your
daughter Perdita! You were about to marry her to an old nobleman: what
if a young nobleman were to demand her hand?”

“A young nobleman!” ejaculated Mrs. Fitzhardinge, now surprised in
her turn: for it must be remembered that all she knew concerning the
present subject was gleaned from the musings of the old gipsy; and
those musings had led her to believe that Charles was the nephew of Mr.
Hatfield, _alias_ Thomas Rainford.

“Yes--madam--a young nobleman!” he repeated, carried away by the
excitement of feelings under which he laboured: for he fancied that
the old lady had intended to reproach him--_him_, the son of the
resuscitated highwayman--with having dared to love her daughter. “And
now, perhaps, it is your turn to be surprised: for, as surely as you
are seated there, I am not the plain, and humble, and obscure Charles
Hatfield--but the _Lord Viscount Marston_, heir to the Earldom of
Ellingham!”

Mrs. Fitzhardinge restrained her surprise with the utmost presence of
mind--exerting indeed an extraordinary power of self-controul; and,
surveying him with an unblushing effrontery, she said, “Well, my lord,
your lordship is at length led to confess who you really are!”

“My lord”--“your lordship!”--Oh! how sweetly--how sweetly sounded those
words on the ears of Charles Hatfield:--he forgot that he was the son
of the resuscitated highwayman--he remembered not that his sire had
passed through the ordeal of a scaffold: he heard only that he was
saluted with a title of nobility; and already did it seem as if half
his ambition were gratified.

“Madam,” he said, at length recovering his self-possession, and
subduing as much as possible the wildness of that joy which had seized
upon him, “then it appears you were acquainted with my right to a title
of nobility?”

“I was,” she answered, with an air of the most perfect truthfulness:
“and believing _you_ to be ignorant of that fact, I was anxious to
make the revelation to your lordship.”

“You are consequently acquainted with every thing that regards me?”
continued Charles, not perceiving, in the still elated condition of
his mind, that the question was foolish became it embraced a vague and
undefined generality.

“Everything, my lord,” returned Mrs. Fitzhardinge, repeating the
titular appellation, because in her latent shrewdness she saw full well
the pleasure that its swelling sound afforded to the young man.

“This is most strange--most singular!” cried Charles, musing audibly:
“for I came hither with the intention of revealing all--every thing--to
your Perdita, through whom you would have learnt the entire particulars
in the course of this day;--and, behold! I am anticipated--for you
already are as well acquainted with those most mysterious circumstances
as I myself! But may I ask, madam,” he exclaimed, turning abruptly
towards Mrs. Fitzhardinge,--“may I ask how you came to know that Mr.
Hatfield is my father, and that he is the rightful Earl of Ellingham,
legitimately born?”

Mrs. Fitzhardinge had hitherto known nothing at all of those
circumstances; but, without manifesting the least surprise, she said,
“Pray be seated, my lord--compose yourself--give not way to unnecessary
excitement; and I will at once proceed to explain all my conduct to
your lordship.”

Charles Hatfield threw himself into an arm-chair, and showed a
disposition to listen with attention.

“Has your lordship ever heard of a gipsy named Miranda?” enquired Mrs.
Fitzhardinge.

“Yes: I lately read the entire history of that Octavia Manners who
became Countess of Ellingham, and who was my father’s mother. The gipsy
of whom you speak was her faithful friend: but she must now be very
old--even if she be in existence!”

“She _is_ in existence--or at least was a short time back,” said Mrs.
Fitzhardinge. “From her lips did I receive the entire history of your
family.”

“But she could not have known that the late Earl of Ellingham married
the injured Octavia Manners,” cried Charles: “she could not have been
aware of my father’s real rank and position.”

“Yes--she knew all,” returned the wily woman, uttering a deliberate
falsehood: “how and by what means, it matters not--neither, indeed, did
she inform me. When the whole tale was revealed to me, I thought that
you must be in ignorance of your just rights; and, having by accident
heard a good account of your lordship’s generous heart and amiable
qualities----”

“From whom?” demanded Charles.

“Oh! I must not gratify your curiosity in these minute details,”
exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “Suffice it that I adhere to the important
points of our present topic.”

“Proceed, madam: I will not again interrupt you unnecessarily,” said
the young man.

“Well, then, my lord--I fancied that it was a flagrant shame and an
abhorrent cruelty thus to retain you in ignorance, as I supposed, of
your true standing in the world; and a sense of justice determined
me--although a total stranger to you--to acquaint your lordship with
those facts which, it however appears, were already well known to you.”

“To speak candidly, my dear madam,” said Charles, “I _was_ in complete
ignorance of all those circumstances until eight or ten days ago, when
they were revealed to me by the strangest accident in the world.”

“May I, without appearing indiscreet, enquire the nature of
the accident that thus put your lordship in possession of such
important--such vitally important facts?”

“Assuredly, my dear madam,” returned Charles Hatfield. “You yourself
have behaved to me with so much kindness and candour in this respect,
that I owe you my entire confidence. A mere chance threw in my way
certain papers which fully prove that Octavia Manners was the wife of
the late Earl of Ellingham when their child was born; and that my own
father, who now bears the name of Hatfield, but who was so long and so
unhappily known by that of Rainford, was the child to whom allusion is
made.”

“And those papers--have you them in your possession?” asked Mrs.
Fitzhardinge.

“I have--carefully concealed in a private compartment of my
writing-desk, in my own chamber at Lord Ellingham’s mansion.”

“But has your lordship no hesitation in proclaiming your rights and
titles--or rather in acquiring them by forcing your father to proclaim
his own?” demanded the old woman, again fixing her eyes steadfastly
upon his countenance.

“Ah! _there_, madam, you touch the wound in my heart!” exclaimed
Charles, the sudden workings of his countenance displaying the anguish
which the thought excited within him. “I am loth to take the grand--the
important--the irrevocable step on the one hand; and I cannot bear to
surrender up all my privileges on the other. Moreover, my parents have
not acted towards me in a way to render necessary every sacrifice on my
part;--and even this morning--this very morning--my father added a new
injury to the list of those already committed against me--a new wrong,
by upbraiding me, under particular circumstances, with harshness--even
brutality.”

“Certainly your lordship cannot permit a false sense of filial duty
to mar all the golden prospects which open before you!” exclaimed
the vile woman, who was thus encouraging evil thoughts in the young
man’s mind. “Consider your youth--your handsome appearance--your great
talents--the brilliant hopes which develop themselves in the horizon of
the future----”

“Oh! I have thought of all this--I have weighed every thing for and
against the course which I long to adopt, but which the interests of my
parents oppose----”

Charles paused--dashed his hand against his heated brow--and, rising,
paced the room in an agitated manner.

“My lord, this excitement is useless,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “If you
will deign to consider me as a friend----”

“I do--I do!” he cried, approaching her, and pressing her shrivelled
hand with fervent, but oh! with how mistaken gratitude: “have you not
proved yourself my friend? Did you not, though a stranger, contemplate
the generous act of revealing to me secrets which you considered as
necessary to be known to me? And have you not even now given me advice
which is consistent with my interests?”

“Then, if your lordship will thus regard me as a friend, permit me to
suggest that you do not on the one hand abandon your determination to
assert your rights, nor on the other adopt any course that has not
been well deliberated upon. Consider,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, “your
lordship will have to steel your heart against a father’s prayers--a
mother’s tears: you will have to contend against the entreaties of
you uncle, the Earl--and of his handsome Jewish wife,--aye--and the
beseechings of their daughter too;--for I understand that your lordship
has a beautiful cousin----”

“Oh! how many hearts may I not have to break in piling up the fabric of
my ambition!” exclaimed Charles Hatfield, his heart once more smiting
him severely,--or rather with an anguish that was intolerable.

“Yes--those are the considerations which lie before your lordship,”
resumed Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “But you must also reflect, my lord, upon
the immense interests you have at stake. Is it better to remain simple
_Charles Hatfield_ all your life--or----”

“You need not finish the question, madam,” said the young man, suddenly
interrupting the infamous old harridan, and now speaking in a cold tone
of desperate resolution. “I must persevere: my destiny is fixed--and
even if hearts break in the struggle, I will not shrink from the
contest that is to give me my just rights! But let us talk no more of
this for the present. May I be permitted to enquire after your charming
daughter----”

“You have now, my lord, turned the conversation on the second subject
which required discussion between us,” interrupted Mrs. Fitzhardinge.
“Perdita has confessed to me all that has taken place between herself
and your lordship----”

“And you are doubtless offended!” exclaimed Charles Hatfield, observing
that the old lady’s countenance had again become very serious.

“No, my lord--I am not precisely angry,” she returned; “but I tremble
to approach a topic which involves so many difficulties.”

“Ah! madam--with your strong mind, all difficulties are surmountable,”
said Charles “and you have only to stipulate, in order that I shall
assent to every thing that you may propose.”

“In the first place,” resumed the wily woman, “you are aware of the
strange--fanciful--and, I must say, unfortunate notions which my
daughter has imbibed relative to marriage; and your lordship must
be aware that--supposing your mutual passion be allowed to take its
course unrestrained--the world will regard her only as your lordship’s
mistress!”

“Madam--I would cheerfully conduct her to the altar----”

“Whither she will not go,” added the old woman, emphatically. “No--my
lord, it is useless to reason with that strong--headed, obstinate
girl on the subject. Admitting, then, that I--her mother--placing her
happiness above conventional opinions, and entertaining implicit faith
in your honour and integrity,--admitting, I say, that I consent to the
union of hearts proposed in this case,--waiving the ceremony of the
union of hands,--can you, my lord, undertake to ensure my daughter
against the contingencies of poverty?”

“Situated as I now am, the means at my disposal an limited indeed,”
said Charles Hatfield: “but the moment my rights are proclaimed and
recognised----”

“Then, at the same instant, the family estates, at present held by the
Earl of Ellingham, will pass into the hands of your father--and you
still remain totally dependant upon him until his death,” said Mrs.
Fitzhardinge, embracing at a glance the whole range of contingencies.

“True!” cried Charles, suddenly becoming much embarrassed, and seeing
difficulties most unexpectedly start up.

“_But_,” resumed Mrs. Fitzhardinge, after a few minutes’ pause, and
laying strong emphasis upon the monosyllable,--“_but_, my lord, even
should you immediately quarrel with your father by compelling him to
wrest the titles and estates from the hands of his younger brother who
now holds them, there are ways and means for your lordship to raise
money--those estates becoming inalienably yours in the perspective.”

“Yes--I understand--there is that alternative!” exclaimed Charles. “But
my father would not discard me altogether--he would not deprive me of
the means of support during his life-time----”

“You know not, my lord, what may be the results of the family
convulsion--the domestic revolution--which your contemplated
proceedings will bring about. Pardon me, my dear Viscount, if I thus
dwell upon matters so purely worldly;--but remember that I myself am
now placed in a cruel position by the total wreck of the brilliant
hopes which my claims in Chancery so recently held out;--and unless
I succeed in raising a few thousand pounds within a week, I shall
positively be menaced with imprisonment in a debtors’ gaol.”

“Merciful heaven!” cried Charles Hatfield: “how can I possibly assist
you?”

“You will not think me mercenary, my lord----”

“Oh! no--no, my dear madam!” he exclaimed impatiently. “Tell me if
there be a means of raising the amount you require; and my readiness to
adopt those means must be received by you as a proof of my anxiety to
render myself worthy of Perdita’s love and your esteem.”

“Generous nobleman!” cried Mrs. Fitzhardinge, pretending to be affected
by the scene: “my daughter will indeed be happy in the possession of
your heart! Listen, my lord,” she continued; “and our interview may
soon be brought to a close--for I know that you are as anxious to see
a certain person as she is dying to behold you. Your lordship ere now
alluded to particular papers which prove the legitimate birth, rights,
and identity of you father:--by means of those papers, and on your
lordship signing a document, I can undertake to procure as large a sum
of money as may be required either by my necessities or for your own
present wants.”

“This evening, my dear madam, I will place the papers in your hands,”
said Charles, who was anxious to terminate this interview as speedily
as possible--for his impatience to behold Perdita began to exceed his
powers of endurance.

“At eight o’clock this evening I shall expect your lordship,” observed
Mrs. Fitzhardinge: and, with these words, she quitted the apartment.

Charles Hatfield approached the mirror--arranged his hair in the most
becoming manner--and had just snatched a last satisfactory glance at
the reflection of his handsome countenance, when the door opened and
Perdita entered the room.




CHAPTER CXXXVI.

INFATUATION.


Perdita was dressed in a more modest and, to speak truly, in a more
delicate manner than on either of the former occasions when Charles
had seen her. A plain morning gown, made with a high corsage, set off
her fine figure, without affording even a glimpse of the charms the
full proportions of which its shape developed. Her hair was arranged
in plain bands; and there was altogether an appearance of so much
innocence, candour, and maiden reserve in her demeanour, that it seemed
to Charles as if he now beheld in her some new phasis of her wondrous
beauty.

Hastening forward to meet her, he caught her in his arms and covered
her lips, her cheeks, and her brow with kisses: for--whether it were
imagination or reality we know not--but she appeared to be far more
lovely than ever in his eyes.

“Dearest--dearest Perdita!” he exclaimed,forgetting at that moment all
and every thing in the world save the object of his adoration.

“Charles--my lord--how am I to call you henceforth?” she murmured, in
that soft, musical tone which flowed like the harmony of the spheres in
unto the very soul.

“Am I not _Charles_ to you, dear girl?” he demanded, looking at her
tenderly and half reproachfully: then, conducting her to a seat, and
placing himself near her, he added, “I have had a long interview with
your mother, Perdita; and from all that I could gather, she has no
opposition to offer to our love.”

“I know it,” responded the girl, casting down her eyes with a modesty
so admirably assumed that it would have deceived the most experienced
individual. “And are you well satisfied that she has thus proved
favourable to our hopes?”

“Will you always seem to doubt my affection?” demanded the young man,
in an impassioned tone: “will you ever appear to believe that I am so
volatile--so fickle--so inconstant, as to regret to-day a step that I
took yesterday?”

“Pardon me, Charles--pardon me,” said Perdita, looking up into his face
with an expression of the most charming _naiveté_: “but my mother heard
a rumour--and yet it might be unfounded----”

“Speak--speak, Perdita!” cried the young man, impatiently.

“A rumour to the effect that you were looked upon as the future husband
of Lady Frances Ellingham,” added Perdita, in a tremulous tone, as if
scarcely daring to give utterance to the jealous suspicion that the
words implied.

Charles Hatfield became suddenly red as scarlet; and Perdita burst into
tears.

“Oh! then the rumour is true--and you are deceiving me, my lord!”
she exclaimed, affecting a passionate outburst of grief: but, in a
few moments, she seemed to exercise an abrupt and powerful controul
over her feelings, and rising from her seat, drew herself up into a
demeanour of desperate calmness, saying, “Viscount Marston, I will show
you that my affection is of no selfish nature. If you love this young
lady, who must be your cousin, from all I have heard and know through
my mother,--if you prefer the beauteous Frances--for beautiful I am
aware she is,--Oh! then I release you from your vows to me--I restore
your plight--and I, the obscure and neglected Perdita, will pray in
secret for your welfare,--yes, and for the welfare of her who will have
robbed me of your affections!”

“No, Perdita--no!” cried Charles, profoundly touched by this
well-enacted piece of apparently generous self-denial: “I do _not_ love
my cousin Frances--and it was only this very morning that I disputed
with my parents because I refused to form an alliance on which their
hearts are set. Perdita--my beloved Perdita, I thank thee--Oh! heaven
alone knows how sincerely I thank thee for this manifestation of
generosity,--a generosity that, if possible, has rivetted my affections
more indissolubly on thee!”

“And you will pardon me, Charles--if in a moment of jealousy----”
murmured the designing young woman, hanging down her head in a charming
kind of confusion and bashfulness.

“Pardon thee!” repeated her dupe, catching her in his arms, and
straining her passionately to his breast: “what have I to pardon?
Must I pardon thee for loving me so well, my Perdita?--for only those
who love well, can know what jealousy is! And, did I think that I had
cause, should I not be jealous of thee, sweet Perdita? Oh! yes--and my
jealousy would be very fierce and terrible in its consequences. But on
neither side shall there be cause for jealousy----”

“At least not on mine, Charles,” returned the young woman, gently
extricating herself from his arms, and resuming her seat upon the
sofa. “And now, my lord,” she added playfully, “when do you intend to
take some charming suburban villa--fit it up in a chaste, elegant,
and beautiful style--and bear thither your bride,--for your bride
am I prepared to become on the conditions which have already been
established between us?”

“Without a day’s--without an hour’s unnecessary delay, my beloved
Perdita,” answered Charles, his cheeks flushing and his eyes sparkling
with the hopes and voluptuous thoughts inspired by the question thus
put to him; and throwing his arms around her, he drew the bewitching
syren towards him.

“Charles--Charles,” she murmured, as he glued his lips to her warm,
glowing cheek; “you are adorably handsome--and I love you as woman
never loved before. But I implore you to release me now--for--my mother
might return to the room--and--and--Oh! Charles--you clasp me too
violently----”

And she succeeded in disengaging herself from his arms, having maddened
him as it were by the contact of her fine, voluptuous form, and the
caresses she had allowed him to lavish upon her.

“Perdita, you are more reserved with me than you were yesterday,” said
Charles, half reproachfully.

“Or rather say that yesterday I was so hurried away by the rapturous
thoughts--the delightful emotions--the elysian feelings which were
excited within me by the certainty of possessing your love,” murmured
the young woman, “that I had no controul over myself.”

“And now that you are assured of my love, you have grown comparatively
cold and reserved,” said Charles, with the least degree of humour.

“Should you think the better of me if I were without the least particle
of maiden reserve?” she asked, in a reproachful tone. “Listen, my
beloved Charles--and look not angrily on your Perdita!”

“No--not for worlds!” he exclaimed, pressing her hand to his lips, and
feeling in the renewed infatuation of his soul that he was prompt to do
her bidding and yield to her will in all things.

“Now you are kind and good--and I love you, dear Charles,” said
Perdita, in a tone of captivating artlessness. “Although we shall have
no bridal ceremony as performed at a church,” she resumed, “yet must
our wedding-day--if I may so call it--be duly fixed and celebrated.
When, therefore, you have provided for me and my mother such a home as
you would wish me and my parent to possess--then shall you bear me
thither, my dearest Charles, as your bride--and--and--I will be unto
thee as a wife in all respects,” she added, bending her beauteous head
down upon his bosom, and concealing her blushing countenance there.

“Be it as you say, my sweet Perdita!” he exclaimed. “And in all things
will I do your bidding--for I love and adore you. You are an angel of
beauty;--your manners are irresistibly winning;--your voice has the
charm of the sweetest melody;--and your looks would kindle love in the
breast of an anchorite.”

“Ah! flatterer,” she cried, raising her head, and tapping him gently
upon the face. “Will you always think thus well of me?”

“Yes--always, always!” he exclaimed--so completely infatuated was he
with the syren. “And now tell me, my charmer--in which part of London
should you wish me to fix upon a beautiful villa for your reception?”

“The more secluded the spot--the better,” said Perdita. “I do not wish
to form the acquaintance of prying and curious neighbours, nor shall
I court the presence of visitors. When you are with me, I shall have
no thought but for you: when you are absent, to think of you will
be sufficient occupation. I have heard that in the neighbourhood of
Holloway there are some delightful villas, newly built----”

“Holloway! It is there--in that neighbourhood--that Markham Place, the
mansion where the Prince of Montoni is staying, is situated.”

“And you are acquainted with that Prince?” said Perdita. “Yes--for in
this morning’s newspaper I read, amongst the Fashionable Intelligence,
that his Royal Highness had yesterday partaken of a banquet at the
mansion of the Earl of Ellingham in Pall Mall.”

“Oh! he is a great and illustrious Prince, Perdita!” cried Charles, his
cheeks suddenly glowing with animation.

“But he is not so handsome as you, Charles?” said Perdita, half
enquiringly--half playfully.

“He is very handsome, dearest,” was the reply: “but his heroic
deeds--his noble disposition--his boundless philanthropy--and his
staunch support of the Rights of Man, constitute attractions which,
were he ugly as Satan, would render him adorable as an angel.”

“And have you none of those qualities, my Charles?” demanded Perdita.
“Are you not gloriously handsome?--have you not a proud title,
which you can claim when you will--aye, and which you will claim
shortly?--and will you not some day be a Peer of the Realm, and able
to electrify the senate with your eloquence? For that you would be
eloquent, Charles, I am convinced;--and, oh! what pleasure--what
unfeigned, heart-felt pleasure would it give your devoted Perdita to
occupy even the humblest, most secluded nook in the place where you
were delivering yourself of the burning thoughts and splendid ideas----”

“Oh! Perdita--do you too hope that I shall yet create for myself a
great and a glorious reputation?” demanded the young man, surveying his
beauteous companion with joy and surprise.

“Yes, Charles: for do I not love thee?” she asked, in her dulcet,
silvery tone.

“Now--oh! now can I understand how the image of the Princess Isabella
might cheer and hearten on the once obscure Richard Markham to the
accomplishment of those great deeds which have placed him on so
proud an eminence! Now,” continued the enthusiastic, infatuated
Charles,--“now can I comprehend how gallant knights, in the days of
chivalry, would dare every peril--encounter every danger, at the behest
or command of their ladye-loves! And you, my Perdita,--you shall be
as a Princess Isabella in my eyes--you shall be my ladye-love;--and
animated by thy smiles, will I yet carve out for myself a glorious
career in the world.”

“I long to see thee in possession of thy titles, Charles--to behold
thee, too, occupying thy place in the House of Peers,” said Perdita.
“But, hark--the clock strikes two; and now I am compelled to accompany
my mother into the City----”

“To her attorney’s?” asked Charles, a sudden fear seizing upon him.

“Yes--to her solicitor’s office,” responded Perdita: then, after
suffering him to manifest a sentiment of pique and annoyance for a few
moments, she threw her arms around his neck, exclaiming, “And so you
are very jealous, sir--are you?--and you thought perhaps that I was
about to call upon this lawyer to signify to him my readiness to accept
the hand of the old nobleman who is my mother’s relentless opponent
in the suit? But I can assure you that the object of my visit in that
quarter is one which you will no doubt highly approve. It is to inform
the legal gentleman, with my own lips, that I utterly and totally
decline the honour of the proposed union----”

“Charming--dearest Perdita!” ejaculated Charles, straining her in
rapture to his breast.

“Inasmuch,” she added, with playful artlessness--or rather with an
affectation of that delightful _naiveté_,--“inasmuch as the solicitor
will not believe that I can possibly resist so splendid an offer; and
he is determined to hear the truth from me--and from me only.”

“And were he to over-persuade you, Perdita--to impress you with the
necessity of yielding in this instance----” began Charles, still
labouring under the vague apprehension with which the artful creature
sought to inspire him in order to attach him the more completely to her.

“Have you so much to fear on the part of an old nobleman whom I have
never seen, as I have on the part of that beautiful Lady Frances who
dwells beneath the same roof with you?” enquired Perdita, in the most
melting tones of her flute-like voice.

“Pardon me--pardon me, dearest girl!” cried Charles, embracing her
fondly.

“I have no more to pardon in you at present, than you had to forgive
in me ere now,” murmured the guileful woman, placing her warm cheek
against his own and allowing their hair to mingle.

For a few moments she remained with him in this position,--a position
that enchanted, thrilled, and intoxicated him: then suddenly
withdrawing herself from his arms, she said, archly, but impressively,
“It now remains with you, Charles, when our wedding-day is to be
celebrated.”

“Ah! if you were only as impatient as I!” he exclaimed.

They parted--the young man hastening, as was his wont after these
visits, to the park to feast his imagination with a delicious reverie
the whole and sole subject of which should be Perdita!

A few minutes after he had taken his departure, Mrs. Fitzhardinge
sought her daughter in the drawing-room; and the ensuing dialogue took
place.

“Every thing tends to forward our designs with respect to this young
man,” observed the old woman, seating herself in a chair opposite to
her daughter, who was reclining upon the sofa.

“And yet I cannot _now_ altogether comprehend your policy, mother,”
returned Perdita.

“In which particular point, my child?” demanded the vile parent.

“Respecting the nature of the connexion which is to subsist between
myself and Charles,” said Perdita. “It was all very well for me to
calculate upon being his mistress before we were aware that he is in
reality a Viscount, and must be an Earl: but since you succeeded so
nicely in extracting those revelations from him this morning, why
should we not secure so glorious a prize by a means more durable and
powerful than mere sophistry and the love which he bears me? Consider,
mother, how instantaneously he took a fancy to me; and believe me when
I assure you that coolness will follow as rapidly, after full satiety,
on his part.”

“Silly girl! thou art thyself in love with him!” cried Mrs.
Fitzhardinge, in a tone of vexation.

“Yes--more than half: I acknowledge it,” returned Perdita, coolly.

“And yet--but a few days ago you assured me that you could not
chain yourself to one individual with any hope of being faithful to
him,--that love was a passion which would never obtain over you that
influence which it so often exercised over the weak, the simple-minded,
and the infatuated.”

“It is perfectly true, mother, that I said all which your memory has
so faithfully treasured up, and your lips so accurately repeated,”
said Perdita, still speaking without excitement. “But _then_, my dear
mother,” she added, almost satirically--no, almost jeeringly, as if
diverting herself with her parent’s evident vexation,--“_then_, you
know, I had not seen Charles Hatfield.”

“And I told you not to be too confident on that point to which we are
alluding,” cried Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “My dear Perdita, renounce all
ideas of marriage with this young man: indeed, you have compromised
yourself too deeply in your denunciations of the marriage-tie to be
able to recall your sentiments on that head.”

“Not at all,” said Perdita, authoritatively. “In the same way that
I induced Charles to accede to my proposals, and even fall into
my views--so can I, in a very short space, and by means of other
sophistry, convince him that I had merely been playing a part to test
the value of his affection----”

“No--no, Perdita: you must not attempt such a perilous proceeding,”
said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, evidently listening with great uneasiness to
the words that fell from her daughter’s lips.

“I dare and will attempt all I choose or fancy with that young man!”
cried the head-strong Perdita, in an imperious tone.

“Will you not follow my counsel?” demanded Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “Have I
not fulfilled all my promises to you?--did I not declare that in London
you should find luxury, plenty, and ease?--did I not pledge myself that
the young man should sue at your feet and implore your love?--and could
you have brought about all these results for yourself?”

“I do not pretend that I could, mother,” returned Perdita. “But am I to
be your tool--your instrument--an automaton in your hands?--am I not
to have an opinion in our councils?--or am I to pay blind obedience to
you, even though I have reasons for questioning the prudence of your
proceedings?”

“And do you now question the prudence of my proceedings?” demanded Mrs.
Fitzhardinge, growing every moment more and more irritable.

“Yes--I do!” answered Perdita, firmly and resolutely--at the same
time fixing her brilliant eyes rebelliously upon her mother. “I
admit that if we had only ensnared in our toils a simple commoner--a
plain Charles Hatfield--with limited resources within his reach, it
would have been advisable to form no lasting connexion with him. But
now--_now_ that we are assured, beyond all possibility of doubt, that
he is himself a nobleman and the heir to enormous wealth, it would
be madness--it would be folly not to bind him to us by irrefragable
chains. Why--here is a position to be obtained and ensured at once,--a
position which will render us rich for the remainder of our days! And
think you, mother, that I have not a little feeling of ambition in my
soul? Would it not be a proud thing for you to be enabled to call the
Vicountess Marston--and in due time the Countess of Ellingham--your
daughter? All these considerations never flashed to my mind until
immediately after Charles had quitted the room ere now: or I should
have assuredly commenced the undoing of all that stupid work which, by
your persuasion and so well tutored by you, I achieved in respect to
the conditions whereon our connexion was to be based. What!” she cried,
her eyes absolutely flashing fire: “have a coronet within my reach--and
refuse it!--have a wealthy noble--or one who will be enormously
wealthy--sighing at my feet, and not wed him! Mother,” she cried,
actually exciting herself into a passion, “you must think me to be a
fool--an idiot--a mad woman!”

“I shall think you to be a fool--an idiot--and a mad woman if you
persist in thwarting my plans or proceeding contrary to my advice,”
said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, her tanned, weather-beaten countenance becoming
absolutely livid with rage.

“Ah! you have some sinister purpose to serve, mother!” cried Perdita,
a sudden idea striking her: “else never would you oppose yourself so
completely to the dictates of common sense. What were your words to me
when I spoke to you--and spoke as rashly--about the inaccessibility
of my soul to the passion of love? You advised me not to count only
on the chance of making a good match: you declared it to be far more
probable that I might ensnare some young gentleman of birth, family,
and fortune--or some old voluptuary of immense wealth;--and you added
that there was more to be gained as the mistress of one of those, than
as a wife. In fine, your advice was that I should remain unmarried and
independent, so that the moment I had ruined one lover, I might take
another.”

“Yes--and that counsel was the wisest I could proffer you,” said her
mother, actually speaking in a savage tone, and looking as if she could
have leapt, tigress-like, upon her daughter and torn her with her nails
as if they were claws.

“Oh! the advice was good enough under certain circumstances,” exclaimed
Perdita. “It was good in so far as it related to the probability of my
securing a succession of lovers, each with only a comparatively small
fortune, and each individual, therefore, to be soon set aside. But now
that, at the very outset, chance has thrown in my way a young noble,
who must sooner or later inherit a vast fortune which no extravagance
can completely dissipate,--a fortune, indeed, which will minister to
all extravagances, and yet remain unimpaired,--should I not be the
veriest fool that ever tossed gold into a river or hurled diamonds
into an abyss, were I not to secure the brilliant advantage thus placed
within my reach?”

[Illustration]

“Daughter,” exclaimed the old woman, with difficulty preventing a
complete outburst of her fury, “I tell you that this may not be! Secure
Charles Hatfield--or rather Viscount Marston--as your paramour: _I_
will undertake to raise as much money, as you can persuade him to
lavish upon you;--and then--_then_, my child,” she added, adopting a
tone of fawning conciliation, “you can choose a new lover and make
inroads into another’s fortune.”

“I am determined to pursue and follow out the plan which my own
convictions indicate as the most rational--the most sensible--the most
advisable!” exclaimed Perdita; “and, therefore, the present dispute is
useless and absurd.”

“Dispute!” repeated Mrs. Fitzhardinge, her countenance again becoming
absolutely livid, and her whole form trembling with rage: “I do not
choose to dispute with you, insolent girl that you are! Now listen to
me, Perdita--and know once for all that I _will_ be obeyed in this, as
in all things--or I will abandon you to your own resources--I will hurl
you back into rags, want, and poverty----”

“Not while I possess this beauty of which a queen might be proud!” said
Perdita, in a quiet manner, as she glanced with self complacency at her
own handsome countenance as it was reflected in a mirror opposite.

“Oh! think not that beauty is the only element of fortune!” cried
the old woman, surveying her daughter with almost an expression of
fiend-like hate: “for, if you dare to thwart me, Perdita, I will
become your bitterest and most malignant enemy, though you are my own
child:--I will pursue thee with my vengeance;--wherever you may be,
I will spoil all your machinations and ruin all your schemes;--nay,
more--I will compel your very lovers to thrust you ignominiously
forth from them! For I will boldly proclaim how that Perdita who
has enthralled them, was accursed from her very birth--born in
Newgate--thence taken by her mother to a penal colony, where she became
lost and abandoned at the early age of thirteen--and how every handsome
young officer in garrison at Sydney could boast of the favours of this
profligate young creature!”

A mocking laugh came from the lips of Perdita,--a laugh that rang more
horribly in the ears of her mother than an explosion of maledictions,
recriminations, and insults would have done,--a laugh that seemed to
say, “Wretched--drivelling old woman, I despise thee!”

“You will repent this conduct, vile girl--you will repent it!” muttered
Mrs. Fitzhardinge, approaching Perdita, and gazing on her with eyes
that seemed to glare savagely. “Whatever be the risk--even though I
involve myself in the downfall of our splendid prospects--I will ruin
thee, if thou darest to oppose and thwart me! Abandon thy scheme of
marrying the young nobleman--and we will be friends again: persist
in it--and we separate, as mortal enemies. Yes--and the first step
which I shall take will be to repair to Charles Hatfield--implore his
forgiveness for having been a party to the scheme plotted against him
and his--and give such a character of thee, Perdita, that his blood
shall run cold in his veins at the mere thought of ever having been
placed in contact with thee! And, oh! the picture which a mother
will draw of her daughter in such a case,--that picture will be
terrible--very terrible! Pause, then--reflect----”

“One word, mother,” said Perdita, who had maintained an extraordinary
degree of composure throughout this scene--doubtless because she knew
that she must triumph in the long run. “You threaten bravely: let us
look calmly and deliberately at what must be the inevitable results of
a fearful quarrel between you and me:--let us see who would get the
better of it! On one side would be you--old--ugly--disgustingly ugly,
I may say--so that to become anything save a beggar, grovelling in
the kennel would be impossible. On the other side would be myself--at
all events handsome enough to gain the favour of some soft fool: and,
spoil my character as you will, you cannot prevent me from finding a
paramour amongst those who care nothing for the reputation, but every
thing for the beauty, of their mistresses. Bread to me is certain: rags
and starvation to you are equally well assured. My life of pleasure,
gaiety, and dissipation is to come: yours has passed--and naught
remains for you save to die in a workhouse or on a dunghill! Pardon
me, my dear mother, for speaking thus openly--thus plainly,” added the
young woman, now throwing a spice of irony into her tone: “but you
did not spare me when you summed up my characteristics just now. And
before I quit the subject, I may as well observe that you yourself are
not the most immaculate woman upon the face of the earth. Heaven only
knows how prolific were the debaucheries of your youth: but you veiled
them all beneath the aspect of a _saint_! Oh! that was excellent, dear
mother--excellent, indeed!” cried Perdita, her merry, musical laugh
echoing through the apartment: “only conceive you once to have been a
_saint_! In good truth, you have not much of the appearance of a saint
now, mother: neither had you when living with the free-settler as his
mistress!”

“Perdita--Perdita!” gasped the wretched Mrs. Fitzhardinge, writhing
like a snake at these bitter words, and shaking convulsively from head
to foot: “you--you will drive me mad!”

“Ah! what--do you possess _feelings_, then, my dear mother?” demanded
the young woman, assuming an air of profound astonishment. “And yet
you must have imagined that your daughter was totally without those
same little feelings which it is so easy to wound, and so difficult to
heal. Well--I will forbear: otherwise, I was about to have reminded
you of those glorious times--before I was born, indeed--when you were
the paramour of Sir Henry Courtenay, whose name you so pleasantly and
quietly forged to a slip of paper one day----”

“Silence--Perdita--silence!” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, in a hoarse and
hollow tone--clasping her hands convulsively at the same time. “I was
wrong to provoke you thus: you are very hard upon me--you have the best
of it, Perdita--and I--I----”

Here the old wretch burst into tears,--not an assumed grief--no
crocodile weeping,--but a flood of genuine tears, wrung from her
by the cutting, biting, bitter sarcasms which her daughter had so
mercilessly--so slaughterously levelled against her.

Perdita suffered her to weep without offering the least consolation:
for the young woman was hurt and wounded on her side as well as the old
harridan was hurt and wounded on the other.

The recriminations of those two females--that mother and daughter--had
been terrible in their implacability, and appalling in their unnatural
malignity.

There was a long pause--during which Mrs. Fitzhardinge sate
sobbing--being absolutely hideous in her grief,--while Perdita--with
flashing eyes dilating nostrils, flushing cheeks, and palpitating
bosom, lay half reclined upon the sofa--tapping the carpet petulantly
with the tip of her long, narrow, exquisitely shaped shoe.

“My dear child,” at length said the old woman, “are we to be friends or
enemies?”

“That depends entirely upon yourself, mother,” was the answer: “I
am not to be tyrannised over by you--nor menaced in the fearful way
in which you have threatened me to-day, without showing resentment
in return. Really, one would have supposed that you were addressing
yourself to the bitterest enemy you had in the world--rather than to
your daughter who has done all she could to place you in a comfortable
position for the remainder of your days.”

“Well--well--let us be friends, Perdita!” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

“Yes--we will be friends,” responded the daughter. “But remember
that my views in respect to Charles Hatfield--or rather, Viscount
Marston--are to be carried into effect.”

“Without again quarrelling,” interrupted her mother, “let me assure
you that I cannot--cannot possibly consent to this deviation from our
original arrangements. It was an express understanding between us that
_marriage_ was, in every case, to be out of the question----”

“And may not circumstances transpire to change original plans?”
demanded Perdita, beginning to divine the reasons of her mother’s
uncompromising opposition to her matrimonial scheme.

“A truce to these arguments!” cried Mrs. Fitzhardinge, again growing
irritable. “Remember that this evening your love-sick swain will
deposit in my hands all the papers containing the evidence of his
father’s right to the earldom and estates of Ellingham----”

“And you will use your power to coerce me?” said Perdita, in her quiet
way, which nevertheless seemed to breathe defiance.

“I do not affirm _that_, my child,” cried the old woman, smothering her
rage. “But I would ask you of what use those papers would be without my
assistance to raise money on them?”

“Of no more utility than our acquaintance with Charles would be to
_you_, were it not for _me_,” returned Perdita. “And now, mother, I may
as well inform you at once that I can penetrate into all the motives
which prompt you thus to oppose my marriage views with respect to
Charles. You imagine that if I become his mistress only, I shall be so
completely in your power that I must still continue your slave,--that a
word from you relative to my past life would send away Charles Hatfield
in disgust,--and that in order to prevent you from speaking that word,
I shall obey you blindly. In fine, you hope to exercise a despotism
alike over him and me,--dispose of the purse--and control the household
with sovereign sway. On the other hand, you imagine,--nay, do not
look so black, my dear mother--we are only telling each other a few
agreeable truths----”

“Go on, vile girl!” gasped Mrs. Fitzhardinge, trembling--suffocating
with rage.

“On the other hand, then,” pursued the young woman, in a placid,
unexcited manner,--“on the other hand you suppose that if once I become
the wife of Charles Hatfield--if once he shall have taken me for better
or worse--if once the indissoluble knot be tied, your power over me
would cease. For were you to avenge any slight by making revelations
respecting me, I might lose my husband’s esteem and love, but should
not the less remain his wife. You therefore dread lest you should
become a cypher--dependant upon us for your daily bread--unable to
control the purse and the domestic economy----”

“And what will you do to guarantee that all you are now saying is not
a predictive sketch of what you know must happen in case I permit
your marriage?” demanded Mrs. Fitzhardinge, dismayed by this accurate
reading of her heart’s secrets on the part of her daughter.

“I can only assure you this much, mother,” was the answer,--“that
if you conduct yourself well towards me, I shall act well towards
you,--that you shall have your own way in every thing where my will is
not violently thwarted,--and that I will co-operate with you cheerfully
for our mutual interests, so long as you do not attempt to drive me as
a slave.”

“And all this you faithfully promise, Perdita?” demanded her mother,
eagerly; for she was now glad to effect any compromise rather than come
to an open rupture with her daughter, who, she saw, had in reality so
much the better of her.

“Be assured, mother,” replied Perdita, “that I am not for war;--and if
we quarrel any more, it will be your fault.”

“We will _not_ quarrel, Perdita,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge: “you shall
marry Charles Hatfield--or Viscount Marston, as we ought to call
him;--and here let our dispute finish.”

“With all my heart. And now tell me, mother, how--where--and with whom
you intend to raise the money upon these papers which Charles is to
send or bring in the evening?”

“A few evenings ago, when I was lurking about Pall Mall waiting for
that young gentleman, I suddenly encountered a person whom I had known
years and years since, and who played me a vile--a very vile trick. He
was much altered,” continued Mrs. Fitzhardinge; “but I knew him--knew
him the moment the light of the lamp flashed upon his features. I
accosted him--told him who I was--and upbraided him for his villainy
of former times. He spoke softly and in a conciliatory manner--and
we fell into a more amicable train of conversation than at first. We
soon understood each other; and giving me his address--for, by-the
bye, he has taken a new name--he invited me to call upon him--and we
parted. Since then I have made enquiries in the neighbourhood where he
dwells; and I learn that he is reputed to be immensely rich--a miser
and money-lender. He is therefore the man whom I require;--and we may
reckon confidently upon his aid in the business of raising funds on the
documents. This very evening I will call upon him----”

“You will permit me to accompany you, mother,” said Perdita, rather in
a tone of command than of interrogatory.

“Yes--if such be your pleasure,” was the reply: for the old woman saw
that it was useless and totally adverse to her own interests to thwart
her daughter in any single respect.




CHAPTER CXXXVII.

TWO MORE OLD ACQUAINTANCES.


It was about eight o’clock in the evening of the same day when these
scenes took place, that an old man, coming from a northern direction,
entered the metropolis by the suburb of Pentonville.

He was upwards of seventy-four years of age,--tall--thin--and retaining
so much muscular vigour as only to stoop slightly in his gait. His
complexion was perfectly cadaverous in hue, ghastly and careworn, and
sinister in its expression. His attire was shabby, thread-bare, and
travel-soiled,--his dusty boots denoting that he had journeyed some
distance on foot. Nevertheless, there was about him a certain air
which, in spite of his repulsive features and his sordid garb, denoted
gentility; and an observer would have pronounced him to be, as indeed
he was, a decayed gentleman.

Having passed by the Model Prison, he struck out of the highway into
the fields where so many houses are now rapidly springing up, and which
lie in the immediate vicinity of the Barnsbury and Liverpool Roads.

It was evident, however, that he had no definite object in view--no
home whither he was proceeding; and he had turned into the fields
merely to rub off the dust from his boots in the long grass, and rest
himself for a few minutes in a secluded place.

At length he rose; and his wandering footsteps led him into the
vicinity of the detached rows of small houses and cottages which dot
the immediate neighbourhood of the Caledonian Road.

Once he stopped beneath a lamp; and taking his money from his pocket,
counted it slowly. And heaven knows that the amount of his pecuniary
property did not require long to reckon; for two shillings in silver
and a few halfpence constituted all the store.

“This will at least purchase me a meal and procure me a bed for
to-night,” he murmured to himself; “and then--to-morrow--I must present
myself to those who have not heard of me for so long a time.”

With these words, the old man resumed his slow and painful walk--for
he was wearied and exhausted by the length of his day’s journey. It
was evident that he had been absent many--many years from the capital;
for, though he had once known this neighbourhood well, yet now it was
so changed that he gazed around him with astonishment,--aye, and paused
to gaze around, too,--streets, rows of houses, and gardens having taken
the place of the open fields.

He had now reached a spot where the dwellings were more thinly
scattered, and where the path was as yet unpaved and the road was
thickly strown with flints.

It was now close upon nine o’clock; but the July evening was so
beautiful that it was far from dark--only dimly obscure;--and thus,
though there was no lamp in the neighbourhood where the old man was
pursuing his way, yet was it sufficiently light for him to obtain a
good view of objects, and even of the countenances of the few people
whom he met.

Not that he paid any particular attention to the latter:--still, a
stranger just arriving in London, or a person who returns to the
capital after a very long absence, observes and marks every thing and
every body with an earnest scrutiny at first.

The old man was passing by two small houses, forming one isolated
building, and standing back from the road, when he encountered an
individual whose face immediately struck him as being one which he had
formerly known full well; and in the next instant a light flashed in
upon his mind.

“Yes--’tis he!” he ejaculated to himself; and, laying his hand upon
the other’s shoulder, he said, “Mr. Howard, we meet at last--after a
separation of upwards of nineteen years!”

“My name is not Howard--and I know nothing of you, sir. Let me go!” was
the impatient reply, delivered by the individual whom the old man had
accosted, and who was himself well stricken in years--being now midway
between sixty and seventy.

“Were I on my death bed, I could swear that your name was _once_
Howard, and that you were an attorney in London--an attorney who
absconded, ruining thousands,” exclaimed the old man.

“What means this insolence?” asked the other, affecting a tone of deep
indignation mingled with surprise. “Pass on your way, sir--and let me
pursue mine!”

“Not till I have had recompense or vengeance,” growled the old man,
ferociously. “For a sum of money did I sell myself to a vile and
abandoned woman--a certain Mrs. Slingsby, whom you knew well;--and this
money was deposited with you, villain that you are! For you fled--and
the loss of that money was not the lightest of the myriad misfortunes
that fell upon me at the time. Now do you know who _I_ am, Mr.
Howard?--for I know _you_ full well!”

“You have spoken of a number of unintelligible things to me,
sir--mentioned names with which I never was acquainted--alluded to
circumstances entirely unknown----”

“Liar!” ejaculated Mr. Torrens--for he was the old man who had just
now so wearily entered the suburb of Pentonville: “liar!” he repeated,
seizing the other individual by the collar; “what should prevent me
from raising an alarm and giving you into custody? For though years
have elapsed, yet your offences have never been expiated----”

“Softly--softly, my good sir,” interrupted the person thus addressed,
and whose manner began to evince trepidation and alarm. “Let us adjourn
somewhere and talk amicably on this matter----”

“No!” cried Mr. Torrens. “How do I know but that you intend to inveigle
me into a den where you may perhaps silence my tongue for ever?”

“Fool--dotard!” muttered the other between his lips: “does he take me
for a murderer?”

“I believe you to be capable of any villainy,” returned the now
infuriated Torrens, whose ears had caught the sense of those low
mutterings. “But I shall not lose sight of you until I have received
full and complete satisfaction for the wrongs I endured at your hands
many years ago. And that you _are_ able to give such satisfaction, your
appearance proves full well,” he added, as his eye caught a glimpse of
the gold chain and massive seals which depended from the other’s fob.

“Mr. Torrens--I will no longer attempt to conceal a fact of which you
are so well assured. I _am_ the Howard to whom you allude: but, in
the name of God! do not ruin me--do not expose me. Here--this is my
dwelling,” he continued, pointing to one of the two houses in front
of which this colloquy took place: “walk in with me--and--and we will
converse at our ease----”

“Yes--I will accompany you,” said Mr. Torrens, in a laconic manner:
“lead the way, sir.”

Mr. Howard drew forth a small key from his pocket, and with it opened
the iron gate of the railings in front of the house. Torrens followed
him across the little enclosure; and with another and larger key he
opened the door of the dark and gloomy-looking dwelling. No domestic
appeared; and the lawyer, entering the parlour, groped about in the
dark until he found some lucifer-matches--Torrens remaining all the
while in the passage. At length a light was obtained; and the visitor
was requested to enter the room, which, by means of the one poor candle
that now threw a feeble gleam around, appeared to be but indifferently
furnished,--so that the aspect of the small and cheerless house
somewhat damped the hopes which Torrens had entertained of compelling
the individual whom he had thus accidentally encountered, to disgorge
the sum embezzled by him upwards of nineteen years previously.

“Do you live all alone here?” he demanded, taking the seat to which
Howard pointed.

“Yes--all alone,” was the reply. “I am too poor to keep a servant.”

“Too poor!” exclaimed Mr. Torrens, his heart sinking within him.

“Yes, indeed! How should I be possessed of any money?” said Howard,
glancing around with nervous anxiety, as if he were afraid of being
overheard. “From the moment that I was forced, by unexpected reverses
and sudden misfortunes, to fly from London, I have led a life of
continued struggles; and although, a few years ago, I was venturous
enough to return to the metropolis and settle in this little cottage,
which I got at a cheap rent as it was only just built,--yet my affairs
have not improved----”

“But you must have some means of subsistence?--you pursue some
avocation?--you doubtless continue to practise----”

“No--no,” interrupted Howard, hastily. “I have been compelled to change
my name--and it is as Mr. Percival--_poor Mr. Percival_--that I am
known in this neighbourhood.”

“You adopt strange precautions for a poor man,” said Torrens, pointing
to the strong iron bars that fastened the shutters of the window: then,
turning a look full of sardonic meaning upon Howard--or Percival, as
we shall call him,--he added, “And methinks that when you opened your
front door just now, a heavy chain rattled. Assuredly your little house
is well protected.”

“What would you infer from these facts?” demanded Percival: “that I
have money--that I have turned miser?” he cried, with a forced and
unnatural laugh. “Absurd! The person who lived here before me, had
those bars put up to the window-shutters, and that heavy chain to the
street door----”

“I thought you got the house cheap because it had only just been
built?” said Torrens, smiling with malignant incredulity.

“Yes--but I did not tell you that I was the first person who occupied
it,” exclaimed Percival, as if eager to explain away an inconsistency
in his statements and efface from the mind of his visitor the
disagreeable impression made there.

“This is mere child’s play, Mr. Howard--or Percival--or whatever your
name may be!” cried Torrens. “You have got money--and you wish me to
believe you poor. For myself, I _am_ poor--so poor that I have but
wherewith to obtain a meal and a bed for one night. It is true that I
have a daughter and a son-in-law in London;--and it is likewise true
that necessity--stern, imperious necessity has driven me at last to
this city to seek assistance at their hands. But for nine years have I
remained as one dead to them: for nine years have I wandered about the
world, caring not what might become of me, and wishing to be believed
dead in all reality by my daughter who suspects that I have been very
criminal, and by my son-in-law who knows that I have! Yes--yes: I
have purposely left them in uncertainty relative to me--unhappy man
that I am,--purposely left them so, I say, in order that they may
apprehend the worst! Stern want, however, was driving me to them when
I encountered you: to-morrow morning I should have appeared in their
presence,--in the presence of the daughter whom I do not love, and of
her husband whom I hate--_hate_, for his very virtues, and because
he knows me to be so vile!” added the old man, bitterly. “But now,
sir, that I have met with you, your purse must save me the pain--the
humiliation--the annoyance of encountering those beings face to face!
Come, Mr. Percival--I have spoken to you frankly: do you be equally
candid with me.”

“Candid in what?” demanded the individual thus addressed.

“In respect to your own means and resources,” returned Torrens. “I
do not wish to be hard upon you; but a portion of the money that you
robbed me of, I must and will have.”

“These are harsh words--and unavailing, too,” said Percival: “for
I have not a sixpence to bless myself with! But,” he added, with a
malicious grin, “if I cannot give you money, I may perhaps impart a
piece of agreeable intelligence.”

“What! to me?” exclaimed Torrens, in a tone of surprise.

“Yes--to you. What would you think if I were to tell you that your
dearly-beloved wife was in London at this very moment, and passing
under the aristocratic name of Fitzhardinge?”

“My wife!” repeated Torrens, turning positively livid as these words
struck upon his ears. “No--impossible! I would not meet that dreadful
woman for thousands of pounds!”

“Then if you remain here you will assuredly encounter her,” said
Percival; “for I received a note from her this evening announcing her
intention to honour me with a visit,” he added, intently watching the
effect which these words produced upon his companion.

“Villain! you are endeavouring to get rid of me as speedily as
possible!” cried Torrens, almost foaming at the mouth with rage.

“Should you recognise your wife’s handwriting?” demanded Percival, a
diabolical grin still distorting features which, once handsome, had
been marred and rendered repulsive by time and evil passions. “Though
she is now stricken in years and has become positively hideous in
personal appearance, that handwriting retains all the grace and fluency
which ever characterised it.”

With these words, he took a perfumed note from his pocket-book, and
handed it to Torrens, who, hastily glancing over its contents, read the
following words:--

    “Mrs. Fitzhardinge presents her compliments to Mr. Percival,
    and will call upon him between nine and ten o’clock this
    evening on very particular business. She therefore hopes that
    Mr. Percival will have the kindness to remain at home to
    receive her.”

“Now are you satisfied?” demanded Percival, who perceived by the
workings of Torrens’ countenance that the handwriting had been fully
recognised.

“And on what matters is she--that vile woman--coming to you?” asked
Torrens, impatiently.

“I cannot answer the question. You perceive that she speaks only of
_particular business_ in a vague fashion. I met her by accident some
few days ago--and have not seen her since.”

“And she comes between nine and ten,” mused Torrens: “and it is already
close upon ten o’clock! I would not meet her for the world: ’twould
recall to my mind, with intolerable force, all the anguish--all the
sufferings----No--no,” he cried, suddenly interrupting himself and
starting from his chair; “I will not--I cannot meet her!”

“Then you had better depart at once,” said Percival, evidently most
anxious to see the unwelcome visitor turn his back upon the house.

“Yes--I shall depart indeed,” exclaimed Torrens: “but you must give me
money first. Nay--no more excuses: I am a desperate man----”

At that instant a double knock at the street door echoed through the
little dwelling.

“’Tis your wife!” said Percival.

“Hide me--or let me escape,” cried Torrens, manifesting a violent and
most unfeigned reluctance to encounter the woman whom for so many
reasons he loathed and abhorred.

“Here--by the back gate,” said Percival; and, taking the light in his
hand, he hastily conducted the almost bewildered Torrens along the
passage--down a few steps--and thence to a door opening upon a piece of
unenclosed waste ground at the back of the house.

At that instant the double knock was repeated--more loudly than before
and evidently with impatience.

“Good night, Mr. Torrens,” said Percival, scarcely able to subdue a
spice of lurking satire in his tone.

“Good night,” returned the other, savagely. “But I shall visit you
again to-morrow morning.”

Percival closed the back gate as if to shut out this intimation from
his ears; and, hurrying to the front door, he gave admittance to
Perdita and her mother.




CHAPTER CXXXVIII.

THE MONEY-LENDER.


Mrs. and Miss Fitzhardinge were attired in the plainest possible
manner, so that they seemed to be some poor tradesman’s wife and
daughter. But the moment the light of the candle fell on Perdita’s
countenance, Mr. Percival literally started as the glorious beauty of
that face was revealed to him. The young woman perceived the effect
of her charms on the old lawyer; and a smile of triumph played on her
haughty lip,--for she said within herself; “Wherever I go, men pay
homage to my loveliness!”

Hastily closing the front door, Percival now conducted his two
visitresses into the back-parlour, which was far more commodiously
furnished than the one where his interview with Torrens had taken
place. The shutters of this room were, however, as strongly protected
by iron bars and as well secured as those in the other; and Mr.
Percival had multiplied in them the number of holes cut in the shape of
a heart, in order that he might be enabled to fire his blunderbuss at
a moment’s warning, and in almost any direction, through the shutters,
in case of an attempt on the part of burglars to effect an entry in the
rear of the building.

For it was perfectly true, as he had informed Torrens, that he lived
alone in the house: but he was reported to be a miser--and such
indeed he was. Having been extravagant and profligate in his earlier
years, he had fallen into the opposite extreme; and when he absconded
from his creditors, the money which he had taken with him he hoarded
carefully. For a long time he had remained concealed in a distant town,
placing out his funds in small loans at an enormous interest; so that
as his wealth augmented, his parsimonious habits increased. At last,
become greedy and griping as any miser whose renown has been preserved
in tale-book or history, Percival--as we shall continue to call
him--resolved on venturing to London, where the field for his cupidity
was more ample than in the provinces. Trusting to the alteration that
years had made in his personal appearance, and to the disguise of the
name which he had assumed, he settled in the secluded neighbourhood
and comparatively lonely house when we now find him;--and, without
seeking business obtrusively, he soon found plenty. One person whom he
obliged with a loan would give his address to another also requiring
assistance; and thus his clients or patrons--whichever the reader may
choose to call the borrowers--increased. He was almost constantly at
home--formed no acquaintances--and was short and pithy in his mode of
transacting business. He never advanced money save when he perceived
the security to be ample; and if occasionally he made a bad debt, he
employed an attorney who asked no impertinent questions to sue the
defaulter in his own name, it being alleged that the unpaid bill had
been passed in a legitimate manner to the pettifogger aforesaid. An
elderly widow, of the name of Dyer, occupied the house next door; and
she acted in the capacity of charwoman for Mr. Percival--keeping his
dwelling in order and preparing for him his frugal meals.

Having recorded these few necessary particulars, we shall now
return to the little back parlour, where Mr. Percival and his two
visitresses were seated. His back was turned to the window: but Mrs.
Fitzhardinge and Perdita, who sate opposite to him, faced it,--while
the candle stood on the mantel,--so that had any one peeped through the
heart-holes in the shutters, the countenances of the women must have
been plainly visible to such curious observer outside the casement.

“Your daughter, madam, I presume?” said Mr. Percival, with a polite
inclination of the head towards the handsome Perdita.

“Yes, my dear sir,” was the reply. “And she is about to form an
excellent match with a young gentleman who is indeed a nobleman by
right, and who will shortly assert his title to that distinction. He
wishes to borrow money for his immediate purposes and also to assist
me: hence my visit to you this evening.”

“Well--well, my dear madam,” said Percival; “if the security be
good----”

“The security is ample,” returned Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “He is indubitably
the heir to vast estates--and his bond----”

“Will be quite sufficient,” added Percival. “That is--presuming him to
be of age----”

“He is twenty-five years old,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “But the history
of himself and family is most extraordinary: and his father is not
altogether unknown to you:--for, if I remember aright, it was you who
prosecuted the celebrated highwayman, Thomas Rainford, for the robbery
of the late Sir Christopher Blunt?”

“What earthly connexion can exist between Tom Rain and the young
nobleman who wants to borrow money?” demanded Percival, with unfeigned
astonishment.

“Grant me your patience, my dear sir,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, “and
I will explain the matter as concisely as possible. Thomas Rainford
was in reality the son of the late Earl of Ellingham--the eldest
son, and legitimately born, of that nobleman, who privately married
a certain Octavia Manners. The individual who at present bears the
title and enjoys the estates of the Earldom of Ellingham, is the
offspring of a second marriage contracted by his father. He and
Rainford are consequently half-brothers. All these facts are proven
by certain papers now in the possession of myself and daughter. One
of the documents is the marriage-certificate of the late Earl with
Octavia Manners,--another the baptismal certificate of their son,--a
third the journal of Octavia Manners explaining many matters connected
with the whole affair,--and then follows a variety of documents
establishing the identity of Thomas Rainford with the son of the late
Earl and the Countess Octavia. Thus far the rights of Thomas Rainford
are clearly made out. I must now inform you that Rainford and Lady
Georgiana Hatfield have long been united in matrimonial bonds, and
that the husband has for a considerable time adapted his wife’s name.
The offspring of this alliance is the young gentleman of whom I have
already spoken to you, and who at present bears the denomination of
Charles Hatfield. Now, his father being the rightful Earl of Ellingham,
this Charles Hatfield is actually the Viscount Marston, and heir to the
title and estates of the Earldom.”

“Your history, my dear madam, is clear and comprehensive enough,” said
Percival, already calculating the enormous gains which might be derived
from the fact of becoming the banker to a young noblemen having a vast
fortune in the perspective, and whom he supposed to be as extravagantly
inclined as youthful scions of the aristocracy in such cases generally
are. “And you possess the proofs of all the singular facts which you
have detailed?”

“The proofs--the positive proofs,” replied Mrs. Fitzhardinge,
emphatically;--and turning towards her daughter, she said, “Show Mr.
Percival the papers.”

“It is useless,” answered Perdita, in a firm but quiet manner, “unless
he first agree to advance a certain sum of money, should they be
satisfactory.”

“True,” said her mother, biting her lip at the thought that her
daughter was more keen than herself: then, addressing herself to the
miser, she observed, “You heard the remark that fell from the lips of
Miss Fitzhardinge?”

“Yes--yes,” returned Mr. Percival. “We shall most likely do business
together--most likely,” he repeated. “At the same time, I must see my
way very clearly----”

“And we must be careful not to reveal unnecessarily any more of the
important secrets of which we are the depositories,” said Perdita.

“Quite right, young lady!” exclaimed the miser, who experienced no
slight degree of embarrassment: for he was afraid, on the one hand, of
letting a good chance slip through his fingers--and he was fearful,
on the other, of admitting that he had ample resources immediately
available.

Not that Percival dreaded on the part of Mrs. Fitzhardinge the same
attempt at extortion, or rather of obtaining restitution, which had
been made by Mr. Torrens; because he knew full well that she was
occupying a false position in the world, and living under an assumed
name as well as himself;--and should she take it into her head to
threaten him with an exposure as being no other than Howard the
run-away attorney, he could in a moment retaliate by proclaiming her to
be Mrs. Slingsby--or Mrs. Torrens--the woman who had been transported
for forgery!

No:--Mr. Percival dreaded not menace on the part of Mrs. Fitzhardinge;
but the naturally suspicious disposition of the miser, and the vague
fears that ever haunt the avaricious man when questioned as to the
amount and whereabouts of his resources--these were the influences
which made Percival hesitate to plunge too precipitately into the
transaction now submitted for his consideration.

“Well, sir,--are you prepared to negociate with us--or not?” demanded
Perdita, after a short pause, during which the miser fidgetted
nervously upon his chair.

“It all depends, Miss--it all depends on the amount your noble friend
requires,” he answered at length.

“The entire business is left in our hands,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge;
“and we wish to raise between five and six thousand pounds in the first
instance----”

“Of which one thousand must be paid to-night,” added Perdita, “as an
earnest that the transaction is seriously entered into.”

“A thousand pounds to-night!” cried the miser. “But how is that
possible--even if I had the money in the house,” he asked, looking
anxiously around, and sinking his voice to a low whisper,--“how is it
possible, I say, since the young nobleman is not here to give me any
acknowledgment?”

“This objection was naturally anticipated by us,” replied Perdita.
“Viscount Marston, instead of sending us the papers this evening, did
us the honour to call personally with them; and his lordship confided
to me,--and to _me_ alone,” added Perdita, with a rapid glance of
triumphant meaning at her mother,--“his note of hand for one thousand
guineas.”

“I must congratulate you, my dear madam,” exclaimed Percival,
addressing himself with a smile to the old woman,--“I must congratulate
you on possessing a daughter of the most business-like character in the
person of Miss Fitzhardinge.”

“Then pray let us transact our present affairs in a business-like
manner,” said Perdita, who was rapidly putting herself more forward
in the matter, and proportionately throwing her mother into the
back-ground: so that the old woman more than once bit her lip to
restrain her rising choler;--but, remembering the terrific scene of the
morning, she saw no alternative save to allow her daughter to have her
own way--trusting, however, to the chapter of accidents to restore to
her in the long run that paramount influence which she had lost.

“You wish me to discount at once that note of hand for a thousand
guineas?” said the miser, fixing his eyes admiringly on Perdita’s
splendid countenance.

“Yes--as an earnest that you are not prompted by mere curiosity to
look farther into this most extraordinary, mysterious, and yet easily
understood affair,” replied Perdita.

“I will accede to your terms, Miss Fitzhardinge,” said Percival, after
a few minutes’ deliberation,--“provided that the documents in your
possession bear out your mother’s statements.”

“Place the money on the table, sir,” returned the young woman, in her
quiet though somewhat imperious manner; “and these papers,” she added,
producing a sealed packet at the some time, “shall be submitted to your
perusal.”

“Good!” cried the miser.

He then rose from his seat; and, having once more cast a furtive look
around him, as if it were possible for an intruder to secrete himself
in a room fourteen feet by ten, and which the three inmates already
nearly filled, he proceeded to open an iron safe that was fitted into
a kind of cupboard in one corner. Thence he took forth a tin cash-box,
which, when opened, revealed heaps of Bank-notes, and a large amount in
gold.

“There, ladies,” said he: “I have now convinced you of my ability to
proceed farther in this transaction; and it is your turn, Miss,” he
added, looking at Perdita, “to take the next step.”

“Granted!” was the reply; and, opening the packet, she handed the
several papers, which were properly classed and numbered, one by one to
the miser,--receiving back each before she gave him the next following.

Mr. Percival read the documents without much emotion. His pecuniary
avocations had blunted the sentiment of curiosity in his soul: he
viewed the matter only in a business-light;--and so long as the
security was good, he cared not if all the highwaymen in the world
should turn out to be noblemen in their own right. He thought of the
profits that might arise from ministering to the extravagances, as
he supposed, of a young nobleman having excellent certainties in the
perspective; and it was not of the slightest importance to him how
Mrs. Fitzhardinge and Perdita had contrived to inveigle him into their
meshes--how they had gotten possession of the papers--or how the money
raised was to be expended.

“This is completely satisfactory as far as it goes,” he said, returning
to the young woman the last paper which she had placed in his hand.
“The documents show that Rainford is the real Earl of Ellingham; but
there is no evidence to prove that your Charles Hatfield is his son.”

“We are well convinced of that fact,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

“Yes--I suppose it may be admitted,” observed Percival, who had not
the least idea that Charles Hatfield had ever passed and was still
passing as the nephew of those whose were really his parents. “But
there is still one question which must be fully cleared up;--and this
is the legitimacy of the young man’s birth. If he be the lawfully
begotten son of the rightful owner of the title and estates of the
Earldom--then is he the heir, beyond all possibility of doubt: but if
he be illegitimate----”

“The idea is absurd,” interrupted Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “There can be no
hesitation in declaring that Thomas Rainford and Lady Georgiana had
been privately married long before the man himself was condemned to
death: else wherefore should she have exerted her interest to obtain a
pardon for him at the hand of George the Fourth?”

“I remember the transaction,” said Percival; “and I have no moral doubt
that all you tell me is perfectly correct. Indeed, I am so well assured
of it, that I have not the least objection to discount the note of
hand, on condition that the defective evidence be supplied me before I
am called upon to make further advances.”

“Most certainly,” exclaimed Perdita. “Charles will give you every
satisfactory proof of the validity of his claims. You require testimony
to show that he is the lawfully begotten son of those who now pass
under the name of Mr. and Lady Georgiana Hatfield?”

“The certificates of _their_ marriage and _his_ birth,” said the miser.
“Where is the note of hand?”

Perdita produced it; and a little altercation then arose respecting
the rate of discount. Mrs. Fitzhardinge manifested a greedy anxiety to
conclude the bargain on the miser’s own exorbitant terms: but Perdita
argued the point with him in a resolute manner. At last, however, an
amicable understanding was arrived at; and the miser was permitted
to deduct seventy-five pounds for the discount. Perdita received the
amount which he then told down upon the table; and the old woman’s
features grew distorted with rage--a rage the more intense, because she
was forced to restrain it--when she found that her daughter did not
offer to render her the guardian of the purse.

But Perdita had that day asserted an empire which she was resolved to
maintain--a domination which she was determined to grasp indivisibly.
Without positively offending or irritating her mother by pointed and
overt insult, she nevertheless had made up her mind to act as the
mistress in all things;--and thus had the punishment of the vile old
woman already begun, even on account of the new schemes of wickedness
which she had set on foot.

Having secured the precious packet of papers and the money about her
person, the beautiful Perdita rose from her chair, saying, “We may now
take our departure, mother.”

“One word first!” exclaimed Percival, a sudden reminiscence striking
him: then, turning towards Mrs. Fitzhardinge, he said, “My dear
madam, I have some news to impart which I had almost forgotten in the
absorbing nature of the business that has occupied us for the last
hour,--news which will not a little astonish you----”

“Then pray keep me no longer in suspense!” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhardinge,
Perdita’s conduct not having put her into the best of possible humours.

“Just before you knocked at the door this night----”

“Well, well?” ejaculated the impatient woman.

“A man was with me----”

“And that man?” repeated Mrs. Fitzhardinge, gasping for breath, as if
she anticipated the reply.

“Was your husband!” added the miser.

A hideous expression passed over the countenance of Mrs.
Fitzhardinge,--an expression of mingled hate, apprehension, and rage;
and she staggered for a moment as if she were about to fall.

But subduing her emotions, she approached the miser, and said in a low,
hoarse, grating tone, “Does he know that I am in London?--is he aware
that I am in England--passing by the name of Fitzhardinge----”

“No--no,” replied Percival hastily: for he saw by the old woman’s
manner that she would not thank him were he to inform her that he had
made her husband acquainted with so many particulars concerning her.

“You are sure--you are certain?” demanded she, breathing somewhat more
freely.

“Since Mr. Percival has already answered you satisfactorily, mother,
wherefore require additional assurances?” said Perdita, who was in
haste to depart--for it was now waxing very late.

“Because I would sooner meet one of those hideous snakes that I have
seen in Australia, than encounter that man!” responded the old woman.
“I know not why,--but I hate him--I loathe and abhor him----”

“Come along, mother,” interrupted Perdita, impatiently: “Mr. Percival
cares nothing about all this.”

“True! but one word more,” cried Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “Tell me, sir--is
that man--_my husband_,”--and the words appeared almost to choke
her,--“is he well off--or poor and wretched?”

“He seemed to be very miserable,” answered the miser;--“so miserable
that he wished to obtain assistance from me! But I--I never give,” he
added, after a moment’s hesitation.

“I believe you, sir,” remarked Perdita, a faint smile of contempt
curling her haughty but beauteous lip. “Now, mother, at last you are
ready, I presume?”

“Allow me to light you to the door,” said Percival; and, with a bow, he
preceded the two females into the passage.

He opened the front door, and Perdita, wishing him “good night” bounded
forth first into the open air--for she felt relieved at escaping from
the miser’s cheerless abode:--her mother followed more slowly--and
just as she passed by Percival, who stood on the threshold officiously
holding the candle, the light streamed fully on the countenance of
the old woman. At that same instant Mrs. Dyer--the widow who lived at
the next house--was returning home from a neighbour’s; and she caught
a complete view of the face of Mrs. Fitzhardinge. It struck the good
woman at the moment that she had seldom beheld such a repulsive,
sinister countenance: but she was accustomed to see strange-looking
people visit the miser’s abode;--and the circumstance therefore made no
particular impression on her mind.

She merely said “Good night, sir,” to the miser, and forthwith entered
her own abode.

Percival’s door closed at the same instant; and Mrs. Fitzhardinge
having overtaken her daughter, the two retraced their way to the City
Road, whence they took a cab to Suffolk Street.




CHAPTER CXXXIX.

THE MISER ALONE IN HIS DWELLING.


Having carefully barred and bolted the street-door, Percival entered
the front room, and assured himself that the shutters were safely
fastened.

He then returned to the back parlour; and, seating himself at the
table, proceeded to examine the contents of his cash-box.

[Illustration]

He looked at the note of hand which he had received that night, and
which bore the signature of _Marston_--for, in compliance with the
suggestion of Mrs. Fitzhardinge, the infatuated Charles Hatfield had
signed the document with the name to which he believed himself to be
entitled.

The first sensations of the miser, as he fixed his eyes on the “promise
to pay” at a specific date the sum of _one thousand guineas_, were
of pleasure: for he calculated the profit he had derived from the
transaction--and he flattered himself that he had gained seventy
guineas in a single hour.

“And with so little trouble, too,” he muttered to himself.

But, in the next moment, a gloomy shade began to cross his countenance:
for the thought stole upon him that perhaps he had acted too
precipitately--that the women might have forged a number of papers to
delude him--that, after all, there might be no such person in existence
as Charles Hatfield, or Viscount Marston.

“Pshaw!” he exclaimed emphatically, as he endeavoured to banish these
unpleasant reflections from his mind; “it is all right--and I am a fool
thus to yield to misgivings. Why should not Tom Rain be the rightful
Earl of Ellingham? Things more strange and improbable have occurred in
this world. And if he be really the elder brother of the nobleman now
bearing the title, why should he not have a son who is the heir to that
title and likewise to the estates? Yes--yes: it is all feasible enough!
Besides, amongst those papers were the marriage certificate of the late
Earl and Octavia Manners--and the baptismal certificate of their child.
Well, then--granting that there is a Charles Hatfield,--or, in other
words, a Viscount Marston,--what is less extraordinary than that so
beautiful a creature as this Miss Fitzhardinge should have captivated
the young noble? She is a splendid girl--a very splendid girl! Even
in the plain garb which she wore this evening--a sort of disguise, no
doubt--she looked truly bewitching. What eyes!--what a profile!--what
teeth!--what hair! Ah! I wish that I was a young man now--that I had
not these sixty-five winters on my head: I would even yet endeavour to
rival Viscount Marston! But, no--no: that were impossible! These young
girls are smitten with titles more than with money: and, on my honour,
Miss Fitzhardinge will become the rank of Viscountess full well. She
has the dignity--the stateliness--and yet the grace and elegance of a
woman of fashion! All this, doubtless, must be the work of nature: for
where could she have become familiar with the manners and customs of
the drawing-room? Ah! was not that a noise?”

And the miser, hastily shutting up his cash-box, started to his feet.

He listened--but all was still!

“A false alarm,” he murmured to himself--and resumed his seat.

But the incident had completely disturbed the current of his thoughts
which were flowing into a more voluptuous channel than for years
and years they had done,--the beauty of Perdita having made a deep
impression upon the mind of the miser, and for a few minutes weaned
away his attention from the hitherto all-absorbing gold that he
worshipped so devotedly.

And now that alarm,--whether false or real, we cannot as yet
determine,--recalled his errant thoughts to the one engrossing subject:
and carefully depositing his cash-box in the safe, he next secured the
safe itself.

Then, having placed the key in his pocket, he took the candle in his
hand, and once more inspected the street-door--the shutters in the
front-room--and the bolt of the back-gate.

He descended into the kitchen,--that kitchen which no domestic
occupied, and the hearth of which so seldom sparkled or shone with
blazing coal or wood,--a cursed hearth which, even in the very midst
of summer, seemed cheerless and cold! The area that gave light to the
kitchen-window was strongly barred over: the window itself was likewise
barred;--and the door opening into the area was well secured with bolts
and chains.

All these multiplied precautions were duly inspected by the miser.
Forgotten now was the image of Perdita:--gold--gold--_his_ gold,--this
was the one absorbing idea!

No--not the only _one_: for with the thought of possessing gold is ever
associated the dread of losing it;--and at this moment the man’s mind
was a prey to vague fears--undefined alarms--gloomy misgivings.

He did not like that noise which he had heard:--it haunted him like a
spectre;--it was something that weighed upon his soul like lead.

He felt--he knew that he was really _alone_ in that house,--aye, and
that the house was lonely in situation likewise: for he could not count
for aid, in case of need, on the elderly widow next door and her two
or three poor female lodgers. Thus, the fact that there _was_ a house
adjoining did not detract from the sense of utter loneliness awakened
in his mind respecting his own abode.

But were not the bolts secure--the chains fastened--the bars all firm
and strong? Oh! he had not spared his money to obtain the best iron and
the best work when those precautions were adopted: and, since he had
become a miser, he had never paid a bill so cheerfully as that which
the defences of his dwelling had incurred.

Yes:--the bolts _were_ secure--the chains _were_ well fastened--and the
bars _were_ all firm and strong;--and yet Percival was not at ease in
his mind.

That unknown, unaccountable noise had alarmed him. It was a noise the
nature of which he could scarcely explain to himself,--nor whether it
had occurred inside or outside the house: no--nor whether it were the
creaking of timber--or the shaking of the shutters--or the sound of a
human voice speaking low, hoarse, and in a disguised tone.

Having convinced himself that all was secure in the kitchen and the
little scullery at the back, Percival once more ascended to his back
parlour. He looked at his watch, and found it was half an hour past
midnight:--still he felt no inclination to sleep! Vague and oppressive
fears continued to haunt him;--and the more he essayed to wrestle with
his reflections, the more intolerable did they become,--till at last
horrible ideas were forced upon his imagination,--of how misers had
been murdered for their gold--how their blood had been poured out even
on the very treasure-chests to which they clung with desperate tenacity
while the blows of the assassins rained down upon their heads!

Of all these things he thought; and his brain appeared to whirl. He
cast his eyes around: objects of terror seemed to encounter them in all
directions--for his fevered, excited imagination conjured up the most
horrifying phantoms.

Suddenly taking his head as it were in his hands, and pressing
it violently, he exclaimed aloud. “Perdition take this cowardly
nervousness! What have I to fear to-night--more than any other? I need
rest--repose--slumber;--and when I awake in the morning, I shall laugh
at myself for the absurd terrors to which I have yielded now!”

Taking the light in his hand, he was about to quit the room and seek
his chamber up stairs, when a sound, as of the back door slowly
opening, fell upon his ears;--and so great was the alarm with which
this circumstance filled him,--striking him as it were with a sudden
paralysis,--that he let the candle fall upon the floor--and the light
was immediately extinguished.

Then there was the rush of a man up the stairs leading from the back
door to the parlour;--and in another moment Percival was assailed in
the dark, and in a desperate manner. A heavy blow, as with a bludgeon,
felled him to the ground,--not quite stunning him, but so far depriving
him of his physical energies that he could not even cry out. But he
grasped the murderer by the throat; and a short struggle ensued. The
assassin, however, was armed with the determination, if not with the
strength, of a demon;--and, dashing the miser back on the floor again
with all his force, he seized the bludgeon and wielded it with such
fearful effect, that in a few instants the victim lay motionless and
silent beneath him!

This fearful crime was accomplished in the dark; and yet the murderer
appeared not to be afraid--nor to lose his presence of mind. It would
also seem that he was acquainted with the nook where the miser’s gold
was concealed: yes--even circumstances more minute still were known to
him. For, stooping down, and passing his hand over the corpse, he felt
in the very pocket where Percival had placed the key of the cupboard
enclosing the iron safe;--and then, groping his way to that cupboard,
he opened it,--opened likewise the iron safe,--and drew forth the tin
case containing the miser’s gold and bank-notes. Breaking open the
lid of the box, the miscreant secured all the coin, notes, and papers
about his person, and then stole away from the dwelling by means of the
back-gate, which he closed behind him.

       *       *       *       *       *

At half-past seven o’clock in the morning, Mrs. Dyer knocked at the
door of the miser’s house, and was somewhat surprised when, five
minutes having elapsed, her summons remained unanswered.

“Perhaps he has over-slept himself,” she muttered to herself: “I will
come back again presently;”--and the woman returned to her own abode.

But something like a misgiving had stolen into her mind,--a vague and
indefinable fear--a presentiment against which she could not wrestle.
A gloom had fallen on her spirits: she was in that humour when people
who are in any way superstitious, expect bad news. Not that she had
heard any noise in the course of the night, or that she had any
motive for suspicion:--the feeling that oppressed her was excited by
no accountable and intelligible cause,--unless, indeed, it were that
during the five or six years she had waited upon Mr. Percival, this was
the very first occasion on which she had failed to find him already up
and dressed, and ready to admit her at a stipulated hour.

Having performed a few domestic duties in her own house--but in a
strange manner, as if she scarcely knew what she was doing,--Mrs. Dyer
returned to the miser’s front-door, at which she knocked again.

But again there was no response: all was silent.

The widow-woman was now seriously alarmed; and, hastening back into her
dwelling, she informed her female lodgers that she could not make Mr.
Percival hear next door, and was afraid something had happened. The
three women, to whom these observations were addressed, accompanied her
to the miser’s house; and as all within was still silent as the grave,
they proceeded round to the back-door with the intention of looking
in through the window shutters, which, as we have before stated, were
perforated with many heart-holes. But Mrs. Dyer first happened to try
the back-gate, and, to her surprise, found it unfastened. She and the
other women then entered the house; and their attention, now rendered
keen by dark suspicions, was immediately attracted to the fact that
the part of the door-post into which the bolt of the back-gate fitted,
had been cut away, _from the outside_, in such a manner that it was an
easy affair to slide back the bolt. The females beheld this ominous
appearance with dismay;--but how shuddering were the looks of deep
apprehension which they rapidly and silently exchanged, when they
likewise noticed an old piece of iron still sticking in the lock,--a
sure indication of that lock having been picked, also from the outside!

Had either one of the women now manifested the least hesitation to
proceed, the others would have gladly followed the example to retreat.
But, huddling all together--and in deep silence--they slowly ascended
the stairs leading to the back parlour.

The door of this room was half open; and as the widow endeavoured to
push it farther back still, it was stopped by something that evidently
was not a table nor a chair,--no--nor aught made of wood.

The women slowly entered the parlour:--and then their tongues were
suddenly loosened--and piercing shrieks burst from their lips. For the
prismatic light which streamed through the heart-holes of the closed
shutters, played on the smashed, gory, and disfigured countenance of
the murdered man!

Terror for a few minutes rooted to the spot the spectatresses of
this horrible spectacle:--and, clinging--hanging to each other, they
remained gazing, in terror and dismay, on the remains of him whom they
had all seen alive and in health on the preceding day!

At length the female who was nearest to the door seemed suddenly to
recover the use of her limbs; and, with another ejaculation of horror,
she fled precipitately,--her companions following her with a haste
which seemed to indicate that they were afraid lest the murdered man
should stretch forth his hand and clutch the hindermost by the garments.

Oh! what terrors are inspired by the cold--inanimate--powerless remains
of mortality! And yet men of the strongest minds have had their fears
in this respect;--and heroes who would have faced a serried rank
bristling with bayonets, or hunted the savage tiger in the jungles
of Hindoostan, have feared to remain alone with the corpse of a
fellow-creature!

Full soon was the dreadful rumour spread throughout the neighbourhood
that the miser Percival had been murdered during the night;--and the
police were speedily upon the spot.

The dead body indeed presented a hideous spectacle to the view:--the
countenance was so disfigured as to defy recognition;--and the skull
was fractured in several places. By the side of the corpse lay a heavy
stake; and, as it was covered with blood, and some of the hair from
the murdered man’s head was sticking to it, there was no difficulty
in pronouncing it to have been the weapon used by the assassin. The
candlestick was found on the floor close by;--the cupboard and the iron
safe were open;--and the tin-box, emptied of its contents, was stumbled
over by one of the officers.

Not the slightest suspicion could possibly be attached to the
widow-woman or her lodgers occupying the adjacent house;--but they were
necessarily questioned by the inspector, with a view to elicit any
particulars that might aid the officers of justice in sifting the most
mysterious and horrible affair.

Mrs. Dyer stated that she had heard no disturbance during the night;
and her lodgers all made a similar declaration.

“I passed the evening with a neighbour,” said the widow, naming the
friend at whose house she had supped; “and I returned home about
half-past eleven o’clock. Mr. Percival was at that moment taking leave
of some visitors at his own door: and----Oh! I remember now,” exclaimed
Mrs. Dyer, a sudden thought striking her,--“there were two women--one
apparently young, if I might judge by the hasty glimpse I caught of her
figure--for I did not see her face, as she was standing by the gate
opening into the road----”

“And the other woman?” demanded the inspector.

“Was old and very ugly,” returned the widow. “I saw her countenance
plainly enough; for the light which Mr. Percival held, streamed full
upon it;--and I thought at the moment that I had never in my life
beheld such a repulsive--horrible-looking creature. I was really
frightened--there was something so unpleasant in her looks.”

“And was any man with them?” enquired the officer.

“No: the two women were alone. They took leave of Mr. Percival, and, I
suppose, went away. At all events, I know that he closed his door just
at the same moment that I shut mine. I said ‘Good night’ to him: and
that was the last time I saw the poor gentleman alive.”

“It is highly important,” observed the inspector, “that we should
find out these two women of whom you speak--as they were, to all
appearances, the last persons who were with the deceased?”

Mrs. Dyer then gave as accurate a description as she could of the
personal appearance of the old woman whose countenance had struck her
as being so repulsive and sinister;--and the inspector, having left a
couple of officers on the premises where the crime had been committed,
departed to acquaint the Coroner with the dreadful occurrence.




CHAPTER CXL.

FRESH SCENES AND MORE TROUBLES AT HOME.


While the discovery of the assassination of the old miser was being
made in Pentonville, as just related, a scene of some interest occurred
simultaneously at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham, in Pall Mall.

Charles Hatfield had risen early, after having passed a restless night;
and, his toilette being completed, he was just meditating--unpleasantly
meditating on the demeanour that it was proper for him to assume at
the breakfast-table,--when the door opened, and his father entered the
chamber.

The young man had not encountered his parents since the dispute of
the preceding morning: he had purposely avoided them throughout the
day--not appearing at the dinner-table, and absenting himself likewise
from the usual family meeting at the supper-hour. He therefore felt
himself somewhat disagreeably situated,--being totally unprepared to
meet his father, and having decided on no definite course to pursue
with regard to him.

“My dear son,” said Mr. Hatfield, approaching and taking the young
man’s hand, “it is necessary that we should have an immediate
explanation. I allude to the occurrences of yesterday morning; and I
regret that you should have adopted the unusual course of absenting
yourself throughout the day----”

“I returned home between seven and eight last evening,” interrupted
Charles, hastily, but not disrespectfully.

“I am aware of it,” said Mr. Hatfield, fixing his eyes upon his son
in a penetrating manner. “But you only remained in the house a few
minutes;--and, having visited your chamber, you hurried away again.
Were you afraid to encounter your parents? Remember, Charles, if
you felt that your conduct of the morning had been undutiful and
improper--nay, I will even say _cruel_, towards us--yet a single word
expressive of contrition would have made us open our arms to receive
you.”

“You denounce my behaviour as cruel towards you,” exclaimed Charles:
“but did you not first provoke _me_, father?--did you not call me harsh
names? And if, in return, I complained of what I considered to be the
unnatural conduct of my parents toward me----”

“Wherefore thus pertinaciously endeavour to penetrate into those
secrets which, for good and salutary reasons, your parents keep
concealed from you?” demanded Mr. Hatfield: “for I presume that you
allude to the fact of our still desiring that you should pass as our
nephew.”

“You have assured me that I am legitimate--that there is no stigma
upon my birth,” cried Charles;--“then wherefore not acknowledge me as
your son? You claim from me the duty of a son--and yet you deny me the
title! And again I must remind you, father, that to an accident alone
am I indebted for the knowledge of my birth!”

“I would ask you, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a serious and
impressive tone, “what all this has to do with the proposal of marriage
that you made to Lady Frances Ellingham: for it was on _this_ point
that our dispute commenced yesterday morning. Am I to suppose that my
son, being unwilling to contract an alliance so honourable to him,
seeks other grounds whereon to base his design of flying in the face
of his parents?--am I to conclude that, being resolved to thwart us in
this--our dearest hope, you seize upon another and ignoble pretext to
justify your rebellion against us!”

“No--ten thousand times _No_!” exclaimed the young man, cruelly hurt by
these suspicions. “In first place, I do not love Lady Frances Ellingham
otherwise than as a brother may love a sister----”

“Because,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, fixing his eyes sternly upon
his son,--“because you have formed some connexion of which you are
ashamed----”

“Ah!” cried Charles, starting violently. “Has my father acted the spy
upon me?”

“Listen,” said Mr. Hatfield, to whose countenance the indignant
blood rushed as his son thus insolently addressed him: but he chose
to controul his feelings--and he succeeded: “listen, Charles--and
then decide whether you ought to judge me so harshly. Your conduct
of yesterday morning towards your mother and myself was of such an
extraordinary--unaccountable--distressing nature, that you cannot blame
me if I resolved to discover the motives that had actuated you. In
this determination I was fixed by your protracted absence throughout
the day--your stealthy return in the evening--your short visit to your
own chamber--your avoidance of all the inmates of this house--and
your hasty and also stealthy departure again. I confess, then, that I
followed you last evening----”

“You followed me, father?” repeated Charles, in a low, hoarse, and
hollow voice.

“Yes--I followed you to Suffolk Street,” continued Mr. Hatfield,
with a firmness and a cool determination of tone and manner which he
hoped would overawe the rebellious young man: “and, on inquiry in the
neighbourhood, I learnt that at the house which you entered, dwells a
very beautiful young lady. Now, I give you my honour, Charles, that I
asked no more--was told no more than this one fact. I have no desire to
become acquainted with the _liaisons_ of my son:--indeed, I know that
young men will be--what shall we call it?---_gay_, if you will. All I
wished to ascertain was whether there were any grounds for supposing
that you had formed a connexion which you may believe to have _love_
for its basis, and which induced you yesterday morning to refuse the
fulfilment of your own offer to Lady Frances Ellingham.”

“Father,” said Charles Hatfield, scarcely able to restrain an outburst
of indignation, reproach, and bitter recrimination,--in which, had he
allowed that torrent of feelings to force a vent, all that he knew
of his family and their secrets would have been revealed, or rather
proclaimed, in no measured terms;--“father,” he said, fortunately
subduing the evil promptings of the moment,--“I have listened to
you with attention--though not without impatience. Yesterday you
reviled me--you heaped bitter reproaches upon me--you menaced me with
disinheritance: then, in the evening, you enacted the spy upon my
actions--you watched me--you followed me----”

“It was my duty--and a most painful one, I can assure you,” interrupted
Mr. Hatfield, alarmed by the strange--the ominous coldness that
characterised his son’s tone and manner.

“Your duty!” ejaculated Charles, now speaking with an indignation that
burst forth in frightful contrast with the unnatural tranquillity on
which it so abruptly broke; “and wherefore have you not performed
your duty in all things? Duty, indeed! But know, father, that there
are other duties to fulfil than merely playing the part of a spy on
your son’s actions:--there are such duties as giving him his proper
name--allowing him to assume his just rights--and placing him in
that social position which he ought to occupy! You menace me with
the loss of fortune, father?--Oh! you know how vain and ridiculous
is this threat--and how it aggravates the wickedness of all your
former conduct towards me! I am no longer a child to be held in
leading-strings--no longer a silly sentimentalist who, through maudlin
and mawkish feelings of a false delicacy, will consent to have my
nearest and dearest interests trampled upon--my privileges altogether
withheld--my rights cruelly denied me! You have played the mysterious
too long,--you have enacted the cruel and unnatural until endurance has
become impossible;--and now you would assume the part of the absolute
dictator--expecting to find me still a pliant, docile, grovelling
slave,--without spirit--without courage--without even the common
feelings of a man! But you are mistaken, father:--and if I have thus
been driven to tell you my mind, you have only yourself to reproach,
for so distressing--so painful a scene!”

Thus speaking,--and before his father had so far recovered from the
amazement into which this volley of words threw him, as to be able
even to stretch out a hand to retain him,--Charles seized his hat, and
rushed from the room.

In less than a minute the front-door of the house closed behind him;
and he hurried on, like one demented, to Suffolk Street.

But before we accompany him thither, we must pause to explain the
effect which this scene had upon his father.

Indeed, Mr. Hatfield was struck with an astonishment so profound--a
bewilderment so complete, that his heart seemed as if it were numbed
against pain. He could not comprehend the drift of Charles’s passionate
address,--otherwise than by supposing that the young man required to
be recognised as a son, and not as a nephew. For it did not--as, in
fact, it could not--for a single moment enter Mr. Hatfield’s head that
Charles had discovered all the occurrences of former years, and that
he had thence drawn the false and fatal inference that he--this same
infatuated young man--was the heir to the proud title and vast estates
of the Earldom of Ellingham. He therefore saw in his son’s conduct only
the rebellious spirit of an individual who, having formed a connexion
of which he was most likely ashamed and which he knew to be improper,
endeavoured to meet his parents’ reproaches with recriminations, and
seize upon the least shadow of an excuse or pretext for resisting the
paternal authority.

When reflection thus diminished the wonderment which Mr. Hatfield
experienced at the behaviour of the young man, pain and sorrow
succeeded that first feeling. Indeed, the unhappy father was cruelly
embarrassed: he knew not how to act. Charles was of that age
when,--even did circumstances permit Mr. Hatfield to acknowledge that
he really was his son,--no legal authority could be exercised, nor
constraint practised; and he felt assured that any farther attempt to
interfere with him in the connexion which he had formed, would only
aggravate the irritability of the wrong-headed young man.

Then again, it was impossible to abandon him thus to courses which
might hurry him on to utter ruin;--and moreover, the Lady Frances
Ellingham had been so cruelly trifled with, that an explanation with
_her_ parents became absolutely necessary.

Now was it that Mr. Hatfield cursed the hour when he had been
induced to leave Italy, and return to England on this visit to his
half-brother--a visit which the Earl had by letter urged him to pay,
and to which he had assented in full confidence of the complete safety
of the step.

Bewildered with the variety of his conflicting thoughts, and feeling
the necessity as well as recognising the propriety of consulting the
Earl, Mr. Hatfield repaired to the library, whence he despatched a
message to the nobleman requesting his lordship to join him there as
speedily as possible:--for it still wanted upwards of half-an-hour to
the usual breakfast time.

The Earl of Ellingham was just issuing from his chamber when the
message was delivered to him; and, immediately apprehending some evil
news, he hastened to the library, where he found his half-brother
pacing up and down in an agitated manner.

Mr. Hatfield, without any disguise, hesitation, or circumlocution,
immediately unfolded to the Earl all that had taken place, both on that
and the preceding day, in respect to Charles;--and Arthur listened with
emotions of mingled pain, astonishment, and apprehension.

“Much as it would have delighted me,” he at length observed, “to
witness the union of my daughter and your son, Thomas, I cannot for a
moment recommend that the young man’s inclinations should be forced.
Such an union seemed necessary--almost imperiously necessary under
the peculiar circumstances in which we are placed. While you, the
elder brother, renounce the title which is your just right--I, the
younger one, have long borne it and bear it still;--though, heaven
knows that I value it indeed but little----However,” added the Earl,
interrupting himself hastily,--“I was about to observe that, situated
as we thus are, it appears but natural and proper that your son should
receive a positive and acknowledged admission into the family by
means of an alliance with my daughter. And she, poor girl--she loves
him,” continued the nobleman, his voice faltering; “and he has acted
unwisely--to use no harsher term--in declaring an attachment which he
does not feel, and making a proposal which he cannot accomplish.”

“I am at a loss how to act!” said Mr. Hatfield. “My God!” he cried, in
a tone expressive of deep feeling, “am I ever to be the means of giving
annoyance and vexation to you, my dear Arthur,--you, who have been so
kind and generous a friend to me?”

“Not on _this_ account must you distress yourself, Thomas,” returned
the Earl, emphatically: “you are not responsible for the wayward
humours of your son. But surely this sudden manifestation of a
rebellious disposition on his part, cannot arise wholly and solely from
the connexion which you believe him to have formed. Have you enquired
concerning the character of the women--the mother and daughter--whom he
visits in Suffolk-street?”

“No: I contented myself with ascertaining that at the house which I saw
him enter, there is a young lady of very extraordinary beauty.”

“And are you convinced that Charles has learnt nothing relative to the
events of former years--nothing calculated to diminish----”

“I understand you, Arthur,” said Mr. Hatfield, seeing that his
half-brother hesitated: “you would ask whether I have any reason
to believe that he has learnt aught which may have a tendency to
diminish the respect he had until within these two days past maintained
towards his parents? On this head I am of course unable to answer you
positively: but my impression is that he is as much as ever in the dark
relative to the dread occurrences of the past. Indeed, how can he have
possibly learnt a single fact----”

“May not the discovery that he is your _son_, and not your nephew,
have induced him to seek for farther information?” enquired the Earl
of Ellingham. “May not some sentiment of ardent curiosity have been
awakened within him----”

“But where could he address himself to this task of raising the veil
from the mysteries of by-gone years--even if he have the slightest
ground to suspect that such mysteries do exist?” demanded Mr. Hatfield,
interrupting the Earl. “To what source could he repair for the means of
elucidation?”

“I know not: and yet--I am now impressed with suspicions of a most
unpleasant nature,” observed the Earl. “It is very essential that some
immediate step should be taken to redeem this fine young man from a
career of error--perhaps of depravity----”

“Oh! yes--yes!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “My God! if the sins of
the father be in this case visited upon the son, life will become
intolerable to me!--Rather would I at once have a full and complete
understanding with Charles,--tell him all--yes, _all_,--reveal to him
who I really am--open to him the means of a complete retrospection,
embracing all my sad history,--and then throw myself on his
mercy--imploring him at least to have pity upon his innocent mother, if
not on me who am so guilty!”

“No--no, Thomas: this humiliation may not be!” ejaculated the Earl.
“For if, as you believe, your son has at present no suspicion of the
past, it would be madness to make unnecessary revelations.”

“I am bewildered--cruelly perplexed: I know not how to act!” cried Mr.
Hatfield. “Oh! if I were confident that he has no such suspicions--that
he has learnt or surmised nothing calculated to diminish the respect
due to his mother and myself----”

“How can he have fathomed the obscurity which hangs over your former
life?” demanded the Earl. “And as to supposing that he could, by any
possible means, obtain even the shadow of an idea of your real birth
and parentage----”

“No: for the papers--those important papers which I gave you years ago,
and which I requested you to destroy,--those papers, I say,” exclaimed
Mr. Hatfield, “could alone make such important revelations to my son:
and, thank heaven! they are not in existence.”

“My dear brother,” returned the Earl of Ellingham, taking Mr.
Hatfield’s hand, and speaking in a very serious tone, “I most frankly
and honestly inform you that those papers have _not_ been destroyed. At
the same time, they have been kept in a place of perfect security--a
secret recess known only to myself----”

“And wherefore were not such dangerous documents burnt--annihilated!”
asked Mr. Hatfield, in a reproachful tone.

“I dared not perform a deed which would argue so much selfishness on
my part,” replied the Earl of Ellingham, now speaking with a strong
emphasis--the result and impulse of his generous, lofty, honourable
feelings. “So long as those papers remain in existence, you, my dear
brother, can at any moment say to me, ‘_I repent of the step which
I took in renouncing my just rights and privileges; and I now claim
them_:’--and should you at any time thus address me, it would only be
for me to produce the papers that establish your claims.”

“Oh! Arthur, you are generous--even to a fault!” exclaimed Mr.
Hatfield. “You know--or, at least, I again assure you for the hundredth
time, that not for worlds would I heap disgrace on a noble name by
daring to assume it! Merciful heavens! shall the coronet which becomes
you so well, be snatched from your brows, and transferred to those
of----”

“Hush! Thomas--hush! this excitement is most unnecessary,” interrupted
the Earl. “You must not blame me for the motives which induced me to
keep the documents;--and now--if you will have them restored to you----”

“Yes--yes: give them to me, Arthur,” cried Mr. Hatfield, resolving to
destroy the papers without farther delay.

“You claim them--they are yours--and they shall at once be returned
into your hands,” said the nobleman. “But I conjure you to act not
hastily nor rashly----”

“Fear nothing, Arthur,” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield: “but give me the
papers! There is no time to lose--the ladies will be waiting for us at
the breakfast-table----”

“True!” ejaculated the Earl: and, approaching that shelf at the back
of which the secret recess was formed, he said, “Once every year have
I inspected this well concealed depository: once every year have I
assured myself that the precious documents were safe;--and on those
occasions, I have cleansed them of the dust which even accumulates in a
place that is almost hermetically sealed.”

As the Earl thus spoke, he took down from the shelf the books which
stood immediately before the recess; and Mr. Hatfield, receiving the
volumes in his hands, placed them upon the table. While performing this
simple and almost mechanical act, his eyes were suddenly attracted to
the name and date of one of the books;--and his looks were rivetted, as
it were, on the words--“_Annual Register, 1827_.”

For the nature of the volume and the date of the year whose
incidents it recorded, suddenly revived the poignancy of many bitter
recollections, the sharpness of which had been somewhat blunted by
time: and it was in a moment of strange nervousness--or idiosyncratic
excitement, that he opened the book which thus had aroused those
painful memories.

An ejaculation of horror--irrepressible horror--escaped his lips: for
he had lighted on the very page which contained the account of his
_Execution_ at Horsemonger Lane:--and at the very same instant a cry of
mingled amazement and alarm burst from the Earl of Ellingham.

“Oh! is this a mere accident?” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield: “or a
warning----”

“Merciful heaven--the papers!” ejaculated the nobleman.

“A warning that my son has seen this?” added the unhappy father, almost
distracted with the idea.

“Some miscreant has done this!” cried the Earl, stamping his foot with
rage: and it was seldom that _he_ thus gave way to his passion.

The brothers turned towards each other--exchanging hasty glances of
mutual and anxious enquiry.

“The papers are gone!” said the Earl, clasping his hands in despair.

“Gone!” repeated Mr. Hatfield, staggering as if struck by a sudden
blow. “And this book--this book,” he faltered, in a faint tone, “was
in the immediate vicinity of the recess! He who took the papers--might
have read also--in that volume--the terrible account----”

Mr. Hatfield could say no more: overpowered by his feelings, he sank
exhausted on the nearest seat.

The Earl glanced at the open page which his half-brother had indicated;
and, observing the nature of the statement there recorded, he instantly
comprehended the cause of Mr. Hatfield’s emotions, and also of the
suspicions which had suddenly seized upon him.

“Yes--yes: this book has been read lately,” said Arthur, in an excited
and hurried manner: “behold! the corners of the covers have been
recently injured. Oh! my God! what does all this mean?”

It will be recollected that on the memorable night when Charles
Hatfield pursued his successful researches in the library, he had
hurled away from him, in his rage and almost maddening grief, the
volume that made such strange--such appalling revelations: and the
violence of the action had so far injured the book, as to bend and
graze the corners of the binding,--the marks of the injury remaining
clearly visible, and the white interior of the leather being laid bare,
and thus proving how recently the work had been used.

“The book has been read very lately,” murmured Mr. Hatfield, in a
musing tone; “and the papers have perhaps been stolen lately---”

“Yes,” exclaimed the Earl: “for not a month has elapsed since I
inspected that recess and found them safe.”

“Then who could have done this?” cried Mr. Hatfield, starting from
his seat, in a sudden access of excitement which was accompanied by a
return of moral and physical energy. “Oh! is it possible that Charles
is the author of all that seems so mysterious? Has he searched for
the records of my earlier life?--has he by accident discovered and
purloined those papers--those fatal papers?”

“Yes--it must be he!” exclaimed the Earl: “for did you not tell me that
he spoke of claims--and rights--and privileges unjustly withheld,--and
that be has harped upon what he termed the unnatural conduct of his
parents in concealing from him the secret of his birth? Thomas--my
dear Thomas,” continued Lord Ellingham, speaking in a lower--more
measured--and more impressive tone, “I can see it all! That young man
has found out who you are: be has learnt that you are the rightful heir
to the honours and estates which I enjoy;--and, believing himself to be
your legitimate son--according to the assurance that you were forced,
for your wife’s sake, to give him--the deluded, deceived Charles
Hatfield fancies himself to be the lawful heir to the Earldom!”

“You have divined the truth, Arthur!” cried Mr. Hatfield, his heart
wrung to its very core by all the maddening fears and torturing
reflections which were thus suddenly excited within him. “Oh! what
dreadful embarrassments--what frightful complications, will this
misapprehension entail on my unhappy son--on you--on me--on all who are
connected with us!”

“There is not a moment to lose!” exclaimed Lord Ellingham. “We must
hasten after this infatuated young man----”

At that moment the door opened; and Clarence Villiers entered the
library,--the Earl having requested him on the previous day to visit
him at the hour when, true to the appointment, he thus made his
appearance.

Villiers, perceiving at the first glance, that something unusual
was agitating Lord Ellingham and Mr. Hatfield, was about to retire,
when the Earl, beckoning him to advance, turned hastily round to his
half-brother, and said in a hurried whisper, “We will entrust this
matter to Villiers: he will conduct it with less excitement than you
and I; and, as he knows your secret----”

“Yes:--but all he _does_ know is that the Mr. Hatfield of
to-day is identical with the Thomas Rainford of former times,”
interrupted the Earl’s half-brother, also speaking in a low and
hasty tone: “remember--he is unacquainted with aught of our family
secrets--ignorant of the parentage of Charles----”

“Neither is it necessary that he should be made acquainted with all
these facts,” interrupted Arthur:--“but leave the matter to me.” Then,
turning towards Clarence, he said, “My dear Mr. Villiers, you come most
opportunely to render us an important service. We have every reason
to believe that Charles has formed an improper connexion with a young
female of great beauty, residing with her mother in very handsome
lodgings in Suffolk Street: we likewise conclude that he is there
at this present moment. Hasten thither, my good friend--demand an
immediate interview with Charles--and tell him that certain discoveries
have been made at home, in which he is deeply interested. In a word,
compel him to accompany you away from the designing women who have
doubtless entangled him in their meshes----”

“Nay: let us not judge hastily,” cried Mr. Hatfield: “remember--I
have heard nothing against the characters of these ladies; and it
may be a virtuous and honest affection, after all, that renders
Charles a visitor at their house. Let Mr. Villiers, then, act with
circumspection--and behave with the strictest courtesy towards these
ladies, should he encounter them.”

“Yes--but under any circumstances you must persuade Charles to return
with you immediately to this house,” said the Earl. “Mr. Hatfield
will acquaint you with the precise address of the lodgings in Suffolk
Street----”

The Earl’s half-brother mentioned the number of the dwelling to which
he had traced his son on the preceding evening;--adding, “The name of
the ladies is Fitzhardinge--and I heard that the daughter bears the
singular denomination of _Perdita_.”

“Perdita!” cried Villiers, starting violently. “Oh! if this be the
case----unhappy, lost Charles Hatfield!”

“Good heavens! what mean you?” demanded the wretched father, rendered
terribly anxious by those ominous words that fell on his ears like a
death-knell.

“Two ladies--mother and daughter--dwelling together--and the
girl named _Perdita_,” mused Clarence Villiers, not immediately
heeding the earnest appeal of Mr. Hatfield: “yes--yes--it must be
they!--my aunt--my wretched, wretched aunt who has returned from
transportation--and her profligate but beauteous daughter!”

“Do you mean that Mrs. Slingsby who--years ago--you know to what I
allude?” asked Mr. Hatfield, in a hurried tone, as he grasped Clarence
violently by the wrist.

“Yes--I _do_ mean that bad woman!” exclaimed Villiers, who had now
become painfully excited in his turn: “and I regret--Oh! I regret to
say that she has brought over to England her daughter, whom report
mentions as an angel of beauty and a demon in profligacy----”

“My God! Mr. Villiers--save Charles--save my Charles from these
incarnate fiends!” cried Mr. Hatfield. “Or I myself----”

And he was rushing to the door of the library, when the Earl held him
back, saying, “No, Thomas--you must not go in this excited state: let
Villiers take the affair in hand.”

Mr. Hatfield fell back into a seat, a prey to the most painful--the
most agonising emotions; while Clarence hurriedly departed to execute
the commission entrusted to him.

The Earl now addressed himself to the task of consoling his unfortunate
brother-in-law;--and he had just succeeded in inducing Mr. Hatfield to
assume as composed a demeanour as possible, preparatory to their joint
appearance at the breakfast-table, when Clarence Villiers rushed into
the room.

Not a quarter of an hour had elapsed since his departure;--and this
speedy return, together with his agitated manner, raised new alarms in
the breasts of the Earl and Mr. Hatfield.

“They are gone--fled--all three together!” cried Villiers, throwing
himself exhausted on an ottoman, and panting for breath.

“Gone!” repeated the miserable father, surveying Clarence with eyes
that stared wildly and unnaturally.

“Yes--gone!” said Villiers. “Ten minutes before I reached Suffolk
Street, my aunt, her daughter, and Mr. Charles departed in a
post-chaise, which had been sent for apparently in consequence of some
sudden plan: for the people of the house were previously unacquainted
with the intention of their lodgers thus to leave so abruptly.”

“But where was the chaise hired? and which road has it taken?” demanded
Mr. Hatfield, now manifesting an energy and determination that proved
his readiness to meet the emergency and adopt measures to pursue the
fugitives.

“I sought for that information in vain,” returned Clarence Villiers.
“It appears that my aunt herself went out to order the post-chaise;
and that care was taken not to allow the people of the house any
opportunity to converse with the post-boys. The rent and other
liabilities were all duly paid; and the landlady of the lodgings
accordingly makes no complaint of the women who have quitted her abode.”

“What course do you intend to adopt?” hastily demanded the Earl,
turning to his half-brother.

“Order me your best horse to be saddled forthwith,” said Mr. Hatfield;
“and I will proceed in pursuit of the runaways. ’Tis ten to one that
I will obtain some trace of them. Perhaps Mr. Villiers will likewise
mount horse, and take the northern road.”

“While I shall do the same, and pursue a westerly direction,” observed
the Earl.

“Good: for it was my intention to choose the route towards Dover,”
added Mr. Hatfield. “And now one word more, Arthur,” he continued,
the moment Villiers had left the room to give the necessary orders
respecting the horses: “as it is probable that we may recover and
reclaim my self-willed son--and as, in that case, penitence on his part
might induce you to forgive this absurd freak, so that the result may
yet be favourable to our nearest and dearest wishes,--under all these
circumstances, I say, suffer not Frances to learn aught disparaging to
his character.”

“I understand you, Thomas,” exclaimed the Earl, wringing his
half-brother’s hand in token of cordial assent to this proposition. “I
will even speak as warily and cautiously as I may to my wife;--while,
on your side----”

“Oh! I must tell every thing to Georgiana,” said Mr. Hatfield:
“suspense and uncertainty would be intolerable to her. I shall now seek
her for the purpose of making a hasty but most sad communication: and
then away in pursuit of the ingrate!”

A quarter of an hour afterwards, the Earl of Ellingham, Mr. Hatfield,
and Clarence Villiers--all three equipped for their journeys--repaired
to the nobleman’s stables in the immediate vicinity of the
mansion;--and thence they speedily issued forth, well mounted, and each
taking a separate direction.




CHAPTER CXLI.

THE FLIGHT.


Upon breaking away from the presence of his father, in the manner
already described, Charles Hatfield hurried to the house in Suffolk
Street; and bursting into the room where Mrs. Fitzhardinge and Perdita
were seated at breakfast, he exclaimed, “I have at length thrown off
all allegiance to my parents;--and I must now act wholly and solely for
my own interests.”

“Not altogether for _your own_, Charles--dear Charles,” said Perdita,
fixing upon him a plaintive and half-reproachful look, which made her
appear ravishingly beautiful in his eyes.

“No--not altogether for myself will I act,” he cried, embracing
her tenderly: “but for thee also, my angel--yes, for thee whom I
love--adore--worship!”

“What has occurred this morning to render your lordship thus agitated?”
enquired Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

“Oh! a quarrel with my father,” exclaimed Charles, who, in the
enthusiasm of his blind devotion to Perdita, had forgotten the old
woman’s presence. “He has played the part of a spy upon me--he has
followed me to your door--he knows that I visit you--and he will
doubtless endeavour to cause a breach between us!”

“Let us depart hence--now--at a moment’s warning!” cried Perdita. “We
have ample funds for the purpose. Last night a money-lender discounted
your note, Charles: and I have the proceeds safe in my own keeping.”

“Fortune favours us, then!” said the infatuated young man. “Yes--we
will depart without delay: we will hasten to some retired place where
we can deliberate, fearless of interruption, on the course which it
will now be necessary for me to pursue.”

“I will hasten to order a past-chaise,” observed Mrs. Fitzhardinge.
“This task had better be performed by myself--so that we may leave
behind us no trace of the route we shall have taken.”

“Thanks--a thousand thanks, my dear madam!” cried Charles: then,
when the old woman had left the room, he caught Perdita in his arms
and pressing her fondly to his bosom, said, “My parents are resolved
to force me into a marriage with Lady Frances Ellingham--they would
separate me from you----”

“Oh! Charles--were such a destiny in store for me,” said Perdita,
affecting to be melted to tears, “I should not be able to bear up
against the misfortune. For on you are all my hopes now fixed,--to you
have I given my heart--irrevocably given it;--and were you the veriest
mendicant on the face of the earth, I would never cease to love you as
now I love!”

[Illustration]

“Adored Perdita!” cried the young man, enraptured by the tender words
and the enchanting manner of the syren, as he strained her to his
breast and imprinted a thousand kisses on her brow, her cheeks, and her
lips. “Oh! never--never could I prove faithless to thee, my beloved
Perdita! Would that you were mine indissolubly--that you were mine by
the rites of the Church and the sanction of the law;--for then we might
defy the world to separate us!”

“Would you have me renounce the peculiar opinions which I have formed?”
asked Perdita, her heart palpitating with joy--for the young man had
thus, of his own accord, broached the delicate subject on which she
longed to speak, yet knew not how to begin. “Because, if such be
your wish, my beloved Charles, I will make even the sacrifice of my
strongest prejudices to your heart’s desire----”

“Now, indeed, do I know that you love me, sweetest--dearest girl!”
interrupted Charles, experiencing ineffable happiness at the idea of
possessing the beauteous Perdita on terms which would not render him
ashamed of his connexion. “Yes--yes: I _do_ demand that sacrifice at
your hands;--and, if you yield to my wishes in this respect, I shall
receive your assent as the most eloquent--the most convincing proof
of the attachment you avow! And, moreover, Perdita--dearest, dearest
Perdita--I shall be so rejoiced to place a coronet on that fair brow of
thine,--so proud to present thee to the world as my wife! Never--never
will enraptured husband have experienced a triumph so complete as that
which will be mine, when I shall conduct thee--so radiant, so dazzling
in thy beauty--amongst the friends whom the declaration of my rank
will gather around me,--and when I shall introduce thee, adored one,
as the Viscountess Marston! Yes--I shall indeed be proud of thee, my
angel;--and now--will you not breathe the word that is to promise me
all this triumph and all this joy?--will you not say, ‘_Charles, for
thy sake, I will accompany thee to the altar, and wed thee according
to the rites of the Protestant Church and the exigences of the
community_!’”

“Oh! not for another instant can I hesitate, my well beloved--my
handsome--my generous Charles!” exclaimed the syren, casting her arms
round his neck, and pressing him as if in rapture to her glowing bosom:
then, in the sweetest, most dulcet intonations of her melodious voice,
she said, “Yes--Charles, for thy sake, I will accompany thee to the
altar, and will wed thee according to the rites of the Protestant
Church and the usages of that society in which we live!”

“Now am I supremely happy!” cried Charles Hatfield, his tone and manner
fully corroborating his words. “We will repair to Paris, my beloved
Perdita--for there we can be united by the chaplain of the British
Embassy without an instant’s unnecessary delay; and thence also can I
write to my father, solemnly and formally calling upon him to assert
his right to the peerage which he has so long permitted his younger
brother to usurp. And in Paris my Perdita will be the cynosure of all
interest----”

“Oh! yes--let us visit that delightful city of which I have heard so
much!” interrupted the young woman, her eyes gleaming resplendently
with the pleasing sensations excited by the idea. “But I must now leave
you for a moment, to prepare for this sudden journey--as my mother
cannot be long before she returns.”

Perdita rose from the sofa, and hastened from the room, kissing her
hand with playful fondness to her lover as she crossed the threshold.
Even that simple action on her part excited the most ravishing feelings
in his soul;--for as she thus turned round for an instant ere the
door closed behind her, his looks swept all the fulness--all the
contours--all the rich proportions of her voluptuous form,--while the
morning sun-light, rosy from the hues of the hangings through which it
penetrated, shone on her beauteous countenance, giving splendour to the
fine large eyes, freshness to the vermilion lips, and a halo to her
glossy hair!

She disappeared; and Charles, who had risen from his seat
simultaneously with herself, advanced to the window. The street was
quiet;--but the sounds of the rapid vehicles in Cockspur Street met his
ears;--and he wondered whether the post-chaise were yet approaching the
dwelling.

This idea led him to ponder on the step which he was about to
take;--and a sensation of sadness slowly crept upon him, as he
reflected that he was on the point of leaving his home--abandoning his
parents and friends! The recollection of his mother smote him--smote
him painfully;--and yet he did not seek by inward, silent reasoning
to improve this better state of feeling, and act upon its warnings.
No:--with that perverseness which so frequently characterises those
who are on the point of adopting a measure which they secretly know to
be injudicious and unwisely precipitate--even if no worse,--he sought
in sophistry and specious mental argument an apology for his conduct.
Again he reminded himself that his parents had acted unnaturally
towards him,--and that their uniform conduct in this respect had now
been followed up by harshness, upbraidings, menaces, and _espionnage_,
on the part of his father. Then he feasted his imagination with
the thoughts of possessing Perdita:--in a few days she would be
his--irrevocably his, and in a manner which would enable him to
present her proudly to the world as his wedded wife. From this strain
of meditations he glided into glorious, gorgeous, visions of future
greatness:--the words, “My Lord,” and “Your Lordship,” only so recently
addressed to him, sounded like delicious music in his ears;--and
his painful reflections were subdued by the feelings of triumph now
once more awakened within him. Love--ambition--hope,--all--all his
yearnings, all his cravings were now on the point of being gratified:
he should cast off that parental yoke which had latterly weighed so
heavily upon him;--he was about to visit Paris--he would appear as
a Viscount, and with a beauteous bride, in the sphere of fashion
the most refined, elegance the most perfect, and civilisation the
most consummate,--and he already fancied himself walking in the
delicious gardens of the Tuileries, with Perdita--the observed of all
observers--leaning fondly on his arm!

These visions--sweeping like a gorgeous pageantry through his excited
imagination--brought him to that state of mind, in which all regrets
were banished--all remorse was forgotten;--and when Perdita returned
to the apartment, ready attired for the journey, he flew towards
her--he wound his arms around her wasp-like waist, and pressed her
enthusiastically to his bosom.

This was the first time that he had seen her in a walking-dress;--and
he thought that she even appeared more ravishingly beautiful than
when in her morning _déshabillée_, or her drawing-room garb. The
pink crape bonnet, adorned with artificial flowers, set off her fine
countenance with such admirable effect:--the flowing drapery of the
elegant summer-shawl meandered over the proportions of the symmetrical
form--developing each contour with its wavy undulations:--and the
straw-coloured kid gloves, fitting tightly to a fault, described the
shape of the beautiful tapering fingers.

“You are lovely beyond the loveliness of woman!” murmured Charles
Hatfield, surveying her with an admiration the most unfeigned--the most
sincere.

“And you, Charles--are not you my own handsome, dearly beloved
Charles--so soon to be my husband?” asked Perdita. “You said just
now that you should be proud to present me as your wife to your
friends:--Oh! I feel--yes, I feel that I shall also be proud to be so
presented. My mind seems to have undergone a complete change since I
made you that promise to wed you at the altar;--and you must forget,
dear Charles, that I ever wished it otherwise!”

Hatfield, for all answer, impressed a burning kiss upon her rosy
lips;--and the young woman’s eyes became soft and melting in
expression--voluptuous and languid with desire.

At this instant her mother returned, with the announcement that the
post-chaise would be at the door in less than a quarter of an hour;
and the old woman hastened to the bed-rooms to pack up the trunks.
Her daughter, who kept the purse, then gave her the necessary money
to liquidate all liabilities due to the landlady of the house; and
while this was being done, Perdita placed the gold and Bank-notes in
Charles’s hand, saying, “In the excitement of the morning’s incidents I
forgot to tender you this amount before.”

“Henceforth all that I have is yours equally, my beloved,” said the
young man, as he secured the money about his person.

The post-chaise-and-four now appeared; and while the trunks were
being strapped on to the vehicle, Mrs. Fitzhardinge superintended the
process, apparently with the bustling officiousness of an old woman
of particular habits, but in reality to prevent any communication
between the post-boys and the people of the dwelling;--for she knew how
inquisitive lodging-house keepers were apt to be, and that postilions
were proportionately communicative.

At length all the arrangements were completed;--Charles handed his
Perdita into the vehicle--manifested the same politeness towards the
old mother--and then entered it himself. Mrs. Fitzhardinge had placed
herself with her back to the horses, on an imperious sign from Perdita
to that effect;--so that the young couple were next to each other on
the same seat.

The post-chaise rolled rapidly away from Suffolk Street, and passed
down Whitehall towards Westminster Bridge. So long as the wheels
rattled over the stones, but little conversation took place inside
the vehicle,--though Charles and Perdita conveyed to each other many
tender assurances by means of the eloquent language of the eyes and
the pressure of hands. When, however, the chaise emerged from the more
crowded, thoroughfares of the metropolis, and entered upon the Dover
Road, the travelling party were enabled to discourse at ease.

The day was very sultry;--but the upper part of the barouche was now
thrown open; and the speed at which they travelled, created a current
of air that mitigated the intensity of the heat. However, Perdita put
up her parasol; and as the faces of the happy pair were not very far
apart, the silk canopy, circumscribed though it were, shaded those fine
countenances which really seemed made to be side by side with each
other,--both being so handsome!

For a short time the conversation was general amongst the
three:--gradually, however, Mrs. Fitzhardinge was, as it were, excluded
from its range--not rudely so,--but because it became of a tender
description between the young gentleman and her daughter;--and then it
languished somewhat, inasmuch as the old woman was a restraint upon
them.

At length there was a pause altogether; but still Charles and Perdita
felt no weariness in each other’s society. They gazed on each
other--drinking draughts of love in each other’s looks,--and often
pressing each other’s hands

For Perdita really loved the young man,--loved him with a deep and
ardent affection, of which however sensuality formed no inconsiderable
portion. Nevertheless, she _did_ love him after the fashion of her own
heart;--and thus to some extent the snarer had become ensnared!

It was in a humour of melting and voluptuous languor, that, suddenly
breaking the silence noticed above, Perdita said in her soft, dulcet
tones, “Charles, how delicious is it to travel in this manner! Do you
know that I feel as if I should like you to repeat to me a piece of
poetry--or tell me some interesting tale--for it is so sweet to hear
the sound of your voice. But if you thus gratify my caprice--this whim
of the moment--let the theme of your recitation be love!”

“I will endeavour to please you, my charmer,” returned the young
man;--“and at this moment I bethink me of a Love Story that I wrote
myself some few years ago--one day, when the mania for scribbling
suddenly seized upon me.”

“Oh! that will be truly delightful!” exclaimed Perdita. “A story of
your own composition! Begin, Charles--dear Charles: I am dying to hear
this specimen of your abilities.”

“I am afraid it will prove but a poor one,” returned Hatfield. “At the
same time, such as it is, I will repeat it.”

Mrs. Fitzhardinge, having overheard this dialogue, intimated the
pleasure she should experience in listening to the tale;--and as the
chaise was now rolling along a road rendered, as it were, soft by the
accumulation of the dust of summer, Charles was not compelled to pitch
his voice to a key unpleasantly high, in relating the ensuing narrative.




CHAPTER CXLII.

THE DRESS-MAKER: A LOVE STORY.


“It was between nine and ten o’clock on a dark and rainy night, in the
month of November, 1834, that a young female, plainly but decently
attired, was wending her way along Oxford Street. She had a large
parcel beneath her cloak;--and this parcel she protected against the
rain with the most jealous care,--thinking more, in fact, of the object
of her solicitude than of picking her path with sufficient nicety to
enable her to avoid the puddles of water that were ankle-deep in some
parts of the pavement--but more especially at the crossings. For, in
sooth, it was a bitter--bitter night:--the windows of heaven appeared
to be indeed opened, and the rain fell in torrents. The streets seemed
to be positively covered in with an arcade of umbrellas, on which the
quick drops rattled down with the violence of hail. The young female
whom I have mentioned, had an umbrella;--but she found it rather a
difficult task to hold it comfortably with one hand, while her left arm
encircled as it were the precious parcel beneath her cloak. For the
passengers in the streets of London are never over remarkable for their
civility to each other--still less so on such a night as the one I am
describing. The consequence was that there was an incessant struggle
amongst the strong to push their umbrellas safely through the mass, and
amongst the weak to prevent their own umbrellas from being dragged out
of their hands;--but it naturally happened that the latter fared the
worst.

“The young female was meek, timid, and unobtrusive. She only sought to
be permitted to pursue her way in peace, without being molested;--for,
heaven knows! she had not the least desire on her part to inconvenience
a soul. But first some rude, hulking fellow would thrust her against
the houses--almost through the shop windows; then, if she moved over
to the kerb-stone of the pavement, she found herself speedily pushed
into the mud. To pursue a middle course was impossible; because the two
streams of persons carrying umbrellas were the monopolists there;--and
so the young female began to lament the necessity which had sent her
forth into the streets on such a night as this. At length she reached
the iron gates leading into Hanover Square; and she rejoiced--for she
thought within herself that she had now got clear of the crowd, and
need entertain no farther apprehension of having the precious parcel
knocked out of her hands. But just as she entered the Square, a rude,
coarse fellow rushed against her as he was running hastily round the
corner; and such was the violence of the concussion, that the parcel
was knocked from beneath her arm. The ruffian who had caused the
accident, burst into a ferocious laugh, as if he had just performed a
most humorous or clever feat, and darted away. But the young female
was disconsolate at what had occurred; and tears started into her
eyes. Though bruised and hurt by the man’s violence, she thought not
of herself--she felt no pain:--it was on account of the parcel that
she was so deeply grieved. Hastily picking it up, she hurried to the
nearest lamp; and the moment she examined the packet beneath the
gas-light, she found her worst apprehensions confirmed. For the parcel
contained a costly silk dress, well wrapped up in brown paper;--but the
side on which it had fallen was dripping wet and covered with mud!

“‘O heavens! no food _again_ to-night!’ exclaimed the young female
aloud--for in her despair she paused not to notice whether she were
noticed or overheard. And she _was_ both noticed and overheard,--and by
a tall, handsome individual, of gentlemanly appearance, and muffled in
a capacious cloak. He had issued from the nearest house at the moment
the accident occurred; and, perceiving the brutality of the encounter,
though too late to prevent it or to chastise the perpetrator, he stood
still to observe the young female, whose countenance, as the rays of
the lamp fell upon it, struck him as being remarkably beautiful. In
that rapid survey, partial as it was by the flickering light, which
was moreover dimmed by the mist of the falling rain, the stranger
fancied that he perceived--independently of the despair which that
countenance now wore--a certain settled melancholy expression, that
at once rivetted his interest and excited his sympathies. But when
those words--so terrible in their meaning,--‘O heavens! no food
_again_ to-night!’ fell upon his ears, he accosted the young female,
and said, in a tone of respectful though somewhat condescending pity,
‘My poor girl, it appears that a sad accident has befallen you.’--The
young woman, or rather girl--for she was not more than eighteen years
of age--looked up into the face of the individual who thus addressed
her; and, perceiving that it was no insolent coxcomb who spoke, she
replied in a tone of deep melancholy, ‘Yes, sir: it is to _me_ a
great misfortune!’--The stranger read, or fancied he read, an entire
history in those few and plaintively uttered words,--how, perhaps, a
young dress-maker had toiled to finish a particular piece of work in
the hope of receiving instantaneous payment on taking it home,--how
the article had been thrown down, soiled, and rendered at least
unfit to be delivered that night to its owner, even if it were not
spoilt altogether,--and how the poor girl had lost her only chance of
obtaining the wherewith to procure a meal. Upon more closely, though
still with great delicacy, questioning the young female, the stranger
found all his surmises to be correct; but she could not tell whether
the silk dress were injured beyond redemption or not. ‘In any case,’
she added, still weeping bitterly, ‘I shall tell the lady the truth
when I take home the dress to-morrow.’--These words, uttered with
the most unquestionable sincerity, made a deep impression upon the
gentleman who was addressing her; for they denoted an unsophisticated
uprightness of character which augmented the interest he already
felt in the poor young creature.--‘And who is the lady you speak
of?’ he enquired.--‘The Dowager Marchioness of Wilmington,’ was the
reply.--‘Ah!’ ejaculated the stranger: then, after a moment’s pause, he
said, ‘Pardon me, young woman, for having asked you so many questions:
but it has not been through motives of idle curiosity. Here is a small
sum that will procure you immediate necessaries;’--and thrusting a coin
into her hand, he hurried away. The deed took the poor girl completely
by surprise;--for although it has occupied me some time to relate all
that passed between her and the generous stranger, yet in reality
their dialogue was of scarcely more than two minutes’ duration; and
the dress-maker had not yet recovered from the grief into which the
accident to her parcel had plunged her. When, therefore, the light
of the lamp flashed upon a bright yellow coin, she could scarcely
believe her eyes:--she fancied that her benefactor had made a mistake,
and intended to give her a shilling,--and then, in spite of the cold
night, the warm blood rushed to her cheeks, at the idea of any one
treating her as a mendicant--for she had her little feelings of pride,
poor though she were! But her next thought was that the stranger might
really have intended to present her with a sovereign; and--so strange
a sentiment is human pride, even in the most virtuous bosoms--her
soul revolted not from receiving that amount. And now, lest this
circumstance should induce you to form an evil opinion of my heroine,
I must inform you that it was no selfish nor avaricious feeling that
made her draw a distinction between the gift of a shilling and that of
a sovereign:--but she had been tenderly and genteelly brought up--and
the comparison which her mind drew, was simply as between the alms that
one would toss to a mendicant, and the pecuniary aid which a delicate
benevolence would administer to a person in temporary embarrassment.

“Of all these things she thought as she retraced her way along Oxford
Street,--holding her umbrella with her right hand, and with her left
arm encircling the parcel more carefully than before. She came to
the conclusion that the sovereign was not given by mistake; and she
resolved to avail herself of the bounty which Providence itself had
appeared to bestow upon her in the hour of her bitterest need. She
thought of the little brother who was anxiously expecting her return,
and who had fared so scantily for the last few days,--that little
brother of only eight years old, whom the sudden, premature, and almost
simultaneous death of their parents, about two years previously, had
left so completely dependant upon her! As she drew near the street in
which she lived, she stopped at the baker’s where she was accustomed
to deal, and purchased some nice buns;--and then she hurried on until
she reached the house wherein she rented a small back room on the third
floor. On entering the little chamber, which, though poorly furnished,
was very clean and neat, a beautiful boy, with light brown curly hair
and fine blue eyes, but with cheeks somewhat pale, sprang towards her,
exclaiming ‘Oh! dear sister Julia, I am so glad you have come back: for
I cannot bear to be left alone so long!’--‘I have brought you something
nice, Harry,’ said the kind girl, smiling sweetly upon him; and, she
placed the bag containing the buns in his hand. Joy sparkled in his
eyes;--but in another moment he observed that his sister had brought
back the parcel, which she had opened, and was carefully examining the
silk-dress to ascertain the amount of injury done to it. Throwing the
cakes upon the table, the boy hastened to question her; but poor Julia
could not answer him--scalding tears were trickling down her cheeks--a
suffocating grief filled her bosom,--for she found, to her dismay, that
the dress was completely spoilt!

“She sate down, and gave full vent to her anguish;--and then little
Harry threw his arms round her neck, and endeavoured to console her.
The flood of tears which she shed, and the affectionate conduct of
her little brother at length considerably soothed her;--and the poor
girl made up her mind to meet her misfortune with resignation. ‘You
are dripping wet, dear Julia,’ said Harry: ‘and there is not a morsel
of coal left,’ he added, looking at the miserable remnant of a fire
which was fast extinguishing in the grate.--‘Poor boy! you have been
cold,’ exclaimed the dress-maker, not thinking of herself.--‘No, dear
Julia,’ he answered; ‘for I have been walking up and down the room, to
keep myself awake till you came back. I was only afraid that the candle
would not last.’--‘Nor will it many minutes longer, Harry!’ cried
Julia, starting from her seat. ‘But do not be afraid, my dear little
fellow; for I have plenty of money to buy all we want for the moment. A
good kind gentleman took compassion upon me, and--and----’; she did not
choose to say, ‘_and gave me some money_;’--for, somehow or another,
her pure soul revolted from the idea that she had been the object of
eleemosynary benevolence on the part of a stranger:--so, cutting the
matter short, she kissed her little brother tenderly, bade him eat his
cakes, and, promising to return in a few minutes, hurried away. She
ordered up coals and wood from the nearest shed,--thence she repaired
to the grocer’s, where she purchased a few articles,--and lastly, she
sped to the baker’s, to buy bread. But the moment she entered this
shop, the master rushed from behind the counter, seized her rudely,
called her by many opprobrious names, and, raising an alarm, attracted
the attention of a policeman who was passing by. The constable entered
the shop, and enquired the cause of the disturbance; but poor Julia
had fainted;--and she, therefore, heard not the charge that was made
against her. When she came to her senses, she gazed wildly around,
thinking that she had just awoke from a horrid dream;--but, alas!
it was all too true! She was seated in a chair in the middle of the
shop--a policeman standing near her--and a gaping, curious crowd
collected at the door. ‘Now, young woman,’ said the officer, ‘come
along with me!’--Julia cast upon him a look so full of horror and
amazement, that the man’s heart was for an instant touched;--but, being
accustomed to endless varieties of imposture on the part of offenders,
he speedily recovered the cold indifference so characteristic of his
class, and said sternly, if not brutally, ‘None of this nonsense: you
must tramp off to the station-house!’--‘But what have I done? what
offence have I committed?’ asked Julia, in a tone of the most pathetic
entreaty. ‘Oh! there must be some dreadful mistake in all this!’--‘No
mistake at all,’ said the officer; ‘and you’ll know all about it in
the morning, when you go before the magistrate!’--‘The magistrate!’
repeated the girl, with the emphasis of despair. ‘But my poor little
brother, what will become of him?’--‘That’s no business of mine,’
returned the constable: ’come along!’--and he dragged the half-fainting
Julia from the shop.

“Away to the nearest station-house was the unhappy young woman rather
borne than conducted;--and so stunned--so stupefied was she by this
sudden, unaccountable, and overwhelming misfortune, that her tongue
refused to give utterance to the questions which her suspense prompted
her lips to frame. The station was close by; and thus was it that
before she had leisure to recover from her bewilderment and terror,
she found herself thrust into a dark cell--all dripping wet from head
to foot as she was. When full consciousness returned, and she was
enabled to look her misfortune in the face, she found that all the
articles she had purchased at the grocer’s and all the remainder of her
money were gone. Yet she could not possibly conceive on what charge
she had been thus rudely treated;--and her conscience inspired her
with the hope that her complete innocence must become apparent in the
morning. But the thought of her little brother excited the most painful
sensations in her bosom:--her heart was rent with pangs that seemed to
threaten her very existence! The poor little fellow!--she fancied she
saw him sitting in the cold, lonely chamber, crying bitterly at his
sister’s prolonged absence:--and then a thousand fears haunted her--all
distracting in the extreme. Might he not take it into his head to go
out to look after her?--he, who was so ignorant of London!--and then
might he not be lost in the mazes of the mighty metropolis, and on a
night when it would be almost death to him to wander about the flooded
streets? Oh! all these fears--these thoughts were terrible;--for
she dearly loved her little brother--loved him, perhaps, the more
affectionately, the more tenderly, because their orphan condition
rendered him so completely dependant upon her,--and because he was so
much attached to her, and his ways were so winning--his disposition so
cheerful!

“In the midst of these harrowing meditations a policeman opened the
trap in the door of the cell, and called her by name--‘_Julia Murray!_’
She answered in a faint and feeble tone; and the officer was about
to close the trap, satisfied that his prisoner was not ill nor had
attempted suicide,--when the young woman suddenly exclaimed, ‘Stop
one moment!’--‘Well, what is it?’ demanded the constable.--In a few
hurried words Julia explained to him how she had a little brother
expecting her return, how he would be overwhelmed with grief at her
unaccountable absence, and how grateful she should feel if any one
could be sent to inform the child that his sister would be certain
to return in the morning. The constable, who was a kind-hearted
man, promised that her request should be complied with; and he was
about to depart when, a thought striking him, he said, ‘But are you
so sure, young woman, of getting off so easy as you imagine. The
charge is a serious one, mind!’--‘The charge!’ she repeated: ‘I do
not even yet know what it is!’--‘Oh! that’s all gammon,’ cried the
constable, closing the trap abruptly; and now, his opinion of the
prisoner being that she was a hardened impostor, and had some sinister
motive in view in sending a message to her lodgings, determined to
trouble himself no more concerning the matter. It was, however, some
consolation to the poor girl to believe that her commission would be
duly executed;--for, though she had heard the officer’s unfeeling,
cutting observation relative to her ignorance of the accusation against
her, she could not for an instant suppose that he would neglect to
fulfil his promise regarding her little brother. But wearily--wearily
passed away that night--not once did the poor dress-maker close
her eyes--and she counted every hour that was proclaimed from the
neighbouring church-clock--often saying to herself that never, never
had time travelled with such leaden pace before! She had not tasted
food for many hours--and yet she was not hungry; but she experienced a
terrible faintness at the chest, and an oppressiveness on the brain,
that at intervals made her mind wander. Her cloak was dripping wet
when she had been locked up, and her shoes, stockings, and the lower
part of her dress were saturated;--but she had thrown her cloak aside,
and her garments had dried upon her;--and now she felt not positively
cold--only a numbness in her limbs, which gave her however no pain.

“At length the dull, misty, wintry morning dawned upon the
metropolis--though all was still dark in her gloomy cell. Presently
an officer entered, and gave her a cup of hot coffee and a piece of
bread. She asked him if the message had been sent to her brother;--but
he was not the same constable who had made the round of the cells at
midnight, and therefore knew nothing about the matter. Moreover, he
was a stern, sulky man; and she dared not speak farther to him--much
as she longed to ascertain the real nature of the charge against her.
She drank the coffee, which seemed to do her good;--but she could
not force a single mouthful of the bread down her throat--though the
cravings of hunger now began to oppress her cruelly. But, to use a
common phrase, her heart heaved against food. A couple of hours more
passed away, and then the same policeman who had arrested her on the
preceding evening came to conduct her to the police-office. While
they were proceeding thither, Julia enquired the nature of the charge
against her; and she now learnt for the first time that the coin which
she had changed at the bakers, and which she had believed to be a
sovereign, was only a gilt counter, of the kind used at card tables
in genteel society. She was cruelly shocked at this information, and
frankly and candidly explained to the officer the manner in which she
had become possessed of it; but he only shook his head, and seemed
to put but little faith in her story. Julia was, however, too much
absorbed in the vexation and ignominy she had thus been subjected to,
and was still enduring, to notice the man’s incredulity;--but she clung
to the hope that her tale would be believed by the magistrate before
whom she was about to appear. It happened that the usual charges of
drunkenness were just disposed of, at the moment when the young female
entered the court; and she was accordingly at once placed at the
bar--the baker being already in attendance to prefer his charge against
her. This he did in a plain and straight-forward manner,--showing no
ill-feeling against the prisoner--but, on the contrary, alleging that
he had always believed her to be a highly respectable, industrious, and
praise-worthy young woman until the present transaction took place. He
added that he had given her into custody in a moment of irritation,
believing himself to have been duped; and that he should be truly
delighted if she could make her innocence apparent. Julia’s courage
was somewhat restored by the forbearing conduct of the baker--for her
own good sense told her that the case was really one involving much
unpleasant suspicion;--and she now told her tale with an artlessness
and sincerity that produced no inconsiderable effect upon the bench.
Nevertheless, as the magistrate observed, it certainly appeared strange
that a gentleman should have given her a gilt counter in mistake for a
sovereign,--strange also that a mere stranger should have intended to
bestow upon her a sovereign at all. The magistrate proceeded to state
that the prisoner must be remanded, in order that the gentleman of whom
she spoke--if her story were true--might come forward, upon seeing
the report of the case in the newspapers, and tender his evidence.
Julia burst out into an agony of weeping, when she heard that she
must go to prison for a week; and the baker requested the magistrate
to re-consider his decision. This appeal was, however, made in vain;
but it was intimated that bail would be received for the prisoner’s
re-appearance. The baker gave a whispered assurance to the unhappy
girl that he would get two of his friends to become security for her;
and this promise consoled her. When she was removed from the office,
on her way to a cell in the rear of the establishment, the baker told
her that his wife had taken care of her brother, who had passed the
night at their house: and he expressed his deep regret that he should
have proceeded against her, as he had learnt from her landlady that she
was a young woman of most exemplary character. To be brief, the baker
performed his promise of procuring bail for the prisoner; and at about
two o’clock in the afternoon she was enabled to return home.

“Little Harry was speedily brought back to her by the baker’s wife,
who, it appeared, had bitterly reproached her husband on the preceding
evening for his conduct towards Miss Murray, and, with considerate
kindness, had at once sent for her brother, whom the good woman
consoled with some plausible tale accounting for his sister’s absence.
Julia was not however happy, even though restored to liberty; for the
charge still hung over her--and so much depended on the chance of the
appearance of her unknown benefactor, who, she still firmly believed,
had accidentally and most unintentionally given her the gilt counter
which had led to so much wretchedness and serious embarrassment.
Her first care was now, however, to proceed to the house of the old
Marchioness of Wilmington, with the silk-dress, which was completely
spoiled; and Julia’s heart was heavy as she hurried along Oxford
Street. The weather was dull and gloomy; but the rain had ceased,
and the two streams of people flowed on, in different directions,
without the hurry, bustle, and struggling that had prevailed on the
preceding evening. Julia’s bosom palpitated nervously when she reached
the spot where the accident had occurred--that accident to which
her present sorrows might be traced. On reaching the house of that
marchioness in Hanover Square, the poor girl was conducted into the
presence of the dowager--a proud, stately dame whose age exceeded
fifty, but who endeavoured by means of rouge, false hair, false teeth,
and the appliances of the toilette, to appear at least twenty years
younger. Her ladyship was seated in a small, but elegantly furnished
parlour, and was occupied in reading--no, in skimming--the last new
novel, which, according to the usual fashion, had been carefully spun
out into three volumes, though all the incidents it contained might
with advantage have been condensed into one. At a beautiful little
work-table, sate a lovely creature of two-and-twenty, with hair as
dark as jet, fine large black eyes, and a tall symmetrical, but rather
robust figure. On this fair young lady’s countenance there was a slight
shade of melancholy; and her cheeks were somewhat pale--but apparently
through a secret care, and not ill-health. This was Lady Caroline
Jerningham, the only daughter of the marchioness, and consequently
sister to the Marquis of Wilmington, her ladyship’s only son.

“On entering the presence of these ladies, Julia, who had previously
arranged in her own imagination the precise terms in which she proposed
to tell her tale,--with a strict adherence to truth,--forgot all her
studied task, and became overwhelmed with confusion. The marchioness
looked so stately--so prim--so queen-like in her deportment, not to
say positively austere, that the poor girl was seized with vague
apprehensions and unknown terrors, as if she had committed a great
and grievous fault. Lady Caroline, however, cast upon her a look
of such kind encouragement, and also of such significance, that it
almost struck Julia at the moment that the young patrician lady had a
fore-knowledge of the disaster which had occurred to the dress. Yet how
was that possible?--and as the absurdity of such an idea forced itself
upon the girl’s mind the instant after the idea itself was entertained,
her confusion and embarrassment were increased, and she burst into
tears. The dowager uttered an ejaculation of surprise; and Julia,
hastily wiping her eyes, cast an appealing glance on Lady Caroline,
who, to her relief and amazement, she beheld gazing upon her with an
expression of reassurance and deep--almost tender interest. Encouraged
by the evident graciousness of the young lady, Julia proceeded to
open the parcel; and, while so doing, she began an explanation of
the accident which had occurred to the dress. The countenance of the
marchioness, to whom she glanced timidly, lowered and contracted;--but
Lady Caroline hastened to observe, in a kind and condescending manner,
‘Whatever has happened to the dress, Miss Murray, I am confident my
mother will attribute to a misfortune, and to no blameable neglect
on your part.’--‘Permit me to answer for myself, Lady Caroline,’
said the dowager, in a tone of haughty remonstrance to her daughter,
and with an austere look at the trembling Julia. ‘Young woman,’ she
continued, now addressing herself direct to the poor girl, ‘you were
recommended to me by Lady Lumley, as an efficient, honest, careful,
and deserving person,--one, who, having been brought up tenderly and
by parents moving in a genteel sphere until the time of their decease,
was suddenly compelled to have recourse to the needle to earn a
subsistence. Under such circumstances, and with this recommendation,
I sent for you--I agreed to give you a trial--and, as I perceive, you
have spoilt for me a dress that will cost me ten guineas to replace
it.’--‘I admit, my lady,’ said Julia, ‘that you have great cause to be
dissatisfied. But heaven is my witness that it was an accident; and if
your ladyship will permit me, I will toil day and night until I shall
have obtained the wherewith to make good the loss.’--‘No, young woman,’
observed the marchioness, somewhat mollified by the artlessness and
respectful demeanour of Julia Murray; ‘I cannot, being rich, oppress
you, who are poor. All that I can do in the case is to decline giving
you any farther employment. You may retire:’ and, having thus spoken
with a sententious pomposity that would have become a statesman, the
noble lady waved her hand authoritatively.

“Julia’s eyes filled with tears, which nearly blinded her--so that she
observed not how peculiar was the interest with which Lady Caroline
Jerningham was surveying her:--but, having vainly endeavoured to
stammer forth a few words imploring a continuance of the patronage of
the marchioness, she hurried from the room. On the landing outside she
paused for a few moments to wipe away the traces of tears from her
countenance and somewhat compose herself; for she shrank from the idea
of attracting unpleasant notice on the part of the lacqueys lounging in
the hall through which she must pass to reach the street-door. Suddenly
she felt a gentle touch upon the shoulder; for she had seated herself
in a chair on the landing, being overcome with grief and physical
exhaustion;--and starting up, she beheld Lady Caroline standing by her
side. ‘Hush!’ said the fair patrician, placing her finger upon her
lip, and glancing towards the parlour-door, as much as to imply that
she had stolen away from her mother’s presence and would not have her
motive suspected: ‘here, my poor girl, take this--and, when you require
a friend, fear not to apply to me--but by letter, remember, in the
first instance!’--Thus speaking, Lady Caroline thrust five sovereigns
into Julia’s hand, and instantly returned to the parlour, not waiting a
moment to receive the thanks of the astonished and delighted girl.

“Julia Murray now hurried home, and found little Harry anxiously
expecting her return;--for, although he was too young to comprehend the
nature of the alarms which she had experienced, when sallying forth, on
account of the spoilt dress, yet he was fearful lest she might remain
away from him for several hours again. He had no cares--that poor
little fellow--when his sister was with him; and he now asked her, in
so sweet yet earnest a manner, not to leave him any more during a whole
night, that she felt as if she would go through fire and water for that
darling boy. But she had no work in hand; and though she possessed five
sovereigns,--real sovereigns, and no gilt counters this time,--yet she
could not bear the idea of being idle. She however promised to remain
at home all that day; and she prepared a nice little dinner, which
made Harry so happy that she wished--Oh! how sincerely she wished--she
could always provide for him in the same manner. She endeavoured to
appear as cheerful as she could;--but there was a weight upon her
spirits--for the accusation still hung over her head, and she was in
suspense whether the unknown would see her case in the papers, and
appear to justify her. Besides, would not the publicity given to the
affair injure her with those kind patronesses who had hitherto taken
such an interest in the orphan girl? and, should the stranger-gentleman
not be forthcoming, would not a stigma be affixed upon her character,
even though the magistrate (as the baker assured her must be the
alternative) should dismiss the case? Of all these things she
thought;--and when Harry noticed her not, a pearly tear would trickle
down her pale but beauteous face. For Julia _was_ very beautiful. Her
hair was of a rich dark brown--her eyes of melting blue--her teeth of
pearly whiteness--and her shape elegant, graceful, and sylph-like.

“On the ensuing morning, after breakfast, Julia had just put on her
bonnet and shawl to go out for the purpose of calling upon her various
patronesses and enquiring whether they needed her services, when the
landlady of the house in which she lodged, entered the room and said,
‘Miss Murray, a gentleman wishes to speak to you: he will not walk
up to your apartment, as he does not know whether you may choose to
receive him here; and he is accordingly waiting in my parlour.’--A
ray of hope flashed to the mind of the young woman: what if it were
the unknown who had given her the gilt counter? The suspicion was
strengthened by the delicacy of his behaviour in not ascending to her
chamber; for, during the brief discourse which she had with him on
the night so fatal to her, he had manifested a disposition quite in
accordance with the propriety of conduct and considerate proceeding
adopted by the individual who now waited to see her. Telling Harry that
she should not be long, Julia hurried down stairs; and in a few moments
she found herself in the presence of the individual who was uppermost
in her thoughts. Yes:--it was indeed he--the unknown,--the same tall,
handsome man,--and enveloped, too, in a cloak richly lined with sables.
He was about eight-and-twenty years of age; and there was something
noble and commanding, though gracious and encouraging, in his air and
demeanour. The moment Julia made her appearance, he rose from the chair
in which he had been seated, and taking her hand, said in a tone of
the most earnest sincerity, ‘Miss Murray, I know not in what terms to
express the shame and grief which I experience at the misfortune that
has overtaken you. It was not until I saw this mornings newspaper,
that I even dreamt of the mistake--the dreadful mistake I had made: and
the instant the case met my eyes, I hurried hither. The explanation
which I have to give, you can of course anticipate:--I had purchased
some gilt counters only half-an-hour before I met you in Hanover
Square, and I put them loose into the same pocket which contained my
money.’--‘I never for an instant imagined, sir,’ said Julia, ‘that
you had purposely trifled with my feelings.’--‘Generous young woman,
to put such a construction upon a matter which has caused you so much
suffering!’ exclaimed the unknown. ‘But it is now my duty to accompany
you at once to the police-court, and place your character in the same
honourable light in which it originally stood.’--Julia was overjoyed
at this announcement; and the gentleman, giving her his arm, escorted
her to the police-court, calling however on the baker in their way to
desire him to attend immediately before the magistrate. During the
walk, the stranger asked the young woman a great many questions--not
of an impertinent nature, nor denoting an idle curiosity,--but rather
evincing an interest in the orphan girl. It however struck Julia as
somewhat singular that he did not put a single query to her relative to
the spoilt dress: it seemed as if he had quite forgotten that incident!

“On their arrival at the police-office, the gentleman immediately
handed his card to the magistrate, to whom he whispered a few words at
the same time; and his worship became all civility and politeness. The
case was called on without a moment’s delay: the gentleman concisely
but effectually explained the affair of the gilt counter; and the
magistrate, on declaring Julia to be discharged, assured her that she
would leave the court without the slightest stain on her character.
The stranger placed ten pounds in the magistrate’s hands for the
use of the poor-box, and then departed in company with Julia, whom
he escorted back to the house in which she dwelt. On reaching the
door, he paused, and taking her hand, said, ‘Miss Murray, I shall not
insult you by offering a pecuniary recompense for the mortification,
annoyance, and distress you have undergone through that gilt counter.
But I shall endeavour to serve you in another way. Farewell for
the present: you will shortly see me again; for, be assured,’ he
added, gazing earnestly upon her for a moment, ‘I shall never forget
you.’--Thus speaking, he pressed her hand and hurried away;--and it
was not until he had disappeared from her view that she remembered she
was still in profound ignorance of who or what he was. It, however,
struck her that the case would be again reported in the newspapers;
and she therefore hoped that the morrow would clear up the mystery.
But it was with some degree of anxiety and painful suspense that she
thus awaited the publication of the journals of the ensuing day;--and
she could not account to herself for the feelings that thus agitated
her. Although her character had been completely cleared from the
imputation thrown upon it, and her innocence was made unquestionably
apparent,--although she had ample funds, through the generosity of Lady
Caroline Jerningham, to provide for all present wants,--and although
a secret voice seemed to whisper in her soul that she possessed a
good friend in the stranger-gentleman,--yet, somehow or another, poor
Julia was not entirely contented. Was it that the handsome countenance
of her unknown benefactor had made any impression on her heart?--was
it that his kind and sympathising conduct had touched a tender chord
in her pure and innocent bosom? It is impossible to answer these
questions at present: but it is very certain that Julia experienced a
disappointment almost amounting to a positive shock, when she found
that the morning papers seemed to be in as much ignorance as herself
relative to her unknown benefactor. The report merely alluded to him
as ‘_a gentleman whose name did not transpire_;’--and this mystery in
which her friend evidently wrapped himself, became a source of secret
trouble to the young dress-maker. Wherefore had he not revealed his
name to her? Disreputable that name could not be; else how could it
have produced so magical an effect upon the magistrate? Was it, then,
a great--a famous--or a noble name? Julia sighed--and dared not hazard
any conjectures: but in her heart there suddenly appeared to arise a
hope--a secret wish, that the stranger was _not_ so very highly exalted
above her own social sphere!

“Again was Julia preparing to sally forth and visit the various ladies
for whom she was accustomed to work, when her landlady brought her up a
note. It was from Lady Caroline Jerningham, requesting Miss Murray to
call upon her in the evening at a stated hour, as her ladyship had a
quantity of work to place in her hands. The young maiden was overjoyed
at the receipt of this missive, which not only promised her employment,
but likewise seemed to be an assurance of the tender interest which
the charming Lady Caroline had taken in her. She did not therefore
stir out until the evening;--and little Harry was delighted that his
sister remained at home with him. But when the appointed hour drew
near, she tranquillised her brother with a promise of a speedy return;
and away she sped, with a heart full of hope, towards Hanover Square.
On reaching the splendid mansion occupied by the Dowager-Marchioness,
Julia was received by Lady Caroline’s own maid, and was forthwith
conducted to the chamber of her fair patroness, who treated her in
the most kind and condescending manner. ‘I regret, Miss Murray,’ she
said, ‘that I am forced to admit you thus stealthily into the house;
but my mother is of a peculiar temper, although in reality possessed
of a good heart.’--‘I understand your ladyship,’ returned Julia: ‘the
Marchioness cannot forgive me for what she considers neglect. I am
however deeply grateful to your ladyship for thinking otherwise, and
for giving me such substantial proofs that you entertain so favourable
an opinion.’--‘My dear Miss Murray,’ observed Lady Caroline, ‘I will
do any thing I can to serve you; for I can well imagine how grateful
must be the sympathy of a friend to one who is acquainted with
sorrow!’--These words were uttered with almost a mournful emphasis, as
if the fair speaker craved that sympathy and friendship for herself
which she proffered to another;--and Julia could not help regarding her
with mingled surprise, gratitude, and tender interest. They were alone
together--that elegant patrician lady and that beautiful milliner,--the
maid having retired; and it appeared as if a species of sisterly
feeling suddenly sprang up between them, inspiring them with mutual
confidence, and for the time annihilating the barrier that social
distinctions had raised up between them in the eyes of the world.
Thus was it that when Lady Caroline saw Julia’s looks fixed upon her
in so earnest and plaintive a manner, she felt herself irresistibly
urged to respond to that tacit yet eloquent proffer of sympathy and
affection. ‘Ah! my dear Miss Murray,’ she said, ‘you must not imagine
that unhappiness exists only with those who have to toil for their
daily bread. Perhaps, indeed, their lot is preferable to that of the
rich who have causes of grief;--for _you_ have a constant occupation
which allows little leisure for disagreeable reflection; whereas _I_
have so much time----’.--Lady Caroline checked herself, turned away,
and hastily passed a handkerchief across her face. She had perhaps
said more than she intended: for, from speaking of the richer and
poorer classes in general terms, she had been carried into personal
illustration of the truth of her remarks by pointedly placing herself
and Julia in juxta-position. Miss Murray, though totally devoid of
artfulness, was yet endowed with an intellect keen enough to perceive
this fact: and she now learnt, then--as indeed she had previously
suspected--that Lady Caroline was unhappy. But it was not for her
to invite a revelation of the fair patrician’s cause of sorrow: she
therefore remained silent.

[Illustration]

“‘Julia,’ said her ladyship, suddenly turning towards her again, and
taking her hand as she thus spoke,--‘Julia,’ she repeated, in an
earnest, appealing tone, ‘I will be a friend to you; but it may happen
that I also shall require the aid and sympathy of a friend----’; and,
once more checking herself, she sighed profoundly.--‘I would serve
you night and day, dear lady!’ exclaimed the young milliner, pressing
to her lips the hand which still grasped her own.--‘I have not read
your disposition inaccurately, dearest girl,’ responded Lady Caroline:
then, assuming a more cheerful tone, she said, ‘Be it understood, we
are friends! And now you must leave me, as my mother will be enquiring
after me.’--Julia received a parcel containing a variety of costly
stuffs, which she was to make up into dresses for her fair patroness,
and which would furnish her with work for at least a month; and,
as she was leaving the room, Lady Caroline said, ‘My own maid will
call upon you every Saturday evening and bring away whatever you may
have finished, until the whole be complete.’--They then separated,
Lady Caroline pressing Julia’s hand warmly at parting; and the young
dressmaker hurried homeward, her heart beating with joy at the kindness
which she had experienced and the friendship she had formed. ‘After
all,’ she murmured to herself, as she ascended the stair-case to her
chamber, where little Harry was sitting up to await her return.--‘after
all, the adventure of the spoilt dress has proved a service, rather
than an injury, to me: and perhaps,’ she added,--but it was her heart,
and not her lips, that now spoke,--‘the affair of the gilt counter may
likewise bring me good luck!’

“Julia now addressed herself to the work of which she had such
profusion; and while she sate plying her needle, with little Harry
playing about the room, she often thought of the handsome unknown.
Every day, after the frugal dinner, she took her brother out to walk
for an hour, that a little exercise and fresh air might benefit them
both; and, of an evening, when she laid aside her work, she gave him
instruction in many useful branches of education. During the day,
too, he learnt his lessons; and never did she suffer him to go out
alone into the streets--no, not even on the slightest errand. In fact,
this excellent young woman took as much care of her little orphan
brother as if she had been his parent, instead of his sister; and it
was a charming as well as touching sight to behold them repairing to
the parish church on a Sabbath-morning,--each attired with so much
neatness, and yet in a plain and unobtrusive manner. Well, three
weeks had passed since the interview between Julia and Lady Caroline;
and on each Saturday evening her ladyship’s maid called to receive
and pay for the work that was finished. The domestic was sure to
have some pretty present from her mistress for Julia, and a handsome
toy--such as a transparent slate, or puzzle, or a miniature carpenter’s
tool-box--for Harry; and the grateful milliner sent back her kindest
but most respectful regards to her good patroness. But during those
three weeks she had neither seen nor heard any thing of the handsome
stranger;--and yet, had he not promised that he would shortly call
again? Wherefore should he call? Julia never paused to ask herself that
question;--but she did sometimes admit, within the secret recesses of
her own heart, that she thought it somewhat unkind he did not fulfil
his promise, after the distress she had endured in consequence of the
mistake he had made respecting the gilt counter. One day the landlady
tapped at Julia’s door; and, on being desired to enter, the good woman
informed her that ‘_the gentleman in the cloak_,’ was waiting in the
parlour below. A blush instantly spread itself over Julia’s cheeks;
whereupon the landlady said in a low but impressive tone, ‘you need
not be ashamed of an honest attachment, Miss; and I know you are too
good a girl to form any other. In fact, I told the gentleman what an
excellent creature you were, and how well you behaved to your little
brother.’--‘You told him all _that_?’ exclaimed Julia, looking up in
a surprise mingled with secret pleasure, while the blush upon her
beauteous countenance deepened.--‘Certainly I did, Miss,’ replied the
landlady: ‘but not to-day. It was when he called on account of that
unpleasant little affair, you know; and before he sent me up to fetch
you down, he asked no end of questions about you; and he seemed so
pleased when I told him that you were such a good, industrious young
person, and so kind to your orphan brother; and how you kept yourself
so quiet and respectable, having no acquaintances scarcely, and
certainly no visitors except your lady-customers or their maids.’--‘But
the gentleman did not ask all those questions?’ said Julia, in
a hesitating manner and with a tremulous voice, while her heart
palpitated with emotions of unknown pleasure.--‘Indeed he did, Miss,’
returned the landlady. ‘But, dear me! now I think of it, he charged me
not to tell you that he had asked any thing at all concerning you: and
by the same token, he gave me a sovereign to hold my tongue in this
respect; and therefore, Miss, you must not even _look_ as if you knew
a syllable of what occurred on that occasion. I am sure he is some
great person in disguise; and I am also certain that he has fallen in
love with you.’--Julia’s countenance now became scarlet; and she was
about to make a remonstrative reply, when little Harry, who began to
grow impatient of so much mysterious whispering between his sister and
the landlady, approached them, saying, ‘Is any thing the matter, dear
Julia?’--‘Nothing, my darling boy,’ was the cheerful reply: ‘I shall
return in a few minutes;’--and Julia hastened down stairs, the landlady
remaining with Harry.

“Though the young maiden endeavoured to compose herself as much as
possible, yet all that the landlady had told her rushed to her mind
with renewed force and stronger significancy just as she crossed the
threshold of the parlour and appeared in the presence of _the gentleman
in the cloak_. He observed her confusion--noticed the blush that
mantled on her cheeks--and, mistaking the cause said, as he took her
hand, ‘I am afraid, Miss Murray, that you consider it indiscreet for
me thus to pay my respects to you; and indeed, that fear has prevented
me from calling sooner.’--Julia started, cast down her eyes, and made
no reply; for in her artless innocence, it had never before struck
her that, an evil construction might be placed upon the visits of the
gentleman: but now the conviction that such was indeed the result to
be apprehended, was forced--yes, painfully forced--upon her sensitive
mind. The stranger read what was passing in her imagination; and if
he were delighted to observe that the danger which he had specified
was previously unsuspected by her ingenuous soul, he was not the
less gratified to acquire the certainty that her pure thoughts were
shocked by the idea of compromising her reputation.--‘Fear not, Miss
Murray,’ he continued, again taking her hand; ‘I should be the last
person on the face of the earth to do you a wilful injury in any way.
I have merely called, as in duty bound, to assure myself that you have
perfectly recovered from the effects of the distressing ordeal through
which you were compelled to pass in consequence of my carelessness.
But innocence, Miss Murray,’ he added, emphatically, ‘will invariably
triumph in the long run; and virtue will not ever languish unrewarded.
Your exemplary conduct, Miss Murray, must sooner or later be adequately
recompensed: your tenderness towards your orphan brother must ensure
for you the esteem and respect of all liberal and honest persons. May
I request, as a particular favour, that you will presently call on Mr.
Richardson, the solicitor, in Berners Street, close by; as I know that
he has some tidings, of rather an agreeable character, to impart to
you.’--With these words, the stranger pressed the young maiden’s hand,
and respectfully took his leave of her.

“Julia hastened back to her own chamber, and related to the worthy,
well-meaning, but garrulous landlady, every thing that _the gentleman
in the cloak_ had said to her. ‘Ah! Miss,’ cried the woman, ‘I seemed
to have a fore-knowledge that something good was to happen to you;
and now I am sure of it. But pray make haste and see what the lawyer
wants with you.’--Julia did not require to be pressed upon this point:
she herself was too anxious to solve this new mystery to permit any
unnecessary delay to take place; and, having dressed little Harry in
his Sunday apparel, she put on her best bonnet and shawl, and away
the sister went with her little brother to the lawyer’s. They entered
an office in which there were a great many clerks, who all left off
writing to turn round and have a look at the pretty young lady--for a
lady did Julia really seem, as she actually was by birth, education,
and manners;--but when she timidly mentioned her name, she found
herself the object of the most respectful attention. The head clerk
ushered her and her brother into a handsome apartment, where an elderly
gentleman, with a benevolent countenance, was seated at a desk covered
with papers; and the reception which he gave Julia Murray was more
than courteous--it was cordial and, as it were, paternally kind. ‘Sit
down, young lady,’ he said, handing her to a chair: ‘and you, my little
fellow, place yourself near your sister. And now, Miss Murray,’ he
continued, raising his large silver spectacles from his eyes to his
forehead, ‘I have some good news to communicate to you; and I am sure,
after all I have heard of you, I am proud and happy to be the medium
of conveying any thing agreeable to your ears.’--‘You are very kind,
sir,’ murmured the young maiden, still in the deepest suspense.--‘Did
you ever hear your late father speak of any one who owed him a sum of
money?’ enquired the lawyer.--Julia reflected for a few moments, and
then replied in the negative.--‘Well, perhaps he did not mention his
private affairs before you,’ observed the lawyer; ‘it is nevertheless
a fact, that many years ago he advanced a certain sum to a friend who
was in difficulties; but these embarrassments continued, ending in
bankruptcy or something of the sort; and so your poor father lost the
whole amount thus advanced. The friend went abroad; and he has latterly
returned to England, a rich man--having retrieved his fortunes in a
foreign clime. He made enquiries after your parents, and to his sorrow
learnt that they were no more; but he could not succeed in tracing you
out. At length he saw a report of a certain case in the newspaper, and
ascertained that you were the young lady therein mentioned. His sorrow
at the first appearance of the affair was only equalled by his joy when
he beheld the result; for he has your interest deeply at heart. He has,
however, been compelled to leave London in a great hurry;--but before
he went away, he gave me certain instructions, which I have fulfilled
with all possible despatch. The sum which he borrowed of your father,
with compound interest, amounts to six hundred pounds; and this money
I have laid out for you in the purchase of a neat little house, with
good, serviceable furniture, in Camden Town. There is an excellent
young gentlemen’s school close by; and my client has paid a year in
advance for Master Harry’s tuition. He also intends that you shall be
at no expense for the boy’s education. Over and above all this, I am
instructed to place these fifty pounds in your hands; and if my client
has thus done more than his actual liability to your father required,
it is simply as a recompense for the long delay which has occurred
in refunding a loan so generously advanced and so vitally necessary
to him at the time. Now, my dear young lady, I have no more to say,
farther than that this card furnishes the address of your house, of
which I likewise present you the key; and may this little gleam of good
fortune encourage you to pursue the course which has hitherto won for
you so much esteem, and which may yet lead you to the highest pinnacle
of happiness and prosperity.’--With these words, the kind-hearted man
shook Julia warmly by the hand; the young maiden endeavoured to express
her heart-felt gratitude for the unexpected benefits thus showered upon
her: but tears--tears of happiness flowed down her cheeks--and her
bosom was so full of strange and conflicting emotions, that her powers
of utterance were suspended. Even as she took up the bank notes, the
key, and the card, and thrust them all together into her little silk
bag, her hands trembled so that she could scarcely perform those simple
acts; and when in a few minutes she found herself walking along the
street, with little Harry by her side, she could not remember leaving
the lawyer’s office. She fancied that she had been giving way to some
wild hallucination--some absurd delusion of the brain: but when she
felt in her bag, _there_ were the proofs of the reality!

“It was no easy task to make little Harry comprehend the altered
nature of their circumstances. He could not conceive how his sister
had possibly obtained a house of her own, and fancied that she was
joking with him; for he had not been able to understand very much of
what the lawyer had said to Julia. However, all doubts on the boy’s
part vanished, when he heard his sister explain to their landlady
every thing that had taken place at Mr. Richardson’s, and conclude by
requesting that good woman to accompany her forthwith to Camden Town.
This desire was complied with; and away they all three went in a cab to
the address designated upon the card. In due time the vehicle drew up
opposite a neat house forming one of a terrace recently built; and the
little party entered the dwelling with the least possible delay. It was
all new from top to bottom,--the furniture, which was substantial and
good, was new likewise;--the hangings to the windows and the carpets
had been selected with admirable taste in reference to the colour and
pattern of the paper on the walls:--in fact, the abode was fitted up
in the most comfortable manner! ‘I congratulate you, my dear Miss
Murray,’ exclaimed her companion; ‘and I am sure I am as delighted
as yourself, although I shall lose you as a lodger. But you do not,
then, think that it was _the gentleman in the cloak_ who has done all
this?’--‘No,’ answered Julia; ‘that cannot be, because I am sure the
gentleman you speak of never knew my father; and moreover the kind
friend who has thus handsomely repaid the money my father lent him,
has gone out of town.’--‘Then how came _the gentleman in the cloak_
to call and tell you, Miss, that the lawyer wished to see you?’--‘Ah!
I never thought of _that_!’ exclaimed Julia. ‘And yet,’ she added,
after a few moments’ serious reflection, ‘Mr. Richardson said that my
father’s debtor had found me out through the medium of the newspaper
report; and this circumstance may have brought him and _the gentleman
in the cloak_ together.’--‘True!’ ejaculated the garrulous woman. ‘Oh!
what a sweet place this is, to be sure!’--‘It is too good for me,’ said
Julia, in a mournful tone, the first feelings of delight now yielding
to sober reflection: ‘the occupant of such a house as this requires a
servant, and should possess a certain income; whereas I cannot afford
the former, not possessing the latter.’--‘Oh! Miss, are you blind to
all the advantages now spread before your eyes?’ demanded the woman.
‘Here you are in your own house, rent free, and with fifty pounds
in your pocket--Harry’s schooling to be paid into the bargain! All
your kind patronesses will give you as much work as you can possibly
manage, now that they will see how you are getting on in the world;
and the number of your customers must increase. Then you can have the
assistance of one or two respectable young girls; and you will not
only obtain a good living, but be able to save money.’--Julia saw the
truth of these observations; and her heart was relieved from a heavy
load.--‘Besides,’ said the talkative but well-meaning woman, ’it would
seem like flying in the face of Providence not to be thankful for
such bounties.’--‘Yes,’ ejaculated Julia, touched more profoundly by
this remark than by the worldly reasoning previously advanced by her
companion: ‘I _do_ sincerely and firmly believe that HE, who watches
all our ways and knows all our steps, has taken compassion upon me and
my darling brother; and I receive in thankfulness the blessings thus
showered upon me!’--Thus speaking, the young maiden turned aside for
a few moments; and heart-felt though short was the prayer which she
breathed in silence to the Almighty Ruler of the Universe!

“On the following day Julia and her little brother removed to their
new house. It would be vain to attempt to describe the joy and delight
experienced by little Harry at this change, the more so inasmuch as
there was a large piece of ground attached to the back part of the
dwelling, where he could play when the weather was fine. Through the
agency of her late landlady, a poor widow-woman, of middle age, steady
habits, and great respectability, was recommended to Julia as servant
or housekeeper; and thus commenced the economy of the little household.
Julia’s first care was to address a note to all her kind patronesses
to acquaint them with her removal; and Lady Caroline Jerningham was
not forgotten. Harry commenced his attendance at the neighbouring
school, the master of which called upon Miss Murray and informed her
that he had received from Mr. Richardson a year’s payment in advance
for the boy’s tuition; and the preceptor being a kind, worthy man,
Harry soon became a great favourite with him. Several weeks passed
away; and it was astonishing how Julia’s business increased. Carriages
were constantly stopping at her door, the number of her patronesses
rapidly augmenting; and, on enquiry, she usually found that the
new recommendations emanated from Lady Caroline, who appeared, by
these results, to be constantly thinking of her friend, the young
milliner. In fact, Julia had so much work upon her hands that she was
compelled to give a great portion out to respectable needle-women
in the neighbourhood; for she preferred this mode of fulfilling her
engagements, rather than by taking assistants into the house.

“Four months had thus passed away; and during this interval Julia had
never once seen _the gentleman in the cloak_; nor had she received a
visit from her father’s debtor, to whose honesty and generosity she
owed so much. She called once upon Mr. Richardson to express a hope
that the individual thus alluded to would give her an opportunity
of thanking him personally; but the lawyer assured her, and, as she
thought, somewhat abruptly, that he had left the country on a long
voyage; and she returned home, much vexed at the tidings she had
received. One evening--it was a Saturday evening, and at about nine
o’clock--a cab stopped at the door, and a double-knock immediately
announced some visitor. It happened that the housekeeper was absent on
a visit of two or three days to some relations in the country--the girl
who had been temporarily hired to do her work, and who did not sleep
in the house, had gone for the night--and Harry was in bed in his own
little room adjoining his sister’s bed-chamber up-stairs. Julia was
accordingly compelled to answer the door herself; and her surprise was
only equalled by her delight, when she found that her visitress was
Lady Caroline Jerningham, who had arrived thus mysteriously in a common
street-cab, which she had dismissed on alighting at her young friend’s
house. Miss Murray received her with the most sincere manifestations
of joy, and conducted her into the parlour, where a cheerful fire
was burning in the grate; for though it was now the month of April,
yet the evenings had not entirely lost the chill of winter. You must
remember that Julia had not seen Lady Caroline since that evening when
the latter sent for her to the mansion in Hanover Square, and on which
occasion they had exchanged vows of friendship. Nearly five months
had passed since that date; and it struck Julia, as the light of the
candles flashed upon the fair patrician’s countenance, that she was
much altered. Her face was pale and care-worn; and her eyes beamed
not with their wonted fires. ‘My dear Julia,’ she said, seating her
self near the fire, ‘I had intended to call upon you long ago; but I
have been ill and suffering, in mind and body. However,’ she added,
hastily, ‘I have never once forgotten you; and I am delighted to find
that your business has prospered so well.’--‘I am under obligations
to your ladyship which I can never repay,’ exclaimed Julia, taking
the patrician’s hand, and conveying it to her lips.--‘Do not address
me in that formal style, Julia,’ said Lady Caroline. ‘My God!’ she
cried, bitterly, ‘would that I were _not_ of noble birth: would that
I were a daughter of toil; for _then_ I should not have the thousand
Argus-eyes of _the world_ upon me!’--and she clasped her hands in a
manner indicative of deep mental anguish.--‘Dearest Lady Caroline,’
exclaimed Julia, ‘what ails you? Oh! tell me, and show me how I may
minister to you in your sufferings!’--‘You once assured me, Julia,
_that you would serve me by day and by night_,’ said Lady Caroline,
speaking in a low and almost hollow tone, and casting anxious glances
around as if she were afraid of being overheard.--‘Yes, dearest lady,’
returned Julia, emphatically; ‘and I renew that pledge! By day and by
night can you command me.’--‘Are we in danger of intrusion?’ demanded
Lady Caroline anxiously.--‘Not in the least, dear lady: excepting my
little brother, who is asleep in his own chamber, we are alone in the
house.’--‘Heaven be thanked!’ ejaculated Caroline Jerningham, speaking
as if at least some portion of the heavy weight that lay upon her
heart, were removed by this assurance.--‘My generous friend,’ said
Julia, ‘I see that you have a terrible but secret cause of grief; make
me your confidant, I implore you! If I can aid you, I shall rejoice
indeed to have the opportunity of proving my gratitude for all the
kindness I have received at your hands; and if I cannot assist, I may
at least be able to console you!’--‘Dearest Julia, I do indeed require
a friend at this moment; for surely never was wretched woman in such
dreadful embarrassment as myself! For the last few weeks I have lived
only like one distracted--keeping my chamber, and affecting an illness,
though steadily refusing to receive the advice of the family physician!
And now, fortunately my mother has gone on a visit for a few days to
some friends in the country; and my own maid is in my confidence and
is trustworthy. Thus my absence from home will not be suspected; and
in this is now my only hope! O Julia, Julia--can you not understand my
meaning?’--then, casting herself at the feet of the young milliner, the
almost heart-broken Lady Caroline exclaimed, in the wildest paroxysm
of bitter, bitter grief, as she joined her hands imploringly, ‘Save my
honour, Julia--save my reputation,--and by so doing you save my life:
for I would perish by my own hand rather than endure exposure!’--‘My
God! dearest lady, what do you mean?’ demanded Julia, fearful lest her
friend’s senses were leaving her, and that she was uttering meaningless
phrases in the incipient aberration of the intellect: ‘tell me, how can
I save you in any way? for you know that you may depend upon me to the
utmost!’--‘How can you save me!’ repeated the agonising young lady, in
a voice of the most plaintive appeal: ‘Oh! do you not comprehend my
condition, Julia? And yet I am about to become a mother!’

“These words fell with stupefying, astounding effect upon the ears of
Julia Murray: indeed, she could scarcely believe that she had rightly
interpreted their meaning. The unhappy Caroline mistook the cause
of the young milliner’s silence and amazement; and, rising from her
suppliant posture, she exclaimed, while the proud patrician blood
rushed to her cheeks, ‘I understand you, Miss: you are shocked at the
announcement I have made, and you are indignant that I should apply to
you to screen me. I will drag myself away from your house, therefore;
imploring you only to keep the secret which I have been so foolish,
so inconsiderate to reveal to you.’--‘Just heaven! what do I hear?
reproaches from your lips!’ cried Julia; and embracing the unhappy
lady with sisterly warmth, she said, ‘No, no: you have misunderstood
me! Grief and surprise for a moment sealed my lips: but you find
me ready to succour you, dearest benefactress, to the utmost of my
power!’--‘Thank you, kind friend,’ murmured Lady Caroline, falling
back exhausted into her seat; for the agitated state of her feelings,
and the harrowing emotions which the dread of Julia’s coldness had
just caused her to experience, produced effects of a most perilous
nature. The young milliner knew not how to act: she was bewildered;
and, wringing her hands, exclaimed, ‘Oh! what shall I do? how can I aid
her?’--Lady Caroline partially recovered her presence of mind as these
words fell upon her ears; and giving a few hasty instructions, these
were instantly obeyed. Julia conducted, or rather supported her to her
own bed-chamber; and then, throwing on her bonnet and shawl, hurried
away to fetch the nearest surgeon. The medical man whom she sought
was at home; and he accompanied the milliner to the house, where he
arrived just at the moment that his services were required. In a word,
Lady Caroline Jerningham that night became the mother of a fine boy,
although the birth was premature by nearly a month, and she had risked
much by the necessity of adopting the indispensable means in regard to
dress to conceal her situation for many weeks past.

“The surgeon, who had every reason to be satisfied with the liberality
of Julia on behalf of her unhappy friend, and who was moreover a
discreet man, perceived that his patient was a young lady of superior
grade in society, and therefore volunteered his aid in ensuring the
concealment of the affair. In fact, he stated that he was acquainted
with a poor woman in the neighbourhood, who, having just lost her own
infant, would be delighted to take charge of the newly-born babe.
Lady Caroline was so far recovered as to be able to take part in this
conference; and, without suffering the slightest hint to transpire as
to who she was, she nevertheless intimated her readiness and ability to
remunerate in the most liberal manner those who might be instrumental
in completing the arrangement suggested. The surgeon accordingly
undertook the settlement of the business; and, after an hour’s absence,
he returned, accompanied by a young, good-looking, healthy woman, who
was willing to embrace the proposal that had been made to her. She was
married to a labouring man; her name was Porter; and she lived at the
distance of about half a mile from Julia’s house. Lady Caroline had
a well-filled purse; but even if the contrary had been the case, her
friend the milliner could have supplied the funds required. As it was,
the young mother gave Mrs. Porter twenty pounds in advance; and having
mentioned a feigned name and address, when questioned on that point,
Lady Caroline parted with her babe--though not without many a bitter
pang and a torrent of heart-wrung tears!

“That was a wretched night for poor Julia Murray. In the warmth of her
gratitude and friendship, she had become an accomplice in what she
fancied, when she had leisure for sober reflection, to be something
bordering upon the nature of a crime. Her pure soul shrank from the
idea of the unnatural abandonment by a mother of her child to the mercy
of a stranger, rendered necessary even though the proceeding were by
the peculiar circumstances in which that mother was placed. Moreover,
the readiness with which Lady Caroline had given a false name and
address had somewhat shocked the truth-loving Julia;--and then she
feared lest the whole matter should by any possibility become known,
and compromise her own reputation. All these thoughts and apprehensions
swept across her mind, after the surgeon and Mrs. Porter had taken
their departure, and while Lady Caroline slept. But the generous girl
strove to banish from her mind reflections which tended to diminish
her respect for the patrician lady who had manifested so much kindness
towards her: moreover, the natural feelings of a woman towards one
of her own sex placed in such interesting though embarrassing, not
to say _alarming_ circumstances,--the sentiments of commiseration,
deep sympathy, and tender friendship, soon triumphed over all other
considerations;--and when Caroline awoke, just as the grey dawn of
morning was breaking into the chamber, she found the young milliner
watching by her bedside. The suffering lady was considerably refreshed
and strengthened by the long sleep she had enjoyed: her mind was
moreover relieved from the most excruciating anxieties:--and she poured
forth her gratitude to Julia Murray in the most sincere and heartfelt
manner. Then, in the fulness of the tender confidence which had arisen
between them, Caroline told her friend how she had loved her cousin,
a young lieutenant in the Navy,--how their union was forbidden by her
proud mother though assented to by her generous brother, the Marquis
of Wilmington,--how her mother had used her interest privately to get
the young man appointed to a ship and sent to sea with only a few days’
warning,--and how, in the anguish of parting, she--Lady Caroline--had
fallen a victim to her fatal passion! This narrative moved Julia to
tears;--for the young milliner now comprehended what love was--and
she felt that she also loved,--and that when she sorrowed in secret
at the protracted absence of the stranger who had given her the gilt
counter, it was in consequence of the impression which he had made upon
her heart! Thus did Julia Murray at length obtain the reading of the
mysterious sensations that stirred within her own soul.

“Fortunately there was a means of egress from little Harry’s room,
without the necessity of the boy’s passing through his sister’s
chamber; and thus was the presence of Lady Caroline retained a
profound secret from him. You must also recollect that the incidents
just related occurred on the Saturday night; and Harry had by chance
received an invitation to pass the Sunday with his schoolmaster’s
family. Every circumstance thus appeared to favour the complete
concealment of Lady Caroline’s confinement. But it was now necessary
that Julia should repair to the mansion in Hanover Square, and
acquaint the young lady’s confidential maid with the event which had
taken place, as well as to arrange for Caroline’s unobserved return
home on the Monday evening;--for though at the risk of her life,
she was resolved to remain away no longer than the time specified.
This commission Julia faithfully performed; and after an absence
of upwards of two hours, she reached her own abode once more. The
patient was improving rapidly; and when the surgeon called a second
time on that Sunday, he was astonished to find her so strong and in
the possession of so much physical and moral energy. To be brief,
on the Monday evening, according to agreement, Lady Caroline, well
wrapped up, disguised in the attire of a daughter of the middle class,
and with a dark green veil drawn carefully over her countenance,
accompanied Julia in a hackney-coach to Hanover Square; and the two
were admitted into the mansion, the hall-porter believing his young
mistress to be a friend and equal of the milliner. In this manner
they reached Caroline’s own chamber without the truth being for an
instant suspected; and the confidential maid was in readiness to
receive her lady. Julia remained there until the maid had ascertained
that the hall-porter had been relieved by another domestic during the
supper-hour; and then the milliner took her departure, accompanied by
the fervent gratitude and blessings of the fair patrician whom she had
thus extricated from a maze of the most frightful difficulties.

“The very next morning, while Julia was seated at work in her parlour,
reflecting upon the incidents of the three preceding days, she heard
the iron gate in front of the house groan upon its hinges; and,
looking up, she beheld from the window the tall, handsome gentleman
approaching the door. The day was fine; and he no longer wore his
cloak;--and his garb was plain, unpretending, and perfectly genteel.
The housekeeper having returned home that same morning, Julia awaited
with a beating heart in the parlour the presence of her visitor; and
when he entered, she felt so confused--for a variety of reasons--that
she could not utter a word. In the first place she knew that she loved
him;--secondly she remembered all the enquiries he had put to her
late landlady concerning her;--and thirdly, she recalled to mind the
gentle, good, and almost paternal way in which he had addressed her
when last they met; and she fancied that in her conduct respecting
Lady Caroline she had deviated somewhat from the strict line of
integrity, truth, and virtue for pursuing which he had so emphatically
commended her, and in which he had with equal earnestness enjoined
her to persevere. Taking her hand, he said, ‘Miss Murray, have you
completely forgotten me?’--‘Oh! no, sir,’ she cried, with a start as
if at an imputation of ingratitude: ‘that were impossible!’--‘And
yet why should you remember me?’ he asked, gazing intently upon her:
’have I ever done you any service that deserves a thought? The only
incident which is likely to dwell in your mind respecting me, is the
wretchedness and embarrassment to which my thoughtless conduct exposed
you. But for all that you then endured, have I ever made you the
slightest recompense?’--‘Oh! sir,’ cried Julia, the blood rushing to
her cheeks, ‘do you think for a moment that I ever sought or looked
for a pecuniary indemnification? Heavens, how have you mistaken my
character!’--and she burst into tears. The stranger gazed upon her,
and even smiled as if in satisfaction: but he said nothing.--‘No,
sir,’ resumed the young milliner, hastily passing her handkerchief
across her countenance and wiping away the traces of her grief; ‘I
am not a mercenary person, such as you appear to suppose me. I _did_
remember you _with gratitude_,’ she continued, her voice becoming
mournful and plaintive in spite of herself; ‘because you spoke
kindly to me on that evening when the accident occurred to the silk
dress--because you proffered me assistance at a moment when I and my
little brother really needed it--because I always believed and still
believe that it was on your part entirely an error which led me into
such a serious difficulty--because you _then_ told me that you would
not insult me by offering me any pecuniary recompense--and because,
when you called again, you spoke kindly to me as before, gave me
good advice, and also brought me intelligence from Mr. Richardson,
which has led to my present prosperity. For all these reasons, sir,’
she added emphatically, ‘I have thought of you often and often; and
I considered myself to be deeply your debtor.’--‘Excellent girl!’
exclaimed the gentleman, surveying her with mingled admiration and
interest: ‘not for worlds would I insult your feelings, nor wound
your generous heart! And it was precisely through delicacy in those
respects, that I never did openly proffer you any pecuniary assistance,
since that one unfortunate occasion in Hanover Square. Again, let me
observe, that if I have not visited you for four long months, I have
not been unmindful of your welfare. I have, as it were, watched over
you from a distance; and I have learnt with supreme satisfaction,
that your conduct _has_ continued most exemplary. Miss Murray, I am
perhaps singular and eccentric in my notions; and, though highly
placed in the social sphere, yet I have determined to consult only my
own happiness, at least for the future, in the most important step
which a man can adopt in life. I allude to marriage.’--Julia started,
blushed, and cast down her eyes; and this confusion on her part seemed
to encourage her visitor to proceed.--‘I must candidly inform you,’ he
resumed, ’that I have been a husband already, and that the alliance
which I formed almost in my boyhood, and in obedience to the dictates
of an imperious mother, was an unhappy one. My wife was a heartless
coquette--vain--frivolous--and possessing no _mind_. I sought by
gentleness and kindness to render her attached to her home, although
I never really loved her; but all was useless. At last she caught a
severe cold when returning from a rout, early on a winter’s morning;
and a rapid decline soon carried her to the tomb. This occurred two
years ago. I then vowed that if I should ever contract a second
union, it must be where the heart alone was interested. This resolve
I declared to my mother; and it has in a measure, I regret to say it,
incensed her against me. The very first time I ever saw you, I felt
myself suddenly and mysteriously attracted towards you. All that I
have since heard or seen of you has tended to confirm that favourable
impression; and I am come this morning to offer you my hand, as you
already possess my heart.’

“A faintness--an indescribable sensation of mingled joy and
apprehension came over Julia, as these last words met her ears,--joy
in the hope that she had heard aright, apprehension lest she were the
prey of a delightful vision which was too soon to be dissipated. But
when she felt her hand pressed to the lips of that handsome suitor who
now knelt at her feet, and listened to the tender assurances of an
honourable and lasting affection which he breathed with manly sincerity
in her ears, she exclaimed, under the sudden impulse of her heart’s
emotions, ‘Is it possible that so much happiness can be in store for
me?’--Her suitor received those words as an assent to his proposal;
and, pressing the young maiden to his bosom, he said, ‘Then without
knowing my name you have loved me, dearest Julia?’--She murmured
an affirmative; and a rapid interchange of questions and replies
convinced him that the young maiden had all along remembered him not
_with gratitude_, but _with affection_! Thereupon, seating himself
by her side, and retaining her pretty hand in his, he said, ‘Then
henceforth, Julia, there need exist no mystery on my part. I am the
pretended debtor to your deceased father; and Mr. Richardson, my own
attorney, followed my secret instructions in providing for yourself and
your brother. My object was to place you in comfort, yet still leave
you in a condition that rendered you to a certain degree dependant
on your own honest industry; and I have been overjoyed to find that
prosperity has not induced you to relax your energies, nor led you into
extravagances, nor in any way proved injurious to your fair fame, your
amiable disposition, and your steady perseverance. With delight, then,
shall I accompany so worthy a woman to the altar; and with pride shall
I present you to the world as the Marchioness of Wilmington!’--‘Oh! my
lord,’ murmured Julia, a greater faintness than before now coming over
her, as the lofty rank of her suitor was thus announced to her, ‘is it
possible that you can be the brother of that young lady to whom I owe
so much?’--and then she blushed deeply, and a cold shudder passed over
her frame as she remembered what a tremendous secret she had retained
in her bosom, and must retain inviolably concerning the sister of him
who offered to make her the partner of his rank and fortune.--‘Yes,’
said the marquis, attributing her emotions to the happiness as well
as the maidenly confusion which it was natural for her to experience
under existing circumstances; ‘that Lady Caroline whom you know, is
my sister. You may judge my surprise when, on the night that I first
encountered you in Hanover Square, you informed me that the spoilt
dress was my mother’s. The very next morning I called at her residence
and privately acquainted Caroline with the little adventure, casually
saying that I had been a witness of the accident which was occasioned
through no neglect nor carelessness on your part, and desiring her
when you presented yourself to mitigate as much as possible my
mother’s certain resentment against you. Since that period my sister
has frequently spoken to me concerning you, and has recommended you
extensively to her numerous fashionable acquaintances. But, much as
I love and would trust Lady Caroline, I have never informed her of
the attachment I experienced for you, nor of the fact that I was your
father’s pretended debtor. This reserve originated merely in the
determination to watch your conduct,--I may tell you all this now, dear
girl,--from a distance; so that time might decide whether I should lay
my coronet at your feet, or renounce all farther idea of an alliance
with you. Thank, heaven! the former is the happy destiny; and now I
have explained all that may have seemed strange or mysterious in your
estimation.’

“Julia could scarcely find words to express her gratitude for all
the delicate attentions and generous acts of which the nobleman had
thus been the hitherto unknown author: but he sealed her lips with
a fond kiss, and then proceeded to address her in the following
manner:--‘I propose, dearest girl, that our union shall take place
in six months from the present time. The reason that I suggest so
long a delay is that I may visit you occasionally, in company with
my sister, be it understood, so that you may learn to know me better
than you now do; and as I shall at once make a confidant of Caroline,
and am well acquainted with the generosity of her disposition, you
need not apprehend any coolness or hostility on her part. Quite the
contrary: she will love you as a sister. Ah! I observe that you sigh
and experience an agitation of feeling, my Julia; but you have no
cause to dread any exhibition of foolish pride with Caroline. Relative
to my mother, I say nothing--promise nothing: at the same time I
cannot permit her will to rule my happiness. And now I shall take my
leave of you for the present, Julia; and I shall at once hasten to
Hanover Square, to confide all that has occurred between us to my
sister, who, I regret to state, has been confined for some days past
to her own chamber. Alas! she, poor girl, has suffered in her best
and holiest affections through her mother’s pride; but I rejoice to
say that happiness awaits her yet. By the sudden death of a young
cousin, Lieutenant Quentin has become Lord Hartley, and his ship will
return in a few months to England. This most unexpected succession
to title and wealth, will smooth down all the difficulties which my
mother has hitherto interposed in the way of her daughter’s happiness;
and who knows, Julia,’ added the marquis, smiling, ‘but that the two
marriages may be celebrated at the same time?’--‘God grant that they
may!’ exclaimed the young milliner, with a strange emphasis; then,
immediately afterwards she observed, ‘For, believe me, I have your
sister’s happiness most sincerely at heart.’--‘I shall not fail to tell
Caroline all you say,’ returned the marquis; ‘and she will be prepared
to love you the more tenderly. And now, dear Julia,’ he added, rising
to depart, ‘I must bid you farewell for the present. The next time
I call I shall give you due notice beforehand, so that you may have
little Harry here to see me. But permit me, before I depart, to request
you to divest yourself by degrees of the business and occupations which
have accumulated upon you. To speak plainly, you need receive no more
work from any person; and you will permit my solicitor, Mr. Richardson,
to supply you monthly with such sums as you may require for your
expenditure.’--All this was said by Lord Wilmington in so delicate yet
tender a manner, that it increased Julia’s attachment to him, as well
as her high esteem of his character; and they parted, more than ever
pleased with each other.

“In the afternoon, Julia was sitting at her work, pondering upon all
that had occurred, and scarcely able yet to convince herself that
she was not a prey to some delusive vision, when Lady Caroline’s
maid called with a note from her mistress. In this _billet_ the fair
patrician said, ‘_My brother has told me all, dearest Julia; and
believe me when I assure you, that it will afford me unfeigned delight
to hail you as a sister. Never, never can I forget all your goodness
towards me in the hour of my bitter extremity. But, for heaven’s sake!
guard well my secret! This injunction, however, I need scarcely give
you. And yet, there is one thing which now affects me; this is----shall
you not blush to acknowledge_ ME _as your sister-in-law, since you are
acquainted with my disgrace? My heart tells me that you commiserate and
sympathise: but my fears--Oh! until I receive from you an assurance
that may calm them--those fears are truly painful!_’--The generous
Julia hastened to pen a reply, conveying in the tenderest terms the
assurance solicited; and, having ascertained that the young lady was
progressing rapidly towards complete convalescence, she dismissed the
maid with the letter entrusted to her. Three weeks, however, elapsed
before Lady Caroline was sufficiently recovered to call upon her friend
Julia; and then she came alone--for her mother’s heart yearned to visit
her child. Under the influence of this feeling, she was moved to tears
when she learnt that every alternate day Miss Murray had made it a
point to call at Mrs. Porter’s residence and assure herself that the
poor babe was duly cared for. ‘This is another proof of your goodness,
Julia!’ exclaimed Lady Caroline, falling upon her friend’s neck and
weeping with mingled gratitude and joy. They presently proceeded
together to the good woman’s abode; and the young mother was charmed
to find her child thriving to her heart’s best satisfaction. On the
following day Lady Caroline revisited Julia; but this time it was in
company with her brother the Marquis;--and little Harry was at home
to see them. You may suppose that the party was a happy one; and it
gave the nobleman ineffable delight to observe that his sister and his
intended wife were on the best possible terms with each other. But he
little suspected the tremendous secret that had thus cemented their
friendship;--and it cost poor Julia many a pang when she reflected that
she was compelled to retain any secret at all from the knowledge of the
generous man who reposed such confidence in her! There was however no
help for it;--and yet Julia felt as if she were acting with blameable
duplicity in veiling a circumstance which for her friend’s sake, she
would nevertheless rather die than reveal: and after her noble visitors
had taken their departure, she did not experience that amount of
happiness which, with her present brilliant prospects, she knew she
ought to enjoy.

“I must not dwell upon this portion of my narrative. Let us suppose
five months to have passed away; during which period the marquis had
been constant in his visits to Julia, but always in the company of his
sister. So delicate was his behaviour in respect to the reputation of
his intended bride, that he avoided every chance of compromising her;
and although the neighbours saw a gentleman, whose name they did not
know, call three times a-week upon the beautiful milliner, they never
beheld him repair thither alone. Thus there was no scope for scandal;
and Julia’s conduct was always so circumspect as to prove a complete
antidote to calumny. I should observe that during the five months
mentioned, the attachment subsisting between the pair increased, and
warmed into the most ardent love; and I must not forget to state that
Lady Caroline visited her child at Mrs. Porter’s house as frequently
as she was able. But Julia seldom failed to call there every alternate
day; and thus the rearing of the poor infant was strictly watched by
its mother, and that mother’s bosom friend. Sometimes Harry accompanied
his sister in her walk to Mrs. Porter’s cottage; but the little fellow
was always made to wait in one room while Julia was shown the baby in
another--and thus the real motive of her visits there was unsuspected
by him. Not that she feared he would reveal any thing which he was
enjoined to keep secret; but Julia believed--and rightly believed--that
it was alike more prudent and delicate to leave him in total ignorance
of the object which took her to the cottage. Thus time wore on, as I
have already mentioned; and now I must remark that in compliance with
the wishes of Lord Wilmington, Julia had by this time altogether ceased
to receive work; but instead of drawing on the funds placed at her
disposal in the hands of Mr. Richardson, she subsisted upon the savings
which she had been enabled to accumulate. I mention all these little
circumstances, to afford you as good an idea as I can convey of the
excellence of her disposition, and the total absence of selfishness
from her character. In fact, the more the marquis saw of her, the more
enamoured of her did he become, and the greater grew his admiration of
her amiable qualities. It was therefore with joy the most unfeigned
that he at length considered himself justified in fixing the day for
the bridal; and this ceremony was settled to take place precisely on
the completion of the six months from the hour in which he had offered
her his hand.

“While Julia was occupied in preparing her own wedding-dress, the
Marquis busied himself in rendering his splendid mansion in Belgrave
Square as suitable as possible for the reception of his bride. In the
meantime he had communicated to the Dowager-Marchioness his intended
marriage; but, as he had feared, his design experienced the most
decided disapproval on her part. Vainly did he reason with her on the
subject--uselessly did he represent that his happiness was seriously
involved: his mother refused to listen to him;--and he had the
mortification to incur her most serious displeasure. The bitterness of
her hostility to the match he however concealed from Julia; and, much
as he deplored the breach which now existed between himself and his
only surviving parent, not for a moment did he entertain the thought of
yielding to her tyranny. Thus the time passed on; and it was now within
three days of the one fixed for the bridal ceremony, when an incident
occurred which produced a terrible change in the aspect of affairs.

[Illustration]

“It was a fine summer morning, and the clock was striking eight just
as Julia and little Harry were sitting down to breakfast, when the old
housekeeper entered to inform her mistress that a woman by the name of
Porter desired to speak to her without delay;--for you most remember
that the housekeeper was entirely ignorant of the transaction which so
nearly concerned Lady Caroline Jerningham, and to some extent involved
Miss Murray, at least as an accessory, in the mysterious business.
Mrs. Porter was instantly admitted into the parlour; and when she
appeared, and the housekeeper had retired, Julia approached her in an
agitated manner and with an enquiring look,--for it struck her that
this visit--the first which the woman had ever paid to the house since
that night when the infant was entrusted to her--augured something
unpleasant. In her excitement she forgot the presence of her brother
Harry--whom the woman herself likewise overlooked; and, to the anxious
glance darted upon her, Mrs. Porter verbally replied by exclaiming,
‘Oh! Miss, the dear child has been suddenly taken dangerously
ill!’--‘The child dangerously ill!’ repeated Julia, who had learnt to
love the infant almost as much as if it were her own: ‘I will accompany
you directly;’ and, hurrying from the room, she presently reappeared
with her bonnet and shawl. Then, noticing Harry, it flashed to her mind
that he had overheard what had been said: but a second thought told
her that more harm would be done by attempting to explain away any
impression that might have been made upon his mind, than by leaving the
matter as it then stood;--and, having merely observed to him that she
should return shortly, Julia hastened away in company with Mrs. Porter.
Harry finished his breakfast, not thinking much of the few words which
had caught his ears, but which he could not rightly understand; and,
as it was holiday-time, he was about to repair to play in the garden
at the back of the house, when a double knock at the front door made
him hasten to the window. Perceiving that the visitor was the Marquis,
he ran to give him admittance; and the nobleman entered the parlour.
‘Where is your sister, Harry?’ he asked, caressing the boy in a kind
manner.--‘She is gone out, my lord,’ was the reply.--‘This early!’
exclaimed the Marquis; ‘and I had promised myself the pleasure of
breakfasting with you both. The morning was so fine, and as I am a very
early riser, I rode out as far as the turnpike, and have sent my horse
back with the groom.’--The nobleman spoke this rather in a musing tone,
than actually addressing himself to the boy; and, after a pause, he
observed, ‘I suppose your sister will not be long?’--‘I do not know,
my lord,’ answered Harry. ‘A woman came just as we were sitting down
to breakfast, and Julia seemed much vexed at what she told her.’--‘I
hope that nothing disagreeable has occurred?’ cried the Marquis, in a
tone of alarm.--‘The woman, whose name is Porter, informed Julia that
the child was dangerously ill,’ responded Harry; ‘and then they went
away together.’--‘Oh! I understand,’ said the Marquis: ‘the child of
some poor woman named Porter is unwell, and your sister has gone to see
it.’--‘No, my lord, I don’t think the child is Mrs. Porter’s,’ returned
Harry, ingenuously, and with boyish communicativeness; ’for I have
often called at her cottage with Julia, and I have heard Mr. Porter
say that his wife’s own baby died last winter.’--‘And Julia has often
called there?’ exclaimed the Marquis, a horrible suspicion suddenly
arising in his mind.--‘Very often indeed,’ answered Harry, totally
unconscious of the tremendous amount of mischief he was occasioning.
‘When we have been out walking together, we have come round that way,
and stopped at the cottage; and then I have waited in the kitchen with
Mr. Porter, who used to give me cakes or marbles, while Julia went up
stairs with Mrs. Porter.’--‘And did you ever see the child?’ asked the
nobleman, assuming as much composure as he could possibly call to his
aid.--‘No; Julia never told me a word about it.’--‘And how did you
first hear of it?’--‘Just now, when Mrs. Porter rushed in and said that
the child was ill’--‘And was Julia very, very sorry?’ demanded the
Marquis.--‘Oh! yes, indeed!’ cried the boy, who saw nothing strange nor
unusual in the nobleman’s tone or manner, and regarded this dialogue
as mere chit-chat.--‘And whereabout is Mrs. Porter’s cottage?’ asked
Wilmington, in whose bosom a perfect hell was now raging.--‘Shall I
show your lordship the way?’ said Harry. The nobleman nodded his head
affirmatively; and the little fellow hastened to fetch his cap. They
then proceeded in silence until they came within sight of the cottage,
which Harry pointed out.--‘You may now go home again,’ said the
Marquis; and Harry obeyed the hint, still totally unsuspicious of the
harm which his candid garrulity had accomplished.

“The nobleman, when thus left alone, could no longer restrain the
emotions which agitated within him. Turning aside from the path
leading towards the cottage, he rushed into the fields, exclaiming
aloud, ‘Just heavens! on what an abyss was I hovering! But can such
diabolical perfidy exist on the part of one so young? Oh! yes--it is
too apparent; and my mother was right when she counselled me never to
bestow my hand on a woman moving in a sphere beneath my own!’--Having
thus given vent to his excited feelings, Wilmington grew more composed;
and he now approached the cottage. The door stood open; and, entering
without any ceremony, he saw a woman at the same instant descend from
a staircase. ‘Is your name Porter?’ he enquired, speaking in as mild
a tone as possible.--‘Yes, sir,’ she answered.--‘And it is here that
a child who has been, as it were, abandoned by its unnatural mother,
is lying dangerously ill?’ he said, fixing his eyes keenly upon the
woman’s countenance.--‘Thank God, the dear innocent is better!’
exclaimed Mrs. Porter, taken completely off her guard, and even
entertaining a suspicion that the gentleman himself might be the father
of her nursling.--‘Now, confess every thing,’ cried the Marquis, ’or
it will be the worse for you! Was it not Miss Murray who engaged your
services----’.--‘No, sir: it was the surgeon who attended the lady in
her confinement,’ interrupted Mrs. Porter, terrified by the stern tone
which her querist had suddenly adopted; ’but it was at Miss Murray’s
house----’.--‘Enough! enough!’ ejaculated. Wilmington; and he hurried
away from the cottage.

“In the meantime Julia had returned home, having assured herself that
the child was out of danger; and as she retraced her way by means of
a bye-path, it happened that she did not encounter her brother and
the marquis. But little Harry was light of foot; and he, having been
dismissed by the nobleman in the way above stated, reached the front
door at the same instant as his sister. She was surprised to find that
he had been out--still more so when she learnt that Lord Wilmington
had called so early. But a frightful sensation seized upon her, when
Harry ingenuously observed that the nobleman had taken him to lead
the way to the cottage. Subduing her emotions, however, as well as
she could, she proceeded to question her brother; and in a short time
she ascertained all that had passed between him and the Marquis. Each
answer that he gave--each detail that he mentioned, increased the
horrible fears which now oppressed her; and, at last--comprehending the
full extent of her misfortune,--perceiving the nature of the suspicions
which were sure to have seized upon her intended husband,--she uttered
a piercing cry, pressed her hands in anguish to her throbbing brow,
and exclaimed in a piercing tone, ‘Oh! Harry, Harry, you know not what
you have done!’--The boy was frightened; and, darting towards his
sister, he threw his arms around her neck, imploring her to forgive him
if he had acted improperly. Even in the midst of her bitter, bitter
anguish, she could not find it in her heart to continue angry with
her little brother, who had not wantonly nor wickedly inflicted this
appalling injury upon her; and, assuming an appearance of calmness,
she became the consoler. In the depth of misery there is a crisis that
makes even despair the immediate precursor of hope; and Julia began to
reason to herself that all might not be so dark as she had feared. But
while she was thus endeavouring to persuade her inmost soul to render
itself accessible to consolation, a note was put into her hand by the
housekeeper. She glanced at the address which was hurriedly--almost
illegibly written, and the ink of which was scarcely dry,--so that
she knew it had been penned somewhere in the neighbourhood. With
trembling hands she tore it open; and her strength and mental energy
sustained her sufficiently to permit the entire perusal of the letter.
Its contents ran thus:--‘_I have discovered your frailty, your guilt,
your hypocrisy, just in time to save myself from an alliance which
would have brought dishonour on my name, and heaped endless miseries
on my head. I shall not attempt to reproach you at any length for your
conduct towards me: my generous confidence has been met by the blackest
duplicity--the most diabolical ingratitude; and your conscience will
punish you more--oh! far more severely than any words that I may
address to you. Neither shall I adopt the mean and petty revenge of
exposing you: but if you ever dare to boast that you were once engaged
to be married to the Marquis of Wilmington, then shall I consider that
it would be a sin to spare you._’

“The letter dropped from Julia’s hand; and, with a wild shriek, she
fell senseless on the floor. The housekeeper administered restoratives,
while little Harry, who was himself a prey to the liveliest grief he
had ever yet known, hurried to fetch the surgeon. It was the same
medical man who had attended upon Lady Caroline Jerningham; and he was
prompt in repairing to a house where his former services had been so
liberally rewarded. Julia had somewhat recovered in the meantime; but
he pronounced her to be in a dangerous state--and, indeed, she seemed
quite unconscious of every thing that was passing around her. She was
conveyed to her chamber,--medicine was prescribed,--and the surgeon
recommended the housekeeper not to leave her mistress alone more than
was absolutely necessary, inasmuch as he feared that her brain was
affected. Little Harry was inconsolable at his sister’s illness--the
more especially that he reproached himself with having been the cause
of it all; though how he had done the harm he could not by any means
understand. Seated by Julia’s bed-side, he fixed his tearful eyes on
her pale countenance, as she slumbered uneasily; and when hours had
passed, and evening came, and still she awoke not, he was afraid that
she was dead. The housekeeper, however, assured him to the contrary;
and then he bent softly over his sister, to whom the surgeon had
administered an opiate, and gently kissed her lips. She murmured a
name--it was his own name--and opened her eyes. Complete consciousness
returned in a few minutes; and as she rapidly surveyed her misfortune
and calculated its extent, she shuddered at the idea of even attempting
to meet it with resignation. But for that little brother’s sake--the
sake of him whom she had found bending over her, and whose name was
the first that her lips breathed on her waking,--for _his_ sake she
nerved herself to wage war with the world once more. Though a word
of explanation--the mere revelation of Lady Caroline’s secret would
at once restore her to that position so full of hope which she had
occupied in the morning,--still her generous heart would not allow her
to betray her friend. No: she would sooner pine away and go down to
an early grave, heart-broken and spirit-crushed, than proclaim to the
Marquis the secret of his noble sister’s dishonour!

“It was about seven o’clock in the evening of this dreadful day that
a hasty and impatient double-knock at the front door was heard; and a
few moments afterwards Lady Caroline Jerningham was ushered into the
chamber where Julia was lying. The moment she entered, the patient made
a signal for the housekeeper and little Harry to withdraw; and when the
two friends were alone together, a most affecting scene took place.
It appeared that the marquis had that afternoon written a letter to
his sister, of which the following were the enigmatical contents:--‘_I
am almost heart-broken, my dearest Caroline, and cannot see you at
present. I shall retire into the country for a few weeks--perhaps
months--to hide my grief from every eye, and endeavour to regain
somewhat of that mental composure which has been almost completely
wrecked this day. Julia is unworthy of my love and of your friendship:
what the proof of this may be, ask not--seek not to learn;--but I
charge you to visit her no more. Your afflicted brother_,’ &c.--On the
receipt of this note, Lady Caroline, who could not help suspecting that
this suddenly wrought change in the sentiments of the Marquis arose
from some fearful misunderstanding or some partial discovery respecting
the child, had hastened, almost distracted and a prey to intolerable
suspense, to Julia’s abode; and there she was shocked to find her
generous-hearted friend stretched upon a bed of sickness. Embracing
each other affectionately, they gave mutual explanations; and Lady
Caroline perceived that her worst fears were confirmed. The Marquis had
indeed made a discovery relative to the infant; but he was deceived
with regard to its maternity. And now who can describe the admiration
which Lady Caroline experienced for the character of her friend,
when she learnt that the poor girl would rather lie under the dread
suspicion of the Marquis--rather resign all her brilliant prospects,
and see her heart’s fondest affections blighted,--rather, in fact,
resign herself to immolation than betray her whose secret she deemed so
sacred!

“‘No--no!’ exclaimed the fair patrician, throwing herself upon Julia’s
bosom, and weeping plenteously; ’this may not be! Never can I permit
you, noble-hearted girl, to endure infamy, reproach, and wretchedness
for my sake! I will at once follow my brother into the country, throw
myself at his feet, confess all, and bring him back to you!’--‘And then
what will become of _you_, Caroline?’ asked Julia, mingling her tears
with those of her friend.’--‘Oh! I shall retire from the world, and
bury myself, with my innocent babe, in some solitude--in some far-off
village, perhaps, where, under a feigned name, I may escape the world’s
scorn for this fatal weakness which has caused so much misery!’--and,
as she spoke, Lady Caroline’s voice indicated the most acute anguish
of heart. ‘Unless,’ she added, her tone suddenly becoming hoarse and
hollow, and her manner unnaturally subdued,--‘unless, indeed, my
brother, in the first ebullition of his rage should stretch me dead
at his feet; and that is the most probable result!’--‘Then, dearest
Caroline,’ exclaimed Julia, speaking in a tone of mingled alarm and
earnest entreaty, ‘for heaven’s sake renounce this mad project! Do not
think of seeking your brother and thus exposing yourself to his rage.
I owe you a deep, deep debt of gratitude; and now let me pay it by
enduring that weight of suspicion against which I may haply bear up,
but which would crush and overwhelm you. For never, never can I forget
that when I appeared, full of terror and trembling, with the spoilt
dress in your mother’s presence, your looks gave me encouragement, and
your kind words reassured me. Then, when I was leaving your dwelling
without the means of even procuring a loaf for my dear little brother
and myself, you put gold into my hand. Oh! dear lady, these are
manifestations of generosity which never can be forgotten; and, noble
as you are by name, you are nobler in heart. It will be my joy--my
pride to screen _you_, who have proved so kind a friend to me; and
there is no sacrifice that I am unprepared to make in order to save you
from unhappiness and shame!’--‘It is an angel that speaks!’ murmured
Lady Caroline, overpowered by this generosity on the part of Julia
Murray. ‘But nothing, nothing,’ she continued, with reviving energy,
and after a few moments’ pause, ‘shall induce me to yield to your
desire. I recognise all that is great and noble in your conduct; and
so long as I remain possessed of intellect and memory, I shall pray
night and morning for the Almighty to bless you, my dearest Julia. I
have been frail, and I must bear the consequences. Seek not to wean
me from this intention: I should never know a happy moment, were I
to permit _you_ to become the victim of _my_ shame!’[9]--‘One word!’
exclaimed Miss Murray, after a minute’s profound reflection: ‘I will no
longer urge you to act contrary to your heart’s dictates; but promise
me that you will not take a single step towards revealing every thing
to your brother and exculpating me, until four-and-twenty hours shall
have elapsed. During that interval we shall both have time for serious
and calm meditation; and no advantage will result from precipitate
haste.’--‘Yes; I make you this promise, Julia,’ returned Lady Caroline;
‘on the condition that when we meet again to-morrow evening, it shall
not be to argue whether I am to confess or not, but in what manner the
confession can be most suitably and safely made.’--‘Agreed!’ cried Miss
Murray: ‘and to-morrow evening, at seven o’clock, you will visit me
again?’--‘I will,’ answered Lady Caroline Jerningham; and she then took
her leave of her friend, whom she embraced with the warmth of the most
sincere affection.

“On the following day, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, a
letter, addressed to Lady Caroline Jerningham, was delivered at the
mansion in Hanover Square by a porter, who hurried away the moment he
had placed it in the servant’s hands. The contents of this note ran
as follow:--‘_Dearest Caroline, it is useless for you to call this
evening at the house which I have occupied for so many months, and
which was purchased by your excellent brother’s money. I shall no
longer be the occupant of that house, when this note reaches you. My
mind is made up to endure every thing for your sake; and I therefore
this day withdraw myself, in company with Harry, into a retirement
and an obscurity whither you cannot follow me. It will therefore be
unnecessary and ridiculous--I may almost say_ wicked--_for you to make
any revelations to your brother. By sacrificing yourself, you would
confer no benefit upon me; as nothing shall induce me to alter the
plans I have formed respecting the future. Retain profoundly secret
all those circumstances the confession of which can have no useful
result; and think sometimes of me--for I shall often, often think
of you, my well-beloved friend,--although we may never, never meet
again!_’--This letter, on which were the traces of weeping, produced
a stupefying sensation on the part of Lady Caroline. Was it possible
that Julia, in the zeal of her ardent friendship, had outwitted the
fair patrician, and had won the generous game at which they were
playing? No wonder that Miss Murray had requested Caroline to suspend
all proceedings for twenty-four hours: in that time, the noble-hearted
girl had consummated the sacrifice of herself! And now nothing could
exceed the sincerity and the depth of that grief which seized upon
the lady: for an hour after she received the note, she was as one
demented; and her confidential maid experienced the utmost difficulty
in restraining her from manifestations of feeling which would have
excited the strangest suspicions in the household. At length, when she
had grown comparatively calm, Lady Caroline, attended by her maid,
repaired to Camden Town; but there they only beheld those appearances
which corroborated the statements contained in Julia’s letter. For
the house was shut up; and, on enquiry being made of a neighbour, it
was ascertained that Miss Murray, her servant, and her little brother
had taken their departure soon after mid-day, although, according to
the same authority, the young milliner was evidently suffering from
indisposition. The fair patrician’s last hope of seeing her friend and
weaning her from her intention, was thus destroyed; and the poignancy
of her grief was renewed. She proceeded to Mrs. Porter’s cottage, where
she learnt that Julia had called in the morning to assure herself of
the child’s convalescence and imprint upon its little countenance a
farewell kiss. This touching instance of Julia’s goodness of heart
moved Lady Caroline to tears; and she reproached herself bitterly for
having been the cause of all her friend’s present sorrows.

“There, however, appeared to be a remedy which might yet be adopted;
and to this measure did the lady make up her mind. She resolved, in
fact, to write to her brother without delay, inform him of every
thing, and urge him to lose no time in discovering the retreat of
Julia, that justice--full and ample justice--might be done to her.
Accordingly, on the following morning she penned a long letter to the
Marquis of Wilmington, imploring him to forgive her for the dishonour
she had brought upon the family, and drawing such a picture of Julia’s
generosity in sacrificing herself for a friend, that she wept long and
plentifully over the pages as she perused them. When this epistle had
been despatched to the post, Caroline’s heart felt easier; and she said
to herself, ‘Even if my brother should wreak the bitterest vengeance
upon me, I can endure his resentment with resignation; for I now
have the consciousness of performing a sacred and solemn duty.’--The
Dowager-Marchioness, in the meantime, had been suffering through
indisposition which confined her much to her chamber; and she did not
therefore perceive any particular variations in the manner and aspect
of her daughter.




CHAPTER CXLIII.

CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF THE DRESS-MAKER: A LOVE STORY.


“Two days after Lady Caroline Jerningham’s letter had been sent, the
Marquis of Wilmington arrived in London; and, hastening to Hanover
Square, he obtained an immediate interview with his sister. Pale,
trembling, and unable to endure his glance, she awaited in torturing
suspense the first words that should issue from his lips; and never
was relief from agonising feelings more welcome or more complete,
than when the Marquis, taking his sister’s hand, said in a gentle
though mournful voice, ‘Caroline, I am not come to reproach you--much
less to add to your afflictions by the heartless cruelty and absurd
inutility of an exposure. No: I give you all my sympathy; and I thank
you most sincerely for having confessed every thing, that you might
restore your friend to my favour.’--Lady Caroline threw herself into
her brother’s arms, and wept upon his breast; but when the emotions
attendant upon this meeting had somewhat subsided, the Marquis said,
‘Heaven be thanked that Julia is innocent! Deeply, deeply as I deplore
the sad circumstances involved in your revelation, Caroline, yet it
is a relief to know that she--that poor, suffering, wrongly suspected
girl--is worthy of all my love! And if I before loved her--if I
before esteemed and admired her as the pattern of every thing great
and noble, generous and amiable in Woman,--Oh! now what strength have
those sentiments acquired! No time must be lost in finding her out;
and this moment shall I enter upon the search.’--The Marquis then
took a hasty leave of his sister, and in the first instance repaired
to Mr. Richardson to consult him upon the subject. Without in any way
compromising his sister, the Marquis related enough to let the worthy
lawyer know that Julia had been unjustly suspected--that her innocence
was completely established, and that he now longed to find out her
retreat, with the view to make her the fullest possible reparation.
Mr. Richardson then stated that three days previously a porter had
called on him, bringing the key of the house at Camden Town, with
an intimation that Miss Murray surrendered up the tenement to its
proprietor, with all the furniture it contained,--in fact, in the same
condition as when the property was made over to her. A tear stole into
the eye of the Marquis, as he received this proof of Julia’s strict
integrity; and Mr. Richardson advised that an advertisement, drawn
up in a manner calculated to strike Miss Murray’s comprehension, but
ambiguous to the public generally, should be kept standing in the
_Times_ and other widely circulated newspapers until her retreat should
have been discovered. The Marquis approved of this plan; and, leaving
his solicitor to execute it, he departed from the office to pursue
his search elsewhere. He now proceeded to Camden Town, and (having
the key with him) entered the house; but delicacy forbade him to
penetrate into any other rooms save the parlours; and there he found
not a letter nor a scrap of paper that might afford any clue to the
place whither Julia had retired. His heart was heavy--his grief was
profound; and frequent sighs rent his manly breast as he repaired to
the cottage where the child--his sister’s child--dwelt under the care
of Mrs. Porter. His strange manner on his previous visit did not obtain
for him a very welcome reception at the hands of that female; but
when she found that he spoke kindly and inquired anxiously concerning
the infant, her reserve began to dissipate, and she at last thought
him a very agreeable gentleman. The child was brought to him, and he
kissed it affectionately. An allusion which Mrs. Porter happened to
make to Miss Murray, enabled the Marquis to turn the conversation upon
that loved being who seemed lost to him; and now he heard the warmest
and sincerest praises uttered in regard to her; but not a syllable
affording a trace of her present abode. In fact, it was very evident
that Mrs. Porter was as ignorant as himself in that respect; and still
was it with a heavy heart that the nobleman turned away to prosecute
his search elsewhere.

“He had learnt from his sister that Julia, her little brother, and the
old housekeeper had taken their departure together in a hackney-coach;
and he concluded that the vehicle was hired from some stand in the
neighbourhood. Behold, then, this rich and well-born peer visiting all
the stations of cabs and coaches in the vicinity, and pursuing his
enquiries amongst a class of men whom his liberality alone succeeded
in divesting of their habitual insolence. But still all his endeavours
to solve the painful mystery were fruitless; and, after a weary day’s
researches, he returned home, exhausted in physical energy and worn
down by mental depression, to his magnificent house in Belgrave Square.
His reliance was now in the advertisements which were to be inserted
in the newspapers; but even this hope was almost stifled within him
by the reminiscence that Julia seldom read the public journals. Day
after day passed--weeks glided by--these had swollen into months in
the lapse of time--and winter returned;--but still no trace of Julia!
In the interval, matters of importance had occurred in respect to Lady
Caroline Jerningham. The child had died in a fit of convulsions, to
which it was subject, and in spite of the tender care of Mrs. Porter
and the attentions of the medical man: the remains of the infant were
interred in the churchyard of Old Saint Pancras; and the Porters, who
were well rewarded for their kindness to the child from the moment
of its birth until that of its death, still remain in ignorance of
the real name and the rank of its mother. Not many weeks after the
removal from this earthly sphere of the evidence of Lady Caroline’s
frailty, Lord Hartley returned home from abroad; and his first act,
on arriving in London, was to hasten to Hanover Square. His heart had
remained constant to Lady Caroline; and he now boldly claimed her hand
of the Marchioness, who received him most graciously, there being, in
the Dowager’s eyes, a vast deal of difference between the noble and
wealthy Baron Hartley of Hartley, and the poor Lieutenant Quentin of
His Majesty’s Ship _The Tremendous_. The _Morning Post_ accordingly
announced the ‘approaching marriage in high life;’ and the ceremony
took place in November, 1835,--precisely one year after the date of the
commencement of our tale.

“Thus Lady Caroline Jerningham became Lady Hartley: she was united to
the object of her affection;--but her happiness was not complete. Every
day--every hour did she think of poor Julia Murray; and her husband, to
whom she had confided every thing, shared in her deep anxiety to obtain
a clue to that excellent young woman. The Marquis of Wilmington had
put into execution every means which human ingenuity could devise to
procure that clue: but all to no effect; and he now gave himself up to
despair. His health began to fail him; and his appearance speedily grew
much altered. Vainly did his sister endeavour to console him: she also
required solace, and almost in respect to the same cause,--for if the
one mourned the loss of an intended bride, the other deplored that of a
dear friend!

“I said that the incident of my tale had brought me down to the month
of November, 1835; and it now becomes necessary to make some mention
of Julia Murray. It was a night of pouring rain and gushing wind, as
on that when she first encountered the Marquis of Wilmington; and the
unhappy young woman was seated in a miserable garret in some street
near Covent Garden Market. The cheerless chamber was almost completely
denuded of furniture; and the little that was in it, belonged not to
her. Not a spark of fire appeared in the hearth;--the cupboard door
was opened, but no food was seen on the shelves;--and the candle that
shed a fitful light around the bare, damp walls, was every moment in
danger of being extinguished by the cold draught from the ill-closed
window. Leaning her head upon her hand, and her elbow on the table,
Julia sate, gazing down on the upturned countenance of her brother
who occupied a stool at her feet. Pale and wan were their faces: gone
was the bloom of health from the cheeks of the once happy, beauteous
boy,--gone, too, was the delicate tinge of carnation that had been
wont to enhance the loveliness of his sister. Misery was in that
garret--misery for _two_--misery for that almost heart-broken young
woman and that affectionate, grateful boy. The want of needle-work and
illness had plunged Julia into the direst poverty: she could have borne
it all had she been by herself--borne it almost without repining;--but
when she looked on the pale face of her little brother, saw that he
was famishing for want, and knew also that he endeavoured to conceal
his hunger from her for fear of increasing _her_ grief,--oh! it was
this--it was _this_ that crushed and overwhelmed her! She glanced
around: there was not an article of clothing that could be now spared
to pledge, save her scanty shawl--and then how could she go abroad
to ask for needlework without it? Heavens! twelve hours had the boy
already fasted--twenty-four hours had elapsed since Julia had tasted
a morsel of food;--for she had almost forced the last crust into his
mouth! And now how many hours more must elapse ere a chance might
present itself to afford them a meal? And if no work could be obtained,
what were they to do? What, indeed!

“In the midst of all these bitter--harrowing reflections, a thought--or
rather a reminiscence flashed to Julia’s mind;--but it was only to
plunge her more deeply into the abyss of woe, and not to solace
her. Just one year had elapsed since she had first met the Marquis
of Wilmington,--just one year, day for day: and through how many
vicissitudes had she and her darling brother passed in that period!
They had known prosperity and happiness: they had also experienced
the bitterest misery, and yet they had not deserved the vengeance
of heaven: but, then, those whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth!
Still pure and guileless--still innocent and artless, Julia Murray’s
principles had remained unshaken by the rude contest which she had
been compelled to endure with the world’s ills; and her brother was
still the same affectionate, good, endearing boy as when I first
introduced you to him. Oh! it was cruel--it was cruel that _they_
should suffer thus--those poor orphans who had never injured a living
soul, who clung to each other so tenderly, and who night and morning
put up their prayers to the Almighty that He would be pleased to change
their wretched, wretched lot. But, alas! those supplications--so
sincere, so earnest, so respectful and adoring towards the Majesty of
Heaven--remained apparently unheard; and on the particular night to
which allusion has been made, do we find that sister and brother on the
verge of perishing through sheer destitution!

“‘Harry,’ said Julia, after a long pause, ‘are you not very
hungry?’--‘Not very, dear sister,’ he returned, while tears started
into his eyes.--‘Oh! my darling boy, you are starving!’ she cried
frantically, as she strained him to her breast: then, growing more
composed, she said, ‘But this must not be! Here, Harry, take this
shawl over to that shop which you see opposite, give it to any one
whom you may see behind the counter, and you will receive some money
and a small card in exchange. Then go to the baker’s and buy a loaf;
and return as quickly as you can.’--The boy hesitated; and at length
said, ‘But, Julia dear, what will you do without your shawl? You
cannot go out.’--‘And you cannot starve,’ she returned hastily; as
she almost thrust him, but not harshly, out of the room. Then, when
the door closed behind him, she reseated herself, and burst into an
agony of tears. It was the first time she had ever sent Harry to the
pawnbroker--the first time she had ever allowed him to go out into the
streets alone after dusk. And this was not all that pained her: Oh!
she was oppressed with the most direful apprehensions--for now she was
indeed a prisoner in that wretched garret--she could not go out to seek
for work, and work would not be brought to her. And again, and again,
and again--for the thousandth time that day--did she ask herself what
was to be done, and what was to become of them? While she was wrapt
up in these harrowing reflections, she heard certain well-known--too
well-known steps ascending the stairs; and now she felt that even the
crushing amount of misery which already weighed upon her, was not
complete. The door was thrown open; and a stout, elderly, red-faced
woman, who had evidently been drinking, walked unceremoniously into the
chamber. ‘Now, Miss,’ she cried, almost ferociously, ‘are you going
to pay me the three weeks’ rent that’s due? If not, be so kind as to
tramp, and make room for them as will pay; ‘cos I’ve a respectable
married couple which is ready to take the place this very night.’--‘If
you will wait a few minutes,’ answered Julia, in a faint tone, ‘I will
pay you as much as I can.’--‘Come, that won’t do for me,’ vociferated
the woman: ‘I see your brother go out with your shawl, and I know
what’s what. But if you’re obliged to spout your things to pay a trifle
this week, how will you be able to pay any at all next Saturday, much
less cash up altogether?’--‘Heavens! have patience, my dear madam, and
I will endeavour to pay you all, as soon as possible!’ said the poor
young woman, reduced to despair.--‘Patience, indeed!’ repeated the
landlady, contemptuously: ‘and who will have patience with me? There
is the Taxes will call on Monday morning; and the Water Rate has been
put off till he’s tired of coming near the place. So I can’t and won’t
wait no longer for such a beggar as you.’--At this goading insolence
Julia’s grief redoubled.--‘Oh! crying won’t pay no bills,’ ejaculated
the inhuman landlady. ‘And now I think on it, I’ll just look at the
bed-clothes and see that you haven’t pawned none of the blankets!’--‘I
would sooner starve--aye, and see my brother perish through want also,
than commit such an act!’ cried Julia, starting to her feet, while her
indignation actually tended to mitigate the acuteness of her grief.
‘Well, I ’spose you’re honest,’ said the woman, somewhat ashamed of
herself: ‘but I must have my money to-night all the same; if not, you
and your brother had better turn out at once.’--‘I repeat that it is
impossible for me to pay you all I owe this evening,’ exclaimed poor
Julia, now condescending to the adoption of a tone of appeal; ‘and
I implore you not to drive me and that dear boy homeless into the
streets.’--‘A pretty gal like you need never want money,’ said the
woman, fixing a meaning look upon the unhappy dress-maker; ‘and if
you would only take my advice----.’--‘Begone,’ cried Julia in a voice
so penetrating that it seemed to thrill through the brain of the vile
wretch who was about to develope the most infamous resources to the
view of that pure-minded girl--‘Begone, indeed!’ repeated the woman,
recovering her insolence: ‘that’s a pretty thing to say to me, that
you owe money to. However, once more I tell you that I _will_ be paid
to-night; or else, when my husband comes home from the public-house,
off you’ll bundle!’--Thus speaking, the wretch bounced out of the room,
leaving the door wide open behind her.

“Julia wrung her hands in despair; and again she asked herself those
unanswerable questions--What would become of them? and what was to
be done? At this moment, when her brain appeared to reel and reason
was rocking on its throne, the sounds of hasty steps ascending the
stairs met her ear, and she heard Harry’s voice exclaim, ‘Up higher
still--to the very top!’ And up those hasty footsteps came:--good
heavens! were fresh miseries in store for her? But scarcely had this
thought traversed poor Julia’s imagination, when some one darted
into the room--and as she was sinking on the floor, through terror,
want, and exhaustion, she was received in the arms of the Marquis
of Wilmington!--‘Julia, dearest Julia!’ he cried, in an impassioned
tone, as he strained the insensible form of his beloved one to his
breast: and that voice, sounding on her ear as if heard in the midst
of a dream, recalled her to herself;--and opening her eyes slowly,
she encountered the tender looks that were bent upon her.--‘Is it
possible!’ she exclaimed, tearing herself from the nobleman’s embrace:
‘your lordship here?’--‘Yes: here to implore your pardon for the past;
to declare to you how profound is the regret and how bitter the remorse
I have experienced for the unfeeling haste with which I judged you
on the barest suspicion; and to offer you my hand, Julia,’ added the
Marquis, ‘if you will now condescend to accept it!’--But I need not
pause to describe in detail the discourse which now ensued: suffice it
to say that the nobleman gave the fullest explanation of all that had
occurred since he had last seen Julia--how his sister had confessed her
frailty, and thus cleared up the suspicion which had so unfortunately
fallen upon Julia--how the child had died--how Lady Caroline had
married Lord Hartley--and how every possible search had been made for
so many long, weary months, after Miss Murray. It must be added that
the Marquis, in his almost ceaseless wanderings about the metropolis in
the prosecution of that search, happened on this memorable evening to
pass through the very neighbourhood where Julia resided; and as Harry
emerged from the pawnbroker’s shop, the light flashed full upon the
little fellow’s countenance, which, in spite of its altered appearance,
was immediately recognised by the Marquis.

“But little more remains to be told. A messenger was instantly
despatched to Hartley House with a note from Lord Wilmington; and in
less than an hour his sister Caroline, accompanied by her faithful
lady’s maid, who had charge of a box full of clothes, arrived in her
carriage at the door of the house where Julia occupied the miserable
garret! Affecting indeed was the meeting between the two friends; and
while the Marquis took Harry away with him to the nearest ready-made
clothes’ shop to equip the boy from head to foot in new apparel, Lady
Hartley hastily made such a change in Julia’s appearance, by means
of the contents of the box before alluded to, that when his lordship
returned he was charmed to see that, though pale, she was still
eminently beautiful. In the meantime the rumour had spread throughout
the house how a great nobleman and a great lady had come to take the
poor dress-maker away in their carriage; and now the vile woman who
only an hour before had menaced Julia with ejectment--who had insulted
her by offering to search the few miserable things in the room to see
if any had been made away with--and who had hinted at an infamous
proposal from which the young creature’s soul recoiled in horror and
loathing,--that same detestable wretch was now most assiduous in
offering the use of her parlour and rendering herself so officiously
busy, that Lady Hartley was forced to order her in a peremptory manner
to retire. In fine, all necessary preparations being made so that
Julia and her brother might appear in a becoming way at the splendid
mansion whither they were now about to repair, the happy party entered
the carriage, which drove straight to Hartley House, where Caroline’s
husband received Julia and Harry in the kindest possible manner.

“Thus was the aspect of affairs signally changed; and from the cold,
cheerless garret, where want stared them in the face, were the sister
and brother suddenly wafted into the very bosom of luxury, comfort,
and happiness. Virtue met with its reward, after the many trials to
which it had been subjected, and the numerous temptations it had
triumphantly passed through. Mr. Richardson, the lawyer, was overjoyed
when the Marquis called upon him next morning and related all that had
happened; and the instant his lordship had taken his departure, the
worthy solicitor hastened to Hanover Square, resolved, if possible, to
accomplish a certain project which he had in view. Presenting himself
to the Dowager-Marchioness, he argued with her upon the inutility and
injustice, the folly and the cruelty of her opposition to an alliance
which so nearly regarded her son’s happiness; and he dilated so warmly
upon the good qualities of Julia Murray, that her ladyship, who had
at first heard him with impatience, began to listen attentively. In a
word, Mr. Richardson succeeded in persuading the Marchioness to have
the credit of assenting to an union which she had not the power to
prevent; and the policy of this step at last triumphed over her other
repugnances. She accordingly rang the bell, ordered the carriage,
and proceeded with the lawyer to Hartley House, where her presence
augmented the happiness already experienced beneath that roof. Thus
nothing was now wanting to complete the felicity of all those in whom,
I hope, you are interested; and it was astonishing how speedily the
bloom came back to the countenance of Julia, and the ruddy hues of
health to the cheeks of little Harry.

“Six weeks after the discovery of the orphans in their wretched garret,
Julia became the Marchioness of Wilmington. Happy--happy was that
bridal, and beautiful was the blushing bride--so beautiful that a
stranger would not have suspected the privations and miseries which she
had undergone. And, as if heaven, in its justice, were determined to
afford a signal proof that though it can chasten, it can also reward
as fully--from the day that this union took place, Julia and her
brother have not known a care. Possessing the power to do good, the
Marchioness of Wilmington has been enabled to soothe many an afflicted
heart; and her experience of the past has taught her that the severest
misery is that which pines unseen and hides itself in garrets--not
that which obtrudes itself, in the shape of mendicity, upon the public
eye. Her _secret charities_ are therefore boundless; and the elevation
of such a woman to rank and the possession of immense wealth, has
proved beneficial to thousands. I must not forget to observe that the
housekeeper who had accompanied her on her departure from Camden Town,
and who had subsequently returned home, at Julia’s request, to her
friends, once more became an attendant in the household of the mistress
whom she loved; and every one who had in any way shown kindness to my
heroine when she was but the humble dress-maker, was sought out and
liberally rewarded, by her whose heart had undergone no change although
she had become the Marchioness of Wilmington.”




CHAPTER CXLIV.

DOVER.


It must not be supposed that this long tale was related without an
interval of rest. When it broke off at the end of the hundred and
forty-second chapter, the travellers were just on the point of entering
Rochester, where they lunched; and, after this brief halt, they pursued
their journey, Charles resuming the thread of his narrative, to which
Perdita listened with deep interest.

The young woman experienced an ineffable pleasure in drinking in with
her ears the rich tones of her lover’s voice; and the pathetic nature
of his story increased the tenderness which she felt for him. She, who
had defied the influence of the blind deity, was wounded by his shaft;
and the more she saw of Charles Hatfield, the less selfish became her
passion--the more sincere her attachment.

Mrs. Fitzhardinge read, with a keen eye, all that was passing in
her daughter’s mind; and there were moments when she could scarcely
restrain her rage at the idea that Perdita had succeeded so skilfully
in throwing her into the back-ground. But the old woman resolved to
abide her time--in the hope that circumstances might yet enable her
to resume her sway, and compel the enamoured couple to bend to the
dictates of her will.

The journey was pursued in safety, and in freedom from any unpleasant
interruption, until the post-chaise entered the town of Dover. Then the
travellers were to pass the night; and thence they were to embark on
the ensuing morning for Calais.

They took up their quarters at an hotel, where an excellent dinner
was provided; and in the evening Charles Hatfield and Perdita rambled
together upon the beach, Mrs. Fitzhardinge remaining at the inn on the
plea of fatigue, but in reality because her daughter made her a private
sign to intimate that her company was not needed.

It was a summer evening of surpassing loveliness: the sea was calm and
tranquil in its mighty bed, agitated only at its margin when wavelets,
so small that they might almost be denominated ripples, murmured on the
beach;--and the western horizon was gorgeous with purple, and orange,
and gold--the swathing robes of the setting sun.

There were many ladies and gentlemen walking on the Marine Parade, and
enjoying the freshness of the air after the oppressive heat of the
sultry day. Amongst the loungers, several officers belonging to the
garrison were conspicuous by their scarlet coats; and giddy, silly
young ladies of sixteen or seventeen felt themselves supremely happy if
they could only secure the attentions of these military _beaux_.

Here and there were long seats, painted green, and occupied by
ladies, their male companions standing in lounging attitudes; and the
conversation that occupied these groups was for the most part of a
frivolous nature,--for people at watering places only seek to kill
time, and not to use it for intellectual purposes.

On one of the benches just alluded to, was placed a middle-aged mamma
with her three marriageable daughters, who were pretty, chatty,
agreeable girls, according to the general meaning of the epithets:
at all events, whenever Mrs. Matson appeared on the Parade with the
three Misses Matson, the officers were sure to steal away from other
groups or parties in order to join the new-comers--to the immense
gratification of the objects of this preference, and to the huge
mortification of the Jones’s, the Smiths, the Jenkins, the Greens, and
the Browns.

“Were you at Lady Noakes’s last evening, Captain Phinnikin?” enquired
the eldest Miss Matson of a gallant officer of some four or five and
twenty, who was lounging near her.

“No--not I, faith!” was the reply given in a drawling tone, as if the
gallant officer aforesaid were a martyr to that dreadful malady termed
_ennui_. “Lady Noakes’s parties are such slow affairs--I have quite
abjured them. Besides,” he added, suddenly recollecting that this
was an excellent opportunity to throw in a compliment, “I knew _you_
weren’t to be there.”

“Oh! dear, no!” exclaimed Miss Julia Matson--the second of the
marriageable sisters: “one does meet such strange people at her
ladyship’s, that we really could not think of accepting the invitation.”

“Well, but you must recollect, my dear,” observed Mrs. Matson, in a
tone which seemed to be of mild reproof, “that poor dear Lady Noakes
is only the widow of a brewer who was mayor of Deal or Sandwich, I
forget which, and was knighted by William the Fourth for taking up some
address to his Majesty.”

“That’s all!” said Miss Anna-Maria Matson, the third sister: “and
therefore I am sure no one need be surprised that Lady Noakes is glad
to fill her rooms with any body she can get.”

“Well, I was there last night,” observed another young officer--a
lieutenant in the same regiment with Captain Phinnikin, and who formed
one of the group at present occupying our attention: “and I must say
that the supper was excellent.”

“Oh! but, Mr. Pink,” exclaimed the eldest Miss Matson, reproachfully,
“it is so very easy to give a good supper--but not so easy to make the
evening agreeable.”

“Granted!” rejoined the lieutenant: “and I must candidly admit that no
parties are so agreeable as those at your house.”

“Flatterer!” cried Miss Matson, with a sweet smile. “I suppose the
Browns were at her ladyship’s last night.”

“Oh! certainly. You meet them every where.”

“And, faith! Miss Amelia Brown is a deuced pleasant girl--deuced
pleasant,” observed Captain Phinnikin.

“Well, I really never could see any thing particular in her,” said the
eldest Miss Matson. “Besides--you know what her grandfather is?” she
added, sinking her voice to a confidential tone, and hastily glancing
around to assure herself that the object of her remark was not nigh
enough to overhear her.

“’Pon my honour, I never heard!” responded Captain Phinnikin.

“They _do_ say--but mind, I will not assert it on my own authority,”
continued Miss Matson,--“at the same time, I believe it is pretty well
ascertained----”

“Oh! certainly--beyond all doubt,” exclaimed Miss Julia, tossing her
head contemptuously.

[Illustration]

“_I_ never heard it contradicted!” added Miss Anna-Maria.

“What do they say the grandfather is?” demanded Captain Phinnikin.

Again did Miss Matson look anxiously around: then, lowering her voice
to a whisper, and assuming as mysterious an air as possible, she said,
“A hatter!”

“Oh! you naughty, gossiping girls!” cried Mrs. Matson, shaking her
head with an affected deprecation of her daughters’ scandal-loving
propensities, but in reality enjoying the tittle-tattle.

“Well, ma,” said Miss Julia, “I am sure there is no harm in telling the
truth; and I thought that every one knew what Miss Brown’s grandfather
was--just the same as it’s no secret about the Greens being related to
a soap-boiler.”

“Hush! my dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Matson, putting her finger to her lip:
“we really must not pull people to pieces in this way. At the same time
I candidly confess that it _is_ annoying to find so many low persons
at the very watering-place which we chose for the summer. I don’t wish
to be severe upon any body; but if Mr. Thompson, who is known to be a
retired draper, _will_ allow people to address their letters to him as
_Thomas Thompson, Esquire_, he must expect to be talked about.”

“And then those Miss Thompsons who give themselves such airs!” cried
the eldest Miss Matson, with an indignant gesture.

“I am sure they made quite frights of themselves last Sunday at
church,” added Miss Julia, “with their dresses after the latest
Parisian fashion!”

“Besides, pink bonnets don’t at all become their dark complexions,”
observed Miss Anna-Maria.

“Ladies must have very good complexions indeed, for pink bonnets to
suit them,” drawled forth Captain Phinnikin, smiling languidly at the
same time;--for the three Misses Matson all wore bonnets of a roseate
hue--a fact which they _appeared_ to have entirely forgotten while
speaking of the Misses Thompson.

At this moment, Lieutenant Pink uttered an ejaculation of surprise;
and the rest of the group, turning their eyes in the same direction in
which his were bent, beheld a very handsome young gentleman to whose
arm hung a young lady of marvellous beauty.

“They are strangers here,” observed Miss Matson the elder.

“New-comers,” continued Miss Julia.

“But nothing very particular, I dare say,” added Miss Anna-Maria.

And having thus expressed themselves, the three sisters turned towards
the officers; but they were much piqued and annoyed to find that those
two gallant gentlemen were still surveying the attractive couple with
the deepest interest.

“That face is familiar to me, Pink,” cried Captain Phinnikin.

“And to me also. But where I have seen it before, I cannot recollect,”
observed the lieutenant. “Upon my soul, she is a magnificent woman!”

“A splendid creature!” ejaculated the captain, forgetting his
habitual drawl for a moment. “Faith! I remember----and yet--no--it is
impossible!”

“Yes--it _is_ impossible--it _cannot_ be!” cried Mr. Pink, as if
divining and echoing the other’s thoughts. “But I am sure I have seen
her before! And will you believe me, Phinnikin, when I assure you that,
at the first glance, I thought----”

“Egad! it is her profile--her figure!” cried the captain, pursuing
the train of his own thoughts, as his eyes followed the young couple
who were passing leisurely along at a little distance, and quite
unconscious of the interest that one of them at least was creating.

“Well--it strikes me that it is the same!” observed the lieutenant, his
amazement every moment becoming greater, and his uncertainty less.

“Who do you take her to be?” demanded Phinnikin, turning abruptly
towards his brother-officer.

“Perdita,” responded the lieutenant, without hesitation.

“And yet--in England--so changed too, in circumstances--and in company
with that genteel young fellow----”

“All those things occurred to me likewise,” interrupted Mr. Pink.

“Let us convince ourselves!” cried the captain; and the military
gentlemen, with a somewhat abrupt and unceremonious bow to the Matson
family, walked away together, arm-in-arm.

“Well, I never!” exclaimed the eldest Miss Matson, now tossing her head
more indignantly than on any previous occasion, yet looking wistfully
after the two really handsome and elegant, though conceited and
coxcombical young officers, whose fine figures were rapidly receding
along the parade.

“I could not have supposed that Captain Phinnikin would have been
guilty of such rudeness!” said Miss Julia.

“Oh! as for the captain--I was prepared for any thing with _him_,”
observed Miss Anna-Maria: “but it’s Mr. Pink that _I’m_ astonished at!”

“I am sure the captain is the best behaved of the two,” exclaimed Julia.

“That shows your ignorance, Miss,” said Anna-Maria, tartly.

“I know what’s genteel as well as you, I should hope,” retorted Julia.

“Don’t be cross, my love,” said Anna-Maria, affecting a soothing tone.

“And don’t you pretend to know better than one two years older than
yourself,” cried Julia. “As for _you_,” she continued, addressing
herself to her eldest sister, “I was quite surprised to hear how you
went on about the Browns and the Thompsons. How foolish we should all
look if it were found out that Uncle Ben was a pawnbroker in Lambeth
Marsh----”

“Hush! girls--hush! Drat your tongues--how they are going!” interrupted
Mrs. Matson, in a hoarse and hasty whisper.

“I am sure, ma, Julia talked as much about the Browns and the Thompsons
as I did,” said the eldest daughter; “and now she is trying to quarrel
with me about it. But here come the Thompsons,” she added abruptly, as
her eyes wandered along the parade.

Mrs. Matson and the three young ladies all smoothed their countenances
in a moment; and nothing could be more amiable, affable, or charming
than the manner in which they rose simultaneously to greet the Misses
Thompson--two tall, handsome, well-dressed, and really most genteel
girls, let their father have been what he might.

“Oh! my dear Miss Thompson,” cried the eldest Miss Matson, “I am so
delighted to see you! How well you are looking, to be sure!”

“We were talking about you only a few minutes ago, to Captain Phinnikin
and Mr. Pink,” said Julia; “and we were admiring those dears of bonnets
that you wore last Sunday at church.”

“I am glad you liked them,” responded the elder Miss Thompson. “But how
happened it that you were not at Lady Noakes’s last night?”

“Well--we don’t mind telling you, dear,” said Miss Matson the elder:
“the truth is that we were not invited; and I suppose it must have been
an oversight of her ladyship.”

“Her ladyship was quite surprised that you were not present,” returned
Miss Thompson: “she assured me that a card had been duly forwarded to
you.”

“Oh! how provoking!” cried all three Misses Matson at the same moment,
and as it were in the same breath. “The invitation must have miscarried
somehow or another. We would not have been absent for the world if we
had received the card.”

“But, my dear Miss Thompson,” continued the eldest Miss Matson, “as
you and your dear sister are so intimate with Lady Noakes, perhaps you
would just hint that the invitation did miscarry----”

“Oh! certainly,” replied the good-natured young lady thus appealed to.
“But we must say good bye now--for we promised papa not to stay out
late, and it is already near eight o’clock.”

“How is that dear good soul, Mr. Thompson?” asked Mrs. Matson. “I was
speaking of him to Captain Phinnikin and Mr. Pink just now, and saying
what great respect we all entertained for him.”

“Thank you, my dear madam--papa is quite well,” returned Miss Thompson.
“But we must really say good bye, for we expect the Greens to drop into
supper presently----”

“Delightful girls, the Miss Greens!” exclaimed Mrs. Matson; “and very
well connected, I have heard.”

“Oh! certainly--their uncle is a Member of Parliament,” responded Miss
Thompson. “But good bye.”

“Good bye,” repeated her sister; and away they went--happy, joyous,
kind-hearted, and good girls, who would not have suffered their tongues
to utter a word of scandal,--thus proving a striking contrast with the
Matson family.

“What a vulgar buoyancy of spirits the eldest Miss Thompson always
has!” exclaimed the senior of the three sisters, after a pause. “I
really can scarcely seem commonly polite to her.”

“And the youngest is just like her in that respect,” observed Julia.

“They are the rudest and worst-behaved girls in Dover, except the Miss
Greens,” added Mrs. Matson.

“Well,” said Anna-Maria, “since I have heard that the Greens are
related to a Member of Parliament, I don’t fancy them to be so vulgar
as I used to do. Oh! what a thing it would be to get acquainted with a
Member, and have him at our parties next winter! Wouldn’t the Snipsons
be in a way?”

“And the Styles’s!” added Julia.

“Yes--and the Tubleys, who are so proud of their Irish Member!”
exclaimed the eldest Miss Matson. “Oh! ma, let us make up to the
Greens and get as friendly with them as possible; so that we may be on
visiting terms with them when we go back to London--and then we shall
be introduced to their uncle, the Member.”

“By all means,” said Mrs. Matson, charmed with the suggestion. “I will
persuade your papa to allow us to give a party next week, on purpose
for the Greens.”

In the meantime Captain Phinnikin and Mr. Pink had proceeded somewhat
rapidly along the Marine Parade, until they had reached the extremity,
when they turned, and walked more slowly, so as to meet Charles
Hatfield and Perdita.

“To-morrow, at this time,” said the infatuated young man, as the syren
leant confidingly upon his arm, “we shall be far on our road to Paris:
and within three days from this moment, my beloved one, you will be
mine! Oh! I believe firmly that we were intended for each other--and
therefore happiness awaits us!”

“To be with you, Charles, is happiness indeed,” returned Perdita, with
that melting softness of tone which gave her words so exquisite a
charm, and made every chord in her lover’s heart thrill with rapture:
then, casting upon him a sweet glance which drank in his own, she said,
“I am rejoiced that we have taken this decided step--for in London, I
was so fearful that your relatives might adopt means to separate you
from me!”

“No--that could not be, dearest Perdita,” he observed: “for I am of an
age at which no parental despotism could be legally enforced; and I
have acquainted you with every thing that has already passed between
my father and myself. Were I a weak-minded boy, I should perhaps have
yielded to his threats or to my mother’s entreaties: but I have chosen
to act for myself and on my own responsibility--and I do not repent the
decision.”

“And never--never shall you repent, my beloved Charles,” murmured
Perdita, with no affectation of feeling, but under the influence of
that passionate tenderness which she in reality experienced towards the
young man. “And, oh! how delightful is it to be your companion in such
a delicious evening walk as this--by the scarcely rippling sea--and at
the hour when the sun is sinking to its ocean-bed!”

“Yes;--and while with you, my Perdita,” responded Charles, “I seem to
feel as if we two were alone together--sole witnesses of the scene! I
observe not the other loungers: I see only my Perdita--hear only her
voice!”

At this moment his fair companion, to whom he was addressing those
words of heart-felt tenderness, appeared to start violently; for his
arm to which she clung was suddenly jerked by her hand with some degree
of force. Charles instinctively raised his head, which had been bent
partially towards her ear; and glancing straight before him, he beheld
two officers staring most rudely, as he thought, at his well-beloved
and beauteous Perdita.

“What means this insolence?” he exclaimed, in a tone of irritation.

“Let us turn back, Charles--dearest Charles” murmured Perdita, in a
faint and tremulous tone; and she wheeled him round, as it were, with
extraordinary alacrity.

A load burst of laughter on the part of the officers met their ears;
and Charles, uttering an ejaculation of rage, was about to relinquish
his fair companion’s arm and rush back to demand an explanation, when
Perdita said, “In the name of heaven, molest them not--I implore you!”

And she hurried him away.

“My God! Perdita,” he said, when they were at some distance from the
spot where the officers had stopped short to gaze upon Perdita, and
where their complete recognition of her had betrayed them into an act
of rudeness which they almost immediately afterwards regretted--for
they felt that they had no right to insult the young woman by laughing
at her altered circumstances: “my God! Perdita,” said Charles,
labouring under a painful state of excitement; “what means this conduct
of those unmannerly fellows? and wherefore will you not permit me to
chastise them?”

“Would you expose me to the ridicule of all the persons assembled on
the Parade?” demanded Perdita, who had now recovered her presence
of mind--at least sufficiently to feel the necessity of immediately
allaying her lover’s excitement.

“But those officers insulted you--insulted you grossly, Perdita!”
cried Charles, who did not, however, entertain the remotest suspicion
prejudicial to the young woman, but merely felt deeply indignant at an
insolence which he could not understand, and which was so completely
unprovoked.

“They insulted _us_--they insulted _you_ as well as myself, Charles,”
answered Perdita, hastily: “it was because you were bending, as it
were, over me while you spoke--because your head was approached so
close to my ear--and because I was listening with such unconcealed
delight to your tender words! They saw that we were lovers--that we
felt as if we were alone even amidst the crowd of loungers----”

“Yes: it must have been as you say!” cried Charles, receiving Perdita’s
ingenious explanation as natural and conclusive, and now absolutely
wondering at his own stupidity in not penetrating the matter before.

“You may conceive,” resumed the artful girl, “how ashamed and
bewildered I suddenly felt, when, on raising my eyes, I saw the two
officers standing still only a dozen yards in advance, and gazing upon
us in the rudest possible manner. I instantly understood the truth:
women, dear Charles, are sometimes more sharp-sighted than your sex. It
flashed to my mind that our manner had betrayed that we were lovers;
and hence my emotions! And can you wonder, my beloved Charles, if I
hurried you away from a scene where you incurred the chance of becoming
involved in a quarrel with those fire-eaters?”

“In good truth, my Perdita,” said Hatfield, now smiling, “they seemed
to me--if I might judge by the short glimpse I had of them--to be
rather fitted for the drawing-room than to smell gunpowder.”

“Oh! that may be,” exclaimed the young woman, her voice still
continuing tremulous and her manner imploring: “nevertheless, I would
not for the world that you should fall into danger! Consider, Charles,
how dreadful would be my feelings, were I to know that you were about
to fight a duel! Oh! my blood runs cold in my veins when I think of it!
But were you to fall in such hostile meeting----Ah! my God, what would
become of your unhappy, wretched Perdita?”

“Dearest--sweetest girl!” cried the enraptured young man: “how blest am
I in the possession of such a love as thine!”

And he gazed tenderly upon her as he spoke, pressing her arm at the
same time with his own: for now her countenance was flushed with the
emotions that agitated in her bosom; and, as the rays of the setting
sun played upon her face, she seemed lovely beyond all possibility of
description.

They returned to the hotel; and, having partaken of supper, sought
their respective chambers at a somewhat early hour--for Mrs.
Fitzhardinge and Perdita complained of fatigue, and Charles knew that
the ensuing day’s travelling would prove even more wearisome still.

The reader has seen how artfully the young woman contrived to find an
explanation for the untoward and menacing event which had occurred
upon the Marine Parade. The real truth was that while Charles was
pouring words of tenderness and love into the ears of Perdita, she
suddenly raised her eyes, and was horror-struck at beholding the
countenances--too well-known countenances--of Captain Phinnikin and
Lieutenant Pink. For their regiment had been stationed at Sydney;
and those two officers had enjoyed the favours of the beautiful and
voluptuous Perdita. She saw that she was recognised; and for a moment
the chances were equal whether she should sink beneath the blow, as if
struck by a thunder-bolt--or whether she should recover her presence
of mind. The latter alternative favoured her on this occasion; and her
sophistry, her demonstrations of tenderness, and the horror which she
expressed at the idea of a duel, succeeded in completely pacifying her
lover.




CHAPTER CXLV.

A MYSTERIOUS OCCURRENCE.--THE JOURNEY CONTINUED.


Our travellers rose early in the morning; for the French mail steamer,
_Le Courier_, was to start for Calais at nine o’clock.

Breakfast over, Charles Hatfield and Perdita walked down to the pier at
twenty minutes to nine--Mrs. Fitzhardinge, who was determined to make
herself as busy and also as necessary as possible, remaining behind to
see that the baggage was safely consigned to the porter in readiness to
convey it.

The weather was delightful; and the fresh sea breeze, with its saline
flavour, seemed to waft invigorating influences upon its wing. Charles
and his beloved were in high spirits; although Perdita threw ever and
anon an anxious glance around, to assure herself that the dreaded
officers, who had caused her so much alarm on the preceding evening,
were not near to renew that terror. Every thing was satisfactory in
this respect; and never had the heart of the young woman been more
elate, than when she stepped upon the deck of the gallant steamer,
which was already puffing off its fleecy vapour with a snorting noise,
as if it were a steed impatient of delay.

Seating themselves upon a bench, Charles and Perdita were soon absorbed
in a conversation of a tender nature; and, forgetful of every thing
save the topic of their discourse, they noticed not the lapse of time
until they happened to perceive the captain standing on one of the
paddle-boxes, and heard the orders which he gave to the busy French
sailors.

These symptoms of immediate departure instantaneously aroused the
attention of Charles and Perdita to the fact that Mrs. Fitzhardinge had
not joined them.

“Where is my mother?” demanded the latter, embracing with a rapid
glance the entire range of the deck, and unable to discover the object
of her search amongst the passengers scattered about the vessel.

“Wait here one moment, dearest--and I will see,” said Charles; and he
hastened forward, thinking that perhaps the funnel might conceal the
old woman from their view.

But she was not to be found; although a glance at the piles of baggage
in the immediate vicinity of the chimney showed him his companions’
boxes, together with a portmanteau of necessaries which he had
purchased for himself on the preceding evening.

Yes: there was the baggage--but where was Mrs. Fitzhardinge?

What could have become of her?

Perhaps she had descended to the cabin.

This idea seemed probable; and Charles was about to hurry back to the
bench where he had left Perdita, when she joined him, saying, “I have
been into the cabin; and my mother is not there.”

Before Charles had time to make any reply, a porter in his white frock
approached him, and, touching his hat, said, “Please, sir, are these
your things?”--pointing to the boxes.

“Yes,” answered Hatfield: “but where is the lady who was giving you
instructions about them when we left the hotel?”

“Please, sir, she came after me as far as the beginning of the pier,”
returned the porter; “and there, as I happened to look round, I saw
her speaking to two men. I went on--looked round again, and could see
nothing more of her.”

“This is most extraordinary!” exclaimed Hatfield.

“I cannot comprehend it,” observed Perdita: then, suddenly struck by
the idea that Charles might propose to land and search after the old
woman, she added hastily, “But we need not alarm ourselves: if any
thing has happened to detain my mother a short time, she will doubtless
follow us by the next boat.”

At this moment the huge paddle-wheels began to turn--Charles hastily
tossed the porter half-a-crown--and the man leapt on the pier in
company with several others of his own calling,--while the steamer
moved away with stately steadiness of pace.

Perdita and Charles Hatfield paced the deck, arm in arm, and conversing
on the unaccountable disappearance of Mrs. Fitzhardinge. The latter
could conjecture no possible key to the mystery: nor did Perdita offer
any suggestive clue--although she thought it probable that her mother,
having lost her despotic authority, had withdrawn, in a moment of
ill-temper, from the company of those whom she could not hope to reduce
to the condition of slaves. But the young woman said to herself, “She
will soon repent of her folly and rejoin us;”--while to Charles she
expressed an uneasiness and an apprehension lest any accident should
have befallen her mother.

On sped the steamer: the harbour is cleared--and now she enters upon
the expanse of green water, over which she walks “like a thing of
life,”--the huge paddles raising a swell, which, covered with foam,
marks the pathway of the gallant vessel.

On--on she went;--and now the white cliffs of Albion diminish and grow
dim in the distance,--while, still far ahead, the coast of France, like
a long brown streak in the horizon, appears in view!

And, oh! may that green sea never waft a hostile navy from one shore
to the other;--may the peace which now subsists between the two
greatest nations in the universe, remain undisturbed! Let France and
England continue rivals,--not in the art of war,--but in the means
of developing every element of civilisation and progress. Such a
striving--such a race between the two, will be glorious indeed; and the
whole world will experience the benefit.

Shame, then, to those alarmists who are now endeavouring to spread
terror and dismay throughout the British Islands, by their calculations
of the facility with which the French may invade us, and by their
predictions of the consequences of such an invasion.

Well aware are we that were France to entertain the project, its
realization would be easy;--for with our navy dispersed over the world,
our coast-defences so few and far-between, and our totally insufficient
army, we have no means of resisting an invading force of eighty or a
hundred thousand men so admirably disciplined as the soldiers of France.

But neither Louis-Philippe nor his Government entertains the remotest
idea of disturbing the peace of the world;--and it is madness--it in
wickedness on the part of the public journals and of pamphleteers to
write for the very purpose of creating an impression that an invasion
by the French is imminent.

A terrible panic has been raised throughout the length and breadth
of the land;--and with sorrow do we record the fact that the DUKE OF
WELLINGTON has placed himself at the head of the alarmists!

To consummate the folly, all that is now required is--what?

_To give Prince Albert the command of the Army!_

----Or rather, O Englishmen! does not the apprehension of danger from
an invasion by a foreign power lay bare, in all its nakedness, the
monstrous folly--the astounding absurdity of suddenly elevating that
young and inexperienced man to the rank of a Field-Marshal?

A Field-Marshal, who has never smelt powder save in the heartless,
inhuman cruelty of a _battue_ of game,--and who has never in his life
seen a shot fired in anger!

England does not require such a Drawing-Room Field-Marshal: she wants a
Captain-General who, if need be, can compete with such a man as Bugeaud.

But where will Royal Folly stop?--and when will any statesman have the
courage to resist the childish caprices of the Queen?

In the same newspapers which are constantly telling us that the French
meditate an invasion--that if the Cuirassiers enter London on the east,
the best thing the Horse-Guards can do, will be to march out on the
west--that the conquerors will be sure to levy contributions upon us,
demand the settlement of old scores, strip us of our colonies, and
humiliate us in every way,--in the very same journals which tell us all
this, we read that _the Queen it anxious for Prince Albert to become
Commander-in-Chief, the Duke of Wellington retiring to make room for
him_!

Merciful heavens! is such a monstrous absurdity to be consummated?
Is that grey-headed veteran, who won the field of Waterloo, to be
superseded by a mere boy? Much as we have disliked the Duke of
Wellington as a politician, yet we have felt proud of him as our
national hero;--and no words can convey an idea of the disgust with
which we perused the paragraph intimating that this mighty warrior was
to be put upon the shelf, to make way for a Prince who knows no more of
military matters than he does of the hieroglyphics on the Pyramids of
Egypt.

If the Duke be desirous of withdrawing into private life, let him be
succeeded by some great Captain who knows what hard blows in the field
are--let his place be supplied by one of his own companions-in-arms.

Have we none of the heroes of the Peninsular battles still alive?--have
we no names rendered glorious by victories achieved on the banks of the
Sutlej?

It would be an insult the most glaring--the most flagrant, to all the
illustrious chieftains alluded to, were a young man who never saw an
angry shot fired, to be placed in authority over their heads! Already
have the great warriors of England been sufficiently humiliated by
the elevation of that young man to the rank of Field-Marshal:--but
really if the English Court be allowed to “play at soldiers” in this
disgraceful manner, it is no wonder that such men as the Duke of
Wellington should look with apprehension at the consequences of a
French invasion.

Prince Albert may be very resolute and very determined in worrying a
poor otter with his dogs,--or he may be desperately brave in firing
vollies of small shot upon harmless birds: but as for his capacity or
his courage to lead an army----the idea is ridiculous!

The English people have not gone stark, staring mad--even if some
few of their rulers have: and most sincerely do we hope that, if the
attempt to raise Prince Albert to the post of Commander-in-Chief
be persisted in, the country will oppose it by all moral and legal
means,--by memorial, petition, and remonstrance,--by public meetings
and the omnipotent voice of the public press,--in fine, by an universal
agitation such as that which knocked down the Corn-Laws!

_For the consummation of so astounding an absurdity will prove the ruin
of the British Army!_

Surely it is not in civilised England, and in the middle of the
nineteenth century, that Royalty is to play its fantastic tricks, and
use all our grandest institutions as playthings? If so, we shall have
the Prince of Wales created on Admiral very shortly, and Dr. Howley may
resign the Archbishopric of Canterbury to little Prince Ernest Alfred.
And why not? Such appointments would be quite as rational as that of
Prince Albert to the post of Commander-in-Chief.

Let not our readers suppose that we seek to bring Princes into
ridicule: they have a right to be Princes, if the people are foolish
enough to let them; but when they make themselves ridiculous by
grasping at offices for which they are totally unfitted, it is time for
us to speak out.

We are inspired by no awe and entertain no solemn terror in dealing
with Royalty: for, after all, royal persons are only human creatures,
as well as we--and they seldom possess the good feelings and sterling
qualities which are to be found in honest, hard-working, enlightened
mechanics.

       *       *       *       *       *

After a most agreeable voyage of two hours and a half, the French
steam-packet entered Calais harbour.

Charles and Perdita proceeded to Dessin’s Hotel; and there they
determined to wait at least a few hours until the arrival of an English
steamer which was to leave Dover about a couple of hours later than
_Le Courier_.

During this interval Charles bethought himself that, should Mrs.
Fitzhardinge not join them in the course of the day, Perdita and
himself would be compelled to continue their journey to Paris; and,
with a due sense of delicacy towards her who was to become his
wife, he saw the impropriety of their travelling alone together. He
accordingly intimated to Perdita the necessity of procuring for her a
lady’s-maid without delay; and though she would have much preferred
that herself and lover should be the sole occupants of the interior of
the post-chaise, she nevertheless comprehended that the expression of
such a wish on her part would give him but a poor idea of her modesty.
She therefore assented to his proposal with apparent cheerfulness, and
thanked him for his kind consideration.

By the agency of Madame Dessin, the landlady of the hotel, a French
lady’s-maid, who understood English, was speedily obtained and engaged;
and Perdita was now by no means displeased to find herself elevated to
the position of a woman of some consequence. She, who but a short time
before had entered London in a butcher’s cart and clad in the meanest
apparel, was now provided with a special attendant and could choose
dresses of the latest fashion and the costliest material.

The lady’s-maid was a pretty young woman of about three and twenty,
with fine hair and eyes, good teeth, and a beautiful figure; and
her attire was of the most tasteful, though quiet and unassuming,
description. Her manners were very agreeable, and would be termed
lady-like in this country: but, beneath a modest and innocent-looking
exterior, she concealed a disposition for intrigue and no small amount
of subtlety. At the same time, Rosalie--for that was her name--would
not for the world seek to lead a virtuous mistress astray; and to such
virtuous mistress she would doubtless prove an excellent, faithful, and
trust-worthy servant. But should she have to deal with a mistress given
to gallantry, then Rosalie would cheerfully exercise all her arts of
duplicity--all her little cunning machinations--and all her aptitude
for the management of an intrigue, and would take delight in enabling
her lady to deceive a husband or a lover.

Such was the young person who now became Perdita’s attendant: but it
must be observed that the character of Rosalie, as far as it was known
to the landlady of the hotel, was unimpeachable:--that is to say, she
bore the reputation of honesty, cleanliness, a perfect knowledge of her
duties--in fine, all those qualifications which are sought and required
in an upper servant of her description.

Having waited until the arrival of the English packet, and finding
that Mrs. Fitzhardinge did not make her appearance, Charles, to whom
her absence was unaccountable and bewildering to a degree, ordered
the post-chaise to be got ready; and, while this was being done, he
proceeded with Perdita to the British Consul’s to obtain passports.
Finally, at about five o’clock in the afternoon, our travellers took
their departure from Dessin’s Hotel in a chaise and four--Rosalie
occupying a seat inside, for the sake of appearances.

Oh! had Charles Hatfield known that the young woman--his intended
bride--for whose reputation he manifested so much delicate care,--had
he known that she was so thoroughly polluted in body and mind,--could
he have heard the history which the two officers at Dover might
have told of her, had they chosen--he would have been shocked and
horrified,--he would have spurned her from him--and all his ardent,
enthusiastic love, amounting to an adoration and a worship, would have
changed into feelings of abhorrence, loathing, and hate.

But he believed her to be pure and virtuous,--possessing some strange,
wayward, and eccentric notions, it is true,--and yet endowed with a
spirit so plastic and ductile as to yield willingly to good counsel and
to be ready to sacrifice any peculiarity of opinion to the man whom she
loved.

It is likewise true that he remembered how she had permitted him,
in moments of impassioned tenderness, to toy with her--to press her
glowing bosom--to glue his lips to hers, as if she herself would
on those occasions accord even more: but he likewise recollected
how invariably she started from his arms--withdrew herself from his
embrace--and manifested a suddenly resuscitated presence of mind, when
he had grown too bold and, maddened with desire, had sought the last
favour which a woman, in amorous dalliance, can bestow. He therefore
reasoned that, although her naturally warm temperament had led her
to bestow upon him such unequivocal proofs of her love, yet that a
virgin pride and a maiden’s prudence had enabled her in every instance
to triumph over temptation;--and this belief enhanced his profound
admiration of her character.

But from the moment that Charles had first beheld Perdita, his brain
had been in an incessant state of excitement,--an intoxication, an
elysian delirium which made Perdita on angel of beauty and almost of
excellence in his eyes:--and those fervent caresses which he had been
permitted to bestow upon her, and those slight foretastes of the most
voluptuous enjoyments which he had been allowed to snatch, had only
tended to sustain that excitement--increase the dreamy delights of that
intoxication--and enhance the bliss of that continuous delirium.

Then, in addition to the fascinating influence of the syren--in
addition to the enthralling witchery which her charms, her arts, her
conversation, and the silver sounds of her dulcet voice exercised over
him,--were his ambitious hopes, his soaring aspirations!

All these circumstances had combined to unsettle, if not altogether
change, in an incredibly short space, a disposition naturally good--a
mind naturally energetic and powerful: and then those unhappy scenes
with his father, when neither fully understood the meaning and drift of
the other’s observations, had aided to produce an excitement which was
thus hurrying the young man along apparently to his utter ruin!

Unless, indeed, some good angel should yet intervene, ere it be too
late----

But we must not anticipate.

On the contrary, let us return, from this partial though not
unnecessary digression, to the thread of our narrative,--so that
we may all the sooner be enabled to bring our readers back to that
metropolis--that mighty London, of which we have still so many
Mysteries to unfold!

The travellers pursued their journey all night, Charles being anxious
to reach the French capital with the least possible delay, and Perdita
seconding him fully in the wish.

Let us therefore succinctly state that in the morning they breakfasted
at Amiens--in the afternoon they dined at Beauvais--and at ten o’clock
in the evening they entered the splendid city of Paris.

Did our limits and the nature of the tale permit us, we would here
gladly pause for a few minutes to describe that peerless capital which
we know and love so well: but this may not be;--and we therefore hasten
to state that Charles and Perdita, attended by Rosalie, proceeded
to a respectable family hotel, where they hired a handsome suite of
apartments.

And now for an important event in this section of our narrative,--an
event which nevertheless may be related in a few words!

For, at eleven o’clock on the morning following their arrival in
Paris, _Charles Hatfield, claiming to be Viscount Marston, and Perdita
Fitzhardinge were united in the bonds of matrimony, at the British
Ambassador’s Chapel in the Rue Saint Honoré, and by the Chaplain to the
Embassy_.




CHAPTER CXLVI.

TWO UNPLEASANT LODGERS.


In the meantime certain little incidents had occurred in London, which
we must faithfully chronicle before we proceed with the adventures
of the newly married couple,--adventures, which, could Charles have
possibly foreseen----

But we were for a moment oblivious of the scenes that require our
attention in London, and which took place while Charles Hatfield and
Perdita were as yet on their way to Paris.

Charterhouse Square--situate between Aldersgate Street and St. John
Street (Smithfield)--has a mournful, gloomy, and sombre appearance,
which even the green foliage in the circular enclosure cannot
materially relieve. The houses are for the most part of antiquated
structure and dingy hue--the windows and front-doors are small--and,
pass by them when you will, you never behold a human countenance at any
one of the casements. The curtains and the blinds,--and, in the winter
time, glimpses of the fires burning in the parlours,--these are, to a
certain extent, symptoms that the houses are tenanted: but no farther
signs of the fact can be discovered. Often and often as we have passed
through that Square, we never beheld a soul coming out of, nor going
into, any one of the gloomy abodes: we have observed a baker’s boy
and a butcher’s ditto hurrying rapidly round--but never could satisfy
ourselves that either of them had any particular business there,
for they did not knock at a single door;--and on one--and only one
occasion--when we met a two-penny post-man in the Square, he seemed to
be as much astonished at finding himself in that quarter as we were to
encounter him there. As for the beadle--his occupation seems to consist
of lounging about, switching a cane, strolling into the Fox and Anchor
public-house, and chatting for half-an-hour at a time with the very
sober-looking porter of the Charter House.

There is a something really solemn and awful in the silence of that
Square,--not a silence and a repose which seem to afford relief to the
mind and rest to the ear after escaping from the tremendous din of
the crowded streets,--but a silence that strikes like a chill to the
heart. Whence arises this sensation?--is it because, while traversing
the Square, we are reminded that in the vast cloistral building to the
north are pent up eighty old men--the Poor Brothers of the Charter
House,--eighty denizens of a Protestant Monastery in the very heart
of civilised London,--eighty worn-out and decrepid persons who drag
out the wretched remnant of their lives beneath the iron sway of a
crushing ecclesiastical discipline! Does the silence of the Square
borrow its solemnity from that far more awful silence which reigns
within the Charter House itself,--a silence so awe-inspiring--so
dead--so tomb-like, that even in the noon of a hot summer-day, the
visitor shudders with a cold feeling creeping over him as he crosses
the cloistral enclosure!

The reader will probably remember that, when Mr. Bubbleton Styles
had propounded his grand Railway scheme to Captain O’Blunderbuss and
Mr. Frank Curtis, he gave each of those gentlemen a ten-pound note,
desiring them to take respectable lodgings, and refer, if necessary,
to him. We know not precisely how it happened that the gallant officer
and his friend should have selected Charterhouse Square as the place
most likely to suit them with regard to apartments; but thither they
assuredly did repair--and in that gloomy quarter did they hire three
rooms: namely, a parlour on the first floor, and two bed-chambers on
the second. The landlady of the house was a widow; and, having some
small pittance in the shape of regular income, eked out by letting
a portion of her abode. She was an elderly woman--tall, starch,
and prim--and very particular in obtaining good references--or, at
least, what she considered to be good ones--respecting any applicants
for her apartments; and therefore, previously to admitting Captain
O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis into her house, she had sought all
possible information concerning them at the hands of Mr. Styles. His
account was satisfactory, and the two gentlemen were thereupon duly
installed in their lodgings at Mrs. Rudd’s, Charterhouse Square.

The first two or three days passed comfortably enough, because the
captain and Frank, having ready money in their pockets, took their
dinner and supper--aye, and their grog too--at some convenient
tavern,--troubling Mrs. Rudd only in reference to their breakfast,
which she cheerfully prepared for them, because she thereby obtained
whole and sole controul over their groceries. She was a very pious
woman, and attended a Methodist Chapel regularly every Sunday; but
being, as she often expressed herself, “a lone widow,” she thought
there was no harm in using her lodgers’ tea, sugar, and butter for her
own repasts. “Heaven was very good to her,” she would often tell her
neighbours, “and enabled her to make the most of her little means:” she
might have added--“and of her lodgers’ also.”

The captain and Frank, however, soon began to find that their evening
entertainments at the tavern were very expensive; and, as they could
not again draw upon Mr. Styles for some time--all his resources being
required for the promotion of the railway--they resolved to economise.
The best method of carrying this object into effect, was to take their
dinner, supper, and poteen at home; and Mrs. Rudd, on being sounded
in respect to the plan, willingly assented--for the excellent woman
felt assured that her lodgers would not miss a slice or two off a cold
joint any more than they noticed the marvellous disappearance of their
groceries. So the captain and his friend became more domestic; and as
Frank did not get particularly drunk on the two first evenings, Mrs.
Rudd had no complaints to make.

But at last she began to suspect that she had some ground for doubting
the steadiness of her lodgers. It was on a Sunday evening, and the
worthy woman had just returned from chapel, where she had heard a most
refreshing and savoury discourse by the Reverend Mr. Flummery,--when,
on crossing the threshold of the house door, and while still ruminating
on the truly Christian manner in which the eloquent minister had
promised hell-flames to all heathens,--she was suddenly startled by
hearing a terrific noise proceeding from up-stairs.

She paused--and listened!

Yes: the sound _did_ emanate from above; and most strange sounds
they were, too. Deeply disgusted--nay, profoundly shocked at this
desecration of the Sabbath, Mrs. Rudd crept up stairs; and the nearer
she drew to the parlour-door, the more convinced did she become that
Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Curtis were fighting a single combat
with the shovel and poker. The conflict was, however, only in fun:
for the clash of the fire-irons was accompanied by tremendous shouts
of laughter, and such ejaculations as these:--“There, be Jasus! I
have ye again, Frank! Blood and thunther, keep up your guar-r-d, man!
Now, would ye be afther a feint? Be the powers! and ye can’t touch
me at all, at all! Hit hard, me friend--niver mind the damned ould
poker-r-r--the ould woman is at chapel!”

Mrs. Rudd was astounded--stupefied. Was it possible that these were
the lodgers whom Mr. Styles--a respectable “City man”--had recommended
as the very patterns of quietness and steadiness? Why, if she had let
her rooms to two Bedlamites, things could not have been worse! She was
positively afraid to go in to remonstrate; and, having recovered the
use of those limbs which wonder had for several minutes paralysed, she
hurried down stairs to consider what was best to be done, while supping
off her racketty lodgers’ cold joint.

That same night Frank Curtis got so gloriously inebriated, that
he threw up his bed-room window and treated the whole Square to a
specimen of his vocal powers--singing some favourite Bacchanalian
song, and introducing the most terrific yells by way of variations.
The captain, who had also imbibed a little too much, soon after threw
up _his_ window, and exerted all the powers of _his_ lungs in chorus
with his friend; so that the deep, solemn, and awe-inspiring silence
of Charterhouse Square was broken in a fashion that seemed to surprise
the very echoes themselves. Without any figure of speech, it is
certain that the inhabitants were surprised; for their night, usually
passed in such death-like tranquillity, was unexpectedly and suddenly
“made hideous;” and several nervous old ladies, dwelling in the
neighbourhood, fancied that the frightful yells were warnings of fire,
and went off into strong hysterics.

Vainly did Mrs. Rudd knock first at the captain’s door--then at
Frank’s: they heard her not--or, if they did, took no heed of her
remonstrances;--and when the beadle, who had been aroused from his bed,
came and thundered at the front-door, the two lodgers simultaneously
emptied their water-pitchers on his head. Then, satisfied with this
exploit, they closed their windows and retired to rest.

When they descended to their parlour to breakfast in the morning, Mrs.
Rudd acquainted them, in a tone evincing the most violent concentration
of rage, that she could not possibly think of harbouring Captain
O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Curtis any longer. But, to her amazement, they
both swore that they were perfectly innocent of the disturbance of the
previous night,--alleging that they themselves were as much annoyed by
the row as the landlady herself. Mrs. Rudd could scarcely believe her
ears: had she been dreaming? No: the noise had really taken place--for
her lodgers admitted that they had heard it--though, to use a common
phrase, they swore “eyes and limbs” that they had not made it. However,
she gave them a week’s warning, and then calmly reminded them that a
week’s rent was already due; whereupon Captain O’Blunderbuss flew into
a terrific rage at the idea of “the maneness of the woman in spaking of
such a thrifle!” Mrs. Rudd was frightened, and turned in an appealing
manner to Mr. Frank Curtis, who declared point blank that the captain
was cashier, and that she must draw upon him: but, finding that the
gallant officer was a cashier without cash, Mrs. Rudd was compelled
to retire--muttering something about her being “a lone widow,” and
intimating a hope that the two weeks’ rent would be paid “all in a
lump” on the following Monday morning.

The captain and Mr. Curtis now completely threw off the mask. They
no longer affected even to be “steady, quiet men of regular habits,”
as Mr. Styles had represented them; but they drank poteen “till all
was blue,” as Frank Curtis said--or, in the language of the gallant
officer, “till they couldn’t see a hole through a lath-er.” The
disturbances they created at night were hideous; and poor Mrs. Rudd
received from all her neighbours the most positive threats that they
would indict her house as a nuisance. At last, in the depth of her
despair, she had recourse to that excellent man, the Reverend Mr.
Flummery; and the Reverend Mr. Flummery, having heard her sad tale,
undertook to go in person and remonstrate with “these men of Belial.”

Accordingly, one afternoon, just as the captain and Frank had finished
a couple of bottles of stout by way of giving themselves an appetite
for dinner, they were somewhat surprised when the parlour-door was
thrown open, and in walked a short, podgy, red-faced man, dressed in
deep black. Still more amazed were they when he announced himself
as the Reverend Emanuel Flummery, and stated that he had come to
remonstrate with them on their behaviour towards “a lone widow.” The
captain, winking at Curtis, desired the minister to be seated, and
proposed to discuss the business over another bottle of stout. His
reverence thought there was something so affable in the offer, that it
would be churlish to refuse it; and he accordingly gave his assent. The
stout was produced; and Mr. Flummery, being thirsty and hot, enjoyed it
excessively.

He then began a long remonstrance with the two gentlemen--the gist of
which was that Mrs. Rudd would be very much obliged to them if they
would pay their rent and remove to other lodgings. The captain and
Frank pretended to listen with attention; and the reverend minister,
finding them in such a tractable humour, as he supposed, did not choose
to mar the harmony of the interview by declining a second bottle of
stout. Talking had renewed his thirst--and, moreover, if there were one
special beverage which the Reverend Emanuel Flummery loved more than
another, it was Guinness’s stout. Accordingly, he emptied his tumbler,
and then continued his remonstrance and his representations, in which,
however he was cut short by a sudden pain in the stomach--doubtless
produced by the effervescent malt liquor. The captain was prompt with
a remedy; and Mr. Flummery had swallowed a good dram of whiskey
before an eye could twinkle thrice. Thus cheered, and finding the
two gentlemen most docile and respectful, his reverence consented
to partake of a hot glass of toddy with them, just to convince them
that he was inclined to be friendly;--and this one glass led to a
second--and then Frank Curtis cunningly brewed him a third, while the
reverend minister was expatiating upon the good qualities of Mrs. Rudd.
In fine, Mr. Emanuel Flummery became so much disguised in liquor,
that, when he took his leave, he swore the captain and Frank Curtis
were two excellent gentlemen--begged them not to put themselves to any
inconvenience in moving--and assured them that he would make it all
right with the landlady.

[Illustration]

Mrs. Rudd, however, was mightily shocked when she beheld the condition
in which the reverend gentleman presented himself at her own
parlour-door; and she could indeed scarcely believe her eyes. But when,
after hiccupping out some unintelligible words, that self-same reverend
gentleman--the pastor of an admiring flock, and whose sermons were so
refreshing and so savoury,--when _he_,--the individual whom she had
looked upon as the essence of human perfection,--when _he_, we say,
cast his arms around her neck and administered to her somewhat wrinkled
cheeks a hearty smack,--_then_, what did she do? Why--she put up with
the affront--doubtless to save the reputation of the minister;--and,
perhaps with the same charitable desire to avoid the scandal of an
exposure, she permitted him to repeat his caresses as often as he chose
during the half-hour that he remained in her company. She even made
him some tea, which materially tended to sober him; and, when he had
at length taken his departure, she muttered several times to herself,
“Well--after all, this saint of a man is mere flesh and blood like any
other!”

But when Mrs. Rudd’s more pleasurable reflections had ceased,--for
pleasurable they certainly were, both during the reverend gentleman’s
presence and for a short time after the door had closed behind
him,--she remembered that her disagreeable lodgers were, still in
the house, notwithstanding the remonstrances which, according to
his statement to the widow, the pious minister had most eloquently
addressed to them. And that they _were_ still in the dwelling, she
was very soon made to understand;--for the obstreperous behaviour of
those “dreadful men,” to use Mrs. Rudd’s own words, recommenced in
the form of the most hearty peals of laughter--and the clashing of the
fire-irons--and the stamping of feet, as if the two gentlemen were mad.

“They have begun their booze,” said Mrs. Rudd to herself, looking
up in despair at the ceiling, as if she thought the captain and his
friend must inevitably come through upon her devoted head. “But
never mind!” she suddenly exclaimed aloud, as a thought--a very
bright thought struck her: “I will put up with it for this once--and
to-morrow--to-morrow----”

Here Mrs. Rudd stopped short; for she would not even trust the empty
air with the lucid idea which had struck her.

We may however inform our readers that this said idea was nothing more
nor less than to lock out the two gentlemen when they went for their
usual walk on the morrow.

Tranquillized by the excellence of the scheme, Mrs. Rudd refreshed
herself with a small drop of brandy, and then spread her huge Bible
open on the table before her--not to read it, but merely because “it
looked pious-like,” as she thought, if any of her neighbours should
happen to drop in. For Mrs. Rudd delighted in the reputation for
sanctity which she enjoyed amongst her acquaintances in general, and
the frequenters of the reverend gentleman’s chapel in particular.

Let us now return to Mr. Frank Curtis and Captain O’Blunderbuss, who,
as the landlady rightly concluded, were enjoying themselves in their
own peculiar fashion up-stairs.

Having partaken of a cold joint, and the slip-shod girl of the house
having provided them with a jug of hot water, the two gentlemen
commenced the evening’s orgie. The whiskey-punch which they brewed was
of that kind which is libellously alleged to be peculiarly affected
by ladies--namely, “hot, strong, and plenty of it;”--and, under its
influence, they soon manifested their wonted exuberance of spirits.
First, Captain O’Blunderbuss would insist upon giving Frank a lesson
with the broad-sword--the one using the poker, and the other the
shovel;--and every time the gallant officer thrust his friend in the
ribs, a hearty shout of laughter burst from their lips--for they
considered it prime fun.

When they were tired of this amusement, they resumed their
seats--replenished their glasses--and chatted on divers matters
interesting to themselves. Presently Frank started up, and leapt over
a chair in order to show his agility, although he had grown somewhat
stout of late years;--and as he acquitted himself in a clumsy manner,
the captain volunteered to teach him how to do it. But the gallant
officer only tumbled over the chair, causing a tremendous split in his
trousers--an accident at which they nevertheless both laughed more
heartily than ever.

“Be Jasus!” cried the captain, “and it’s the only pair of
unmintionables that I possess! But niver mind: I’ll be afther telling
the gal to take them round to the tailor’s the first thing in the
morning; and so I’ll take my breakfast in bed, Frank. They’ll soon be
sent home again.”

“Let’s see? we’ve got to meet Styles to-morrow at three in the
afternoon,” said Curtis; “and, by Jove! we must make him come down with
the dust.”

“Be the power-rs! and you’re right, my frind!” exclaimed the captain.
“It’s eighteen-pince that’s left in my pocket at this prisint
spaking----”

“And nothing at all in mine,” interrupted Frank, both his hands diving
at the same time down into the depths of the empty conveniences alluded
to. “Deuce take this railway affair! It gets on precious slow. I
remember when I was in Paris two or three-and-twenty years ago, they
were making a new path-way through my friend the Archbishop’s estate at
Fontainbleau; and if his Grace didn’t go and swear at the men all day
long, they never would have got on with it.”

“Be the power-rs! if it’s a thrifle of swearing that would make Misther
Styles push a-head,” said the gallant officer, “I’m the boy to help him
on with that same.”

“You see there’s been what they call a tightness in the Money-Market
lately,” observed Frank: “at least, that’s what Styles told me the
other day----”

“And it’s an infer-r-rnal tightness that’s got hould of _our_
Money-Market, my frind,” interrupted the captain. “Be Jasus! there’s
the potheen bottle empty--and no tick at the public!”

“You’ve got eighteen-pence in your pocket, captain,” suggested Curtis.

“Right, me boy!”--and he rang the bell furiously.

The slip-shod girl answered the summons, and was forthwith despatched
for a supply of whiskey at the wine-vaults which the lodgers honoured
with their custom.

“Now we’re altogether aground,” said Curtis, after a pause which had
followed the departure of the servant. “But we’ve every thing necessary
in the house for to-morrow morning’s breakfast, except the milk----”

“And bar-r-ring my breeches, ye spalpeen!” cried the captain. “They
must be immediately menthed, any how.”

“Oh! the tailor won’t think of asking for the money when he brings
them home,” said Curtis: then, beholding the comical expression of
his friend’s countenance, which was elongated with sore misgivings
respecting the amount of confidence the snip might choose to put in his
honour, Frank burst out into a tremendous fit of laughter.

“Arrah! and be Jasus! and it’s all mighty fine for you, Misther Curtis,
to make a damned fool of yourself in that fashion,” exclaimed Captain
O’Blunderbuss, becoming as red as a turkey-cock: “but I can assure ye
that it’s no joking matther for me to contimplate the prospict of lying
in bed for a week or two till I get my breeches back again. And now, if
you’re not afther houlding your tongue, Frank, I’ll tip ye a small rap
on the head with the poker--by the howly poker-r, I will!”

“Don’t get into a rage, captain,” said Curtis, putting a bridle upon
his mirth in consequence of the threat just held out--a threat which he
knew his amiable friend was perfectly capable of putting into force. “I
will go out the first thing in the morning and see Styles--and I have
no doubt he will give me some money. I shall be back again by the time
the tailor comes home with--with----”

“The unmintionables!” vociferated the captain, his wrath reviving as
he saw that his friend was once more on the point of giving vent to
a hearty cachinnation. “But here’s the gal coming up stairs with the
potheen; and so we’ll be afther enjoying ourselves for the prisint, and
think of the tightness of the Money-Mar-r-rket in the morning.”

“Well, what the deuce has made you so long?” demanded Frank Curtis, as
the slip-shod domestic entered the room.

“Long, sir!” echoed the girl, as if in surprise. “Lor, sir--I ain’t
been a minit!”

“Not a minute!” cried Frank, who always bullied servants--when they
weren’t footmen who could knock him down for his impudence: “I tell
you, you’ve been more than a quarter of an hour.”

“Well, sir--and if so be I have,” said the girl, suddenly recollecting
something which had occurred to hinder her on her errand, “it was
because as I went out of the street-door a man come up and asked me if
so be as Mr. Smith lived here. ‘_No_,’ says I: ‘_he don’t.’--‘Well,
then_,’ says the man, ‘_Mr. Brown does.’--‘No, he don’t, though_,’ I
says, says I; ‘_nor yet Mr. Jones, nor Mr. Noakes neether.’--‘Well, who
does live here, then?_’ says the man; and as I thought it would teach
him not to be so precious knowing another time, I out and told him slap
as how two gentlemen lived here as was named Blunderbuss--leastways,
O’Blunderbuss, and Curtis.”

“The devil you did!” ejaculated the two lodgers as it were in the same
breath, and exchanging significant glances which expressed the same
apprehension.

“To be sure I did, sir,” responded the girl, not perceiving the alarm
which she had created in the minds of the gentlemen, but rather
attributing their excited ejaculations to an approval of her conduct:
“for I thinks to myself, thinks I, ‘_Now, my fine feller, you’ll
believe that there’s no Smiths or Browns here; and you won’t be quite
so positive another time._’”

“Well--and what did the man say?” demanded Frank Curtis, darting
another uneasy glance at his friend.

“He only said ‘_Oh!_’ and went away,” returned the girl; “and that’s
what kept me a little in going----”

“What sort of a looking fellow was he?” asked Curtis.

“He warn’t a gentleman, sir--and he smelt horrible of drink,” said the
domestic.

“But what should you take him for?” demanded Frank, impatiently.

“A thief, sir,” was the ingenuous response.

“Be Jasus! and thin it’s a shiriff’s----” ejaculated Captain
O’Blunderbuss, starting in his chair: but, instantly stopping short
ere he completed the sentence, he added in a few moments and in a less
excited tone, “You may go down stairs, my dear; and if any one comes
and asks for Misther Frank Cur-r-tis or Captain O’Bluntherbuss, ye must
deny us, mind--or I’ll be afther skinning ye alive!”

“Lor, sir!” cried the girl; and, horrified by the dreadful threat, she
hastened from the room as if the individual who had uttered the menace
were preparing to carry it into execution.

For some few minutes after she had taken her departure, Captain
O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Curtis sate eyeing each other in silence,--the
same idea evidently occupying both--and both fearful to express it; as
if to give utterance to the thought were positively to meet the dreaded
misfortune half-way.

“Well,” exclaimed Curtis, at length, “and what do you think of that?”

“Be Jasus! and it’s what do _you_ think of it?” cried the captain.

“For my part I think it’s Rumrigg and Kaysay the lawyers, who’ve found
out where we are, and mean to take us on that cursed cognovit we gave
them last Christmas for the discounter’s affair,” said Mr. Curtis,
who, having now fully expressed his fears, no longer hesitated to look
particularly blank upon the matter.

“Faith! and that same’s my opinion also,” exclaimed the gallant
officer; then, grasping the poker very tight in his hand, he said,
“But if the thunthering villains of shiriff’s-officers crape into this
house, it’s myself that’ll sind ’em out again with a flay in their ear.
So don’t make yourself unhappy at all, at all, my frind; but let’s
dhrink bad luck to the bastes of the airth!”

“With all my heart,” cried Frank, brewing for himself a strong glass of
toddy. “The only thing is----”

“Is what?” demanded the captain, suddenly desisting from his occupation
of mixing a tumbler of grog for himself, and fixing his eyes sternly
upon his friend.

“The breeches,” was the laconic answer.

“Ah! now--and can’t ye be asy about those same unmintionables?” cried
the gallant officer. “I suspicted it was afther them ye was harping
again and again. It’ll become a sore subject in time, Frank. So
dhrink--and bad luck to the inexprissibles.”

And the two gentlemen did drink, until the bottle was empty, when
they retired to rest--the captain having previously informed the
servant-girl that he should leave his trousers outside his chamber
door, and that she must take them round to the tailor the very first
thing in the morning, with instructions for him to mend and return them
as speedily as possible.




CHAPTER CXLVII.

THE CAPTAIN’S LUDICROUS ADVENTURE.


Mr. Curtis arose at a very early hour--at least for him,--it being only
eight o’clock when he sallied forth with the intention of seeking Mr.
Bubbleton Styles, on whose purse he contemplated as deep an inroad as
that gentleman’s circumstances would permit.

But before he quitted the house, he partook of breakfast, and
likewise carried in some tea and toast to his friend the captain,
who was compelled, “under painful circumstances,” as Frank observed,
to keep his bed for an hour or two. The gallant officer charged his
companion and ally to return without delay--the prudence of shifting
their quarters as soon as convenient, being strongly suggested by the
enquiries instituted regarding them on the preceding evening.

Having disposed of his breakfast. Captain O’Blunderbuss turned himself
round in his bed and took a nap--in which luxurious state of light and
dreamy repose he remained for upwards of an hour, when he was suddenly
awakened by a low, sneaking, suspicious kind of double knock at the
street-door.

He started up in bed; and, as he hastily collected his scattered ideas,
the affair of Rumrigg and Kaysay flashed to his mind.

Leaping from his couch as a chesnut bounces from a shovel on the fire,
Captain O’Blunderbuss pulled on his stockings, thrust his feet into his
slippers, and stole out upon the landing, where he held his breath and
listened attentively.

At that very instant the servant-girl, who invariably kept people
waiting at the door as long as possible, answered the summons; and the
captain overheard the following colloquy.

“Is the genelmen at home, my dear?” asked a rough, harsh, grating voice.

“Oh! you’re the one that stopped and spoke to me last evening,”
responded the girl.

“Just so: but it was o’ny to make a few civil enquiries consarning your
missus’s lodgers. I ’spose they’re at home; and so me and my friend
will just walk up, my dear--‘cause our business is partickler.”

“Well, then, it ain’t of no use to go up now,” said the servant-girl:
“for Mr. Curtis has gone out, and the captain isn’t out of
bed--leastways, he hasn’t left his room yet; and he brekfusted there.”

“Never mind, my dear,” persisted the man with the hoarse voice: “we’ll
just walk up and pay our respeks to the captain, who is a wery nice
genelman no doubt.”

From this conversation the gallant officer learnt that there were _two_
persons enquiring for him, although _one_ only appeared to speak in
the matter. His worst suspicions were confirmed: they were bailiffs,
come to arrest him on the cognovit given jointly by himself and his
inseparable friend Mr. Francis Curtis to those astute gentlemen,
Messrs. Rumrigg and Kaysay.

What was to be done? He must dress himself in all possible haste, and
fight his way desperately out of the house!

This was his first idea.

But it was so easy to think of dressing--and so difficult to carry the
scheme into execution: for, alas! the gallant officer’s unmentionables
were at the tailor’s; and he knew that Frank possessed not a second
pair!

What, then, was to be done?

Should he surrender himself into the hands of the officers, and be
borne ignominiously to Whitecross Street? The thought was ridiculous
with such a man as Captain O’Blunderbuss!

Locking his own door, and taking the key with him, he scud up to
the top storey, and sought refuge in the bed-chamber of Mrs. Rudd,
who, he felt assured, had gone out to market as usual--otherwise she
would have been certain to emerge from her parlour below and join in
the conversation which had taken place between the bailiffs and the
servant-girl.

The captain’s first thought, in thus flying to his landlady’s
bed-chamber, was merely to seek refuge there, and leave the officers to
suppose that he had gone out. It struck him that they would knock at
his door--would force open that door on not receiving any answer--and
would then conclude that he really was not at home. In the meantime
he should have leisure to decide upon the best means of ultimately
avoiding the bailiffs altogether.

But scarcely had he entered Mrs. Rudd’s room when a new and truly
magnificent idea suggested itself--or rather, was suggested by the fact
that an open cupboard revealed the worthy landlady’s best silk gown,
while upon a chest of drawers stood the good woman’s Sunday bonnet, to
which she had been putting a new ribband that very morning before she
went out. The bonnet, which was of fine straw and of a large shape, was
provided with an ample blue gauze veil; for Mrs. Rudd liked to be smart
on the Sabbath--if it were only to compete with her female neighbours
who attended the “ministry” of the Reverend Emanuel Flummery.

The appearance of the two articles of dress just specified, determined
the gallant officer how to act; and his arrangements were made with
almost lightning speed.

The reader will recollect that he had no clothes at the moment to put
off before he put others on--he having sought the landlady’s room in
his shirt, stockings, and slippers. To slip into the silk dress was
therefore the work of an instant: to assume the Leghorn bonnet was
an affair accomplished with equal speed;--and to ransack the widow’s
drawers for a shawl was a matter scarcely occupying ten seconds. Then,
drawing the veil in thick folds over his moustachioed and whiskered
countenance with one hand, and grasping Mrs. Rudd’s parasol in the
other, Captain O’Blunderbuss took a hasty survey of himself in the
glass, and was perfectly satisfied with the result.

We have before stated that Mrs. Rudd was very tall, starch, and
prim; and the reader is aware that Captain O’Blunderbuss was no
dwarf--neither was he particularly stout. Thus, although he certainly
appeared a very colossal woman, he might still pass as one at a
pinch--and surely need was never more pinching than on the present
occasion. At all events he was resolved to make the attempt; and
the exciting nature of the incident was just of the kind which he
particularly relished--though, perhaps, he would rather have had the
fun without the danger of the thing.

In the meantime he had not been in a state of ignorance of what was
passing on the landing of the floor below; for the bailiffs, having
ascended to that height, stopped at his own chamber door, at which
they knocked. But receiving no answer, the one with the hoarse voice
exclaimed, “Captain O’Blunderbuss, I’ve got a message for you wery
particklar from a friend of your’n.”

Still there was no response; and the man, addressing himself to the
servant-girl, asked her if she were sure that the captain was at home.

“I’m certain he is,” was the reply; “because he’s sent out
his--his--trousers to be mended, and is lying a-bed till they come
back.”

“But mayn’t he have another pair?” demanded the bailiff.

“I don’t b’lieve he have,” said the girl: “leastways, I never see more
than one either on or off him.”

“Then the captain _is_ at home,” growled the sheriff’s-officer; “and we
must do our dooty, Tom.”

These last words were evidently addressed by the speaker to his
companion; and the captain comprehended that the forcing of the door
would be the next step. Nor was he wrong in his conjecture;--for,
before the servant girl could divine the intention of the two men, they
had effected an entrance into the chamber which the gallant officer had
only quitted three minutes previously.

The captain, who had been listening at the door of Mrs. Rudd’s own
bed-room, now partly descended the stairs, and again stood still to
listen--his proceedings being conducted as noiselessly and cautiously
as possible.

“Well--I’m blowed if he’s here!” exclaimed the bailiff with the hoarse
voice.

“No more than a cat,” returned his companion.

“How’s this, my dear?” continued the first speaker: “have you been
a-making fools on us?”

“No,” answered the girl sharply: “I thought the captain was here--but
he ain’t. So I s’pose he’s gone out without my hearing or seeing him.
But now you’ve broke the lock of the door and must pay for it--or else
missus will blow me up finely when she comes home from market.”

“Then she _is_ at market,” said Captain O’Blunderbuss to himself,
his hopes becoming more elated by the assurance thus conveyed to him
through the servant-girl’s remark to the bailiffs.

“Pay for it, indeed!” growled the one with the hoarse voice. “That
won’t suit our books neither. S’pose we fix the lock on agin in such a
way that it won’t be knowed as how we ever busted the door open at all?”

“Well--do what you like; but make haste about it, ’cause missus is
sure to come home in a minit or two--leastways if she’s raly out; for
I didn’t see her go. But I s’pose she is--or else she’d have been down
afore this to know what all the row’s about.”

“We’ll see to it, my dear,” observed the hoarse-speaking bailiff. “But
I say, Tom--here’s the captain’s cap, and coat, and veskitt. Bless’d if
I believe he’s gone out arter all! Let’s search t’other rooms: this gal
is a-playing tricks with us.”

“Come into Mr. Curtis’s chamber and see,” exclaimed the juvenile
servant; and the captain heard the party pursuing their domiciliary
visit in the quarter alluded to. “Well, now?” said the girl, with a
derisive laugh: “is he there? Oh! ah! you may look under the bed! Why
don’t you search the drawers--or get up the chimley and look out on the
tiles?”

“Don’t be sarsy, my dear,” growled the bailiff. “Come--here’s a
shillin’ for you. Now tell us the truth--ain’t the captain somewhere in
the house?”

“Yes--I’m sure he be,” returned the girl; “’cause his breeches is gone
to be mended, and his coat and wescutt and cap is in his own room--and
I know he ain’t got two suits of clothes. Besides,” she added, sinking
her voice to a tone of mysterious confidence--though not so low as to
be inaudible to the gallant officer on the stairs above, “his bluchers
is down stairs to be blacked--and I’ll swear he ain’t got two pair of
them.”

“Then he is in the house,” said the bailiff. “Now, Tom, I tell’ee what
we must do. You stay here, and me and the gal will just toddle down
stairs and look in the kitchen, and scullery, and sich-like places.”

“Oh! but you must put the lock right first,” exclaimed the girl; “for
if missus--Lor! here she is!” added the affrighted servant, in a
hurried whisper.

The fact was that the captain, by some awkward and unintentional
movement, at that very instant rustled the silk gown loud enough for
the sound to catch the ears of the girl and the bailiffs; and he was
about to curse his folly, when, finding that all had suddenly become
still on the floor below, it instantly struck him that the juvenile
servant had imposed silence on the officers for fear her mistress
should stop to enquire the cause of their presence and thereby notice
the damaged lock.

He was perfectly correct in his conjecture: and, perceiving that
the sudden stillness remained unbroken, he boldly descended the
stairs--imitating as well as he could the measured walk of the
sanctimonious landlady, and treading with feminine lightness in his
slippers.

On reaching the landing--the dreaded landing whence opened the room
where the officers were concealed with the servant girl--Captain
O’Blunderbuss felt a violent inclination to make a precipitate rush
down the remainder of the stairs to the bottom: but, fearing that such
a proceeding would only lead to his capture, as it was certain to
excite an instantaneous suspicion of the truth and a vigorous pursuit
in consequence, he pursued his way with measured tread, taking good
care to rustle the silk dress as much as possible.

The landing of the first floor was gained in safety: he was descending
the last flight--and his escape appeared certain,--when a loud double
knock at the front-door echoed through the dwelling.

For an instant the gallant officer was staggered: but a second thought
convinced him that it was not his landlady’s knock--and he sped boldly
on.

Drawing his veil as closely as possible over his countenance, and
tucking the parasol under his arm for the moment, he opened the
front-door.

The visitor was the Rev. Mr. Emanuel Flummery.

“Ah! my dear madam,” said that pious man, stepping into the passage
with all the unceremonious ease of a familiar friend, and not at the
instant noticing the extraordinary height of the person whom he thus
addressed; “I looked in just to ask you how you were--and--and,” he
added, sinking his voice to a low whisper, “for the purpose of tasting
in your arms a renewal of those favours which you yesterday----”

But to the ineffable wonderment of the reverend gentleman, the
fictitious Mrs. Rudd dealt him such a sudden and violent blow with a
heavy clenched fist, just between his two eyes, that he was floored on
the spot; and the captain seizing the front-door key, darted out of the
house.

Banging the door behind him, the gallant officer locked it, and marched
away with a haste and a manliness of step which, had any one been
passing at the time, would have betrayed his real sex in a moment.

Suddenly, however, it struck him that he was playing a female
character; and, instantly relaxing his speed, he assumed a gait so
mincing, affected, and fantastic, that his appearance was most comical
and ludicrous.

He put up the parasol, and held it so as to screen his countenance,
over which he likewise kept the blue gauze veil in many folds; and,
in this manner, the gallant gentleman pursued his way half round the
Square--not daring to take precipitately to his heels, yet fearful
every instant of hearing a hue and cry raised behind him.

“Lauk-a-daisy me!” cried a female voice, suddenly breaking upon the
captain’s ears, and speaking close by.

“Be Jasus! mim--and is it yourself?” ejaculated the gallant gentleman,
stopping short: “because it’s me that’s afther being Misthress Rudd
just at the prisint spaking!”

“You Mrs. Rudd!” exclaimed the infuriated landlady.
“Here--murder--thieves----”

“Hould, mim!” said the captain, in a tone so ferocious that it
silenced the woman in an instant: “if ye’re afther raising an alarm,
mim, I’ll bethray ye to all the wor-r-ld for having bestowed your
favours yesterday on that spalpeen of a methodist parson--that will I,
Misthress Rudd, and bad luck to ye!”

The landlady was thunderstruck--astounded.

“So now, mim, just walk on quietly to your own house, of which I hereby
prisint ye with the kay,” continued the captain; “and mind ye don’t
look once behind ye until ye reach your own door--and I’ll sind your
toggery back again this evening--and you’ll be sure to give mine to the
missinger that brings yours, paying likewise for my throusers, mim. And
bewar-r-r, mim,” added the gallant gentleman, with a terrific rattling
of the r’s, “how ye bethray me in any way--if ye valley the sacret of
your indecent proceedings with the methodist parson.”

Thus speaking, the captain handed the bewildered Mrs. Rudd the key of
her house, and hurried on.

From the moment that he had quitted the dwelling until the termination
of this scene, scarcely three minutes had elapsed: but the captain
was well aware that the bailiffs would not be much longer before
they discovered his flight, as the Rev. Mr. Flummery, whom he had
so unceremoniously knocked down in the passage, would speedily and
inevitably give them such information as would open their eyes to the
real truth of all the recent proceedings.

Accordingly, the gallant gentleman’s object was to get away from
Charterhouse Square within the shortest space of time possible; and
the moment he parted from Mrs. Rudd he struck into the Charter House
itself, under the impression that there was a thoroughfare in this
direction.

But before he turned under the gloomy archway of that monastic
establishment, he looked round and beheld the landlady still standing
on the spot where he had left her--motionless, and apparently petrified
with horror and astonishment at the threats which he had held out. Her
back was, however, turned towards him,--and he therefore felt more at
ease in his mind as he entered the Charter House.

“Who do you want, mem?” said the porter, as he emanated from his crib.

But Captain O’Blunderbuss affected not to hear the challenge, and
passed on--adopting that mincing affectation of gait which we have
before noticed, and which made him appear such a comical figure.

“Well, I’m blowed if I ever see sich a o’oman!” mattered the porter
to himself, as he returned to his lodge. “Vonderful giantesses ain’t
nothink to her. And her petticuts--my eye! ain’t ’em short too? But she
hasn’t a wery bad leg neither--though her stockins might be a trifle or
so cleaner.”

The captain continued his way,--still shading his head with
the parasol--still keeping the veil closely folded over his
countenance,--but not the less able to reconnoitre the place in which
he now found himself for the first time in his life.

He beheld a wide, open space, laid out in grass plats, bordered
and intersected by gravel walks, and surrounded by low continuous
buildings, of uniform architecture and cloistral appearance.

Here and there were scattered groups of old men--collected in knots
of threes and fours, and apparently basking in the summer sun, which
warmed their frames so attenuated and chilled by age. They did not
appear happy--scarcely comfortable or contented;--and could the captain
have overheard the remarks which they mumbled and muttered to each
other, he would have found that they loathed and detested--hated and
abhorred the monastic gloom, the rigid discipline, and the monotonous
course of life to which necessity had consigned them.

When the gallant officer made his appearance in this enclosure, his
strange and ludicrous figure instantly attracted the notice of the
various groups alluded to; and the old fellows began to wonder whom the
tall, stately-looking dame was about to honour with a visit.

But by this time Captain O’Blunderbuss had arrived at the unpleasant
conviction that there was no thoroughfare either into Goswell Street
or Wilderness Row; and he once more found himself, as he subsequently
observed, “in a divil of a pother.”

The reader is, however, well aware that our gallant friend was not
precisely the man to turn back and surrender to his enemies, who, he
felt assured, must by this time be instituting an active search after
him in the vicinity--even if they had not become aware that he had
sought refuge in the Charter House.

What was to be done?

Nothing--save to enlist some kind inmate of the establishment in his
interests;--and on this proceeding he at once decided.

From an upper window he beheld a good-natured, red, round, jolly face
looking forth, the casement being open;--and a rapid glance showed the
captain the staircase that led to the particular room in which the
proprietor of that face must be.

He accordingly walked on with the steady pace and apparent ease of a
person who had the assurance of knowing his--or should we not rather
say _her_--way;--and entering the building, he ascended the stairs,
until he reached a door on which was a brass-plate bearing the name of
MR. SCALES.

Without any ceremony, the captain walked into the room; and the
gentleman with the red face, turning away from the window, began to
contemplate his supposed visitress with the most profound amazement.

But how much was this surprise enhanced, when the apparent lady threw
down the parasol, exclaiming in a voice of singularly masculine
power, “Bad luck to ye! ye damned spalpeen of an umbrilla!”--and
then immediately afterwards raised a veil which revealed a face
embellished with a fierce pair of moustachios and a very decent pair of
whiskers--to say nothing of a certain ferociousness of expression and a
weather-beaten complexion, which added to the unfeminine appearance of
the whole countenance.

“What the deuce does all this mean?” demanded the Brother of the
Charter House, at length recovering the use of his tongue, and with
difficulty subduing an inclination to laugh;--for he was a jolly old
bird, as his face denoted, and doubtless fancied that some masquerading
amusement was in progress.

“What does it mane!” ejaculated the gallant officer; “why, just this,
me frind--that I’m no more a woman than ye are yourself--but it’s
Capthain O’Bluntherbuss I am, of Bluntherbuss Park, ould Ireland. The
shiriff’s people are afther me--and I ’scaped ’em in this toggery.
So now it’s your own precious aid and assistance I want--and, be the
pow-r-rs! ye’ll not repint of any kindness ye may show to a genthleman
in timporary difficulties.”

Mr. Scales--for such was indeed the name of the red-faced Brother whose
hospitality and aid the captain thus sought--now burst out laughing
in good earnest; and the gallant officer laughed too--for he dared
not show any ill-feeling on the score of his new friend’s merriment.
Besides, that very merriment seemed to augur a willingness to render
the assistance demanded: and therefore the two laughed in concert very
heartily and for upwards of a couple of minutes.

At last Mr. Scales’s mirth subsided into a low chuckle, until it became
altogether extinct so far as its vocal expression was concerned;--and
then he enquired in what manner he could render his aid to Captain
O’Blunderbuss.

The gallant gentleman very frankly revealed to him his real position:
namely, that he had been compelled to beat a precipitate retreat
from his lodgings, where he had left his cap, coat, waistcoat, and
boots,--that his breeches were at the tailor’s,--that he had nothing
on but his landlady’s garments, barring his own shirt, stockings, and
slippers,--that he had not a penny in his pocket, nor indeed any pocket
at all as he then stood equipped,--and that he was most anxious to get
into the City, where he could obtain funds in a minute.

Mr. Scales indulged in another laugh, and then proceeded to comment on
the statement which had been made to him.

“I have got a couple of sovereigns in my pocket,” he began, “and don’t
mind advancing them for your service if they will do any good.”

“Faith! and they’ll pay the landlady and the tailor!” ejaculated the
captain, quite delighted at the prospect just held out.

“Very well,” said Mr. Scales. “Then we can recover your clothes for
you. But how will it be if the officers are in the house, and, seeing
your landlady give me the garments, should follow me?”

“Be Jasus! and Misthress Rudd is complately in my power-r!” cried
Captain O’Blunderbuss:--“just tell her that if she don’t manage the
thing slily for ye, that I’ll split upon her and the Riverind Mr.
Eminuel Flummery--and she’ll turn as make and as mild as a lamb. But I
must be afther sinding her back her own toggery.”

“I’ve got a large band-box in my little bed-room adjoining,” said
Mr. Scales; “and I don’t mind carrying out the gown and the bonnet
and shawl in it. Never do things by halves--that’s my motto. In the
meantime, you can put on my dressing-gown:--I am sorry my own clothes
would be much too small for you--or else----”

“Oh! be Jasus! and I’d sooner get back my own,” cried the captain. “I
niver should dar-r to prisint myself in any other toggery to my frind
in the City.”

“Well and good: you can step into my bed-room and undress yourself,”
said Mr. Scales; “and I’ll be off as soon as you are ready.”

“And them ould fogeys down stairs in the yard,” observed the
captain,--“they’ll be afther quistioning ye, my frind, about the tall
lady in the black silk gown that’s a foot and a half too shor-r-t for
her.”

“Oh! leave them to me,” said the good-natured Brother of the Charter
House: “I’ll tell them it’s my sister. Bless your soul, they’re all
purblind, and never will have noticed any thing peculiar in your dress.
It’s the nurses that I most fear--the charwomen of the establishment, I
mean;--for if any of them saw you----”

“I didn’t observe one of them, my dear frind,” interrupted the captain.
“But we’ve niver a ha’porth of time to lose--and so I’ll be afther
getting out of this infer-r-nal silk gown and Lighorn bonnet.”

From the moderate-sized, but lofty and airy apartment in which
this colloquy took place, the captain passed into a little chamber
only just large enough to contain a bed, a chest of drawers, and a
toilette-table: and there he speedily extricated himself from the
feminine apparel, all of which he thrust pell-mell into the band-box
which his friend had pointed out to him for the purpose. He then
wrapped himself in Mr. Scales’s dressing-gown; and this being done, he
gave the good-natured Brother the necessary instructions how to proceed
with regard to the landlady and the tailor.

Having tied a string round the band-box, so as to carry it the more
conveniently, and likewise with a better appearance of negligent
ease, Mr. Scales now set out on his mission--previously enjoining
the captain to keep the door carefully locked until his return, and
mentioning a signal by which his knock at the door might be known, so
that the gallant officer should not incur the danger of admitting any
other person. The moment the martial gentleman was left to himself, he
advanced straight up to the cupboard, which he unceremoniously opened;
and, to his huge delight, perceived a bottle containing a fluid which
was unmistakeably of that alcoholic species so widely known under the
denomination of gin. The captain took a long draught of the raw spirit,
and, much refreshed, sate down to await his new friend’s return.

A quarter of an hour passed, during which he calculated the chances of
eventual escape from the bailiffs.

If they had not discovered the trick which was played them, before the
captain had entered the Charter House, there was every prospect in his
favour; because he felt assured that Mrs. Rudd, even if she had seen
him take refuge there, would not dare to betray him.

But if, on the other hand, they had ascertained the whole truth while
he was as yet outside the Charter House gates, then they had most
probably rushed to the windows and obtained a glimpse of his person in
the Square.

And yet, recurring to the chances that were favourable to him, he
reasoned that when the noise attendant upon knocking down the methodist
minister had reached the ears of the officers, some time would then be
lost in receiving explanations from that reverend gentleman, and in
vain attempts to open the door--until Mrs. Rudd’s return with the key;
and in the interim his place of concealment would have been gained, and
would remain unsuspected by the bailiffs.

On the other hand, once more, what if the officers had not waited
for Mrs. Rudd’s return at all, but had leapt out of the ground-floor
windows?

“Oh! bad luck to the pro and con!” ejaculated the captain aloud. “I’m
safe here--and that’s enough. For if the spalpeens had suspicted that I
_am_ here, they’d have been afther me long ago!”

Rising from his seat, he crept cautiously up to the window and took
a survey of the enclosures through which he had passed a short time
before; and this reconnoitring process was highly satisfactory. The old
Brothers were lounging about as he had just now beheld them; and not a
shadow of a sheriff’s-officer was to be seen.

Highly delighted by the hopeful assurances which the aspect of things
thus conveyed to his mind, Captain O’Blunderbuss paid another visit to
the cupboard, and regaled himself with another refreshing draught from
the gin-bottle--after which potation, he smacked his lips in approval
of the alcoholic beverage, and resumed his seat and his meditations.

The latter continued for another quarter of an hour; at the expiration
whereof the gallant gentleman paid his respects a third time to the
cupboard; and scarcely had he closed the door of that commodious
recess, when the concerted signal was given, announcing his friend’s
return.

As Mr. Scales entered the room, a glance showed the captain that his
friend had succeeded in his mission; for the red countenance wore a
triumphant smile, and the band-box had not come back empty.

“Be Jasus! and you’re a thrump!” exclaimed the gallant Irishman, as he
marked these indications of success. “But what news of them bastes of
the airth----”

“Oh! you’re all safe, my dear fellow,” interrupted Mr. Scales, wiping
the perspiration off his rubicund countenance. “The clothes are in the
box--the landlady is intimidated, and therefore in your interests--and
the bailiffs have got entirely on a wrong scent. In fact, they had left
the house before I got there: but there’s no doubt they’re waiting
about in the neighbourhood--and therefore it will be better for you to
remain here until dark, if you possibly can. I will give you a bit of
dinner--and may be a glass of grog----”

“Potheen--rale potheen!” ejaculated the captain, viewing with supreme
satisfaction the present prospect of affairs.

“Well--whiskey, if you prefer it,” said the obliging Mr. Scales. “At
all events we’ll have a jolly afternoon of it, and drink to our better
acquaintance.”

“Betther acquaintance!” cried the Irishman, who, in spite of his
adventurous kind of existence, possessed many of the truly generous
qualities of his much maligned and deeply injured fellow-countrymen;
“betther acquainted we can’t become, my frind: for when a man has done
all he could for another, and that other a tothal stranger to him, I
mane to say it makes them inthimate at once. And, be Jasus! Misther
Scales, if ye’ve an inimy in the whole wor-r-ld, tell me his name and
give me his address, and it’s Capthain O’Bluntherbuss that’ll be afther
paying him a morning visit, sinding up his car-r-d, and then skinning
him alive!”

Mr. Scales expressed his gratitude for these demonstrations of
friendship, but assured the gallant gentleman that he had no enemy whom
he wished to undergo the process of flaying at that particular time.

The captain now entered the little bed-room, and hastily equipped
himself in his own clothing--the breeches, which the good-natured
Brother had paid for at the tailor’s, being neatly mended: so that the
Irishman speedily re-appeared in the semi-military garb which became
him rather more suitably than the habiliments of Mrs. Rudd.




CHAPTER CXLVIII.

THE CHARTER HOUSE.


Captain O’Blunderbuss, having made himself thus far comfortable, wrote
a note to Curtis, which Mr. Scales despatched by a messenger to Mr.
Bubbleton Styles’s office in the City;--for the Irishman calculated
that if Curtis should return to the lodgings in Charterhouse Square
before the said note reached him, he would, on hearing the adventures
of the morning, retrace his way to Crosby Hall Chambers--there to await
either the presence of the captain, or at least some communication from
him. This arrangement appeared to be far more prudent than to trust
Mrs. Rudd with either letter or message announcing the place where the
captain was concealed.

The note being written, and the messenger despatched with it, Mr.
Scales proposed a luncheon of bread and cheese and porter, as it was
only eleven o’clock in the forenoon, and he intended to order dinner
for half-past two. A “nurse,” as the charwoman was called, making her
appearance about this time, the refreshments above mentioned were duly
procured; and Mr. Scales intimated to his attendant that he should not
dine in the common hall that day, but would entertain his friend with
steaks and potatoes in his own apartment.

When the captain and the worthy Brother were again alone together, they
fell into a conversation upon the establishment to which the latter
belonged and in which the former had found so hospitable a refuge.

“Ye seem to have a comfortable berth of it, my frind,” observed the
martial gentleman, after burying his countenance for nearly a minute in
a pewter-pot.

“Well, the fact is,” returned Mr. Scales, “I manage to make myself
happy, because I am naturally of a gay and lively disposition, and I
have a great many friends who come to see me. Moreover, I have a few
pounds coming in from a snug little annuity--and therefore I can afford
those luxuries which the others have no chance of obtaining. But if it
weren’t for these circumstances, captain,” added Mr. Scales, sinking
his voice to a mysterious whisper, “I should never be able to endure
the place.”

“Not endure the place!” repeated the captain, who manifested unfeigned
surprise at the observation. “Be the holy poker-r-r! and it sames a
broth of a place, it does!”

“Ah! it’s all very well for people out of doors to be told of the
existence of the charity,” resumed the Brother; “and how it gives
an asylum to eighty poor men, who are widowers and past fifty
years of age: but it’s the discipline, my dear sir--the interior
discipline,--and then the manner in which we are treated by the
authorities of the establishment!”

“Then there’s abuses in the Charter-r-r House as well as elsewhere?”
said the captain, interrogatively. “Blood and thunther! where the divil
aren’t there abuses, if this same is the case?”

“No where, when the Church has any influence in the matter,” returned
Mr. Scales. “But I will explain myself more fully. This institution,
you must know, was founded for the purpose of affording an asylum to
poor and deserving men, chiefly of the literary or learned professions.
But will you believe it? There’s scarcely a literary man in the place;
and the only one of any repute at all is Mr. Valcrieff, the celebrated
dramatic author. The patrons put in their old and worn-out butlers or
lacqueys;--but this would not matter, so long as worthy, deserving, and
respectable characters were nominated--which is not the case----”

“Then you have some quare characters among ye, I’ll be afther
guessing?” exclaimed the captain.

“We have indeed, my friend,” responded Mr. Scales; “and that is what I
chiefly complain of. For instance, we’ve lately had a certain Colonel
Tickner thrust upon us--but who is no more a Colonel than I am. A short
time ago he called himself Major Tickner--and a little while before
that, he was Captain Tickner. So, you perceive, he rises rapidly--and I
have no doubt he will be a General next week.”

“A Ginral, be Jasus!” cried Captain O’Blunderbuss. “It’s thrue I might
have been one myself by this time, if I’d only stuck to the service:
but I’ll swear by the holy poker-r, that your Colonel Tickner is
nothing more nor less than an imposthor--a vile imposthor,--and it’s
meself that’ll unmask him.”

The gallant gentleman deemed it necessary to fly into a passion
relative to the pretences of the self-styled Colonel Tickner to a high
military rank; inasmuch as such a display of indignation on his part
at the assumption of another, seemed to justify his own right to the
honourable grade of Captain.

“Well, it is shameful for men to pretend to be what they are not,”
observed Mr. Scales. “This Colonel Tickner sometimes bores me with his
company; and it is not at all improbable that he may look in after
dinner. If so, we will have some rare fun with him.”

“If he dar-r-rs to have any of his impudence to me,” cried the captain,
looking particularly ferocious at the moment, “I’ll trate him as I
trated a French dhragoon at Water-r-r-loo. ‘_Come hither, ye spalpeen,
and let me cut ye down to the middle!_’ says I.--‘_Oui, Monsieur_,’
says he; and on he comes with a rush.--‘_Blood and thunther!_’ says
I, ‘_is it fighting ye mane, when I’ve as good as taken ye prisoner
before-hand?_’--and griping him by the throat, I throttled him, sir,
in less time than ye’d be in tossing off a thimblefull of potheen. But
pray go on telling me about the Charter House, my frind--and let’s hear
all your little gravances. Ye were spaking of the discipline of the
place just now;--and sure it’s meself that knows what discipline ought
to be.”

[Illustration]

“Ah! my dear sir, the discipline of the Army and that of the Church
are two very different things,” said Mr. Scales. “We’re eighty
Poor Brothers in this establishment; and every night the curfew
rings--eighty strokes of the bell! When one dies, there are only
seventy-nine strokes until the vacancy is filled up;--and you may
believe me when I tell you that there is something horrid in sitting
in one’s lonely room of a dark wintry night, and counting the bell to
see whether a Brother has not died since we all met in the common hall
in the afternoon. For there are some very, very old men here; and old
men go off, you know, like the snuff of a candle. Then, when one does
die, and we hear the bell stop at seventy-nine, it sends the blood all
cold and icelike to the heart--and a shudder creeps over the frame,
from head to foot,--for there’s no saying whose turn it may be next.
Ah! captain, it may seem but a trifling thing to you--a very trifling
and paltry thing, this tolling of the curfew-bell: but I can assure
you that to us, who are pent up here, it is no such trivial matter.
For, in the deep, deep silence of this cloistral building, the dreary,
dull, monotonous tolling of that bell suddenly arouses the most painful
thoughts,--thoughts of approaching death, and coffins, and shrouds,
and new-made graves, and all the sombre ceremony of funerals. But to
hear that bell toll one _less_,--to know that a Brother has succumbed
to the icy hand of the destroyer--to feel that there is a gap in our
fraternity--a vacancy in our association,--even though we may not have
loved--perhaps not even respected the individual who is gone,--still to
have forced open us, by the deep-toned monitor, the conviction that he
_is_ gone,--this--this is terrible in our cloistral loneliness!”

The captain made no observation; but he evidently listened with
profound attention;--and Mr. Scales, warming in his subject, went _on_.

“I told you just now that I am naturally of a gay and cheerful
disposition, and that I can make myself happy under most
circumstances. But when I am alone here of an evening, and listen to
the curfew-bell, I--yes, _I_ also am seized with a cold shuddering,
and my blood creeps with an ice-chill in my veins. And if I hear the
strokes stop at seventy-nine, it suddenly appears to me that a shape,
dim, shadowy, and wrapped in a shroud, flits past me;--and I cast my
eyes around--almost dreading lest the pale and ghastly spectre of the
deceased Brother should be standing behind my chair. And, when there
_is_ one lying dead in the Charter House, I feel afraid at night--and
sleep visits not my pillow. I do not believe in ghosts--at least, I do
not believe in them when it is day-time; but in the deep, silent, and
dark night,--yes, _then_ I believe in them--and I tremble! Oh! you can
form no idea of the horrors endured in this place while the curfew-bell
tolls: for if it give forth a single note less than the eighty, then
every one shudderingly says within himself--aye, and in the solitude
of his own chamber--‘_Who knows but that it may be my turn next?_’ Is
it not cruel, then, to maintain that monastic custom of ringing the
nightly bell,--to alarm weak and trembling old men, whose intellects
are attenuated by the weight of years, and whose imaginations are
so susceptible of all influences likely to engender the gloomiest
forebodings: for such is the case with the great majority of the Poor
Brothers of the Charter House.”

The captain made a brief remark to show that he was listening with deep
attention--as indeed he was; and Mr. Scales proceeded in the following
manner:--

“Yes--the greater portion of the Poor Brothers are very infirm old
men, who need companionship to enliven them, and little attentions to
cheer them, and indulgences to render their existence tolerable. But
every morning,--summer and winter--hot or cold--sunshine above, or
snow knee-deep below,--they must all turn out at an early hour from
their warm beds; and while still fasting, must repair to the chapel
to attend prayers. And in the performance of this duty, which is
rigidly enforced by fine, we are compelled to wear long, dark cloaks,
so that when thus muffled up we appear to be a procession of monks,
each wrapped in his cowl! Here again you may observe that there is
no harm in the custom;--but you must remember that there is a vast
difference between what one does spontaneously, and what he is forced
by a rigid, inexorable discipline to do. The fact that these poor old
men are thus compelled to wear the badge of monastic pauperism is
the iron that enters into their souls. They have been compelled by
their necessities to accept an asylum in this place--and they feel
that they are treated as paupers. Their old age, which the world
without believes to be passing in a serene and tranquil happiness
here, unruffled by mundane cares, is rendered miserable and wretched
by a thousand little vexatious points of discipline which make up an
aggregate sum of tremendous ecclesiastical oppression. In the deep
silence of the night--the awful silence that reigns throughout this
pile,--and in the solitude of his gloomy apartment,--each of those poor
old creatures broods upon what he deems to be his wrongs;--and you need
not be surprised when I tell you that they are often driven to the
very verge of despair--or to the threshold of madness! Ah! and it is
not only the curfew-bell--nor the compulsory attendance at chapel--nor
the long, dark cowls,--it is not all this alone,” continued the
Brother, now speaking with solemn earnestness;--“but it is that we are
watched by spies--watched in all our movements within or without the
walls,--watched to be caught tripping, be it never so lightly--in order
that we may be punished--or perhaps expelled, to make room for some one
whom the Master or any other authority is anxious to provide for. The
surgeon is a spy upon us--the porter is a spy upon us--all the nurses
are spies upon us; and what is worse,” added Mr. Scales, now sinking
his voice to an ominous whisper, and bending his head forward so as
almost to reach the captain’s ear with his lips,--“and what is worse,”
he repeated, bitterly but still in that low tone,--“we are spies upon
each other!”

Captain O’Blunderbuss started, and surveyed his new friend with
astonishment.

“I do not mean to say that I am a spy upon the rest,--nor will I
assert that we are all spies with regard to each other,” resumed
Mr. Scales: “but this I declare--that there are many inmates of the
place who do enact the part of spies against their fellows. Some
wish to curry favour with the Master, Archdeacon Hale--others carry
their tittle-tattle to the surgeon;--some gossip of their Brethren
to the manciple, or steward--others endeavour to worm themselves
into the good graces of even the cook;--and all the nurses, with
scarcely an exception, are the spies of the matron. I tell you, sir,
that there is a monstrous system of supervision and _espionnage_
in existence within these walls;--and one Brother cannot talk as a
friend to another--because he is afraid that he may be all the time
making revelations to an individual who will betray him! We have no
confidence in each other--we are all afraid of one another. There is
not such a thing as a good-natured chat and harmless conversation
in the Charter House. If you make the most common-place observation
upon things the most indifferent, Brother Gray, or Brother Jones, or
Brother Jenkins will shake his head knowingly, as if he saw something
covert and mysteriously significant at the bottom of the remark. But
wherefore does such a state of things prevail in the Charter House,
you will enquire;--and perhaps you will observe that if the Brethren
enact the part of spies upon each other, they alone are to blame for
making themselves miserable. Pause, however--and reflect that it is
all the fault of the authorities. _They_ encourage this contemptible
tittle-tattle--_they_ show favour to the poor silly old dotards who
carry them tidings of all the complaints, expressions of discontent,
or occasional instances of convivial excess which occur on the part
of the rest. These spies are favoured by the authorities: the others
know it, and become spies themselves;--and thus they all spy upon each
other, even as the Jesuits do in obedience to the rules of their Order.
Oh! the mean and contemptible littleness of mind which such a state of
things engenders! I am sick--disgusted, Captain O’Blunderbuss, when I
think of it.”

“Be Jasus! and well you may be, my dear frind!” cried the gallant
gentleman. “But who is the governor, d’ye say?”

“Archdeacon Hale is the Master, as he is called--Archdeacon Hale, the
notorious pluralist who fattens upon the loaves and fishes of the
Church, without ever having done a single thing to render him deserving
of such fine preferment and such large emoluments. He it is who
presides over this Protestant monkery,--who enforces in the nineteenth
century the grinding discipline of the sixteenth,--who moves the whole
machinery of _espionnage_, and rules us as a mitred abbot was wont to
sway his Romish brotherhood. If a gentleman, reduced by adversity,
once enters those walls as an inmate, he must resign himself to the
treatment of a pauper. The authorities look upon us in that light; and
the servants behave to us accordingly. The very porter will sometimes
call us by our Christian or surnames, without the prefatory _Mister_.
If the surgeon visit us, it is evident that he considers himself to
be doing us a great favour--just as you may suppose that the medical
man belonging to an Union of Parishes behaves towards the pauper
invalids requiring his services. Should the Matron have occasion to
call upon us, it is with all the airs of a fine lady--she who curtseys
and does not dare sit down in the presence of the Archdeacon’s wife!
The manciple, or steward, is likewise a great man;--and woe to the
Poor Brother who does not receive _him_ with all possible respect. The
nurses attend upon us in a slovenly, negligent manner; and we dare
not complain nor remonstrate--for we know that they are spies ready
to report us for every incautious word that we may utter, or even to
_invent_ charges against us. It was but the other day that one of the
inmates--a poor old man of nearly seventy--_did_ venture to complain of
the shameful neglect which he experienced at the hands of his nurse.
What was the consequence? She made a counter-charge, to the effect
that he had taken liberties with her! The woman’s statement--her
unsupported statement was believed in preference to the denial and the
complaint of the old man, and he was expelled the Charter House for six
months--turned out upon the wide world to live how he could, or die as
he might![10] Oh! you have no idea of the tremendous tyranny that is
perpetrated within these walls, where all is so silent and all appears
to be so serene and tranquil! A short time ago a Brother, driven
to despair by the horrors of the place, went away--took an obscure
lodging--and put an end to his life by means of poison. The authorities
hushed up the matter as well as they could--prevented the interference
of the Coroner--and had the man buried within three days from the
moment of his self-destruction.[11] These are all facts, sir--stubborn
facts; and the public should know them. Yes--the public should learn
that there are eighty old men dwelling in a monastic institution in the
very heart of London--enduring a discipline as severe, and subject to
a system as despotic and oppressive as in the olden times and in those
very cloistral establishments which Henry the Eighth destroyed! The
public should be informed that then eighty old men are the victims of
ecclesiastical tyranny, and that they are compelled to endure neglect
and even insult at the hands of the very servants who are so liberally
paid to attend upon them.”

“Be the power-r-s! it’s a bur-r-ning shame!” cried Captain
O’Blunderbuss: “and what’s worse of all, is that it’s the parsons
who are your governors and by consequence your opprissors in this
establisment. Bad luck to ’em, say I!”

“A good parson is a most estimable, as well as a most necessary
character in society,” said Mr. Scales; “and this every sensible man
must admit. But an intolerant, illiberal, tyrannical parson is the
greatest curse that can be inflicted upon a community. Such is our
case--such is our misfortune. We have half-a-dozen parsons belonging
to the institution; and their main object is to get all the loaves and
fishes to themselves. Though they rule us with a rod of iron, they
do not mind breaking the regulations themselves. For instance, if a
Poor Brother remains away from chapel without the surgeon’s leave, or
returns home a little after hours in the evening, he is reported and
fined--fined out of the beggarly pittance of seven pounds ten shillings
a quarter allowed him to purchase tea, sugar, milk, and the many other
necessaries which the establishment does not supply. But though the
regulations specify in distinct terms that the Master is to reside
constantly upon the premises, he laughs at the enactments, and passes
weeks or months together in the country. No fine--no punishment for
him! Who would dare to talk of calling the Very Reverend Archdeacon
Hale over the coals? But who does _not_ hesitate to kick Poor Brother
Gray, or Poor Brother Jones, or Poor Brother Scales from pillar
to post, and from post to pillar, if he be caught tripping in the
slightest degree?”

“Jist now, me frind,” exclaimed Captain O’Blunderbuss, looking
particularly fierce, “ye assured me that ye hadn’t an inimy in the
wor-r-ld: but it sames pritty clare to me that I must be afther
punching the head of your Archdeacon--or manciple--or porter--or some
one, jist to revinge your wrongs and create a little sinsation for the
Poor Brothers, as ye call yourselves.”

“My dear fellow, do nothing mad or rash!” cried Mr. Scales, positively
believing at the moment that the formidable Irishman was about to
declare war against the authorities of the institution, and that
he would experimentalise with his fists upon the first of those
functionaries who might chance to come in his way. “All that I have
been telling you is sacred between you and me;--and as a man of honour,
I must appeal to you----”

“Be Jasus! and if it’s to me honour-r-r ye appale,” interrupted the
captain, slapping his left breast with the palm of his right hand,
“I’ll not brathe a wor-rd to a sowl that I’m acquainted with any
gravances at all, at all. But, remember, if the time should come when
ye may feel inclined to administher a thrilling dhrubbing or so to any
of thim spalpeens of whom we’ve been talking----”

“Hush!” cried Mr. Scale?, suddenly: “some one is ascending the stairs.
Let us pretend to be speaking on matters quite indifferent.”

“With all my heart!” said the captain: and, elevating his voice for the
behoof of the person who was approaching the room from the stairs, he
exclaimed, “Yes--’tis a very fine mornin’, Misther Scales--a very fine
mornin’ indeed!”--just as if, in the natural course of things, he would
have made, after a visit of nearly three hours, the remark with which a
conversation is usually commenced.

Mr. Scales burst out laughing at this display of his new friend’s
ingenuity; and the captain laughed heartily likewise--though he knew
not precisely at what.

In the midst of this cachinnation, the door opened, and the nurse, or
charwoman, entered to lay the cloth for dinner.




CHAPTER CXLIX.

A STRANGE NARRATIVE.


The nurse was a tall, middle-aged, powerfully-built woman, with
brawny arms, and a countenance that indicated a slight affection for
an occasional drop of “something short.” In fact, it was observed
by the Brethren on whom she waited, that she never looked sulky when
requested to repair to the public-house to order any thing in the
shape of beer or spirits; but if entrusted with an errand of another
kind--such as the purchase of half a quire of writing-paper or a stick
of sealing-wax--it was a very great chance if she would be seen any
more until the next day. Her manners were of the free-and-easy school;
and she was accustomed to address the Poor Brothers in a half-pitying,
half-patronising style, as if they were patients in a hospital or in
the infirmary of a debtors’ gaol. If wearied, she would unhesitatingly
seat herself without being asked, and glide imperceptibly into a
familiar kind of discourse, while wiping the perspiration from her
rubicund face with her blue checked cotton apron; and if it were in the
cold weather, she would wait upon her masters with a black bonnet, like
an inverted japan coal scuttle, on her head--the propriety of leaving
the tegumentary article in the passage outside, never for a moment
striking the ingenuous and simple-minded creature.

If this excellent woman had any special failing,--besides such little
faults as drunkenness, inattention, slovenliness, cool impudence, and
deep hypocrisy,--it was a propensity to gossip and a love of scandal.
If she were only carrying a pail down the stairs, and met another nurse
with a pail coming up the stairs, they must both set down their pails
on the landing, and stop to have a quarter of an hour’s chat on the
affairs of their respective masters. Then one would whisper how Poor
Brother Smith was the meanest skin-flint on the face of the earth; and
the other would declare that it was impossible for him to be worse than
Poor Brother Webb, who was always complaining and yet never gave her
even so much as a drop of gin;--and in this manner the two women would
unburthen their minds, to the sad waste of their time and the neglect
of those whom they were well paid to render comfortable. But Mrs.
Pitkin--for that was the name of the nurse who waited on Mr. Scales
and the other gentlemen living in the chambers opening from the same
staircase,--Mrs. Pitkin, we say, was a more inveterate gossip than any
other charwoman in the place; and, as a matter of course, when she
had no trifling truths to retail or make much of, she deliberately
and coolly invented a pack of lies, purporting to be the most recent
sayings and doings of her masters. The consequence was, that a great
deal of mischief resulted at times from these playful exercises of Mrs.
Pitkin’s imaginative qualities; and more than one poor Brother was
looked upon as an habitual drunkard, or as a sad old fellow amongst
the women, without any other ground for the entertainment of such an
opinion than the mysterious whispers of Mrs. Pitkin.

Well, it was this same Mrs. Pitkin who made her appearance, as already
described, to lay Mr. Scales’s cloth and get the dinner ready.

“What o’clock is it, nurse?” asked Mr. Scales suspiciously.

“Only a little after two,” she replied: but scarcely were the words
uttered, when the Charter House bell proclaimed the hour of three.
“Well, I’m sure!” she cried, affecting the profoundest astonishment; “I
never could have believed it were so late. Deary me! deary me! But it’s
all through that disagreeable Mr. Yapp, who would have his cupboard
washed out this morning--though I told him it wasn’t near six months
since he had it done last.”

“Well--where have you put the potatoes to boil?” demanded Mr. Scales.

“The taturs, sir? Lor, sir--did you order taturs?” asked Mrs. Pitkin,
now pretending to seem more astounded than ever. “Well, I’m sure I
thought as how you said you’d have your chops without any weggitables
at all!”

“Chops!” repeated Mr. Scales, now waxing positively wroth: “I ordered
steaks----”

“Steeks!” cried the woman, holding up her hands as if in amazement.
“Why--how could I ever have misunderstood you so? But it’s no matter--I
can just as well get steeks as chops; and one don’t take much longer
cooking than another.”

“Then, am I to understand that you have as yet got neither chops nor
steaks?” asked Mr. Scales, subduing his anger as much as possible.

“Lor, sir! how could I go to the butcher’s when there’s three of my
masters is inwalids and dines in their own rooms to-day? But I’ll be
off at once--and you shall have dinner in a jiffey, I can promise you!”

Thus speaking, the woman walked lazily out of the room; and when the
door was closed behind her, Mr. Scales, turning to the captain, said;
“Now you perceive how we Poor Brothers are waited upon by these nurses.
You heard me give her specific orders to have a steak and potatoes
ready for us at two. She comes in at three, and has totally forgotten
all about the dinner--for _that_ is the English of it. And yet I dare
not complain against her: I dare not even speak harshly to the woman’s
face. But should you not imagine that, after her neglectful conduct,
she would make all possible haste to get the meal ready? No such thing!
Look there,” continued Mr. Scales, motioning Captain O’Blunderbuss
to the window: “she has fallen in with another nurse, and they are
stopping to have a gossip. Now they are going out together; and before
we shall see Mrs. Pitkin again, she will have paid a tolerably long
visit with her companion to the bar of the Fox and Anchor.”

“Be Jasus! and shall I be afther her, my dear frind?” demanded Captain
O’Blunderbuss, rushing towards the door.

“It is useless,” said Mr. Scales, holding him back: “we must have
patience. But do you see that old man, standing apart from the rest----”

“And laning on a stick?” cried the captain.

“The same,” returned the good-natured and communicative Brother.
“Observe how pensive--how melancholy he seems! That is Brother
Johnson--late Alderman and once Lord Mayor of London.”

“Be Jasus! and I ricollict!” exclaimed the captain: “’tis the hero of
the Romford Bank affair.”

“Precisely so,” responded Mr. Scales. “And now do you perceive that
short, stout, elderly gentleman, leaning on the arm of a friend from
outside----”

“He walks as if he was blind,” interrupted the captain.

“And blind he unfortunately is,” said Mr. Scales: “but not irremediably
so. There is every prospect that, with care and good medical advice,
he will recover his sight. He is a man who has made some noise in the
world--but with high honour to himself: in a word, he is Valcrieff, the
celebrated dramatic author.”

“And a most rispictable-looking gintleman he is,” observed the captain.
“I’ve laughed many times at his farces, and little thought I should
iver have the pleasure of seeing the writer-r himself, even at a
disthance.”

“There is one inmate of this establishment,” said Mr. Scales, quitting
the window and returning to his seat--an example followed by the
gallant officer,--“there is one inmate whose early history is very
peculiar; and the most extraordinary circumstance connected with
the matter is that he believes the events of his younger days to be
entirely unknown and unsuspected within these walls. I should not point
him out to you, even were he amongst the loungers in the court at this
moment: neither shall I mention his name--or rather the name by which
he is here known. But I may state that thirty years ago I knew him by
the name of Macpherson. We met in Paris, shortly after the peace--and
he was living, with a beautiful French woman as his mistress, in very
handsome apartments. Her name was Augustine; and she certainly was the
most lovely creature I ever saw in my life. Macpherson adored her; and
while he believed that she worshipped him in return, her infidelity
was notorious amongst all his friends. He had succeeded to a small
fortune, by the death of an uncle; and, on visiting Paris, had fallen
in with this young lady, whose charms immediately enthralled him. She
was a banker’s cast-off mistress, and was glad to ensnare a handsome
English gentleman in her meshes. Her extravagance was unbounded; and
in less than a year Macpherson’s resources were completely exhausted.
It would appear that Augustine at that period introduced to him a
Frenchman whose real name was Legrand, but whom she passed off as
her brother. This Legrand was elegant in manners and agreeable in
conversation, as well as handsome in person; but he was unprincipled,
dissipated, and of broken fortunes. From all I subsequently learnt, and
from the knowledge I had of Macpherson’s character, I feel convinced
that Legrand made my English friend his dupe and victim; and that
Macpherson was entirely innocent of any intentional complicity. Certain
however it is that one morning I was thunder-struck by the tidings
that Macpherson had been arrested on a charge of forgery. I hastened
to him in prison; and he declared most solemnly that he was guiltless.
It was true that he had negotiated the instrument which was discovered
to be fictitious: but he assured me that Legrand had induced him to
do so. The examination before the Judge of Instruction led to the
arrest of Legrand; and it was confidently hoped by Macpherson and his
friends that the real truth would transpire at the trial. But when
the case came on, Augustine--the faithless, treacherous, ungrateful
Augustine--gave such evidence as entirely to exonerate Legrand and fix
all the guilt upon Macpherson. She committed perjury; but her tale
was believed,--for it was consistent, though false--delivered with
plausibility, though based on the most damnable deceit. In fact, the
vile woman sacrificed the Englishman whom she had ruined and never
loved, to the French paramour whom she had passed off as her brother;
and Macpherson, being pronounced guilty, was condemned to be exposed
and branded upon a scaffold on the Place de Grêve, and to be afterwards
imprisoned for a period of five years at the galleys at Brest. Myself
and another English gentleman drew up a memorial to the King, setting
forth a variety of circumstances in favour of Macpherson, and imploring
the royal mercy on behalf of our unhappy fellow-countryman. Louis
the Eighteenth referred the petition to the Judges who had condemned
Macpherson, and as they stated that they had taken every thing into
consideration when they pronounced his punishment, the Minister of
Justice and Grace could not hold out to the petitioners any hopes
of a commutation of the sentence. We had endeavoured to obtain the
remission of that portion of the sentence which condemned Macpherson
to be publicly exposed and marked with a red hot iron--but, alas!
this indignity could not be spared the unhappy sufferer. Well, the
fatal morning arrived, when this dread public ceremony was to take
place. Macpherson rose early, and devoted unusual care to his toilet.
His countenance was ghastly pale--his eyes were fixed,--his lips
compressed. He did all he could to appear calm, and endeavoured to meet
his punishment with firmness. But to be condemned for an offence of
which he was innocent;--to see the fairest years of his youth destined
to be passed in a horrible state of servitude;--to know that he was
about to be branded with an infamous mark, which he would carry with
him to the grave,--all this must have been beyond human endurance.
Had he been really guilty, his sufferings would not have been so
acute;--had he deserved his punishment, he would have bowed to those
destinies which he would have thus prepared for himself. But he was
innocent--innocent; and the world did not know it:--only a few faithful
friends consoled him by the assurance that they believed in his
innocence. On the fatal morning which was to consummate his disgrace,
I visited him early; but when I found him so apparently resigned and
calm, I did not offer those consolations which I would otherwise have
tendered, and which were all I had now to offer.

“It was about eleven o’clock, in the forenoon,” continued Mr. Scales,
“when Macpherson was summoned to the lobby of the prison. Two gendarmes
were waiting there to conduct him to the Place de Grêve, where he
was to remain exposed for two hours, and then be marked. He resigned
himself to their custody, and, accompanied by myself, proceeded towards
the great square where the hideous ceremony was to be performed.
Immense crowds were collected in all the avenues leading to the Place,
which was itself thronged to excess. Two lines of soldiers kept a
pathway clear for the march of the prisoner up to the foot of the
scaffold. He did not cast his eyes downwards:--nor did he glance to the
right or to the left; but he kept them fixed upon the scaffold towards
which he was advancing. He ascended the ladder with a firm step,
accompanied only by the gendarmes; for I was compelled to remain below.
The moment he appeared upon the platform, a tremendous shout arose
from the thousands and thousands of spectators assembled to witness
his punishment; but no indignity of a violent nature was offered to
him. He cast a hurried and anxious glance around: the whole square
seemed literally paved with human faces, which were continued up every
street communicating with the Grêve, as far as he could see. The quay
behind him, the bridges, the windows and roofs of all the houses, and
even the towers of Nôtre Dame and the parapet of the Hotel-de-Ville
were crowded with human countenances. Macpherson remained exposed for
two hours, seated upon a chair on the scaffold, while the populace,
with hyena-yells and laughter, were contemplating him as if he were
a wild beast which they delighted to see, but of which they were
afraid. The idea, whether this penalty were deserved or not, never
entered the head of one single individual in that vast multitude;--all
that they cared about was the man and his punishment--and both were
there! At the expiration of the two hours, the crowd suddenly opened,
and the public executioner, attended by his two sons, appeared at
the foot of the scaffold. One of the lads carried a small iron pot,
at the bottom of which there was a grating: in this vessel was a
bright fire of red hot cinders and charcoal. The other boy carried an
iron implement in his hand. It was like a very small shovel, with a
tolerably long handle. The three wretches ascended the ladder, and the
shouts and the hootings of the mob recommenced with increased violence
as the public functionary bowed jocosely to Macpherson. A horrible
laugh issued from those who stood nearest, and who comprehended the
fashion of the executioner’s salute. This individual then arranged his
_paraphernalia_ in a convenient manner. He placed the brazier close
to the convict’s chair, and put the shovel-looking implement into the
fire. He next proceeded to inform Macpherson that he must take off his
coat and other vestments from his left shoulder. The prisoner obeyed
mechanically. He doffed his coat and his waistcoat on the left side;
and the executioner instantly cut a large square piece out of his
shirt, just above the left shoulder-blade, immediately above the curve
of the shoulder. The most breathless suspense now prevailed; and not
a cry--not a murmur was heard throughout the dense masses of people
wedged together around. ‘Take courage, my boy,’ said the executioner,
half ironically and half in pity; ‘it will only be the affair of a
few moments.’ I heard him make these remarks--for I was close by the
scaffold. He then proceeded to strap the convict tightly down in his
chair, confined his arms and legs, and twisted the cords in such a
manner around his body and the back of the seat that he was rendered as
motionless and powerless as if he were a statue. Ten minutes elapsed,
and the thick part of the iron was by that time red hot. This was the
crowning moment of the whole day’s amusement--an amusement provided
by the law that forbade bull-baits and punishes cruelty to animals!
The executioner stooped down, seized the iron, and applied it to
Macpherson’s flesh--to that bare part which the square cut out of the
shirt had left exposed. The iron hissed on the young man’s shoulder;
and a fearful yell escaped his lips. The iron remained upon the flesh
for two or three instants: the sufferer writhed in agony; but only that
one loud, long, and piercing cry escaped his lips. The implement was
withdrawn;--one of the executioner’s sons placed a cup-full of water
to the convict’s lips, and thus saved him from fainting in the chair.
The cords were then unbound,--the young man’s dress was adjusted,--and
the gendarmes told him that they were ready to convey him back to
prison. As he passed through the dense multitude that had witnessed
his punishment, he now hung down his head--abashed and ashamed. Even
had he not felt the smart of the burn upon his back, the knowledge
that he was branded with the mark of infamy would have been sufficient
thus to humble and subdue him. Women held up their children to gaze
upon him as he passed along;--he heard an old father bid his son take
warning from the example he had just witnessed; and as he emerged from
the crowd, and entered a comparatively deserted street, on his way
back to prison, he caught the following words which were uttered, with
a laugh, by one spectator to another,--‘Oh! there’s the man who has
just been marked!’--‘Marked! eh--and with a scar that he would carry
to his grave!’ thought I, shuddering from head to foot. He returned to
the prison of La Force; and the moment he entered the lobby, he fell
into my arms; for I had walked by his side from the Place de Grêve.
The courage of the man now failed him altogether; and he burst into a
violent passion of grief. The tears flowed in torrents from his eyes;
his breast heaved convulsively. I endeavoured in vain to console him;
and then I thought it best to allow his agony to have full vent, and he
would feel relieved. The truth of this opinion was speedily confirmed;
and, when Macpherson dried his tears, he exclaimed, ‘Now that the first
bitterness of my career of misery is over, I feel nerved and resigned
to encounter the ills which heaven has in store for me.’--‘My dear
friend,’ I said, ‘you must yet hope for many happy years: the term of
your incarceration will soon pass away, and you will then hasten to
England, where friends will be prepared to receive you with open arms,
and enable you to forget the sorrows that will then be over!’--‘Alas!’
he cried--and the words still ring in my ears,--‘how can I forget all
this degradation and infamy? How can I ever again appear in the great
world, every member of which will have read my trial, and many of
whom have this day seen me writhing beneath the hot iron in the hands
of the public executioner? Even supposing my innocence be eventually
proved, and that all moral infamy be separated from my name, who will
remove the scar from my shoulder? who will not remember that for five
years I shall have herded with the refuse of mankind? who will believe
that, even if guiltless I went to the galleys, uncontaminated I have
been released from them? What father will entrust his daughter to
the convict? what mother will consent to the union of her child with
a man who has been publicly marked upon the scaffold? what brother
would allow his sister, pure and chaste, to link herself to one whose
outset in life has been so horribly characterised as mine? And lastly,
lastly,’ added he, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, and clenching
his fists and grinding his teeth as he spoke,--‘and lastly, who can
remove the deep, deep scar from my heart, even should there be a
physician skilful enough to efface the one upon my shoulder?’--I was
then compelled to take leave of him; and, on the following day, he was
removed to Bicêtre, and lodged with the other convicts who were about
to travel the same road together. He now found that his situation was
wretched indeed. Compelled to associate with men who had been guilty
of the most horrible crimes, and who gloried in their infamy, his
ears were offended with their obscene conversation and their fearful
blasphemies; and he was ill-treated by his fellow prisoners, because he
would not laugh at their jokes or join in their revolting discourse.
If he threatened to complain, he was reviled and mocked. But I shall
hasten to the end of my story--or at least to this part of it. The day
for the departure of the Chain of Galley-Slaves arrived; and I took
leave of my unfortunate friend. He was conducted to Brest, where he
worked on the port for a short time; and then, on account of his good
conduct, he was made a clerk in the office of the Governor. This was
the last account I heard of him while he was at the Galleys; for just
at that period the death of a distant relative called me to England,
and the inheritance of some property was accompanied with the condition
that I should change my name to that of the individual whose fortune
thus devolved upon me.

“Six years had passed,” continued Mr. Scales,--“six years since the
events which I have just related to you, when accident enabled me
to obtain a complete assurance of that which I had all along fully
believed,--namely, the innocence of Macpherson respecting the forgery.
I was passing down Aldersgate Street late one evening, when a sudden
shower began to fall; and I entered a gate-way for protection, having
no umbrella with me, and there being no hackney-coach stand near.
Almost immediately afterwards, a gentleman in a cloak took refuge
in the same place; but as I was standing farther in the gate-way
than he, and as it was pitch dark there, we did not observe each
other’s countenance. Presently he stepped out into the street to
see if the rain continued; and I noticed that he was accosted by a
female, dressed in gaudy attire, and who murmured something to him
in French, to which he did not however pay immediate attention. But
an exclamation from her lips--an exclamation of surprise, which was
instantly followed by the mention of his name--aroused him from his
reverie. He gazed at the female who thus appeared to recognise him;
and, by the light of the adjacent lamp, the well-known but somewhat
altered countenance of Augustine was revealed to him and myself at the
same time. Amazement rooted me to the spot, and compelled me to become
a listener. ‘What, Augustine!’ cried Macpherson--for he it was: and
all the while my presence was unsuspected.--‘Yes, Augustine--that is
my name!’ said the young lady, somewhat flippantly, ‘But what are you
doing in London?’ she asked immediately afterwards, and in an altered
tone.--‘How can you ask me, Augustine, after my present pursuits or my
future prospects, when you were the principal agent in consummating
my ruin in Paris?’ demanded Macpherson. ‘Oh! you know not the serious
injury--the irreparable injury which you have inflicted upon me. All
my hopes, all my endeavours, have one after another been defeated
and destroyed by the consequences of that fatal period. My life is a
series of misfortunes, of strugglings against adversity, of ups and
downs, of long intervals of misery, with short and distant gleams of
happiness; and this career of sorrows and disappointments, was prepared
and marked out by the infernal schemes of yourself and Legrand. Oh!
inauspicious was the day on which I first became acquainted with you
and the miscreant whom you represented to be your brother?’--‘And will
you believe me when I assure you that I have never known a moment’s
peace since the fatal moment when I bore false evidence against you
in the French tribunal?’ exclaimed Augustine emphatically. ‘I was
compelled to take that step, although repugnant to my feelings; for
I had not then lost all principle,’ she added mournfully. ‘Legrand
possessed such power over me; and I also knew that he was as capable of
sacrificing me as well as yourself to his own interests, if I did not
fall into his views. That false step on my part has reduced me to my
present state of degradation; I became reckless and ceased to sustain
even the appearance of respectability which I had observed while I was
living with you. Legrand was killed in a quarrel at a gambling-house;
and I then became the mistress of----.’--‘Oh! distract me not with a
catalogue of your vices, Augustine,’ exclaimed Macpherson, interrupting
her recital. ‘Can I sympathise with you, who have caused my ruin? can I
commiserate with one whom, were I vindictive, I should crush beneath my
heel? Oh! could you speak to me of the means of redeeming my character,
which is lost--innocent though I am, as well you know,--could you give
me back my peace of mind, my self-respect, my confidence in myself,
the esteem and respect of men, and the enjoyment of an unsullied
name,--could you efface the mark from my shoulder, Augustine, and wipe
from my memory the dread impression of the exposure in the Place de
Grêve with the five long years’ sojourn at the galleys,--could you do
all this, Augustine, I would throw myself at your feet, I would forgive
you the wrongs I have endured, I would almost worship you!’--‘There is
something which may yet be done,’ said Augustine, after a long pause,
‘which would partially remedy the evil, and which would at all events
prove my contrition for the part that I enacted in the matter.’--‘And
what is it that you propose?’ demanded Macpherson: ’to what do you
allude?’--‘I would willingly make a confession which would establish
your innocence, and so far retrieve your character in the eyes of the
world,’ said Augustine.--‘But the world reviles me, and cries shame
upon me, without waiting to ask itself if I am really guilty!’ returned
Macpherson, bitterly.--‘The thinking portion of the community,’ began
the frail woman earnestly, ‘will ever----’.--‘That is a mere idle
phrase, Augustine,’ interrupted Macpherson. ‘There is no thinking
portion, as a complete section, of any community. Ask any individual
singly and alone, if he would scorn and shun a man who had endured an
infamous punishment, but who was innocent of the crime attributed to
him, and he would launch forth into an eulogium of the liberality of
his own views, and indulge in a tirade against the narrow-mindedness
of his neighbours. He would say, “_Prove your innocence, and I will
be your friend._” So would reply every one whom you thus questioned
individually. But take all those persons together--assemble them in one
room--invite them all to a banquet--and then introduce amongst them the
man concerning whom they had singly expressed so much liberality of
opinion; and collectively they would scorn--they would shun him,--they
would hunt him from their company--they would expel him as if he were
infected with a pestilence! Where, then, is the thinking portion of
society? of what men is it composed? who can separate the section from
the mass? Talk no more of proving my innocence, but let me now ask you
a question relative to your own position.’--‘My position!’ repeated
the young woman bitterly; ‘oh! I feel its degradation so thoroughly,
that it appears to me as if every body must see and appreciate it
also! My shame clings to me, like a mass of dingy cobwebs to a wall:
I cannot shake it off; I cannot divest myself of the sense of its
utter loathsomeness; for if I seek to brush it away with one hand, it
clings to the other. I dare not go to church to seek the comforts of
religion:--a prayer in my mouth would be pollution;--I dare not even
implore heaven to change my condition, so thoroughly degraded am I in
my own estimation! And there are some of us--and when I say of _us_,
you will fully comprehend to what sad sisterhood I belong--who are
young, beautiful, and even educated; and from their lips--their red and
inviting lips--issue imprecations and blasphemies at all hours. But
I am not so bad as that;--nor do I drink as they do! God only knows,
however, to what abyss I may fall!’--With these words the wretched
creature hurried away in one direction, while Macpherson slowly
pursued his path in another. I did not think it right to follow him;
for I fancied from the tenour of his bitter outpourings to Augustine,
that he wished to be forgotten by the world, and pass as a stranger
in the mighty city. Well, years and years elapsed; and misfortunes
overtook me. I lost all my property save a very small annuity--a mere
pittance insufficient to keep body and soul together;--and through
the interest of a friend I obtained a berth in the Charter House. To
my surprise I found, on my entrance, that Macpherson was already a
Brother;--and thus, after a separation of five-and-twenty years--for it
is five years ago that I came hither--our destinies cast us into the
same asylum. But, though I recognised him, he knew not me. You must
remember that I had changed my name, and my personal appearance had
undergone an immense alteration; and therefore it was not singular that
he should fail to perceive in me the friend who had consoled him in
his misfortunes at Paris in 1816. I have never revealed myself to him
within these walls--and never shall. It would doubtless embitter his
sorrowful existence were he aware that his secret was known to a living
soul in the establishment which his necessities have compelled him to
make his home, and from which he will remove to no other abode--save
the tomb. Here, then, we dwell--he brooding over the undying sorrow
that fills his heart,--I not daring to call him friend and console him.”

At this moment the clock struck four, an hour had elapsed since Mrs.
Pitkin had departed with a promise to return “in a jiffey;”--and she
now reappeared, her countenance much flushed, and her breath exhaling
the strongest perfume of the juniper berry.

She however had her excuse: the matron had sent for her on particular
business!

“If so, it must have been at the Fox and Anchor,” muttered Mr.
Scales: but perceiving that she had brought up a cooked steak in a
covered dish, he suffered himself to be appeased by the prospect of
dinner;--and it was agreed both by himself and the captain to dispense
with potatoes, Mrs. Pitkin having again quite forgotten that they were
ordered.

The repast was now served up; and it must be taken as a proof of
contrition for previous neglect on the part of the worthy woman, that
when she sallied forth for the beer and spirits she only remained a
short half-hour away--it being usually calculated in the Charter House
that a commission which one might perform for himself in five minutes,
occupies a nurse exactly fifty-five to accomplish.

At last Mr. Scales and the captain were enabled to make themselves
comfortable; and when the dinner-things were cleared away, hot-water
was speedily procured by the aid of a batchelor’s kettle. The poteen
was first-rate;--the two gentlemen were in excellent spirits; and the
hilarity of the evening was soon increased by the arrival of Mr. Frank
Curtis, who had duly received his friend’s letter at Mr. Bubbleton
Styles’s office in the City.




CHAPTER CL.

THE COLONEL AND THE CAPTAIN.


The captain related to Frank all the numerous and varied incidents
which had occurred during the forenoon of that eventful day; and the
listener not unfrequently burst into shouts of laughter, as the gallant
gentleman described the most ludicrous part of his adventures--we mean
the little episode of the escape from the sheriff’s-officers in Mrs.
Rudd’s garments.

Frank, in his turn, gave his gallant friend a hurried but significant
intimation that Mr. Bubbleton Styles had “come down” with ten
sovereigns--a figure of speech implying that the City gentleman had
advanced that amount for the special behoof of Captain O’Blunderbuss
and Mr. Curtis.

The first use the Irishman made of this subsidy, was then and
there--fairly and cheerfully--to refund to Mr. Scales the monies
advanced by the worthy Brother in the morning; and this little
arrangement increased the good feelings of that gentleman towards his
new friends, and enhanced the harmony of the evening.

By degrees, as the good liquor produced its exhilarating effect, the
captain began to talk magniloquently of his Irish estates, “which were
unfor-rtunately locked up in Chancery,”--Mr. Curtis told a great many
wonderful stories of his intimacy with Princesses and Duchesses, “when
he was in France,”--and Mr. Scales related a number of interesting
anecdotes connected with the Charter House, and which had a signal
advantage over the narratives of his companions, inasmuch as the former
were all true, and the latter all false.

In the midst of the conviviality a knock at the door was heard; and
on Mr. Scales exclaiming “Come in,” the invitation was obeyed by a
gentleman who was immediately introduced to the captain and Frank
Curtis as Colonel Tickner.

The new-comer, who was an inmate of the Charter House, was a man of
middle height, and was much older than he thought fit to appear to be;
for by the aid of false teeth, a handsome wig, and whiskers well dyed,
he was enabled to pass himself off as “just over fifty”--whereas his
years had certainly numbered a good fifteen in addition to the amount
specified. He was well dressed, and had rather an imposing exterior:
but there was an unpleasant expression about the eyes, and in the lines
around the mouth, which gave his countenance a sinister aspect, and
denoted low canning, duplicity, and artfulness.

“Sit down, colonel,” said Mr. Scales, when the ceremony of introduction
had taken place; “and mix a glass for yourself. I told the captain you
were sure to come--and he was most anxious to see you; for I know that
military men are particularly fond of meeting each other.”

This remark was made with a sly touch of satire, Mr. Scales glancing
the while at the captain, as much as to say, “Now the ice is broken,
and you can unmask him;”--for as sincerely as the worthy Brother did
_not_ believe Tickner to be a military man at all, so in proportion was
he convinced that O’Blunderbuss _was_.

The colonel looked uneasy for a moment, while the captain, whose
natural impudence was increased by his potations, put a bold face upon
the matter, and eyed Tickner with lurking ferocity.

“And pray, sir, in what rig’ment had you the honour-r-r to ser-r-rve?”
demanded the Irishman at length, with a menacing reverberation of the
ominous r’s.

“Oh! in several,” returned the colonel, mixing his toddy without
raising his eyes. “Might I ask the same question of you, captain?”

“Be Jasus! and ye may ask, sure enough, my frind,” exclaimed
O’Blunderbuss: “but it would be more polite on your par-r-t if you was
afther answering my quaries first;--and thin it’s meself that’ll give
ye my whole pidigree from the beginning to the ind of that same.”

“I should beg to observe, sir,” said the colonel, stirring up his
liquor, on which he still kept his eyes fixed, “that it would be more
in accordance with the rules of military etiquette if you were to give
the first explanations--seeing that I have the honour to hold a higher
rank than yourself in her Majesty’s service.”

[Illustration]

“And, be the holy poker-r!” ejaculated Captain O’Blunderbuss, flying
into a passion: “that remains to be proved! There’s many a discharged
cor-r-poral that dubs himself colonel, to my knowledge.”

“And there’s many a discharged cad to an omnibus that calls himself----”

But Colonel Tickner suddenly stopped short: for Captain O’Blunderbuss
started from his seat, and, grasping the poker, exclaimed, “Be this
holy insthrument, I shall be afther daling ye a gintle tap on the head,
my frind, if ye dar-r to utther a wor-r-rd derogatory to my honour-r-r!”

Colonel Tickner stared in ghastly silence at the ferocious Irishman;
and to add to the dismay of the former, Frank Curtis, who relished the
proceeding hugely, whispered hastily in his ear, “For God’s sake, don’t
provoke him! He’s the most terrible duellist in all London; he shot the
Duke of Boulogne last year in Paris!”

“I really----did not----in fact, it was very far from my
intentions----” stammered the discomfited colonel, casting a glance
toward the door, to ascertain if there were any possibility of escape:
but, alas! _that_ was out of the question.

“Nothing but a mating, or the most abjict apology will suffice!”
vociferated Captain O’Blunderbuss, perceiving that he had completely
over-awed his antagonist. “Frank, my frind, run over to our lodgings
and fetch my pisthols--in the box covered with green baize, you
know--and, be the power-rs! we’ll fight it out across the table, each
houlding the ind of a handkerchief:--that is to say, with Mr. Scales’
lave and, per-r-mission.”

“Oh! I shan’t interfere,” said the red-faced Brother enjoying the scene
as much as Mr. Frank Curtis, who rose from his chair as if to depart
for the purpose of executing the little commission respecting the
pistols.

“Really, gentlemen,” stammered Colonel Tickner, glancing in
bewilderment and dismay from one to the other: “I--I am sure--I did
not----”

“Did ye mane to insult me?” demanded the captain, brandishing the
poker, while his aspect seemed to acquire increased ferocity every
moment.

“No--no--certainly not,” responded the colonel, catching at the hope
of extricating himself from the deadly perils which appeared to hem him
in around.

“And ye acknowledge yourself to be a liar and a scounthrel?”
vociferated the terrible Gorman O’Blunderbuss.

“Why, my dear sir--as for that----”

“Don’t ‘_dear sir-r_’ me!” interrupted the Irishman, fiercely,
“Acknowledge yourself to be a liar and a scounthrel--and on my part
I shall be ready to acknowledge in retur-r-n that ye’ve made such an
apology as a gintleman ought under the circumstances.”

“Oh! yes--mutual concessions,” observed Frank with a wink at Mr.
Scales, who could scarcely keep, his countenance through a violent
inclination to laugh.

“A liar and a scounthrel!” repeated the captain, as he advanced in
a threatening manner towards the wretched victim of this egregious
bullyism.

“Well, my dear sir--if it will satisfy you--and, as your friend
observes, on the principle of mutual concessions--I--I----”

“Out with it, man!” roared the captain: “don’t keep us waiting all
day--for the hot wather is getting could----”

“You’d better not provoke him any more,” whispered Frank: “or I shall
be compelled to run and fetch the pistols--unless you prefer having
your brains dashed out with the poker.”

“Oh! murder! ejaculated the miserable Tickner, turning deadly pale at
the awful alternative suggested: “give me time to breathe, Captain
O’Blunderbuss----”

“Not a moment!” cried the ferocious gentleman thus appealed to: “I must
have complate satisfaction before ye brathe another puff!”

“Well, then--I admit that I--I am--what you said,” returned the colonel.

“Repate the words! A liar and a scounthrel!”

“A liar and--and--a scoundrel,” echoed the humbled and trembling
wretch, wishing that the floor would open and swallow him up--or that
any other equally improbable casualty might occur, so long as it should
remove him from the presence of the ferocious Irishman.

“Ye hear his wor-rds, my frinds?” cried the captain: “he declar-rs
himself to be a liar and a scounthrel. And now, as a man of honour-r, I
confiss myself completely satisfied. The apology is most handsome--and
such as reflicts the highest credit on him as a gintleman. Give me your
hand, sir-r!”

The colonel diffidently extended the member thus demanded; and the
gallant Irishman shook it with such hearty good will, that its owner
winced and writhed with the pain of the iron pressure.

“And now we’ll spake no more on milithary matthers,” said Gorman
O’Blunderbuss; “but dhrink potheen at our aise, and converse on all
kinds of things.”

By this little arrangement the captain got rid of the necessity of
giving any explanation relative to his own military career; and Colonel
Tickner, speedily forgetting the deep humiliation to which the bullying
character of the Irishman and his own craven spirit had subjected him,
paid his respects with so much earnestness to the whiskey, that Frank
was soon compelled to sally forth and procure another bottle--Mrs.
Pitkin having returned to her own domicile under the plea of being
“very ill,” which in plain English meant “very drunk.”

The conviviality was maintained until half-past ten, when Captain
O’Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis rose to take their leave of Mr. Scales
and the colonel. But before they departed, the Irishman renewed
his expressions of gratitude and his protestations of friendship
to the worthy Brother who had manifested so much kindness towards
him;--and, highly delighted with their evening’s entertainment, the two
“inseparables” walked off arm-in-arm together.

Now how gloomy--how truly monastic appeared the Charter House, as
they traversed the spacious court, bounded by the low, uniform ranges
of buildings. Most of the windows were dark; but here and there a
flickering light was gleaming--feeble and faint as the spirit of the
old man for whose long lonely hours even that poor candle was a species
of companion.

In spite of the natural liveliness of the two friends’ dispositions--in
spite of the whiskey they had imbibed--they shuddered as the aspect of
the place, in the more than semi-obscurity of the starlight, seemed
cold and cheerless to the view,--aye, and struck so to their very
hearts.

Their footsteps raised echoes which sounded hollow and gloomy, as if
coming from the midst of tombs; and if they paused for a moment, the
silence was so deep--so profound, it seemed impossible that the place
was in the very midst of the mightiest metropolis in the world.

The feelings of the two friends were such, that they could not have
uttered a ribald word nor given vent to a jest or a laugh, as they
traversed an enclosure where the stillness was so awful and the
cloistral aspect of the scene so coldly, sternly monastic.

Had their way lay through a vast cathedral, at the silent midnight
hour, they could not have experienced a sense of more painful
oppression; nor would a deeper gloom have fallen upon their spirits.

It was a great relief when the porter closed the wicket of the
massive gates behind them;--and as they hastily skirted Charterhouse
Square--keeping a good look-out for fear of unpleasant prowlers in that
region--the captain whispered to his companion, “Well, Frank--and, be
Jasus! I’d sooner be knocked about the wor-r-ld as you and I are at
times, me boy, than take up my quar-r-ters altogether in that place.
It’s all very pritty, no doubt, while one has his frinds with him; but
whin they’re gone, Frank, it strikes me that the loneliness becomes tin
thousand times more lonely.”

“I’m just of the same opinion, captain,” returned Mr. Curtis. “And now
where shall we put up for the night?”

“Be the power-rs! and we’ve cash in our pockets--aad it’s afther
pathronising some tavern we’ll be until the morning, whin we’ll take
fresh lodgings,” exclaimed the gallant gentleman, his naturally good
spirits reviving, as he found himself safe in Aldersgate Street, and no
suspicious-looking characters dodging him in the rear.




CHAPTER CLI.

THE CALM.--THE TEMPEST.


Return we now to Charles Hatfield and Perdita.

The gorgeous lustre of a Parisian summer morning streamed through the
muslin curtains of a handsome chamber in the hotel at which they had
taken up their abode: and the glory of that sun-light shone upon the
nuptial couch, where the newly-wedded pair still slept.

The night of bliss had passed; and, wearied with love’s dalliance,
they had fallen into a deep slumber, the dreams of which were soft and
voluptuous, and gave no forewarning of a coming storm.

The long, luxuriant, deep brown hair of Perdita flowed over the snowy
whiteness of the pillow; and the dark, thick, slightly curling fringes
of the closed eye-lids reposed on cheeks flashed with the ecstatic
nature of her visions.

A gentle smile played upon her moist lips of richest red,--a smile that
subdued the expression of resoluteness which her countenance was wont
to wear, and gave an indescribable charm of serenity and sweetness to
features usually indicative of such strong passions and such fierce
desires.

But those passions were now lulled to rest: those desires were for the
time assuaged;--and happiness filled the soul of the sleeping woman.

One fine, white, and robust arm lay outside the coverlid: the other
supported the head, or rather half embraced the neck of her young and
handsome husband.

The sunbeams seemed to kiss her flowing hair,--seemed to play with the
exquisitely modelled arm that lay completely exposed,--seemed also to
revel in the treasures of her naked bosom, so firm, so rounded, and so
regularly heaving.

Sleep likewise sealed the eyes of Charles Hatfield: smiles likewise
played open his lips;--and his countenance appeared a perfect specimen
of god-like beauty incarnate in man.

Yes: they were a handsome pair;--and so far there was a remarkable
fitness in their union--but in naught beside!

In perfect happiness had they sunk into the profound slumber which
still enwrapped them;--for, on the one side, Charles Hatfield had
become possessed of that woman of glorious loveliness who had
enchanted--captivated--enthralled his very soul;--and, on the other,
Perdita believed herself to have gained the title of _Vicountess
Marston_ already, and to have that of _Countess of Ellingham_ in
perspective.

It was nine o’clock in the morning--the morning succeeding the bridal
night: and thus were the newly-wedded pair still sleeping in the
nuptial couch.

Presently the door opened, and Rosalie entered the room,--Rosalie,
naturally so gay, blythe, and full of spirits--but now with a cloud
upon her brow, and evident anxiety in her manner.

Advancing towards the bed, she paused--gazed for a few moments upon
the sleepers--and murmured to herself in French, “How handsome and
how serenely happy they appear to be! What a pity it is to awake
them!”--then, after another short pause, she said hurriedly, “And yet
it must be--for _the stranger_ is imperative.”

Thus speaking, she touched Charles Hatfield gently on the arm; and
he woke up, with a start. But Rosalie immediately put her finger to
her lip to enjoin silence; and the young man, now completely aroused,
surveyed her with mingled surprise and anger,--surprise at her
mysterious behaviour, and anger at her intrusion.

“Hush!” she said, in a low but emphatic tone. “A gentleman insists upon
seeing you--and, as his manner is so curious, I thought I had better
awake you _first_, sir,” she added, glancing significantly towards her
mistress, who still slept on.

“A gentleman!” repeated Charles, a suspicion--almost a certainty of the
real truth flashing to his mind: “describe him!”--and he also spoke in
a whisper, though with emphasis.

Rosalie gave a hurried sketch of the individual who so imperiously
demanded an immediate interview with her master; and Charles found that
his conjecture was correct--too correct, indeed!

“Go to him--and say that I shall be with him in five minutes,” he
observed, in a tone expressive of deep vexation;--and Rosalie retired.

Charles immediately rose from the couch, but without awaking Perdita;
and, having hastily slipped on some clothing, he proceeded to the
sitting-room belonging to the suite of apartments which he had hired at
the hotel.

He now found himself face to face with his father!

Mr. Hatfield was pacing the parlour in an agitated manner, when
the young man entered;--his countenance was very pale, and wore an
expression of deep care: indeed, Charles was shocked when his parent,
turning round to accost him, thus presented to his view an aspect so
profoundly wretched--so eloquently woe-begone.

The young man, during the few minutes which had intervened from
the time that Rosalie quitted his bed-chamber until the instant
when he repaired to the sitting-room, had nerved himself with all
his energy--braced himself with all his courage--mustered all his
resolution, to undergo what he knew must prove a painful trial; for he
expected accusations of disobedience and ingratitude--reproaches for
unmanly conduct towards Lady Frances Ellingham,--in fine, a repetition
of those scenes which had bitterly occurred at the Earl’s mansion in
Pall Mall, and which, characterised by so much misconception as they
had been, had materially tended to diminish the authority of the father
and the respect of the son.

Yes: he had made up his mind to bear upbraidings and encounter the most
painful remonstrances;--he had even resolved to recriminate in the old
style--reproaching his father for the wrongs which he imagined himself
to have sustained at his hands relative to the secrets attendant upon
his birth and social position. But when he beheld the expression
of deep care and the ashy pallor which sate upon that father’s
countenance, his rebellious heart softened--his stern resolves gave
way--his better feelings once more stirred within him;--and all on a
sudden it struck him that there must be some reason for his parent’s
altered appearance, of a nature more grave--more serious, than the mere
grief which this runaway match could possibly occasion.

The thought that evil had happened to his mother flashed to his
mind;--and in an instant all his imaginary wrongs were forgotten.

“Father--dear father,” he exclaimed, in a tone of earnest appeal; “keep
me not in suspense! My mother----”

“Is as well, I hope, as under circumstances she can possibly be,”
interrupted Mr. Hatfield, in a hollow and sombre tone.

“Thank God!” cried Charles, fervently.

“Is it possible that you still love your mother?” demanded Mr.
Hatfield, whose countenance brightened up in the faintest degree, but
in a manner as sickly as if the gleam of a dying lamp fell upon the
rigid features of a corpse.

“Is it possible that you can ask me the question?” exclaimed the young
man. “Oh! you know that I love my mother--my dear mother,” he repeated,
as a thousand proofs of her affection for him suddenly rose up in
his mind--rapidly as the spell of an enchanter might cause flowers
to appear upon the surface of a stern and arid waste. “And you, my
father,” he continued, taking his parent’s hand, and pressing it to
his lips, “I love you also--in spite of what you may suppose to be my
disobedient conduct!”

“No--no--you love me not!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, hastily withdrawing
his hand which for a few moments he had abandoned to his son: “else
never would you have acted thus. But tell me, Charles--tell me,--for
I did not condescend to question your flippant French servant,--tell
me--have I come too late to save you?--are you married to that young
woman----”

“If you mean, father, whether Perdita Fitzhardinge is now my wife,”
began Charles, drawing himself up proudly, and speaking in a
resolute--almost indignant tone,--“I----”

“Perdita Fitzhardinge!” repeated the unhappy man, staggering as if
from a sudden blow dealt by an invisible hand: “oh! then ’tis indeed
she--and all my worst fears are confirmed! Villiers was right--and
those officers were right also!”

“What mean you, father!” demanded Charles, now seriously
alarmed--though knowing not what to think. “You speak of a young lady
of ravishing beauty--elegant manners--spotless character----”

“Charles Hatfield, is she your wife?” asked the parent, now advancing
close up to the young man, and pressing his arm so violently with the
strong spasm which convulsed his fingers that Charles winced and almost
cried out through the pain inflicted; for his arm felt as if it were
grasped by fingers of iron!

“Yes, father--I am proud to inform you,” he said, again assuming an air
of noble independence,--“I am proud to inform you----”

“Fool--madman--senseless idiot!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, his rage
suddenly bursting forth with such volcanic fury that his son fell back
in terror and dismay and eyed his father as if he thought that _he_
must be insane: “you know not what you have done--the misery, the
wretchedness you have prepared for yourself--the ashes you are heaping
upon your own head--the infamy and disgrace you have brought down upon
yourself and all connected with you----”

“Father--father!” cried Charles, now becoming full of wrath in his
turn: “you exceed the license which belongs to a parent even when the
son is in his nonage! Remember that you are alluding to the marriage
which I have thought fit to contract----”

“A marriage which will embitter the remainder of your days, sir,”
retorted Mr. Hatfield, turning sharply round upon his son, and speaking
with almost savage rage.

“This is unworthy of you--and I shall hear no more,” said Charles, in a
haughty tone and with a dignified manner, as he made for the door.

“Stop, sir!” cried Mr. Hatfield, rushing after him and detaining him
forcibly by the arm: “we may not part thus----”

“Speak not evil, then, of my wife!” exclaimed Charles, turning round,
and darting on his sire a look of superb defiance.

“Your wife!” repeated Mr. Hatfield, his manly voice suddenly assuming
the almost shrieking tone of a wild hysterical laugh: “your wife!” he
said, now echoing his own words. “Oh! my God, that I should hear you
call that woman--that vile, profligate woman, by the sacred name----

“Father!” ejaculated Charles Hatfield, now goaded to desperation, and
raising his arm in a menacing manner: “forbear--forbear, I say,” he
continued in a hoarse, thick voice,--“or, by the heaven above us! I
shall strike even _you_!”

“Listen--listen, Charles--for God’s sake, have patience!” cried
Mr. Hatfield, the thought now flashing to his mind that in his
ungovernable passion he had dealt only in epithets and averments as
yet unintelligible to his son--whereas he should at once have revealed
facts, terrible and startling, crushing and overwhelming though they
might be.

“I will hear you, father,” said the young man, now speaking in a tone
of dogged sullenness “but again I warn you not to provoke me beyond the
power of endurance.”

“No--no--I will not anger you, my son,” rejoined the unhappy parent,
becoming comparatively calm and even mournful in his manner and aspect;
“for, alas! I have tidings to reveal to you which will pierce like a
dagger to your heart’s core. The woman whom you have wedded as your
wife----”

“Again that contemptuous name of ‘_the woman_!’” ejaculated Charles,
fire flashing from his eyes.

“Patience!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, firmly: “that woman has deceived
you--duped you--entangled you, heaven alone knows how! to your utter
undoing--for she is the profligate and abandoned daughter of a vile and
tainted wretch--a returned transport!”

“’Tis false--false as hell!” thundered Charles, the workings of his
countenance rendering him, handsome though he naturally was, hideous
and horrible to behold.

“’Tis true--’tis true!” cried Mr. Hatfield, as if catching up the
terrible emphasis with which his son had spoken. “Perdita Slingsby--for
that is her name--is a wanton, beauteous though she may be: and it was
but two days ago that I accidentally heard the full narrative of her
profligacies in Sydney, from two officers quartered at Dover.”

When the dreadful accusation that his wife was a _wanton_ had fallen
upon the young man’s ears, his boiling rage was on the point of
bursting forth, with all the violence of language and clenched fist,
against the author of his being: but when the allusion to the officers
at Dover immediately followed, the scene on the Parade suddenly flashed
to his memory, and a faintness--a sensation of sickness came over
him,--and he staggered to a sofa, on which he sank as if exhausted and
overcome.

“Father--father,” he murmured, horrible suspicions now rising up one
after another, with lightning speed, in his soul: “your words are
terrible--they will kill me! And yet,” he added, in a firmer tone,as
a ray of hope gleamed in upon his darkening thoughts,--“I am a fool
to believe this tale! No--no--it is impossible! Perdita is pure and
virtuous--and there is some dreadful mistake in all this.”

But even as he uttered these words, a secret voice seemed to whisper
in his ears that he was only catching at a straw, and that he was in
reality drowning in the ocean of truth which was pouring in with such
sweeping rapidity and overwhelming might upon him.

“There is no mistake, my son,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a voice of
profound melancholy. “Would to heaven that there were!” he added, with
such deep conviction of the misery which his words implied, that all
hope perished suddenly in the breast of his son. “You have become the
prey to two designing women: for I heard terrible things at Dover, I
can assure you! The officers to whom I ere now alluded, had recognised
Perdita leaning on your arm----”

“Yes--yes: I see it all now!” exclaimed Charles, covering his face
with his hands, and pressing his fingers with almost frantic violence
against his throbbing brows.

“And those officers--with sorrow and grief do I tell you all this--had
themselves shared the favours of Perdita in Sydney; and as for the
mother of the abandoned girl--know you what has become of her?”
suddenly demanded Mr. Hatfield.

“No: we missed her at Dover--just as we had embarked on board the
French steam-ship----”

“Then you are doomed to receive another dreadful shock, my poor boy,”
continued Mr. Hatfield, in a tone of deep commiseration: “for Mrs.
Slingsby--or Mrs. Fitzhardinge--or whatever she calls herself--was
arrested at Dover, in consequence of a communication made by electric
telegraph from London----”

“Arrested!” cried Charles, his amazement for a moment becoming stronger
even than his deep--deep grief.

“Yes--arrested on suspicion of being concerned in a murder of an
atrocious character at Pentonville!” added Mr. Hatfield, in a solemn
and impressive tone.

“Merciful God!” ejaculated the young man, clasping his hands together
as if in mortal agony: “surely I have fallen in with fiends in female
disguise. But Perdita--Perdita,” he cried, the lingering remnants of
affection causing him to hope that he was destined to hear nothing more
terrible of _her_ than the revelations which had already crushed him as
it were to the very dust: “she at least, father, is unsuspected in this
dreadful affair?”

“The old woman who _is_ suspected, and whose countenance was seen by
a witness as she issued from the house of the murdered man,--that old
woman, who is no doubt Mrs. Slingsby, was accompanied by another and
younger female----”

“Tell me no more, father!” almost yelled forth Charles Hatfield,
literally writhing on the sofa, as if with the poignant anguish of a
wound in a vital part.

“Compose yourself, my dear son--if it be possible,” said the
disconsolate parent: “for I have many other things to tell you,--other
dreams to destroy,--dreams equally as bright as the hallucinations
which you had entertained relative to this wicked and hypocritical
Perdita. But first I ought to observe that there appears to be no
direct evidence to fix the murder of Mr. Percival----”

“Percival!” repeated Charles, another and still more dreadful
pang shooting through his heart: “tell me--Percival did you
say?--Percival--a money-lender----”

“The same,” cried Mr. Hatfield: “for I last evening read the entire
account of the murder in an English paper which I saw at the hotel
where I have put up.”

“Then is the horrible surmise too true--too accurate,” said Charles, in
a hollow tone, while his face grew ghastly once more; “and it must have
been these demons in female shape who caused his death. But on what
night, father,” he demanded with abrupt impatience, “did the murder
take place?”

“The night before you quitted London,” was the answer.

“Ah! then it is clear--clear--clear, beyond all possibility of doubt!”
exclaimed Charles. “Yes--it was on the night in question that my note
of hand was discounted by that same Percival--for Perdita has since
told me that such was the name of the money-lender,” he continued, in
his soul-harrowing musings.

“You have been raising money, then, Charles?” said Mr. Hatfield. “But
that is a miserable--a contemptible trifle compared to all the rest!
May I however ask you on what security--or on what prospects--you have
obtained a loan and given a promissory note?”

“Father, henceforth there must be no secrets between us!” returned
the young man, becoming respectful, submissive, and even imploring
in his tone and demeanour. “The dreadful revelations of this morning
have destroyed all that egotistical confidence in myself and my own
wisdom----”

“Yes, Charles,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, taking his son’s hand
and speaking in a kind, commiserating tone; “you have been too
susceptible to first impressions--you have formed hasty opinions--you
have grasped at shadows--you have revelled in delicious hopes and
pleasing aspirations, without ever pausing to reflect that the very
foundation-stone of all this castle-building was a mere delusion.”

“I do not comprehend you, father,” said the young man, now surveying
his parent with profound surprise: “unless, indeed, you allude to
the destruction of all the bright visions which I have conjured up
respecting the false--the wicked--the abandoned Perdita.”

“No, my dear son--I am now seeking to direct the conversation into
another channel,” responded Mr. Hatfield, with solemn emphasis; “for,
alas! I can too well divine the deplorable error which you have adopted
and cherished as a substantial truth.”

“An error, father!” repeated Charles, still completely mystified.

“Yes--an error of the most afflicting nature,--afflicting to
you--afflicting to me--afflicting to your mother also,” added
Mr. Hatfield, his voice becoming low and melancholy. “In a word,
Charles, you believe yourself to be that which you are not--your
ambition has blinded you--your pride has led you into the most fatal
misconceptions----”

“Father, you allude to my birth!” exclaimed the young man, starting as
he spoke. “Oh! is there any delusion in my recently formed opinions in
that respect?”

Mr. Hatfield rose--and paced the room for a few moments: the whelming
tide of recollections of the past was now combined with that of the
sorrows of the present and the fears for the future;--and his emotions
were so powerful, that his voice was choked--his faculty of speech was
for the time suffocated by ineffable feelings.

“Father--keep me not in suspense, I implore you!” said Charles, rising
from the sofa and accosting his parent. “I am nerved _now_ to hear any
thing and every thing, however terrible, in relation to myself! Only
keep me not in suspense, I beseech--I implore you!”

“Alas! my dear boy,” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, turning towards him with
tearful eyes,--“if I tell you all connected with your birth--I--I shall
unmask myself--I shall stand revealed before you as a monster whom you
must henceforth loathe and detest.”

“No--no,” cried Charles, now throwing himself into his father’s arms
and embracing him tenderly: “for the fatal difficulties--the cruel
embarrassments, in which I have plunged myself by my accursed folly--my
insane infatuation,--all these convince me that I need a kind friend
and adviser--and in you, my dearest father, I shall find both!”

“Your language--your altered manner--your affection determine me to
throw myself upon your mercy, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a low
and profoundly mournful tone; “yes,--’tis the strange--the unnatural
spectacle of a father imploring a son to forgive _him_--the father--the
stain and the stigma which mark that son’s birth!”

“Holy God! have I heard aright?” ejaculated Charles, pressing his hand
to his brow;--and, staggering back, he sank on the sofa,--not in a
swoon--not in a state of insensibility,--but stunned and stupefied, as
it were--and yet retaining a maddening consciousness of _all_!

“Yes,” continued his father, speaking in a sepulchral, unearthly tone,
and averting his head,--“you are, alas! illegitimate, my dear boy; and
the hopes--the aspirations, which I _know_ you have formed, are all
baseless visions!”

“And yet,” cried Charles, again starting suddenly from his seat,
“you assured me--emphatically assured me, that my mother was
pure--innocent--stainless;--and it was this averment that led me,
in connexion with the discovery which I lately made of other great
secrets,--it was this declaration on your part, I say, which led me to
form those hopes--indulge in those aspirations!”

“Oh! my God--it is now that I am to appear as a monster in your eyes,
Charles!” exclaimed the wretched father, in a voice of bitter anguish:
“and yet to guard against all future misconceptions, since past ones
have wrought such deplorable mischief--I must reveal every thing to
you! Yes--your mother _was_ stainless--_was_ pure--_was_ innocent;--and
I--villain, miscreant that I was--I forcibly took from her that jewel
of chastity----”

“Enough--enough!” almost shrieked forth Charles Hatfield, extending his
hands imploringly: “utter not another word--I understand you too well
already!”

“And you have _read_ the history of my past life, Charles--is it not
so?” asked the unhappy parent. “Yes--yes: I know you have _read_--in
the _Annual Register_--the frightful narrative----”

“Father,” said the young man, rising, and grasping the hands of his
sire: “you must not blush in the presence of your son! Once for all,
let me state that I _do_ know every thing;--and now let the past--so
far as it regards yourself--be buried in oblivion. My impertinent
curiosity first led me to make those researches into mysteries
which I should never have sought to penetrate;--and the knowledge I
accidentally acquired, led me to form hopes which have exercised a
fatal influence upon me! I discovered that you were the real Earl of
Ellingham; and, deeming myself to be your legitimately born son, I
conceived that you had wronged me by keeping me in darkness in respect
to the title which I fancied to be my own,--in respect, also, to the
higher title to which I believed myself to be the heir! Now--now, I can
no longer blame you for having observed so much mystery: Oh! no--on
the contrary, I have rewarded all your kindness towards me, with the
blackest ingratitude.”

“We will pardon and forgive each other,” said Mr. Hatfield, solemnly:
“you shall pardon and forgive me for the stigma that attaches itself
to your birth--you shall likewise pardon me your mother’s wrongs, even
as she herself has long, long since pardoned me: and I, on my part,
will think no more of all that you have lately done--save to extricate
you from the cruel embarrassments in which by your hasty conduct, your
imprudence, and your misconceptions, you have become involved. In a
word, I will be to you as a kind friend and adviser;--and if henceforth
I may not hope for your affection--at least I may reckon upon your
gratitude.”

“Yes--both, both!” cried Charles Hatfield, again embracing his father
tenderly. “Oh! how wicked--how criminal I have been! A veil has fallen
from my eyes--my soul has lost its dogged obstinacy--and I now perceive
how ungrateful I have been to my dear mother and yourself. But if it
be not too late to repair the past,” he continued, retreating a few
paces, and addressing his parent with a tone and manner of solemn
earnestness,--“if it be not too late to regain my mother’s love and
yours also,--oh! then the remainder of my life shall be wholly and
solely devoted to that one object! Yes--I will reinstate myself in
your esteem--I will prove by years of affection and obedience how
bitter is my remorse and how sincere is my repentance for the follies
and indiscretions of a few weeks! But in the meantime, father--in the
meantime, how am I to act towards the vile--the guilty woman, whom I
lately loved so madly?”

“Where is she at present?” demanded Mr. Hatfield, profoundly touched by
the contrition and altered feelings now manifested by his son.

“I left her asleep in a chamber belonging to this suite,” was the
reply. “Oh! I dare not meet her again--for I fear that I should spring
upon her like a tiger, and sacrifice her to my resentment! For all my
affection has now turned to a bitter--burning hatred,--a hatred against
herself and her more vile mother; and I am astounded when I reflect how
completely I have been deluded by them. It appears to me a dream--a
vision! I can scarcely bring myself to conceive that I could possibly
have been so insensate--so mad--so blind--so besotted! Oh! I could dash
my head against the wall, to punish myself for this atrocious folly!”

And the young man struck his clenched fists forcibly against his
forehead.

“Compose yourself--in the name of God! compose yourself,” said his
parent, rushing in upon him and restraining him from the commission
of farther violence. “Give not way to despair, my dear son--meet your
misfortune with courage----”

“Oh! it is easy thus to recommend patience and endurance,” exclaimed
Charles, bitterly: “but think how cruelly I have been deceived! I was
fascinated as by the eyes of a serpent;--the magic of her charms, the
melody of her voice, the sophistry of her tongue, and the excitement
of her caresses, threw spells of an irresistible nature upon me: I
was enchanted--held captive in silken chains--dazzled by the almost
superhuman beauty of that prodigy of deceit and wantonness! I was not
allowed time for reflection--suspicion had no leisure to rise up in my
bosom, much less to fix its habitation there;--for I was whirled along,
as in a delirious dream, from the first instant that I met that woman
until the instant when your revelations of this morning dispelled the
entire illusion. The artfulness of that designing creature sustained
a constant elysian excitement in my soul: a perpetual succession of
insidious wiles, of apparent proofs of deep tenderness, and of caresses
that would enthral the heart of a saint,--such--such was the magic
course in which I was hurried madly along. Endowed with a wondrous
presence of mind, she had a ready answer for every question that I put
to her--even to the explanation of her singular name;--and, with a
guile as profound as it was ravishing--with an artfulness as deep as it
was calculated to enchant and captivate--she invested the history of
her early days with a mystery which only increased my admiration, and
made her appear more interesting in my eyes.”

“You cannot wonder, then, that you were so completely deceived, my poor
boy,” said Mr. Hatfield, who had listened with great, though mournful
interest to the eloquent delineation of causes and effects which the
impassioned language of the young man had so graphically shaped. “But
as for the designing creature’s name, I heard its origin from the
officers whom I met at Dover. She is called _Perdita_, or ‘The Lost
One,’ because she was born in Newgate--and her mother, in the moment of
repentance for her own crimes, gave her that appellation as a memorial
and a warning----”

“Heavens!” ejaculated Charles; “and I believed the specious--the
plausible explanation which the artful girl gave me relative to her
name! Oh! she is made up of deceit: the world has never known her equal
in that respect. I have read of Circe, with her spells--and of the
Syrens, with their perilous allurements;--I have read also of those
Mermaids--with the heads and busts of beauteous women, and with the
tails of monsters--and whose melting looks and ravishing songs enticed
sailors to their coasts, only to fall victims to these unnatural
devourers of human flesh:--but all these wonders of heathen mythology
are surpassed by this modern Circe--this Syren of the nineteenth
century--this Mermaid who preys, not on mortal flesh, but upon immortal
souls!”

There was a terrible earnestness in the tone and manner of Charles, as
he gave utterance to these words:--and his father perceived that the
heart of the young man was painfully lacerated by the conviction of
Perdita’s tremendous duplicity.

“Yes,” resumed Charles,--and Mr. Hatfield allowed him to speak on,
knowing that feelings so powerfully excited as his had been and still
were, must have a proper vent, in order that the soul might regain
something approaching to the equilibrium of calmness:--“yes,” exclaimed
the young man, passionately,--“she, whom I believed to be the mirror
in which all excellent qualities were reflected, is the embodiment
of every possible vice--every earthly iniquity. Oh! what a splendid
personification of SIN would she make for the painter or the architect!
But it must be a bold pencil or a powerful pen that could do justice
to _her_,--aye, and a man deeply read in the mysteries of human life,
to pourtray her character with accuracy! And that character I can read
now;--and I know her to be a creature who has studied sensuality, with
all the ardour of a glowing temperament--with all the vivid sensibility
that could enhance the joys of amorous enchantment! Oh! mine was an
idolatry such as a rapt enthusiasm pays, in its blind belief, to
the Spirit of Evil, conceiving it to be the source of every virtue!
Fatal mistake--deplorable error: shall I ever surmount the terrible
consequences?”

“Yes--by taking courage, following my counsel, and placing me in
full possession of all the minutest details of this distressing and
perplexing case,” said Mr. Hatfield, assuming the part of a comforter,
now that the indignation of his son had in some degree expended itself
in those passionate outpourings which we have endeavoured to describe.

“Oh! fear not, my beloved father--my only friend,” cried Charles,
warmly,--“fear not that I shall now conceal aught from you! I have
obeyed the impulses of my own wrongheadedness--and I am suffering
terribly in consequence: I have followed the dictates of my own
wilfulness--and I have gone lamentably astray! The result is that I
have no more confidence in myself: from the pinnacle of that proud
independence which I sought to assume, I am dashed down into a state
of childish helplessness. If you abandon me--I should not have courage
even to attempt to extricate myself from this maze of embarrassments in
which I am so cruelly involved: I should resign myself to my fate--I
should sink into despair!”

“Cheer up, my beloved son--and think not for a moment of these dreadful
alternatives,” said Mr. Hatfield: “but answer me a few questions, and I
shall then know better how to act. Did you not find certain papers in a
secret recess in the Earl’s library----”

“Yes--and those papers are safe,” replied Charles: “at least--Perdita
has them secure in her writing-desk, and we will make her surrender
them presently.”

“As her husband--alas! that I should have to speak of you as such,--you
may break open that desk and take them by force,” said Mr. Hatfield!
“Does the young woman know their contents?”

“Unfortunately she does,” was the mournful answer.

“And her mother----”

“Is equally well acquainted with them,” said Charles. “Even to save
you a pang,--and heaven knows I would now do much to spare you any
additional uneasiness,--I will not deceive nor mislead you in a single
detail.”

“No--this is not a time nor a case for trifling, Charles,” observed Mr.
Hatfield. “Then both these women know who I am?” he added, in a low and
hoarse voice.

“Oh! my God!” cried Charles, giving vent to his deep vexation and
obeying the impulse of his self-accusing spirit: “to what humiliations
have I not exposed you, my dearest father? _Can_ you--_will_ you ever
forgive me for all this?”

“Have we not had much to pardon--much to explain, on either side,
already?” asked Mr. Hatfield, his voice now regaining its mildness--a
mildness that was, however, mournfully subdued. “Well, then, my dear
boy, give not way to these self-reproaches; for if I be anxious to
obtain a certain knowledge of the full extent of these evils, it
is only with the view of falling into no error and committing no
oversight in extricating both yourself and me from the embarrassments
that surround us. To return, then, to the immediate subject of our
discourse--those women know _all_?”

“All--every thing,” replied Charles. “In that blind infatuation----”

“Compose yourself, my dear boy,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a voice slightly
indicative of paternal authority. “Respecting the promissory note you
gave the money-lender Percival----”

“Oh! now I shrink indeed from telling you the truth,” interrupted
Charles, his countenance glowing with shame and confusion; “and
yet--faithful to my promise--I will not mislead you. The note of hand
to which you allude was signed--_Viscount Marston_!”

“If I recollect aright,” said Mr. Hatfield, “the account of the
murder, as reported in the newspapers, states distinctly that no
papers nor documents of any kind were found in the victim’s house--the
tin-box, in which such things were probably kept, having been emptied
of its contents. The assassin or assassins, then, whoever they may
be, possessed themselves of all the poor man’s papers--and your note
doubtless amongst the rest. In this case, we shall probably never hear
of it again. But--knowing the two women as you do--can you believe that
_they_ were the murderesses?”

“No--I cannot think it!” exclaimed Charles. “What motive could they
have had? Certainly not to recover my promissory note, since they
believed me to be the heir to immense wealth;--and as they no doubt
fancied that their connexion with me would place ample resources at
their command, they were not likely to peril their lives by killing
the man for the sake of the money which he might have had in the
house. Besides, when I saw them on the following morning, there was no
confusion--nothing on their part to denote that they had so recently
committed a horrible crime; and, depraved--wicked--unscrupulous as they
evidently are, I cannot bring myself to imagine that they could meet
me with calm and unruffled countenances, only a few hours after having
accomplished a midnight murder.”

“Let us hope that they are indeed innocent,” said Mr. Hatfield
solemnly. “And now I will explain to you the manner in which I propose
to deal with this Perdita.”

The interest and attention of Charles redoubled, if possible, as his
father uttered these words.

“Thank heaven,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “I possess wealth; and by
means of gold, every thing can be accomplished with such mercenary
adventuresses as these. Perdita shall receive a handsome sum of ready
money, and a suitable income allowed her so long as she shall consent
to dwell upon the continent, take any other name than that which you
have unfortunately given her, and never more molest you.”

But scarcely had Mr. Hatfield uttered these words,--and before his
son had time to offer a single comment upon the proposed plan to be
adopted,--the door opened, and Perdita entered the room.




CHAPTER CLII.

THE FATHER, THE SON, AND THE SON’S WIFE.


The magnificent creature whom Mr. Hatfield now beheld for the first
time, had perhaps never shone to greater advantage than on the present
occasion.

She was absolutely dazzling--radiant--supernally grand, in all the
glory of her queen-like beauty.

A French cambric wrapper, worked, and trimmed with costly lace,
enveloped her form--fitting loosely, yet defining all the rich contours
of her voluptuous shape;--and, though--having risen hurriedly almost
immediately after awakening--she had no stays on, the natural firmness
of her bust maintained its rounded proportions without any artificial
support.

We have before said that her early initiation in a career of wantonness
and the licentious course which she had pursued in Australia, had
marred nothing of the first freshness of youth in respect to her;--and
thus, though her wrapper was so far open at the bosom as to show that
the glowing orbs of snowy whiteness were unsustained by the usual
article of apparel, their contours were of virgin roundness.

Her dark brown hair had been hastily gathered up in two massive
bands, silken and glossy, and serving as a frame to set off the
height and width of the fine forehead, which rose above brows arching
majestically, and almost meeting between the temples.

Her cheeks were slightly flushed with a carnation hue;--her large
grey eyes shone brilliantly, and appeared to give a halo of light to
her whole countenance;--her moist red lips, parted with a smile of
happiness and satisfaction, revealed the teeth so perfectly regular
and of such pearly whiteness;--and her neck arched proudly and with
swan-like grace.

One arm hung negligently, but slightly rounded, by her side: the other,
thrown across her form just above the waist, kept the folds of the
wrapper together;--and from beneath the skirt of that elegant, tasteful
garment, of almost gauzy lightness and transparency, peeped forth the
beautifully-modelled ankles in their flesh-coloured silk stockings, and
the charming feet in their embroidered slippers of pale blue satin.

Though, as we have before stated, she was not above the middle
height, yet there was something truly regal and commanding in her
deportment--something more than graceful and less than imperious in her
carriage, and, altogether, she appeared a being to whom it would not be
idolatrous to kneel.

On the contrary,--prejudiced and naturally inveterate as he was against
her, Mr. Hatfield could well comprehend, even at the first glance which
he threw upon her, how a young man of enthusiastic disposition and
keen sensibility might love that enchanting creature with a devotion
amounting to a worship.

The apartment was large and beautifully furnished,--the uncarpetted
floor of oak was polished almost to mirror-like brightness,--vast
looking-glasses, set in splendid frames, were suspended to the
walls,--a massive or-molu time-piece and handsome porcelain vases
filled with flowers freshly gathered that morning, stood on the
mantel,--and through the casements, which reached from the ceiling to
the floor, and which were only partially shaded by muslin curtains,
flowed the gorgeous lustre of the cloudless sun, so that the room
seemed filled with a transparent and impalpable haze of gold-dust.

Thus the whole aspect of that large and lofty apartment was magnificent
and rich, bright and joyous;--and, had the minds of the father and son
at the instant been in a different mood, they would have felt thrilled
with admiration and delight at the presence of the magnificent creature
who now entered an atmosphere so congenially glorious and sunny.

It seemed as if the beauteous being herself were surrounded with
a golden halo,--as if the perfume of the freshly gathered flowers
were the delicious fragrance of her breath,--as if the delicate feet
and ankles bore her glancingly along a polished surface which she
scarcely appeared to touch; while the immense mirrors multiplied the
voluptuous form, as though other and kindred houris were moving about
in attendance on their queen.

The effulgence of the warm sun played on her shining hair, as if a
glory sate on that exquisitely shaped head,--gave additional brightness
to the eyes that flashed with the natural fire of joy,--and rendered
the fine and faultless countenance radiant and dazzling in its
surpassing beauty.

Were that a room in a palatial dwelling,--were it an empress making
her appearance,--and were the two men courtiers awaiting her presence,
the effect could not have been more grand--more striking,--and the
courtiers would have fallen on their knees in mute adoration of a being
that seemed almost divine!

But, alas! circumstances marred all those fine effects which the
transcendant charms of a lovely woman might have produced;--for the
soul of this woman corresponded not with her captivating exterior,--it
was dark and hideous--inspiring horrible thoughts, and suggesting ideas
of a nature so sinister, sombre, and gloomy, as to throw into the shade
all the glory of the outward loveliness.

[Illustration]

But, unsuspicious of the storm which was about to explode against her,
Perdita entered that room;--and the influence of a night of love and
voluptuousness and of elysian dreams lingered upon her countenance in
the smile that it wore.

She had slept for nearly an hour after Charles Hatfield had risen
so noiselessly from her side in the nuptial couch;--and when she at
length awoke, she imagined that her young husband had been unwilling to
disturb her when he himself arose. Nevertheless, she determined to seek
him ere she passed through the routine of the toilette;--and hastily
fastening up her hair, and assuming a slight apparel, she had proceeded
to the sitting-room where she supposed him to be.

And there indeed he was: but not alone!

Still, when Perdita, on first entering the apartment, beheld _another
person_ with him whom she sought, she had no suspicion of the real
truth, but imagined it must be some friend who had found out her
husband’s residence in Paris and had perhaps called to congratulate him
on his bridal.

Thus was it that her countenance wore that delicious expression of
pleasure and satisfaction, as she advanced towards Charles and _that
other_;--and it was not until she was within a few paces of them, that
she observed the foreboding looks which they cast upon her--even the
aversion and the hate with which they _both_ regarded her!

Then she stopped suddenly short, her countenance undergoing an
immediate change--the smile disappearing, and giving place to an
expression of proud defiance and haughty contempt; though she was
still unconscious of the nature of the storm that she saw lowering so
ominously.

“Charles, who is this person?” she demanded, indicating Mr. Hatfield
with a movement of the head, accompanied by a slight inflection of the
whole form--a gesture which would have become a queen.

“My father,” answered the young man quietly;--and he turned away
towards the mantel-piece.

For an instant Perdita seemed shocked by this announcement;--but in
the next moment, as the thought swept across her brain that it was
impossible for Mr. Hatfield to know aught seriously detrimental to
her character, she crossed the room in a majestic manner, and, laying
her long tapered fingers gently upon her husband’s arm, said, “Is it
possible that the remonstrances of your father should have induced you
to repent of this alliance,--_you_, who have sworn to love and cherish
me in spite of parents and all the world beside?”

“When a man discovers that he has taken a reptile to his bosom,” said
Charles, the words hissing through his almost set teeth, “he flings it
away from him. He _ought_ to crush it beneath his heel!”

The last sentence was added after a moment’s pause, and ere Perdita,
who was astounded at the tone, and manner, and words of her husband,
had regained the power of utterance so as to enable her lips to shape a
comment or a reply.

“Is it to me that this insulting allusion applies?” she demanded at
length--her countenance becoming ashy pale, and her lips quivering with
the rage which she still sought to subdue.

“It is to you that I addressed myself,” exclaimed Charles, now
turning round and confronting the woman whom he had lately loved with
such madness, and whom he now loathed with such savage aversion.
“Vile--polluted--wanton thing,” he cried, unabashed--undismayed by the
lightning glances that flashed from her wildly dilating orbs: “the
mask is torn from your face as the film from my eyes--and I am no
longer your dupe, though, alas! I am perhaps still your victim! I know
all--all--every thing,--the depravity of your past life--the hypocrisy
of your present course:--all--all is now revealed to me. Your evil fame
has followed you from beyond the seas;--it overtook you on the Marine
Parade at Dover;--and it now attaches itself for ever to your steps, in
the capital of France. Oh! my God--how cruelly, how miserably have I
been deceived!”

And the young man darted a glance of savage hatred upon the woman
who, pale and motionless as a marble statue, seemed petrified by the
crushing truths that fell upon her ears.

Meantime Mr. Hatfield stood aloof, with folded arms--listening to the
words that his son addressed to Perdita, and marking their effect.

“That you were born in Newgate--of a woman condemned to death for
felony, and then reprieved,--_this_ was no fault of yours,” continued
Charles, in a slow and measured tone--for he sought as much as
possible to prevent a violent outburst of the rage that boiled within
him:--“that the mystic name of _Perdita_, or ‘The Lost One,’ should
have proved prophetic of your after life, you also could not help;--and
that, amongst the felonry of New South Wales, you should have become
polluted--contaminated--and indeed _lost_, was perhaps a fate for which
you are rather to be pitied than blamed. But here all sympathy ceases
for you! Wherefore, on your arrival in England, did you seek _me_ out
to become your victim?--wherefore did your wretched mother dog my
footsteps--accost me--ensnare me into a discourse to which she imparted
a mysterious interest--and then lead me into your presence? Why did you
open the battery of all your meretricious charms upon me?--why cast
your spells around me--wean my affections from an estimable young lady
who is white as snow compared with the blackness of _your_ soul--and
lead me on until the crowning act of ruin was accomplished yesterday in
the Chapel of the British Embassy?”

“I have heard you with patience--and if you possess the generosity
of a man and an Englishman, you will give me an equal share of your
attention,” said Perdita, who, during her husband’s address, had
recovered all her wonted presence of mind--though her heart was wounded
in its very core. “It is true that I was born in Newgate--that I
deceived you respecting the origin of my Christian name--and that I
escaped not the contamination of a far-off clime into which my sad
destinies threw me. But when my mother, for reasons which I think she
made satisfactorily apparent to you, sought an interview with you,--and
when that circumstance introduced us to each other, did you not proffer
me your friendship of your own accord?--did you not next assure me that
this sentiment had changed to the feeling of love?--did you not implore
me, almost on your knees, to become your wife at the altar--I, who in
the first instance had proposed and agreed to become your mistress
only? And then you dare to speak of our marriage as the crowning act
of you ruin,--that marriage on which you yourself so imploringly--so
earnestly--so solemnly insisted?”

“Oh! yes--because I deemed you pure and virtuous!” exclaimed Charles,
almost gnashing his teeth as the words of Perdita reminded him of all
the arts which she had practised to ensnare him--all the sophistry she
had used to make herself appear in his eyes every thing that she was
_not_.

“Was it to be supposed,” she asked, impatiently and haughtily,--that
shameless Perdita--“was it to be supposed that I would reveal to you
the incidents of my past life? And yet, even if I had, I do firmly and
sincerely believe that you would still have made me your wife!”

“No--never, never!” cried Charles, his voice and manner expressing
loathing, abhorrence, and indignation. “But let us not bandy words
thus. I have intelligence which--lost and depraved as you are, and
vilely as you have treated me--I nevertheless grieve to have to convey
to you,--for I cannot, even in my anger and hate, forget that you are a
woman.”

“And that intelligence?” demanded Perdita, suffering not her
countenance nor her manner to betray the deep curiosity and the
suspense which her husband’s words had suddenly excited within her
bosom.

“The intelligence regards your mother, and explains her mysterious
disappearance at Dover,” continued Charles, who, as well as his father,
now intensely watched the young woman’s countenance.

“Speak on!” she said, not a muscle of her face betraying any
emotion:--and still she stood motionless and statue-like.

“Your mother was arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the murder
of Mr. Percival, the money-lender whom you represented to me as the
discounter of my promissory note;”--and, as Charles uttered these words
in slow and measured tones, he maintained his eyes fixed upon the pale
but unchanging features of his wife.

“Then my mother has been accused of that whereof she is innocent,”
said Perdita, in a voice so firm and resolute, yet devoid of passion,
that her hearers felt convinced she was practising no artifice now.
“It is true that Percival discounted your note: I myself received
the money--and you can doubtless give your father a satisfactory
explanation relative to the expenditure of the portion that is gone. If
Percival have indeed met his death by violent means, it was not by the
hands of two weak women that he fell.”

“Thank heaven! _this_ crime at least cannot, then, be attributed to
you,” said Charles. “There must be enough upon your conscience without
_that_!”

“And have _you_ nothing wherewith to reproach yourself?” demanded
Perdita, still maintaining that majesty of demeanour which, with
her now marble-like features, her motionless attitude, and her
fine form enveloped in drapery that fell in classic plaits and
graceful folds around her, gave her the air of a statue of Diana
the Huntress or of Juno Queen of Heaven. “Have you inflicted no
injury upon me?” she asked. “Yes--yes: and I will convince you
that your conduct has been far from blameless in that respect. You
loved me--loved me almost from the first instant that you beheld
me. Yours was not a tranquil--serene--and sickly sensation: it
was a fury--a wild passion--a delirium--a species of hurricane of
the strongest, most fervent emotions. I was all--every thing to
you: parents--family--friends,--Oh! you cared for none of these in
comparison with me. The holiest ties you would have broken--the most
sacred bonds you would have snapped--the most solemn obligations
you would have violated, sooner than have resigned your hope of
possessing me! All this is true--and you know it. Your love amounted
to a madness--a frenzy, capable of the most unheard-of sacrifices,
and as likely to hurry you into the most desperate extremes. For had
I provoked your jealousy, you would have murdered me: had I fled and
abandoned you, you would have pined to death--or committed suicide.
In fine, yours was no common love--no ordinary affection. Poets
never dreamt and novelists never depicted a love so boundless--so
absorbing--so immense as yours. And what could result from such a love
as this! The consequence was inevitable;--and that consequence was that
I, who had never loved before, received into my soul a transfusion of
the spirit that animated _you_. You were so happy in your love, that
my imagination doubtless longed to revel in the same paradise which
you had created for yourself;--and I was taught by you to love as
profoundly and as well. In a word, you ensnared my heart--you obtained
a hold upon my affections; and, as there is a living God above us! I
swear that when you led me to the altar, you loved me not better than
I loved you. And this love which I experienced for you, would have
made me a good wife--a sincere friend--a conscientious adviser. I
should have entered upon a new existence; and my soul would have become
purified. True it is that I gave to the marriage-bed a body that was
polluted and unchaste: but I gave also a heart that was wholly and
solely thine;--and from the instant that our hands were united by the
minister of God, it would have proved as impossible for me to have
played the wanton with another as that the infant child should harbour
thoughts of villainy and murder. Now you have learnt the antecedents
of my life--and your love is suddenly changed into hatred. But did you
not take me for better or worse?--did you not wed me, because you loved
me!--did you not espouse me for myself alone! Oh! you should pity me
for the past--and cherish me at present and for the future: and your
conscience tells you thus much even now!”

Charles Hatfield, who had listened with deep and solemn interest,--for
his soul was absolutely enchained by this strange display of natural
eloquence,--now shook his head impatiently.

“No! Then mark how fatal your love will have proved to me,”
exclaimed Perdita. “You cast me off--you put me away from you;--and
yet you cannot give me back the heart which you have ensnared.
Wherefore--wherefore did you bring to bear upon me the influence of
your ardent love, unless you were prepared to make every sacrifice
unto the end? I am young--I am beautiful--and I might gain a high
and a proud position by means of marriage: but, no--I am chained to
_you_--and _you_ are intent upon discarding me! Now reflect well
on the probable consequences of this proceeding on your part,”
continued Perdita, her melodious voice gathering energy, and a tinge
of rose-bud hue appearing on her cheeks and gradually deepening into
a flush,--while her eyes shone with a lustre that gave an almost
unearthly radiance to her entire countenance: “reflect well, I say,”
she repeated, “on the probable consequences of the resolution which you
have taken. As your wife, and dwelling with you as such, I should have
clung to you--loved you with unceasing devotion--exerted all my powers
to retain your esteem. Nay, more--in time I should have won your good
opinion by my _actions_--as I had already secured it by my _words_.
Amongst the entire community of women, there would have been none
more exemplary than I;--and thus your love would have proved a saving
influence--valuable to society at large, and blessed by the Almighty
Ruler whom you worship. But how changed are these prospects! You are
prepared to discard me--to thrust me away from your presence--to push
me out into the great world, where I must battle for myself. _There_
I shall find my circumstances terribly---fearfully altered from what
they were before your lips whispered the delicious but fatal tale of
love in mine ears. For if I retain your name, I thereby proclaim myself
a divorced wife: if I pass myself off as an unmarried young lady, I
shall not dare to accept proposals for an alliance, be it never so
advantageous--because the fear of a prosecution for bigamy would hang
over my head. Will you, then, forgive me for the past, and receive me
as an affectionate wife and reformed woman to your arms?--or will you
send me forth, an outcast--with ruined hopes, blighted prospects, and a
damaged character?”

Gradually, as she approached the end of this speech, Perdita had
suffered her voice to lose its energy and its firmness, and grow
tender, pathetic, and mournful--until at the close of her appeal, it
became tremulously plaintive and profoundly touching,--while her form
simultaneously relaxed from its statue-like rigidity--the head slightly
inclining, the body bending in the least degree forward, and the hands
joining as the last words fell from her lips.

For an instant Charles was about to yield to the appeal commenced with
a dignity so well assumed, and terminated with a tenderness so well
affected; but, at the critical moment, Mr. Hatfield, who had hitherto
remained a mute spectator of this extraordinary scene, stepped forward,
exclaiming, “No--no; a compromise of such a nature is impossible!
Charles, the sophistry is indeed most specious--but the peril is
likewise tremendous!”

“Yes--yes,” cried the young man, instantly recovering his presence of
mind: “I told you, father, that she was a Circe--a Syren,--and now you
have ample proofs of the assertion.”

While he was yet speaking, the appearance of Perdita underwent a rapid
and signal change. She suddenly seemed to throw off the air of a
suppliant, as if she were discarding a mean garment that was unbecoming
and abhorrent: her cheeks acquired a deeper flush, her eyes a more
dazzling brilliancy;--the blue veins in her forehead grew more clearly
traceable--her nostrils dilated--her lips wreathed into an expression
of sovereign disdain--and her entire form appeared to expand into more
majestic proportions.

A moment before she had seemed a voluptuous beauty, in the melting
softness of an appeal for pardon at love’s shrine: now she stood in the
presence of the father and son,--proud--haughty--and magnificent as
Juno,--and armed with authority to wield the lightning-shafts and the
thunderbolts of Jove.

“Let us think of peace no more,” she exclaimed: “but war--terrible
war,--war to the knife! Cast me off--thrust me from you--denounce
me as the wanton Perdita--proclaim me to be born of a felon, and to
have first seen the light in Newgate,--do all this if you will: I
shall not the less remain your wife, Charles--and, as your wife, I am
ennobled,--I bear the proud title of _Viscountess Marston_!”

“Miserable woman,” cried Mr. Hatfield: “you deceive yourself--even
as Charles has been by himself deceived! For know that he is
illegitimate----”

“’Tis false! you would delude--you would mislead me!” exclaimed
Perdita, who, in spite of the tone of confidence in which she uttered
these ejaculations, was painfully affected by the revelation that had
elicited them.

“It is true--too true!” cried Charles, with a bitterness that carried
conviction to the mind of Perdita.

“Then if I cannot proclaim myself to be Viscountess Marston,” she said,
concealing with a desperate and painful effort the shock which she had
just experienced,--“I can still have my revenge against you both;--for
if _my_ mother were a felon, Charles, _your_ father was the same--if
_I_ were born in Newgate, the author of _your_ being has passed through
the hands of the public executioner!”

“Fiend--wretch!” ejaculated the young man, springing forward as if
about to dash her on the floor and trample her under foot.

But the hand of his father suddenly grasped him as in an iron vice,
and held him back; and all the while Perdita had maintained her
ground--shrinking not a step, retreating not a pace.

“Coward!” she exclaimed, in a tone of ineffable contempt, as she kept
her eyes--her large, shining grey eyes--fixed with disdain upon him
whom she had lately loved so fervently and so well.

“Charles--Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in an imploring voice, as he
held his son firmly by both arms,--“merit not by your actions that
infamous woman’s reproaches. I was prepared for what she dared to
address to me----”

“Oh! my dear father, this is terrible!” murmured the young man, who
felt a faintness coming over him, as the words which Perdita had spoken
concerning his parent still rang in his ears, and as he observed the
deadly pallor which had spread over that parent’s countenance.

“Compose yourself, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, conducting him to a
seat: then, turning round and accosting Perdita, he exclaimed, “Madam,
let us treat this most unpleasant affair as a purely business-matter:
in short, let us effect an arrangement which may be proper and suitable
for both parties--the basis being the immediate separation of yourself
and my son.”

“Yes--I have no longer any objection to offer to that proposal,” said
Perdita; “for after his attempt to strike me, I despise even more than
I hate him.”

“And just now,” exclaimed the young man, starting from his seat, “you
declared that I possessed your heart. Oh! I am rejoiced that you have
admitted your hatred towards me--because I have thereby received
another proof of your boundless duplicity.”

Perdita smiled scornfully--but deigned no reply.

“Leave the affair in my hands, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in an
authoritative tone: then, observing with satisfaction that his son
returned to his seat, the father addressed himself once more to
Perdita, who remained standing near the mantel. “Madam,” he continued,
“you have already heard that the bright hopes in which your husband
had indulged, and the golden visions which he had conjured up, are
all destroyed by the revelation which I have this morning made to
him,--the revelation of the _one_ fatal secret--his illegitimacy!
Instead, then, of being _Viscount Marston_ at present and _Earl of
Ellingham_ in perspective, he is still plain and simple _Charles
Hatfield_--and so he is likely to remain. By consequence, you, madam,
are _Mrs. Hatfield_--and not _Viscountess Marston_ now, nor with any
chance of becoming _Countess of Ellingham_. If you require proofs of
what I am now telling you, I can exhibit them at once;--for, knowing
beforehand the nature of the delusions in which my son had cradled his
fancy, and the necessity of destroying them, I set out on this journey
provided with several papers of importance. For instance,” continued
Mr. Hatfield, taking forth his pocket-book; “here is the certificate of
my marriage with Lady Georgiana Hatfield--and you may at once perceive
by the date how impossible it is that our son could have been born in
wedlock.”

While thus speaking, Mr. Hatfield had sunk his voice to the lowest
audible whisper--so that Perdita alone heard him: for the revelation he
was making was of a most painful nature, although rendered imperatively
necessary under the circumstances.

Perdita glanced rapidly over the certificate, and bit her lip with a
vexation she could no longer conceal;--for that document effectually
set at rest the question of her husband’s legitimacy or illegitimacy;
and she indeed found that instead of gaining a noble title by marriage,
she had formed an alliance with an obscure young man who was dependant
on his parents for even a morsel of bread.

“It now remains for you to decide whether you choose to proclaim
yourself, wherever you go, to be the wife of Mr. Charles Hatfield;--or
whether you will think fit to resume your maiden name--or any other
that may suit your purposes--and maintain a strict silence henceforth
relative to this most unfortunate alliance.”

Thus spoke Mr. Hatfield;--and Perdita appeared to be plunged in deep
thought for a few minutes.

“And what are the conditions you annex to those alternatives?” she
asked at length, fixing her eyes, which now shone with a subdued
and sombre lustre, in a penetrating manner upon Mr. Hatfield’s
countenance--as if she would _there_ read the reply to her question
even before his lips could frame it.

“If you proclaim yourself my son’s wife,” said he, meeting her look
firmly and speaking resolutely, “I shall spare no expense in bringing
the whole transaction before the proper tribunals in England, with the
ultimate view of enabling him to obtain a divorce; and in this case I
should not allow you one single farthing--no, not even to save you from
starvation.”

“And have you not reflected,” asked Perdita, in a tone and with a
gesture indicative of superb disdain,--“have you not reflected that
a judicial investigation must inevitably lay bare all the tremendous
secrets connected with yourself and family?--for you cannot suppose,
that if you commence the part of a persecutor against _me_, I shall
evince any forbearance towards _you_! No--it would be, as I said just
now, a terrible warfare--a warfare to the very death,--and in which
human ingenuity would rack itself to discover and set in motion all
possible means of a fearful vengeance.”

“I have weighed all this,” said Mr. Hatfield, calmly; “and I have
resolved to dare exposure of every kind--nay, to sacrifice myself, if
necessary--in order to save my son.”

“And now for the conditions annexed to the second alternative?” said
Perdita, maintaining a remarkable coolness and self-possession,
although in the secret recesses of her soul she harboured the
conviction that the triumph was as yet on the other side, and that she
must end by accepting the best terms she could obtain.

“If you will sign a paper, undertaking never to represent yourself
as my son’s wife,” said Mr. Hatfield,--“never to molest him in any
way--never to return to England, but to fix your abode in some
continental state,--and lastly, that you will retain inviolably secret
not only the fact of this most inauspicious marriage, but likewise
all matters connected with myself and family,--if you affix your name
to such a document,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “I will immediately pay
you the sum of one thousand pounds, and I will allow you five hundred
pounds a year so long as the convention shall be duly kept on your
part.”

“And should you happen to die before me?” said Perdita, her manner now
being of that cold, passionless nature which rendered it impossible for
Mr. Hatfield to conjecture what sort of an impression his alternatives
and their conditions had made upon her mind: “for you must remember,”
she added, “that such an event is to be reckoned upon in the common
course of nature.”

“Granted,” was the prompt reply. “My will shall contain a clause
enjoining and empowering my executors to continue the payment of your
income, from a fund especially sunk for the purpose, so long as your
conduct shall be in accordance with the conditions stipulated.”

“And am I to understand that if I leave your son unmolested, I shall
remain unmolested also!” demanded Perdita.

“I scarcely comprehend you,” said Mr. Hatfield, evidently perplexed.

“I mean,” replied Perdita, in a slow and measured tone, so that her
words could not be misapprehended nor their sense mistaken,--“I mean
that if I go forth into the world again as Miss Fitzhardinge, or Miss
Fitzgerald, or any other name I may choose to take,--and if, receiving
a suitable offer of marriage, I contract such an alliance,--I mean,
then, to ask whether I may calculate upon acting thus with impunity at
your hands?”

“My God! what interest can I have to molest you in any way?” cried Mr.
Hatfield. “Would to heaven that you could both of you sign a paper
effectually emancipating you from any claim on each other in respect to
this accursed--this miserable marriage.”

“You are now speaking with unnecessary excitement, sir, after having
reproved your son for the same fault--and also after having yourself
proposed to discuss this matter in a purely business-like manner,”
said Perdita, her lip curling slightly with an expression of scornful
triumph.

“True, madam,” observed Mr. Hatfield, who, throughout this
dialogue--since his son had remained seated apart--had treated Perdita
with a perfect though frigid courtesy: “I was in error to give way to
any intemperance of tone or manner--and I ask your pardon. You have now
heard all that I have to propose----”

“And I accept the conditions,” she said. “Indeed, I shall be happy for
this scene to terminate as speedily as possible.”

“A few minutes’ more will suffice, madam,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “If
you will have the kindness to provide me with writing-materials, I
shall not be compelled to intrude on you much longer.”

Perdita bowed slightly: and quitted the room,--not in haste--but
with stately demeanour and measured tread, as if she were merely a
consenting party to a business-transaction, and not a vanquished one on
whom conditions had been imposed.

The moment the door closed behind her, Mr. Hatfield said to his son,
“That woman is indeed a prodigy of beauty, and a very demon at heart.
What an angelic creature would she have been were she as pure and
virtuous as she is lovely!”

“Ah! my dear father,” returned Charles, who appeared to be completely
spirit-broken and overwhelmed by the terrible occurrences and
revelations of this memorable morning,--“you can now comprehend,
perhaps,--at least to some extent,--the nature of that infatuation
which I experienced in respect to this singular being. The world has
never seen her equal for beauty and for wickedness.”

“The sooner you are removed from the sphere of her fatal influence, the
better,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “When she re-appears, do you quit the
room, and hasten as much as possible your preparations to depart with
_me_.”

“Fear not, my dear father,” responded Charles, “that I shall, of my
own accord, interpose any delay. But the papers--she will surrender
them----”

“As a matter of course. You may have observed,” added the parent,
“that, in spite of her haughty coldness, she was subdued and
vanquished.”

At this instant the door opened, and Perdita returned, bearing her
writing-desk in her hands.

Her countenance, though flushed, and thus presenting a striking
contrast to its colourless appearance some time before, gave no
indication of the nature of her feelings: impossible was it to judge of
the emotions that might occupy her bosom, by that which is wont to be
denominated the mirror of the soul.

Her step was still measured and stately, while her attitude was
graceful; and, as she advanced towards the table--passing through the
golden flood of lustre that filled the room--the waving of her white
drapes; gave an additional charm to the undulating nature of her motion.

From beneath her richly fringed lids, while affecting to keep her eyes
half bent downward as if on the rose-wood desk which she carried, she
darted a rapid glance at Mr. Hatfield--and then her look dwelt the
least thing more lingeringly on her husband, who had risen from his
seat and was leaning on the mantel.

By a natural effect of curiosity,--perhaps also in obedience to a last
remaining particle of that immense love which he had so lately borne
her,--Charles Hatfield likewise glanced towards her from beneath his
half-closed lids, and also while he wished to appear as if fixing his
gaze downward:--thus their looks met--unavoidably met,--and the blood
rushed to the countenance of the young man, as he felt overwhelmed with
shame, and bitterly indignant with himself, for having given way to
this momentary proof of weakness.

On the other hand, a smile of triumph,--though faint, and perceptible
only to her husband--not to his father, who saw not with eyes that had
once looked love towards _her_,--curled the rich red lips of Perdita;
and she thought within herself, “Even in the bitterness of your hate,
the power of my charms revives a spark, albeit an evanescent one, of
the fires that were wont to burn within your breast in adoration of me!”

All this dumb show--this mute expression of the strangest, and yet the
most natural feelings on either side, occupied but a few moments;--and
then, as Perdita placed the desk upon the table, Charles turned to quit
the room.

“Here are writing materials, sir,” she said to Mr. Hatfield, not
choosing to appear to notice the departure of her husband; for all the
pride of this extraordinary woman was aroused to a degree which in a
being of lesser energy would have been totally incompatible with the
frightful exposure that had been made of her depravity and deceit.

But the consciousness of possessing the loveliness of an Angel rose
superior to the shame of being proved to be endowed with the profligacy
of a Demon: the knowledge that she was so pre-eminently beautiful was
for her a triumph and a glory which, in her estimation, threw into the
shade the certainty of her wantonness and guile;--she flattered herself
and fancied that, even were her true character revealed in its proper
colours to all the world, the darkness of her soul would be absorbed
and rendered invisible by the transcendant brilliancy of her outward
charms.

Thus, even in the presence of the husband to whom she was unmasked,
and of the indignant father who had unmasked her, the pride of her
loveliness enabled her to maintain that haughty demeanour which we
have explained;--for it was not Perdita who was likely to melt into
tears--to supplicate for mercy--to acknowledge shame or remorse--or to
kneel to those whom she now looked upon as her enemies. Unless, indeed,
she had some grand object to accomplish, or some important end to
gain;--and then she could veil her pride beneath an assumption of all
the passions--all the emotions--and all the tender feelings which she
might deem it expedient to affect.

To return to the thread of our narrative.

“Here are writing materials, sir,” she remarked, as she placed the desk
upon the table: then, drawing a chair near, she seated herself in a
calm and dignified manner, and with all the appearance of one who knew
and felt that she had important business in hand.

Mr. Hatfield bowed--seated himself likewise--and proceeded to draw up a
document including the conditions which he had already specified, and
which the lady had agreed to.

While he was writing, Perdita kept her eyes fixed upon him, as if she
could tell by the movement of the pen the very words it was forming, as
the hand which held it travelled rapidly over the paper.

At length the document was finished; and Mr. Hatfield presented it to
Perdita for her perusal. While she was engaged in reading it, he drew
forth his pocket-book, and counted thence ten notes, each of a hundred
pounds, upon the table.

“I have no objection to offer to this deed,” said Perdita, taking up
the pen to sign it.

“Here is the amount promised,” said Mr. Hatfield; “and I will now give
you an undertaking relative to the payment of the income which I have
promised you.”

Perdita bowed coldly; and he immediately drew up the second paper.

“I must now request you to give me up all the _private documents_ which
my son placed in your hands for safe keeping,” observed Mr. Hatfield.

“They are in the upper part of that desk--and you can take them,” said
Perdita, without the least hesitation; for she was naturally prepared
for this demand, and had no object to serve in refusing it.

She then signed her undertaking, while Mr. Hatfield possessed himself
of the documents and looked them carefully over to ascertain that none
were missing.

Having satisfied himself on this head, he gave Perdita the money and
the undertaking which he had prepared; and thus terminated this strange
business.

“I have now a few observations to make,” said Perdita; “but they are
not of a nature to revive any unpleasant discussion. They concern
matters entirely personal to myself. Although I have declared--and
emphatically declare again--that my mother is innocent of the crime
on suspicion of which you inform me that she has been arrested, the
judicial investigation will naturally lead to a most unpleasant
exposure of her _name_. It is therefore probable that my interests and
views may be served by a change of _my name_--as I shall not of course
bear that which the marriage-ceremony of yesterday gave to me. Should I
adopt such a course, I will acquaint you by letter with the fact----”

“Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” said Mr. Hatfield; “but I
shall seek not to become acquainted with any particulars that may
hereafter concern you. Every quarter you can draw upon me, through any
banker, in any part of the world where you may happen to be; and you
are at liberty to use any name you may think fit--save _one_. I shall
know that the draft is yours; and you may rest assured that it will be
duly honoured.”

“Then we have now no more to say to each other,” observed Perdita,
rising from her seat, and mechanically drawing the muslin wrapper
around her, in such a manner that it displayed all the full proportions
of her fine figure.

Mr. Hatfield bowed a negative,--then immediately added, “But perhaps
you will have no objection, madam, to remain here until my son shall
have made his preparations for departure?”

“Oh! certainly.” cried the young woman, her lip curling haughtily.
“Think not, sir, that I shall condescend to use any arts in order to
win him back to me;--although well aware am I that if I chose to do so,
I should speedily behold him languishing at my feet.”

Scarcely were these words uttered, when Rosalie entered the room, and
addressing herself to Mr. Hatfield, said, “My master, sir, is waiting
for you below.”

The abigail, who was evidently at a loss to comprehend the nature of
all that was going on,--though she saw enough to convince her that
something very uncommon and unusual was taking place,--retired as soon
as she had delivered this message;--and Mr. Hatfield, as he glanced
towards Perdita while bowing to take his leave, observed that her
countenance had again grown marble-like with pallor.

For now that the conviction that Charles was really gone was forced
upon her mind, a pang of regret struck to her heart,--regret to lose
one--_the first_--whom she had ever really loved;--and for a few
instants she felt as if all her affection for him had suddenly revived
with tenfold violence.

But this weakness on her part was speedily dissipated: her pride
resumed its empire,--and she remembered likewise that her connexion
with him had not only put her in possession of a large sum of ready
money, but had likewise assured her of a handsome annual income for the
remainder of her days.

Thus, almost before Mr. Hatfield had reached the room-door, the colour
had returned to her cheeks,--and her countenance became radiant with
triumph,--for she murmured to herself, as she contrasted her present
position with that in which she had first set foot on European soil,
“It is my beauty that has done all this!”




CHAPTER CLIII.

FATHER AND SON.


Mr. Hatfield found his son waiting for him in the coffee-room; and,
entering the _citadine_, or one-horse hackney-coach, in which the
former had arrived, they proceeded to the hotel at which he had put up,
and which was in the Place Vendôme.

It was now past eleven o’clock; for the incidents related in the two
preceding chapters, had occupied two full hours:--and, during that
interval, how many revelations had been made--what changes of feeling
effected--what new emotions engendered--what bright visions destroyed!

Yet such is human life;--and two minutes, instead of two hours, are
often sufficient to hurl down the finest fabrics of happiness which the
imagination has ever built up in the realms of fancy or the sphere of
reality.

On arriving at the hotel in the Place Vendôme, the father and son
repaired to the apartment occupied by the former; and Charles threw
himself on a sofa, as if exhausted and overwhelmed by the terrible
excitement he had undergone that morning.

Mr. Hatfield related to him all that had passed between Perdita and
himself after the young man had quitted the room; and Charles was
rejoiced,--if rejoiced he could be in the midst of the strange thoughts
and reminiscences which crowded upon him,--to learn that the family
papers were secure in his father’s possession.

“And those papers shall no longer be a source of alarm and
embarrassment to those whom they so deeply regard,” said Mr. Hatfield,
when he had brought his brief narrative to a conclusion: then, ringing
the bell, he ordered the waiter who answered the summons to bring him a
lighted candle.

This command was speedily obeyed; and when the domestic had retired,
Mr. Hatfield, having thrown all the documents upon the hearth, set
them alight. While they were consuming,--those precious papers, which
were worth an Earldom to him, did he choose to avail himself of the
proofs which they contained,--both himself and his son watched them
with a fixed gaze, but with different emotions. For Charles sighed as
he thought of the bright dreams which the perusal of those papers had
so lately excited in his imagination; and Mr. Hatfield experienced an
indescribable relief in witnessing their destruction.

“Now,” he exclaimed, in a tone of triumph, “no living soul can dispute
my brother’s right to the rank which he bears and the estates which
he possesses! Nor think, Charles,” he added, turning to his son, and
speaking in a calmer and more measured voice,--“think not that it
costs me a pang thus to dispose of these papers. The flame has died
away--naught save a heap of tinder remains--and I have willingly and
cheerfully resigned the power of ever doing mischief, or being made
the instrument of wrong, towards a brother to whom I owe so much.
But enough of this: and now tell me, Charles, in details as ample
as you can bring your mind to endure, the whole particulars of your
unfortunate connexion with these women, in order to convince me that
nothing more remains to be accomplished to rid ourselves completely of
them. For you must remember that though we have managed to dispose of
the daughter, the mother still possesses a knowledge of many secrets
which we would not have revealed.”

Charles immediately complied with his father’s request, and narrated
how Mrs. Fitzhardinge had accosted him in the street,--how she had
spoken mysteriously, and thereby induced him to accompany her to
Suffolk Street,--how he had there found himself in the presence of
Perdita,--and how Mrs. Fitzhardinge on a subsequent occasion mentioned
certain family matters evincing her knowledge of special secrets which
she alleged to have been revealed to her by the gipsy Miranda.

“Then it was not from your lips that she first learnt the circumstances
connected with myself!” said Mr. Hatfield, interrogatively.

“No: she particularly mentioned the gipsy as her authority for all she
knew and alluded to,” was the reply.

“But the gipsy was unaware of the fact of my mother’s marriage with the
late Earl of Ellingham,” observed Mr. Hatfield; “and consequently she
was ignorant of the legitimacy of my birth and the rights belonging to
me thereupon.”

“Oh! now a light breaks in upon my mind!” exclaimed Charles. “I
remember that she was surprised when I told her that I was a young
nobleman, as I did then really believe myself to be; and I likewise
recollect that she afterwards spoke to me in a manner which, while
pretending a full and perfect acquaintance with all our family affairs,
led me to give answers which were doubtless revelations of secrets to
her. But all this did not strike me at the time: now, however, that the
film has been removed from my eyes, I behold things in a clearer and
truer light.”

“Yes--and I also can understand this matter,” said Mr. Hatfield, after
a few moments’ deep thought “On their return to England, these women
must have fallen in with Miranda: from her lips they heard enough to
put them in possession of secrets which they doubtless intended to use
for the purpose of extorting money from _me_ through _you_. Then your
infatuation in respect to the daughter, led you to speak to the mother
in such a random, inconsiderate manner as to make her more fully aware
of our family’s position. Thus, while affecting to know all, she drew
from you those details which filled up the chapters that were wanting
in the history as Miranda originally told it. Yes--this must be the
truth and the explanation of the whole affair;--and now it remains for
us to hasten to England without delay, and, in case the old woman shall
be relieved from the charge at present existing against her, purchase
her secrecy and her exile in the same way as we have arranged with her
daughter.”

“But how can I face my mother?” asked Charles, in a tone expressive of
the deepest grief: “how meet the Earl of Ellingham, whom I have sought
to injure--and Lady Frances, to whom I have conducted myself in so
scandalous a manner?”

“Now you recognise the impropriety of your behaviour towards her!”
exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “Oh! I am rejoiced to perceive that your heart
is open to impressions of such a saving nature!”

“The incidents of this day have made me an altered man,” said Charles,
emphatically.

“Then am I almost happy that they have occurred!” cried his father.
“The teachings have been bitter--bitter indeed, my poor boy; but the
results may constitute an ample recompense alike to yourself and your
parents. _We_ have recovered a son--_you_ have acquired an experience
ten thousand times more valuable than the best precepts ever inculcated
by mortal tongue.”

“Oh! this is true--most true, father!” exclaimed Charles. “But you have
not answered the questions--the painful questions--which I have put to
you.”

“First, then, with regard to your mother,” responded Mr. Hatfield,
“you know that she will receive you with open arms. In respect to the
Earl, he must be told all--every thing; and you may count upon his
generosity. But it is with reference to Lady Frances Ellingham, who
loves you--from whom the causes of your flight have been carefully
concealed--and who cannot be informed of your sad connexion with a
profligate woman,--Oh! it is in regard to her, that I know not how to
act--that I am bewildered--cruelly embarrassed!”

“Remember, my dear father,” said Charles, in a tone of deep humility,
“that henceforth I shall do your bidding in all things. You have but to
speak--and I obey.”

“Think not, my dear son,” answered Mr. Hatfield, “that I shall claim of
you a deference incompatible with your age and social position--or that
I shall attempt to exercise an authority that may seem to have borrowed
any taint of severity from the experience of the past. No: but I shall
counsel and advise you as a friend--and in your best interest shall I
ever speak. On our arrival in London, we will not return immediately to
Pall Mall; but we will repair to an hotel, whence I will send privately
for the Earl; and his advice will assist me in respect to the course to
be observed towards his amiable daughter. And now, Charles, do you feel
yourself capable of commencing at once our journey homeward?--or are
you too much exhausted----”

“No--no: let us depart from Paris without delay!” exclaimed the young
man. “I have no longer any object in remaining here.”

Mr. Hatfield rang the bell; and a waiter made his appearance.

“A chaise-and-four as speedily as possible,” was the laconic command
given; “and you must have our passports backed for Boulogne or Calais.”

The domestic bowed and withdrew.

Two hours afterwards the father and son were seated together in the
chaise, which was rolling rapidly along the road to Saint Denis.

“I will now give you some account of the adventures which I
experienced in pursuit of you,” said Mr. Hatfield, who felt that the
silence previously existing between himself and Charles was growing
painful: for they had not uttered a word from the moment they entered
the vehicle until Mr. Hatfield now spoke--an interval of nearly
half-an-hour.

“I shall be pleased to hear them,” observed the young man, anxious
to divert his thoughts from the painful topics that were naturally
occupying them: “for I must confess that I am at a loss to conjecture
how you happened to fall in with the officers at Dover, and how you
were enabled to trace me to the hotel where you this morning found me.”

“The explanation of all this is readily given,” said Mr. Hatfield; and
as the chaise was rolling along the unpaved part of the road, there was
no effort necessary to make his voice audible. “I shall commence with
the incidents of the morning on which you quitted London in company
with the two females whose pernicious influence has worked so much
mischief. You remember that a most painful interview took place between
yourself and me in the library, and that you burst away--perhaps just
at the moment when explanations might have arisen to convince you of
the futility of your ambitious hopes and golden visions in respect
to birth and title. Shortly after you thus left me, the Earl entered
the room; and a conversation which took place, led to the mention of
the secret papers. He sought for them in the recess to which he had
consigned them--and they were gone. At the same moment I obtained
the conviction that the _Annual Register_ for a certain year, and
containing a certain dreadful narrative, had been lately read. Then a
light broke in upon the Earl and myself; and we penetrated the motives
of the strange conduct you had recently observed towards your parents.
At this juncture, Mr. Clarence Villiers made his appearance; and, on
consulting him, we learnt to our dismay that the women who passed under
the name Fitzhardinge were his aunt and cousin,--Mrs. Slingsby, who
was transported years ago for forgery--and Perdita, her illegitimate
child, born in Newgate, a few weeks previous to her departure. You may
conceive the anguish which we endured when we found that you had become
connected with such women; and Villiers hastened to Suffolk Street to
obtain an interview with you.”

“Would to God that he had succeeded in finding me--that my departure
with those wretches had been only delayed a few minutes!” cried
Charles, still a prey to the most harrowing feelings.

[Illustration]

“Alas! you had already fled,” continued Mr. Hatfield; “and when
Villiers returned to communicate this fact, an instantaneous pursuit
was resolved upon. Clarence took one road--the Earl another--and I
chose the road to Dover. I was mounted on a good horse, and must
have inevitably overtaken you before you had proceeded many miles,
when, on turning an angle of the road, I suddenly encountered a light
chaise-cart that was turning the corner at a furious rate. The shock
was violent; and I was hurled from my horse with such force that I was
stunned by the fall. When I recovered my senses I was lying on a bed
at a small road-side tavern; and a candle was burning in the room. It
was night: hours had elapsed since the accident which had occurred;
and during that long interval I had remained senseless--unconscious of
all that was passing. A surgeon had been sent for from Greenwich, near
which place the accident occurred; and he was an ignorant quack who had
adopted no effective measures to recover me. But nature had at length
asserted her empire in that where medical mismanagement had necessarily
failed to produce any good result; and I recovered my powers of
thought--only to experience the bitterest anguish at the delay that
had taken place. Ill and suffering as I was, I endeavoured to rise,
with the determination of pursuing my journey; but this was impossible.
For in the first place I was too much exhausted to leave the couch on
which I was thus helplessly stretched; and, secondly, I learnt, to my
increased annoyance, that my horse was injured in a serious manner. To
be brief, I resigned myself to the necessity of at least remaining a
few hours longer in that place; and a deep sleep came over me. In the
morning I awoke, much refreshed, though still suffering from the pain
of the severe contusions that I had received. All hope of continuing
my journey on horseback was destroyed; and I accordingly procured a
post-chaise in which I hastened on to Dover. There I arrived in the
afternoon; and by accident I put up at the same hotel where you and
your female companions had stopped. On inquiring I heard that yourself
and the young lady had departed for Calais in the morning, and that the
old one had been arrested on her way to the port, in consequence of
a communication received by electric telegraph from London. No steam
vessel was to leave for France until the following day; and I was
therefore compelled to wait patiently at the hotel. Patiently, indeed!
No--_that_ was impossible;--for all these delays were maddening, under
the circumstances. But I will not dwell at unnecessary length on any
portion of my narrative--much less upon the nature of the feelings
which I experienced at that time. In the evening I dined in the
coffee-room--if the mere mockery of sitting down to table and eating
nothing can be called dining; and, while I was thus seated at a repast
which I did not touch, I was suddenly interested in a conversation
which was taking place between two officers who were discussing a
bottle of wine at an adjacent table.”

“Oh! I ought to have perceived that there was something mysterious
and wrong in that adventure upon the Marine Parade!” cried Charles,
literally savage with himself at his blindness and folly. “But I was so
completely infatuated by that artful, designing creature----”

“I must implore you to compose yourself,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield,
in an earnest but kind tone: “for if I am now relating to you all
that occurred to me, it is only that you may become acquainted with
everything, and have nothing left behind as a cause for future
excitement. Therefore I will be explicit with you respecting the
substance of the conversation which was passing between those
officers in the manner I have described. Indeed, you may conceive
my astonishment when I overheard one of them mention the name of
_Perdita_; for that is by no means a common one--and perhaps this woman
is the only being on the face of the earth who bears it. I accordingly
listened--and in a short time the whole adventure which had taken
place on the Parade the evening before, became known to me. Then I
addressed myself to the two officers, stating that I had overheard
their remarks, apologising for my rudeness in listening, but excusing
myself on the ground that the young gentleman whom they had seen with
Perdita was nearly allied to me, and that I was, in fact, in pursuit of
him. They assured me that no apology was necessary; and I joined them
in conversation. Then was it that I learnt a dreadful tale of female
depravity; for it appears that Perdita became indeed the ‘_Lost One_’
at a very early age, and that her favours were distributed in Sydney to
any good-looking young man who might happen to please her fancy.”

“Vile--detested Perdita!” ejaculated Charles, almost gnashing his teeth
with rage.

“Yes--you must know her character fully, my poor boy,” said Mr.
Hatfield; “for fear that she should ever again endeavour to exercise
her syren influence upon you.”

“Oh, such an attempt would be utter madness on her part!” cried
Charles, now speaking with every symptom of the deepest indignation
and even loathing. “But what more said the officers whom you thus
singularly encountered?”

“It appears,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “that Perdita was not thoroughly
depraved in the sense in which we allude to an unfortunate woman who
plies her hideous trade for bread. No--she bartered not her charms
for gold. Indeed, though very poor, she would scarcely ever receive
any recompense from her favourites--unless delicately conveyed in the
form of presents. But money she never took: her pride revolted at
_that_,--and it was purely through the wantonness of her disposition
and the burning ardour of her temperament that she plunged headlong
into a career of licentiousness.”

“And I to have fallen the victim to such a polluted wretch!” exclaimed
the young man.

“At Sydney,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “she was looked upon as a
species of prodigy. Endowed with an intellect as powerful as her
beauty was great, and possessing extraordinary natural abilities,
she listened with eagerness to the conversation of those officers
and other gentlemen who became her favourites, and treasured up all
the information she could thus acquire. She was also fond of reading
the newspapers sent from England, and all works treating of the
mother-country and the principal nations of Europe; and thus she
gleaned a vast amount of miscellaneous knowledge, fitting her to
become a woman of the world. With singular facility, too, she studied
and appropriated the gentility of gait, demeanour, and manners which
she observed in her superiors; and the very bearing of the ladies in
Sydney, as they walked abroad, was noted and adopted by her. Thus
even in her poverty, to which she clung rather than surrender up her
independence by becoming a wife or a kept mistress--for she might have
been either--even in her poverty, I say, there was an air of lofty
pride and calm hauteur about her, which would have led a stranger to
fancy that she had sprung from an aristocratic stock, whose family
fortunes had decayed. Moreover, her spirit was indomitable and fiery;
and she knew full well how to avenge an insult. Did she receive
overtures from any one who was displeasing to her, she would reject
them with scorn; and, if possible, she would punish the adventurous
suitor, in one way or another, for his insolence in addressing her.
It was her delight at times to throw around herself--her deeds--her
words--and even her entire character, a veil of mystery, and to affect
an eccentricity of habits and a singularity of manner which made many
ignorant and credulous people imagine that she was a being of no common
order. Amongst those who might be properly styled her equals, she was
reserved, cold, and distant; and even to those whom, in the same sense,
we may denominate her superiors, she demeaned herself condescendingly,
as if conferring a favour on them by her presence. In her amours, she
maintained this singular pride, as if she were a Catherine of Russia,
inviting her lovers to her arms, but never yielding to an invitation
that might come from them. In a word, this Perdita was looked upon as
the most remarkable, and at the same time the most unintelligible--the
most incomprehensible character at Sydney; and even the most
respectable persons were anxious to have her pointed out to them, when
they walked abroad. Endowed with such a splendid intellect--possessed
of such rare and almost superhuman loveliness--robing herself, as it
were, in mystery--and evincing so proud a spirit, as well as such
an aptitude for the self-appropriation of the refinements and the
etiquette of genteel breeding,--it cannot be wondered at if Perdita
should have been regarded in no common light by the inhabitants of
the penal settlement. But from all I have now told you, Charles,
it is easy for you to comprehend how dangerous is the character of
such a woman--how completely she must be the mistress of every art
in the school of hypocrisy, guile, and deceit; and if I have been
thus elaborate in my details respecting her--if I have thus minutely
recapitulated all that I learnt from the two officers at Dover--it is
simply to place you more effectually upon your guard with reference to
that syren----”

“I have already said,” interrupted Charles, speaking with the vehemence
of sincerity and of deep conviction, “that never--never could she
resume her empire over me! Oh! my dear father, the lesson has been too
terrible not to have served as a warning; and sooner would I seek the
embrace of a hideous serpent, than suffer myself to be allured back
to the arms of Perdita. And--oh!” ejaculated the young man, a sudden
reminiscence flashing to his mind, “I should have taken warning, days
and days ago; for I recollect a fearful dream which I had, and which
I must now look upon as providential! Madman that I was to neglect so
solemn a foreshadowing of the truth!”

“Compose yourself, Charles,” cried Mr. Hatfield; “and now let me finish
my narrative. I had reached that point which related to my accidental
interview with the officers at Dover, where I was compelled to pass
the night--a night of cruel and torturing suspense! Next morning, I
crossed to Calais, and there I obtained a trace of you at Dessin’s
hotel. Without delay I took a post-chaise, and hurried on in pursuit. I
reached Paris at five last evening, and put up at the hotel whence we
started just now. But I had not any time to lose, for I felt convinced
that you intended to marry Perdita. I accordingly hurried off to the
British Embassy, either to know the worst, if the worst were indeed
already accomplished--or to take any measures I could to anticipate the
ceremony, in case it should not have been as yet performed. But I could
not obtain any satisfactory intelligence; no one to whom I addressed
myself was able to state whether certain persons whom I described had
been married during the day or not. I drove to the dwelling of the
chaplain--but he had gone a few miles into the country. I found out the
abode of his clerk--but this official was likewise from home. Almost
distracted, I sped to the Prefecture of Police to ascertain if it were
possible to discover your address in Paris, knowing that the landlords
of all hotels are under the necessity of making daily returns of the
names of their lodgers to the proper authorities. But I found the
Prefecture closed for the night; and I returned, exhausted with fatigue
and disconsolate in mind, to the hotel. Summoning the _commissionaire_,
I gave him the necessary instructions to make particular inquiries
at the Prefecture, the moment that establishment should open in the
morning. This he promised to do, and I retired to bed--but not to rest!”

“Oh! my dear father,” exclaimed Charles, seizing his parent’s hand, and
pressing it with fervour to his lips, “how can you ever pardon me for
all the uneasiness I have occasioned you?--and if _you_ can, how shall
I hope to receive the forgiveness of my mother, when she learns all the
sorrow you have endured on my account?”

“It is not, perhaps, necessary that your mother should be made
acquainted with _every thing_,” observed Mr. Hatfield, emphatically:
“but all this will depend upon circumstances--especially on the results
of our previous and private interview with Lord Ellingham. As for you
and me, Charles, we have already forgiven each other every thing,” said
Mr. Hatfield, in a solemn tone. “And now my narrative has reached its
conclusion,” he added; “for shortly after eight o’clock this morning,
the _commissionaire_ came and informed me that he had discovered the
hotel where you were residing. You know the rest.”

Charles sighed, but made no answer, and the journey was continued for a
long time in profound silence.




CHAPTER CLIV.

MRS. FITZHARDINGE.


Return we now to Mrs. Fitzhardinge, whom the officers of justice had
arrested at Dover, on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of Mr.
Percival, the miser.

The old woman, when made acquainted with the cause of her apprehension,
was completely thunder-struck; for, in truth, she had not even heard
until that moment of the dreadful deed which had taken place. But
the Dover constables who took her into custody, and who were in
plain clothes, insisted upon her accompanying them to London; and,
yielding to the imperious necessity with as good a grace as possible,
Mrs. Fitzhardinge cherished that consolation that her innocence must
inevitably become apparent when the case should undergo a magisterial
investigation.

For a variety of reasons, she made no mention of her daughter and
Charles, who, she doubted not, had embarked in safety; neither did
she volunteer any explanations relative to her acquaintance with
Mr. Percival, or the business which she had with him on the night
when, as it appeared, the murder was committed. She had already
in her life passed through the ordeal of arrest--examination at a
police-court--committal--trial--and condemnation--aye, and expiation
also; and she was well aware that unseasonable garrulity, or
explanatory remarks inconsiderately volunteered, seldom benefit even
the innocent person when unjustly accused. She accordingly shrouded
herself, or, rather, took refuge in a complete silence, from which the
officers did not seek to draw her, as they all proceeded together by
railway to London.

On their arrival in the metropolis at a somewhat late hour in the
afternoon, Mrs. Fitzhardinge was consigned to Clerkenwell prison, where
she passed the night; and at ten o’clock on the following morning
she was removed in a cab to Marylebone police-court, to undergo an
examination relative to the serious charge existing against her.

The prisoner, who had retained counsel in her behalf, and made other
arrangements for her defence, appeared perfectly cool and collected;
and although the sinister expression of her countenance might have told
somewhat in her disfavour, in the estimation of common observers, yet,
to the eye of the experienced magistrate, it spoke not of guilt in this
instance. Nevertheless, that very experience which he possessed taught
him not to judge either way by outward appearances; and he therefore
prepared himself to give the matter the most searching investigation.

The first witness examined was Mrs. Dyer, who deposed as follows:--“I
occupy a house adjoining that of the deceased. At half-past eleven
o’clock on the night in question, I returned home from the dwelling of
a friend in the neighbourhood, and saw deceased at his door, taking
leave of two females. He had a light in his hand. One of the women, who
seemed by her figure and general appearance to be young, was at the
garden-gate; and I could not see her countenance. The light which the
deceased carried fell fully upon the face of the other female; and I
therefore obtained a good view of her. The prisoner at the bar is the
female alluded to.”

Mrs. Dyer then narrated how she and her lodgers had discovered the
murder on the ensuing morning; but these details are already known to
the reader.

The inspector of police who had the case in hand, was next examined,
and his deposition was to the following effect:--“In consequence of the
information I received from Mrs. Dyer, immediately after the murder
was discovered, I instituted certain inquiries, and ascertained, in
the course of the morning, that an old and a young woman had taken a
cab in the neighbourhood of the Angel at Islington, on the previous
night, which was the one in question. They drove to Suffolk-street,
Pall Mall, where the young lady paid the driver his fare from a heavy
and well-filled purse. The driver gave me a description of the elder
female; and that description tallied with the one already given by Mrs.
Dyer. I thereupon repaired to Suffolk-street, and learnt that the two
women had taken their departure in a post-chaise, between nine and ten
o’clock that morning. This was the morning after the murder. Previous
to their departure, they were joined by a young gentleman who went away
with them. He had called on several occasions at the lodgings; and his
name was----”

Here the magistrate interposed, and said that it might not be necessary
to mention this name publicly, as there was nothing to implicate the
gentleman referred to.

The inspector accordingly proceeded thus:--“The chaise was sent for
in a great hurry, and its destination was unknown to the landlady and
servants of the house. No previous intimation of the intended departure
of the lodgers had been given. They settled all their liabilities
before they left. The prisoner at the bar paid the rent and other
little matters owing; but did not display any large sum of money.
Having ascertained all these particulars, I sent a description of the
elder female to the various railways having electric telegraphs; and
the prisoner at the bar was apprehended at Dover, in consequence of the
information thus conveyed.”

Upon being cross-examined by the learned gentleman for the defence,
the inspector fairly and impartially deposed as follows:--“The stake
with which the murder was evidently perpetrated, was found by the side
of the corpse. It was taken from a piece of unenclosed waste ground
at the back of the house. I believe this to be the fact, because I
have discovered a hole from which a stake had most likely been taken;
and the stake now produced fits that hole. I also discovered marks of
footsteps between the back door of the house and the spot where the
stake had been pulled up. Those marks are of a man’s boots. The soil
of some part of the waste ground is moist and damp. There are marks on
the window-ledge of the back parlour, as if some one with dirty boots
or shoes had clambered up and stood there. The shutters have numerous
heart-holes in them, so that a person standing up on the ledge, outside
the window could see into the back parlour. I discovered no traces
of any female footsteps on the waste ground neither are there two
descriptions of marks. They are all produced by the same sized boots.
The door-post of the back gate was cut away from the outside. Whoever
did it must have known the precise place where the bolt fitted into the
door-post in the inside. The cutting away rendered it easy to force
back the bolt with the fingers. The work of cutting was performed,
I should say, with a knife--most probably a pocket or clasp-knife.
It must have taken half an hour at the least to accomplish; and the
hand that did it must have been tolerably strong. There are marks of
footsteps, indicated in the same manner as those on the window-ledge,
up the stairs from the back door to the back parlour. The lock of the
back door so often alluded to, was picked from the outside.”

The inspector’s evidence terminated here; and the counsel for Mrs.
Fitzhardinge recalled Mrs. Dyer.

“Will you state, as accurately as you can, the hour when you returned
home on the night of the murder?” he asked.

“Half-past eleven, sir,” was the answer.

“That will do,” said the learned gentleman, who forthwith proceeded
to call the driver of the cab which Mrs. Fitzhardinge and Perdita had
taken on the night in question. “At what hour,” he demanded, “did the
prisoner and the young lady who accompanied her hire your vehicle?”

“It was twelve o’clock,” replied the man. “I am sure it was precisely
midnight, because I had just left a public-house when I was hailed by
the ladies.”

This witness was ordered to stand down; and the landlady of the house
in Suffolk-street was called next. She deposed that she was sitting up
for her lodgers on the night in question, and that they reached home
at twenty minutes to one. She was certain as to the correctness of her
statement, because she looked at the clock in the passage as she passed
by to let the ladies in. There was nothing confused in their manner.
She attended them to the door of their bed-chamber, and did not observe
that their shoes were at all soiled with damp clay. She was convinced
that they did not leave the house again that night. The ladies had
always appeared to have plenty of money from the very day they entered
her dwelling.

The learned counsel then proceeded to address the magistrate on behalf
of Mrs. Fitzhardinge. He began by remarking on the meagre nature of
the evidence against her--the mere fact that she and the young lady
who was with her, and who was her daughter, were the last persons seen
in the company of the murdered man;--and he complained bitterly that
his client should have been arrested--ignominiously brought back to
London--and forced through the ordeal of a public examination on such
a shallow pretence. Every circumstance, adduced that morning--every
feature of the evidence, tended only to exculpate the prisoner
at the bar. In the first place, it was clear, from the testimony
recorded, that the prisoner and her daughter had quitted the house
of the deceased at half-past eleven--had taken a cab at the Angel at
midnight--and had driven straight home, reaching Suffolk-street at
twenty minutes to one. Now the distance from the scene of the murder
to the Angel would require rapid walking for two females to accomplish
in half an hour, and leave not an instant to accomplish the crime
before they set out, much less to cut away the door-post, ransack the
deceased’s boxes, and so forth. From the Angel they were traced home,
and they did not leave the house again that night. Now, the evidence of
the inspector of police tended, to show incontestibly that the murder
had been perpetrated by a man. He (the learned counsel) was instructed
to state that Mrs. Fitzhardinge and her daughter had called upon Mr.
Percival for the purpose of obtaining the discount of a bill; that
he did discount the document, and that he left his cash-box open on
the table during the negotiation. It was presumable that some man,
who probably knew the premises well, had clambered up against the
back-window, had beheld the cash-box and its contents, and, during the
night, had perpetrated the bloody deed. The speedy departure of the
prisoner, her daughter, and the gentleman who had been alluded to, on
the morning following that night of the crime, was occasioned by the
fact that the young people contemplated a matrimonial alliance unknown
to the gentleman’s parents; and the means of travelling having been
procured by the discount already mentioned, there was no necessity to
delay the departure for Paris any longer. This was the simple and plain
explanation of the suddenly undertaken journey and the precipitate
decampment from Suffolk-street. But the ladies did not act as if they
had committed a crime, nor their male companion as if he had been an
accomplice in one; for they travelled by post-chaise instead of by
rail, to Dover; and there they waited quietly until the steam-packet
left next morning, instead of hiring some small craft, as they might
have done, to waft them across, the same night of their arrival, to
Calais. Again, if the prisoner and her daughter had even entertained
such a fearful idea as that of depriving the miser of his life for
the sake of his gold, they would have had a better opportunity of
carrying it into execution while alone with him in his back parlour,
than by the roundabout manner suggested by the nature of the charge
against Mrs. Fitzhardinge. During the short time the two ladies had
dwelt at the lodgings in Suffolk-street they had not been embarrassed
for want of funds; nor even when they sought the aid of the discounter
was their need so pressing, much less was it of that desperate nature
which could alone prompt to such a dreadful alternative as murder. The
reason why the assistance of the deceased was sought at all, could be
readily explained by the avowal that the bill to be discounted was not
a security which any other class of money-lenders would entertain: it
was the promissory note of a young gentleman raising cash upon his
expectations, and therefore of a character suiting only the purposes of
a discounter who took an amount of interest proportionate to the risk
which he ran. In conclusion, the learned gentleman insisted that there
was not a shadow of evidence against his client.

The magistrate acquiesced in this view of the case, and discharged Mrs.
Fitzhardinge forthwith. She was, however, compelled to repair from the
Marylebone Police-court to the tavern where the coroner was holding
an adjourned inquest upon the body; but the result of her examination
before the magistrate being communicated to that functionary, she was
not detained on his authority. A verdict of “Wilful murder against some
person or persons unknown” was returned, and the old woman once more
found herself at liberty.

The evidence given by the inspector of police at the Marylebone court,
and repeated in the presence of the coroner, had excited certain
suspicions in the mind of Mrs. Fitzhardinge; and the more she pondered
upon the subject--the more she reflected upon the occurrences at
Percival’s house on the night of the murder, and the details of the
manner in which the deed itself must have been accomplished, the more
confident did she become that she could name the assassin.

Had circumstances permitted, she would have remained in London to
ferret out the individual whom she thus associated with the crime:
but she could not now spare the time; for she was anxious to proceed,
without delay, to Paris, and join her daughter and Charles Hatfield,
who, she had no doubt, had reached that capital in safety.

Her examination at the police-court, and her attendance at the inquest,
had however consumed the entire day; and she therefore waited until
the next morning, when she departed by the first train for Folkestone,
at which town she arrived in time to embark on board a steamer for
Boulogne.

In order that we may accurately show the precise time when Mrs.
Fitzhardinge reached Paris, we must request our readers to observe,
that on the same day that Charles and Perdita crossed the water to
Calais, the old woman was borne back to London by the constables:
on the following day, while they were journeying towards the French
capital, she was undergoing the examination already recorded;--on
the third day, when they were married at the British Ambassador’s
chapel, she was hastening to join them;--and it was, therefore, in the
after-part of the fourth day, being the one on which the separation of
Charles and her daughter had occurred, that Mrs. Fitzhardinge entered
Paris in the _diligence_, or stage-coach--thoroughly wearied out by the
fatigue, annoyance, and excitement she had lately undergone.

The old woman repaired to an hotel in the immediate neighbourhood of
the office where the coach stopped; and, having changed her apparel,
drove forthwith in a hackney vehicle to the British Embassy: for it
must be remembered that she was entirely ignorant of every thing that
had taken place in respect to her daughter and Charles since she had
been separated from them, and knew not where they had put up in Paris.
Indeed, she even had her misgivings whether they were in the French
capital at all, or whether they might not have set out upon some tour
immediately after their marriage; for that they were already united
in matrimonial bonds, she had no doubt. That they had returned to
Dover to look for her, she did not flatter herself; inasmuch as she
had latterly seen enough of Perdita’s altered disposition to be fully
aware that all maternal authority or filial affection were matters
which the young lady was more inclined to treat with contempt than
with serious consideration. But Mrs. Fitzhardinge was resolved not to
be thrust aside without an effort to regain the maternal authority: as
for the filial affection, her soul--tanned, hardened, rendered rough
and inaccessible, and with all its best feelings irremediably blunted
by the incidents of her stormy life--her soul, we say, experienced but
a slight pang at the idea of having to renounce that devotedness which
it is usually a mother’s joy and delight to receive at the hands of a
daughter.

No; the aim of this vile intriguing woman was merely the
re-establishment of her former ascendancy over her daughter,--by fair
means or by foul--by conciliation or intimidation--by ministering to
her vanity and her pride, or by working on her fears--by rendering
herself necessary to her, or by reducing her to subjection through a
course of studied despotism and tyranny. Her imagination pictured the
voluptuous and impassioned Perdita clinging to her young husband as
to something which had become necessary to her very existence, and
from which it were death to part; and she chuckled within herself, as
she muttered between her lips,--“The girl would have this marriage;
and it shall be made in my hands a means to subdue her! For in her
tenderest moments--when reading love in _his_ eyes, and looking love
with _her own_,--when wrapt in Elysian dreams and visions of ineffable
bliss--then will I steal near her, and whisper in her ear, ‘Perdita,
you must yield to me in all things; or with a word--a single word--will
I betray you to that fond, confiding fool; I will blast all your
happiness, and he shall cast thee away from him as a loathsome and
polluted thing!’”

With such agreeable musings as these did Mrs. Fitzhardinge while away
the half-hour which the hackney-coach occupied in driving her from the
hotel to the British Embassy. It was now five o’clock in the evening,
and she fortunately found the chaplain’s clerk in an office to which
the gate-porter directed her to proceed. From the official to whom
she was thus referred, she learnt that Charles Hatfield and Perdita
Fitzhardinge were united in matrimonial bonds on the previous day; and
an inspection of the register, for which she paid a small fee, enabled
her to ascertain the address they had given as their place of abode in
the French capital.

Satisfied with these results, Mrs. Fitzhardinge returned to the
vehicle, and ordered the coachman to drive her to an hotel which she
named, and which was the one mentioned in the register. We should
observe that the old woman spoke French with fluency; and thus she had
no difficulty in making herself understood in the gay city of Paris.




CHAPTER CLV.

THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.


On arriving at the hotel indicated, Mrs. Fitzhardinge alighted, and
inquired of the porter whether Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield were residing
there. The man referred to a long list of names on a paper posted
against the wall; and, after running his eye down the column,
turned to the old woman with the laconic, but respectfully uttered
observation,--“Removed to No. 9, Rue Monthabor.”

To this new address did Mrs. Fitzhardinge repair, without pausing to
ask any further question; and on her arrival at the entrance to a house
of handsome appearance in the street named, she inquired for Mr. and
Mrs. Hatfield.

“Oh! it is all right,” said the porter. “I was told that if any persons
called to ask for Mrs. Hatfield, I was to direct them to the lady who
has taken the second floor.”

Mrs. Fitzhardinge was somewhat surprised by this ambiguous answer: but
it instantly struck her that Charles might have assumed his title of
_Viscount Marston_, and that the name of _Hatfield_ would, therefore,
be unknown to the porter, had no particular instructions been left
with him. At all events, she was in too great a hurry to remain
bandying words with the man; and she accordingly hastened to ascend
to the second floor, which, we should observe by the way, is the most
fashionable in Parisian houses.

But as she mounted the staircase, it struck her that the porter, when
replying to her query, had made no mention of any gentleman at all, but
had plainly and clearly spoken of “the lady who has taken the second
floor.” The old woman was puzzled--indeed, bewildered by the mystery
which suddenly appeared to envelope her; and a certain misgiving seized
upon her mind, the nature of which she could not precisely define.

On gaining the marble landing of the second floor, she rang the bell at
the door of the suite of apartments on that flat, and was immediately
admitted by Rosalie into a handsomely furnished drawing-room.

“Whom shall I mention to mademoiselle?” inquired the French lady’s-maid.

“Her mother,” was the response.

Rosalie withdrew; and Mrs. Fitzhardinge, seating herself upon an
elegant ottoman, cast her eyes around the splendid room.

“Perdita is well lodged, at all events,” she mused inwardly. “But
somehow or another, there is a mystery which I cannot comprehend. The
porter spoke of no gentleman--the maid was equally silent on that head,
and alluded to her mistress as _mademoiselle_[12] and not as _madame_.
What can it mean?”

At this moment the door opened, and Perdita made her appearance in
a charming _déshabillée_; for she had been assisting to arrange her
effects in her newly-hired ready-furnished apartments.

The meeting between the mother and daughter was characterised by
nothing cordial--much less affectionate: there was no embracing--not
even a shaking of the hand, but only a mutual desire, hastily evinced
on either side, to receive explanations.

“Where is Charles?” demanded Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

“Gone,” was the laconic reply.

“Gone!” ejaculated the old woman, now manifesting the most profound
astonishment.

“Yes; gone--departed--never to return,” said Perdita, with some degree
of bitterness: then, in an altered tone, and with recovered calmness,
she asked, “But how have you managed respecting the accusation----”

“Ah! then you have heard of _that_?” interrupted Mrs. Fitzhardinge,
with a subdued feeling of spite; for she thought that her daughter took
the matter very quietly. “I was taken back to London--examined at the
Marylebone Police-court--and discharged without much difficulty. Now,
in your turn, answer my next question--wherefore has Charles left you?”

“In the first place,” said Perdita, “tell me how you discovered my
abode?”--and she fixed her large grey eyes in a searching manner upon
the old woman, as if to ascertain by that look the precise extent of
her mother’s knowledge relative to herself and Charles.

“_That_ is speedily explained,” observed Mrs Fitzhardinge, who
instantly perceived that her daughter intended to reveal to her no
more than she was actually compelled to do, and it flashed to her
mind--she knew not why--that Perdita meant especially to throw a veil
over the fact of her marriage with Charles. Else, why had she not
immediately mentioned it?--why had she not hastened to satisfy her that
the alliance had indeed taken place? But if Perdita _had_ a motive in
concealing that fact, then the knowledge of the secret might sooner
or later prove serviceable to Mrs. Fitzhardinge; and she therefore
resolved to feign ignorance. All these thoughts and calculations swept
through the old woman’s brain in a moment; and she preserved the
while the most steady composure of countenance. “_That_ is speedily
explained,” she repeated. “I went to the Prefecture of Police, and
learnt your address.”

“But you knew not by what name to ask for me,” said Perdita, still
keeping her eyes fixed on her mother’s countenance.

“I inquired for you by the name of Fitzhardinge,” answered the old
woman, hazarding the falsehood; “and was referred to the hotel where
you and Charles had put up----”

“And on your calling there?” asked Perdita, impatiently.

“The porter laconically told me that you had removed hither,” returned
the old woman. “But what means the absence of Charles? and has he not
married you?”

“No,” responded Perdita, reading in her mother’s countenance more
intently--more searchingly than hitherto: “he has played a perfidious
part, and deserted me.”

“The villain!” ejaculated the old woman, affecting to give full
credence to the denial that the matrimonial alliance had taken place;
while, on the other hand, Perdita was completely deceived by her
mother’s profound duplicity.

“The adventures I have experienced,” said Perdita, “have been numerous
and exciting. When every thing was settled for the ceremony to take
place, the father of Charles suddenly appeared upon the scene, and
exposed me in a cruel manner to his son. In fact, Mr. Hatfield proved
himself to be well acquainted with all--every thing--relating to
you and me; and he unsparingly availed himself of that knowledge. I
retaliated--I convinced him that his family affairs were no secret
to me;--and then he again assumed the part of one who triumphs in
defeating the hopes of another; for he produced unquestionable evidence
to the fact that his son is illegitimate, and entirely dependent upon
him.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Fitzhardinge, who now fancied that she read the
reason which had induced Perdita to conceal her marriage with the young
man. “Then, after all, your suitor is plain Charles Hatfield, and not
Viscount Marston?”

“Such is indeed the case, mother,” returned Perdita; “and I think you
will agree with me that I have had a fortunate escape.”

“I do congratulate you on that point,” answered the old woman, her
dissimulation continuing impenetrable. “But where have you obtained the
means to hire this handsome lodging?”

“You cannot suppose that I allowed Mr. Hatfield and his son to depart
without making ample provision for me!” exclaimed Perdita. “No; I
displayed a too intimate acquaintance with all their family affairs to
permit them thus to abandon me. Besides, the very secret of the young
man’s illegitimacy--a secret which the father revealed in a moment of
excitement, produced by the discussion that took place between us--that
secret----”

“I understand you, Perdita,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge: “it was necessary
to purchase your silence respecting a matter that involved the good
name and the honour of Lady Georgiana Hatfield. Well, have you made a
profitable bargain for yourself?”

“A thousand pounds in ready money; and five hundred a year for life, on
condition that I return not to England,” was the response.

“Good!” ejaculated the old woman, her eyes glistening with delight.

“And I have adopted another name, for a variety of reasons,” continued
Perdita. “In the first place, having learnt from that hated Mr.
Hatfield of your arrest at Dover, and the nature of the charge
against you, I feared lest the whole thing should be blazoned in the
newspapers----”

“Well, well,” interrupted her mother: “I understand! The name of
_Fitzhardinge_ would suit no longer. What is the new one?”

“I have taken that of _Mortimer_,” answered the daughter. “Laura
Mortimer sounds prettily, I think?”

“Then you have not even retained your Christian name?” said the old
woman, interrogatively.

“No; for it is so uncommon, that it could not fail to excite attention,
wherever whispered,” was the reply.

“In this case, I am to become Mrs. Mortimer?” continued the mother.

“Precisely so; and as a matter of course, you will take up your abode
with me.”

“You do not appear particularly unhappy at the loss of the young man
whom you fell so deeply in love with?” observed the old woman, whom we
must now denominate Mrs. Mortimer.

“That dream has passed--gone by--vanished!” returned Laura--for by this
Christian name is Perdita to be henceforth known; and as she spoke, her
voice assumed a deep and even menacing tone. “Yes--that illusion is
dissipated; and, if circumstances permit, I will have vengeance where I
used to think only of love.”

“To what circumstances do you allude?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.

“Can you not understand _my_ position--aye, and _your own_ position
also?” exclaimed Laura. “At present we are dependent, to a certain
degree, upon Mr. Hatfield, and must adhere to the conditions he imposed
upon me: that is to say, we must reside on the continent so long as
the income allowed by him shall be indispensably necessary. But the
moment that I can carve out a new career of fortune for myself, either
by a brilliant marriage, or by enchaining some wealthy individual in my
silken meshes,--the instant that I find myself in a condition to spurn
the aid of Mr. Hatfield’s purse, and can command treasures from another
quarter,--then, mother, _then_,” added Laura, emphatically, “will be
the time for vengeance! For, think you,” she continued, drawing herself
proudly up to her full height, while her nostrils dilated and her eyes
flashed fire,--“think you that, if I have loved as a woman, I will not
likewise be avenged as a woman? Oh! yes--yes; and welcome--most welcome
will be that day when I shall see myself independent of the purse of
Mr. Hatfield, and able to work out my vengeance after the manner of my
own heart! To be exposed by the father and discarded by the son--to
have the mask torn away from my countenance by the former, and be
looked upon with loathing and abhorrence by the latter,--oh, all this
is enough to drive me mad--mad! And if I retained a calm demeanour and
a stern composure of countenance in the presence of those men this
morning, it was only the triumph of an indomitable pride over feelings
wounded in the most sensitive point!”

“Vengeance, indeed, is a pleasing consummation,” said the old woman:
then, after an instant’s pause, she added, “And I also have a vengeance
to gratify.”

“You, mother!” ejaculated Laura, with unfeigned surprise.

“Yes. You remember the night that we called upon Percival? Well, you
may recollect how he spoke of a certain visitor who had been with
him----”

“Torrens--your husband,” observed Laura, quietly.

“The same. He was the murderer of Percival,” added Mrs. Mortimer, her
countenance assuming an expression so fiend-like, that it was horrible
to behold.

“How know you that?” demanded Laura, surprised.

“I am convinced of it,” returned her mother. “Listen! On that night
when we visited the miser, Torrens had been with him: indeed, he had
departed from the house only the moment before we knocked at the door.
You remember that Percival said so? Well--and you also recollect that
Torrens was represented to be poor and very miserable? While we were
engaged with Percival, the cash-box was produced, and its contents
were displayed. A man clambered up to the window, and looked through
the holes in the shutters. This was proved at the police-office. We
departed, and the miser was left alone. The back gate was forced
open--or, rather, the wood-work was cut away in such a manner as to
allow the bolt to be shot back with the fingers--and the lock was
picked with a piece of iron. All this was done from the _outside_.
Then, again, the stake whereby the old man was killed was taken from a
piece of waste ground at the back of the house; and on the damp clayey
soil the marks of boots were discovered. The murder was therefore
perpetrated by the man whose footsteps were thus traced; and who
could that man be but Torrens? I have no doubt of the accuracy of my
conjectures.”

“They are reasonable, at the least,” observed Laura. “But wherefore do
you trouble your head about him, when I require your assistance here in
a matter of importance?”

“One moment, and you shall explain your views when I have made you
acquainted with mine,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “Percival was a rich man,
and that cash-box contained a treasure in notes and gold. Torrens
has, no doubt, concealed himself somewhere in London;--a man who has
committed such a crime invariably regards the metropolis itself as
the safest hiding-place. My design is to ferret him out, and compel
him by menaces to surrender into my keeping the treasure which he has
obtained. You and I, Perdita--Laura, I mean--will know how to spend
those thousands; and it will give me pleasure--unfeigned pleasure,” she
added, with a fearful expression of countenance, “to know that _he_ has
been plunged back again into misery and want.”

“The project is a good one, mother,” said Laura; “and the money would
prove most welcome. Possessed of a few thousands of pounds, I would at
once act in complete independence of Mr. Hatfield. But wherefore this
bitter vengeance against the man who is still your husband?”

“Because, when he was released from Newgate upwards of nineteen years
ago, when imprisoned there on suspicion of having murdered a certain
Sir Henry Courtenay,” said the old woman,--“when he was set free, I
tell you, I still languished a prisoner in that horrible gaol. And
he came not near me: he recognised me not--he loathed and abhorred
me; and I knew it! _You_, Laura, have felt how terrible it is to be
hated--shunned--forsaken by one on whom you have claims: _you_ are
still smarting under the conduct of Charles Hatfield. Can you not,
then, comprehend how I should cherish feelings of bitterness against
that sneaking coward--that base wretch, who was a partner in my
iniquity, and who abandoned me to my fate, doubtless hoping that a
halter would end my days, and for ever rid him of me.”

“But you loved not that man, according to all I have ever heard you say
upon the subject,” returned Laura; “whereas,” she added, in a tone of
transitory softness, “I did--yes--I _did_ love Charles Hatfield.”

“Granted the difference!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer; “and yet, even
making every possible allowance for that, there is still room enough
to admit the existence of my bitter hostility against Torrens. What!
was I not arrested the other day--dragged ignominiously back to
London--compelled to sleep in a prison; and forced to appear at the
bar of justice,--and all on account of _his_ crime! He reaped the
benefit--I the inconvenience, the fear, the exposure, and the disgrace!
It is true that I never loved him--never even liked him;--true, also,
that ours was a marriage of convenience--both suspecting, despising,
and abhorring each other. From the very first, then, I was his enemy;
and ever since I have cherished an undying animosity against him.”

“Well, mother, I shall not attempt to interfere with your vengeance
any more than you will seek to mar the progress of mine. You have
given me an explanation of your views; and it is now my turn to speak.
This morning,” continued Laura, “my hopes were suddenly defeated, and
my golden dreams dissipated by the appearance of Mr. Hatfield. At
half-past eleven o’clock, I found myself deserted by him whom I had
loved, and alone as it were in a strange city. I instantly made up my
mind not to yield to sorrow or give way to grief; and when a woman,
placed in such circumstances, will not permit her tender feelings to
get the better of her pride--when, in fact, she takes refuge in that
very pride against the poignancy of sorrow--she necessarily conceives
thoughts of vengeance. For the pride which becomes her defence and her
shield in such a case, must be vindicated. I therefore determined to
cherish this hope of vengeance, and gratify that hope when the proper
time shall come. But, in the interval--and first of all--I must create
a brilliant social position for myself. On these matters I reflected
seriously this morning, so soon as Charles and his father had taken
their departure. Then, to a certain extent, I made a confidant of my
French lady’s-maid, who has already become deeply attached to me,
and in whom I speedily discovered a spirit of intrigue and a shrewd
disposition. At the same time, I told her nothing more than was
absolutely necessary to account for the abrupt departure of Charles
and my change of name; and even those explanations which I did give
her were not entirely true. In a word, I acted with caution, while I
secured her fidelity and devotion to my interests. Having thus come to
a certain understanding, as it were, we repaired to an agency-office,
kept by an Englishman, and made inquiries for furnished apartments in a
fashionable neighbourhood. The agent conducted us hither: I inspected
the suite--approved of it--paid a half-year’s rent in advance--and
removed into my new abode, where you now find me, at about three
o’clock this afternoon.”

[Illustration]

“You have lost no time in settling yourself thus far, at all events,”
observed Mrs. Mortimer. “But proceed: you have more yet to explain to
me.”

“Only to observe that _your_ aid is now required, mother, to help me
to that brilliant position which I am determined to reach, and the
attainment of which will render us independent for the remainder of our
days.”

“My aid and assistance you shall have, Laura--aye, and effectually
too,” returned the old woman, with difficulty concealing the joy and
triumph which she experienced on finding herself thus again appealed
to as a means to work out a grand design: “but a fortnight’s delay
will not prejudice your scheme. You will not lose one particle of your
beauty in that time: on the contrary, you will recover your wonted hues
of health--for your cheeks are somewhat pale this evening, and there is
a blueish tint around your eyes. Doubtless,” she added, with a slightly
malicious grin, “Charles Hatfield was a husband to you in everything
save the indissoluble bonds!”

“No,” replied Laura, with an effrontery so cool, so complete, that,
had the old woman been questioning her daughter on suspicion only, and
not on a verified certainty, she would have been satisfied with that
laconic, but emphatic negative.

“Ah! then your maudlin sentimentalism did not render you altogether
pliant and docile to the impetuous passions of that handsome young
man?” she observed.

“Believing that we were to be married,” answered Laura, “I necessarily
refrained from compromising myself in his estimation. But wherefore
these questions, mother?”--and again the fine large eyes of the young
woman were fixed searchingly on Mrs. Mortimer’s countenance.

“I had no particular motive in putting those queries,” was the
response, apparently delivered off hand, but in reality well weighed
and measured, as was every word that the artful old creature uttered
upon this occasion. “I was merely curious to learn whether your
prudence or your naturally voluptuous temperament had prevailed in the
strong wrestle that must have taken place between those feelings, while
you were travelling and dwelling alone with a handsome young man whom
you almost adored.”

“Not quite alone, mother,” exclaimed Laura, impatiently. “Rosalie was
with us.”

“Oh! the French lady’s maid, who is so shrewd in disposition, and who
manifests such an admirable capacity for intrigue!” cried the old
woman, unable to resist the opportunity of bantering her daughter a
little, in revenge for the cool insults which she herself had received
at the hands of that daughter during the last few days of their sojourn
in England.

“Mother, have you sought me out only to revive a certain bitterness of
feeling which you so recently studied to provoke between us!” demanded
Laura, her countenance flushing with indignation; and when she had
ceased speaking, she bit her under-lip with her pearly teeth.

“No, no: we will not dispute,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “But you must admit
that I warned you not to dream of marriage with that Charles Hatfield;
and, had you followed my advice, and stayed in London, you might have
retained him as a lover----”

“Let us not talk of the past,” interrupted Laura, with an imperiousness
of manner which warned her mother not to provoke her farther. “The
present is assured, and we are at least independent; but the future is
before us--and _there_ is the sphere in which my hopes are soaring.”

“To return, then, to the point whence I ere now diverged,” resumed
Mrs. Mortimer, “I will repeat my assertion that one fortnight’s delay
will not mar your plans. On the contrary, you will obtain physical
rest after the fatigues of travelling, and mental composure after
the excitement of recent occurrences. Your charms will be enhanced,
and you will thereby become the more irresistible. This fortnight’s
interval I require for my own purposes, as just now explained to you;
and, whatever be the result of my search after Torrens, I pledge myself
that, if alive and in health, I will return to you in the evening of
the fourteenth day from the present date.”

“Agreed!” exclaimed Laura. “You purpose, therefore, to retrace your way
to London!”

“Such is my intention. A night’s rest will be sufficient to recruit
my strength,” continued Mrs. Mortimer; “and to-morrow morning I shall
depart.”

“Now let us thoroughly understand each other, and in no way act without
a previous constitution and agreement,” said Laura. “You are about
to return to the English metropolis, and it may happen that you will
encounter Charles Hatfield. It is my wish that you avoid him--that you
do not appear even to notice him; and, for the same reasons which urge
me to give you this recommendation, I must request that you attempt no
extortion with his father--that you will not seek to render available
or profitable the knowledge you possess of the private affairs of that
family. Were you to act contrary to my wishes in this respect, you
would only mar the projects which I have formed to ensure the eventual
gratification of my vengeance.”

“I have listened to you with attention,” said the old woman, “because
I would not irritate you by interruption. The counsel you have given
me was, however, quite unnecessary. My sole object in visiting London
is connected with Torrens; and were I to behold Charles Hatfield at
a distance, I should avoid him rather than throw myself in his way.
His father I know not even by sight. Besides, according to the tacit
understanding which appeared to establish itself between you and me
just now, we are mutually to forbear from interfering in each other’s
special affairs; and on this basis, good feelings will permanently
exist between us. On my return to Paris, fourteen days hence, I shall
devote myself to the object which you have in view; and rest assured
that, ere long, some wealthy, amorous, and docile nobleman--English or
French, no matter which--shall be languishing at your feet.”

“Yes--it is for you to find out the individual to be enchained; and
it will then be for me to enchain him,” cried Laura, her countenance
lighting up with the glow of anticipated triumph.

The mother and daughter thus made their arrangements, and settled their
plans in an amicable fashion; and the former, after passing the night
at the handsome lodgings which Laura occupied, set out in the morning
on her journey back to London.

       *       *       *       *       *

We must here pause, for a brief space, to explain the sentiments and
motives that respectively influenced these designing women during the
lengthy discourse above recorded.

We have already stated, that even before Mrs. Mortimer found herself
in the presence of her daughter, her suspicions and her curiosity
were excited by two or three mysterious though trivial incidents that
occurred; and she had not been many minutes in Laura’s company, before
she acquired the certainty that the young woman intended to conceal
the fact of her marriage with Charles Hatfield. Mrs. Mortimer at
first fancied that this desire arose from shame on the part of Laura,
whose pride might naturally revolt from the idea of avowing that, in
her eagerness to secure the hand of a nobleman, she had only linked
herself indissolubly to a simple commoner, of illegitimate birth, and
entirely dependent on his father. But, as the conversation embraced
ampler details, and exhibited views more positive and minute, Mrs.
Mortimer perceived that Laura was not influenced by wounded pride and
shame only in concealing the fact of her marriage; but that, as she
contemplated _another_ matrimonial alliance, as soon as an opportunity
for an eligible match should present itself she was unwilling to allow
her mother to attain the knowledge of a secret that would place her so
completely in that mother’s power.

And Mrs. Mortimer had accurately read the thoughts and motives that
were uppermost in Laura’s mind. For, imagining from the observations
made, and the questions put by her mother, that the fact of her
marriage with Charles Hatfield was indeed unknown to the old woman,
she resolved to cherish so important--so precious a secret. Well aware
of the despotic character and arbitrary disposition of her parent,
Laura chose to place herself as little as possible at the mercy of one
who sought to rule with a rod of iron, and who was unscrupulous and
resolute to a degree in adopting any means that might establish her
sway over those whom she aspired to controul.

“No--no,” thought Laura within herself: “my secret is safe--I am well
assured of _that_;--and my mother shall not penetrate it! The lips
of Rosalie, who alone could reveal it to her now, are sealed by rich
bribes. For such a secret in my mother’s keeping would reduce me to
the condition of her slave! I should not dare to contract _another_
marriage; because her exigences would be backed by a menace of
exposure, and a prosecution for bigamy: and by means of the terrorism
which she would thus exercise over me, I should become a mere puppet in
her hands--not daring to assert a will of my own!”

On the other hand, Mrs. Mortimer’s thoughts ran thus:--“Laura believes
me to be ignorant of her marriage, and my dissimulation shall confirm
her in that belief. Yes--I will act so as to lull her into complete
security on this point. It would be of no use to me now to proclaim my
knowledge of the fact that the marriage _has_ taken place; because,
at present, she requires my services, and will be civil and courteous
to me of her own accord. But when once I shall have helped her to
a wealthy and titled husband, and when my aid shall no longer be
required, _then_ she will re-assert her sway and attempt to thrust
_me_ aside as a mere cypher! But she shall find herself mistaken; and
the secret that I thus treasure up must prove the talisman to give me
despotic controul over herself, her husband, her household,--aye, and
her purse! Yes--yes: she may marry now, without any opposition from me.
For, whereas in the former case her marriage would indeed have reduced
me to the condition of a miserable dependant, a new alliance will
invest me with the power of a despot. Ah! daughter--daughter, you have
at length over-reached yourself.”

And such was indeed the case; for so well did Mrs. Mortimer play her
part of deep dissimulation, that Laura felt convinced her secret
was safe, and that the circumstance of her marriage was totally
unsuspected. And it was as much to confirm the young woman in this
belief, as for the purpose of slyly bantering her, that the mother
questioned her as to the point to which her connexion with Charles
Hatfield had reached, and astutely placed in juxta-position her
daughter’s prudence on the one hand, and voluptuousness of temperament
on the other. Thus Laura was completely duped, while secretly
triumphing in the belief that it was her parent who was deceived!

We must, however, observe, that the two women, under present
circumstances, felt dependent on each other in many and important
respects; and this mutual necessity rendered them easy to come to terms
and settle their affairs upon an amicable basis.

On the one hand, Mrs. Mortimer relied upon her daughter for pecuniary
supplies; and this very circumstance prompted her to undertake the
journey to London in the hope of finding Torrens, and extorting
from him the treasure of which, as she believed, he had plundered
Percival. The possession of a few thousands of pounds, added to her
knowledge of Laura’s secret, would place her in a condition of complete
independence; and that independence she would labour hard to achieve
for herself. But she might fail--and then she would again be compelled
to fall back on the resources of her daughter. Thus, for the present
at least, she _was_ in a state of dependence--and it was by no means
certain that her visit to London would change her condition in this
respect.

On the other hand, Laura was dependent on her mother for aid in
carrying out her ambitious views. Ignorant of the French language
as she was, she could not hope to succeed by herself alone; and, in
intrigues which required so much delicacy of management, she could
not rely solely on a lady’s-maid. The assistance of her mother was
therefore necessary; for she reflected that the astute old woman who
had succeeded in inducing Charles Hatfield to accompany her to the
lodgings in Suffolk-street, could not fall to lead some wealthy and
amorous noble within the influence of her daughter’s syren-charms in
the Rue Monthabor.

We have now explained the exact position in which these two designing
women were placed with regard to each other; and we must request
our readers to bear in mind all the observations which we have just
recorded, inasmuch as they afford a clue to the motives of many
transactions to be hereafter narrated.

For the history of Laura is, as it were, only just commenced; and the
most startling, exciting, and surprising incidents of her career have
yet to be told.

She was a woman of whom it may be well said, “We ne’er shall look upon
her like again!”

But the delineation of such a character as this Perdita--or Laura,
as we are henceforth to call her--has the advantage of throwing into
glorious contrast the virtues, amenities, and endearing qualities
of woman generally,--inasmuch as she is a grand and almost unique
exception, proving the rule which asserts the excellent qualities of
her sex.




CHAPTER CLVI.

THE HALF-BROTHERS.


It was about five o’clock in the evening of the second day after the
incidents just related, that the Earl of Ellingham received a note,
the address of which was written in a feigned hand, and with the word
“private” marked in the corner.

The messenger, who left it at the mansion in Pall-mall, had departed
immediately his errand was discharged, and without waiting for any
reply.

Lord Ellingham happened to be alone in the library when the missive was
placed in his hands, and on opening it he recognised the writing of his
half-brother; for the address only was disguised--a precaution adopted
in case the letter should be observed by the ladies before it reached
the hands of the earl.

The contents convoyed a brief intimation that Mr. Hatfield had returned
to London with his son, and that they had put up temporarily at the
Trafalgar Hotel, Spring-gardens, where the presence of the nobleman was
anxiously expected.

Thither the earl accordingly repaired, and a waiter conducted him to
an apartment, in which he was received by his half-brother alone--the
father having deemed it prudent that the son should not be present
while the necessary explanations were being given.

The meeting between the nobleman and Mr. Hatfield was cordial, and even
affectionate: how different from that of the mother and daughter in
Paris, as described in the preceding chapter!

“You have recovered your son, Thomas,” said the earl; “and under any
circumstances I congratulate you. The fact that he has returned to
London with you convinces me that the paternal authority is once more
recognised.”

“Yes--he is here--in an adjacent room, Arthur,” replied Mr. Hatfield.
“I thought it prudent, for many reasons, to send for you privately,
and consult you before I ventured to take him back to his mother’s
presence. Indeed I know not, after all that has occurred, whether you
will permit him to cross your threshold again--whether you can ever
forgive him.”

“He is your son, Thomas, and that is sufficient,” interrupted the
generous, noble-hearted earl. “Whatever he may have done, I promise
to pardon him: however gravely he may have erred, I will yield him my
forgiveness. Nay, more--I will undertake to promise the same for my
wife, who you know is not a woman that harbours rancour.”

“The amiable, the excellent Esther! Oh! no, no--she would not refuse
pardon or sympathy to a living soul!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “And you,
my generous brother--my never-failing friend--how can I sufficiently
thank you for these assurances which you give me, and which so
materially tend to lighten the sorrow that weighs upon my heart! I have
suffered and undergone much during the few days of my absence from
London.”

“But you have recovered your son,” hastily interrupted the
earl, pressing his half-brother’s hand with a fervour that was
indeed consolatory; “and I am sure that, although his errors may
have been great, he has not committed any thing dishonourable.
He may have been self-willed--rebellious against the paternal
authority--ungrateful--unmindful of those who wish him well; he may
have yielded himself up to the wiles of an infamous woman----”

“All that has he assuredly done, Arthur,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a
melancholy tone; “and more still! For, as you yourself suspected on
that day when we made so many distressing discoveries in the library,
he found out who I _was_--who I _am_,--he believed himself to be
my legitimate son--he even raised money by the name of _Viscount
Marston_--he dared to contemplate measures to force me to assume
_your_ title, and claim _your_ estates; and he would have sacrificed
you--me--his mother--the countess--aye, and the amiable, excellent
Frances--he would have sacrificed us all,” added Mr. Hatfield,
profoundly excited, “to his inordinate ambition! Now, my dear Arthur,”
he asked, in a milder and more measured tone--“_now_, can you forgive
my son all this?”

“Yes--and more--ten thousand times more!” ejaculated the earl,
emphatically. “Had he possessed the right to accomplish all he
devised--aye, had he carried out his designs to the very end--even
then, Thomas, would I have forgiven him for your sake.”

“It is a god--an angel who speaks thus; and not a mere human being!”
exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, embracing his half-brother with an enthusiasm
and a fervour amounting almost to a worship. “Oh! why are not all men
like you?--the world would then know not animosity, nor rancour, nor
strife; and earth would be heaven!”

“Thomas, Thomas,” cried the earl, reproachfully, “attach not too much
importance to a feeling on my part which you yourself would show under
similar circumstances! But let us speak of your son. He has erred,
and you have forgiven him--you, his father, who are the most deeply
wounded by his temporary ingratitude, have pardoned him and taken him
again to your heart. Shall not I, then, who look upon him in the light
of a nephew--shall not I, an uncle, forgive and forget what a father
can pardon and obliterate from his memory? Yes--and I will even find
extenuating circumstances in his favour: I will search out and conjure
up excuses for him! Endowed with an enthusiastic disposition--an ardent
longing to render himself conspicuous in the world--a fervid craving to
earn distinction and acquire a proud name,--he paused not to reflect
whether it were well to shine with an adventitious lustre, or to win
for himself and by himself the glory that should encircle his brow. The
splendid career of the Prince of Montoni dazzled--nay, almost blinded
him; and while he contemplated the eminence on which that illustrious
personage stands, he forgot that his Royal Highness obtained not rank
and power by hereditary right, but by his great deeds, his steady
perseverance in the course of rectitude, and his ennobling virtues.
While filled with lofty aspirations, your son suddenly made the
discovery of certain family secrets which appeared to place a title
within his reach. Ah! pardon him if he stretched out his hand to grasp
the visionary coronet,--pardon him, I say--and wonder not if in the
eagerness of his desire to clutch the dreamy bauble, he thrust parents,
relatives, and friends rudely aside.”

“The generosity which prompts you to extenuate his grievous faults
shall not be cooled nor marred by any opposite opinion on my part,”
said Mr. Hatfield. “And, my God! is he not my son?--and have I not
already--yes, already--while we were still in Paris--promised to
forgive him every thing. But when I think of all the misery his insane
ambition would have brought upon you and yours----”

“Oh! the loss of title and wealth would not interfere with my
happiness, Thomas,” interrupted the earl, smiling.

“And that loss you cannot now sustain--no--never, never!” exclaimed Mr.
Hatfield, impetuously; “and I thank God that I am enabled to give you
this assurance! For the papers--the fatal papers--the family documents,
are all burnt--burnt with my own hand, and in the presence of that
young man who dared to take them from the secret recess where you had
deposited them.”

“Ere now you called me generous, Thomas,” said the earl,--“and for the
performance of a common Christian duty--I mean, the forgiveness of
one who has offended and who is penitent. But you, my brother--what
generosity have you not shown towards me,--yes--and for years--long
years;--and now, to crown it all, you have destroyed those evidences
which would make you great at any moment. Oh! as the world’s ambition
goes, and as human hearts are constituted, _your_ generosity outvalues
_mine_ as immeasurably as the boundless Pacific exceeds the stagnant
puddle in the street!”

And, as the earl spoke these words with an enthusiasm and a sincerity
that came from the inmost recesses of his heart, he dashed away a tear.

Then, as if suddenly animated by the same sentiment--a sentiment of
mutual regard, devotion, and admiration,--the half-brothers grasped
each other’s hands; and the pressure was long and fervid--a profound
silence reigning between them the while,--for, men of years and worldly
experience though they were, their souls’ emotions were deeply stirred
and their finest feelings were aroused.

“I have not yet told you all--perhaps scarcely even the worst, relative
to my unfortunate son,” said Mr. Hatfield, after a long pause.
“That vile woman of whom Villiers spoke--that Perdita Slingsby--or
Torrens--or Fitzhardinge--whichever her name may be----”

“Ah! I understand you already,” interrupted the earl, in a tone of deep
commiseration: “the artful creature has inveigled your son into a hasty
marriage. Is it not so?”

“Alas! it is too true, Arthur,” said Mr. Hatfield; and he then
proceeded to narrate to his brother all that had occurred during his
absence from London,--the accident near Greenwich--the adventure
with the officers at Dover--the interview with his son in Paris--the
negotiations with Perdita--and the terms which he had finally settled
with that designing woman.

“Oh! that you had been one day earlier,” exclaimed Lord Ellingham; “and
this odious marriage would not have occurred. It is lamentable indeed,
Thomas--and the more so, in consequence of the hopes that I had founded
on the attachment which until lately existed between Charles and my
daughter.”

“Ah! it is that--it is _that_ which cuts me to the very soul!” cried
Mr. Hatfield, with exceeding bitterness of tone and manner.

“And yet there is hope--there is hope for us yet!” exclaimed the earl,
who, after pacing the room in deep thought for a few minutes, turned
suddenly towards his half-brother.

“Hope do you say?” demanded the latter, his countenance brightening
up--though he could not as yet conjecture, much less perceive the
source whence the gleam of hope could possibly emanate.

“Yes--hope,” repeated the earl emphatically, but sinking his voice
almost to a whisper, as if he were afraid that the very walls should
hear the words he was uttering. “Did not that woman tell you she should
contract _another marriage_----”

“She assuredly intimated as much,” answered Mr. Hatfield; “and by her
words and manner I have no doubt that the intention was uppermost in
her mind.”

“And from the knowledge which we now possess of her character,” added
the earl, “we may rest satisfied that she will not refuse the first
good offer that presents itself. Well, then--on the day that she
contracts another marriage, Charles may consider himself absolved from
the alliance which he so unhappily formed.”

“Ah! I comprehend you, my dear Arthur!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, his
heart already feeling lighter. “But the legal tie will still exist,”
he added an instant afterwards, his voice again becoming solemn and
mournful.

“The law is an unnatural--a vile--and a miserable one, which would
for ever exclude either that woman or your son from the portals of
the matrimonial temple!” said the earl, speaking with impassioned
emphasis, though still in a subdued tone, “Charles has discarded
her--and she has consented never more to molest him. Already, then,
are they severed in a moral point of view. But should that woman
contract another marriage--take unto herself another husband--and
thereby prove that her severance from the young man whom she ensnared
and inveigled, is complete,--should she adopt the initiative in that
respect, it would be a despicable fastidiousness and a contemptible
affectation on the part of any one to say to Charles Hatfield, ‘_You
must never know matrimonial happiness: but you must remain in your
present false position, a husband without a wife, for the remainder of
your days!_’ It were inhuman--base--and unnatural thus to address your
son, when once the woman herself shall have ratified by her actions
that compact which her words and her signature have already sanctioned.
Were a father to consult me under such circumstances, and ask my advice
whether he should bestow his daughter on a young man situated as your
son will then be,--my counsel would be entirely in the affirmative.
Can you therefore suppose for a moment that I shall shrink from acting
in accordance with the advice I should assuredly give to another man
who is likewise a father? No--no! If then, in the course of time, this
Perdita shall contract a new marriage,--and if your son manifest, as I
hope and believe he will do, contrition for the past--if his conduct be
such as to afford sure guarantees for the future--and if his attachment
for Frances should revive, as I am certain that hers, poor girl! will
continue unimpaired,--under all these circumstances, Thomas, I should
not consider myself justified in stamping the unhappiness of that pair
by refusing my consent to their union.”

“Most solemnly do I assure you, Arthur,” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, “that,
as an impartial person, and supposing I were disinterested in the
matter, I should view it precisely in the same light: but I should not
have dared to express those sentiments before you, had you not been the
first to give utterance to them.”

“It is, after all, the mere common-sense aspect of the question,” said
the earl. “A young man is inveigled into a marriage with a woman whom
he looks upon as an angel of purity; and in a few hours he discovers
her to be a demon of pollution. They separate upon positive and written
conditions. The tribunals would take cognizance of the affair, and
grant a legal divorce were they appealed to: but a private arrangement
is deemed preferable to a public scandal. Well, the woman marries
again--and every remaining shadow of claim which she might still have
had upon the individual whom she had entrapped and deluded, ceases at
once. The complete snapping of the bond--the total severance of the
tie, is her own doing. It is true that the law may proclaim the first
marriage to be the only legal one: but morality revolts against such
an unnatural averment. These are my solemn convictions;--and, were I to
ponder upon them for a hundred years, I should not waver one tittle in
my belief.”

“There is more injustice committed by a false morality--more
unhappiness inflicted by a ridiculous fastidiousness, than the world
generally would believe,” observed Mr. Hatfield.

“Yes--and there is another consideration which weighs with me,
Thomas!” exclaimed the earl, turning once more, and now with a smiling
countenance, towards his half-brother. “You have shewn so much
generosity towards me--you have annihilated documents which ninety-nine
men out of a hundred would have prized and availed themselves of--and
you have exhibited so much noble feeling in all your actions respecting
myself and our family honour, that I consider myself bound to effect
the union of my daughter and your son, if it be practicable. This,
then, I propose--that the unfortunate marriage of Charles shall be kept
a profound secret, and that he shall leave England for a short time,
so that active employment may completely and radically wean his mind
from any lingering attachment that he may entertain for the polluted
Perdita. With regard to this latter suggestion I have a project which
I will presently explain to you. Respecting the maintenance of the
secret of his unhappy marriage, I should recommend its propriety even
were there no ulterior considerations of the nature already stated.
For of what avail can it be to distress my wife or yours--much less my
daughter--by a revelation of the sad circumstance? In any case, Frances
would not be permitted to learn that secret; and I should be loth
indeed to afflict Lady Ellingham by the narration of such a history.”

“And you may be wall assured, Arthur,” observed Mr. Hatfield, “that it
would prove no pleasant task for me to inform Lady Georgiana that her
son, by his mad ambition and his fatal misconceptions, had compelled
me to make known to him the fact of his illegitimacy. Neither should
I wish to distress her by unfolding to her the secret of this most
miserable marriage.”

“It is fortunate that we were so guarded with our wives on that morning
when we made such alarming discoveries in the library,” observed Lord
Ellingham: “it is a subject for self-congratulation that we merely
intimated the fact of Charles’s departure that day with an abandoned
woman----”

“Yes--and it was to your prudent representations that I yielded, when I
was about to commit the folly of imparting every thing to my wife,--the
loss of the papers--the certainty that Charles had not only taken
them, but had likewise discovered every thing relating to my own past
life----”

“It was scarcely my advice, Thomas, which prevented you from making all
those revelations to Georgiana,” said the earl: “but it was when----”

“Yes--I remember: it was when we resolved to depart in search of the
fugitive, that I found my wife was so overcome by the first word I
uttered--the word which told her he was gone--that I could not feel it
in my heart to afflict her by farther revelations.”

“You scarcely require to be informed that Villiers and myself each
pursued the road that we respectively took, until we acquired the
certainty that no travellers of the description given had passed that
way; but it was late at night when I returned to London, and Villiers
was an hour or two later still. While we are, however, conversing in
this desultory manner,” said the earl, “we forget that Charles is
waiting for us in another room.”

“And you forget, my dear Arthur,” observed Mr. Hatfield, “that you have
a project respecting him, but which you have not as yet revealed to me.”

“True!” ejaculated Lord Ellingham; “and the explanation can be speedily
given. Yesterday afternoon I received a hastily written note from
the Prince of Montoni, stating the melancholy intelligence that his
illustrious father-in-law, Alberto I., expired after a short illness
twelve days ago. The Prince received the news yesterday morning by
special courier----”

“And he is now Grand Duke of Castelcicala?” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield.

“Yes--he is a sovereign prince,” returned the nobleman,--“and one who
will not only make his people happy, but who, I venture to predict,
will be the means of regenerating Italy. His Sovereign Highness departs
to-morrow for Castelcicala; and, although it be scarcely consistent
with propriety to accost him with a request under such circumstances,
yet I will do so--trusting that the explanations which I shall give,
may excuse the apparent importunity at the present moment.”

“And that request?” said Mr. Hatfield, interrogatively.

“Is that the Grand Duke--for by this proud title must we now denominate
him--will permit Charles to accompany him in the capacity of one of his
_aides-de-camp_. Your son can speak the Italian language as fluently
as his own; and his long residence in Castelcicala will have fitted
him for the situation I propose to procure for him. Moreover, that
aspiring nature--that ardent ambition which has already manifested
itself, will be gratified and will find congenial associations and
emulative stimulants In the career thus opened to him. If his ambition,
in its first strugglings, have unfortunately led him into error, it
was on account of the misconceptions to which he yielded, and the
baleful influence which a designing woman exercised over him: but, with
such a glorious example before him as the illustrious personage into
whose service I propose that he shall enter, and keeping in view such
legitimate aims as that service naturally suggests, I am much deceived
indeed if your son do not prove himself a good, an estimable, and,
perhaps, a great man.”

“Your advice is as excellent as your purpose is generous and kind,”
exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, overjoyed at the prospects thus held out.

“We may now release Charles,” said the earl, “from the suspense which
he is doubtless enduring.”

Mr. Hatfield left the room, and shortly afterwards returned,
accompanied by the young man, whose face was pale and whose looks were
downcast, as he advanced towards the earl.

“My dear Charles,” said the good nobleman, embracing him,--“not a word
relative to the past! All is forgiven--all forgotten, as far as the
memory _can_ forget.”

Charles shed tears, while his heart was agitated with many conflicting
emotions,--gratitude for the assurance thus given to him--joy that
he was so completely pardoned--bitter regret that he should have
ever contemplated aught prejudicial to the interests of the generous
earl--vexation on account of the facility with which he had been led
astray--and shame at the deplorable errors he had committed.

But when he heard the kind, affectionate, and re-assuring language
addressed to him alike by his father and Lord Ellingham,--when he
learnt that the main particulars of his late proceedings were to be
kept a solemn secret in respect to his mother, the countess, and Lady
Frances,--and when he was made acquainted with the project which the
earl had suggested relative to placing him about the person of the idol
of his heroic worship--the new Grand Duke of Castelcicala,--a genial
tide of consolation was poured into his soul; and he felt that the
future might yet teem with bright hopes for him!

But not a word was breathed either by Mr. Hatfield or Lord Ellingham
respecting _that other prospect_ which had evoked so much enlightened
reasoning and such liberal sentiments from the lips of the earl: we
mean the probability of a marriage eventually taking place between the
young man and the beautiful Lady Frances Ellingham.

With the proposal that he should enter the service of the Grand Duke,
Charles was delighted; and the earl promised to visit his Sovereign
Highness early in the morning, at Markham Place, to proffer the request
which he had to make as the necessary preliminary.

The nobleman, Mr. Hatfield, and Charles now repaired to the mansion
in Pall Mall, where the presence of the two latter, especially of the
last-mentioned, caused feelings of joy which we must leave the reader
to imagine.




CHAPTER CLVII.

POLITICAL OBSERVATIONS.--THE DEPARTURE OF CHARLES HATFIELD.


Yes--it was true that the Prince of Montoni had become Grand Duke
of Castelcicala; and those who have read the First Series of “THE
MYSTERIES OF LONDON,” have now traced the career of Richard Markham
from the period of his obscure boyhood until the time when his brow is
circled by a sovereign crown!

And when we reflect that it was a REVOLUTION which evoked his brilliant
qualities as a warrior and a statesman,--when we call to mind the fact
that it was the cry of “LIBERTY” which became the watch-word of his
achievements and the herald of his triumphs,--we cannot do otherwise,
on reaching this point in our narrative, than avail ourselves of so
fitting an opportunity to notice the grand and glorious struggle that
has so lately taken place in the capital of France.

Oh! the French are a fine people, and are destined to teach the world
some signal lessons in the school of POLITICAL FREEDOM!

PEOPLE OF ENGLAND! accord your sympathies--your best and most generous
sympathies--to that gallant Parisian population which has so recently
dethroned a miscreant Monarch, and hurled an execrable Ministry from
the seat of power!

Let the English Sons of Toil--oppressed, ground down by taxation,
half-starved, and deprived of their electoral rights as they are,--let
the Industrious Classes of the British Islands, trampled upon and made
tools of by the wealthy _few_ as we know them to be,--let _them_ do
honour, at least by words to the working men of France who have dared
to expel a demon-hearted tyrant and his bravo-hirelings.

The States of Italy--Bavaria--and France have all, within the last few
weeks, manifested their scorn and contempt for the doctrine of “the
divine right of kings;”--the PEOPLE in those realms have exercised the
power which they possess:--the cause has been righteous--the despots
have yielded--and _one_ has been overthrown altogether.

For the cause is always righteous when the People seek to wrest from
their rulers that freedom which has been basely usurped, and which the
tyrannical oligarchy refuses to surrender by fair means to the millions.

It is a monstrous absurdity and a hideous mockery to prate of treason,
and sedition, and rebellion, when a people rises up in its might and
its power to demand the privileges which are naturally its own.

The _few_ cannot possibly possess an inherent or hereditary right to
enslave the _many_: nor is the present generation to be bound by the
enactments of the preceding one. If that preceding one chose to have
a Monarchy, the present one is justified in declaring its will that
a Republic shall exist;--and so long as the great majority of the
inhabitants of a country are of accord in this respect, they have a
right to upset the existing government at any moment and establish
another. Nay, more; we will assert that the people need not even be
wise or prudent in order to legitimatise their actions:--the great
majority may act as they think fit, although they should be unwise or
imprudent in respect to the institutions they choose to build up!

We are averse to the exercise of physical force;--but France has shown
that when moral agitation fails, violence _must_ be used;--and if
freedom can be gained by the loss of a few drops of blood--why, then
those drops should be shed cheerfully.

Suppose that in any country the great majority of the people sign a
document addressed to the sovereign in these terms:--“We are very much
obliged to you for having reigned over us hitherto; but we do not
require your services farther. It pleases us to establish another form
of government and raise up another ruler; and therefore we request you
to descend from the throne and surrender up the power delegated to
you.” Were the sovereign to refuse compliance with this demand, then
force should be used; and all the antiquated farces of “hereditary
rights,” and “treason,” and “sedition,” and such-like nonsense, would
of course be disregarded by an insurgent people.

On the other hand, so long as a nation remains tranquil, and addresses
to the sovereign no demand of the kind supposed above, that sovereign
may continue to occupy the throne, as the people’s executive
magistrate; for it is the fault of the millions themselves if they be
foolish enough to tolerate either a king or a queen.

Republicanism is the “order of the day;” and there is not a throne
in Europe that is worth twenty years’ purchase,--no--not even that
of the Austrian Kaiser or the Muscovite Czar;--and from the banks
of the Thames to the confines of Asia--from the cheerless regions
of the North to the sunny shores of the tideless Mediterranean, the
prevailing sentiment is adverse to the antiquated, useless, oppressive
institutions of Monarchy.

HONOUR TO THE GREAT AND GLORIOUS FRENCH NATION! And let the Royalty
which still exists in England beware how it caress, and pet, and
openly sympathise with the ex-Royalty which has taken refuge on this
soil. For the Queen of England to adopt such a course, were to offer
a gross and flagrant insult to the people of France, and inevitably
provoke a war. Besides--is not Louis-Philippe a miscreant deserving
universal execration? Did he not calmly and deliberately calculate
upon butchering the brave Parisian people, in order to consolidate
the power of his despot-throne? Are not his hands imbrued with blood?
No sympathy, then--no pity for this royal Greenacre--this horrible
assassin!

And were he to be received at the palace of our Queen, the insult would
not only be monstrous towards the French people, who have expelled him,
but equally great towards the English people, who abhor tyrants, and
who are generous, humane, and merciful.

WORKING MEN OF ENGLAND! rejoice and be glad--for amidst the changes
which have so recently taken place in France, there is one “sign of
the times” that is cheering and full of prophetic significancy for
_you_! I allude to the grand--the glorious fact, that in the list of
the Provisional Government which the Revolution raised up, these words
appeared--“ALBERT, Working Man.”

Yes: a Working Man was included in that fine category of Republican
names; and he has been instrumental in giving to the whole political
world that impulse which must inevitably conduct _even the present
generation_ to the most glorious destinies.

Honour to Albert, the Working Man!

There is another point on which I must touch, ere I resume the thread
of my narrative.

The Prime Minister of England has declared “that he has no intention
whatever to interfere with the form of government which the French
nation may choose for themselves.” He therefore admits the right of the
nation to establish any form of government which it chooses;--and this
concession is an important one, when coming from the principal adviser
of the Queen, and from a man who is, after all, nothing more nor less
than the chief of an aristocratic clique.

Well, then--it being admitted by the Prime Minister that a nation
has a right to choose its own form of government, the sooner the
people of England begin to think of establishing new institutions for
themselves, the better. For there is no use in disguising the fact--and
no possibility of exaggerating it,--that England is in a truly awful
condition. Already are we enduring a war-tax; and it was only through
fear of seeing the glorious example of the Parisians immediately
followed by the inhabitants of London, that the Ministers abandoned
their iniquitous and execrable scheme of doubling that shameful
impost. But the financial ignorance and the wanton extravagance of the
Whigs have plunged the country into serious pecuniary embarrassments,
from which nothing but the sweeping reform of a purely democratic
Ministry can relieve it. With a tremendous national debt,--with no
possibility of levying another tax,--with Ireland to care for and
almost support,--with a vast amount of absolute penury and positive
destitution in the country,--with an aristocracy clinging to old
abuses, and with the land in the possession of a contemptibly small
oligarchy,--with the industrious classes starving on pitiable
wages,--with a pension-list which is a curse and a shame,--with a
cumbrous and costly Monarchy,--with a Church grasping at all it
can possibly lay hands on,--with a Bench of Bishops in inveterate
and banded hostility to all enlightening opinions and popular
interests,--and with a franchise so limited that nine-tenths of the
people are altogether unrepresented,--with all these, and a thousand
other evils which might be readily enumerated, we repeat our assertion
that England is in an awful state; and we must add that great,
important, and radical changes must be speedily effected.[13]

Oh! how well and how truly has a great French writer declared that “men
have only to will it, in order to be free!” France has set England and
the world a great and glorious example in this respect.

These English newspapers which are interested in pandering to the
prejudices and the selfishness of a bloated aristocracy and an
oppressive oligarchy, of landowners, represent revolutions as scenes
of spoliation, social ruin, and other demoralisation. But the incidents
of the Revolution which gave Louis Philippe a throne in 1830, and those
of the grand struggle which has just hurled him from his despot-seat,
give the lie--the bold, unequivocal lie--to such statements.[14]

[Illustration]

The time has come when all true Reformers must band together for the
public weal. Let there be union,--union of all sects and parties who
are in favour of _progress_, no matter what their denomination may
be,--whether Republicans, Radicals, Chartists, or Democrats. “Union
Is strength,” says the proverb; and the truth thereof maybe fully
justified and borne out in the present age, and in the grand work of
moral agitation for the People’s Rights.[15]

       *       *       *       *       *

We now proceed with the thread of our narrative; but it is not
necessary to give at any length the particulars of the interview which
took place between Lord Ellingham and Richard Markham, now Grand Duke
of Castelcicala. Suffice it to say, that his Sovereign Highness, though
deeply afflicted by the news of his father-in-law’s demise, welcomed
the English nobleman with the utmost cordiality, and immediately
consented to receive Charles Hatfield as one of his _aides-de-camp_.
The Earl hastened back to Pall-mall, and, sending for the young man to
his private apartment, reasoned with him in an impressive way upon the
necessity of retrieving the past by the conduct which he should pursue
in future. Charles listened with profound attention to all that the
excellent peer said upon this occasion, and promised that his behaviour
should henceforth render him worthy of all the signal favours bestowed
upon him.

The preparations for his departure were in the meantime made with all
possible despatch; and in the course of a few hours Charles Hatfield
took leave of his family, and hastened to Markham Place, to join the
suite of the new Sovereign of Castelcicala.




CHAPTER CLVIII.

Mrs. Mortimer in London.


Mrs. Mortimer,--as we must now call her whom we have already known as
Mrs. Slingsby, Mrs. Torrens, and Mrs. Fitzhardinge,--arrived in London
two days after the scene which took place between her daughter and
herself in the Rue Monthabor at Paris.

The wily woman was intent upon accomplishing the aim that had brought
her back to the English metropolis; but as the reader may well imagine,
she had not the least trace of her husband--nor the slightest clue to
his whereabout. Indeed, it was only a conjecture with her that he
was in London at all;--but she had worked this suspicion up into a
certainty in her own mind; and the object she hoped to gain was quite
important enough to lead her to resolve upon leaving no stone unturned
in order to arrive at a successful issue.

On setting foot in the metropolis, she took up her abode at a small
coffee-house in an obscure street in the Borough of Southwark; and
having assumed a somewhat mean attire, she repaired, in the dusk of the
evening after her arrival, to the vicinity of the dwelling which in
former times bore the name of Torrens Cottage.

This house, as the reader will recollect, was situate between Streatham
and Norwood; and the old woman, who knew the world well, and read the
human heart profoundly, calculated that Torrens, impelled by that
inscrutable and mysterious curiosity which prompts persons under
such circumstances, was likely, if indeed in London, to visit the
neighbourhood where he had once dwelt, and which had proved for him the
scene of such dire misfortune.

Mrs. Mortimer knew that Torrens had passed many happy days at that
cottage, and had there cherished the grandest hopes of acquiring a
great fortune by means of building-speculations: she was also aware
that he had at the same place bargained for the sale of his daughter’s
virtue--beheld the ravisher lying murdered upon the sofa--and been
arrested on suspicion of the heinous crime. The place, then, was
replete with the most varied and conflicting reminiscences for the old
man; and Mrs. Mortimer said to herself, “The morbid feelings which must
exist in such a heart as his, will probably induce him to visit the
neighbourhood of the house that once was his home.”

Such was her calculation; and, acting upon this impression, she sped on
foot towards the dwelling where she had once dwelt a few brief hours as
the wife of the man whom she was searching after.

It was nine o’clock in the evening when she turned into the lane
where twenty years before Tom Rain had robbed Frank Curtis of the two
thousand pounds.

In a few minutes Mrs. Mortimer came in sight of the cottage, the
walls of which were glistening white amidst the summer evening
semi-obscurity; and her heart beat quickly as she thought of the
long--long time that had elapsed since she last saw that spot where
_she_ also had been arrested on a capital charge!

What changes--what vicissitudes had marked her existence since that
epoch!

She had been in Newgate, and had there given birth to a daughter, who
had accompanied her into exile:--the daughter had grown up--had become
as profligate, though not altogether as criminal as her mother--and had
at length defied the authority of that parent who thus surpassed her in
the extent of her iniquity!

Yes--many and striking had been the events that had characterised
the old woman’s career since last she saw those white, glistening
walls:--but there was the cottage apparently unchanged in outward
appearance,--although it was more completely hemmed in by trees than
when she quitted it upwards of nineteen years back.

For the large trees which were there in her time, had grown larger, and
the saplings had expanded into trees also;--and a high, thick, verdant
hedge surrounded the garden.

“Ah!” thought the old woman to herself, as she sped down the lane, “I
could almost wish that the cottage was mine, and that I might retire
with a competency to this sweet seclusion, no more to commingle in the
strife and turmoil of the great--the busy--the jarring world. But this
may not be! My life is destined to be stormy until the end. I feel that
it is--and I must yield to the destiny that urges me on!”

Melancholy sentiments had risen up in her soul as she gave way to these
thoughts; but their current was suddenly cut short--or rather diverted
into another channel, when, emerging from the lane, she found herself
in front of the cottage.

A light was visible through the shutters of the parlour--that very
parlour where Sir Henry Courtenay was murdered, and whither she herself
was borne in a fainting fit, after having been arrested in the hall on
a charge of forgery.

A cold shudder crept over the old wretch, hardened and heartless as she
was: for she remembered all the acuteness--all the intensity of the
anguish she had experienced, when she had awakened to consciousness on
that dread occasion, and found herself in the custody of the servitors
of justice.

Exercising, however, a powerful control over her feelings, she stepped
up to the front-door, and knocked boldly,--not in a sneaking, timid,
uncertain manner, but with firmness and decision.

The summons was almost immediately answered by a pretty-looking,
neatly-dressed, and very respectable servant-maid of about eighteen or
nineteen; and Mrs. Mortimer’s eyes now commanded a view of the hall
where the constables had made her their prisoner,--that fatal incident
which became as it were an ominous and most conspicuous finger-post in
the road of her chequered existence!

“Can I be permitted, without causing inconvenience, to speak a few
words to your master or mistress?” inquired Mrs. Mortimer, subduing
the feelings aroused by the reminiscences of the past, and addressing
herself to the business of the present.

“Surely you must have made some mistake,” said the servant-girl,
speaking, however, in a mild and respectful tone. “No gentleman resides
here.”

“Then allow me to see your mistress, young woman,” persisted Mrs.
Mortimer, slipping two half-crowns into the maid’s hand.

“I will carry your message to my mistress,” said the domestic coldly,
and at the same time indignantly repulsing the proffered bribe. “Walk
in, if you please.”

Mrs. Mortimer entered the hall; and as the light of the lamp suspended
to the ceiling now fell fully upon her, the servant-maid saw that she
was somewhat meanly dressed, and that her countenance was none of the
most pleasant to look upon. The impression thus made upon the domestic
was not particularly favourable towards the old woman; but the girl was
artless and unsuspicious naturally, and therefore strove to smother
a feeling which she fancied to be uncharitable towards a complete
stranger. She was therefore about to enter the parlour to deliver the
message of the visitor, when the door of that room suddenly opened, and
a beautiful young creature, of about nineteen, made her appearance.

We must pause for a for minutes to describe the being that burst, like
a seraphic vision, upon the amazed and dazzled sight of Mrs. Mortimer.

Picture to yourself, reader, a tall, sylph-like figure of exquisite
symmetry, reminding the observer of the Grecian models of classic
female beauty,--with the deeply-hollowed back--the swelling chest
and bosom, well matured but not voluptuously large--and the high,
swan-like neck on which the oval head was gracefully fixed,--then
fancy a countenance of the most agreeable expression and rare
loveliness, with eyes not very large, but of the deepest black and most
melting softness, and with brows finely arched and somewhat thickly
pencilled,--a forehead lofty and smooth, and over which the raven hair
was parted in two massive, shining bands,--a nose with the slightest
trace of the Roman curve, and with the nostrils pink as delicate
rose-leaves,--a small mouth, the least thing plump and pouting, and
revealing teeth small, even, and white as pearls,--and a complexion
of a clear, living white, with the carnation flush of health upon
either cheek;--picture to yourself all this assemblage of charms,
gentle reader, and you will then have a complete idea of the enchanting
creature of nineteen, who suddenly appeared on the threshold of the
parlour-door.

We may, however, add, ere we resume the thread of our narrative, that
this beauteous being was attired in a white dress, with a high corsage,
and that she wore no other ornaments than a pair of ear-rings, and a
fancy ring on one of her taper fingers.

Advancing towards Mrs. Mortimer, she said in a musical voice and a kind
tone, “I think I overheard you request a few minutes’ interview with
the mistress of this house----”

“Such was indeed the favour I solicited,” observed the old woman,
hastily. “If my presence would not inconvenience you for a little
while,--and if you will accept my sincere apologies for the apparent
obtrusiveness of the request, as well as for the lateness of the hour
at which it is made----”

“Oh! pray do not deem it necessary to excuse a proceeding which I am
sure you will explain to my satisfaction,” interrupted the young lady,
with a sincerity which emanated from the artlessness of a disposition
entirely unsophisticated. “Walk in, madam,” she added, in a kind and
by no means ceremonial tone, as she conducted Mrs. Mortimer into the
parlour, the door of which the servant-maid immediately closed behind
them.

Mrs. Mortimer now found herself in the very room which was fraught with
so many exciting and varied reminiscences for her. The golden lustre of
the handsome lamp which stood upon the table, was shed upon the scene
of those crushing incidents that had suddenly made her a prisoner for a
forgery which she had committed, and her husband a prisoner on a charge
of murder of which he was innocent!

The old woman sank into a chair, and gazed around her with
no affectation of emotion. The appointments of the room were
changed--materially changed, it was true: but her eyes, nevertheless,
recognised full well--oh! full well--the very spot where had stood the
sofa on which she had awakened to the consciousness of her desperate
condition,--the spot, too, where Torrens was standing when the officers
arrested him on suspicion of the murder of Sir Henry Courtenay!

For a few minutes the old woman was powerfully affected by the
recollections thus vividly conjured up; but, at length calling all her
courage to her aid, she regained her self-possession--and then a rapid
survey made her acquainted with the elegant and tasteful style in which
the parlour was now fitted up. All the furniture seemed to be nearly
new. Upon the table in the middle were several drawings, in pencil
and in water-colours, lying in an open portfolio--a box of paints and
brushes--and several prettily bound volumes of the best modern English
poets. Where a sofa had been placed in the time when Mrs. Mortimer
last knew the cottage, a handsome upright pianoforte now stood; and in
the nearest corner was a magnificent harp. On the cheffoniers in the
window-recesses were porcelain vases filled with flowers; and to the
walls were suspended several excellent pictures, the subjects of which
were chiefly landscapes. Everything, in a word, denoted the chaste
elegance and delicate refinement of the taste that had presided in the
fitting up of that room.

Mrs. Mortimer, having recovered her self-possession, turned towards
the young lady, who had been watching her with mingled interest and
surprise.

“You will pardon me,” said the old woman, “if I were for a few moments
overcome by reminiscence of an affecting nature----”

“Compose yourself, madam--pray, compose yourself,” interrupted the
beauteous girl, in a sweet tone and winning manner; for not only
was the most artless amiability natural to her, but she thought she
perceived in the language of her visitor something superior to what the
condition of her apparel and her personal appearance generally would
have otherwise led her to infer.

“Never can I sufficiently thank you for the urbanity--the kindness,
with which you treat me, my dear young lady!” exclaimed the old woman.
“But am I not intruding upon your leisure--perhaps keeping you away
from some companion----”

“Oh! no--I am all alone here,” said the young lady, with an ingenuous
frankness that excited a feeling of interest--almost of admiration,
even in the breast of such an one as Mrs. Mortimer. “When I say alone,”
continued the beauteous creature, “I do not of course allude to the
servants--because they cannot be called companions, you know; although
the old housekeeper is very kind and good-natured; and Jane--the maid
who gave you admission just now--is a sweet-tempered girl.”

“And is it possible that you dwell here in complete seclusion!”
demanded the old woman, rendering her voice as mild and her manner as
conciliating as possible.

“Oh! I am accustomed to this seclusion, as you style it, madam,”
exclaimed the young lady, gaily: “for years I have lived in this
manner, with my books--my music--my drawings;--and I am very happy,”
she added, in a tone which left not a doubt as to the sincerity of her
statement. “At the same time,” she continued, after a few moments’
pause, and in a somewhat more serious voice, “I could wish that my dear
papa visited me a little oftener--and that circumstances, of which I am
however ignorant did not prevent----”

“What! does not your father live with you, my dear young lady?” asked
Mrs. Mortimer, surveying her with the most unfeigned surprise.

“Alas! he does not,” replied the artless girl, her looks and her
tone now becoming suddenly mournful: but, in the next moment, her
countenance brightened up, and she observed, “At the same time I am
wrong to give way to sorrow in that respect, since my dear father
assures me that the reasons are most important--most grave----”

She checked herself: for it suddenly struck her that she was bestowing
her confidence upon one who was a total stranger to her, and that such
frankness might possibly be indiscreet.

“And your mother, my dear lady?” said Mrs. Mortimer, interrogatively.

“I never knew her,” answered the lovely creature, in a low and almost
sad tone. “But I have been all this time wearying you with remarks and
revelations concerning myself--forgetting that I should have first
suffered you to give the promised explanation relative to your visit.
You may address me as Miss Vernon--or Agnes Vernon, if you choose: for
that is my name. And now, tell me the object of your call.”

Mrs. Mortimer gazed in astonishment upon the charming being who was
seated opposite to her. Never had the old woman beheld so fascinating
a specimen of infantine artlessness and unsophisticated candour. There
was nothing artificial--nothing unreal in Agnes Vernon: the innocence
of her soul--the purity of her mind--the chastity of her thoughts,
were apparent in every word she uttered and in every feature of her
bewitching face!

Yes--the old woman gazed long and ardently upon the sweet countenance
of that young creature,--gazed as if in an adoration forced upon a
savage mind by the apparition of some radiant being from a heavenly
sphere!

“Madam, I am waiting for you to reply to me,” said Agnes, looking down
and blushing deeply, beneath the steadfast gaze thus fixed upon her.

“A thousand pardons, Miss Vernon,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, recovering
her self-possession. “I was lost in thought: many--many reflections,
of a varied and conflicting nature, pressed upon my mind,--for I must
inform you that I was once the occupant of this beautiful little
house----”

“Indeed!” ejaculated the young lady, who now began to suspect--or, at
least, thought that she had obtained a glimpse of--the motive which had
brought her visitor thither. “You have come, then, to cast your eyes
upon a spot which is familiar to you?”

“Precisely so, Miss Vernon,” said the old woman. “And now let me
announce myself to you as Mrs. Mortimer. I am the widow of a General in
the army, and have only just returned from India.”

“Oh! then I can well understand, my dear madam,” cried Agnes, firmly
believing every word that was said to her,--“I can well understand your
anxiety and longing to visit the place where you doubtless once dwelt
with the husband you have lost.”

“You have read my purpose accurately, Miss,” said the old woman, wiping
her eyes as if she were moved to tears by reminiscences of the past.

“But this is most singular, indeed!” suddenly exclaimed the young lady.

Mrs. Mortimer gazed upon her with astonishment; for the observation
that had just escaped Miss Vernon’s lips was as extraordinary as the
impulse which had prompted it was mysterious.

“Yes,” continued the beautiful creature: “this is indeed most singular!”

“Are you surprised at my boldness in thus obtruding myself upon your
presence?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, fixing her eyes in a searching manner
upon the charming countenance of the young lady: “or do you doubt the
existence of the sentiment which brought me hither?”

“Oh! no--no, madam!” exclaimed Agnes, in a tone of the deepest
sincerity, while her features suddenly betrayed the grief which she
experienced at being suspected of what she would have regarded as a
cruel scepticism. “I am sure you could have no other motive for coming
hither than the one you alleged: but I said it was singular--because,
another person--a few days ago----”

“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, a sudden idea striking her: in a word,
she already felt confident that her visit would not prove abortive, and
that she had acted with sagacity in seeking the first trace of Torrens
at the very house which he had inhabited years ago.

“You now appear to be surprised in your turn,” observed Agnes, struck
by the ejaculation which had burst from the old woman’s lips.

“Yes, dear young lady,” said Mrs. Mortimer; “I was indeed
surprised--inasmuch as I gathered from your words that another person,
actuated by the same sentiment as that which brought me to this
spot----”

“And do you know _that other person_, then?” inquired Agnes.

“That is precisely what I have now to ascertain,” answered the
old woman. “The moment I understood the sense of your observation
respecting the visit of another individual to the cottage, I began to
wonder whether it were any friend of my earlier years--perhaps even a
relative----”

“He was an old man, with grey hair and a care-worn countenance,” said
Agnes, perceiving that Mrs. Mortimer paused and seemed to be deeply
affected; “and he told me that he also had once dwelt in this house.
He sate down in this very parlour, and appeared to be overcome with
grief for a long time. I offered to leave the room, that he might be
alone with his mournful reflections: but he conjured me to stay. And
then he informed me that he had known griefs so profound--vicissitudes
so terrible--privations so great, that they had almost driven him mad;
and, when I proposed in as delicate a manner as possible to afford him
such relief as my means would permit, he assured me that he was poor no
longer, and that he had gold at his command. Then, in another moment,
he exclaimed, with an emphasis which almost frightened me--‘_But, oh!
that I were indeed the penniless, half-starving wretch I was some days
ago!_’”

“Ah! he said _that_--did he?” muttered the old woman to herself.
“Remorse has already overtaken him--and he will the more easily yield
to my menaces and become my victim!”

“I did not catch your observation, madam,” said Agnes.

“I was only musing, my dear child,” hastily responded Mrs. Mortimer,
“upon the misfortunes of this strange world of ours. Doubtless some
dreadful affliction had touched the brain of that poor old man of whom
you have been speaking.”

“Such was indeed my fear,” exclaimed Agnes; “and, much as I pitied him,
I confess that I was greatly relieved when he took his departure.”

“Was his visit a long one, my dear young lady?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.

“He remained here for upwards of an hour,” was the reply.

“And was it in the evening that he called?” inquired the old woman.

“Yes--between eight and nine o’clock; and he rose from his seat as
the time-piece struck ten,” responded Agnes. “I know not precisely
wherefore--but it is nevertheless true that his presence began to alarm
me, although I had done him no injury, and indeed had never in my life
seen him before. But there was such a wild expression in his eyes----”

“Ah! doubtless the poor old man was overcome by many painful
recollections,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “I suppose he did not mention his
name to you, Miss Vernon?”

“No--and I did not like to ask him,” was the frank and ingenuous reply.
“His mind was evidently much unsettled,--for it alternated between a
profound grief and a restless excitement--so that while he was here, I
was at one moment moved to sympathise with him, and at another forced
to regard him with vague apprehension. When he spoke of the fact that
he himself had once been the occupant of this dwelling, he glanced
hastily around the parlour, and murmured three or four times in a tone
scarcely audible, ‘_This is the very room--the very room!_’ I could not
divine what he meant, and of course dared not ask him,” added Agnes,
with that charming ingenuousness of manner which denoted the pure child
of nature, untainted by the artificial formalities of a vitiated state
of society.

“How long have you resided here, Miss?” inquired the old woman, after
a brief pause, during which she reflected on all that the beauteous
girl had just told her,--at the same time chuckling inwardly at the
certainty of having ascertained two grand facts: namely, that Torrens
was possessed of plenty of gold, and that he was in London.

“I have lived in this pretty house for nearly three years, madam,”
answered Agnes. “Before that period I----But now,” she added, checking
herself, “I am again troubling you with my own affairs, whereas you
have sufficient upon your mind to engross all your attention. Oh!
yes--you must have,” exclaimed the artless girl,--“having only just
returned to England after so long an absence in India! But you did not
tell me whether you recognised in the old gentleman of whom I have been
speaking, any relative or friend--any person, in fine, in whom you are
interested.”

“Yes, my dear young lady,” responded Mrs. Mortimer; “methinks that
he cannot be altogether unknown to me;--and yet, my thoughts are so
bewildered at this moment--the reminiscences which have been awakened
in my mind by this visit to a spot where I myself once dwelt, and
where I have passed so many happy hours with my dear deceased husband,
General Mortimer----”

“Oh! do not weep, madam--compose yourself, I beseech you!” exclaimed
Agnes, whose unsuspicious soul was touched by the grief which her
artful visitor simulated so aptly.

“Dear young lady,” murmured Mrs. Mortimer, pressing Miss Vernon’s hand
to her lips, “you will perhaps allow me to visit you again?”

“Oh! certainly,” was the reply, given with cheerful and unaffected
cordiality. “You are the widow of an officer of high rank--and
therefore I cannot be doing wrong by receiving you at my house. At the
same time,” added Agnes, after a moment’s reflection, “I do not imagine
that my father----”

But the young lady’s remark was cut short in the middle by a loud
knocking at the front-door. Mrs. Mortimer started up, as she felt that
she was an intruder, and that her business there was of an equivocal
character not likely to stand the test of any inquiry that might be put
by a person less artless and unsophisticated than Miss Vernon herself:
but that young lady, having a pure conscience, and not dreaming that
she had even acted with imprudence in permitting a stranger to foist
herself upon her, said in a cheerful manner, “Oh! it is my father’s
knock--I know it well! You need not be uneasy.”

At this moment the parlour-door opened, and the pretty maid-servant
appeared on the threshold to usher in a gentleman of whose personal
appearance we must give a brief description.




CHAPTER CLIX.

MRS. MORTIMER’S ADVENTURES CONTINUED.


The individual alluded to was a man of middle height, of rather spare
form, and slightly bowed--so that although his years in reality had
scarcely numbered sixty, a casual beholder might have pronounced
him to be above seventy. A closer observation would, however, have
dispelled this first impression; for his features were handsome and
well-preserved, his teeth remarkably fine, and his hands entirely free
from those wrinkles which usually appear upon the fingers of persons
in the winter of their existence. His hair was of that iron grey which
showed that it still retained a faint shade of its former blackness;
and baldness had not even begun to rob him of any part of that natural
covering. He wore no whiskers; and his countenance was smooth, but
pale. In a word, his frame still preserved much of its pristine vigour;
though its spareness and the slightly curved back were calculated, as
above mentioned, to impress a casual observer with the idea that the
individual whom we are describing was older than in reality he was.

We have said that his features were handsome; and we should now
state that their general expression was pleasing, conciliating, and
agreeable. Amiability of disposition, generosity of heart, and an
acquaintance with affliction, were easily read upon that calm, pensive
countenance; but, commingled therewith, was an air of serene dignity
which bespoke a consciousness of some kind of superiority--whether of
rank, wealth, or intellect, could not, however, be immediately decided
by the observer. At all events, the person whom we have now introduced
to our readers was not one to be passed by with indifference, nor
confounded with the ordinary mass of mankind. We must, however, explain
that he was rather characterised by a distinguished air of good
breeding and consummate politeness than by aristocratic hauteur; at the
same time there was so much dignity and loftiness about him as to debar
even the most obtrusive and unceremonious from taking advantage of that
blandness of disposition which was expressed by the countenance. We
have only to add that he was dressed with taste, if not elegance; and
the reader has before him as perfect a picture as we can draw of the
personal appearance of the individual who now entered the parlour of
the cottage.

The moment he had crossed the threshold of the room, Agnes sprang
towards him, saying, “My dearest father, I am delighted to see you! But
let me hope that nothing unpleasant has caused this late visit.”

And, as she spoke, she embraced with almost infantine tenderness the
parent who affectionately returned her caresses.

“Nothing unpleasant, my dear child,” was the reply; and then the young
maiden’s father cast an enquiring glance towards Mrs. Mortimer.

“This lady,” said Agnes, “is the widow of a General who recently died
in India; and, having herself occupied the cottage many years ago, she
felt anxious, on her return to England, to visit the place which had so
many pleasing and some melancholy associations for her.”

“The lady is most welcome,” observed the gentleman; “and her name----”

“Is Mrs. Mortimer,” added Agnes: then, with ingenuous affability, she
said, turning to the old woman, “Madam, permit me to introduce my
beloved father, Mr. Vernon.”

But Mr. Vernon bowed coldly, and even eyed the visitor suspiciously, as
he observed, “I was not aware that any General-officer bearing the name
of Mortimer had recently died in India.”

“My deceased husband,” said the old woman, with admirable presence of
mind, “was not in the English service. He was in that of the Honourable
East India Company.”

“I was not aware,” repeated Mr. Vernon, still in the same chilling
tone, “that there were General-officers in the service of the East
India Company. Madam,” he continued, now fixing his gaze sternly upon
her, “wherefore have you come hither?--on what pretence have you
intruded yourself upon the sacred privacy of my daughter?”

“The motive was the one which Miss Vernon has explained to you, sir,”
replied Mrs. Mortimer, whose self-possession had been for a few moments
considerably disturbed by the confident manner in which the young
lady’s father had exposed her second falsehood.

“Then, if that motive were really the true one, madam,” he said, his
sternness again changing to freezing politeness, “your object is
probably gained by this time; and, as it is now ten o’clock, you will
perhaps have the kindness to leave me with my daughter.”

“Oh! assuredly, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, glad of an opportunity
to escape from the house; and Mr. Vernon, with constrained courtesy,
hastened to open the door to afford her egress.

The old woman breathed more freely when she was once more outside the
walls of the cottage; for the sudden advent of the young maiden’s
father had not a little embarrassed, even if it had not altogether
discomfited her.

But no sooner was she in the open air, when she began to ask herself a
thousand questions as she retraced her way up the lane.

What meant the mystery which evidently hung around the present occupant
of the cottage?--wherefore did that charming creature dwell there
alone?--why was her father only a visitor, instead of being a resident
at his daughter’s abode?--and for what aim, or through what motive, was
so fair a flower buried in such seclusion?

That Agnes was indeed the pure, innocent, artless creature which she
appeared to be, the old crone was sure. Too well acquainted with the
world was Mrs. Mortimer not to perceive that the ingenuous _naïveté_ of
the young girl was real and natural, and not artificial and assumed.
For an instant the impure imagination of the wretch had suggested
that Miss Vernon might only be the pensioned mistress of some wealthy
individual; but in another moment that hypothesis was altogether
discarded. No: Agnes was not tainted with even the slightest--faintest
shade of immorality: her mind was innocence itself--and her chastity as
unblemished as the driven snow. Even the old woman, whose life had been
so tremendously dissolute, was compelled to embrace this conviction;
but the very experience which she herself had gained in the sphere
of licentiousness, dissimulation, and guile, helped Mrs. Mortimer to
arrive at that unquestionable conclusion.

Who and what, then, was Agnes Vernon;--who and what was her father?

Mrs. Mortimer was a person having an eye to her own individual
advantage in every circumstance which, coming under her cognisance,
seemed to present a chance of affording scope for her selfish,
interested, sinister interference. Wherever a mystery appeared, there
she beheld an opportunity for her officious meddling: this officious
meddling led to the discovery of secrets and to the eliciting of
revelations:--and the information thus gleaned became a sort of
marketable commodity with Mrs. Mortimer. In a word, she would seek
to gain the confidence of those who had matters of importance to
communicate, so that she might subsequently render herself so useful
as to deserve payment, or at all events acquire the position of one
who could exact a good price for her secresy respecting the things so
imprudently entrusted to her.

Calculations in accordance with this disposition on her part, and
having reference to the cottage which she had just left, were passing
in her mind as she sped along the lane,--when, midway in that narrow
thoroughfare, she was overtaken by some one who had hurried after her,
but whose footsteps she had not heard, in the pre-occupation of her
thoughts, until they were close behind her.

She stepped--turned round--and beheld, by the bright starlight, a tall
young gentleman, apparently handsome so far as she could distinguish
his features, and dressed in an elegant style.

“Pardon me, my good woman,” said he, “for addressing you; but observing
that you came from the cottage yonder----”

“Yes, sir--I did,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, who, in her eagerness
to learn the motive of the young gentleman’s accosting her, gave him
encouragement to proceed.

“Tell me,” said he, speaking with an equal impatience,--“tell me--do
you know the beautiful creature who dwells in that seclusion? But
of course you must know her--you have been there--perhaps in her
company----”

“I have only just left her presence,” observed Mrs. Mortimer.

“And you are well acquainted with her, then?” cried the young
gentleman, eagerly.

“Perfectly well,” was the answer. “But wherefore these questions?”

“Oh! if I could trust you!” ejaculated the stranger, in a tone that
alike proffered and invited confidence.

“You can--you may,” said the old woman, impressively.

“If I were assured of that, I would reward you well,” was his next
remark.

“How can I prove that I am trustworthy?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.

“By telling me all you know concerning the beauteous creature who
resides in that strange seclusion,” responded the young gentleman.

“Then you yourself know nothing of her or of her affairs?” said the old
woman, interrogatively.

“Nothing--absolutely nothing--save and except that she is the most
lovely being that mortal eyes ever beheld!”

“You are not even aware that she has resided there for these three
years past?” observed Mrs. Mortimer, assuming a mysterious tone as if
about to become more communicative.

“Yes--that fact I have learnt,” replied the young gentleman; “and
also that her name is Agnes Vernon. I have moreover ascertained that
an elderly gentleman visits her occasionally;--and I have sometimes
harboured the worst fears----But, no--no,” he exclaimed, suddenly
interrupting himself and speaking in an impassioned tone: “such
suspicions are no doubt foully injurious to that charming creature! I
have contemplated her, myself being unseen, for hours together when she
has been walking in her garden,--and purity, innocence, artlessness
are written upon her spotless brow--traced in every lineament of her
bewitching countenance. Oh! If I could only obtain the assurance that
the old man who thus visits her were a relation--a guardian--or a
valued friend,--that he is nothing more to her than----”

“I can relieve you of this suspense, sir,” said Mrs. Mortimer, “and
thereby give you a proof of my readiness to assist you. The elderly
gentleman whom you have seen visiting at that cottage, and who indeed
is there at this moment----”

“Yes--yes--I saw him enter,” exclaimed the young man, impatiently. “But
who is he?”

“Her father!” answered Mrs. Mortimer.

“Her father!” repeated the stranger. “Oh! that is scarcely probable!
You are deceiving me:--you are pretending to give me explanations
relative to mysteries which are likewise enigmas to you,--or you are
purposely deluding me! Her father!--impossible! What--would a parent
leave his daughter--and that daughter so transcendently lovely--to
dwell in such utter seclusion----”

“Such is indeed the case, sir,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer; “and I have
little cause to thank you for thus boldly and even insolently accusing
me of wilfully deceiving you.”

And, as she thus spoke, the old woman moved rapidly away, well knowing
that the young gentleman would not part with her in this manner.

“Stop one minute--stay--I beseech you--and pardon me!” he exclaimed,
hastening after her. “I was wrong to address you in such a style:
I insulted you grossly--and I crave your forgiveness. But I was
bewildered with the intelligence you gave me: mingled joy and surprise
deprived me, as it were, of my reason. I imagined the information to be
too welcome and too extraordinary to be true!”

“And yet you ere now sought to persuade yourself that Agnes Vernon
was chaste and pure, though you were then ignorant of the connexion
subsisting between herself and the elderly gentleman who visits her--a
connexion which, previously to the explanation I have given you, must
at least have appeared suspicious, and calculated to raise the most
serious misgivings in your breast.”

“I admit that my conduct is most inconsistent,” exclaimed the young
gentleman, in answer to these reproachful words: “but I love Agnes
Vernon--I adore her--I worship the very ground upon which she
treads----”

“And you have never yet spoken to her?” asked the old woman.

“I have never dared to intrude myself so far upon her notice,” was the
reply: “and yet she has seen me frequently in the neighbourhood----”

“But she never gave you the least encouragement, sir,” interrupted Mrs.
Mortimer, as if making an assertion, instead of throwing out a remark
for the sake of gleaning information.

“Never--never!” exclaimed the young man; “and therefore did I think
so well of her character, in spite of the suspicious circumstances
attending her seclusion.”

“You have, then, the vanity to suppose that if the beautiful Agnes
could have smiled upon any man, you were destined to be that happy
one;”--and, as Mrs. Mortimer made this remark, her voice assumed a
somewhat caustic tone.

“Oh! you have misunderstood my words,” cried the stranger. “I intended
to have you infer that I had never seen any thing in the demeanour and
deportment of Agnes Vernon save what is becoming to a young lady of
good birth, genteel breeding, and taintless soul. At the same time,” he
added, proudly, “I flatter myself that there is nothing particularly
disagreeable in my personal appearance, as there is assuredly
everything favourable in my social position. But of _this_ Agnes is
ignorant; and I am desirous to obtain an interview with her--or to
write to her in a respectful manner----”

“And what has hitherto prevented you from doing either?” asked Mrs.
Mortimer.

“I have already told you that I dared not accost her. Often and often
have I longed to burst through the green hedge which has concealed me
from her view, and throw myself at her feet: but an invisible hand
has restrained me--and I have experienced a species of awe for which
I could not account, and which has made me feel as if I were in the
vicinity of a goddess. Then, as to writing to her,” continued the
impassioned young man, “I was once bold enough to commit a few words to
paper--and I endeavoured to persuade the young servant-girl to give the
note to her mistress.”

“And she treated you with contempt,” said Mrs. Mortimer, anticipating
the fate of the _billet_ from the fact that Jane, the pretty domestic,
had so indignantly rejected her own proffer of five shillings.

“You have guessed rightly--and now I am more than ever convinced
that you are well acquainted with the honest, upright, disinterested
character of the dwellers in that cottage,” said the young gentleman.

Mrs. Mortimer remained silent for a few minutes. She was absorbed in
thought. Should she enter into this new affair which seemed almost to
force itself upon her? or had she not enough already upon her hands?
She had promised to rejoin her daughter Laura by a particular day in
Paris; and there was not much time to lose. Nevertheless, she had
a good week, or even more, at her disposal--providing that she was
speedily successful in tracing out Torrens; and, all things duly
considered, she fancied that she might as well undertake a business
which promised remuneration, and which would probably place her in a
condition to learn secrets and dive into mysteries, a knowledge of
which might prove serviceable in the hands of such an intriguing,
mercenary disposition as her own. Moreover, the larger were her own
special resources, the greater was her independence in respect to her
rebellious daughter; and therefore, after a short interval passed in
deep reflection, she said, “Sir, I am both ready and able to serve you.
But my time is precious now, and will be so for a short time to come.
Five days hence I will attend to any appointment that you may name.”

[Illustration]

“I will give you my card,” said the young gentleman: “and I shall
expect you to call upon me in the evening of the fifth day from this
date.”

“Agreed!” ejaculated the old woman, as she received the card. “My
name is Mortimer; and, although you do not address me as becomes my
position, I can assure you that I am a lady by birth, education,
and----”

She was about to say “conduct;” but the young gentleman, interrupted
her timeously enough, though unwittingly on his part, to prevent her
giving utterance to the atrocious lie;--for he observed, as he thrust
his purse into her hand, “Pardon me, madam, if I have not behaved
courteously towards you: but I presume that your circumstances are not
as flourishing as they ought to be, and gold is no object to me. Five
days hence we meet: till then, farewell.”

And, without waiting for any reply, he hurried away.

Mrs. Mortimer followed along the lane not with any purpose of watching
him, but simply because her own route lay in the same direction. The
echoes of his retreating steps, however, soon died in the distance; and
the old woman sped along until she reached that public-house where,
as the reader may remember, Tom Rain and Clarence Villiers met on the
night of the elopement nearly twenty years before.

Approaching the window, whence a bright glare streamed forth, Mrs.
Mortimer examined the card that had been placed in her hands, and, to
her astonishment, found that the hero of her most recent adventure was
Lord William Trevelyan, and that his residence was in Park Square.
She knew enough of the English peerage to be well aware that the
nobleman whom chance had thus thrown in her way was the second son of
the Marquis of Curzon, a peer of immense wealth, and who permitted
his three male children--all fine young men--to enjoy each a separate
establishment for himself, for which purpose he allowed them handsome
incomes.

Mrs. Mortimer was therefore well pleased at the encounter which she had
that evening made; and in more ways than one was she rejoiced at having
visited the cottage in the neighbourhood of Streatham,--especially as
the purse which Lord William had given her contained thirty guineas.

An omnibus passing at this moment, the old woman entered the vehicle,
and alighted in the Borough. She was speeding homeward--that is to say,
to the coffee-house where she had fixed her temporary abode--when,
as she was threading a narrow street that offered her a short cut to
the place of destination, she was suddenly struck by the certainty
that a man who was walking slowly in advance, and whom she had nearly
overtaken, was neither more nor less than the object of her search!

For, as he had turned to cast a rapid, stealthy glance around, the
light of a lamp had beamed fully upon his countenance;--and that
countenance, altered though it were, was too well known to the old
woman not to be immediately recognised.

Yes: there indeed was Torrens,--there--in her power--within a few
paces of her;--and thus had accident once more materially served his
malignant, evil-intentioned pursuer.

Mrs. Mortimer was so excited by this sudden discovery, that she was
compelled to pause for a moment and lean against a wall for support.
But, almost immediately afterwards recovering her energy and presence
of mind, she hastened on, and came near enough up with Torrens to
behold him enter a house of mean and miserable appearance.

“Now you are in my power!” muttered the old woman to herself, but in
reality apostrophising the individual who was still her husband: and,
without another moment’s hesitation, she knocked at the door of the
dwelling.

Some minutes elapsed before it was opened; and at length a dirty,
slipshod drab of a girl made her appearance.

“I wish to speak to the man who has just entered here,” said Mrs.
Mortimer, unceremoniously pushing her way into the narrow, dark, and
unpleasantly smelling passage.

“Oh! you means old Mr. Smith what lives down stairs, I des say,”
observed the girl.

“I have no doubt of it,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, officiously closing
the street-door. “Come, my dear, show me the way--and I will give you
sixpence for yourself.”

This promise acted like magic upon the girl, who forthwith fetched a
lighted candle from a room opening from the passage, and conducted the
old woman to a precipitate flight of steps, down which she pointed,
saying, “There--right at the bottom: the door faces you.”

Mrs. Mortimer placed the promised gratuity in her hand, and the girl
held the candle high up to light her as she descended.

“That will do, my dear,” said the old woman when she had reached the
last step of the dangerous flight; and the girl disappeared, leaving
the place in utter darkness.

Before the candle had been thus removed, however, Mrs. Mortimer had
hastily reconnoitred the locality; and, applying her hand to a latch,
she opened a door, and in another moment found herself in the presence
of her husband!




CHAPTER CLX.

THE HUSBAND AND WIFE.


The place where the husband and wife met thus, after a separation
of upwards of nineteen years, was what the poor term “a kitchen,”
but which rather merited the designation of “a cellar.” The roof was
low and arched--the rough brick-work of the walls, once smeared with
white-wash, was now dingy all over--and in the day-time a gleam of
light was admitted by means of a miserably small window protected and
also darkened by a grating set in the foot-way of the street. The
den contained a fire-place, where the inmate might cook his victuals
if he were able to bear the intolerable heat of a fire in the midst
of summer; and at the extremity facing the window was a small bed. A
table, two chairs, a few articles of crockery, and a washing-stand,
completed the appointments of this wretched place, which was dimly
lighted by a solitary candle.

The reader is already aware that Torrens was much altered in personal
appearance: nevertheless, his wife had recognised him in the street
without any difficulty. But it was not precisely the same on his part:
had _he_ met _her_ in an accidental manner, he would not have known
her, so remarkable was the change that had taken place in her. Yet
he did know her now--for he had seen her in the little parlour at
Percival’s house; and the moment she stood before him on the threshold
of his present hiding-place, a cry of horror and alarm escaped his lips.

Mrs. Mortimer closed the door, and, taking a chair, motioned her
husband likewise to be seated--a kind of command which he mechanically
obeyed; for something told him that he was in the power of the woman
whom he hated and abhorred.

“We meet after a long, long separation,” she said, in a low tone, which
left him still in utter doubt as to whether the object of her visit was
peace or war.

“Yes--yes,” he observed, nervously: “but wherefore should we meet at
all?”

“Not to exchange caresses and endearing words--not to unite our
fortunes or our misfortunes, as husband and wife,” responded the old
woman. “Of _that_ you may be well assured!”

“Then, again I ask--wherefore should we meet?” demanded Torrens.

“Because this interview suits my purposes,” returned Mrs. Mortimer,
with a malignant grin; “and I may as well commence by assuring you that
you are completely in my power.”

“In your power!” repeated the old man, casting a ghastly look of
mingled apprehension and appeal on her who thus proclaimed her
authority, and who seemed resolved to exercise it.

“Yes--in my power,” she exclaimed, in an impressive manner. “Do you
know that I was arrested on suspicion of being the murderess, or at all
events concerned in the murder--”

“Murder! oh--my God!” moaned Torrens, clasping his hands together in
convulsive anguish, as he glared wildly around.

“Do not affect ignorance of the fact,” said Mrs. Mortimer: “because you
are doubtless well aware that I _was_ arrested for _your_ crime.”

“No--no: you cannot prove that I did it--you can prove nothing!” cried
Torrens, with a species of hysterical violence.

“I can prove that _you_ were the murderer of Percival,” responded the
old woman, fixing her eyes sternly upon her husband.

“Liar--wretch--I defy you!” exclaimed Torrens, his energy suddenly
reviving as he saw the absolute necessity of meeting with boldness a
charge which he felt convinced his wife could _not_ prove against him:
for how could she possibly entertain anything more serious than a bare
suspicion?

“Harsh words and abuse will not intimidate me,” said she, in a quiet
voice; “and all these variations in your manner--nervousness at one
moment, terror the next, and then excitement--only tend to confirm me
in my ideas. Listen, old man--and see whether I have just ground for
those ideas, and whether you could explain away my tale, if told to the
nearest police-magistrate.”

Torrens groaned audibly, and fell back in his chair--but not
insensible--only in the exhaustion of his physical and the prostration
of his moral energies; and his eyes glared in consternation on the
countenance of the accusing fiend whose very presence would have been
intolerable, even if he had committed no crime for her to be able to
accuse him of.

“Listen, I say,” resumed the implacable old woman. “You were at
Percival’s house a few moments before myself and daughter called upon
him. You seemed to be very miserable--so miserable that you wished
to obtain assistance from him. These were the very words he used to
me; and he observed likewise that he never _gave_--consequently you
extorted nothing from him. But you watched through the window-shutters,
from the outside, the interview which took place between him and myself
and daughter: you beheld the gold and the notes displayed upon the
table; and when the old miser was once more alone, you entered the
house--and--and you murdered him with a bludgeon!”

Torrens started convulsively, and endeavoured to give utterance to an
ejaculation of denial; but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth,
and his throat was as parched as if he had been swallowing ashes.

“Yes--you murdered him,” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, apparently dwelling
with fiendish delight upon the horrible accusation: “you beat the
wretched man to death--your blows were dealt with a cruel, a merciless
effect. Then you plundered the iron safe--you took all the treasure
contained in the tin-case--gold and bank-notes to the amount of several
thousands of pounds!”

“It is not true--it is not true!” said Torrens, partially recovering
the power of speech.

“But it _is_ true--all true--precisely as I now repeat the details,”
cried Mrs. Mortimer, emphatically.

“You are mad to think me the possessor of such a treasure, when you
find me in this miserable place, with thread-bare garments, and
surrounded by every proof of a poverty amounting almost to utter
destitution,” said Torrens, his courage to meet the charge somewhat
reviving as he flattered himself that the argument just used was
decisive and unanswerable.

“Do you imagine me to be so thoroughly ignorant of the world as to
become your dupe on such easy terms?” demanded the old woman, in a tone
of withering scorn. “Look at all I have passed through, and then ask
yourself whether it be possible to deceive and mislead me! No, no--I
understand it all. You believe that suspicion will never fall upon the
wretched inmate of such a wretched place,” she continued, glancing
slowly around the cellar--“and your calculation is a correct one. Here
might you have concealed yourself--here might you have passed some
weeks in apparent poverty, until the storm should have blown over. But
it was destined that _one_ person should obtain a clue to your guilt
and a trace to your lurking-hole--and that person is myself! Nay, to
convince you how well all your late proceedings are known to me, I have
only to mention the fact that a few days ago you visited the cottage
which once bore your name----”

“Ah!” ejaculated Torrens, startled by this new proof of how
well-informed his hated wife in reality was concerning his movements.

“Yes--and to the fair inmate of that dwelling,” she added, with a look
full of malignant meaning, “you admitted that you were poor no longer,
but that you wished you indeed were the penniless and half-starving
wretch you had so recently been! Thus the very outpourings of
your remorse, old man, have furnished me with arguments--damning
arguments--against you, and confirmed all my previous suspicions, if
such confirmation were for an instant needed.”

“Why do you now come to me?” asked Torrens, in a faint and faltering
tone, while his entire frame trembled nervously, and his countenance
became so ghastly, that it was absolutely hideous to behold.

“My purpose is stern and immoveable,” replied the old woman.

“And that purpose--is----” faltered Torrens, trembling like an aspen.

“The surrender of every shilling--yes, every shilling--of the treasure
which you plundered from the murdered Percival,” was the answer.

“Malediction!” ejaculated the wretched man, starting wildly from his
seat as if he had received a sudden wound: then, sinking back again
through sheer exhaustion, he pressed his hand to his throbbing brows,
murmuring and lamenting in broken sentences such as these:--“My
gold--my notes--the treasure I lost my soul to gain--the riches I had
hoped to enjoy--the wealth to acquire which I imbrued my hands in
blood--the blood of a fellow-creature--no--no--you shall not have my
treasure.”

And he started up, flinging his arms wildly about him, while his eyes
rolled horribly in their sockets, as if he were attacked by delirium.

Mrs. Mortimer sate calm and motionless, resolved to allow the paroxysm
to pass ere she reiterated her stern demand. She knew--she saw that he
was in her power,--now more so than ever, since he had admitted the
dread crime by his unguarded exclamations.

“Woman, you will drive me mad!” suddenly cried her husband, falling
back again into his seat, and looking at her with a hyena-like rage
expressed upon his countenance.

“I do not seek such a catastrophe,” she observed, coolly.

“But you an urging me to it,” he replied, with savage fierceness.
“No--no--I will not surrender my gold: you cannot compel me!”

“It is for you to decide whether you will adopt that alternative, or
pass hence in a few minutes to the nearest station-house,” responded
Mrs. Mortimer, her voice being still characterised by a calmness and
deliberation indicative of the most implacable sternness of purpose.

“The station-house!” moaned Torrens, with a cold shudder: then, again
becoming dreadfully excited, he exclaimed, “I will die first--and you
shall perish also! Yes--I will murder you, and afterwards----”

“This is child’s play!” said Mrs. Mortimer, laughing at the threat,
as she took up a knife which lay upon the table. “Advance towards me
another pace--and I will plunge this sharp blade into your heart. The
treasure, which is no doubt concealed somewhere in the room, will then
fall into my hands all the same.”

“You are determined to rifle me of all I possess--to plunder me--to
make me penniless!” cried Torrens, falling back in his seat, and giving
way to his despair. “Can nothing move you? But, listen--listen: I will
give you half--yes--one-half of the whole amount----”

“I came not to receive terms, but to dictate them,” interrupted Mrs.
Mortimer. “And now reflect well upon your position, old man;--and
remember also that your wild ravings may draw listeners to the door,
and your guilt will be no longer a secret existing between you and me.
Then, naught--naught can save your neck from the halter!”

“My God! she speaks truly,” murmured Torrens, bewildered by the
dreadful thoughts that rushed to his brain as the woman spoke so
calmly and deliberately of the ignominious death which might overtake
him: “yes--she speaks truly!” he repeated; “and yet, if I give up
all--surrender everything--on what am I to live? how am I to sustain my
miserable existence?”

“You had no kind thought--no compassion for me, when you had friends
to help you, and I was banished across the wide ocean,” said Mrs.
Mortimer: “you cared not what became of me at that time, Torrens--and I
have now no pity, no sympathy for you! I am aware that you loathe and
detest me;--but your aversion surpasses not that which I entertain for
you. There we are well matched: it is however in our relative positions
that I have gained the ascendancy and can wield the authority of a
despot. My crime is of old date, and has been expiated by many long,
long years of horrible exile and servitude in a penal colony: your
crime is new--the blood is scarcely dry upon your hands--your victim is
scarcely cold in his grave--and your guilt can only be expiated on the
scaffold.”

“Spare me--spare me,” groaned the wretched man, clasping his hands
together in an anguish which, assassin as he was, would have moved any
other than the soul-hardened, implacable Mrs. Mortimer.

“Spare you, indeed!” she repeated, in a contemptuous tone: “in what
way can I spare you? If you ask me not to betray you into the hands
of the officers of justice, I at once reassure you on that head--but
with the one condition that you surrender up to me, and without further
parley, every sixpence of the amount you have secreted somewhere in
this place. I do not seek your life: I wish you to live, that you may
be miserable--that you may know what starvation is--that you may wander
the streets, houseless and penniless--dependent upon eleemosynary
charity--begging your bread----”

“Merciful heaven! it is a fiend who is addressing these frightful words
to me now!” ejaculated Torrens, surveying his wife with horror and
astonishment.

“No--it is a woman,--a woman whom you deserted in her bitter trouble,
and who now wreaks her vengeance upon you,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “Carry
back your reminiscences some nineteen years or upwards, and contrast
our positions then. You found friends and relations to console you
while still in gaol, and to assist you after your release. But did you
come near me? did you even send a word or a line to sympathise or to
proffer aid! Miserable wretch that you are, I could wish that you were
ten thousand times more miserable still!”

“Oh! that is impossible--impossible!” exclaimed Torrens, his
cadaverous countenance denoting, by its hideous, painful workings,
the sincerity--the profound sincerity that prompted the averment he
had just made. “Were you to search the earth over, you could not find
a being more miserable than I! And now--and now,” he continued, in a
faltering tone, while tears trickled down his furrowed cheeks,--“now,
will you have compassion upon me?”

“No--ten thousand times _no_!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer. “And I warn
you to hasten and surrender your wealth--or I shall lose all power of
restraining my impatience.”

Torrens rose from his seat, cast one look of malignant--diabolical hate
upon the merciless woman, dashed the traces of grief away from his
cheeks, and then turned towards the bed.

Mrs. Mortimer followed him with her eyes--those eyes now so greedy,
suspicions, and anxious lest by any possibility her prey should escape
her!

The wretched old man, whose heart experienced all the pains of hell,
slowly and with trembling hands raised the miserable mattresses; and
from beneath he drew forth a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper
and tied with a thick string. This he handed to Mrs. Mortimer, who,
heedless of the terrible glance which accompanied it, hastened to open
the packet and examine its contents.

And now her triumph was complete;--for the parcel enclosed gold and
notes to an amount which she proceeded in a leisurely manner to compute.

“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” she said aloud, casting a
malignant look upon Torrens, who had resumed his seat and appeared to
be the victim of a despair that must terminate in the total wreck of
his reason. “And here,” she continued, now musing to herself rather
than speaking for his behoof,--“here is a document that may prove of
some importance to me,--the promissory note of the young man who called
himself _Viscount Marston_.”

Thus speaking, she carefully packed up the parcel once more, and
secured it about her person.

“And you will not leave me a guinea--a single guinea?” asked Torrent,
in a low, hollow voice--his entire aspect indicating that he was
almost stupified by the merciless cupidity of his wife.

“Not a single guinea,” she replied. “The only consolation I can afford
you is the assurance that your secret is safe with me. If you are ever
sent to the scaffold--it will not be through my instrumentality.”

With these words, she retreated towards the door, walking backwards,
so as to keep her eyes fixed upon Torrens the whole time, and thus be
prepared for a sudden attack should he meditate mischief, or, in an
ungovernable paroxysm of rage and despair, attempt it.

But the old man moved not from his seat, although he appeared to reel
and sway unsteadily backward and forward in his chair; and at the
moment when Mrs. Mortimer placed her hand on the latch, he fell heavily
upon the floor.

She was about to depart when it struck her that, if he were dead,
unpleasant suspicions might attach themselves to her, should she hurry
away without raising any alarm; and she accordingly hastened towards
him. He was senseless--but the spark of life was not extinct; and now
through fear did the woman perform those duties to which she never
could have been otherwise urged in respect to him. She raised him
in her arms--she placed him on the bed--removed his neckcloth--and
sprinkled water upon his face. In a few minutes he began to revive, and
his eyes opened slowly.

“Where am I?--is it a dream?” he murmured in a faint tone: then, as
his recollection returned with speed and vividness, and he knew the
countenance that was bending over him, and remembered why the woman
herself was there, he exclaimed, “Fiend! give me back my gold!”

“Never!” was the emphatic word that fell upon his ear in reply--and in
another moment he was alone.

No--not alone: for Despair was now his companion.

And Despair is an appalling guest:--for, murderer as the man was, he
had some kind of worldly consolation left in his treasure until the
implacable woman wrested it from him. But now that only solace was
gone--and he was left to the horror of his thoughts, and to the ghost
of his victim. Beggary was before him--beggary, with all its hideous
train of evils, and those evils rendered the more terrible because
beyond loomed the black and ominous gibbet!

Oh! how was it that madness did not seize upon the old man’s brain, and
rob him of the power of making these agonizing reflections?

Was it that his punishment was to begin upon earth? If so, assuredly
the retribution was appalling, even on this side of the tomb;--and he
had not even left to him the consolation that the gold for which he had
bartered his soul was still in his possession--still at his command,
and available for his use!




CHAPTER CLXI.

AGNES VERNON AND HER FATHER.


We must now return to the cottage near Streatham, were we left the
beautiful and artless Agnes Vernon with her father.

The moment the old woman had quitted the house, Mr. Vernon turned
towards his daughter, and, taking her hand, said, “My dearest child,
how came you to admit a complete stranger into your presence in so
unguarded a manner?”

“As I had never seen her in my life before, dear father,” replied the
charming girl, “I could not for an instant suppose that she had any
evil intention in visiting the cottage; because, having done her no
harm----”

“But, my beloved Agnes,” interrupted her parent kindly, as he made
her sit down near him as he also took a chair, “I have often told you
that the world contains many wicked people, who frequently harbour the
basest and most infamous designs towards young women who are pretty and
unsuspecting as you; and this Mrs. Mortimer, as she calls herself, may
be one of the class I have alluded to.”

“I am sorry indeed that I should have acted in a way to cause you any
displeasure, my dearest father,” said Agnes, her eyes filling with
tears; “but--”

“You do not understand me, my sweet child,” again interrupted Mr.
Vernon, passing his hand affectionately over her glossy hair, and pure,
polished brow; “I am not angry with you--indeed, it would be impossible
to experience any irritation with such an amiable, excellent girl as
you are. But I am alarmed lest evil-disposed persons should seek to do
you an injury--and therefore I recommend caution and prudence on your
part.”

“I cannot comprehend how the old lady who was here just now could
possibly seek to harm me,” said the amiable Agnes, “since I have never
harmed her, and, on the contrary, treated her with the respect due to
her years and her afflictions.”

“What did she tell you, my love?” inquired Mr. Vernon.

Agnes forthwith related, in her own natural, simple, yet agreeable
manner, the entire conversation which had passed between herself and
Mrs. Mortimer.

Her father listened with earnest attention; and for some minutes after
she had ceased speaking, he remained absorbed in deep thought.

“You are not pleased with the incident of this evening,” said Agnes,
at length, and speaking in a timid voice, as she gazed with anxious
fondness on her parent’s pensive countenance.

“Once more I assure you, my well-beloved child,” he responded, “that
I am not angry with you. But you will, perhaps, be somewhat surprised
to hear me declare that I do not believe one syllable of all the old
woman told you. In the great world, Agnes, there is no such thing as
that sentimentalism and sympathy which she professed to be the motives
that led her to visit the cottage ere now. I detected her in two
falsehoods--and I have every reason to suspect all the rest.”

“But was it not natural, dear papa, for her to be desirous to behold
once more the scene where she had passed many happy days with her
deceased husband?” inquired Agnes. “Oh! I can well understand such a
feeling--and I therefore honoured and respected her for entertaining
it.”

“Yes--there are a few generous hearts that would experience such
sentiments,” observed Mr. Vernon; “for perhaps I was too hasty ere now
in the sweeping condemnation which I levelled at what I termed the
great world. At the same time, Agnes, you must not judge the world
by your own pure and unsophisticated soul. And would to God that
experience might never be destined to teach you other lessons than
those which seclusion and good training have already inculcated: would
to God that you might never be compelled to look upon the dark side of
human affairs!”

“Have I other lessons to learn--other teachings to undergo--other
experience to acquire, beyond what I already know?” asked the ingenuous
and candid Agnes.

“Alas! yes--and in a variety of ways,” responded her father, with
a sigh. “You have as yet seen only one phase of the world--that
of tranquillity, serene happiness, and peace. You have not even
heard the storms of that world in the distance. Hitherto your life
has been passed under the most genial influences; and you know
nothing--absolutely nothing, of what may be termed _life_. Again I say,
therefore, how deeply--how earnestly it is to be wished that your mind
may never become acquainted with the bitter teachings of vicissitude or
misfortune.”

“I am already well aware, my dear father, from my historical studies
and from the perusal of the books which you have selected for me, that
mankind pursues many and varied conflicting interests, and that _gain_
is the chief object thus sought after, But I am still at a loss,”
continued the beautiful Agnes, “to understand how people can be wicked
enough to injure others who have never injured them, and when the
infliction of such injury can confer no benefit upon the individual
who is guilty of such flagrant wrong. Suppose, for instance, that this
Mrs. Mortimer who was here just now, should in reality entertain some
evil design towards me, how could she possibly acquire any personal
advantage from the pursuit of such conduct?”

“You are as yet too innocent--oh! far too innocent, if not too young,
to understand these matters,” said Mr. Vernon, gazing with all a
father’s affection upon his beauteous and artless child. “Neither is it
for me to remove the film from your eyes in this respect.”

“And yet, dear papa,” she observed, with the most endearing, amiable
_naïveté_, “if no one will point out the shoals, rocks, and quicksands
to me, how can I possibly avoid them? You see that just now I erred by
receiving that person too frankly--too cordially----”

“And the old man who called the other evening, too,” said her father,
with a smile. “Now, do you not perceive, my dear child, that there
is something suspicious in these two visits, which indeed appear
to have some degree of relationship to each other, and perhaps had
the same instigation. I cannot conceive that accident should send
two persons hither, separately and at a short interval, on the same
pretence, unless they were acting in collusion. That such an accidental
coincidence might happen, I admit; but prudence--worldly prudence, my
love, makes us look suspiciously upon such events; and I confess that
this is the light in which I view the present occurrences. The woman
represented herself as the widow of a General who had lately died in
India: now I happen to be so well-informed on these matters as to be
enabled to state most emphatically that no General-officer of that name
has existed for many years past. Finding herself at fault in respect
to her first assertion, your visitor endeavoured to make good her tale
by means of a second; but the falsehood was equally palpable in this
latter case. Now, therefore, my dearest Agnes, you comprehend that
there are good and just grounds for suspecting the motive which led her
hither.”

“Is it possible that persons can be so wicked?” exclaimed the young
maiden.

“It is, alas! too true,” replied her father; “and therefore you cannot
be too much upon your guard in respect to strangers. I wonder that Mrs.
Gifford did not represent to you the impropriety of allowing the old
man to force his way into your presence a few days ago----”

“Both Mrs. Gifford and Jane spoke to me on the subject after he was
gone,” said Agnes, desirous to rescue her two servants from blame: “but
I fancied their timidity had made them conjure up visions of thieves
and housebreakers, and I only laughed while they remonstrated.”

“Then you now perceive, dear Agnes, that they were right in the
observations which they undertook to address to you,” said Mr. Vernon.

“Yes--and I am sorry that I did not listen with more attention,”
answered the amiable girl. “In future, my dear father, I will allow no
one to enter the house unless he or she be the bearer of a letter from
you.”

“This is precisely what I could desire, Agnes,” exclaimed Mr. Vernon;
“and you will afford me unfeigned pleasure if you adhere to this
resolution.”

“You know that I will do all you enjoin--even without questioning your
motives,” observed Agnes. “Command--and I obey.”

“My dear child, the word ‘_command_’ exists not in the vocabulary
that I have to use when conveying my wishes to you. So dutiful--so
good--so willing are you, Agnes, that I have never had occasion to
speak with imperiousness or harshness to you. You do not even question
me concerning those matters which might naturally awaken your curiosity
and your interest.”

“It is sufficient for me to know that you desire me to dwell in this
seclusion,” said Agnes; “and as you have exerted yourself, my dearest
father, to surround me with every comfort--every element of happiness,
I should be indeed ungrateful and unjust were I to seek prematurely
those explanations which you have promised to give me when the proper
time shall arrive.”

“And that time is not so very far distant, Agnes,” said Mr. Vernon.
“Two years more--and I shall no longer have any secrets from you. But
while we are thus conversing, I forget that it is waxing late and that
I have not even as yet begun to account for the sudden and unexpected
visit which circumstances have compelled me to pay you this evening.”

Agnes now regarded her parent with some degree of suspense; for his
remark had brought back to her memory the circumstance that he had
never called at so late an hour before, and, moreover, that this was
the third time he had visited her within the week--an occurrence at
variance with his ordinary habit.

“My dear child,” said Mr. Vernon, speaking in the kindest tone
possible, “I am compelled to leave England on urgent business
to-morrow.”

“Leave England!” repeated Agnes, tears starting into her eyes.

“Yes, my beloved--and I regret to add that my absence may be of some
weeks’ duration. Paris is the place whither this sudden and unexpected
business calls me; and though I shall be away from you, yet will you
ever be present in my thoughts, and I shall write to you frequently.”

“But how many weeks shall you be absent, my dear father?” asked Agnes,
the pearly drops now chasing each other adown her cheeks.

“Eight or ten, my child,” responded Mr. Vernon: “but at the expiration
of that period you will be certain to see me again. Remember, Agnes,
that far longer intervals than this have occurred during which we have
been completely separated--”

“Yes, my dear father--when I was staying in the country with my
governess, who is now no more,” interrupted Agnes, unable to stifle her
sobs: “but ever since her death I have seen you frequently--far more
frequently.”

“Because I removed you to this cottage which I purchased for you, and
which is so much nearer to London than was Mrs. Clement’s abode at St.
Alban’s. However, my sweet Agnes--compose yourself--cheer up--and wipe
away those tears. I cannot bear to see you weep,” he added, his own
voice growing tremulous. “Two months or two months and a half will soon
glide away; and I shall bring you a number of presents from Paris.”

“You spoil me with your kindness, my dear father,” exclaimed the
beautiful girl, throwing her arms about his neck, and embracing him
tenderly. “I am afraid that I must cost you a great deal of money--for
you are always buying me something new. But then, you are very
rich--are you not, dear papa!”

“Thank God, I am--and for your sake!” cried Mr. Vernon, returning her
fond caresses. “The time will come, Agnes, when you will learn how
powerful a talisman, in respect to happiness, is money. Some of the
books which I have selected for you inculcate maxims against avarice,
covetousness, and selfishness: while others even go further, and
endeavour to prove that a moderate competency is more compatible with
true happiness than an immense fortune can possibly be. But I much
question whether the authors of those works would not have leapt at the
chance of giving the truth of their assertions a fair trial through
the medium of experience in respect to the possession of riches.
Such books, however, do good; they infuse salutary thoughts into the
mind--although the influence thereof must inevitably become subdued,
if not altogether destroyed, in proportion as the individual advances
in worldly knowledge, and finds worldly interests crowding upon him.
Riches, my dearest Agnes, may become a blessing or a curse according to
the manner in which the possessor uses them; and by this observation I
believe that I shall have opened a new field for the exercise of your
reflections and good sense.”

“Oh! you have indeed, my kind father!” exclaimed Agnes. “But--to return
to the object of your visit this evening--may I express a hope that the
business which calls you to Paris is of no unpleasant nature?”

“By no means, my love,” answered Mr. Vernon, smiling affectionately
upon his amiable daughter. “And now I must take my departure--for it
is eleven o’clock. You will remark, dear Agnes, the advice I gave you
relative to the visits of strangers; for I should be unhappy indeed, if
I thought that your artless, unsuspecting character were likely to be
the very cause of exposing you to peril.”

“You may depend upon my prudence in future, dear father,” said Agnes;
“and I am rejoiced that you have given me such timely warning. Oh! who
could have thought that the old man who seemed so deeply affected,
and the woman who spoke so tenderly of her deceased husband, could
have harboured any sinister design? It is really enough to render one
suspicious of everything and everybody in future.”

“No, my dear child--you must not fall into the opposite extreme,” cried
Mr. Vernon, hastily. “Because, for instance, a mendicant to whom you
give alms should turn out to be an imposter, do not argue therefrom
that all destitute persons are rogues. I do not wish distrust and
suspicion to take the place of your generous frankness and amiable
candour; but I am desirous that, while preserving the artlessness and
ingenuousness of your disposition, you should at the same time adopt
those precautions which common prudence suggests. And now, my sweet
Agnes, embrace me and then retire to your own chamber--for, ere I
depart, I have a few instructions to give to Mrs. Gifford, whom you
will please to send hither to me.”

The beauteous maiden once more threw her arms round her father’s neck
and covered his face with her kisses and her tears: then, having
received his blessing--a blessing which he gave from the very bottom of
his heart--she reluctantly tore herself away from his arms, and quitted
the room.

In a few minutes Mrs. Gifford, the housekeeper, made her
appearance. She was a woman of about fifty-six years of age--stout,
respectable-looking, and with a countenance in which honesty and
good-temper were alike read as plainly as the words in a book.

On entering the parlour, she closed the door carefully behind her;
and then her demeanour suddenly became profoundly reverential as she
advanced towards the father of her young mistress.

“Mrs. Gifford,” said he, in a tone of friendly confidence, “I am about
to visit Paris, and therefore thought it necessary to see you for a few
moments, previous to my departure. Not that I need recommend my beloved
child to your care--for I am well assured that you watch over her
safety and her happiness as zealously as if she were your own daughter.”

“Your lordship--” began the housekeeper, in a tone of the deepest
respect.

“Hush!” exclaimed he whom we must still call Mr. Vernon, in spite
of the aristocratic title by which Mrs. Gifford had addressed him:
“remember that walls have ears, my good friend! I was about to observe
to you that Agnes, through the amiable confidence and ingenuousness
which are natural to her, has allowed two strangers,--one a few
evenings ago--the other this very night,--to intrude themselves upon
her; and I tremble lest their motive be a bad one. The gardener and his
assistant invariably sleep in the out-house, I hope?”

“Yes, my--I mean, sir,” answered Mrs. Gifford; “and they are resolute,
determined men, who would not permit plunderers to enter these premises
with impunity.”

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Vernon. “Did you yourself see the old man who
called here the other night?”

“I did not, sir,” replied Mrs. Gifford. “But Jane assured me his
appearance was that of a man worn down with old age, wretchedness, and
poverty, rather than of an evil-intentioned person. Shall I tell your
lord--shall I tell you, sir,” said the good woman, hastily correcting
herself, “what is my impression relative to that old man? Why, sir,”
she continued, perceiving that Mr. Vernon nodded approvingly, “it
struck me that it might be that Mr. Torrens, who used to live here
many, many years ago, and of whom we heard such dreadful tales shortly
after your lord--I mean, shortly after you bought the cottage.”

“But those tales--has Agnes learnt them?--have they reached her ears?”
demanded Mr. Vernon, hastily: “because they might terrify and alarm
her.”

“No, sir--she is entirely ignorant of all the legends attached to this
house,” was the reply; “and it is not by any means likely that they can
reach her ears. Jane is a discreet, good girl, and would not allude to
them for worlds.”

“Thank God!” ejaculated Mr. Vernon; “for were Agnes to learn what we
ourselves only heard after the entire purchase was concluded and you
were located here,--were she to learn, I say, that a horrible murder
had been committed in this house, I would at once procure her another
dwelling. But you were speaking ere now about the very Torrens who was
so unjustly accused of that foul crime.”

“I was observing, sir, that I fancied the old man who called here the
other night might be he; for as Miss afterwards told me, he spoke of
having lived here many years ago, and of the terrible misfortunes
he had endured; and then he glanced round the parlour repeatedly,
observing in an audible though anguished tone, ‘_This is the very
room--this is the very room!_’ And _this_ is the room,” continued Mrs.
Gifford, “where the baronet was murdered; and therefore I conclude that
the old man was none other than the wretched Torrens.”

“Your surmises are most natural,” said Mr. Vernon, after a few moments’
reflection. “But who, then, was the old woman that came just now? And
yet,” he proceeded, “though I spoke of her lightly and irreverently as
_an old woman_, I am bound to admit that there was really a something
about her which gave me the idea of one who had seen better days. Her
language was especially lady-like and correct. She said she had lived
here many years ago--”

“And yet,” interrupted Mrs. Gifford, “the cottage was shut up for
nearly eight years after the murder; and then the landlord into whose
hands it had fallen, and who was a widower, came and resided here
himself, as no one would take it. He occupied it until his death; and
then your lord--and then, I mean, you purchased it, sir, together with
the garden and orchard attached to it.”

“And what would you infer from all these circumstances?” inquired Mr.
Vernon.

“That if the old woman really did live here many years ago, it must
have been during Torrens’ time,” explained the housekeeper; “because he
built the cottage, and resided in it until the murder; after which, as
I just now said, it was shut up for a lengthened period. Now, strange
though it may seem, an idea has likewise struck me relative to the old
woman--or old lady--”

“And what is your idea!” asked Mr. Vernon.

“That she is that Mrs. Slingsby--or Mrs. Torrens, who got into
trouble at the same time as the husband she had just married. If my
conjectures are correct, sir, I do not think that you have any cause
for apprehension in the two visits which have been paid to the cottage.”

“I congratulate you upon the shrewdness which you have displayed
in dealing with the subject,” said Mr. Vernon, smiling; “and I am
inclined to adopt the views which your sagacity suggests. Perhaps,
then, there is really nothing to fear: but, of course, Mrs. Gifford,
you will exercise the utmost prudence and the most unwearying vigilance
in regard to my darling child. You know how dear she is to me--you
are also acquainted with the unhappy circumstances which force me
to condemn her to this seclusion until she shall have attained her
twenty-first year--unless,” he added, in a more measured tone, “death
shall in the meantime snatch away that woman whom I cannot call my----”

“My lord! my lord!” exclaimed the housekeeper, in an imploring voice;
“give not way to recollections which always excite you so painfully!
With me your charming Agnes is safe--and you are well aware that I love
her as much as if she were my own child! Besides, the deep--the many
debts of gratitude which I owe to your lordship----”

“Hush! hush!” interrupted Mr. Vernon; “for again I tell you that the
very walls have ears--and I would not that my rank should be even
suspected----”

“Pardon me--I forgot your oft-repeated injunctions on that head,”
said Mrs. Gifford. “But you must not suppose that because I am thus
sometimes oblivious in your presence, I ever allow a single word to
slip from my tongue that may create a suspicion in the mind of Miss
Agnes or Jane.”

“And now, Mrs. Gifford,” observed Mr. Vernon, “I have one more question
to ask you:--has that young gentleman who once dared to ask Jane to
deliver a note to my daughter--has he ventured into this neighbourhood
since?”

“I must confess, sir,” was the answer, “that I have seen him loitering
about the cottage on one or two occasions: but as he never seeks to
obtrude himself upon the notice of Miss Agnes, I have not thought it
worth while, nor even prudent, to suggest to the dear young lady what
course she ought to pursue in case he should address her. Besides, he
appears to be a gentleman in every sense of the word; and I do not
apprehend any rudeness on his part towards your daughter. Indeed, he
appeared much humiliated and very penitent when Jane so resolutely
refused to become the bearer of his missive or to receive his bribe.”

“You have acted with prudence: it would be unwise to make any
observation to Agnes relative to this stranger, under present
circumstances,” said Mr. Vernon. “Were you to speak to her on the
subject, you must necessarily explain the nature of that sentiment
which has attracted the young gentleman to this neighbourhood--and
to talk to her relative to the passion of love, were to destroy some
portion of that artless innocence--that infantine purity of soul, which
characterises her. In a word, I trust my dear child to your care and
discretion, Mrs. Gifford;--and I shall expect that you will write to me
at least once a week during my absence.”

Mr. Vernon then wrote upon a slip of paper the address where letters
would reach him in Paris; and, having next placed a roll of bank notes
in Mrs. Gifford’s hands for the expenses of the little establishment
until his return, he took his departure.


[Illustration]




CHAPTER CLXII.

LAURA IN PARIS.


We must now return for a short time to the beautiful, but licentious
and profligate Laura, whom we left in Paris.

Although she reckoned materially upon her mother’s aid in respect to
her new designs, she nevertheless resolved to enjoy herself during
the old woman’s absence; and the thought even struck her that it was
possible--though not very probable--for her to form some brilliant
connexion without the assistance of her parent. At all events, she
reasoned that there was no harm in making the trial; and therefore,
the moment Mrs. Mortimer had taken her departure for England, Laura
commenced her preparations for pleasure, and perhaps for intrigue.

She hired a private box at each of the principal theatres, and
purchased a handsome carriage and a pair of beautiful horses; and then
she engaged a celebrated artist to paint her portrait, well knowing
that his _studio_ was frequented by men of rank and fortune, and
calculating that a view of the splendid countenance on the canvass
would inspire the liveliest curiosity to behold the living original.
She likewise secured the services of an eminent musician to give her
lessons in the divine art; and this gentleman, believing her to be
highly respectable, introduced her to his wife, and invited her to a
musical soirée, where her beauty and the report which had been spread
to the effect that she was an heiress who had just succeeded to her
property, rendered her the centre of attraction.

By the means just enumerated, Laura gained one grand object--an
entrance into respectable society; and this difficult point was
accomplished in less than four days after her mother’s departure from
Paris.

She soon began to be talked about--but not with suspicion. No--it was
her transcendent beauty that became the theme of discourse; and the
admiration with which she had inspired both the French and English
gentlemen at the soirée, rendered them so enthusiastic in her praise,
that they unconsciously suffered themselves to be hurried into
assertions guaranteeing her respectability and virtue, as well as
expatiating on her charms.

Thus was it, for instance, that one of her French admirers would
speak:--

“Never in my life did I behold so beauteous a creature as Miss Laura
Mortimer, an English lady whom I met at the soirée last evening.
What a pity it is that she cannot talk French: how sweet would our
language sound when wafted by such a melodious voice! It is, however,
fortunate that I myself understand the English tongue, or I should
have been debarred the pleasure of exchanging a syllable with that
houri. Houri! Mahommed never dreamt of such a glorious creature! Her
hair is of the richest brown that I ever saw--glossy, luxuriant, and
shining: her forehead is of a height and width deserving to sustain a
queenly diadem; and her eyes, large and brilliant, are of a dark grey
when looked into attentively, but seem to be of a deeper hue to the
casual observer. Then her teeth--never were beheld such pearls! But
her form--her figure--oh, it were impossible to find words to describe
the charms of that magnificent shape! A critic, having the ancient
models of classic female beauty in his mind, would perhaps pronounce
her bust to be in proportions too voluptuous: but let him contemplate
that graceful slope of the shoulders--the arching of the swan-like
neck--the fine expansion of the chest--the perfect roundness of the
bosom--the just symmetry of the waist--and the dazzling whiteness of
the charms revealed by the low corsage of the evening toilette,--let
the admirer of ancient models behold all this, and he will soon confess
that he would have nothing changed in the contours of Laura Mortimer’s
figure. Oh! she was indeed heavenly in her elegant, but tasteful
attire; and the lustre of her eyes outvied the brilliancy of her
diamonds. But, in addition to her faultless beauty there is about her
an air of virgin freshness that indicates a mind pure and untainted;
though, at the same time, it is easy to perceive that Laura Mortimer
is no inexperienced girl. She is, on the contrary, a young woman of
fine intellect, proud soul, and independent spirit,--energetic, without
being masculine,--firm, yet endowed with all the natural softness
of her sex. That her passions are strong and her disposition even
sensual, you may read in her eyes and in the lineaments of her aquiline
countenance;--but that an honest pride enables her to put a curb upon
her ardent imagination, is equally certain. Happy will be the man who
shall win so inestimable a prize!”

“I understand,” another enthusiastic admirer would observe, “that she
is possessed of a fine property. Her deceased father, I am told, was a
wealthy nabob; and she expects her mother shortly to join her in Paris.
The old lady has gone to England to make certain transfers from the
British to the French funds, in behalf of her daughter. Miss Mortimer
is decidedly the most charming creature that ever burst thus suddenly
upon the dazzled sight of the fashionable world in Paris. Oh! how I
envy the professor of music who gives her lessons, and the artist who
is painting her portrait! Never could I grow weary of contemplating
that splendid countenance, or of listening to that voice so full of
melody!”

In a word, within a very few days from the time when she took the
handsome suite of apartments in the Rue Monthabor, Laura became the
topic of conversation amongst all the nobles and gentlemen, French or
foreign, in the fashionable quarters of Paris; and those who heard
the praises so lavishly bestowed upon her by the envied few that had
already formed her acquaintance, longed to be presented to this goddess
of beauty!

One danger she incurred--and of this she was sensible: it consisted
in the fact that the persons belonging to the hotel where she and
Charles Hatfield had at first put up, and likewise the British chaplain
and his clerk, were aware that she was married! But she calculated
that the chances of detection or exposure at their hands were very
insignificant and scarcely worth a thought: for even though any of the
parties alluded to should meet and recognise her, they would believe
themselves to be mistaken in respect to the identity of Laura Mortimer
with Perdita Hatfield. Besides, Paris was a very large city; and months
might elapse before such a meeting or recognition took place; and in
the meantime she hoped to have so successfully conducted her intrigues
as to be able to return to England in complete independence of her
convention with Mr. Hatfield.

It was on the sixth morning after Laura had taken up her abode in the
Rue Monthabor that she saw a paragraph in _Galignani’s Messenger_,
the English journal published in Paris, announcing that His Sovereign
Highness the Grand Duke of Castelcicala, who had just succeeded to that
lofty rank in consequence of his father-in-law’s demise, had arrived
on the preceding evening in the French capital, on his way to Italy.
The article, in the usual fulsome manner, stated that his Sovereign
Highness intended to remain one day in Paris, in order to have a
private interview with the King of the French; and the journalist
proceeded to give a list of the noblemen and gentlemen composing
the suite of the Grand Duke. In that category there was one English
name;--and that name was CHARLES HATFIELD!

“Charles Hatfield!” exclaimed Laura, in astonishment, and scarcely
able to believe the evidence of her own eyes; but a second reference
to the paragraph assured her that she had indeed made no mistake. “Ah!
I comprehend,” she murmured to herself, as she laid the paper upon the
breakfast table, at which she was seated; “this is the course that his
stern father has adopted in order to throw him amidst new scenes, and
remove him afar from the meridian of London as well as from that of
Paris! He is to be sent into a species of ostracism in Italy, until he
shall have been weaned from the lingering affection he entertains for
_me_!”

Thus reasoning within herself, Laura rose from the sofa whereon she had
been reclining, and approached a mirror, on whose bright and polished
surface she beheld the glorious reflection of her countenance,--that
countenance which was now radiant with the triumph that filled her soul.

“Yes,” she murmured to herself, as she still continued to survey her
image in the glass,--“his father is afraid that he will yet fly back
to my arms--afraid that the magic of my beauty may once more draw him
within the sphere of its influence!”

As these thoughts passed through her brain, her soul was filled with an
ineffable exultation;--for she marked the flashing of her fine eyes,
and the dazzling brilliancy of the teeth that appeared like pearls
set between two rubies,--marked also the glow of rich carnation on
her cheeks, in such striking contrast to the alabaster shoulders and
swelling bosom whiter than Parian marble, and which, according to a
habit produced by the natural voluptuousness of her temperament, were
purposely left more than half exposed even when she was alone,--all
those beauties--her own transcendent beauties--she beheld reflected in
the faithful mirror; and never was woman more profoundly conscious of
the sovereign power which perfect loveliness exercises over the heart
of man, than was Laura Mortimer on this occasion.

The reader has already seen enough of this young woman to be well aware
that she was a most extraordinary character; and, though her conduct
would in another often warrant the belief that she was made up of
_contradictions_, yet with her those very deeds or thoughts that might
seem to deserve such a name, were in reality in perfect keeping with a
disposition to the reading of whose depths and intricacies the key of
no ordinary experience of the female heart would serve.

Thus was it that a wild--a strange--and a daring scheme rose up in her
mind, as, surveying her peerless charms in the polished mirror, she
repeated to herself, “Charles Hatfield is in Paris! He will be in the
capital for twenty-four hours; and in twenty-four hours so much may be
done! May I not take the first step in my meditated vengeance--a small
step, it is true,--and yet a commencement! Yes--at the same time I may
prove the irresistible power of my beauty, and wring his recreant heart
with a jealousy--a jealousy so keen, so acute, so galling that he shall
writhe in agony of spirit, and yet dare not utter a word! All this I
can do, and still not violate my compact with his father. For how run
the conditions? _Never to molest the young man in any way--never to
return to England, but to fix my abode in some continental State--and
never to reveal the fact of our marriage!_ Not one of those conditions
shall I break by the plan which now engages my attention. For if we
happen to meet in the same room, or at the same public resort, it
cannot be said that I molest him. No:--and now for the execution of my
project--a project that, in its carrying out, will excite in his breast
the tortures of hell!”

And the beauteous mouth was wreathed into a smile of malignant--almost
fiend-like triumph, as those last words came hissing between her pearly
teeth--not borne upon a voice melodious as a silver bell, but in a tone
so changed for a few moments, that had she spoken in the dark, with her
own mother or Charles Hatfield present, but able only to _hear_ and not
to _see_, that voice would not have been recognised by them!

Rosalie, the adept and intriguing lady’s-maid, was now summoned to hold
a conference with her mistress.

“It is my intention to appear in the Champs Elysées this afternoon,
attired in the most becoming manner,” said Laura. “The day is
gloriously fine, and the carriage will be open. I wish you to exercise
all your judgment and your best taste in the superintendence of my
toilette. Let me have no gaudy colours--nothing savouring of splendour.
Chaste elegance must characterise my costume: in a word, Rosalie, let
my beauty be enhanced by my apparel, without appearing to be in any way
indebted to artificial means.”

“I understand you, _mademoiselle_,” said Rosalie; “and you may depend
upon me.”

“But now I wish to appeal to your ingenuity, my dear girl,” proceeded
Laura,--“having thus recommended myself to your good taste. Listen
attentively! The Grand Duke of Castelcicala is in Paris; and his stay
is limited to a few hours. Charles Hatfield,” she continued, sinking
her voice almost to a whisper, as if the very walls had ears, “is in
his suite; and I am desirous that _he_--Charles Hatfield--accompanied
by three or four other gentlemen in the Duke’s service, should be
allured by some means to the Champs Elysées this afternoon.”

“You wish that Mr. Charles and his companions may appear, either on
foot or horseback, in the fashionable lounge at the time when you
yourself will be there?” said Rosalie, interrogatively.

“You have expressed my desire with accuracy,” observed Laura.
“Does your imagination suggest any plan by which this aim can be
accomplished?”

Rosalie reflected profoundly for upwards of a minute: then, suddenly
turning towards her mistress, she said, “Can you tell me the names of
any of the nobles or gentlemen in the Duke’s suite, besides Mr. Charles
Hatfield?”

Laura immediately directed Rosalie’s attention to the paragraph in the
_Messenger_; and the cunning lady’s-maid, having perused it, exclaimed,
“Will you leave this matter entirely in my hands, _mademoiselle_?”

“I will,” answered Laura. “But, whatever be your plan, remember that
you must not compromise me. All I demand or require is that Charles
Hatfield, accompanied by three or four of his comrades in the Duke’s
service, shall visit the Champs Elysées this afternoon. The rest
concerns me.”

“I understand you, _mademoiselle_,” said Rosalie: “you may trust
entirely to my discretion, without entertaining the least dread of
being in any way compromised.”

The abigail then retired, and Laura was left alone to meditate upon the
scheme she had thus set on foot.

How her dependant proposed to act, in order to accomplish that part of
the design which had been entrusted to her, Laura could not conceive:
nor indeed did she give herself much trouble to conjecture. She placed
full reliance upon the tact, discretion, and ability of Rosalie; and
regarded success as certain.

In order to while away the time, she turned to her writing-table, and
examined a packet which her music-master had left with her on the
previous evening. The enclosure consisted of English translations of
several of the most popular French songs and national airs; and Laura
set herself deliberately to the study of these pieces, well aware that
an acquaintance with their tendency and spirit would prove of advantage
to her in conversation.

The first manuscript to which she thus earnestly addressed herself, was
a free version of that soul-stirring hymn, _La Marseillaise_:--


LA MARSEILLAISE.

            Sons of heroes, famed in story,
            Onward march to death or glory!
        For see, the foemen’s standard waves
        O’er fields that soon must be their graves!
        Hear ye the clashing of their arms--
        Their shouts portending dire alarms?
        Eager for slaughter, on they press
        To make your children fatherless.
      Then let each warrior grasp the gleaming brand,
    And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilise the land!

            Wherefore to our peaceful coast
            Rush those sanguinary hosts?
        For whom have they prepared the chains
        Which now they drag o’er verdant plains?--
        Children of France, to us they come--
        Those chains are forged to stamp our doom!
        Just Heaven, that such disgrace should fall
        Upon the free-born sons of Gaul!
      Then let each warrior grasp the gleaming brand,
    And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilize the land!

            What! shall we, afraid of war,
            Take from tyrant hands the law?
        What! shall a foreign cohort’s pride
        Intimidate our warriors tried?
        Great God! our necks can never be
        Subject to despots’ tyranny:
        Nor shall th’ invaders of the State
        Decide upon its people’s fate!
      Then let each warrior grasp the gleaming brand,
    And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilize the land!

            Tremble! chiefs, perfidious all--
            On your heads our curses fall!
        Tremble! your projects, soon made vain,
        Their merited return will gain;--
        For France has armed her serried bands,
        And placed her safety in their hands:
        So that if hundreds fall to day,
        To-morrow thousands join th’ array.
      Then let each warrior grasp the vengeful brand,
    And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilize the land!

            In the darkling battle’s strife,
            Soldier! spare your victim’s life,
        When, armed against you in the field,
        Feeble and weak, he cries--“I yield!”
        _Him_ may’st thou spare: but to the grave
        Shalt thou pursue the chief who gave
        Such dire example to the rest
        That tear for food their mother’s breast!--
      Then let each warrior grasp the vengeful brand,
    And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilize the land!

            Sacred fervour--patriot flame,
            Urge us on to deeds of fame!
        Freedom! assist the deadly blow
        That we direct against the foe:
        Conquest! may we to war be led,
        Thy banners amply o’er us spread;--
        And may the tyrant hosts retreat,
        Or beg for mercy at our feet!
      Then let each warrior grasp the gleaming brand,
    And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilize the land!

The next manuscript which Laura studied on this occasion contained a
translation of Casimir Delavigne’s celebrated national air, written
after the Revolution of 1830:--


LA PARISIENNE.

        Gallant nation, now before you
          Freedom, beckoning onward, stands:
        Let no tyrant’s sway be o’er you--
          Wrest the sceptre from his hands!
        Paris gave the general cry,
        “Glory, Fame, and Liberty!”
                    Speed, warriors, speed,
                    Though thousands bleed,
    Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:--
        Conquest waits--your foemen die!

        Keep your serried ranks in order:
          Sons of France, your country calls!
        Gory hecatombs award her--
          Well she merits each who falls.
        Happy day! the general cry
        Echoed “Fame and Liberty!”
                    Speed, warriors, speed,
                    Though thousands bleed,
    Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:--
        Conquest waits--your foemen die!

        Vain the shot may sweep along you,
          Banks of warriors now arrayed:
        Youthful generals are among you,
          By the great occasion made!
        Happy day! the fervent cry
        Echoed “Fame and Liberty!”
                    Speed, warriors, speed,
                    Though thousands bleed,
    Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:--
        Conquest waits--your foemen die!

        Foremost, who the Carlist lances
          With the banner-staff has met?--
        Freedom’s votary advances--
          Venerable Lafayette!
        Happy day! the fervent cry
        Echoed “Fame and Liberty!”
                    Speed, warriors, speed,
                    Though thousands bleed,
    Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:--
        Conquest waits--your foemen die!

        Triple dyes again combining,
          See the squadrons onward go:
        In the country’s heaven shining,
          Mark the bold tri-coloured bow!
        Happy day! the general cry
        Echoed “Fame and Liberty!”
                    Speed, warriors, speed,
                    Though thousands bleed,
    Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:--
        Conquest waits--your foemen die!

        Heroes of that banner gleaming,
          Ye who bore it in the fray--
        Orleans’ troops! your blood was streaming
          Freely on that fatal day!
        From the page of history
        We have learnt the general cry.
                    Speed, warriors, speed,
                    Though thousands bleed,
    Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:--
        Conquest waits--your foemen die!

        Muffled drum, thy music lonely
          Answers to the mourners’ sighs:
        Laurels, for the valiant only,
          Ornament their obsequies!
        Sacred fane of Liberty,
        Let their memories never die!
                    Bear to his grave
                    Each warrior brave,
    Who fell in Freedom’s cause, his country’s rights to save,
        Crowned with fame and victory!

There was one more translation from the French in the packet which
had been placed at Laura’s disposal: and this was a portion of Victor
Hugo’s celebrated


ODE,

WRITTEN AFTER THE REVOLUTION OF 1830.

    O friends of your country, immortal in story,
      Adorned with the laurels ye won in the fight;--
    When thousands around you fell covered with glory,
      Ye turned not away from the enemy’s might;
    But ye raised up your banners, all tattered and torn,
    Like those which your sires had at Austerlitz borne!

    Ye have rivalled those sires--ye have conquered for France:
      The rights of the people from tyrants are saved:--
    Ye beckoned to Freedom--ye saw her advance--
      And danger was laughed at, and peril was braved.
    Then, if they were admired who destroyed the Bastille,
    What for you should not France in her gratitude feel?

    Ye are worthy your fathers--your souls are the same--
      Ye add to their glory, their pride, and renown;--
    Your arms are well nerved--ye are noted by Fame,
      That the laurel and oak may unite for your crown!
    Your mother--’tis France! who for ever will be
    The mother of heroes--the great--and the free!

    E’en England the jealous, and Greece the poetic--
      All Europe admired,--and the great Western World
    Arose to applaud with a heart sympathetic,
      When it marked the French banners of freedom unfurled.
    Three days were sufficient to shake off the chain,
    And ye proved yourselves friends to your country again!

    ’Twas for you that your ancestors traced round the earth
      The circle of conquest, triumphant and glorious,
    Which, extending to Cairo, from France took its birth,
      And proceeded through slaughter, but ever victorious:--
    ’Twas for you they encountered the Muscovite snows,
    Or in Italy plucked for their trophies the rose!

    O offspring of heroes and children of Fame!
      Applaud the achievements your sires did before you!
    Extend their renown, while ye honour their name,
      And fight for the banners that proudly wave o’er you.
    Remember, Napoleon has oft cast his eye
    Through the long serried ranks of the French chivalry!

    Thou, Herald of Jupiter--Eagle of France!
      ’Tis thou that hast carried our thunders afar:
    With thee for a sign did our armies advance--
      With thee as their symbol, they went to the war!
    Look around thee--rejoice! for the sons of thy land
    Are worthy the sires that thou erst didst command!
    And France has awakened from stupor profound,
    And the watch-word has raised all her champions around;
    And the din of their weapons struck loud on the ear,
    As it hearkened the tread of the cavalry near.
    But the tyrant has marshalled his warriors in vain,
    And his culverins thundered again and again;--
    For the stones that the citizens tore from the street,
    Laid the cohorts of Royalty dead at their feet!
    And their numbers increased--for they fought to be free,
    And they poured on the foe like the waves of the sea,
    While the din of the tocsin that echoed on high,
    Was drowned in the fervour of Liberty’s cry!

    The tyrant has left you with sorrow and anguish,
      Fair city--the glory of France and the world:
    Three days have elapsed since in chains you did languish--
      You have fought--you have won--and your banners are furled!
    And wise were your counsels succeeding the strife--
      For Revenge even smiled with the rest,
    When Clemency bade her surrender the knife
      Ere ’twas plunged in the enemy’s breast!

    The friends of the monarch with him are o’erthrown--
      ’Tis thus that a people its rights will defend;
    For if Fate have determined the fall of a crown,
      The schemes of the council accomplish the end.
    The wretches! they deemed, in their insolent pride,
      That France to their sceptre would bow;
    But the Lord found them light when their balance was tried,
      And reduced them to what they are now!

    And, oh! let the lesson for ever remain--
    _When we raise up a King, we are forging a chain.
    When we humble our necks to a monarch, we make
    A bond that we leave for our children to break_;
    Since the breath of a King is the spark to the pan--
    The musket explodes, and its victim is--man!

          Now let the funeral dirge be said,
          And let the priests lament the dead:
          But let them come with modest vest--
          No more in tinsel splendour drest;--
          No more with ostentatious air
          Need they commence a lofty prayer:
          No sign of worldly pomp should be
          Mingled with aught of sanctity;--
          Less welcome to the Lord on high
          Is grandeur than sincerity!

    Henceforth to the priest be all splendour unknown--
    Let his cross be of wood, and his cushion of stone:
    The church is his refuge--the church is his rest--
    In her arms he is safe--in her care he is blest!
    For when the volcanic eruption is red,
    Like the froth of the wine-press that Burgundy fed;
    When the sides of Vesuvius are glowing and bright,
    When Naples re-echoes with cries of affright--
    ’Tis then that the groans of the children resound,
    And mothers despairingly fall to the ground--
    ’Tis then that in vain they expend to the air
    The half-uttered words which are meant for a prayer;
    While black lines of mist from the crater ascend,
    And seem to foretell that the world’s at an end!
    Those lines have divided--a lustre, that broke
    From the bowels of the mount, superseded the smoke:
    Then Naples, adieu to the grots in thy vales--
    Adieu to thy ships--the flame spreads to their sails;
    The lava has fall’n on the sides of the hill,
    As the locks of a maiden float wildly at will!
    And farther--oh! farther the lava rolls on--
    O’er meadows--o’er streams--to the gulf it has gone:
    The smoke forms a canopy sombre and dread,
    Though the waves of the torrent be glowing and red.
    And the homes of the great and the paladin’s hall
    Were doomed in that deluge to totter and fall.
    ’Twas a chaos of ruin! The cinders were strewed
    O’er a town late so lovely--now shapeless and rude:
    From dwelling to dwelling proceeded th’ assail--
    The houses ware burning in city and vale:
    The earth was unsteady--the waves of the sea
    Boiled white on the shore--and the tocsin rang free,
    Though no human hand were the cause of the sound--
    ’Twas raised by the steeples that tottered around!--
    ’Twas a chaos immense! But the arm of the Lord,
    That scattered such ruin and havoc abroad--
    The arm of the Deity, powerful to kill,
    And pour out the wrath of his thunder at will--
    That arm, on the brink of the crater, can spare
    The hermit who kneels to his Maker in prayer!

By the time Laura had completed the perusal of these poems, Rosalie
reappeared: and the arch smile which the pretty lady’s-maid wore,
seemed to indicate that success had crowned the task that had been
entrusted to her.

“What tidings have you for me?” asked Laura.

“I think, _mademoiselle_, that you may safely reckon upon beholding
Mr. Charles Hatfield, together with two or three of his comrades in
the Grand Duke’s suite, in the Champs Elysées between four and five
o’clock. But do not wait to ask me my reasons for giving you this
assurance,” added Rosalie, hastily: “it is nearly three o’clock,
_mademoiselle_--and you must think of your toilette.”

“Excellent Rosalie!” ejaculated Laura: “how deeply I am indebted to you
for your proceedings in my behalf!”

Thus speaking, she repaired to her bed-chamber, whither the French
abigail followed; and then the toilette commenced.

At about a quarter to four o’clock, Laura emerged from her private
apartment, and descended to her carriage which was waiting for her. The
equipage then moved rapidly away towards the Champs Elysées.

Glorious was the afternoon--and queen-like in her beauty was Laura
Mortimer!

Contrary to her usual custom, she had her hair dressed in ringlets,
which in a luxuriant shower framed her splendid countenance. There was
a flush of health, heightened by her own heart’s emotions, on either
cheek: but, by the admirable control which she was enabled to exercise
over her features, her countenance was serene, and her eyes shone not
with a lustre unmellowed by feminine softness. She reclined back in her
carriage, in a species of half-voluptuous lassitude and abandonment;
but every change of posture was characterised with an elegance of
motion that might be denominated poetic.

The equipage and its appointments were in the best possible taste; and
the liveries of the coachman and attendant footman were plain and neat,
not glaring and obtrusive. Altogether, the “turn-out” was that which a
well-bred person, who knew the distinction between elegant simplicity
and gaudy ostentation, was likely to possess.

The principal drive in the Champs Elysées was crowded to excess:
seldom was there seen such a quantity of carriages or such a number
of gentlemen on horseback. The foot-ways were likewise thronged with
loungers and with ladies enjoying the afternoon’s promenade.

Laura’s carriage speedily fell into the line of vehicles proceeding
in the same direction;--and now its progress was slow. This was just
what she wished: for not only was the multitude enabled to obtain a
better view of her--but she likewise had more leisure to watch for the
appearance of _him_ whom she expected to behold amidst the gay throng.
Thus both her vanity and her convenience were successfully consulted at
the same time.

Her patience was not put to a very lengthy nor severe test: for,
scarcely had her carriage reached the mid-way point in the splendid
avenue, when her keen glance signalled out the object of her
thoughts from amidst the loungers on foot. Yes--there indeed was
Charles Hatfield--proceeding at a short distance in advance of the
carriage, and in the same direction. The critical moment was now
almost at hand--and, though Laura’s countenance still maintained its
serenity, her heart palpitated with violence. While, too, she seemed
to be reclining back in her carriage with a graceful ease which we
might almost denominate an elegant languor,--and while she now more
completely shaded herself with her parasol,--her eyes were fixed
steadily and even intently in one direction.

“Yes--he has two friends with him,” she said to herself: “they are
all three in plain clothes--or rather, in mourning--doubtless for the
father-in-law of their illustrious master.”

Scarcely had these thoughts flashed through Laura’s brain, when Charles
and his two companions stopped--turned round--and gazed up and down the
avenue for a few moments: then they interchanged some observations, and
pursued their way.

Charles had not noticed Laura;--but _she_ had caught more than a
partial glimpse of _his_ face. During the quarter of a minute that her
eyes were fixed upon him, she had as it were devoured him with that
earnest gaze. It was not love,--no---and it was not hate; but it was a
species of ravenous longing to decypher his thoughts through the medium
of his countenance. And she saw that he was pale and pensive--but also
strikingly handsome: indeed, at that moment Laura fancied his manly
beauty had never before seemed so perfect in her eyes--and it was with
difficulty that she repressed the sigh which rose almost to her lips.

A few minutes elapsed--and still the procession of carriages moved on
in the broad straight road; and the tide of loungers on foot rolled
along the pathway. The distance between Laura and the object of her
thoughts was gradually diminishing; and almost immediately her carriage
would overtake him and his companions. Again they turned--these three
gentlemen--and looked up and down; and this time Laura rapidly scanned
Hatfield’s two friends. They were also young men of fine figure and
attractive looks: natives of Castelcicala, they had the dark Italian
complexion and the fine Italian eyes;--and as they wore moustaches,
their appearance was more military than that of Charles. But they
were not so handsome as he;--at least Laura thought so--and she was
doubtless right.

The critical moment was now at hand: the carriage overtook Hatfield
and his Italian companions--and it was just passing them, when
Laura perceived that she was suddenly recognised by her husband.
He started--stopped short--and kept his eyes fixed upon her, as if
doubting their evidence; while his two friends, excited by his strange
manner, looked also in the same direction and at the same object; and
_their_ gaze was likewise rivetted immediately upon the beauteous woman
whose transcendent charms they naturally supposed to have produced
such an effect on their companion. With a glance keen and rapid as
lightning, Laura perceived that she was the idol of attention on the
part of her husband and his two Italian friends, though the latter
dreamt not that she was even known by name to Charles Hatfield: and
while the eyes of all three were thus intently fixed upon her, her
parasol suddenly escaped from her hand and fell within a few paces of
the young men,--unobserved by the footman standing behind the carriage.

Of the two Castelcicalan officers, one was taller and more classically
handsome than the other: and it was he that now darted forward to
snatch up the parasol and restore it to its charming owner. So
admirably had Laura managed the dropping of the parasol, that it
had all the appearance of an accident to every one who observed the
circumstance--save Charles Hatfield: and, quickly as the powder
explodes after the match has been applied to it, did the conviction
flash to his brain that the occurrence was intentional on the part
of Laura. Al the same instant it struck him that never--never before
had she appeared so marvellously beautiful--never so transcendently
lovely as she now was,--with the flush of a gentle excitement upon her
cheeks--her hair dressed in a style that he most admired--her pearly
teeth partly revealed between the roses of her lips--her toilette so
elegant and chaste, and setting off her splendid form to its greatest
advantage--and her attitude so classically graceful, as she leant
forward to receive the parasol that the handsome Castelcicalan now
restored to her, after having carefully brushed off the dust with his
white cambric handkerchief.

A thousand--thousand conflicting thoughts passed through the brain
of Charles Hatfield during the few seconds that had elapsed from the
escape of the parasol from her hand until its restoration by the
Italian:--he saw his wife more beautiful than ever he had conceived her
to be even when he was accustomed to worship her image--he remembered
the witchery of her ways and the melting music of her voice--the joys
he had experienced in her arms on the marriage night rushed to his
mind--and as his eyes dwelt perforce upon the rich contours of her
bust, he recollected that his head had been pillowed and his hand had
wandered voluptuously there!

At the moment that Laura dropped her parasol, the carriage stopped,
and she affected to perceive Charles Hatfield for the first time; and
for a single instant she appeared struck by surprise and uncertain how
to act:--then, immediately afterwards, she averted her eyes from him,
and bent them on the handsome Castelcicalan who had sprung forward
to recover the parasol. She purposely composed her countenance and
modelled her behaviour, so that her husband should be left in a state
of utter uncertainty and bewilderment as to what was passing in her
mind, at least in regard to himself:--but when the Italian approached
the carriage, took off his hat, and with a low bow, presented the
parasol which he had so gallantly dusted with his cambric handkerchief,
Laura bestowed so sweet a smile and so tender a look on the handsome
foreigner, that the direst rage which jealousy can know was excited in
a moment in the breast of Charles Hatfield.

A rapid glance--unseen even by her husband himself--made Laura
aware of the effect produced upon him by her deportment towards the
Castelcicalan; and the joy of a proud triumph filled her heart.

“I thank you, sir,” she said in French to the Italian gentleman;--for
she had already learnt more than enough of the language to be enabled
to give utterance to that common phrase;--and, as she spoke, she again
smiled sweetly, though not in a manner which might be construed into
indelicate encouragement.

Her husband caught the words that were addressed to the handsome
foreigner, and also marked the smile that accompanied them; and, as the
music of that voice flowed upon his ear, and the witchery of that smile
met his gaze, his countenance became absolutely livid with the emotions
that rent his soul.

“Beautiful lady,” said the Castelcicalan, enchanted by the
condescending manner of the lovely woman, who was agreeably surprised
and much delighted to hear him address her with the utmost facility in
the English language,--“you have deigned to thank me for a thing so
trivial that I am ashamed to merit your notice upon so slight a ground.
Would that an opportunity could arise for so humble an individual as
myself to perform some deed that might deserve your approval--and win
your gratitude,” added the Italian, sinking his voice to a low tone.

“I know not, signor,” replied Laura, satisfying herself with another
rapid glance that Charles Hatfield was still gazing with jealous
fury upon this scene,--“I know not, signor,” she said, with all the
witchery of tone and manner that she could summon to her aid, “how
I can sufficiently thank you for the courteous behaviour which you
demonstrate towards me. At the same time, I need scarcely be astonished
at such chivalrous gallantry on your part--for, if I mistake not, you
belong to that fine Italian clime which I shortly intend to visit.”

The young Castelcicalan gazed with the enthusiasm of adoration up into
the enchanting countenance that was bending over him; and he felt as if
he could have cheerfully consented to yield up the ten last years of
his life to purchase the enjoyment of pressing his lips to the small
plump mouth which looked redder than the rose moistened with the dew of
morning.

“Oh! is it possible,” he exclaimed, in a joyous tone, “that you purpose
to honour my native land with your presence! Be assured, lady,” he
continued, “that if you visit Montoni, the Castelcicalan capital, you
will become the object of a perfect idolatry.”

“Then should I do well to remain in France, signor--rather than lead
your nation into such a crime,” said Laura, laughing gaily: and the
rapid glance which she darted towards her husband convinced her that
_he_ was enduring the torments of the damned--torments which were
increasing in proportion as she seemed to grow on more friendly terms
with the young Italian officer.

“I should be wretched indeed, beauteous lady,” said he, in reply to
her last observation, “did I think that any inconsiderate remark from
my lips could deter you from carrying into effect a purpose already
settled in your mind. Neither,” he added, with a sigh, “am I vain
enough to suppose myself to be of sufficient importance to sway you in
one way or another.”

“Nor am I vain enough to take in any sense save as a compliment the
flattering observation you made just now relative to the reception I
might expect at Montoni;”--and as Laura uttered these words, she cast
down her eyes and blushed slightly.

The dialogue between the Castelcicalan and herself had been carried
on in a low tone, and was therefore totally inaudible to the other
Italian and Charles Hatfield, who were gazing, but with very different
feelings, on the lovely woman. Neither had the conversation occupied
one tenth part of the time which we have consumed in detailing it;--and
in the interval, the carriages originally behind that of Laura,
had passed hers by, so that the stoppage of her equipage caused no
obstruction. The tide of pedestrian loungers was likewise still flowing
on--there being nothing singular nor unusual in the fact of a gentleman
on foot paying his respects to a lady who rode in her carriage.

But while the multitude, generally, saw naught peculiar in the scene
which we are describing, it was nevertheless one of deep interest. By
the carriage door stood the young Castelcicalan officer, his heart
throbbing with the ineffable emotions which the wondrous beauty of
Laura had excited, as it were by the wave of an enchanter’s wand;--in
the vehicle itself sate the syren--bending forward towards that
handsome foreigner as if she were already interested in him, though
in reality she experienced not the slightest sensual feeling in his
favour--other considerations occupying her thoughts:--at a little
distance stood the other Italian officer, gazing upon her with an
admiration which he could not conceal, and envying his comrade
the privilege which a lucky accident had given him to address the
houri;--and there also was Charles Hatfield--ghastly pale, his limbs
trembling convulsively, and his lips white and quivering with rage.

Yes: terrible--terrible were the feelings which Laura’s husband
experienced for the six or eight minutes that this scene lasted. There
was a woman whose beauty excited universal admiration,--a woman in
all the splendour of female loveliness;--and this woman was _his_
wife--his own wedded wife,--a wife whom he could rush forward and
claim in a moment, if he chose! And that woman was now coquetting
before his eyes--coquetting with a studied purpose to annoy him. Oh! he
could understand it all,--the means which had been adopted to induce
him and his two companions to proceed to the Champs Elysées at that
hour--the pretended accident of the parasol--and the smiles and tender
looks which Laura now bestowed upon one who was entirely a stranger
to her:--yes--all, all was now clear to Charles Hatfield,--and he was
on the point of springing forward--not to catch Laura to his breast
and claim her as his spouse--but to upbraid and expose her,--when he
suddenly recollected that a portion of the agreement entered into
between his father and her, was to the effect that _she_ likewise
was to be secure against molestation or recognition on _his_ part,
as well as he on hers. This reminiscence compelled the unhappy young
man to restrain his feelings; and as he was forced to subdue his ire,
his jealousy only became the more painful, because it required a vent
of some kind or another. He writhed--he positively writhed before
her eyes;--and now he was humiliated as well as tortured to such an
intolerable degree!

Laura had cast down her looks and had called up a blush to her smooth
cheeks, when she made to the handsome Castelcicalan the remark that
we have last recorded: but almost immediately afterwards she raised
her countenance again, and smiling with an archness so enchantingly
sweet that it would have moved the rigid features of an octogenarian
anchorite to admiration, she said: “At all events, signor, should I
visit Montoni in the course of this summer, my stay would be very
short--for I purpose to become a great traveller, and to travel very
rapidly also. To-morrow I set out for Vienna.”

“Vienna!” repeated the Castelcicalan, in astonishment. “Surely Paris
possesses greater attractions than the cold, dull, formal Austrian
capital?”

“Oh! of that I must judge for myself,” exclaimed Laura, laughing--at
the same time showing by her manner that she thought their conversation
had lasted long enough.

The young Italian was too well-bred to attempt to detain her: but it
was nevertheless with evident reluctance that he stepped back from the
carriage-door and raised his hat in farewell salutation. Laura inclined
her head gracefully in acknowledgment of his courtesy, and the vehicle
drove on rapidly, the way before it being now comparatively clear.

Oh! what triumph was in her heart, as she threw herself back in the
carriage and reflected upon all the incidents of the scene that had
just occurred,--a scene which had not occupied ten minutes, and which
had nevertheless stirred up so many and such varied feelings! Her
vanity had been gratified by the homage paid to her beauty; and her
malignity had for the time been assuaged by the contemplation of the
almost mortal agonies endured by her husband. She had asserted the
empire of her charms over even the very heart that ought to cherish
hatred against her: she had inspired with the maddest jealousy the soul
that was bound to think of her with loathing and abhorrence. She felt
all the pride of a woman wielding a sceptre more despotic than that
of a queen,--a sceptre which was as a magic wand in her hand, casting
spells upon even those who detested, as well as those who admired her!




CHAPTER CLXIII.

LAURA AND ROSALIE.


Yes--it was a great triumph for Laura Mortimer,--a triumph all the
greater, inasmuch as she knew that the agitation and rage of her
husband could not speedily pass away; and that, when his friends had
leisure to observe his emotions and seek an explanation, he would not
dare to afford them any!

[Illustration]

She had, moreover, made statements to the young Castelcicalan which
he would doubtless repeat to Charles Hatfield, whom they were well
calculated to mystify relative to her future proceedings; for the
reader scarcely requires to be told that she had not the slightest
intention to repair to Vienna nor to visit Italy.

In every respect she had ample reason to be well satisfied with the
results of the scheme she had devised in the morning and so effectually
carried out in the afternoon,--a scheme so wild and having so many
thousand chances against its success, that none save the intrepid,
resolute, far-seeing Laura could have possibly hoped to conduct it to a
triumphant issue.

Having proceeded to the end of the avenue, she ordered the coachman to
retrace his way and return home;--but she was not destined to reach the
Rue Monthabor without experiencing another adventure, which may for the
moment seem trivial, but which was nevertheless destined to exercise no
mean amount of influence upon her future career.

As the carriage was emerging from the Champs Elysées, two gentlemen on
horseback, just entering the fashionable lounge, were about to pass
by, when one of them, recognising Laura, suddenly pulled up and made
her a low bow. She immediately ordered the carriage to stop; for it
was her courteous and obliging friend the professor of music, who had
thus saluted her--and she was anxious to express to him the delight she
had experienced from a perusal of the translations he had sent to her
the preceding evening. After the exchange of the usual complimentary
remarks, the professor, turning towards his companion, said, “My lord,
permit me to introduce you to one of my fair pupils--my fairest pupil,
I should rather observe,” he added, in a good-tempered manner: “Miss
Laura Mortimer--the Marquis of Delmour.”

Laura was startled for an instant at finding her music-master in such
aristocratic society; and as she inclined gracefully in acknowledgment
of the nobleman’s courteous salutation, she observed that his lordship
was an elderly, if not actually an old man, but that his countenance
was far from disagreeable.

A brief conversation ensued; and although the marquis had no
opportunity of speaking more than a dozen words, and even those on
common topic Laura nevertheless saw enough of him to be convinced that
his manners were of polished elegance, and that his disposition was
frank and unassuming.

It was not therefore without emotions of secret pleasure that she heard
herself thus addressed by the professor of music:--

“Miss Mortimer, his lordship, and myself, are old acquaintances, and he
permits me to call him my friend. His lordship will honour my humble
abode with his presence, to-morrow, evening: there will be a musical
soirée of the same unpretending kind as that which you yourself graced
with your company the evening before last. My wife will doubtless send
you the formal card; but may I in a less ceremonial fashion, solicit
you to favour us with your presence?”

Laura signified the pleasure she should experience in accepting the
invitation; and all the time she was listening to the professor and
replying to him, she had the agreeable consciousness that the marquis
was gazing upon her with an admiration which he could not repress. She
however affected not to be in the slightest degree aware that she was
undergoing such an impassioned survey; and when she turned towards his
lordship to make the parting bow, it was with the formal reserve and
yet graceful dignity of a lady to whom a stranger has only just been
introduced.

The carriage rolled on in one direction--the horsemen pursued their way
in another;--and while the Marquis of Delmour was putting innumerable
questions to his friend relative to the houri whom they had thus met,
Laura was on her side resolving that Rosalie should without delay
institute all possible inquiries respecting the position, fortune, and
character of that nobleman.

We should here remind the reader that the professor of music was a man
eminent in his special sphere, of high respectability, and great moral
worth; and, moreover, he was a native of a country where talent is
prized and looked up to, instead of being merely tolerated and looked
down upon. It is not, therefore, extraordinary if we find him moving in
the best society, and having his entertainments attended by the _elite_
of the residents or visitors in the gay city of Paris.

On her return home to her splendid apartments in the Rue Monthabor,
Laura was immediately waited upon by her lady’s-maid; and while the
mistress was changing her attire in preparation for dinner, the
dependant explained the means by which she had induced Charles Hatfield
and the two Italian officers in the suite of the Grand Duke to repair
to the Champs Elysées in company, and at the hour specified by Laura.

“When you first mentioned your desire to me this morning,
_mademoiselle_,” began Rosalie, “I must confess that I was somewhat
embarrassed how to accomplish the scheme; although I did not despair.
But when I saw the paragraph in the paper, and ascertained the hotel
at which the Grand Duke and his suite had taken up their temporary
abode, I suddenly remembered that a day or two ago I met a young woman
who had formerly been my fellow-servant, and that she was now filling
a situation in that very hotel. This circumstance inspired me with a
hope of success; and we Frenchwomen look upon an intrigue as being as
good as carried successfully out, when it affords a hope to encourage
us. Therefore did I promise you so confidently; and I lost no time in
proceeding to the hotel. I soon found my friend, who is a chamber-maid
there; and I told her just sufficient--without, however, mentioning
your name or even alluding to you, _mademoiselle_--to induce her to
afford me her assistance. Some of the officers of the Grand Duke’s
suite were lounging in the court-yard of the hotel at the time; and my
friend pointed them out to me one by one, naming each as she proceeded.
I resolved to choose the two youngest and handsomest to be Mr. Charles
Hatfield’s companions, _mademoiselle_; because,” continued Rosalie,
with an arch smile, “I tolerably well understood the entire nature of
the project which you had in contemplation.”

“You are marvellously sharp-witted and keen-sighted, Rosalie,” said
Laura, laughing good-humouredly. “But pray proceed. What step did you
adopt next, after having thus passed the Grand Duke’s suite in a review
of which they were however unconscious?”

“I must confess, _mademoiselle_,” resumed Rosalie, “that I was somewhat
puzzled how to act. But suddenly an idea struck me; and, however
ridiculous the plan may now appear to you, your own lips can proclaim
whether it succeeded or not. In fact, I calculated upon the romantic
disposition which the Italians are known to possess; and I also
reflected that as Mr. Charles Hatfield, whom I likewise saw at the
hotel (though he saw not me) appeared pensive and thoughtful, he would
embark in any adventure that promised to wean his thoughts from their
melancholy mood, and that offered some excitement of a novel character.
I accordingly penned a note, addressed to Mr. Charles Hatfield, Captain
Barthelma, and Lieutenant Di Ponta----”

“What is the name of the taller and handsomer of the two officers who
accompanied Charles?” asked Laura, with a slight kindling of sensual
feeling as she recalled to mind the pleasing features of the Italian
who had picked up her parasol, and with whom she had exchanged the few
complimentary observations already recorded.

“That one is Captain Barthelma,” answered Rosalie.

“Proceed,” said Laura. “You were telling me that you penned a note----”

“To the three gentlemen collectively,” added the lady’s-maid;--“and,
as nearly as I can remember, the contents ran thus:--‘To Mr. Charles
Hatfield, Captain Barthelma, and Lieutenant Di Ponta, an unhappy
Spanish refugee ventures to address himself, having certain excellent
reasons for being well aware that they will not refuse to listen to
his sad tale, and interest themselves in his behalf. But as he is
an object of suspicion to the French government, he dares not make
his appearance at the hotel where a prince, who is known to be the
redresser of wrongs, has taken up his abode. He will therefore walk
this afternoon, from four to five, on the right hand of the central
avenue of the Champs Elysées; and if the three gentlemen to whom he now
addresses his humble but earnest application, will be at the place and
time appointed, the unhappy writer of this petition will make himself
known to them--will explain his business frankly--and will indicate the
means by which he can be restored to wealth and happiness. Those means
consist in one word which it will be for His Sovereign Highness the
Grand Duke to speak, and which can only be spoken at the instigation
of the three gentlemen to whom this letter is addressed.’”

“Upon my word, I give you credit for your stratagem!” exclaimed Laura,
laughing heartily. “I have no doubt that Charles sees through it _now_:
but he will not dare to give any explanations to his friends,” she
added, in a musing tone. “They will imagine that they have been duped
by some humorous person--and he will affect to fall into the same way
of thinking.”

“Or else the two Italian gentlemen will suppose that the poor refugee
was prevented, by some misadventure, from keeping the appointment,”
observed Rosalie, now giving way to her mirth to such a degree that the
tears came into her eyes.

“Well--make an end of your story,” said Laura, who had nearly completed
her toilette; for, although she expected no one that evening, she
nevertheless made it a rule to dress herself with the utmost care in
case of a visit on the part of any of those persons whose acquaintance
she had recently formed.

“I have little more to tell you, _mademoiselle_, responded Rosalie.
“My friend, the chambermaid, left the note, which was duly sealed and
properly addressed to the three gentlemen, upon the table of Captain
Barthelma’s private apartment; and soon afterwards that officer
went to his room. I waited at the hotel in the hope of ascertaining
the effect that the _billet_ would produce; and in a short time the
captain returned in haste to his companions, who were still lounging
in the court-yard--some of them giving directions to their grooms,
and others smoking cigars. From the window of my friend’s chamber, I
beheld Captain Barthelma draw Mr. Charles Hatfield and Lieutenant Di
Ponta aside, and show them the letter. They evidently perused it with
great attention; and I felt assured by their manner that they treated
the affair seriously. I now requested my friend to hurry down stairs,
and traverse the yard as if in pursuance of her avocations--but to
pass as near the little group as possible, and endeavour to catch any
remarks that they might be exchanging at the moment. This she did; and
she heard quite enough to convince her that the appointment would be
kept. I then retraced my way homeward, and was happy in being able to
give you the assurance, _mademoiselle_, that your wishes would be fully
gratified so far as the result depended upon me.”

“You are a good girl, Rosalie,” said Laura; “and I shall not be
unmindful of the service you have thus rendered me. But I now require
your aid in another matter----”

“Speak, my dear lady: I am entirely at your disposal,” observed the
dependant, who, in proportion as she obtained a farther insight into
the character of her mistress, felt the more certain of reaping a fine
harvest of rewards, bribes, and hush-money.

“There is in Paris at this moment an English nobleman concerning
whom I am desirous that you should obtain as much information as
you can possibly glean, without creating any suspicion or in any
way compromising me. I allude to the Marquis of Delmour,” continued
Laura: “but I know not where he is residing; nor can I offer the least
suggestion to guide you in instituting your inquiries.”

“Leave all that to me, _mademoiselle_,” said Rosalie.

“There is no time to be lost,” observed Laura, “this evening, or in the
course of to-morrow, must I have the information which I seek.”

“I am not in the habit of letting the grass grow beneath my feet,”
replied the French dependant, with an arch smile. “The moment you have
sat down to dinner, _mademoiselle_, I will sally forth; and should I
not return until a somewhat late hour----”

“No matter,” interrupted Laura: “I shall know that you are employed
in my interests. Unless, indeed,” she added, laughing, “you possess a
lover whose company may prove more agreeable to you than the task with
which I have entrusted you.”

“I have no lover in Paris--at present, _mademoiselle_,” observed
Rosalie.

“Then you admit that you have had a lover in your life-time?” said
Laura.

“Oh! certainly, _mademoiselle_,” exclaimed the pretty Frenchwoman:
“and--to speak candidly--I could not without some trouble reckon the
number of those who have proclaimed themselves my admirers.”

“The name of your lovers is Legion, then?” cried Laura, again laughing:
but it was the natural sensuality of her disposition which impelled her
thus to interrogate her servant;--for a licentious woman experiences a
voluptuous enjoyment in learning that another is as amorously inclined
or as downright abandoned as herself. And now that Laura’s spite
against Charles Hatfield was for the time appeased, and she had leisure
to ponder upon the handsome countenance and elegant figure of Captain
Barthelma, her imagination was becoming inflamed, and wanton ideas and
aspirations rose up in her brain.

“Oh! _mademoiselle_,” exclaimed Rosalie, with an archness of expression
that made her countenance particularly interesting at the moment; “you
must think me very vain and very silly for having made the remark which
fell so inconsiderately from my lips!”

“Not at all,” observed Laura: “you are pretty enough to have captivated
many hearts. And now tell me, my dear girl--have you passed through
such an ordeal without leaving your virtue behind? Be frank and candid:
I wish to know you thoroughly, that I may determine how far I can trust
you.”

“I dare say, _mademoiselle_, that you can form a tolerably accurate
guess in that respect,” said Rosalie, in a low tone and with a blushing
countenance. “Were I to tell you that I am pure and chaste, you would
not believe me, _mademoiselle_--and--and, you would be right.”

“Suppose, then, that you had suddenly conceived a great fancy for
a very handsome young man, Rosalie?” said Laura, her bosom heaving
voluptuously as she gradually approached the aim and object of the
present conversation.

“I should take care to let him perceive that if he chose to solicit,
it would not be in vain,” answered Rosalie, who already comprehended
that her mistress was not giving the discourse this turn without some
definite end in view.

“And you would be deeply grateful,” continued Laura, in a low but
significant tone, “to any friend who might assist you in the management
of the intrigue?”

“Decidedly, _mademoiselle_” replied the Frenchwoman: “the more so
that I myself should delight in rendering _my_ aid when and where the
services of so humble a being as I am could prove available.”

“Those services may be made available this very evening,” said Laura,
a voluptuous glow spreading over her fine countenance, while her eyes
became soft and melting in expression. “You must aid me, Rosalie, in
gratifying an ardent longing which has sprung up within my bosom during
the last few minutes, and which I may vainly struggle to subdue. But
the intrigue requires so much delicate management----”

“I can anticipate all you would say, _mademoiselle_,” interrupted
Rosalie: then, in a significant tone, she added, “Captain Barthelma is
decidedly one of the handsomest men I ever saw in my life.”

“You have conjectured rightly,” said Laura; “you have penetrated my
thoughts! Can you--will you serve me in the gratification of this
caprice of mine? But, remember--I must not be compromised in respect to
a living soul save Barthelma and yourself.”

“You know, _mademoiselle_, that you can trust to my fidelity, my
sagacity, and my prudence,” said Rosalie. “At what hour shall the
handsome Italian visit you?”

“At nine--this evening,” answered Laura: then referring to her watch,
she added, “It is already six--and you have plenty of work upon your
hands!”

“I will neglect nothing,” observed the lady’s-maid, in a tone of
confidence. “Would it not be prudent to send the cook out of the way
for the evening? For as the men-servants are on board-wages and sleep
elsewhere, and the cook is therefore the only dependant who could
possibly observe your proceedings, _mademoiselle_----”

“I leave all this to you, Rosalie,” interrupted Laura;--“and now we
have nothing more to say to each other for the present. Order the
dinner to be served up at once--and then must you hasten to fulfil the
commissions with which you are charged.”

Having thus given her parting instructions, Laura repaired to the
dining-room, where an elegant repast was speedily spread upon the
table; and a glass of sparkling champagne soon enhanced the brilliancy
of the voluptuous woman’s eyes, and heightened the rich glow that
suffused her countenance.

When the meal was over, a choice dessert was served up; and Laura was
now left alone.

She was almost sorry that she had gone so far in respect to the
intrigue which was to bring the handsome Castelcicalan to her arms: she
had admitted Rosalie too deeply into her confidence--placed herself too
completely in the power of her dependant. Even while she was conversing
with the wily Frenchwoman, she perceived and felt all this;--but her
sensuality triumphed over her prudence--her lascivious temperament
carried her on with a force which she could not resist, much less
subdue.

“And, after all,” she now reasoned to herself, “wherefore should I not
follow my inclinations in this respect? I am free to act according to
the impulse of my passions and the prompting of my desires. The night
that I passed with Charles--that one night of love and bliss--has
revived those ardent longings, those burning thoughts that demand
gratification. Besides, Rosalie will be trustworthy so long as she is
well paid; and I shall take care to keep her purse well filled. Sooner
or later she must have obtained a complete insight into my character:
why not, then, at once as well as hereafter? And the more firmly I bind
her to my interests, the less shall I need the services of my crafty,
selfish old mother. Would that I could manage my affairs and execute
my plans without my parent’s aid altogether! And who knows but that
even this consummation may be reached? Something tells me that the
Marquis of Delmour and I shall yet be more intimately acquainted. He
is old--but that is of little consequence. Wealth and a proud position
are my aims--and I care not by what means they are acquired. Oh! the
happiness of possessing such beauty as that wherewith I am endowed,--a
beauty which can never fail to crown me with triumph in all my
schemes!--in all my projects!”

She now regarded her watch, and discovered that it was eight o’clock.

“In another hour he will be here,” she thought within herself; and her
bosom heaved voluptuously. “Yes--in another hour that handsome Italian
will be in my presence--at least, if Rosalie fulfil her task with her
wonted sagacity and prudence. What will he think of me? Oh! let him
entertain any opinion that he may: I will bind him to secrecy by the
most solemn oaths--and I read enough in his countenance to convince me
that he is a man of honour!”

In this strain did the lovely but wanton creature pursue her
reflections, until it was nearly nine o’clock.

She then rose from her seat, and repaired to the kitchen, which was on
the same floor as her suite of apartments. The cook was not there; and
Laura was consequently satisfied that Rosalie had not forgotten the
precaution herself had suggested.

The syren now proceeded to the drawing-room, where with her own fair
hands she arranged wine, fruits, and cakes upon the table. She then
drew the curtains over the window, lighted the wax candles upon the
mantel, and scattered drops of delicious perfume upon the carpet and
the drapery.

Scarcely were these preparations completed, when the bell of the outer
door of the suite rang as if pulled by a somewhat impatient hand; and
Laura hastened to answer the summons.

She opened the door--and Captain Barthelma, the handsome Castelcicalan,
appeared upon the threshold.

“Is it possible that this can be true!” he exclaimed, his joy amounting
to a delirious excitement as his eyes fell upon the heroine of the
afternoon’s adventure in the Champs Elysées.

Laura smiled archly as she placed her finger upon her lip to impose
silence, at least until he should have entered her abode; and, having
closed the door carefully, she conducted him into the drawing-room.




CHAPTER CLXIV.

LAURA’S AMOUR.


Seating herself upon the sofa, Laura motioned the Italian to place
himself by her side--an invitation which he obeyed with a species of
enthusiastic alacrity. But all the time he was unable to take his eyes
off her--as if he still doubted whether it were indeed a fact that his
good fortune had conducted him into the presence of her whose image had
never once been absent from his mind since he first beheld her that
afternoon in the Champs Elysées.

“Is it possible?” he again ejaculated, after a few minutes’ silence.
“The young woman promised me that if I were discreet, I might expect
the happiness of meeting you--yes, _you_, sweetest lady--again: but I
confess that I doubted her--and I came that I might not throw away a
chance of felicity, rather than in the sanguine hope of attaining it.”

“And, when you have leisure for reflection” said Laura, casting down
her eyes and blushing, “you will despise me for my imprudence--my
indelicacy of conduct in thus sending to invite a stranger to visit me.”

“Adorable woman!” exclaimed the impassioned Italian; “I shall think of
you with gratitude--with devotion--with love,--and never lightly. Oh!
be assured of _that_!”--and, seizing her hand, he conveyed it to his
lips, and covered it with kisses.

“Nevertheless, you must be surprised at my boldness in directing my
servant to seek you, and to make this appointment with you,” pursued
Laura, her bosom heaving so as almost to burst from its confinement, as
she felt the warm mouth of the Castelcicalan glued to the hand which
she did not attempt to withdraw.

“I am only surprised at my own happiness,” observed the young officer.
“Sweetest Laura--for I now know your name--tell me how I have thus
been deemed worthy of a favour of which a prince might envy me the
enjoyment!”

“An accident threw us together for a few minutes this afternoon,”
said Laura; “and I was struck by your personal appearance--your
manners--your conversation----”

“And, oh! how profoundly was I impressed by the magic of your beauty,
Laura!” interrupted the ardent Italian; “how earnestly I longed to
hear once more the music of that melodious voice--to look again into
the depths of those magnificent eyes--to contemplate that glorious
countenance--that admirable form;--and now--oh! now the desire is
realised--and no human language has words powerful enough to convey to
you an idea of the happiness which I experience at this moment!”

As he thus spoke he threw his arms around her waist, and drew her
towards him.

“Charming creature!” he exclaimed, after a few moments’ pause, during
which he gazed upon her with a rapture which can only be conceived
and not explained: “how can I make thee comprehend the extent of my
love--my adoration--my worship? I have travelled much--have seen
beauties of all climes and of all varieties of loveliness;--but never
did mine eyes settle upon one so transcendently charming as thou! When
I parted from thee this afternoon in the Champs Elysées, it was as
if I were tearing myself away from some one whom I had loved all my
life, and whom I was never to see again. I was a second Adam, expelled
from another Eden! And now--now, I behold thee once more--I am seated
in thy presence--thou smilest upon me----oh! it is heaven--it is
heaven!”--and, as if in a transport of fury--so impassioned was his
soul--he drew her still closer towards him, and literally seizing her
head with both his hands, glued his lips to hers--sucking in her very
breath.

Intoxicated with sensual happiness, Laura offered no resistance to
the ardour of the handsome young man; but ere she completely yielded
herself up to him, she remembered that something was due to prudence as
well as to the delights of love.

Accordingly, withdrawing herself from his embrace, though still
permitting his arm to encircle her waist, she said, “I can refuse you
nothing; but first swear, by all you deem most sacred, that you will
never betray me!”

“Never--never!” ejaculated Barthelma; “I take God to witness that
my lips shall never breathe a word injurious to your honour! On the
contrary,” he cried, in a tone of deep sincerity, “should I ever hear
a man speak lightly of you, I will provoke him to a duel that shall
terminate only in the death of one--if not both; and should a woman
dare to mention your name irreverently, I will even fabricate a tale
injurious to _her_ honour, that I may avenge _you_!”

“Thanks--a thousand thanks, my generous friend!” murmured Laura,
one of her white hands playing with the long, dark, curling hair of
the Castelcicalan. “But may you not--in an unguarded moment--when
carousing, perhaps, with your brother-officers,--may you not
inadvertently allude to the adventure which happened to you in Paris,
and then be unconsciously drawn out--under the influence of wine--to
make revelations which will prove the ruin--the utter ruin--of the
weak, but confiding woman who trusts so much to your honour this night?”

“May my tongue blister--may lightnings strike me--may I be cast down
a corpse at the feet of those to whom I ever open my lips to speak
irreverently or ungratefully of thee!” exclaimed the Italian, with
a terrible energy. “No--my adored Laura! you have not the slightest
ground for apprehensions of that nature. I am a man of honour--and I
would rather shed the last drop of my blood to serve thee, than raise
a finger to harm thee. Beautiful creature--adorable woman! who that
possesses a spark of human feeling, could do aught to bring a tear
into thine eye or chase away the smile from thy lips? I am thy slave,
Laura--and I rejoice in wearing the chains which thy magic loveliness
has cast around me!”

In this impassioned strain did the Italian pour forth his adoration;
and, as Laura gazed upon him with eyes swimming in very wantonness, she
thought that he was far more handsome than she had fancied him to be
in the afternoon, or even when he had first appeared before her that
evening.

He, too, on his part, found the syren a thousand times more
witching--more beauteous--more attractive than she had seemed in her
carriage; and yet even then he had been ready to fall down and worship
her. Now he beheld her in a light evening toilette--with naked neck and
naked arms,--no scarf--not even the most transparent gauze veiling her
shoulders of alabaster whiteness,--and with her hair dressed in massive
curls, instead of hyperion ringlets;--now, too, he could perceive,
by the undulations of her attire, that her limbs were turned with a
symmetry that was elegant and yet robust--admirable in shape, though
full in their proportions.

“I thank you most sincerely for the assurances of secrecy which you
have given me,” said Laura, in the sweetest, most melting cadence of
her delicious voice; “likewise for the chivalrous professions with
which you have coupled them. You declare yourself to be my slave,” she
added; “but it will be for this night only!”

And she hid her countenance on his breast, as if ashamed of the
invitation which her words implied--an invitation that welcomed him at
her abode until the morning!

“In one sense I understand you, my charmer,” he said, kissing her
beauteous head as it lay reclining on his bosom; “and that alone ought
to be happiness sufficient for me! But I am greedy--I am covetous; and
I demand more! Listen, adored Laura--grant me your patience for a few
minutes.”

She raised her head, and gazed tenderly up into his animated
countenance as he spoke.

“I am not a rich man,” he continued; “but I possess a competency--nay,
a handsome competency; and I care not how soon I abandon the service of
even so good and excellent a prince as his Sovereign Highness--in order
to devote myself wholly and solely to you. I know not who you are--I
only know that you are the loveliest creature on the face of God’s
earth, and that your name is Laura Mortimer. Neither do I seek to know
more. But I am ready and anxious to join my fortunes with yours--to
marry you, if you will accept me as your husband,--or to become your
slave--your menial! Tell me not, then, that we must part to-morrow: oh!
let me remain with you, my charming Laura, until death shall separate
us!”

“It cannot be, my handsome Barthelma!” murmured Laura. “But let me call
you by your Christian name----”

“Lorenzo,” said the Castelcicalan.

“You are, then, my handsome Lorenzo for this night--and for this night
only,” continued Laura, throwing her warm, plump, exquisitely modelled
arms about his neck, and pressing her lips to his glowing cheek.

“Cruel--cruel Laura!” he exclaimed, returning the ardent caress.

“Oh! would that circumstances permitted----”

“No circumstances can separate us, if you should decide that we are to
remain together,” interrupted the Castelcicalan, in an impassioned tone.

“Alas! you know not----”

“If you are already a wife, I will kill your husband,” cried Lorenzo,
again speaking with vehement abruptness: “If you are engaged to wed one
whom you dislike, I will dare him to wrest you from my arms;--and if
you have relations--father or brothers--whom you imagine yourself bound
to consult, you may rest well assured that in preferring my love to
that of kith and kin you will be receiving the purest gold in exchange
for comparative dross.”

“Dear Lorenzo, I must seal your eloquent lips with kisses,” said Laura,
with an arch playfulness that was also full of wantonness: “yes--I must
seal those red, moist lips,” she murmured, after having pressed her
mouth to his; “or you will persuade me to give an affirmative answer
to your endearing solicitations--and that would only be to record a
promise to-night which I most break to-morrow.”

“Are you, then, my angel, the mistress of some man on whose wealth
you are dependent, or in whose power circumstances have placed you?”
demanded the impassioned Italian, with more fervid frankness than
considerate delicacy.

“I am not--I never was--and I never shall be a pensioned mistress,
Lorenzo!” answered Laura, her manner becoming suddenly haughty.

“Pardon me--Oh! I implore you to pardon me, my angel!” exclaimed the
young officer, straining her to his chest. “Not for worlds would I
offend you--not even to save my soul from perdition would I wrong
you by word or deed! Tell me, Laura--tell me--Laura--tell me--am I
forgiven?”

She raised her countenance towards his own, and when their lips met she
sealed his pardon with a long, burning kiss.

“And now,” she said, “do not ask me again to do that which is
impossible. I cannot marry you, although I am not married--I cannot be
your mistress, although I am not the mistress of another--I cannot hold
out any hope to you, although I am pledged to none other.”

“You are as enigmatical as you are charming--you are as mysterious as
you are beautiful!” exclaimed Lorenzo, contemplating his fair companion
with the most enthusiastic rapture.

“And it is not now for you to mar the pleasure which we enjoy in
each other’s society, by seeking to render me less enigmatical or
less mysterious,” observed the syren. “At the same time I cannot be
otherwise than flattered by the proposals you have made to me, and the
generous manner in which you have expressed yourself in my behalf.
Come--let us drink a glass of champagne to enhance the happiness of the
moment, and drown careful reflections.”

“Be it so, my charmer,” said Lorenzo: “and if I no more torment you
with my entreaties--if I resolve to content myself with the amount
of bliss which you have promised me,--nevertheless, my dearest--ever
dearest Laura, I shall take leave of you to-morrow morning with the
fervent hope that we shall shortly meet again. You told me this
afternoon that you proposed to visit Montoni in the course of the
ensuing autumn----”

“Yes--I have no doubt that I shall be enabled to fulfil that promise,”
interrupted Laura, by way of changing the topic of discourse. “And
now that you have given me to understand that you will not revive the
useless but flattering, and, in some sense, agreeable proposals you
made me just now, let us think only of the enjoyment of the present.”

“It shall be as you say, my angel,” returned Lorenzo; and he forthwith
filled a glass with sparkling champagne, which he handed to his fair
companion.

She quaffed it at a draught, and a flood of light seemed to suffuse
her entire countenance, and render her eyes brilliant as diamonds: her
lips, too, moist with the generous juice, acquired a deeper red--and
her bosom panted with amorous longings.

Lorenzo beheld the effects of the rich fluid, and hastened to fill the
glass again: then, ere he drained it of its contents, he studiously
placed to his lips the side which Laura’s mouth had touched.

“You had two friends with you this afternoon in the Champs Elysées?”
said the syren, interrogatively, when they were once more seated,
half-embraced in each other’s arms, upon the sofa.

“Yes: one was a fellow-countryman of mine--the other a native of your
land, my beloved,” answered Lorenzo. “But I must tell you the singular
adventure that occurred to us: and, indeed,” he added, with a smile, “I
am deeply indebted to a certain anonymous correspondent--for had it not
been through him, I should not have this day visited the scene where I
was fortunate enough to encounter you.”

“A singular adventure!” exclaimed Laura, with an admirable affectation
of the most ingenuous curiosity.

“Judge for yourself, my angel,” replied Lorenzo then, taking Rosalie’s
letter from his pocket, he handed it to Laura, who, consuming with
strong desires though she were, could scarcely suppress a laugh as she
perused the _billet_, with the contents of which she was already so
well acquainted.

“And did you see the poor man who addressed you and your friends in
this wild, romantic style?” she asked, restoring him the note.

“He did not make his appearance,” responded Barthelma. “But even if
that letter were the production of some mischievous wag, or of a crazy
person, I could not possibly feel otherwise than rejoiced at having
been made the dupe of either a humourist or a madman: for, as I just
now observed, the anonymous letter led to my meeting with you.”

And, as he spoke, he smoothed down her glossy, luxuriant hair with his
open palm.

“But doubtless your two companions found more difficulty in consoling
themselves for the disappointment?” said Laura.

“Faith! dear lady,” exclaimed Lorenzo, “they spoke but little on the
subject: for, to tell you the truth, your beauty had not failed to
produce a very sensible effect on them as well as upon myself.”

“Flatterer!” cried Laura, playfully caressing the handsome Italian.

“Oh! you know that you are lovely--transcendently lovely!” he
exclaimed, in an ardent tone; “and you can well believe me when I
assure you that my two friends escaped not the magic influence of
your charms. But how different were the effects thus produced! Di
Ponta--that is the name of my fellow-countryman--was enthusiastic
and rapturous in your praise; whereas Charles Hatfield--the
Englishman--became gloomy, morose, and sullen----”

“A singular effect for the good looks of a woman to produce!” cried
Laura, laughing--while her heart beat with the joy of a proud triumph.

“Such, nevertheless, was the case in this instance, my angel,” said
Lorenzo. “I do firmly believe that Hatfield was jealous of me in being
the happy mortal who perceived the loss of your parasol, and had the
honour of restoring it;--yes--jealous, dear lady, because that happy
accident introduced me to your notice, and privileged me to address
you.”

“Your English friend must be a very weak-minded young man,” observed
Laura; “and I am truly delighted that it was _not_ he whose
acquaintance I was destined to make this day.”

“Nevertheless, he is very handsome,” said Lorenzo, gazing upon the
syren with a playful affectation of jealousy.

“Not so handsome as you, my Barthelma,” replied Laura, with simulated
enthusiasm; and, in order to dispel the partial coldness which a
digression from amorous topics had allowed to creep over her, she cast
her arms around Lorenzo’s neck and fastened her lips to his.

Then the blood began once more to circulate like lightning in her
veins,--and her voluptuous bosom panted against the young Italian’s
chest.

Here shall we leave the amorous pair; for, after a little tender
dalliance and another glass of the exciting juice of Epernay, they
retired to the chamber whose portal we must not pass to follow them.

       *       *       *       *       *

At eight o’clock in the morning Lorenzo Barthelma took his departure;
and shortly afterwards Rosalie entered Laura’s room.

The Frenchwoman, who was as discreet as she was an adept at intrigue,
wore the usual calm and respectful expression of countenance; and not
even by a sly smile nor an arch look did she appear as if she devoted a
thought to the manner in which her mistress had passed the night.

“Did the captain depart unperceived?” inquired Laura, who, although
she had given no instructions to that effect, was nevertheless well
assured that her intelligent abigail had superintended the egress of
the handsome Italian.

“Entirely unobserved, _mademoiselle_,” was the answer. “I amused the
porter and his wife in their lodge for a few minutes while Captain
Barthelma slipped out into the street. Three persons alone are
acquainted with last night’s adventure,--you, the captain, and myself.”

“Good!” exclaimed Laura: then, drawing aside the curtain of the bed
in which she was voluptuously pillowed, she said, “And now, my dear
Rosalie, give me an account of your proceedings relative to the Marquis
of Delmour.”

“I have learnt but a few facts, _mademoiselle_,” was the reply:
“those, however, are of some importance. He is enormously rich--very
generous--bears an excellent character----”

“Is he married?” demanded Laura, hastily.

“Yes: but he has been living apart from his wife for many years;--and
respecting the cause of their separation, there is a great mystery
which not even his best friends can penetrate, and into which,
therefore, a casual inquirer like myself could not obtain the least
insight.”

“And this is all you could ascertain concerning him?” said Laura,
interrogatively. “Did you not think of asking if he had any family by
his wife?”

“I did not forget to make that inquiry, _mademoiselle_,” answered
Rosalie; “and I was assured that his lordship is childless.”

“You are a good and faithful creature,” observed Laura; “and your
services will prove invaluable to me. That purse which lies on the
toilette-table, contains no insignificant sum in gold. It is yours--a
recompense for the work of yesterday. But as you now know more of me
than you did before, and as in a few short hours I permitted you to
obtain a deeper reading of my secret soul than you could possibly have
acquired, had I shut myself up in a studied reserve, it is as well that
you should understand me thoroughly. I mean this, Rosalie--that I can
be a good friend, or an implacable enemy--”

“I shall never provoke your enmity, _mademoiselle_,” observed the
abigail.

“I do not think you will, Rosalie,” resumed Laura: “but, as I said ere
now, it is as well that you should comprehend my character in all its
details--in all its phases. You will benefit yourself by serving me
faithfully: you would only injure yourself by playing me false. When
once I have said upon this subject all that I mean to say, I shall not
again refer to it: but the better we understand each other, the more
permanent will be our connexion. Reckon, then, on my friendship so long
as you deserve it;--deceive me, and I will risk my very life to be
avenged.”

“Oh! _mademoiselle_,” exclaimed Rosalie, absolutely frightened by the
vehemence with which her mistress spoke,--“have I done anything to
render you suspicious of me?”

“On the contrary,” said Laura, with a smile; “you have done all you
could to serve me--and you see that I have not forgotten to reward
you. But within the last twelve or eighteen hours I have permitted you
to read all the weaknesses of my soul--and now it is requisite that you
should understand its strength: I have made you my confident--but I
deemed it prudent to convince you that I know how to punish treachery.
That is all, Rosalie: I have no more to say upon the subject;--and now,
let me see your pretty face cheer up and wear a smile.”

The Frenchwoman was reassured by these last words; and, finding that
her mistress had only intended to give her a salutary warning, and not
to upbraid her for any actual misconduct, she speedily recovered her
wonted gaiety and good spirits.




CHAPTER CLXV.

LORD WILLIAM TREVELYAN.


The scene changes to the residence of Lord William Trevelyan in Park
Square.

It was evening, and the young nobleman was pacing up and down in an
elegantly furnished parlour, which was lighted by means of a brilliant
gas-jet enclosed in a pale red glass globe--so that the lustre which
filled the room was of roseate hue. The curtains, sofas, and cushions
of the chairs were of a rich crimson; and the paper on the walls
was of a kindred colour and splendid pattern. In each corner of the
apartment stood a marble jar, filled with flowers recently gathered,
and rendering the atmosphere cool and fragrant.

Lord William was tall and handsome, his complexion was somewhat dark,
giving him the appearance of a Spaniard rather than of an Englishman;
and yet the ruddy hues of health were upon his cheeks. His hair was
black as jet, silky as that of a woman, and parted above a brow high,
intellectual, and expressive of a noble mind. His eyes were large
and dark, and full of the fire of genius; and there was something
peculiarly pleasing--almost winning in his smile.

In disposition Lord William was amiable--in manners unassuming: his
character was unimpeachable--and his political opinions were of
the most liberal tendency. His charity was extensive, but entirely
unostentatious: his dependants revered him as a good master, and his
acquaintances loved him as a sincere friend.

He was in his twenty-fourth year; and, until he had set eyes upon
Agnes Vernon, he had never experienced the influence of the tender
passion. But one day, while on a visit to a friend at Norwood, he was
strolling alone in the vicinity, and accident led his footsteps towards
the cottage, in the garden belonging to which he beheld the beauteous
creature whose image had ever since filled his soul.

Truly had he said to Mrs. Mortimer that he adored the fair recluse
of the cottage--that he worshipped the very ground upon which she
trod: his love amounted almost to an idolatry;--and yet he had never
exchanged a word--scarcely even a look, with the object of his
affection!

It could be no world-contaminated heart that entertained such a passion
as this--no selfish soul that could cherish such a pure and holy
attachment.

But it was a generous--upright--noble-minded young man, who was now
anxiously waiting the arrival of the woman with whom he had made an
appointment for the evening in question.

       *       *       *       *       *

Were the English aristocracy to be judged generally by such nobles
as the Earl of Ellingham and Lord William Trevelyan, the term of its
existence would not now perhaps be within the range of prophecy.

But, as matters now stand,--as the aristocracy is corrupt,
selfish, and cruel--self-sufficient and ignorant--proud and
intolerant--unprincipled, profligate, and tyrannical,--it is not
difficult to predict its speedy downfall.

Therefore is it that we boldly proclaim our conviction that Monarchy
and Aristocracy will not exist ten years longer in enlightened England;
but that a Republic will displace them!

The _hereditary principle_, either in Monarchy or Aristocracy, is the
most detestable idea that ever entered the brains of knaves, or was
adopted by fools.

In respect to Monarchy, we are gravely assured that the principle of
hereditary succession guarantees a nation against the civil wars that
may arise from the pretensions of numerous claimants to the supreme
power. But the history of every monarchical country in the world gives
the lie to this assertion. Crowns have been bones of contention from
time immemorial, and will continue to be so until they be crushed
altogether beneath the heel of Republicanism. Take the history of
England, for instance--that England, where the hereditary principle is
said to be admirable and efficacious beyond all question: thirty-three
Kings or Queens and two minors have reigned in this country since the
Conquest by the Norman ruffian--_and during that period we have had
eight civil wars and nineteen rebellions!_

The LAWS OF GOD, moreover, bear testimony against Monarchy. What said
the Prophet Samuel when the Jews insisted upon having a King? “I will
call unto the Lord, and he shall send thunder and rain, that you may
perceive and see that your wickedness is great which you have done in
the sight of the Lord, _in asking you a King_. So Samuel called unto
the Lord, and the Lord sent thunder and rain that day; and all the
people greatly feared the Lord and Samuel. And all the people said unto
Samuel, Pray for thy servants unto the Lord thy God, that we die not;
_for we have added unto our sins this evil, to ask a King_.”

Either the Bible is true or false. If true--as assuredly it is--then is
the institution of Monarchy _a positive crime,_ tolerated by an entire
nation!

And no wonder that Heaven itself should protest against a system which
is nothing more nor less than setting up an idol for the millions to
worship,--an idol as useless as an Indian pagod, but often as terrible
and slaughterous in its baleful influence as Juggernaut in its fatal
progress.

Never did Satan contrive a scheme more certain of promoting idolatry
than the raising up of Kings and Queens as rivals to the Majesty of
Heaven;--for the root of Monarchy is in hell--the laws of God denounce
the institution as a sin--and the history of the whole world proclaims
that blood inevitably attends upon it!

All men were originally equal; and in no country therefore, could any
privilege of birth give one family a right to monopolise the executive
power for ever: neither can one generation bind that which is as yet
to come. The existing race of human beings has no property in the
one unborn: we of the present day have no right to assume the power
of enslaving posterity:--and, on the same principle, our ancestors
had no right to enslave us. If those ancestors chose to make one set
of laws for themselves, we can institute another code for our own
government. But of course such a change as this can only be made by the
representatives of the People; and in order that the people _may_ have
a fair representation, the following elements of a constitution become
absolutely necessary:--

    Universal Suffrage;
    Vote by Ballot;
    No Property Qualification;
    Paid Representatives;
    Annual Parliaments; and
    Equal Electoral Districts.

Give us these principles--accord us these institutions--and we will
vouch for the happiness, prosperity, and tranquillity of the kingdom.

[Illustration]

The French now stand at the head of the civilisation of Europe. They
are on the same level as the fine people of the United States of
America; and England occupies an inferior grade in the scale.

Alas! that we should be compelled to speak thus of our native land: but
the truth must be told!

As yet almost every country in Europe has demanded and
obtained something of its rulers, in consequence of the French
Revolution;--whereas England has as yet obtained nothing in the shape
of Reform!

Oh! shame--shame! what has become of our national spirit?--are we all
willing slaves, and shall we not agitate--morally, but energetically
agitate--for our rights and liberties?

The aristocracy and the men in power treat the people’s assemblies
with ridicule, and denominate the working-classes, when so assembled,
as “a mob.” They will not discriminate between honest politicians and
the respectable working-classes on the one hand, and the ragamuffinry
of society on the other. They confound us all together in the sweeping
appellation of “_the mob!_”

The insensates! Do they not reflect that if ten or fifteen thousand
persons meet for the purpose of discussing some grand political
question, some five or six hundred pickpockets and mischievous boys are
certain to intrude themselves into the assemblage? Why--black sheep
even find their way into the Houses of Parliament--aye, and into the
very suite of Royalty itself.

       *       *       *       *       *

But after recording all the above observations, we must once more
declare that we do not recommend violence: we insist upon the necessity
of a grand moral agitation--an agitation which shall pervade the
entire country, as an ocean is roused by the storm into a mass of
mighty waves. The people must assume an imposing attitude; and let the
memorable words of Lafayette be repeated by every tongue:--“_For a
nation to love liberty, it is sufficient that she knows it; and for a
nation to be free, it is sufficient that she wills it!_”

And, oh! my fellow-countrymen, let not this glorious thesis be used
in vain! By the misery and starvation which millions of ye endure--by
the hopeless entombment to which the Poor Law Bastilles condemn ye,
when work fails--by the denial of an honest recognition of the rights
of labour, which is insolently persisted in--by the spectacle of your
famished wives and little ones--by the naked walls of the wretched
hovels in which the labouring population dwells--by the blinding toil
of the poor seamstress--by the insults heaped on ye by a rapacious
aristocracy and an intolerant clergy--by the right which a despicable
oligarchy usurps to hold the reins of power--by the limited suffrage
which leaves the millions unrepresented--by the oppressive weight of
taxation laid upon the productive classes--by the sorrows which the
hard-working operative endures throughout his virility, and the misery
that attends upon his decrepitude--by the badge of pauperism that
the sons and daughters of toil are compelled to wear in the accursed
Union-houses,--by all your wrongs, we adjure ye not to remain at
rest--not to endure the yoke which ye can cast off in a moment--not to
stand still and gaze listlessly, while all the rest of the civilised
world is in motion!

       *       *       *       *       *

Returning from this digression to the thread of our narrative, we
will suppose that Mrs. Mortimer has at length arrived at the house in
Park Square, and that she is already seated with the young nobleman,
who little suspected the infamous character of the woman whom he had
admitted to his confidence.

“I have been looking forward with much impatience and anxiety to your
coming,” said Lord William: “but even now that you are here, I know not
in which manner you can assist me.”

“_Faint heart never won fair lady_, my lord,” returned the old woman;
“and you must take courage. The maxim which I quoted is a good one.”

“I do not despair, madam,” said the young nobleman: “and yet I seem as
if I were involved in a deep mist, through which I cannot even grope
my way. Alone and unassisted, I cannot hope to obtain access to that
charming creature; and, if assisted, I will do nothing that shall
violate the respect due to one so pure of heart as I believe her to be.”

“I should have proposed to become the bearer of a letter from your
lordship to Miss Vernon,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer, coldly: “but,
perceiving beforehand that your scruples are over nice and your notions
somewhat of the most fastidious, I really do not see how I can serve
you.”

“I am afraid to write to her--she would perhaps be offended to an
extent that might be irremediable,” exclaimed Lord William, a prey to
the most cruel bewilderment.

“And yet your lordship once endeavoured to bribe the servant-girl to
become the bearer of your amatory epistle,” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a
tone of sarcasm--almost of disgust.

“Now you are offended with me,” cried the young nobleman. “It is true
that I did pen a letter to Agnes--telling her how much I loved her and
how honourable were my intentions--imploring her likewise to grant me a
few moments’ interview, and to pardon the means that I thus adopted of
accosting her, having no other mode of procuring an introduction. Such
a letter I did indeed write,” continued Trevelyan: “but it was in a fit
of despair--of madness--of insensate recklessness.--I know not how to
explain myself! The servant refused to deliver that note--and my eyes
were immediately opened to the impropriety of the proceeding which I
had adopted.”

“And you therefore decline to entrust me, who am well acquainted with
Agnes, to deliver a similar letter into her hand? Your lordship is
wrong in thus refusing to be guided by me,” continued the crafty old
woman. “Think you that with one so innocent, so artless as Agnes, I
cannot prepare the way to render your letter acceptable--at least to
prevent it from producing a sudden shock to her notions of maidenly
propriety?”

“Much as I should be rejoiced could you accomplish that aim,” said
Trevelyan, “I should be ten thousand times happier were you able to
procure me an interview with her.”

“This is madness!” exclaimed the old woman. “Can I not more easily
induce her to read a letter from a stranger, than to receive that
stranger in person? Is not the letter the first and most natural step
to the visit? Trust to me, my lord: I know the disposition of Agnes--I
understand affairs of this nature--and I am also well aware that love
blinds you to the ways of prudence.”

“Be it, then, as you propose,” said Lord William, after a long pause,
during which be reflected profoundly. “I will write the letter this
evening: will you call for it early to-morrow morning?”

“I will,” answered the old woman: “and in less than twenty-four hours I
will undertake to bring you tidings calculated to encourage hope--or I
am very much mistaken,” she added emphatically.

“You do not believe--you have no reason to suppose that the father
of Agnes already destines her to become the bride of some person of
his own choice?” asked Trevelyan, now for the first time shaping in
words an idea that had haunted him for some days past. “Because,” he
continued, speaking with the rapidity of excitement, “I cannot possibly
comprehend wherefore he compels her to dwell in that strict seclusion.”

“I do not believe that you have any such cause for apprehension,” said
Mrs. Mortimer, in a tone of confidence--as if she were well able to
give the species of assurance which she so emphatically conveyed.
“There is a mystery--a deep mystery attached to the fair recluse,--and
what that mystery is, I am myself completely ignorant. But that the
father of Agnes has no such intention as the one you imagined, and that
Agnes herself has as yet never known the passion of love,--these are
facts to which I do not hesitate to pledge myself most solemnly.”

“Oh! then there is indeed room for hope!” exclaimed Lord William, his
countenance brightening up and joy flashing in his eyes.

“A nobleman in your position--blessed with wealth and a handsome
person--endowed with agreeable manners and a cultivated mind,” said
Mrs. Mortimer, “need not despair of winning the love and securing the
hand of a maiden dwelling in utter obscurity and totally unacquainted
with the world.”

“I would rather that she should learn to love me for my own sake,
madam,” observed Lord William, in a serious tone, “than for any
adventitious advantages of rank or social position that I may possess.”

“Well, my lord--we shall see,” said Mrs. Mortimer, rising to depart.
“To-morrow morning I will call for the letter; and I shall proceed
straight over to the cottage: In the afternoon, or evening, I will do
myself the honour of waiting upon your lordship again.”

“I shall expect you with impatience, madam,” returned Trevelyan, as he
politely hastened to open the door for her.

Mrs. Mortimer took her leave; and the young nobleman sate down to pen a
letter to Agnes Vernon.

But this was not so easy a matter as he had anticipated. Sheet after
sheet of paper did he spoil,--a hundred times did he commence--and as
often did he throw aside his pen in despair. Now he fancied that his
style was too bold--then he conceived it to be too tame and vague: now
he imagined himself to be too complimentary in his language towards
one possessing a mind so chaste and pure--then he felt assured that he
was acting indiscreetly to write at all. In the course of an hour he
was swayed by such an infinite variety of conflicting sentiments and
impressions that he was almost inclined to throw up the task in despair.

At length, however, he made a beginning which pleased him; and his pen
then ran fluently enough over the paper, until the letter was composed
in the following manner:--

    “Pardon a stranger who dares to address you, beautiful
    Miss Vernon, in a strain that might give you offence,
    were he not sincere in his language and honourable in his
    intentions:--pardon me, I implore you--and refuse not to
    read these few lines to the end! He who thus writes is the
    individual that you have observed occasionally in the vicinity
    of your dwelling; and you will perceive by the signature to
    this letter that he is not a man without ostensible guarantees
    for his social position. That his character is unimpeachable
    he can proudly declare; and that he will not address to you,
    Miss Vernon, a single word which he will fear to repeat in your
    father’s presence, he solemnly declares.

    “Let me, however, speak of myself in the first person again:
    let me assure you that your beauty has captivated my heart--and
    that, if anything were wanting to render me your slave, the
    description which the bearer of this letter has given me of
    your amiable qualities, would be more than sufficient. I am
    rich--and therefore I have no selfish motive in addressing
    you, even if you be rich also: but I would rather that it were
    otherwise with you, so that my present proceeding may appear
    to you the more disinterested. Had I any means of obtaining
    an introduction to you, beautiful Miss Vernon, I should not
    have adopted a measure that gives me pain because I tremble
    lest it should wound or offend you. But mine is an honest--a
    sincere--and a devoted attachment; and I shall be happy indeed
    if you will permit me to open a correspondence with your father
    on the subject. Were he to honour me with a visit, I should
    be proud to receive him. But if, in the meantime, you seek to
    know more of me--if I might venture to solicit you to accord
    me an interview of only a few minutes, you cannot divine how
    fervently I should thank you--how delighted I should feel! Let
    this interview take place in the presence of Mrs. Mortimer, if
    you will: I have nothing to communicate to you that I should
    hesitate to say before your father or your friends. Oh! how
    can I convince you of my sincerity?--how can I testify my
    devotion?--how can I prove the extent of my love?

    “I beseech you to reflect, Miss Vernon, that my happiness
    depends upon your reply. Am I guilty of an indiscretion in
    loving you? Love is a passion beyond mortal control! He who
    knows no other deity, deserves not blame for worshipping the
    sun, because it is glorious and bright; and my heart, which
    knows no other idol, adores you, because you are beautiful and
    good. Treat not my conduct, then, with anger: let not your
    pride be offended by the proceeding which I have adopted in
    order to make my sentiments known to you;--and scorn not the
    honest--the pure--the ardent affection which an honourable
    man dares to proffer you. I do not merit punishment because I
    love you;--and your silence would prove a punishment severe
    and undeserved indeed! Again, I conjure you to remember that
    the happiness of a fellow-creature depends upon you: your
    decision will either inspire me with the most joyous hope, or
    plunge me into the deepest despair. At the same time, beauteous
    Agnes,--(the words--those delightful words, ’beauteous Agnes,’
    are written now, and I cannot--will not erase them)--at the
    same time, I say, if your affections be already engaged--if
    a mortal more blest than myself have received the promise of
    your hand,--accept the assurance, sweet maiden, that never
    more shall you be molested by me--never again will I intrude
    myself upon your attention. For with my love is united the most
    profound respect; and not for worlds would I do aught to excite
    an angry feeling in your soul.

  “Your ardent admirer and devoted friend,
  “WILLIAM TREVELYAN.”

With this letter the young nobleman was satisfied. He considered it
to be sufficiently energetic, and at the same time respectful: he saw
nothing in it against which the purest mind could take exceptions; and,
in the sanguine confidence natural to his age, and to the honourable
candour of his disposition, he already looked upon his aims as half
accomplished--his aspirations as half gained.

Having sealed and addressed the letter, he placed it upon the
mantel-piece ready for Mrs. Mortimer when she should call in the
morning: then, fetching a portfolio from an inner room, he opened
it, and from amongst several drawings in water-colours, selected one
on which his gaze was immediately rivetted with deep and absorbing
interest.

For that painting--executed by his own hand--was a portrait of Agnes
Vernon; and even the most fastidious critic, if acquainted with the
original, must have pronounced it to be a living likeness.

Yes: on that paper was delineated, with the most perfect accuracy, the
fair countenance of the _Recluse of the Cottage_,--every feature--every
lineament drawn with a fidelity to which only a first-rate artist, or
an amateur whose pencil was guided by the finger of Love, could have
possibly attained. There were the eyes of deep blackness and melting
softness,--there was the high, intelligent forehead,--there was the
raven hair, silken and glossy, and seeming to flow luxuriantly even in
the very picture,--and there was the rich red mouth, wearing a smile
such as mortals behold upon the lips of angels in their dreams. How
charming was the entire countenance!--how amiable--how heavenly the
expression that it wore!

And no wonder that the likeness was so striking--so accurate--so
faithful;--for the young nobleman had touched and retouched it until
he had delineated on the paper the precise counterpart of the image
that dwelt in his mind. Hours and hours had he devoted to that labour
of love:--on each occasion when he returned home after contemplating,
from behind the green barrier of the garden, the idol of his adoration,
he addressed himself to the improvement of that portrait. At one time
he had beheld the maiden to greater advantage than at another; and
then he studied to convey to the card-board the last and most pleasing
impression thus made upon his mind; until he produced a likeness so
faithful that not another touch was required--no further improvement
could be effected.

And, like Pygmalion with his Galatea, how Lord William Trevelyan
worshipped that portrait! No--the simile is incorrect; because
the sculptor learnt to adore the statue that was cold and
passionless--whereas the young nobleman was blest with the conviction
that there was a living original for the image he had so faithfully
traced upon his paper,--and it was that living original whom he made
the goddess of his thoughts.

The clock had struck ten, and Lord William was still bending over the
portrait that lay upon the table, when a footman entered the room
to announce that a lady who declined to give her name solicited an
interview with the young nobleman.

Lord William, hastily closing the portfolio, desired that she might be
immediately shown into his presence.

The domestic bowed and retired.

In a few minutes he returned, ushering in the unknown visitor, who wore
a veil over her countenance: but the moment the footman had withdrawn,
she raised the veil, and disclosed a face that was strikingly handsome,
though pale and careworn. She was apparently about thirty-six or
thirty-seven years of age--with dark hair, fine hazel eyes, and good
teeth. Tall and well-formed, her figure, which was rather inclined
to _embonpoint_, was set off to advantage by the tasteful--indeed
elegant style of her dress; and in her deportment there was an air of
distinction denoting the polished and well-bred lady.

Lord William received her with becoming courtesy, requested her to be
seated, and then awaited an explanation of her business.

“Your lordship is doubtless surprised at receiving a visit at so
unseasonable an hour, and on the part of a complete stranger,” began
the lady, in a pleasing though mournful tone of voice: “but I know not
to whom else to address myself for the information I now seek--and if
you cannot afford it to me, I shall be unhappy indeed.”

“Madam,” said Lord William, somewhat astonished at this mysterious
opening of the conversation, “if it be in my power to serve you, I
shall render that service cheerfully.”

“You are well acquainted, I believe, my lord, with Sir Gilbert
Heathcote?” observed the lady, somewhat abruptly, as she bowed her
thanks for the assurance the young nobleman had given her.

“Sir Gilbert Heathcote, though much older than I, is an intimate friend
of mine,” observed Trevelyan.

“Do you know where he is--what has become of him?” demanded the lady,
in a still more anxious tone than before.

“I really do not, madam,” was the reply.

“Merciful heavens!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in a
paroxysm of sorrow.

“I have not seen him for this week past,” continued Trevelyan.
“But--are you ill, madam? Can I offer you anything?--shall I summon
assistance?”

And, as he spoke, the nobleman rose from his seat and approached the
bell-pull.

“No--no, my lord!” cried the lady. “Do not ring--do not call your
servants! I shall be better presently. But pardon me if I could not
control my feelings,” she added, wiping the tears from her eyes.

The young nobleman, in spite of the adjuration to the contrary,
hastened into the adjoining room and speedily returned with a decanter
of spring water and a tumbler. He then filled the glass and presented
it to his afflicted visitor, who thanked him for his delicate attention
with a look expressive of gratitude--the words that she would have
uttered being stifled in her throat.

Refreshed with the cooling beverage, she said, after a short pause, “My
lord, have you the slightest conception where your friend Sir Gilbert
Heathcote is? Did he intimate to you his intention to leave London? did
he hint at the probability of his departure from England? Oh! I conjure
you to tell me all you know: for--for--you cannot divine how much--how
deeply I love him!”

Trevelyan was struck with astonishment at these last words,--words
that were uttered in a tone of such convincing, such profound
sincerity, that he could not for an instant question their import. And
yet--though since the days of childhood Trevelyan had known Sir Gilbert
Heathcote--he had never heard that the baronet was married: on the
contrary, he had invariably understood him to be a single man. If this
latter belief were the true one, then, was the lady now in his presence
the mistress of his friend?--for assuredly she had not spoken with the
confidence of a sister, but with the hesitation of one who reveals a
fact that is in some way associated with shame.

The lady perceived what was passing in the mind of Trevelyan; and in a
low but fully audible tone, she said, “My lord, circumstances compel me
to reveal myself to you as your friend’s mistress. Yes: though I love
him more than ever wife could love--yet am I only his mistress,--for,
alas! I am the wife of another! And now, my lord,” she added, with deep
feeling, “you may spurn me from you--you may command your lacquey to
thrust me from your dwelling: but I implore you to give me tidings of
Sir Gilbert!”

“Madam,” exclaimed Trevelyan, the moment he could recover from the
bewilderment into which this impassioned address plunged him, “not
for worlds could I do or say aught to augment year affliction--much
less to insult you. I declare to you most solemnly that I have neither
heard nor seen anything of Sir Gilbert Heathcote for a week. I called
at his chambers in the Albany the day before yesterday, and was simply
informed that he was not at home. I left my card without thinking to
make further inquiries--not suspecting that his absence had been for
days, instead of hours.”

“Oh! yes--upwards of a week has elapsed since I saw him,” exclaimed the
lady, with difficulty subduing a fresh outburst of grief. “Each day
have I been to the Albany--and still the answer is the same--‘_He has
not returned!_’ No--he has not returned,” she added, clasping her hands
together; “and he has not written to me! O God! I fear that some fatal
accident has befallen him!”

“Do not give way to such a distressing belief,” cried Trevelyan,
feeling deeply for the unfortunate woman, whose grief was so
profound and so sincere. “Shall I make inquiries--immediate
inquiries--concerning him? Perhaps I may learn more than a lady
possibly can.”

“Generous-hearted nobleman!” exclaimed the visitor; “how can I ever
repay you for this kindness towards an utter stranger?”

“Remember also, madam,” said Trevelyan, “that, apart from my readiness
to serve you or any lady whom affliction has overtaken, I begin to
experience some degree of anxiety on behalf of a gentleman who has
ever shown a sincere friendship towards me. Not another minute will I
delay the inquiries which, alike for your sake and his, I now deem it
necessary to institute.”

Thus speaking, the young nobleman rose from his chair.

“My lord,” said the lady, rising also, and speaking in a tone
indicative of deep emotion, “may I hope to receive a communication from
you as early as possible? My suspense will be great--it is even now
intolerable----”

And she burst into tears.

“Madam,” interrupted the young nobleman, profoundly touched by her
affliction, which was evidently most unfeigned, “you can either
accompany me, or remain here until my return. Perhaps the latter will
be the more desirable--at least if you can restrain your impatience, so
natural under the circumstances, for a couple of hours. But perhaps,”
he added, an idea striking him,--“perhaps you live at some distance----”

“I am the occupant of a house in Kentish Town,” said the lady; “and
therefore my dwelling is not very far from your lordship’s. If you see
no impropriety in it--if there be no one here whom my presence would
offend,” she continued, speaking in a subdued and almost timid tone, “I
would rather--oh! much rather wait until you return.”

“By all means, madam,” exclaimed the generous-hearted young noble.
“Should you require anything during my absence, the servants will obey
your summons; and they will receive my orders, ere I depart, to pay you
every attention.”

“I shall not trouble them, my lord,” was the reply: “but I return you
my deepest--sincerest thanks for the kind consideration with which you
treat me.”

Trevelyan bowed, and then quitted the room.




CHAPTER CXLVI.

A SKETCH OF TWO BROTHERS.--A MYSTERY.


The nobleman’s cab was got ready in a very few minutes; and while he is
driving rapidly along towards Piccadilly, we will place on record some
particulars respecting Sir Gilbert Heathcote.

The baronet was a man of about forty years of age, and of very handsome
countenance, as well as of tall, commanding figure. He had never
married; and report stated that a disappointment in love, experienced
when he was very young, had induced him to make a vow to the effect
that, as he had lost the idol of his heart’s devotion, he would never
accompany another to the altar. Such was the rumour which had obtained
currency at the time amongst his friends, and was even repeated at the
period whereof we are writing, whenever astonishment was expressed
that a man enjoying all the advantages of personal appearance and
social position should not have sought to form a brilliant matrimonial
alliance. For the baronet was not only very handsome, as remarked
above, but he also possessed the superior attraction of four thousand
a year. His habits were nevertheless inexpensive: he lived in chambers
at the Albany, and had no country seat. Indeed, he seldom quitted
London, and was altogether of quiet--even retired habits. He was
fond of reading, and was also an admirer of the fine arts: he used
often to observe that the only extravagance of which he was ever
guilty, consisted in the purchase of a fine picture or of articles of
_virtû_;--but these he seldom retained--giving them as presents to his
friends or to museums. Not that he was whimsical or capricious, and
grew tired to-day of what he had bought yesterday: but he was pleased
at the thought of rescuing good paintings and real curiosities from
the auction-room or from Wardour-street; and he was wont to observe
that he experienced more delight in seeing them in the possession of
friends who could appreciate their value, or in museums where their
safety was ensured, than in having them left to the mercy of servants
in his “bachelor apartments.” The fact was, that his disposition was
naturally generous; but this generosity was displayed in a particular
fashion--and as he himself admired objects of _virtû_, he fancied that
they must likewise prove the most welcome gifts he could bestow upon
his friends.

Sir Gilbert had a brother, who was very unlike himself. James Heathcote
was an attorney--grasping, greedy, avaricious, unprincipled--and
therefore rich. He was only two years younger than Sir Gilbert; but
close application to business, evil passions, and parsimonious habits
had exercised such an influence upon his personal appearance, that he
seemed ten years older. His hair was grey--that of Sir Gilbert was
quite dark: his form was slightly bowed--that of the baronet was erect
as a dart. James also was unmarried--but not through any disappointment
in early life. Indeed, he possessed a heart that might be susceptible
of desire, but could not possibly experience the pure feeling of
love. He lived in a handsome house in Bedford-row, Holborn; and his
apartments were elegantly furnished;--for he was wont to observe that
persons who are anxious to get on in this world, must make a good
appearance, and that a mean office frequently turns away a person who
might prove an excellent client. But his aim was to amass money--his
object was to increase his wealth, no matter how: still he had always
contrived matters so cunningly, that no one could positively and
unequivocally prove him to be a rogue.

With such a dissimilitude of character between the two brothers, it
cannot be supposed that any extraordinary degree of intimacy existed
on their part. Indeed, they seldom saw each other--although the more
generous nature of Gilbert would have cheerfully maintained a more
consistent and becoming feeling: but the cold, reserved, matter-of-fact
disposition of James proved absolutely repulsive and forbidding in this
respect. So great, in fine, was the discrepancy between these men,
that people were surprised when they learnt for the first time that
the money-making, hard-hearted attorney was the brother of the urbane,
amiable, and polished baronet.

These hasty outlines will afford the reader some idea of Sir Gilbert
Heathcote on the one hand, and Mr. James Heathcote on the other. We
shall see more of them both hereafter; and their characters will then
become more fully developed. In the meantime we must return to Lord
William Trevelyan, whom we left hastening in his cab, at half-past ten
at night, towards the Albany.

On arriving at that celebrated establishment, the young nobleman
instituted various inquiries concerning Sir Gilbert; but not the least
particle of information of a satisfactory nature could he obtain. It
appeared that the baronet had been absent for eight days, and that no
communication had been received from him--neither had he given any
previous intimation of his intended departure. His brother had been
informed of this unaccountable absence; but it seemed that the attorney
had taken no step to solve the mystery. This was the only fact which
Lord William succeeded in gleaning in addition to the meagre knowledge
he already possessed relative to the matter; and he returned homeward
with a heavy heart, and experiencing strange misgivings in respect to
his friend.

It was near midnight when he re-entered the room where he had left the
lady. The moment he appeared on the threshold of the door, she rose
from her seat and hastened forward to meet him, her looks revealing
the intensity of the anxiety and the acuteness of the suspense which
she experienced. But when she saw by his countenance, even before a
word fell from his lips, that he had no good news to impart, a ghastly
pallor overspread her face, and she would have fallen had he not
supported her and led her back to her chair.

“I grieve to say, madam,” he at length observed, “that I have learnt
nothing more than what you already know--unless indeed it be the fact
that a communication respecting Sir Gilbert’s disappearance has been
made to Mr. James Heathcote, and that he has treated the matter with
unpardonable levity--if not with heartless indifference.”

“I do not know that brother--I never saw him,” said the lady, speaking
in a broken voice: “but I have heard enough of his character to make me
dread him.”

“At the same time, madam,” remarked Lord Trevelyan, in a tone of firm
though gentle remonstrance, “there is not the slightest ground for
suspicion against Mr. James Heathcote; and such an observation as that
which a moment ago fell from your lips, might act most seriously to
the prejudice of an innocent man. I likewise am unacquainted with Mr.
Heathcote, otherwise than by name----”

“And your lordship is well aware that his reputation is not the most
enviable in the world!” exclaimed the lady in an impassioned tone.”

“I have never heard any definite charges against him, madam,” said
Trevelyan.

“No--not positive charges which may fix him with the perpetration
of a special and particular deed of guilt,” she cried, as
if determined to level her suspicions against the attorney:
“but your lordship has doubtless heard a thousand vague
accusations--usury--extortion--grinding down the poor to the very
dust--hurrying on law proceedings with merciless haste--unrelentingly
sweeping away the property of his victims----”

“All these charges I have certainly heard, madam,” said Trevelyan; “but
I will not admit that they warrant the darkest, blackest suspicion
which one human being can possibly entertain towards another.
Understand me, madam--I have no motive in defending James Heathcote,
beyond the true English principle of never judging a person through
the medium of prejudices. For your satisfaction I will call upon Mr.
Heathcote to-morrow--I will speak to him relative to the mysterious
disappearance of his brother--I will hear his replies--I will even
watch his countenance and observe his manner as he speaks. And believe
me, madam,” proceeded the young nobleman, emphatically,--“believe me
when I assure you that if there should transpire the least cause of
suspicion--if there should appear aught to warrant the belief that
James Heathcote could have possibly practised or instigated foul play
in respect to his brother,--believe me, madam, I repeat, that I will
pursue the investigation--I will leave no stone unturned--I will
prosecute my inquiries until I shall have brought home that deep guilt
to his door. But not for an instant--no, not for a single moment can I
believe----”

“Act as you have said, my lord--and, depend upon it, you will find in
the sequel that my opinions are not so unjust--so uncalled for--so
reprehensible, as you now conceive them to be. But, oh!” exclaimed the
lady, clasping her hands wildly together,--“it is terrible--terrible
even for a moment to entertain the idea that he whom I love so
devotedly may be no more!”

“Compose yourself, madam--tranquillise your feelings, I implore you!”
cried Lord William Trevelyan. “We must not give way to despair--we must
not harbour the dreadful thought that Sir Gilbert Heathcote has met
with foul play, and that he ceases to exist. No--no: let us hope----”

“Oh! my lord, how can we hope in the face of such strange--such
mysterious--such suspicious circumstances?” demanded the lady, with
mingled grief and bitterness. “Even if he did not choose to acquaint
his friends with his intended absence and its motives, he would not
be equally reserved towards me. No--he would have seen me ere his
departure--or he would at least have written. For you must now learn,
my lord, that we have loved each other for upwards of twenty years,”
she continued, in a low and plaintive tone. “For twenty years and more
have our hearts beat in unison;--and never--never was love so devoted
as ours! Alas! mine has been a strange and romantic life; and the
influence that has swayed all its incidents was that passion which the
worldly-minded treat so lightly. For my father was a worldly-minded
man; and, though he knew how fondly I loved and how ardently I was
beloved,--though I knelt before him and conjured him by all he held
most sacred, and by the spirit of my mother who died in my childhood,
not to sacrifice me to the object of _his_ choice, and tear me away
from the object of _mine_,--nevertheless, he ridiculed my prayers--he
made naught of my beseechings--and I was immolated upon the altar of a
parent’s sordid interest. Your lordship has perhaps already understood
that the _one_ whom I adored was Gilbert Heathcote. Never--never was
love’s tale told with more enchanting sweetness than by his lips:
never--never did woman cherish more devotedly than I that avowal of
a sincere passion! At that time his personal beauty was sufficient
to ensnare the heart of any maiden, though far less susceptible than
mine;--and I loved him--loved him madly. But a wealthy noble had seen
me; and my father beheld with joy the impression that I had been so
unfortunate as to make upon that patrician’s fancy. Moreover, at that
period, my sire was suffering cruel pecuniary embarrassments; and the
brilliant marriage which he hoped to accomplish for his daughter,
appeared the only means of extricating himself from his difficulties.
Thus the suit of the nobleman was encouraged by my father--and I was
induced by the menaces, the prayers, and the specious reasoning which
he employed by turns to move me,--I was induced, I say, to tolerate
the visits of the peer, although heaven knows I never could encourage
them. Not that his personal appearance was disagreeable--nor that I
paused to reflect that his age was more than double my own: no--for he
was handsome--very handsome; and, though his years were twice mine, yet
he was but in the prime of life. Wherefore, then, did I receive his
addresses with loathing?--wherefore did I implore my father to save
me from an alliance which was so desirable and so brilliant in every
worldly point of view? Oh! it was because my heart was irrevocably
given to another--because Gilbert Heathcote possessed all my love!”

The lady paused, and wiped away the tears which so many varied
reminiscences had wrung from her eyes,--while profound sobs convulsed
her bosom.

Lord William Trevelyan felt the embarrassment and awkwardness of his
position; for it was now past midnight--and he began to reflect that
his servants might look suspiciously upon the fact of this protracted
visit on the part of a lady who was still young enough, and certainly
handsome enough to afford food for scandalous tongues. Not that Lord
William was either a rigid saint or a stern anchorite in respect to
the female sex: but, although unmarried, he behaved with the utmost
circumspection, and would never have outraged decency so far as to
make his own abode the place of an intrigue or gallant _rendezvous_.
Moreover, the love which he entertained for Agnes Vernon had exercised
such a purifying--such a chastening influence upon his soul, that he
shrank from the idea of compromising himself by any real impropriety,
or of becoming compromised by means of any indiscretion which scandal
might think fit to attribute to him.

The lady was however too much absorbed in her own thoughts and emotions
to mark how rapidly time was slipping away, or to reflect upon the
imprudence of prolonging her visit. Her feelings were painfully
excited, not only by the fears which she entertained on account of the
absence of Sir Gilbert Heathcote--but likewise by the reminiscences
which had been stirred up in her soul, and the outpouring of which to
sympathetic ears seemed a necessary vent for a bosom so full of sorrow.

“Yes, my lord,” she resumed, after a short pause, her voice still being
characterised by a tone of the most touching melancholy; “my father
forced me into that hated marriage--and though I gained rank and a
proud position, yet hope and happiness appeared to have forsaken me
for ever. But I cannot tell you all,” she exclaimed, hastily, as if a
sudden thought had struck her, warning her that she was about to be led
by her feelings into revelations of a nature which she would repent, or
which would at least be unbecoming and injudicious.

“Madam,” said Lord William, emphatically,--“I do not seek your
confidence--I do not even desire it: but you have to do with a man of
honour, by whom everything you may impart, whether with premeditation
or unguardedly, will be held as sacred.”

“I thank your lordship for this kind assurance,” observed the
lady. “Do not imagine that I wish to force you into becoming the
depositary of my secrets, in order to establish a species of claim
upon your friendship. No--my lord: I am not selfish--neither am I an
intriguer,--only a most unhappy--a most unfortunate woman! But it
is because you have manifested some little interest in me--because
you have so generously promised to aid me in clearing up the mystery
which surrounds the sudden disappearance of one so dear to me,--it
is for these reasons, my lord, that I am anxious to explain so much
of the circumstances of my connexion with _him_, as will convince
you that nothing but the sincerest affection on my part could have
placed me in a position which the world generally would regard with
scorn. I have told your lordship how, loving Gilbert Heathcote, I was
forced into a most inauspicious marriage with another: but the name of
_that other_ I need not mention. My father saw, when it was too late,
that he had indeed sacrificed my happiness on the altar of his own
selfishness; and he died of remorse--of a broken heart! My husband--my
noble husband--was kind and generous towards me: but I could not love
him--and he knew it. Then he grew jealous--and other circumstances,”
she added, casting down her eyes and blushing deeply, “embittered our
lives. At length--or, I should rather say, at the expiration of a few
short years, I fled from him--fled from the husband who had been forced
upon me--and sought refuge with the object of my heart’s sole and
undivided affection. From that moment I have dwelt under the protection
of Sir Gilbert Heathcote,--dwelt in the strictest privacy--happy in the
possession of his love--a love which, as well as my own, has known no
diminution with the lapse of years. To one of your generous soul--of
your enlightened mind, my position may not appear so degrading--so
humiliating, as it would to one incapable of distinguishing between the
heart’s irresistible affection and a mere sensual depravity. Pardon me,
my lord, for having thus obtruded this slight, and, I fear, rambling
sketch, upon your notice: but I could not endure the conviction that I
must appear in your eyes to be nothing more nor less than the pensioned
mistress of your friend. The length of time that _his_ love for me has
endured, may be alone sufficient to persuade you that I am not to be
confounded amidst the common mass of female degradation and immorality.”

“Madam, I thank you for this explanation--and I comprehend all
the delicacy and peculiarity of your position,” said Lord William
Trevelyan, rising from his seat, the lady herself having set the
example--for it now struck her that she had remained until a very late
hour.

“You will pardon me, my lord,” she said, “for having thus occupied
so much of your time. But I know you to be one of Sir Gilbert’s best
friends--indeed, the one of whom he was principally accustomed to
speak, and whom he loved and relied upon the most. May I hope that you
will favour me with a communication, so soon as you shall have seen
Mr. James Heathcote? Although, in virtue of my marriage, I bear a proud
and a great name, yet for years and years have I been known only as
Mrs. Sefton--and by that appellation must I be known to you.”

The lady then mentioned her address in Kentish Town; and, extending her
hand to the young nobleman, renewed her thanks for the kindness which
he had shown her.

He offered to escort her to her home: but this she declined with a
firmness, at the same time in such delicate terms, as to convince
him that she would neither compromise herself, nor allow him to be
compromised by a courtesy which he could not well have refrained from
proposing, although he might not have been well pleased to carry it
into effect.

He promised to call upon her as soon as he had anything important to
communicate; and Mrs. Sefton then took her departure, Trevelyan ringing
the bell in order that the servant might attend her to the door, so
that there should be nothing clandestine nor stealthy in the appearance
of the visit.

When Trevelyan was once more alone, he threw himself in an arm-chair,
and gave way to his reflections--for the evening’s adventure had, in
all its details, furnished ample food for thought. In the first place,
there was the strange--the unaccountable disappearance of Sir Gilbert
Heathcote--a man to whom the young patrician was much attached, and
whose friendship he valued highly. Then, in spite of the remonstrances
which he had addressed to Mrs. Sefton, he found suspicions existing in
his mind relative to James Heathcote--suspicions of a nature which he
dared not attempt to define even in the secresy of his own soul; but
which nevertheless every moment grew stronger, vague though they were.
Next, he pondered upon the particulars of the slight autobiographical
sketch the lady had given him; and he dwelt with a yet unsubdued
surprise on the fact that his friend Sir Gilbert had maintained,
for so long a time and entirely unsuspected, a connexion that fully
accounted for his bachelor-life. Lastly, Trevelyan meditated upon the
course which he must adopt to discover the baronet’s fate, unless he
should speedily re-appear and relieve from their cruel suspense and
uncertainty those who were interested in him.

The young nobleman felt not the slightest inclination to retire to
rest, although it was now one o’clock in the morning. The adventures of
the evening had excited and unsettled him;--but having pondered on the
various topics above enumerated, his thoughts insensibly reverted to
his beloved Agnes.

Suddenly his eyes caught the portfolio that he had left upon the table;
and, opening it, he took forth the portrait of the Recluse of the
Cottage. But, ah! why did he start?--what did he see?

Rising from his chair, he held the picture in such a manner that the
light gave him a perfect view of it: and, sure enough--beyond all
possibility of mistake--there was a mark upon the dress,--a spot, as if
a drop of water--perhaps a tear--had fallen upon it.

What could this mean?--how could such an accident have happened?

Again and again he looked,--looked steadfastly--earnestly; and the
longer he gazed, the more convinced did he become that his eyes did not
deceive him--that he saw aright--and that the stain or the spot was
there!

Yet he had not noticed it when, after Mrs. Mortimer’s departure, and
previous to Mrs. Sefton’s arrival, he had so long and so ardently
contemplated that portrait. No: the mark was not there _then_; or
else he--the lover, devouring the entire portrait,--he, the artist,
scrutinising with satisfaction every minute detail of his own
drawing,--oh! yes--he could not have failed to observe the slightest
speck--the least, least spot that marred the general effect of that
pleasing delineation!

Was it possible, then, that Mrs. Sefton had inspected the portfolio?
Yes--such a supposition was natural enough. She was left alone in that
room for nearly two hours; and, in spite of her sorrow, the time must
have seemed so irksome to her as to induce her to have recourse to
any means to while it away, if not to divert her thoughts into a less
melancholy channel.

Yes--yes: he had divined the truth now, no doubt! At least such was
his idea;--and then the tear--oh! It was easily accounted for. She
was overwhelmed with grief at the mysterious and alarming absence of
the man whom she loved; and she was weeping while she turned over the
contents of the portfolio.

“Well--it is no matter,” thought Trevelyan, as he arrived at these
conclusions: “It would have been far worse had the tear fallen on the
face of the portrait,--for I might labour for hours--nay, for days,
without being enabled to catch and delineate so faithfully again
that sweet expression of countenance which Agnes wears, and which I
have succeeded in conveying to my paper. But the mark is upon the
dress--and a single touch with the brush will repair the injury. Alas!
poor woman,” he added, in his musings, and alluding to Mrs. Sefton,
“you have indeed enough to weep for, if you have lost all you love on
earth--and, even had you spoilt the portrait altogether, I would have
forgiven you!”

Trevelyan now returned the drawing to the portfolio, which he conveyed
to the little room adjoining; and then, retracing his way into the
parlour, he approached the mantel-piece to take the letter which he had
written to Agnes.

But he was astounded--stupified by the conviction which burst upon him
that the letter was gone!

Gone!--it might have dropped upon the floor--on the rug--in the fender?
No:--vainly did he search--uselessly did he pry into every nook and
corner he could think of;--the letter had disappeared!

He rang the bell furiously.

“Did any one enter this room during my absence just now, and while
that lady was here?” he demanded of the domestic, who responded to the
summons.

“No, my lord,” was the answer.

“You are certain?” said Trevelyan, with interrogative emphasis.

“I am positive, my lord,” replied the man; then, after a pause, he
observed, “I hope nothing unpleasant has occurred, my lord?”

“Yes--no--you may retire,” said the nobleman, abstractedly; and, when
the domestic had left the room, he threw himself into a chair, overcome
with amazement and grief at the mysterious circumstance that had
occurred.

[Illustration]

Could Mrs. Sefton have taken the letter? No: the idea was ridiculous.
She was too much absorbed in her own sorrows to have leisure for the
gratification of an idle and impertinent curiosity. Besides, was she
a common thief?--for, let a lady be possessed with ever so prying a
disposition, she would not carry her mania to such a point as to steal
a letter--a sealed letter--unless she were absolutely dishonest and
unprincipled. Surely this could not be the character of the woman whom
he had seen in such deep affliction that evening,--a woman who was
assuredly what she had represented herself to be, and whose appearance,
manners, and language all forbade the idea that she was an abandoned
wretch.

“No--I wrong her by entertaining such an injurious suspicion even for
an instant!” thought Lord William, when those reflections had passed
through his brain. “It is impossible that this afflicted lady can have
taken my letter. Besides, had she done so, would she have waited until
my return? And again, of what use--of what benefit could the letter be
to her?”

He glanced around, and beheld several articles of value lying about
in their accustomed places. He had gone out in such a hurry that he
had left a purse containing gold upon the mantel--and, remembering the
precise amount, he reckoned it and found it to be correct. Lying upon
the table was a splendid gold seal, which he had used in closing the
letter that was now missed:--in fine, there were numerous objects,
either costly or curious, which an ill-disposed person might have
self-appropriated, but all of which had been left untouched.

How, then, was it possible to suppose that Mrs. Sefton had purloined
the letter?

Nevertheless, it had disappeared; and therefore some one must have
taken it?--or else some accident must have happened whereby it was lost?

Trevelyan racked his brain to discover whether it was possible that he
himself had removed it from the mantel after he had placed it there:
but he felt assured that during the interval which elapsed between
the writing of that letter and the arrival of Mrs. Sefton, he had not
quitted the apartment.

The affair was most mysterious: nay--it was also alarming;--for how
could he possibly account for the disappearance of a sealed letter? If
it had indeed been taken by an ill-disposed person, the contents might
be made known--perhaps to the prejudice of his suit with Agnes. But he
was assured that no one had entered the room during his absence;--and
he was so reluctant to fix the deed on Mrs. Sefton, and had so many
reasons against such a supposition, that he became equally confident
she was in no way connected with the strange occurrence.

At length he reasoned himself into the belief that he must have
deposited the letter in some place which he could not recollect; and,
as he had in the first instance made a rough draught, he resolved to
write a fair copy all over again. This was soon accomplished; and,
having sealed and addressed it, he took the new letter with him to his
own bed-chamber, so that he might retain it in security until Mrs.
Mortimer should call for it in the morning.

It was past two o’clock when Lord William retired to rest; but, though
much fatigued, he could not immediately close his eyes in slumber. The
affair of the letter haunted him--filled him with vague and undefined
misgivings--and assumed an aspect the more mysterious, the longer he
contemplated it. He endeavoured to persuade himself that the belief to
which he had ere now temporarily lulled his mind was the real solution
of the theory: but then would come the evidence of memory, proclaiming
that he _had_ placed the letter on the mantel in the parlour, and that
he had _not_ touched it afterwards.

In fine, he was bewildered amidst a variety of conflicting
thoughts--and his brain grew wearied with the agitation which their
jarring contention produced,--so that at length sleep stole upon him
insensibly: but though it sealed his eyes in slumber, it did not
protect him against the troubled dreams that visited his pillow.

At about nine o’clock in the morning he was awakened by the entrance of
his valet, who came to inform him that Mrs. Mortimer had called for a
letter which was to be in readiness for her.

Trevelyan started up and glanced anxiously towards the night-table,
almost dreading lest that second _billet_ should have disappeared as
well as the first:--but it was there in safety--and he now desired his
dependant to deliver it to Mrs. Mortimer.




CHAPTER CLXVII.

THE LAWYER.


Mr. James Heathcote, the attorney, was seated at a writing-table
covered with papers, in his private office. He was wrapped in a loose
dressing-gown, and his feet were thrust into large buff slippers. His
grey hair was uncombed and his beard unshaven that morning; and his
shirt was none of the cleanest. Indeed, his appearance denoted that, on
awakening, he had risen hastily, thrown on a few clothes, and repaired
straight to his office, where he immediately became absorbed in the
study of certain documents in which he was deeply interested.

The countenance of this individual was by no means pleasing. A
malignant light shone in his small, restless, dark eyes; and he had
a habit, when vexed or irritated, of frowning--or rather contracting
his brow to such a degree, that he brought them as it were to cover
his very eye-lids: but, if pleased--especially when he had solved a
difficult question or was struck by an idea that seemed particularly
lucid or valuable--he would then elevate his brows to such a height
that the movement displayed the whites all round his eyes, while the
upper part of his forehead gathered into innumerable small wrinkles.

A superficial observer would have pronounced the expression of his
pale features to be intellectual: but a more experienced phrenologist
would be enabled to draw the proper distinction between an air of noble
intelligence and one of profound cunning, shrewdness, and selfish
watchfulness. These latter qualities were the real characteristics of
James Heathcote: but with his clerks, and amongst the generality of his
clients, he passed as a man of very fine intellect and great talents.

The room in which he was seated had what is usually called “a
business-like air” about it. The grey drugget that covered the
door would have sustained no harm from a vigorous application of a
carpet-broom; and the window, which looked into a little yard at the
back of the house, might have lost much of its dinginess if only
cleaned once a week. But the panes appeared as if they had been
purposely tinged a dirty yellow, so incrusted were they with the dust
that had gathered upon them.

On one side of the room were rows of shelves containing a number of
law-books, the relative ages of which were marked by the colour of the
leather binding--there being a perfect ascending scale, from the bright
buff, indicating the most recent purchase, to the deepest, dirtiest
brown that characterised the long-standing and well-thumbed volume of
remote date. Along the edges of these shelves were nailed long slips of
dark-green serge--a meagre kind of drapery meant to protect the upper
part of the volumes from the dust, and impart to the whole arrangement
somewhat of the air of a regular book-case.

On another side of the room were rows of shelves much deeper and
also much wider apart; and on these were huge japanned tin boxes,
with names painted on them in yellow letters. To every box there was
a little padlock; and the whole seemed to tell of title-deeds to
vast estates--and mortgages--and bonds--and charges--and rent-rolls,
contained in those sombre-looking repositories. But, alas! how few of
the persons whose names were still recorded on the outside of those
boxes, had any longer an interest in the deeds preserved within: how
many had lodged their parchments in those usurious chests, never to
recover them!

Over the mantel-piece was a portrait of Lord Eldon--a lawyer whom
thousands and thousands were doomed to curse, but whom the “profession”
still continues to cry up as the greatest of modern judges. Yes--for if
clients complain of the law’s delays, the lawyers themselves rejoice;
and he who is an execrable judge in respect to the former, is an
admirable one in the eyes of the latter.

Stuck into the frame of that portrait was an infinite number of
visitors’ cards, all covered with dust, as if that assemblage of
bits of pasteboard were something sacred which the profane hand of a
housemaid or charwoman dared not touch. On the mantel itself was an
old time-piece, the mechanism of which was exposed; and how the wheels
could move at all, clogged with dust as they were, must have appeared
marvellous to any one who, entering that room, gave himself the trouble
to devote a thought to the matter.

We have already stated that the table was covered with papers. Along
that side opposite to the one at which the lawyer sate, were piles of
those documents, all tied up in the usual fashion with tape that once
was red, but which was now so faded that in many instances it was of
a dirty white. They seemed to have been undisturbed for a long, long
time; and perhaps were kept for show. Those papers that referred to
matters actually pending, were placed more conveniently within the
attorney’s reach, and were fresher in appearance, the tape also being
of a livelier red. Three or four files, two feet long, and covered
with letters densely packed one above another, lay upon the drugget;
and near the lawyer’s feet was a waste-basket overflowing with letters
crumpled up, and looking uncommonly like appeals for mercy and delay on
the part of unfortunate debtors, but which had been tossed with cool
contempt into that receptacle for all such useless applications!

It was now ten o’clock in the morning; and Mr. James Heathcote was,
as we have represented, completely absorbed in the study of the
documents that lay spread before him upon the table. A thin, yellow
hand supported his head; and every now and then he ran his long fingers
through his iron-grey hair, as if that action aided him in the solution
of a difficult subject.

Presently a low and timid knock at the door fell on the lawyer’s ears;
and he said “Come in” without raising his head or desisting from his
occupation.

Thereupon a middle-aged man, dressed in a suit of rusty black--his
office garb--made his appearance, holding in his hand a long thin book
which was the diary of the business-proceedings of the establishment.
This individual had a pale, sinister countenance, with brown hair
combed sleekly down over his low forehead. He was, however, an
important personage in many respects--being Mr. Heathcote’s head clerk,
and exercising despotic sway over half-a-dozen subordinates in the
front office. With them and towards poor clients or unfortunate debtors
he was cold--stern--harsh--and inexorable; but in the presence of his
employer he was cringing--mean--sycophantic--and spaniel-like.

Advancing slowly and with noiseless steps--or rather creeping up
towards the table, he stood in a respectful attitude--no, with a
servile demeanour and in deep silence until it should please his master
to take notice of him.

“Well, Green--what have you to say to me this morning?” at length
demanded Mr. Heathcote, raising his head and throwing himself back in
his capacious arm-chair.

“Gregson the upholsterer, sir, cannot meet the third instalment due
this day on his warrant-of-attorney for eight hundred pounds,” said Mr.
Green, referring to the diary; “but he called just now and told me that
if you would give him till next Monday----”

“Not an hour, Green,” interrupted Mr. Heathcote, imperiously. “Let
execution issue. He has enough property to satisfy the greater
portion--and, as his brother-in-law is his security, we shall slap at
him without delay for the residue. He is a toiling, striving man, and
will beat up amongst his friends to raise the necessary amount by the
time we have run him up some twenty pounds’ costs. What is the next?”

“Sir Thomas Skeffington’s bill for five hundred pounds comes due
to-day, sir,” continued the head clerk; “and he proposes to renew it.”

“Let me see?” mused Mr. Heathcote. “It was originally two hundred
pounds that I lent this young spendthrift baronet; and he has already
renewed six times. Well--let him give another bill--for five hundred
and fifty, mind--don’t forget to tack on the fifty, Green. His uncle
will pay the debt eventually--it is all safe. Go on.”

“Thompson, sir, the defendant in Jones’s case, has let judgment go
by default,” continued Mr. Green: “he says that he would do anything
rather than run up expenses; and he has been here this morning to beg
and implore that time may be granted. His wife has just been confined,
and his eldest child is at the point of death. The debt is a hundred
and eleven pounds with costs--and he proposes to pay it at five pounds
a week.”

“No such thing!” exclaimed Mr. Heathcote, almost savagely. “Let him go
to prison! He will be writing imploring letters, and his father-in-law
will call to make terms. Those letters and visits, Green, will be
another six or seven pounds in my pocket: and _then_ we will let him
out on his warrant-of-attorney to pay the five pounds a-week. It is
always better to send a man in his case to prison first, although you
mean all the time to accede to his proposal in the long run. He is an
industrious, enterprising fellow--and his father-in-law is a highly
respectable man. So he will not knock up for this little affair. Go on.”

“Beale’s wife called last evening, sir,” resumed Mr. Green, “and
says that her husband is lying in a sad state in the infirmary at
Whitecross-street prison. She and her children are starving--and she
begs you for the love of God to let her husband out. It is their only
chance; and he will pay you when he can.”

“When he can!” exclaimed Mr. Heathcote, in bitter contempt. “And that
will be _never_. I am surprised, Mr. Green, that you should have
bothered me with such a trifle, instead of telling the woman at once
that her husband may rot in gaol until he pays me every farthing.”

“I should not have thought of troubling you, sir, in the matter,”
observed the clerk, in a tone of servile contrition; “only the woman
did seem so very, very miserable--and she cried so bitterly--and she
had a young child that looked half-famished in her arms----”

“And you pitied her, I suppose?” interrupted Mr. Heathcote, in a tone
of cool irony. “You have been in my service for twelve years to some
purpose.”

“Pray forgive me, sir: but--but--I happen to know that Beale’s wife and
family are really starving,” said the clerk, whose heart was a trifle
less hardened than that of his master.

“Let them starve!” rejoined the latter, with an air of brutal
indifference. “Now, what have you next upon your list?”

“William Fox, the ironmonger, sir, has called a meeting of his
creditors,” resumed Mr. Green, now regretting that he should have
allowed himself to be carried away by a scintillation of humane feeling
so far as to merit a rebuke at Mr. Heathcote’s hands.

“Well--I know that,” observed the lawyer. “But _I_ never attend
meetings of creditors--_I_ never accept compositions, Mr. Green. But
has the fellow been here? and what does he say?”

“It appears, sir, that he laid a full and complete account of his
affairs before his creditors,” continued the clerk; “and that they
were well satisfied with the statement. He showed them that his
embarrassments arose from no fault of his own, but simply from the
failure of a large house in Birmingham.”

“And what did he offer?” demanded Mr. Heathcote.

“He asked for two years to pay off all his liabilities,” was the
answer. “He did not propose a composition, but will settle everything
in full. His brother has offered to become security for him.”

“Well, he must pay me at once--within twenty-four hours--or I shall
sign judgment, Green,” exclaimed the lawyer. “Or stop--it will be
better to sign judgment at once, and issue execution. I shall then,
get my money directly--and his other creditors may wait the two years.
If he calls again to-day, tell him that I am out--and mind and have a
seizure in his house by the evening.”

“It shall be done, sir,” said the head clerk: then, again referring
to the diary, he proceeded thus:--“You remember that affair of
Williamson, sir? He called and left seventy-two pounds the other
evening to take up his bill, which had been sent back; and as you were
out at the time, he could not have the bill delivered over to him. I
offered him a receipt for the money: but he left it without taking any
acknowledgment--saying, ‘_Oh! I can trust to your honour_,’--or words
to that effect. Well, sir, he has called two or three times since for
the bill----”

“Do the other clerks know that he paid the money?” demanded Mr.
Heathcote, fixing his keen eyes significantly upon Green.

“No, sir,” was the answer, accompanied by a look of intelligence
showing that the man comprehended his master’s meaning. “They were all
gone--and I was just on the point of leaving likewise when Williamson
called.”

“Then issue a writ this very day for the recovery of the amount,” said
the lawyer. “Of course, Green, you will know nothing at all about
having received the money from him?”

“Of course not, sir,” replied the clerk.

“And should he go to trial, you will swear that he never paid you?”
continued the lawyer, speaking with the imperious authority of a man
who knew that the other was in his power.

“It would not be the first time, sir, that I have perjured----”

“Well--well!” cried Mr. Heathcote, hastily; for though he did not mind
suborning his clerk to commit a crime, yet he did not like to have the
deed designated in plain terms and exhibited to his eyes in all its
dreadful nakedness and reality. “Let this be done, Green: and take a
guinea for yourself--charging it in the office-expenses of the week.
You are a faithful servant--and I am pleased with you,” he added, in a
patronising manner.

“I am truly grateful, sir, for your kindness and for your good
opinion,” said the clerk, with a low bow: but at the same time he
was compelled to stifle the sigh that rose to his very lips at the
idea of being so dependent upon his master, and so enthralled by
circumstances as to be compelled to submit to be made the tool--the
base instrument--the despicable agent of that master’s hidden villany.

“Have you anything more in the diary?” demanded Mr. Heathcote.

“Nothing, sir,” responded the clerk: “unless it be that the two doctors
are to call to-day for the second halves of the reward promised them
for signing the certificate.”

“Good! pay them each immediately, the affair having been attended with
complete success,” said the lawyer: “and indeed, you may give them each
five guineas beyond the sum originally promised.”

“It shall be done, sir,” returned Mr. Green. “Have you any farther
commands?”

“I am at a loss how to proceed with respect to that woman,” said Mr.
Heathcote, his brows lowering in token of vexation, while at the same
time he ran his skinny fingers through his wiry hair.

“You mean Mrs. Sefton, sir?” said the clerk.

“Mrs. Sefton--as she calls herself,” observed Mr. Heathcote, with a
grim smile. “Ah! little thought Gilbert,” he continued in a musing,
but also triumphant tone, “that for years past I have known all
and everything connected with him! Little did he imagine that his
_liaison_--his amour with that lady was no secret to me, secure and
safe as he deemed it to be from all the world! But what am I do with
regard to her, Green?” he demanded, as he abruptly turned towards the
clerk, who stood like a menial in his presence.

“Your wisdom, sir, can doubtless suggest some plan,” was the
sycophantic reply. “Do you imagine that she is likely to be dangerous?”

“She loves my brother, Green,” answered the lawyer: “she entertains for
him that passion which never has warmed my breast--and never shall,”
he continued, in a contemptuous tone. “Oh! how I hate the very name
of love! It is a sickly sentimentalism--a maudlin feeling, which is
derogatory to the character of a man of the world, but which makes a
woman dangerous indeed, when the object of her passion is outraged
or wronged. Yes, Green--I do fear this Mrs. Sefton, as we will call
her--since thus she chooses to denominate herself: I do consider her
to be dangerous--and I know that she is of an intrepid, resolute
character. She will leave no stone unturned to have what she will call
_justice_ done towards my brother; and by some means must I take from
her the power of doing me an injury.”

“And those means, sir?” asked the clerk, timidly.

“I have thought of many plans, Green,” replied Mr. Heathcote: “but
not one appears to be sufficiently decisive to meet the exigencies of
the case. Could I only get her out of the country, or else have her
locked up in some place of security, for a few weeks, I should in that
interval have all my schemes so effectually carried out, as to be able
to defy not only that woman, but likewise all the world.”

“And is it so very difficult, sir, to encompass one or the other of the
two aims you have mentioned?” inquired Green.

“On what pretence can I imprison her?” demanded Mr. Heathcote,
impatiently. “But I _might_ be able to induce her to quit the country,”
he added, in a more measured tone, and with a steadfast look at his
clerk--a look which seemed to say, “Can I trust you?”

“Is there any way, sir, wherein my humble services will avail?” asked
the man, thoroughly understanding the intent of that look.

“Yes--on you must I rely in this matter,” said the lawyer, after a
few minutes’ deep cogitation. “Mr. Green,” continued Heathcote, again
fixing on him his small, malignant, soul-reading eyes, “you will
excuse me for a moment if I recall the past to your recollection----”

“But why, sir--why!” exclaimed the clerk, his pale face suddenly
becoming paler still and his limbs trembling convulsively.

“Because I choose,” returned his master, brutally: “because it suits my
present purpose to remind you how much you are in my power.”

The wretched clerk moaned audibly, but uttered not another word.

“Twelve years ago, Mr. Green,” resumed Heathcote, with deep emphasis
and in a measured tone, as if he were determined that not a syllable
which he intended to say should be lost on the unhappy man who was
thus undergoing a painful--agonising infliction,--“twelve years ago,
Mr. Green, you were an attorney in practice for yourself. An accident,
the particulars of which it is not necessary for me to recite, made me
acquainted with a fact which placed you entirely at my mercy. You and
a gentleman named Clarence Villiers had been left the joint guardians
of a boy then a little more than eight years old; and a thousand
pounds were invested in the funds in the name of yourself and the said
Clarence Villiers. It had been agreed that you should be the acting
trustee. You wanted money--you forged the name of Clarence Villiers to
the necessary deed--and you sold out the thousand pounds.”

The miserable clerk groaned again, more audibly than before: but his
master heeded not the intense agony his words inflicted.

“Yes--you sold out the money, and appropriated it to your
purposes,” continued the remorseless attorney. “The fact came to my
knowledge,--and I offered to save you, on condition that you should
serve me--that you should devote yourself to me, body and soul--that
you should see only with my eyes, hear only with my ears, and use
your hands and your intellectual powers as I directed. I required a
person of this description: I was looking out for such an one at the
moment when accident thus placed you in my power. We soon came to
terms. You gave up a business that was not worth retaining--and you
became my head clerk. I have paid you two guineas a week with the most
scrupulous regularity--and I have often made you little presents, as
even this very morning have I done. But what more have I been generous
enough to do for you? Why--I have regularly paid the interest of the
thousand pounds for you, as if it were still in the Bank of England;
and your ward suspects not that his capital is gone. Neither does your
co-trustee Clarence Villiers suspect it, Mr. Green,” added Heathcote,
emphatically. “But in six weeks’ time, the youth will have completed
his twenty-first year; and he will apply to Mr. Villiers and yourself
for his thousand pounds. Mr. Villiers will ask to accompany you to
the Bank to make over the money in due form--for Mr. Villiers is an
honourable man. But the money will not be there--unless I replace it
for you, and thus save you from transportation for life!”

“And you have promised that you will replace it, kind sir--you have
undertaken to save me from exposure, degradation, and punishment!”
exclaimed the clerk, his voice and manner becoming almost wild in the
earnestness of their appeal.

“Yes--and I will keep my word, Green,” responded Heathcote. “If I have
now recapitulated circumstances which are necessarily so indelibly
stamped upon your memory, it was merely to convince you that I have
it in my power to save you from a terrible fate--or to crush you as
I would a viper beneath my heel. We shall not be the worse friends
because we understand our relative positions; and mark me--never, never
would I place myself in the power of a man unless he were ten thousand
times more entangled in my meshes than I could possibly be in his.”

“Surely--surely, sir, you do not suspect my fidelity?” said the clerk,
the workings of whose pale countenance were dreadful to behold;
“surely you do not think that I should be ungrateful or mad enough to
breathe a word to your prejudice? If you have done much for me, sir,
I have served you faithfully; and this I can assert without fear of
contradiction. I am ever at your disposal--ever in readiness to obey
your commands, without questioning their propriety.”

“All this I know, my friend,” said Heathcote, his brows now elevating
themselves with triumph; for he saw that the trembling wretch before
him was docile, pliant, and obedient as a deaf and dumb slave following
the signals made by an oriental despot: “all this I know,” repeated
the lawyer;--“but there is no harm in occasionally setting forth the
grounds on which our connexion is based. This being accomplished in the
present instance, we may at once revert to the business that we have
now in hand.”

“Relative to Mrs. Sefton, sir?” remarked Green, anxious to convince his
master that he was mindful of the grave and important interests now
involved in connexion with that lady’s name.

“Yes--relative to Mrs. Sefton,” said Heathcote. “I have already
observed that there are only two ways of dealing with her: either to
lock her up in a place of security for a time, or to get her out of the
country. The latter alternative must be adopted; and it is for you to
play a part which, if ingeniously enacted, cannot fail of success.”

Mr. Green placed himself in an attitude of deep attention--for all this
while, as the reader will observe, he had remained standing, his master
never desiring him to be seated, however long their conference might
last.

“The impatience of this Mrs. Sefton is doubtless growing intolerable,”
continued the lawyer: “a week has now passed since Sir Gilbert
disappeared--and she will speedily initiate active measures to
discover what has become of him. There is not therefore another moment
to lose;--and her own affection shall be made the means of which
we will avail ourselves in order to baffle and defeat her. Do you
repair at once to Kentish Town and seek an interview with her. She
does not know you--she never saw you: she will suspect nothing--but
believe everything. You will tell her that you have just arrived from
Liverpool--that you are an intimate friend of Sir Gilbert--and that
he has embarked for America, in consequence of serious pecuniary
embarrassments. You must assure her that those embarrassments came on
him so suddenly, menacing his person with arrest--and that he was so
bewildered and excited by the danger and disgrace which thus threatened
him, that he fled without having time to communicate even with her.
You will then go on to say that he sent you up to London to break
these news to her--to supply her with money--and to implore her to
hasten after Sir Gilbert, whom she will join at New York. All this must
you tell her;--and if you play your part properly, it is, as I have
already observed, certain to experience success.”

“You may rely upon me, sir,” said the clerk.

“All your presence of mind--all your readiness of invention--all your
impudence, will be requisite in the matter,” continued Heathcote: “for
Mrs. Sefton is an intelligent woman--and the least hesitation in giving
a reply to any of her questions, will assuredly awaken her suspicions,
and spoil all. But if you be wary and cautious, you must come off
triumphant. Believing that her connexion with Sir Gilbert is a profound
secret, she will at once receive you as a friend of her lover’s, from
the mere fact of your knowledge of their _liaison_: because she will
suppose that you could not have become aware of it, unless he had
in reality made you his confident. Then, again, the circumstance of
your being the bearer of fifty guineas--which I will presently give
you--as the means to defray the expenses of her voyage to New York,
will confirm all you have stated and give a complete colouring to all
your representations. Do you thoroughly understand me, Green?--and do
you consider yourself competent to undertake this mission?--for I can
assure you that it is of the highest importance for me to remove that
dangerous woman from England for a few weeks.”

“I do not hesitate to charge myself with the enterprise, sir,” said
Green, meekly,--“delicate though its management may be;--and, should it
fail, it will be through no fault on my part.”

“Then it will _not_ fail, sir!” cried Mr. Heathcote, emphatically. “And
now I will give you the money necessary for your purpose--and you must
accompany the lady to Liverpool, remember. If a packet be not about to
start immediately, then lodge her at an hotel, alleging that you are an
unmarried man as an apology for not inviting her to stay at your own
house until her departure. You can put up at another hotel. But all
these minor details I leave to your judgment and discretion.”

Mr. Heathcote now placed a quantity of notes and some gold in the hands
of his clerk, who forthwith took leave of his wily master: ere he
departed, however, he stopped in the outer office to issue instructions
relative to the various matters entered in the diary. At length he
was ready to issue forth on the mission entrusted to him; but at that
moment a cab stopped at the door, and a tall, handsome, well-dressed
gentleman alighted.

Entering the clerk’s office, the visitor inquired if Mr. Heathcote was
at home.

“What name shall I say, sir?” asked Green.

“That is of no consequence,” was the hasty reply: “my business is of
great importance.”

“Walk in, then, if you please, sir,” said Green: and, having shown the
visitor into the lawyer’s private apartment, the head clerk was at
length enabled to hurry away to his own lodgings, in order to make some
change in his toilette ere he proceeded to Kentish Town.




CHAPTER CLXVIII.

THE NOBLEMAN AND THE LAWYER.

On entering into the presence of Mr. Heathcote, the handsome visitor
tendered his card; and the moment the lawyer cast his eyes upon it,
a cloud passed hastily over his countenance--for he knew that Lord
William Trevelyan, whose name appeared on that card, was an intimate
friend of Sir Gilbert. He however composed himself in an instant, and,
pointing to a chair, said, “Be seated, my lord.”

The young nobleman accepted the invitation, and then observed, “I have
to apologise for intruding myself upon you----”

“Not if you come on matters of business, my lord,” interrupted the
lawyer, in a tone which was intended to imply that his time was
nevertheless very precious.

“I fear that you will scarcely consider my visit to be connected
with business in the sense you would have me infer,” said Trevelyan,
courteously: “at the same time, you will give me credit for the best
intentions----”

“Pray, my lord, come to the point,” exclaimed Heathcote, impatiently.
“I have a vast amount of work upon my hands--several appointments to
keep--and my toilette not yet performed.”

“In one word, sir,” said Trevelyan, “may I inquire if you have received
any tidings concerning your brother, who is a dear and valued friend of
mine?”

“I have heard that my brother is absent, my lord,” answered Heathcote,
coldly: “but I have no control over his movements--and he is not in the
habit of consulting me respecting his actions.”

“At the same time, sir----”

“Pardon me, my lord: I have answered you--and I have not a moment to
spare.”

“But as your brother’s friend, sir--his intimate friend----”

“I do not know you, my lord: neither do I trouble myself with my
brother’s friendships.”

These last words were uttered so rudely--almost brutally, that the
young nobleman’s countenance became the colour of scarlet, and he
felt that were the lawyer a man less advanced in years, he would have
knocked him down for his insolence.

“I am aware, sir,” he said, subduing his indignation as well as he
was able, “that I have no claim upon your courtesy, beyond that which
social conventions establish: but I regret to find that you should
think it necessary to treat with such extreme incivility a person who
has never offended you.”

“Then wherefore does your lordship force yourself into my presence,
and persist in remaining here, when I tell you that I am occupied with
serious matters?” demanded the lawyer, rising from his seat, while his
brows were bent in such a way as to render his countenance particularly
displeasing and sinister at that moment.

“Serious matters, indeed!” ejaculated Lord William, also rising; “is it
not a serious matter that your brother--your own brother--has suddenly
disappeared----”

“I have already told your lordship that I have no control over the
actions of Sir Gilbert Heathcote,” said the lawyer; “and I am not to
be forced into a discussion on any subject with one who is a complete
stranger to me.”

“I repeat, sir, that I am your brother’s intimate friend,” cried the
young patrician, indignantly.

“But I repeat, on my side, that you are no friend of mine--nor likely
to be,” responded Heathcote. “Will your lordship, therefore, leave me
to those pursuits which have better claims upon my time and attention?”

“Better claims! And yet you must surely have some of the ordinary
feelings of human nature,” urged the nobleman, in a tone of mingled
remonstrance and earnest appeal. “One word more, if you please, sir,”
he continued, seeing that Heathcote was again about to interrupt him:
“this matter is becoming serious! For eight days has your brother been
missed from his place of abode and from the circle of his friends:
an investigation into so mysterious an occurrence must necessarily
take place--and without delay, too. What will the world think of you,
sir--_you_, the nearest living relative of one who may perhaps be no
more--if you refuse your co-operation in this endeavour to ascertain
what has become of him? I will even go farther, sir, and declare that a
certain degree of odium will attach itself to you----”

“Young man, by what right do you thus insult me?” demanded the lawyer,
completely unabashed, and measuring Lord William Trevelyan from head to
foot with his keen, searching eyes. “Do you for a single instant dare
to assert that if my brother should have met with foul play--as your
words just now implied such a suspicion,--do you dare to assert, I ask,
that the world would couple the slightest imputation with my good name?
Though not of an aristocratic rank, my social position is an honourable
one; and such as it is, my own talents--my own energies--my own hard
toils, have made it. But because I can see nothing extraordinary in the
absence of a man who has no domestic ties to bind him to one place,
and who, acting upon a sudden caprice or fancy, may choose to depart
from the metropolis, perhaps,--because I behold nothing remarkable in
all this, am I to be reproached, vituperated, and even insulted by
you, who adopt another view of the matter? Why, my lord, you are far
more intimate with Sir Gilbert Heathcote than I, even though he is my
brother;--and what would you say, were I to repair to your house--force
myself into your presence--refuse to leave when solicited--and actually
level the most injurious language, amounting almost to positive
imputations, at your head? I appeal to your good sense, if you possess
any, to consider the impropriety of your conduct here this morning, and
to take your departure at once, before you irritate me more deeply than
you have already done.”

“I have listened, sir, with respectful attention to all you have said,”
returned Lord William Trevelyan; “and I declare emphatically that I am
not satisfied with your reasoning. I impute nothing to you--because
I know not what suspicions to entertain in the case. I frankly
confess that I am bewildered, not only by the fact of my friend’s
unaccountable disappearance, but also by the manner in which you treat
that circumstance. You declare that you cannot bring yourself to look
seriously on this disappearance: surely it ought to alarm you, when I,
who am so well acquainted with your brother, solemnly aver that I have
particular reasons for knowing that he would _not_ leave the metropolis
in obedience to any sudden fancy or whim, without previously making a
communication in a certain quarter.”

“To you, I presume?” said Heathcote, fixing his eyes searchingly upon
the patrician.

“No--not to myself,” was the reply: “but to another.”

“And that other?” observed the lawyer interrogatively: for he now began
to fear that Trevelyan alluded to Mrs. Sefton, in which case he might
repair straight to her abode after quitting that office--he might
there meet the clerk whom he had seen on his arrival just now--and he
might mar the entire scheme that had been concocted for the purpose of
inducing the lady to leave England.

“Unless you yourself are acquainted with _that other person_ to whom I
alluded--or at least have some knowledge to whom I could so allude--I
am not at liberty to make any revelations,” observed Lord William.

“Oh! this is admirable!” ejaculated the lawyer, reseating himself and
appearing no longer in a hurry to break off the conference: for he now
perceived the necessity of detaining the nobleman as long as possible,
so as to afford Green ample time to carry the deeply-concocted scheme
into effect.

“You are pleased to be jocular at something, sir,” said Trevelyan,
biting his lip with vexation at an insolence which he could not
chastise: and leaning against the mantel-piece, he surveyed the
attorney with mingled anger and aversion.

“Yes--I am jocular,” exclaimed the latter; “and I again declare that
your conduct is admirable! You come to me to aid you in investigating
what you are pleased to denominate a most mysterious occurrence; and,
by way of inducing me thus to co-operate, you yourself start fresh
mysteries, and make enigmatic allusions to unintelligible matters,
concerning which you refuse to enter into any explanations.”

“There may be certain circumstances, sir, which a man of honour dares
not reveal,” said Lord William, sternly; “and such is the case in the
present instance.”

“You have therefore a positive proof that Sir Gilbert’s friends were
more in his confidence than his own brother,” replied the lawyer, in a
sarcastic tone; “and this is tantamount to what I told you just now.”

“Yes, sir--but the circumstances to which I allude have no reference
to the mysterious disappearance of Sir Gilbert Heathcote,” rejoined
Trevelyan; “nor do they in any way relieve you from your responsibility
as a brother.”

“But, since you yourself are acquainted with some mysterious and
unmentionable circumstances connected with my brother,” said the
lawyer, still in a tone of bitter sarcasm, “I have much more reason to
accuse you of possessing a clue to the causes of his disappearance,
than you have to level the same charge at me. Now, from your words--for
I am a man of the world, my lord--I naturally infer that the _other
person_ to whom you so emphatically alluded, must be a lady----”

“I did not say so, sir--I gave you no reason for entertaining such an
opinion,” exclaimed Trevelyan fearful of now compromising a matter of
great delicacy.

“But I choose to think so,” said the lawyer, elevating his brows to an
extraordinary degree, while a malignant light gleamed in his restless
eyes: “and is it strange--is it unusual in the world, for a man to
absent himself suddenly and even mysteriously, in order to break off a
connexion of which he is wearied, and which no longer has any charms
for him?”

“One word, sir,” interjected Trevelyan, annoyed with himself for having
made any allusion to his friend’s connexion with Mrs. Sefton: “your
brother has undertaken no sudden journey--of _that_ I am well assured.
Would he quit his residence without leaving even a message behind him?
Would he depart without even so much as a change of raiment--without
the necessaries of the toilette?”

“Pooh! pooh!” ejaculated the lawyer, now throwing an expression of
sovereign contempt into his tone. “A man with money can purchase a
carpetbag or a portmanteau at the first town he stops at, and can stock
it well, too, with linen and hairbrushes for a few shillings. Really,
my lord, you compel me to treat you as an inexperienced child, who,
having got some wild or romantic notion into his head, is determined to
maintain it by any argument, no matter how preposterous or far-fetched.”

Trevelyan bit his lip again: for he saw that the lawyer had really the
advantage of him now; and he more than ever blamed his own indiscretion
in having alluded to the affair of Mrs. Sefton.

“Come, my lord, be reasonable,” proceeded Heathcote, in a conciliatory
tone; “and I will pardon you the rudeness--or I will rather call it
the _brusquerie_, of your first proceedings with regard to me. You
cannot deny that there is a lady in the case: I am far-sighted enough
to have made that discovery. Well, my brother is tired of her, or has
quarrelled with her--or something of that sort; and he has therefore
taken a sudden trip, heaven only knows where. Do you really imagine
that if I had any serious fears, I would refuse to co-operate with you
in instituting the necessary inquiries? Depend upon it, Sir Gilbert
will re-appear again shortly amongst his friends; and he would not
be over-well pleased if he found on his return, or if the newspapers
wafted to him the fact, that a terrible hubbub had taken place in
consequence of his sudden departure. I am a much older man than you, my
lord,--and I look at these matters more calmly--more deliberately.”

Trevelyan knew not how to reply to these observations. Though they did
not dissipate the alarm which he experienced at the absence of Sir
Gilbert, yet he began to think that the lawyer was really sincere in
giving utterance to them. He, on one side, was disposed to view the
affair seriously: Heathcote, on the other, put his own interpretation
on it;--and, in the same way that Trevelyan could not resist the
impressions made upon himself, he felt bound to allow the merit of
equal conscientiousness on the part of the attorney.

At all events, there was no utility in protracting the discourse; and
the young nobleman accordingly resolved to take his leave, suspending
for the present any opinion relative to the conduct of Mr. James
Heathcote.

“I am sorry, sir,” said he, “that I should have intruded so long upon
your valuable time: I am likewise sorry if, at the commencement of our
interview, I should have been hurried by the excitement of my feelings
into anything uncourteous or rude.”

“Now that you speak in the manner that best becomes a nobleman and
a gentleman,” observed Heathcote, adopting the part of one who has
something to forgive and overlook, “I am most anxious to welcome you as
my brother’s friend. Will you step up into the drawing-room, and honour
my humble abode so far as to partake of such refreshment as at the
moment I can offer you?”

This proposal was only made with a view to gain as much time as
possible: for the lawyer in his heart had cordially hated the young
nobleman from the instant that he had read his name upon the card.

“I return you my best thanks, sir,” said Trevelyan; “but I am compelled
to decline your hospitality on the present occasion.”

Thus speaking, the young nobleman bowed and retired; and the moment the
door closed behind him, the lawyer’s countenance assumed an expression
of such malignant triumph, that it seemed as if he were suddenly
animated with the spirit of a fiend.

“Green has got her off by this time--there can be no doubt of _that_,”
he muttered to himself, as he rubbed his mummy-like hands gleefully
together. “The woman loves my brother--and she will start away
directly. Even her vanity will not induce her to tarry to pack up all
her things, unless they are ready to hand; for the love of a woman who
is sincere in her passion, rises superior to every other consideration.
Oh! I know the human heart well; I know all its intricacies--its ins
and its outs--the ravellings and unravellings of its smallest, most
delicate fibres! It has been my business to study my fellow-creatures,
in order that I might make them my instruments--my tools--my slaves.
And I have succeeded!” he continued, with a chuckling laugh, while his
brows were elevated with joy. “Otherwise I should not be the rich man
that I am now. But if my wealth be already great--it must be greater. I
must possess countless treasures--riches beyond computation; and until
I have gained _them_ I shall not be satisfied--neither shall I cease
from toiling. That young aristocratic fool who was with me ere now--he
affected to bully me, did he? I got the better of him. He affected to
reason with me: I beat him with pure sophism,--and he has gone away
entertaining a better opinion of me than when he first entered my
presence. But I must examine these abstracts thoroughly,” he added,
still in a muttering tone, as he bent his eyes upon the documents
which he had been studying; “I must note every point in these copies
of the titles by virtue of which my brother holds his estates--for the
management of these estates is already as good as in my own hands: and
who knows--who knows how soon they may be mine altogether--yes--lands,
messuages, tenements--aye, baronetcy and all?”

And as these last thoughts passed through his brain,--for he had
not dared to give audible utterance to _them_,--there came such a
diabolical expression--an expression of dark menace strangely mingled
with the confidence of approaching triumph--over his countenance, that
had any one been by at the time, the beholder must have dreaded lest
that terrible man were about to throw off the mask of humanity and
reveal himself in all the horrors of a demoniac nature.

We must however take leave of him for the present, and return to one
whose generous and noble character forms such a striking contrast with
this bad, designing man.




CHAPTER CLXIX.

A SCENE.


Lord William entered his cab, and drove rapidly away towards Kentish
Town.

It was mid-day when he reached the abode of Mrs. Sefton--for his
interview with the attorney had been a very long one: but at length
his equipage stopped at the gate of a beautiful little villa standing
in the midst of a garden well laid out, and having iron railings along
the side adjoining the main-road.

[Illustration]

Leaping from the vehicle, Lord William opened the gate and hastened up
to the front door, which was immediately opened to his summons, by a
little page in a plain but neat livery.

To his inquiry whether Mrs. Sefton were at home, an answer in the
affirmative was given--the boy however adding that his mistress was
engaged at the moment.

Scarcely was the response thus conveyed, when the lady herself, having
caught the sound of the young patrician’s voice, came forth from a
parlour opening from the hall; and, tendering him her hand, she said,
“Oh! I am so glad you are come, my lord--for I am cruelly bewildered
how to act!”

“Has anything new transpired, madam?” asked Trevelyan, unable to gather
anything decisive from the expression of her countenance, which seemed
to denote mingled hope and uncertainty--a gleam of satisfaction shining
from amidst dark clouds of suspense.

“Come with me, my lord,” she said; “and you will advise me how to act.”

Thus speaking, she led the way into the parlour, followed by Trevelyan.

A man rose from a chair on his entrance; and the sinister countenance
of that individual appeared to be not altogether unfamiliar to the
young patrician, who could not however conjecture at the moment where
he had seen or met that person before.

The individual himself seemed to recognise the nobleman--or at least
to be troubled by his presence: but, almost immediately recovering his
self-possession, he bowed low and resumed his seat.

“This gentleman, my lord,” said Mrs. Sefton, “is a Mr. Green of
Liverpool,--and he has brought me strange--nay, the strangest tidings
relative to Sir Gilbert.”

“And what may those tidings be, madam?” asked Trevelyan, addressing his
words to the lady, but keeping his eyes fixed suspiciously on Mr. Green
all the time.

“Remember, madam, that all I have said has been in the strictest
confidence!” exclaimed the latter hastily, and with a manner which
only tended to increase the young nobleman’s suspicions.

“But Lord William Trevelyan is an intimate--a very intimate friend of
Sir Gilbert,” said Mrs. Sefton.

“It matters not, madam,” observed Mr. Green: “my instructions were
positive----”

“It matters greatly, however, sir,” interrupted the lady. “Your tale
appeared to me strange and inconsistent from the very first--though
Heaven knows what motive you can have in deceiving me so cruelly, if
deceit it be: but now my suspicions are painfully increased----”

“Madam, you know not what you are saying,” exclaimed Green: “you are
insulting me, after all the trouble I have taken in this matter. But
have your own way--my presence is no longer necessary here.”

And, rising from his seat, he was moving towards the door, when a
light suddenly broke in upon Trevelyan’s mind--and it flashed to his
recollection that he had encountered this individual that very forenoon
in the office of Mr. James Heathcote, the attorney.

“Stop, sir!” he cried, seizing the clerk by the collar of his coat, and
forcibly detaining him: “we have met before--I know you now! Scarcely
two hours have elapsed since you conducted me into the presence of Mr.
Heathcote, who is doubtless your master.”

“Mr. Heathcote!” ejaculated Mrs. Sefton, a deadly pallor covering her
countenance. “Ah! then my suspicions are to be confirmed--and he is
persecuting _me_ now!”

“Be seated, sir,” said Trevelyan, pushing the discomfited clerk back
into the chair which he had so recently left. “And now, madam,” he
continued, turning towards the lady, “will you have the kindness to
explain to me all that this man has told you--the object of his visit,
in fine?”

“Oh! my lord, what hideous treachery is at work!” exclaimed Mrs.
Sefton, sinking upon a sofa, almost overcome by the varied emotions
that agitated in her bosom. “This man introduced himself to me as Mr.
Green of Liverpool, and as having brought me tidings of Sir Gilbert.
He represented that Sir Gilbert, seized with a sudden terror through
pecuniary difficulties, had fled to America----”

“’Tis false! false as ever diabolical deceit could be!” cried
Trevelyan, emphatically. “I will stake my existence that so far from
being in any financial embarrassment, Sir Gilbert Heathcote owes not a
farthing in the world, and does not live even up to his income.”

“Your lordship takes too much upon yourself in making such random
statements,” said Green: “since I am well assured of the exact truth of
the story I have told the lady.”

“This is a singular way for a man to express himself, if he be an
actual emissary from Sir Gilbert,” observed Trevelyan. “You are well
assured of the exact truth of your story--are you? Then you would have
us infer that you had received it second-hand. But pray continue,
madam:--what else did this fellow tell you? We shall unmask him
altogether presently--and perhaps his next move will be from hence to
the presence of a magistrate.”

Mr. Green endeavoured to assume as much composure as he could possibly
call to his aid: but he did not at all admire the aspect that things
were taking--nor did he feel comfortable under the threat so plainly
held out.

“Oh! my lord, what a snare has been spread for me!” exclaimed Mrs.
Sefton, clasping her hands together in profound thankfulness that
she had escaped the danger. “This bad man who now trembles in your
presence, would have induced me to accompany him with the least
possible delay to Liverpool,--thence to embark by myself in order
to rejoin Sir Gilbert in New York. He has even about his person the
funds to bear the expenses of my voyage:--and he would at once have
hurried me away to Liverpool,--only, in the first place, a vague
suspicion was excited in my mind,--and, secondly, I had particular--oh!
very particular reasons for remaining in London at least a few hours
longer----”

Mrs. Sefton suddenly checked herself: she was being hurried away by her
excited feelings into allusions or positive revelations, on the verge
of which she thus stopped short. Trevelyan did not, however, comprehend
the motive of the abrupt pause which she made, but attributed it to the
influence of her over-wrought emotions.

“Mr. Green--or whatever your real name may be,” exclaimed the nobleman,
turning round upon the clerk, “what explanation can you give, sir, in
respect to all this?”

“I know not by what right you demand any explanation, my lord,” said
the man, determined to put as good a face upon the matter as possible.

“I will tell you by what right,” returned the patrician: “by the
right which every man has to protect and defend a lady against the
machinations of her enemies--by the right that every honest member of
society has to unmask a villain----”

“Do you allude to me, my lord?” demanded Green, rising from his seat.

“I do, sir,” replied Trevelyan. “You are a villain, because you have
lent yourself to an infamous trick. You cannot have been imposed
upon--inasmuch as you have told many deliberate and wilful falsehoods.
You pretend to have arrived straight from Liverpool, whereas you are
undoubtedly a clerk in the office of Mr. James Heathcote--for you
enacted the part of a clerk when I called there ere now. You would
have induced this lady to quit London and repair to a foreign country,
where nothing but disappointment--perhaps beggary--would have awaited
her; and this act is so vile--so atrocious--so horribly base, that I
can scarcely control my feelings--I can scarcely restrain my patience,
while I thus upbraid you with your infamy. Were you a younger man,
sir----”

But the nobleman stopped short, ashamed of wasting a menace upon one so
unworthy of the honest ire of a generous soul.

“Now that your lordship has lavished all your abuse upon me, perhaps I
may be permitted to depart,” said Green, with much apparent coolness,
though in reality he was terribly alarmed.

“Not until you have explained the meaning of this atrocious proceeding
in which you have borne so prominent a part,” replied Lord William.
“Make up your mind to answer my questions in a way that shall carry
truth upon the face of your words--or prepare to give an account of
your conduct to the proper authority.”

“What--what would you have me do, my lord?” asked the miserable wretch,
now unable to conceal his terror--unable also to subdue the trembling
of his limbs.

“Has foul play been adopted with regard to Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”
demanded Lord William, speaking in a measured tone, and fixing his eyes
keenly upon the clerk.

“Good God! Does your lordship suspect that he is murdered?” exclaimed
Green, horrified at the bare idea. “No--no: thank Heaven--it is not so
bad as that!”

“Thank Heaven also!” murmured Mrs. Sefton, her heart experiencing a
relief so great and sudden--for the man was evidently speaking the
truth--that she felt as if she were about to faint through excessive
joy.

“I scarcely apprehended such a frightful alternative as my words may
have seemed to imply,” said Trevelyan. “But delay not, man--speak--tell
me--tell this afflicted lady also--where is Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”

“My lord, I dare not----”

“Hesitate not another moment, sir,” cried the nobleman, grasping the
clerk violently by the collar of his coat: “hesitate not, I say--or I
will drag you into the presence of the magistrate. Tell me--where is my
friend?--where is Sir Gilbert?”

“My lord--my lord”--stammered the affrighted wretch, his countenance
rendered hideous by its workings.

“Speak--sir--I command you!” exclaimed Trevelyan, in a tone of terrible
excitement. “Trifle not with me--or I shall do you a mischief.
Where--where, I ask for the last time, is Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”

“In----But you will kill me, my lord----”

“Speak, villain! Where is he?” demanded the infuriate noble.

“In a mad-house!” was the reply, absolutely wrung by terror from the
clerk.

A piercing scream burst from the lips of Mrs. Sefton--and in another
moment she fell heavily upon the carpet, with a dead sound as if it
were a corpse that had rolled from the sofa.

Trevelyan--stupified by the astounding words that had fallen upon
his ear--let go his hold on the wretched clerk, on whom he stood
gazing for a few moments as if he had become petrified--turned into a
statue--paralysed--motionless. But suddenly he seemed to be struck with
the conviction that Mrs. Sefton needed his assistance; and, forgetting
in the agitation and excitement of his feelings to keep a watch upon
the clerk, he hastened to raise the prostrate lady from the floor.

He placed her upon the sofa, and sprinkled water (of which there
happened to be a decanter full on the table) upon her countenance. In a
few minutes she opened her eyes, and gazed wildly around her.

Trevelyan drew back a few paces so that the air might circulate freely
about her--when, suddenly remembering the clerk, he looked hurriedly
round.

But the villain had stolen away!

At this moment a bitter groan burst from the lips of Mrs. Sefton; for a
remembrance of all that had just occurred came rapidly to her mind--and
the horrible word “mad-house” seemed to echo in her ears and touch a
chord that vibrated with a feeling of anguish to her very brain.

She covered her face with her hands, while her bosom heaved
convulsively.

“Compose yourself, madam, I implore you,” said Trevelyan. “Even this
certainty which we have acquired, is preferable to the suspense
previously endured.”

“But is there hope, my lord--is there any hope left for _me_?” she
inquired, removing her hands from her countenance--now so pale--and
gazing up at the young patrician in a beseechful manner.

“Assuredly there _is_ hope, my dear madam,” returned Trevelyan,
emphatically. “I am confident that Sir Gilbert is in the possession of
his intellects as completely as ever, and that he is a _victim_--but
not a _maniac_. Indeed, I see through it all!”

“Oh! now you inspire me with hope!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, taking
his hand and pressing it with fervent gratitude: and as her face was
upturned towards his own, it suddenly struck him,--struck him like a
flash of lightning,--that there was in that countenance an expression
reminding him of Agnes Vernon,--although he had never beheld the
features of the Recluse of the Cottage otherwise than tranquil, calm,
and serene. Nevertheless, that idea seized upon him: but in the next
moment he said to himself, “It is mere fancy!”--and as Mrs. Sefton at
that instant settled herself in such a manner upon the sofa that her
back became turned to the window and the variation of light produced a
change in the expression of her countenance, that idea was immediately
absorbed in other and more important considerations in the mind of the
young patrician.

“Oh! now you inspire me with hope!” Mrs. Sefton had said; and her face
brightened up--so that it was at the moment when this sudden lustre of
joy was suffused upon her features, that the above mentioned idea had
struck the nobleman.

“Yes, madam--there is every reason to hope,” he responded. “The entire
plot, in all its terrible iniquity, is now before me as clear as the
noon-day sun. I can read it as plainly as if it were in a book. The
brother is at the bottom of it all.”

“Did I not tell your lordship that he was a villain?” asked Mrs. Sefton.

“Yes, my dear madam,” replied Trevelyan: “but I am slow to form
injurious opinions of any man. Now, however, I have the conviction of
his turpitude--and I hesitate no longer to proclaim him to be all that
you represented him.”

“But--merciful heavens! while we are wasting time in words,” exclaimed
Mrs. Sefton, seized with a sudden access of wild excitement, “Gilbert
is in a horrible predicament--and we should be acting--not talking.”

“Haste and precipitation will effect no good in this matter, my dear
madam,” said Trevelyan.

“But we must find out the place where he is confined--we must apply
to the officers of justice--we must release him!” cried the lady, her
excitement increasing.

“Pray, my dear madam, listen to me with some degree of composure,” said
the young nobleman; “and I will explain to you how we must proceed, and
why nothing can be done with that speed which would naturally be most
consonant with your feelings.”

“I am composed--I am tranquil now, my dear friend--for in such a light
you will permit me to consider you,” observed Mrs. Sefton, exercising
as strong a control over her emotions as she possibly could command.

“In the first place I must tell you that I saw Mr. James Heathcote
this morning,” resumed Trevelyan “and when I think of his cool
villainy--his unblushing effrontery--his matchless impudence, I
could tear my hair with rage at the idea of how I was duped. For
though I entered his office with a strong suspicion--in spite of the
remonstrance which I last night made to you--I quitted his presence
with a very different impression.”

“And that man who was ere now with us, is his clerk?” said Mrs. Sefton.
“But what could be the motive of their base attempt to induce me to
quit the country with such extraordinary precipitation?”

“The reason is apparent enough, my dear madam,” answered Trevelyan;
“and I will now explain to you the whole matter, as I understand
it. James Heathcote has suborned two unprincipled villains,
calling themselves medical practitioners, to grant a certificate
of the insanity of his brother. The law of England permits such a
proceeding----”

“Then the law of England is worthy only of barbarians!” exclaimed the
lady, emphatically.

“You are not the only person in the country who entertains the same
conviction,” observed Trevelyan, with a smile: then, instantly resuming
a serious expression of countenance, he said, “By virtue of that
certificate, Sir Gilbert is suddenly seized upon and carried off to a
madhouse.”

“Oh! it is horrible!” cried the lady, in a tone of extreme bitterness
mingled with anguish, while a convulsive shudder passed over her from
head to foot.

“The iniquity is tremendous--and yet it is legal,” said Lord William.
“Yes--I blush for my country when I declare such to be the fact,--I
blush also for my fellow-countrymen that they should tolerate a system
which savages themselves would regard with abhorrence! Well, madam, the
deed is done--the atrocity is consummated--and Sir Gilbert Heathcote,
though in the complete enjoyment of his intellects, is borne off to a
lunatic-asylum. James--his vile brother--will obtain the control over
his property; and that is the aim and object of his wickedness. But
knowing that you are interested--deeply interested in Sir Gilbert’s
welfare----”

“Oh! heaven can witness how deeply!” exclaimed the lady, clasping her
hands with fervour.

“Knowing, I repeat, how profoundly you are interested in all that
concerns my valued friend,” continued Trevelyan, “James Heathcote
sought to expatriate you at least for a season--so that he might
prevent you from adopting any measures to restore the victim to the
enjoyment of freedom.”

“But of what avail would a few weeks’ delay be, even supposing that
the plot devised against myself had succeeded?” asked Mrs. Sefton. “If
I had gone to America, I should have found that Sir Gilbert was not
in New York--and I should have forthwith returned to London. Unless,
indeed,” she added, with a shudder, “my heart had broken with the
immensity of its sorrow!”

“Ah! madam--and it was perhaps upon this catastrophe that the vile man
reckoned!” said Lord William, his blood growing cold at the extent of
the turpitude which he was contemplating. “And yet a more terrible
suspicion still has come into my mind--a suspicion so dreadful----”

“Name it! Keep me not in suspense!” cried the lady, observing that her
young friend was himself becoming painfully excited now.

“During your absence, madam,” returned he, his countenance
darkening,--“during your absence, I say--supposing that you had been
induced to depart--sufficient time would be gained to drive Sir Gilbert
mad in reality; and then, on your reappearance in London, the lawyer
would have defied all that you could possibly attempt or devise!”

“Merciful heaven!” ejaculated the horror-stricken woman; “can so much
black iniquity exist in the human breast?”

“Alas! such schemes as these are of frequent occurrence in this land
which vaunts a consummate civilisation!” said Trevelyan. “Could we
but penetrate into the mysteries of the mad-house, we should behold
scenes that would make our hair stand on end--our blood run cold in
our veins--our very souls sick! Yes, madam--too often, indeed, is the
lunatic asylum rendered the engine of the most hideous cruelty: too
often does it become a prison for the _sane_!”

“You will drive me mad, my lord!” cried Mrs. Sefton, dreadfully
excited: “I shall myself become an inmate--and deservedly so--of one of
those awful places!”

“Pardon me, dear madam--pardon me,” said Trevelyan, deeply afflicted at
having suffered his excited feelings to hurry him into those passionate
exclamations which had so terrified her. “I was wrong thus to dwell on
the subject.”

“No--no: it is better that I should learn the worst,” she cried, with a
strong spasmodic shuddering, while horror--ineffable horror--convulsed
her countenance. “But how shall we rescue him from that living tomb?”

“Abandon not yourself to despair,” replied Trevelyan. “In the first
instance I must discover the place where our friend is confined: and
then, trust to me to effect his deliverance!”

“Excellent man!--generous-hearted noble!” cried Mrs. Sefton, in a tone
indicative of the most fervent gratitude. “But will not the law aid us
in all this?”

“I have already explained to you, my dear madam, that every thing
has doubtless been done by James Heathcote under colour of the most
monstrous law that disgraces our statute-book,” responded Lord William.
“Were I to apply to a magistrate, I could obtain no redress: he would
be unable to assist me. The Commissioners in Lunacy would view the
matter in the ordinary light, and tell me that when the time for the
usual periodical visit to the various asylums arrived, due inquiries
should be instituted. No--the lawyer must be assailed by other weapons:
cunning must be met by cunning;--and much as I abhor duplicity, I will
not fail to use it, if necessary, in this case. Believe me when I
assure you that no time shall be lost, and that I will without delay
adopt measures to discover the place where our friend is imprisoned.”

“God send you success!” murmured Mrs. Sefton, faintly: then, in a
higher tone and with renewed excitement, she said, “But how can I calm
my feelings--how can I tranquillize myself even for a moment, while
this state of suspense shall last? And when I think of what _his_
feelings must be----Oh! it is enough to drive him mad in reality where
he is, and me likewise mad here!”

“But you _must_ endeavour to exercise some degree of command over your
emotions,” said Trevelyan. “Consider--reflect--I may require your aid
in this work of deliverance; and----”

“Oh! now indeed you hold out an inducement calculated to calm me--to
give me courage!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton. “Yes--I _will_ be tranquil: I
_will_ exercise a greater control over my feelings. I will throw aside
the weakness of a woman, and become strong in the hope of Sir Gilbert’s
rescue, and in the endeavour to accomplish it.”

“This frame of mind becomes you, my dear madam,” said Trevelyan. “And
now permit me to take my departure--for there is no time to be lost.”

“Farewell for the present,” responded Mrs. Sefton, offering him her
hand; “and accept my most unfeigned gratitude for your noble conduct
towards me and your generous intentions in behalf of Sir Gilbert
Heathcote.”

“You shall thank me when I have succeeded in my endeavour to restore
him to you,” said Trevelyan pressing the lady’s hand with the
cordiality of that friendship which, short as their acquaintance had
been, circumstances had established and even cemented between them.

He then hastened away from her dwelling, and drove to his own house in
Park Square.




CHAPTER CLXX.

AGNES AND MRS. MORTIMER.


In the meantime Mrs. Mortimer had not been idle.

Possessed of the letter which had been entrusted to her, she repaired
in a hired vehicle to the immediate vicinity of the cottage, and
alighted in the lane which was bounded on one side by the thick and
verdant hedge that enclosed the garden.

The old woman had not precisely made up her mind how to proceed in the
business which she had taken in hand: she knew that the task was a
difficult one,--and she trusted rather to the chapter of accidents than
to any settled or preconceived project.

For she naturally reasoned within herself that Mr. Vernon had doubtless
warned his daughter not to hold any further communication with
strangers: she had seen enough, on the evening of her visit to the
cottage, to enable her to judge that her presence there was regarded
suspiciously by that gentleman, and that her tale was not believed
by him;--and she therefore calculated that Agnes had been duly and
impressively counselled not to receive her again. Indeed, it was
likewise probable that the young lady might have been taught to look
upon her as a person having some evil object in view, and that the
servants had been charged to maintain a strict watch upon her movements
should she make her appearance in that neighbourhood again.

All these reflections were duly weighed by Mrs. Mortimer; and, under
the circumstances which they suggested, she found it to be totally
impossible to devise beforehand any particular method of carrying out
her aims.

She, however, more than hoped that, as the morning was remarkably
fine, with a warm summer sun rendering the face of Nature bright and
joyous, Agnes would be certain to walk in her garden, if not farther
abroad. Nor was she mistaken in the former portion of her expectation:
for scarcely had she reached the verdant boundary of the enclosure,
when she beheld, through the high hedge, the light drapery of the
young lady, who, clad in a morning-dress, was advancing slowly along a
gravel-walk, with a book in her hand.

How beautiful did she appear, even to the gaze of the old harridan who
now surveyed her from behind the hedge! There was an æsthetic grace in
her movements--an enchanting sweetness expressed in her countenance--a
gentle refinement in her bearing--and a halo of innocence around her,
which rendered her a being with whom it was impossible to associate
ideas of sensuality, but whom the heart might worship with the purest,
holiest poetic sentiment, as if hers were an ethereal nature.

Her eyes were bent upon the volume which she held in her
delicate, white hands; and her little feet moved slowly along the
gravel-walk--for she was absorbed in the perusal of the book. She
had not fastened the white ribbons of the straw-bonnet that she had
evidently put on with a hasty negligence; and those ribbons were thrown
back over her shoulders, thus allowing a shower of raven curls to
descend on each side of the fair face down to the bosom of her dress.

Around that charming creature streamed the flood of sun-light, making
her tresses, dark though they were, glitter like hyperions, and
imparting a dazzling whiteness to her drapery, which appeared in strong
relief amidst the luxuriant green of the trees and shrubs.

Mrs. Mortimer was rejoiced when she beheld the young lady in the
garden--still more rejoiced when she observed that Agnes was
approaching that part of the hedge behind which the harridan was
concealed.

Several minutes however elapsed before the beauteous creature was
sufficiently nigh for Mrs. Mortimer to address her; because she not
only advanced slowly, but stopped two or three times when she met with
a passage of more than ordinary interest in the work she was reading.
It was the novel of “Ivanhoe” that thus rivetted her attention; and she
was in the midst of the exalting scene of the combat between Brian de
Bois-Gilbert and Wilfred of Ivanhoe.

Suddenly she was startled by hearing her name mentioned;--and she
glanced around almost in affright--but no one met her view.

“Miss Vernon--dear Miss Vernon,” repeated the voice: “approach nearer
to the hedge--’tis a friend who thus addresses you.”

The maiden instantly recognised the peculiar tones of the old woman who
had called upon her nearly a week previously; and, without giving any
response, she stood undecided how to act.

“Pray do not refuse to hear me--pray do not go away, Miss Vernon,”
resumed Mrs. Mortimer, whose form the young lady could now distinguish
through the hedge. “I have something of importance to communicate--and
not for worlds would I injure a hair of your head.”

“But I promised my father not to hold discourse with any one who came
not with a letter from him,” said Agnes, at length breaking silence:
“and moreover,” she added, with some degree of hesitation, “I am afraid
that you do not mean any good towards me.”

“Alas! Miss Vernon, can you entertain such cruel suspicions regarding
me?” cried Mrs. Mortimer, as if deeply afflicted at the mistrust
implied in the maiden’s words. “Of what benefit would it be for me to
injure you? or, indeed, how could I possibly injure you?”

“I know not--and yet----”

“Ah! you hesitate, my dear young lady--and you will accord me a
hearing,” exclaimed the old woman, eagerly. “In fact, I appeal to your
sense of justice not to refuse me this opportunity of vindicating
myself against the suspicions which, I am well aware, your father
entertains concerning me. But, tell me--what book is that which you
hold in your hand?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, half-suspecting that it
might be a novel, and in that case hoping to find a pretext for giving
the conversation a turn towards the topic of love.

“It is ‘Ivanhoe,’ madam,” said Agnes. “But really I must not remain
here any longer: I should be sorry to suspect you--and yet my
father----”

“Dearest lady, not even your parent’s prejudices should render _you_
capable of an act of injustice,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, with an
emphasis that made Agnes pause as she was on the point of retreating.
“You are engaged in the perusal of one of the finest tales in the
English language,” she continued, abruptly diverting the conversation
into another channel: “and doubtless you have sighed over the hopeless
affection which the beautiful Jewess cherished for him whose heart was
given to the Lady Rowena?”

“I have wept for the interesting and charming Rebecca,” said Agnes, in
the natural ingenuousness of her character: “although I am well aware
that she is only the heroine of a romance, and I cannot precisely
understand wherefore she should have been so much attached to Wilfrid.”

“The description is so life-like--is it not?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.

“I know not--and yet it appears to me as if it were all true--as if I
could easily persuade myself that such incidents really occurred, and
such sentiments could positively exist,” responded Agnes. “But I must
leave you----”

“One word, Miss,” interrupted the old woman. “You say that you could
easily persuade yourself that such sentiments as those experienced
by Rebecca for Wilfrid, and by Wilfrid and Rowena mutually, could
actually exist. Believe me, then, when I assure you that although the
incidents of that tale are a fiction, the sentiments are the very
reverse--and that what the author denominates _love_ is a passion felt
and acknowledged throughout the universe.”

“Yes--the love of a father towards his children, and of children
towards their parents,” said Agnes. “Oh! I am well aware that such a
blessed feeling animates the mortal breast.”

“And there is another phase of that sentiment,” resumed the old
woman, immediately: “or rather, the love which you described, is a
_feeling_--whereas the love which Rebecca experienced for Ivanhoe, is a
_passion_.”

“I cannot comprehend you, madam,” observed Agnes, who gradually grew
more and more interested in this conversation, because Scott’s novel
had made a deep impression on her mind, and had raised up a sentiment
of curiosity which, through the very ingenuousness of her disposition,
sought for an elucidation of those descriptions that were entirely
unintelligible or only dimly significant to her.

“Suppose that Rebecca had addressed a letter to Ivanhoe, explaining the
sentiments which she entertained towards him,” said the wily old woman:
“would not Wilfrid have been unkind--ungenerous--even harsh and brutal,
not to have perused that narrative of her feelings?”

“But his character _was_ generous,” exclaimed Agnes, emphatically; “and
he would not have refused to read such a letter.”

“Precisely so,” continued Mrs. Mortimer. “And now, my sweet young lady,
let us suppose that it was Wilfrid who experienced an attachment for
Rebecca, and that Rebecca suspected it not;--and suppose, likewise,
that Wilfrid penned a letter, in respectful and proper language to the
Jewess, describing the sentiments that animated him--what course should
the beautiful Israelite have pursued?”

“She would have proved as generous on her side as we have already
agreed that Wilfrid of Ivanhoe would have been generous on his part,”
answered Agnes, without an instant’s hesitation.

“Such is your opinion, sweet maiden?” cried Mrs. Mortimer,
interrogatively.

“I have no reason to think otherwise,” was the immediate response.

“Then, Miss Vernon,” said the old woman, in a tone of mingled triumph
and solemnity, “I implore you to peruse the letter of which I am the
bearer, and which is intended for you--and for you alone!”

Thus speaking, Mrs. Mortimer thrust Trevelyan’s missive through
the hedge; and Agnes received it mechanically, though startled and
bewildered by so sudden and unexpected a proceeding.

“Read it, Miss Vernon--read it,” cried the old woman: “there is nothing
in its contents to offend you--but perhaps much to please and delight.”

Thus adjured, the young maiden--innocent, artless, and unsophisticated
as she was--hesitated no longer, but, opening the letter, commenced its
perusal.

The first paragraph, as the reader will remember, ran thus:--

    “Pardon a stranger who dares to address you, beautiful
    Miss Vernon, in a strain that might give you offence,
    were he not sincere in his language and honourable in his
    intentions:--pardon me, I implore you--and refuse not to
    read those few lines to the end! He who thus writes is the
    individual that you have observed occasionally in the vicinity
    of your dwelling; and you will perceive by the signature to
    this letter that he is not a man without ostensible guarantees
    for his social position. That his character is unimpeachable
    he can proudly declare; and that he will not address to you,
    Miss Vernon, a single word which he will fear to repeat in your
    father’s presence, he solemnly declares.”

At first the maiden’s countenance wore an expression of profound
astonishment when she found herself addressed by a person who avowed
himself to be “a stranger,” and who proceeded to speak of sincerity
of language and honourable intentions. What intentions, then, had he?
This was the thought that flashed to her mind. In the next moment she
discovered that the letter came from the gentleman whom she _had_
observed, on more occasions than one, in the neighbourhood of the
cottage; and now it struck her, as if with a ray of light darting into
her soul, that he must have had some object, beyond that of a mere
lounge, in so frequently loitering about the precincts of the garden.
Something--a something that was nevertheless incomprehensible--told
her that she ought to read no more; but at that instant the concluding
words of the paragraph above quoted met her eyes--and she murmured to
herself, “There can be no harm in perusing the words that he would
speak to me in my father’s presence.”

She accordingly read on, until she came to the termination of the next
paragraph:--

    “Let me, however, speak of myself in the first person again:
    let me assure you that your beauty has captivated my heart--and
    that, if any thing were wanting to render me your slave, the
    description which the bearer of this letter has given me of
    your amiable qualities, would be more than sufficient. I am
    rich--and therefore I have no selfish motive in addressing
    you, even if you be rich also: but I would rather that it were
    otherwise with you, so that my present proceeding may appear
    to you the more disinterested. Had I any means of obtaining
    an introduction to you, beautiful Miss Vernon, I should not
    have adopted a measure that gives me pain because I tremble
    lest it should wound or offend you. But mine is an honest--a
    sincere--and a devoted attachment; and I shall be happy indeed
    if you will permit me to open a correspondence with your father
    on the subject. Were he to honour me with a visit, I should
    be proud to receive him. But if, in the meantime, you seek to
    know more of me--if I might venture to solicit you to accord
    me an interview of only a few minutes, you cannot divine how
    fervently I should thank you--how delighted I should feel! Let
    this interview take place in the presence of Mrs. Mortimer, if
    you will: I have nothing to communicate to you that I should
    hesitate to say before your father or your friends. Oh! how
    can I convince you of my sincerity?--how can I testify my
    devotion?--how can I prove the extent of my love?”

While she perused this portion of the letter, the following thoughts
and ideas ran rapidly through her mind:--

“My beauty has captivated his heart----Oh! then he believes me to be
beautiful! Mrs. Mortimer has spoken well of me to him: in this case,
she cannot be a bad woman, and she cannot mean me any harm. Assuredly
my dear papa was wrong to suspect her. He has no selfish motive in
addressing me--even if I be rich: then, whatever his intentions
be, they must be honourable, as he says--because all wickedness is
undertaken for the sake of gold. He is afraid of offending me. Oh!
how can I be offended with one who addresses me in such a respectful
manner, and who seems to fear that the simple fact of thus writing to
me will excite my anger? ‘_A sincere and a devoted attachment!_’ Ah!
such was the attachment that Rebecca entertained for Wilfrid, and that
Wilfrid experienced for Rowena;--and now I perceive something different
between _their_ attachment and that which the Templar harboured towards
the beautiful Jewess. He wishes to see my father--he wishes to obtain
an interview with me!”--And the maiden’s heart began to palpitate,
she knew not why: but at this moment it struck her that the writer
of the letter was of agreeable person, and that he must be what the
author of “Ivanhoe” would have denominated _handsome_. With a gradually
increasing fluttering in her bosom, the artless maiden read on--until
she suddenly found the paragraph close with the mystic name of _love_!

Then a gentle flush appeared upon her damask cheek; and a veil rapidly
fell from her eyes. She now comprehended how it was possible for
Rebecca to be attached to Wilfrid of Ivanhoe:--Agnes had already
learnt by heart the alphabet of love! At the same time, her soul
retained all its chaste purity, though it lost a trifle of its girlish
artlessness:--love began to be comprehensible to her as a refined
and poetic sentiment--and not as a less divine passion or earthly
sensuousness. A dreamy and unknown joy was stealing into her bosom--as
if she had just been blessed with a glimpse of the realms of ethereal
bliss;--and, under the influence of these feelings, she read the letter
on to its close:--

    “I beseech you to reflect, Miss Vernon, that my happiness
    depends upon your reply. Am I guilty of an indiscretion in
    loving you? Love is a passion beyond mortal control! He who
    knows no other deity, deserves not blame for worshipping the
    sun, because it is glorious and bright; and my heart, which
    knows no other idol, adores you, because you are beautiful and
    good. Treat not my conduct, then, with anger: let not your
    pride be offended by the proceeding which I have adopted in
    order to make my sentiments known to you;--and scorn not the
    honest--the pure--the ardent affection which an honourable
    man dares to proffer you. I do not merit punishment because I
    love you;--and your silence would prove a punishment severe
    and undeserved indeed! Again, I conjure you to remember that
    the happiness of a fellow-creature depends upon you: your
    decision will either inspire me with the most joyous hope, or
    plunge me into the deepest despair. At the same time, beauteous
    Agnes,--(the words--those delightful words, ‘_beauteous
    Agnes_,’ are written now, and I cannot--will not erase
    them)--at the same time, I say, if your affections be already
    engaged--if a mortal more blest than myself have received the
    promise of your hand, accept the assurance, sweet maiden, that
    never more shall you be molested by me--never again will I
    intrude myself upon your attention. For with my love is united
    the most profound respect; and not for worlds would I do aught
    to excite an angry feeling in your soul.

  “Your ardent admirer and devoted friend,
  “WILLIAM TREVELYAN.”

While she perused this last paragraph in the letter, Agnes more than
once felt an involuntary sigh stealing from her bosom--as if it were
called up by a strain of music familiar to her childhood, and reviving
many pleasing reflections.

The last portion of the letter became clearly intelligible to her, in
consequence of the suggestive incidents which she had been reading in
Scott’s novel. For would not Rebecca have received Wilfrid’s hand, had
his love not been already plighted to Rowena? It was evident, then,
that William Trevelyan sought her--yes, _her_--Agnes Vernon--as his
wife; and that he feared lest she should be engaged to wed another! Oh!
now she comprehended the full intent--the full meaning of that letter
which he had addressed to her: she perceived that he loved her--that he
had loitered about the cottage in order to behold her--that he wrote to
her, because he feared to offend by accosting her--and that he dreaded
no refusal on the part of her father, provided that she was not already
pledged to become the wife of another suitor!

“You have read the letter, my child?” asked the old woman, who, even
through the verdant foliage of the hedge, had watched every change in
the expression of the maiden’s countenance, and had thereby obtained a
complete insight into what was passing in her mind.

“Yes, madam,” murmured Agnes, in a tone that was scarcely audible--for
she now felt embarrassed, bashful, and timid, she knew not wherefore.

“And you are not offended with Lord William Trevelyan----”

“Lord William Trevelyan!” exclaimed the beauteous girl, now seized
with surprise: “is he indeed a nobleman? Oh! I am sorry for that!” she
added, giving vent in her artlessness to an expression which confirmed
the old woman’s already existing suspicion that her employer was by no
means indifferent to the Recluse of the Cottage.

“You are sorry that he is a nobleman, my sweet child?” said Mrs.
Mortimer. “Are you afraid that he is too proud to make a humble maiden
his wife?”

Agnes blushed deeply, and remained silent.

“Fear nothing on that head,” continued the old woman. “He is no
deceiver: his intentions are honourable. And now tell me frankly and
candidly--has his letter displeased you?”

“I should be deceiving you were I to answer in the affirmative,”
responded Agnes; “and yet I feel--at least, it seems as if I feel that
I ought to be displeased, although I cannot in truth declare that I am.
But I will send this letter to my dear father, who is in Paris----”

“Ah! Mr. Vernon is in France,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, delighted to
find the way thus cleared for the furtherance of the projects which she
had in hand; for she was resolved to make herself particularly useful
to Lord William in his suit with the beautiful Agnes, so that her
claims upon him might be all the more considerable. “However, my dear
child,” she continued, “you would do well not to trouble your father at
present, since he is doubtless engaged in particular business on the
Continent----”

“Oh! my father will be delighted to find that I communicate to him
everything that occurs,” interrupted Agnes; “and since Lord William
Trevelyan so especially alludes to my dear parent in his letter----”

“Miss Vernon--Miss Vernon,” exclaimed the old woman, impatiently, “this
is a matter of so much delicacy, that I must implore you to be guided
by me----”

“Would you counsel me not to forward this letter to my father?” asked
the maiden, in a tone so low and tremulous that it afforded no aid to
the reading of the thoughts that dictated the question.

“Such is the advice that I should assuredly give you, my dear child--at
least for the present,” was the response.

“And do you think,” continued Agnes, in a tone still lower and still
more tremulous than before,--“do you think that Lord William Trevelyan
would proffer me the same counsel?”

“I have no doubt of it, sweet maiden,” hastily replied Mrs. Mortimer.
“For _his_ sake--for _your_ sake it were best that none save myself
should become acquainted with the secret of your love----”

“Oh! madam,” exclaimed Agnes, in a voice of touching remonstrance and
pathetic reproach, “if this love of which you speak be a feeling that
must alienate me from the sympathies of my father, and compel me to
cherish a secret that I dare not impart to him, I can have no hope that
happiness will be the result! Farewell, madam; restore the letter to
him who honoured me by addressing me in those terms that for an instant
dazzled and bewildered me--and tell him that it were better for him to
think no more of Agnes Vernon!”

Having thus spoken, the maiden tossed the letter hastily, but not
insultingly, over the hedge, and hurried away towards the cottage.

Mrs. Mortimer was for a few minutes stupified by this decisive and
most unexpected proceeding. She had imagined that Agnes had become a
complete dupe to the specious arguments she had used to ensnare her;
and she was astounded to find that fair creature, so innocent and
artless asserting an energy of volition which was inspired by the
purest sentiments of rectitude, and which dominated over the nascent
feelings of affection evidently engendered in her bosom by the suit of
Lord William Trevelyan.

The old woman knew not how to act. She perceived that it was useless
to endeavour to obtain another interview with Agnes--at least on the
present occasion; and she was unwilling to return to her employer with
the acknowledgment that her policy had rather marred than forwarded
his interests. She therefore now began to reflect whether it were
not better to abandon the business altogether, and return to Paris,
where her daughter’s affairs might afford scope for her intriguing
qualifications and likewise augment her pecuniary resources. She was
already possessed of between five and six thousand pounds--the amount
wrung from the hands of her miserable husband; and she came to the
conclusion that it was scarcely worth her while to waste any more time
in a matter which, even were she successful, would only bring her a
recompense of a few hundreds.

Having made these hasty reflections, Mrs. Mortimer thrust Trevelyan’s
letter into her reticule,--for she never destroyed documents that
related to private affairs; and, returning to the hackney-coach,
desired to be driven to the Borough.

She alighted in Blackman Street, and, having dismissed the vehicle,
repaired to the coffee-house where she had taken up her abode.

As she was passing by the bar-parlour, in order to reach the staircase
leading to her own chamber, the mistress of the establishment came
forth and beckoned her into the room: then, closing the door, the woman
said, in a tone savouring somewhat of cool insolence, “I tell you what
it is, Mrs. Mortimer--the sooner you accommodate yourself with other
lodgings, the better: ’cos, though I ain’t over partickler and makes
no imperent inquiries about them as paytronises my house--yet, for all
that, I can’t abide such wisitors as come on your account just now.
Leastways, I’d rayther be vithout ’em.”

“My good woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, surveying the landlady with
an astonishment the most real and unfeigned, “you must be labouring
under some mistake. I hope that I’m a respectable person; and I am sure
that I shall bring no discredit on your house. As for any visitors who
have called on my account, I expect none--and therefore there is an
error in the matter.”

“No such a thing!” cried the landlady, her choler rising. “There was
two men which come just now: and, what’s more, they was officers with a
search-warrant--and I couldn’t perwent them from doing their dooty.”

“Officers!--a search-warrant!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, now becoming
frightened--although she could not conceive what feature of her recent
conduct could have excited any suspicion on the part of the myrmidons
of justice:--but suddenly a fear of an appalling nature seized upon
her--for her money was all concealed in her chamber up-stairs. “Oh!
it’s wery well on your part, ma’am, to put a good face on the bisness,”
said the landlady: “but it’s nevertheless true for all that. A great
tall hulking feller and a seedy-looking old man----”

“An old man!” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, now becoming sick at heart.

“Yes--an old man,” proceeded the coffee-house-keeper’s wife; “and he
said he was a officer with a search-warrant, and that t’other was his
assistant----”

[Illustration]

“’Tis a trick--a vile trick! I see it all--I understand it now!” cried
the wretched Mrs. Mortimer, staggering towards a chair and gasping for
breath:--but in a few moments she seemed to be endowed with a sudden
energy, and, bursting from the room, she rushed up-stairs to her own
chamber--the landlady, who was a stout and therefore less active woman,
following as quickly as she could.

Mrs. Mortimer entered her room, and darted towards her trunk. The lid
resisted not her attempt to raise it--for the lock had been forced.
She plunged her hand amidst the clothes that the box contained, and
felt for _something_ underneath:--but the object of her anxious--her
desperate search, was not there;--and, with a groan as it were of
mortal agony, she sank upon the floor.

The landlady, who entered the room at this moment, and who was not
naturally a bad-hearted being, hastened to raise the miserable woman.
She placed her on a chair, and tore off, rather than quietly removed,
her bonnet and shawl: but Mrs. Mortimer’s jaw fell--her countenance was
ghastly pale--she seemed to be dying.

On water being sprinkled on her face, she came to herself; and the
landlady said, “What is the matter with you? I can’t understand the
meaning of all this.”

“I have been robbed--foully robbed,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, in a
hoarse and hollow tone: but she did not reflect that, no matter how
her husband had obtained his money, she had played the part of a foul
robber or extortioner towards _him_.

“Robbed!--what do you mean?” cried the landlady. “Wasn’t them real
officers as come just now?”

“No--a thousand times _no_,” ejaculated the old woman, growing
infuriate as her energies revived. “It was a base plot--a vile
design:--but I will be avenged--terribly avenged! He must have found
someone to advise him--some one to assist him in all this! They watched
me--they marked when I went out--and, under pretence of being officers,
they succeeded in searching my box--and, what is worse,” she added,
with a demoniac contortion of the countenance,--“they succeeded in
robbing me!”

“Was it the old man who did this?” asked the landlady.

“Yes: that ancient villain, with the pale face,” was the reply. “But
tell me--was not his countenance pale and wrinkled?--and did he not
seem nervously excited while speaking to you?”

“Just so,” answered the landlady.

“Ah! I thought that I was not mistaken!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, in
a tone that indicated a concentration of the most ferocious rage and
diabolical hate in her savage breast. “But leave me now--I must be
alone for a short time--I must ponder upon all this, and determine how
to act. I am not altogether without friends--nor yet without resources.”

“Well, ma’am,” said the landlady, “I hope you won’t think no more of
what I told you just now--I mean, about leaving the place. Since those
fellers wasn’t officers, and you ain’t a suspicious person, I’m sure I
don’t want to get rid of you.”

“I shall not leave you quite yet, my good woman,” responded Mrs.
Mortimer; “and I am not angry on account of what you said just now. But
pray let me be alone for the present.”

The landlady withdrew in obedience to this request; and Mrs. Mortimer
sate down upon the bed to ruminate on the misfortune that had produced
so sudden and deplorable a change in her position.

Scarcely, however, had she brought her mind to reflect with some degree
of calmness on the situation of her affairs, when she heard heavy and
hasty footsteps ascending the staircase.

Dreading lest some new calamity were about to overtake her, she
started to her feet in trepidation and nervous excitement: nor was she
reassured when the door was unceremoniously opened, and a man of most
repulsive appearance bounced into the chamber.




CHAPTER CLXXI.

JACK RILY, THE DOCTOR.


The individual who thus intruded himself upon the presence of
the affrighted woman, was about forty years of age--of middle
height--somewhat stout--and of powerful form. He was not corpulent;
but his build denoted immense strength,--his shoulders being broad and
massive, and his limbs of large proportions. His neck was short and
thick, like that of a bull; and his huge hands, when clenched, appeared
as if they could fell an ox or batter down a wall.

His countenance was perfectly hideous. It was of dark complexion; and
on the right cheek was a large scar of livid red, as if the flesh had
been seared with a hot iron and left to heal without any surgical
assistance. The low but broad forehead was overshadowed with coarse,
black, matted hair, which the man wore long, and which he evidently
much neglected--so that it had a dirty appearance, in spite of its
jetty hue. His eyes were small and dark; and the whites--for we know
not what other name to give them--were of a yellow hue,--so that an
ominous fire seemed to animate those eyes, as if they reflected all
the bad passions of a polluted soul. The nose, which was large, thick,
and coarse, projected all on one side, and had enormous nostrils. Add
to all these elements of ugliness a hare-lip, with an opening so large
that it displayed two of the man’s large white teeth up to the very
gum, and the reader may form a tolerably accurate idea of the repulsive
aspect of this individual.

He was dressed in a greasy velveteen shooting-jacket, a rusty black
waistcoat, corduroy trowsers, and heavy high-lows; a blue cotton
handkerchief was negligently tied round his neck;--and his shirt,
which was none of the cleanest, was open in front, the buttons being
deficient--so that a portion of his hirsute chest was visible. On his
head he wore an old fur cap of a tawny colour, but sadly stained with
grease, as if it were tossed in any dirty nook or corner when not in
use.

As the man had no whiskers, and his complexion was so dark, it might
have been supposed that he had some African blood in his veins. Such
was not, however, the case;--he was born in England and of English
parents--aye, and had received an English education likewise. But
nature had given him a hideous aspect; and circumstances had imbued his
soul with the ferocity of a hyena and the subtlety of a serpent.

It is not often that the savage disposition is characterised by a
profound and latent cunning--because the violence of furious passions
usually absorbs all reflection in its sudden impulses and outbursts.
But this man was ferocious by nature, and subtle in consequence of
possessing a powerful intellect and having received a good education.
Not that intelligence and mental cultivation engender craft and
cunning: no--but they teach the necessity of consideration and
forethought;--and the result, in respect to the individual whom we are
describing, was that he knew the world so well as to be fully aware
that intrigue and machination frequently succeeded where brute force
could accomplish nothing.

Thus, when there was no need to have recourse to artifice, this man
appeared as a very demon let loose upon society: but when cunning could
gain an end, he was enabled to control his savage propensities and
exercise a complete domination over his ferocious instincts.

Such was the person who burst upon the view of the terrified Mrs.
Mortimer in the abrupt manner already described.

She had risen from her seat on the bed, and now stood gazing on him in
speechless apprehension and amazement: but he, not heeding the alarm
which his presence inspired, closed the door carefully behind him, and
then, throwing his greasy cap on a chair, approached the old woman,
saying, “So I understand you have been robbed, ma’am? Well--don’t give
way to despair: I think I can help you to the recovery of your money.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, considerably relieved by the hope thus
abruptly held out, and at the same moment animated by the conviction
that the man could not mean her any harm--as she had never seen him
before in her life; and, moreover, the house was neither deserted nor
lonely, and it was now the broad noon-day,--under which circumstances
crimes of violence were seldom perpetrated.

“Yes--I think I can help you,” repeated the man. “But there is plenty
of time before us--and we must have a chat over the matter in the first
instance.”

Thus speaking, he seated himself in a free and easy fashion; and
Mrs. Mortimer likewise took a chair--for she had now become deeply
interested in the present visit, despite the revolting ugliness of the
visitor.

“Who are you?” she asked: “and in what manner do you think you can aid
me?”

“One question at a time, my dear madam,” returned the fellow, with
cool familiarity. “First then, as to who I am. My name is Rily--Mr.
Rily amongst mere acquaintances--John Rily in a police-sheet--and Jack
Rily amongst intimate friends. But those who know me best call me _the
Doctor_, because, you see, I was brought up to the medical profession.
That was against my tastes, and only in obedience to the wishes of my
parents; and so, as soon as they hopped the twig--which was when I
was about two-and-twenty--I gave up mending broken legs, and took to
breaking into houses. Instead of feeling pulses, I fingered purses--and
found the new profession more profitable. Such a hand as this,” he
continued, with a horrible grin, as he extended his broad and horny
palm, “was rather intended to wield a crow-bar than a lancet, or grasp
a pistol in preference to a scalpel. Now, my dear ma’am, I think you
may begin to suspect who and what I am.”

“A burglar and a thief,” said Mrs. Mortimer, who had by this time
recovered all her wonted calmness. “Well--you are the more likely to
aid me in my present embarrassment--I mean, in the recovery of my
money: and, of course, you can dictate your own terms.”

“I am perfectly assured of _that_,” responded the Doctor, again
grinning maliciously with his horrid hare-lip, which seemed as if it
were about to split completely up his cheek. “But, at that same time,
I admit with all possible candour that I cannot act alone in this
business: and therefore you have that guarantee for my good faith.”

“But in what way do you propose to act?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer,
anxious to arrive at a more satisfactory understanding with her hideous
visitor.

“I will tell you,” answered Rily. “I am not known at this coffee-house;
and therefore I came in just now to take some refreshment and read the
paper. I saw you enter, and thought that yours was a countenance which
denoted a soul alive to mischief. That was the impression you made
upon me; for I must tell you that I am a bit of a phrenologist in my
way. However, I had almost ceased to think of you, when I saw you come
rushing out of the bar-parlour and bolt up-stairs like a mad woman.
Then I marked your countenance again--and I was seized with admiration
towards you on account of the horrible expression of your features. I
said to myself that if ever I had beheld a she-fiend, I had seen one
then.”

“I am much obliged to you for the compliment,” observed Mrs. Mortimer,
drily.

“Let me tell my story in my own way, my dear madam,” exclaimed Jack
Rily, with mock politeness. “Well, I saw you bolt up-stairs, and the
landlady after you; and I knew that there must be something queer in
the wind. So I waited quietly reading the paper until the landlady came
down again; and then I went to the bar to pay my money. A question or
two that I put elicited the information that you had been robbed by
two fellows pretending to be officers having a search-warrant; and the
landlady, in her garrulity, gave me a description of those individuals.
One of them--the old man--I know nothing of: he is a complete stranger
to me;--but the other I do know,--and what is more, I owe him a
grudge--it matters not why or for what. I thereupon told the landlady
that I thought I could help you in the matter; and before she had time
to make any answer, I rushed up to your room to introduce myself to
your notice.”

“Now I begin to understand you, Mr. Rily,” said the old woman. “You are
acquainted with one of the robbers--you probably know his haunts--and
you have a spite to vent upon him. Is this it?”

“Just so,” answered the burglar. “You must also learn that the reading
which I had of your countenance convinced me that I might with safety
tell you who and what I am: because I never have any child’s play in
the business I am engaged in. If you want to get back your money, you
must put confidence in me and act as I tell you; and the only way to
make you trust me, is to let you know my real character. You see in me,
then, a cracksman and a prig: but I am stanch to the back-bone amongst
pals.”

“And on what terms do you propose to aid me?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.

“How much have these fellows robbed you of?” asked Rily.

The old woman hesitated for a few moments: she knew not whether it
were prudent to tell the truth to her new friend, who so deliberately
announced himself as a gentleman exercising a profession which could
not possibly be characterised by any particular scruples or punctilios.

“Well--just as you like, ma’am,” said Jack, rising from his seat. “By
declaring on to the swag,[16] I may get my reglars[17] from the two
prigs, whom I can easily trace out; and therefore, if you are afraid to
trust me, I shall be off at once. In this case, mind, you will never
see a penny of the money you have lost.”

“Stay, Mr. Rily--stay!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, who perfectly
comprehended the man’s meaning, which was to the effect that he _might_
obtain some of the booty for himself without her co-operation; whereas
she could not recover a shilling unless assisted by him.

The burglar coolly reseated himself.

“You asked me of how much I was robbed?” she said, interrogatively.

“Yes,” was the laconic response.

“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” observed Mrs. Mortimer.

“My stars! is it possible?” exclaimed Rily, his horrible countenance
expanding with delight.

“It is the truth, I can assure you,” rejoined the old woman.

“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” repeated the burglar, in a slow
and measured tone, as if to prolong the enjoyment of the sweet music
which the mention of such a sum made for his auricular sense.

“It is a serious loss--is it not?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, anxiously
watching his countenance, its expression denoting hope--nay, even
indicating a certainty of success in the endeavour to recover the
amount: but that same tablet of the mind gave no assurance that the
man would act honourably towards her in the end, and content himself
only with a share.

“Five thousand four hundred pounds!” he again repeated, in a musing
tone. “Yes--’tis a serious loss! The recovery, however, would be two
thousand seven hundred a-piece: would that suit you?” he demanded,
turning abruptly towards her.

“What?” she said, affecting not to comprehend the question.

“Will you agree to give me one half of the sum, if I recover the
whole?” asked Rily. “That is plain English, I believe--and now it
depends on you whether our conversation shall be prolonged or not.”

“Yes--I will cheerfully give you one half,” returned Mrs. Mortimer,
making up her mind to keep to the bargain only in the case of her
inability to depart from it with safety to herself.

“Well and good,” resumed Rily. “I must now inform you that the tall
fellow who was with the old man is one of the most noted cracksmen
in London--a desperate ruffian, who would think no more of shooting
a person through the head than of eating his dinner. What his real
name is, I don’t know--I never heard--although he and I have been
acquainted for years past: but he is called _Vitriol Bob_, from a
little peculiarity which he has introduced into _his_ professional mode
of doing business.”

“I do not catch your meaning,” said Mrs. Mortimer--though not without
a shudder; for she _did_ entertain a vague suspicion of the frightful
origin of that singular pseudonym.

“I’ll explain myself more fully, ma’am,” returned the Doctor, “since
we have all the day before us, and may chatter a bit to while away
the time. You see that the individual of whom we are speaking,
has an awkward knack of lurking about in bye-streets and secluded
neighbourhoods, to way-lay gentlemen who happen to have gold chains
hanging over their waistcoats or out of their fobs: for those little
articles are pretty faithful evidences that the purses of such folks
are not entirely empty. Well, in case of a struggle, our friend is
apt to break a phial of vitriol over the face of his opponent, so
that he may get away, and also that the said opponent may be blinded,
and unable to identify him on any future occasion. Hence his name of
_Vitriol Bob_; and such is the terror he has inspired throughout the
districts of Kennington, Camberwell, Peckham, and thereabouts, that the
moment any gentleman returning home from a party or from the tavern
hears the ominous sound of ‘_Your money or your eyes_,’ he exclaims,
‘_Don’t throw the vitriol, and I’ll give up everything_.’”

“Is this possible?” cried Mrs. Mortimer, with a shudder that was colder
and more perceptible than the former one.

“Oh! quite possible, ma’am, I can assure you,” said the Doctor, calmly.
“You shall see Vitriol Bob to-night--and then judge for yourself
whether he looks like a fellow who could do such a thing, or not. A
more hang-dog countenance you never saw in your life. I know that I am
not particularly handsome,” he added with a horrible grin and leer:
“but I don’t look quite such a bravo as he does.”

Mrs. Mortimer thought that if Vitriol Bob were more hideous in outward
appearance than Jack Rily, he must be frightful indeed.

“This is the chap we shall have to deal with to-night,” continued the
burglar; “and therefore, as you perceive, we must go well prepared to
play the game properly. Who his companion is in the robbery, I can’t
make out----”

“But I know,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, hastily: “he is a
poor--weak--emaciated--nervous old man, whom I will undertake to subdue
and even bind with cords in a few moments. Oh! he shall find me a very
tiger-cat let loose upon him!” she added, her countenance suddenly
expressing a hyena-like ferocity.

“Now you do seem handsome--royally handsome--although in reality you
are so infernally ugly!” exclaimed Jack Rily. “That is the way in which
I like to see a woman look. Why--perdition seize me! but I could almost
love you. What a splendid couple we should make!”

And the idea tickled the wretch’s fancy to such an extent, that he
laughed until the tears streamed from his yellow eyes, and ran down his
dark countenance, while his hare-lip opened so wide that all his upper
teeth--large, perfect, white, and even--were displayed to the gums.

“Cease this disgusting mirth, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, unable to
restrain her feelings: for--ugly, criminal, and morally degraded as she
knew herself to be--the observations of the monster and his consequent
hilarity outraged her cruelly.

“Come--come; we must not be bad friends,” said Jack Rily, extending
his huge palm towards the old woman, who proffered her hand in return
through fear of offending the wretch that had become too useful for
her to lose him until the contemplated business should have been
accomplished. “There--that’s right,” he added, as he shook her hand
with a violence that made her wince: “now there is no ill-feeling
between us. But really you must pardon me for what I said, and
also forbear from taking offence so easily should I fall into such
remarks again. For, look you, madam,--I do not care about female
beauty--neither is old age disgusting to me. What I admire in a woman
is her disposition--her _mind_: and when I see you flaring up like a
hell-rat--when I behold you waxing infuriate as a beldame--I love you
better than if you was the most lovely virgin on the face of the earth.
However--enough of that----”

“Enough indeed!” cried Mrs. Mortimer, who experienced the most
ineffable repugnance--the most profound loathing for the monster that
thus dinned his hideous idiosyncrasies in her ears: but, veiling her
abhorrence as much as she could, she said, “And now, perhaps, you will
have the goodness to inform me how you intend to proceed in order to
recover this large sum of money.”

“The explanation is simple enough,” responded the Doctor. “Vitriol Bob
has a particular haunt--a certain lurking-hole, not a hundred miles
from here; and I happen to know where the place is. In fact, Bob and I
have been pals for a long, long time----”

“I thought you told me just now that you had a spite against him?”
interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, fixing her eyes keenly upon the Doctor, as
if to read the secrets of his inmost soul and learn whether he were
deceiving her.

“Ah! you may look, ma’am--and look as searchingly as you like,”
exclaimed Jack Rily, who understood what was passing in her mind: “but
you won’t find me out in any contradiction--nor yet to telling you
any lies. I said that Vitriol Bob and I had been friends for a long
time--and I said truly. But that doesn’t prevent me from having a
hankering to be avenged for a trick he played me, and which he does
not think I even suspect. The fact is, we robbed a house together;
and Bob in ransacking a chest of drawers, got hold of a bag full of
sovereigns. He stuck to them, and never uttered a word about them when
we afterwards divided the swag. I found it out through an advertisement
that appeared in the papers offering a reward for the apprehension
of the burglars, and specifying the things stolen. He never saw that
advertisement, I know; and I did not tell him of it. I however swore to
have my turn against him sooner or later;--and I bided my time. That
time is now come--and I shall let him know it before many hours are
over his head.”

“But are you certain that you can find him? and, even supposing that
you do succeed in tracing him to his lurking-hole, how do you know that
the old man will be there also?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.

“There is no tracing out Vitriol Bob in the matter,” exclaimed Jack
Rily. “The moment he has committed a robbery, he always goes straight
to his usual haunt, and remains there for a few days till the storm
has blown over. As a mere precaution, he will compel his pal--this
old man--to go with him; because if the latter was taken up by the
Detectives, he might be induced to peach against Bob--and all that.
So I am sure we shall find them together: unless, indeed,” added the
Doctor, in a tone of diminishing confidence,--“unless, I say, the old
man knows that you dare not raise a hue and cry touching this robbery.”

“On the contrary,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, “that old man, whose name
is Torrens, has every reason to believe that I would persecute him
with the most implacable vengeance which a human being is capable of
experiencing or inflicting.”

“So much the better!” cried Jack Rily, grinning joyously: “in this case
we are sure of our prey.”

“And is the game to be played by violence, or by cunning?” asked Mrs.
Mortimer.

“By violence, my good lady--by violence, to be sure!” responded
the burglar, his eyes glowing savagely, with their ominous yellow
lustre--as if the orbs of a tiger were glaring upon the woman: and,
though the gorgeous sun-light was flooding the small chamber with
its golden haze, still shone that yellow lustre apart--distinct--and
sinister.

“By violence?” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, awful thoughts relative to
Vitriol Bob’s peculiar mode of proceeding rushing in upon her soul.

“How can it be done otherwise?” demanded Jack Rily. “When I first came
up to you just now, I was going to propose to enlist in the service a
pal of mine--and of Vitriol Bob’s also--who would aid and assist: but
then he would require his thirds as a matter of course. Since, however,
you have informed me that Bob’s companion in the robbery is an old,
emaciated, feeble man, and that you can master him by yourself, you and
I will keep the business in our own hands. I will undertake to tackle
Vitriol Bob, if you will make sure of the other.”

“And supposing that your opponent should overpower you?” said Mrs.
Mortimer.

“I will take care that he does not,” returned Rily. “Trust me to subdue
him----”

“And without bloodshed?” observed the old woman, shuddering--for,
depraved and wicked as she was, she grew cold and her heart sank within
her at the idea of murder.

“Come, if you’re squeamish, you had better abandon the project and
leave it all to me,” said the Doctor. “If Vitriol Bob should place my
life in danger, at that moment he is a dead man. Self-preservation,
ma’am, is the first law of nature. At the same time, I shall not kill
_him_, unless it is to save _myself_: of this you may be assured.”

The old woman remained silent for some moments. Should she embark
in an enterprise so replete with danger?--should she incur the risk
of becoming an accomplice in a murder? She trembled at the thought:
and yet her money--the money that she had come over to England to
obtain--would be totally lost to her were she to shrink from the
endeavour to recover it. It was true that, even if it were regained,
one half would pass into the hands of a stranger: but was it not better
to return to Paris with two thousand seven hundred pounds in her
pocket, than with an empty purse? The stake was worth venturing;--and
her indecision vanished.

“I am _not_ squeamish in the matter,” she said at length. “Our bargain
and our arrangements hold good in all respects. That villain Torrens
shall not have the laugh against me: on the contrary, I must be avenged
upon him!”

“There!--now you are my fine old hyena--my adorable tiger-cat, once
again!” cried the Doctor. “I long to see you pounce upon old Torrens,
as you call him; and I would give the best five years of my life,
could I endow you with a complete set of claws, instead of those
comparatively harmless finger-nails! Wouldn’t you tear his eyes out of
his head? wouldn’t you strike them deep into his flesh? Do you know
that Satan will obtain a glorious acquisition when the time comes for
him to make a fiend of you?”

And again the monster’s horrible hilarity rang through the little
chamber, as he threw himself back in the chair and laughed with the
most savage heartiness.

“For mercy’s sake! cease this unnatural gaiety,” exclaimed the old
woman, scarcely able to subdue her rage.

“Oh! I must laugh,” cried the wretch, sputtering through his frightful
hare-lip,--“if it is only to make you look as ferocious as you do now.”

Mrs. Mortimer turned towards the window with disgust; and the wretch’s
mirth died away in guttural sounds.

“Come, now--I told you that you must not be angry with me, madam,”
he said, at length. “It is my nature to laugh heartily at times--and
surely you won’t check such an innocent propensity. But I will take my
leave of you now; and at half-past ten to-night we must meet at some
place as near Stamford Street as you choose.”

“Where shall it be?” asked the old woman. “Name the spot--and I shall
be punctual to the moment.”

“There is a narrow lane running along the side of Christ Church
burial-ground,” responded the burglar, after a few moments’ reflection:
“it leads from the Blackfriars Road into Collingwood Street----I
suppose you know London well----”

“Oh! perfectly. Go on,” said Mrs. Mortimer.

“Well--we will meet in that crooked lane at half-past ten exactly,”
continued Jack Rily. “By the by,” he added, rising from his chair,
“you had better tell the landlady down stairs that you found out I
could do nothing for you, and that you have resigned yourself to put up
with your loss. It will prevent her from suspecting anything queer on
account of your going out so late and remaining away an hour or so.”

“Leave that to me,” replied Mrs. Mortimer: “I shall know how to make
all the excuses that are necessary. Indeed, if we are successful, I
shall not return again to this place,” she observed, sinking her voice
to a low whisper.

“Well--that is your business. And now good-bye for the present: at
half-past ten we meet in the place appointed.”

Mrs. Mortimer spoke a few words of assent; and the Doctor took his
departure, bestowing upon the woman a familiar nod, accompanied by
a grin and a leer, before he crossed the threshold and closed the
chamber-door behind him.

When Mrs. Mortimer was left alone, she began to ponder deeply upon the
particulars of this interview which had just terminated.

The man knew the hiding-place where it was presumed that Vitriol Bob
and Torrens had taken refuge; and it was doubtless some cellar or
dangerous place, where a crime might be committed with impunity, as
well as where the perpetrators of crime might conceal themselves.
Then, what guarantee had she that Rily would not make her his victim,
after availing himself of her services in subduing the plunderers and
recovering the stolen treasure?

She shuddered as she thought of the peril into which she was about to
precipitate herself: she trembled from head to foot as she pondered
upon the desperate character of the man who was to be her companion in
the night’s enterprise.

And yet--in spite of his revolting ugliness and his avowal of a dark
career of turpitude--there was something like fairness in his speech
respecting a partner in any enterprise in which he might be engaged:
moreover, had he not shown, by the mere fact of the spite which he
cherished against Vitriol Bob, that his ideas of the honour that ought
to prevail even amongst thieves, were of a fixed and positive nature?
Lastly, had he not stipulated upon the precise amount that he was
to retain for his services? And would he be thus minute and nice in
details, if he cherished the intention of self-appropriating the whole?

These arguments, which Mrs. Mortimer seriously revolved in her mind,
may not perhaps appear very convincing nor very satisfactory to the
reader; for, after all, they were only so many suppositions placed in
juxta-position with the atrocious character of an avowed desperado. But
let it be remembered that we often reason ourselves into what we _wish_
to believe, rather than into what we _ought_ to believe; and we tutor
our minds to put faith in those opinions that best suit our interests
rather than our safety. This is like “hoping against hope:” still it
is a general characteristic of human nature; and Mrs. Mortimer’s case
proved no exception to the general rule.

In fine, she came to the conclusion that Jack Rily was a monstrous
rogue in respect to the world, but an honest man towards his pals--that
he would strip society, were society a single individual, of its
last shirt, but would not lay his finger on the costliest robe if on
the back of an accomplice--and that he meant to act, with regard to
herself, in the fairest way possible.

Whether her expectations were fulfilled, will shortly appear.

We cannot, however, close this chapter without recording a few comments
upon that extraordinary disposition in human nature to reason one-self
into the belief which one wishes to adopt, to the repudiation of that
which one ought to adopt. For instance, the man who is floundering
about in a perfect morass of pecuniary troubles, from which he cannot
possibly see any chance of emerging, incessantly dins in his own mental
ears the most absurd sophisms to convince himself that his position
is not so desperate as it appears. “Well, something must turn up,” he
says: “things are sure to take a turn soon. I can get Jones to renew
the bill which he holds of mine, when it becomes due--Tomkins will
hold his bill over for a few weeks--and Brown will lend me the money
to satisfy Smith.” In this manner does the poor devil go on with his
castle-building, until he can no longer blow from his imagination’s
pipe another soap-bubble wherewith to amuse himself. Jones positively
refuses to renew--Tomkins proves inexorable in his demand for
instantaneous payment--Brown, having heard of his difficulties, will
not lend him a farthing--and Smith, anything but satisfied, puts a
clencher on the whole through the medium of the sheriffs’-officer.
Then, when the self-deluded wretch awakes from his dream, on finding
himself in gaol or on his way to the Bankruptcy Court, he says to
himself in the bitterness of his spirit, “I always knew it would come
to this!”--although for years he had been straining every effort of the
imagination to lull his mind into a contrary belief!

In the same way does the bashful lover, who has not as yet proposed
to the object of his affections, but who nevertheless longs to do so,
yet fears, because he has seen her smile more sweetly upon a handsomer
youth than ever she did on him,--in the same way does he strive to
persuade himself that she _does_ really love him--that he has observed
stealthy glances cast from her brilliant eyes towards him--that her
hand has trembled in his own--that her voice has faltered when she has
responded to his common-place remarks upon the weather, the opera,
and the new novel--that it is a mere flirtation between herself and
the _other_ handsome youth,--in fine, that she is dying to receive
the proposal which he has not the courage to make. And in this manner
does he tutor himself to lead a life of “pleasing pain,” though all
the while aware that the sorest misgivings lie at the bottom of his
heart, beneath the superstructure of delusive hopes and fond imaginings
which perforce he has conjured up there. Then, when at last he hears
from some kind friend that the beautiful Miss So-and-so was married
yesterday morning to the handsome young gentleman whom she had loved
all along, the self-deluded wretch exclaims, “Ah! I never thought that
she cared a fig for _me_!”

But worse--oh! far worse is it with the criminal! Let us take, for
instance, the confidential clerk, who, for the sake of a mistress or
through love of fine clothes and ostentatious display amongst his
acquaintances, pilfers from his master’s till. At first his peculations
were small and insignificant; but, being undiscovered, he grows bolder
and more deeply guilty,--while he endeavours to reason himself out of
the agonising fears that haunt him day and night--pursue him like the
spectres of murdered victims--and turn his wine into gall, and the
sweets of Beauty’s lip into bitterness. “It is impossible that I can
be detected,” he mentally exclaims a thousand times in an hour: “my
precautions are so well devised. In a large business such as this, a
few shillings are not missed. Besides, I so arrange the entries in
the books that the expenditure and the receipts are proportionate.
My employer, too, is kinder towards me than ever: I possess his
confidence--not for an instant would he suspect me! And even if I were
found out,--not that I can be,--but, I say, even if I were, he would
not suffer me to be disgraced--he would hush it up: he would never let
_me_ be dragged into the felon’s dock.” Thus will the infatuated being
reason on, although he sees that his master _is_ growing cold in his
manner, and that there _is_ a suspicion of foul play somewhere,--until
at length the explosion takes place--the self-deluded mortal is hurried
to a felon’s gaol--his employer proves inveterate and inexorable--he
is doomed to transportation--and in the convict-ship he exclaims in
terrible anguish of mind, while writhing as if in mortal agony upon his
hard pallet, “Fool that I was not to have stopped short while it was
yet time: for I always foresaw that this must inevitably be the end of
it all!”

Gentle reader--never against your own settled convictions endeavour to
set up a fabric of delusion: you may at length succeed in throwing the
former into the background, and persuading yourself to believe that the
latter is a substantial truth;--but you will in the long run discover
to your cost that you have stepped out of the broad and straight
highroad to flounder amidst the perils of an interminable bog.




CHAPTER CLXXII.

A MAIDEN’S FIRST LOVE.


The day, the incidents of which we are describing, and which are so
numerous and diversified, was destined to be a memorable one in the
life of Agnes Vernon.

The young maiden, on abruptly quitting Mrs. Mortimer, returned to the
cottage; and, seating herself at the table in the elegant parlour,
she arranged her drawing materials with the intention of continuing a
landscape which she had commenced a few days previously.

But she was unsettled and restless: new sensations stole upon her--new
feelings were excited in her bosom.

The solitude of the cottage suddenly appeared to be irksome; and she
felt discontented with her condition--she knew not why.

Laying down her pencil, she rose from her seat, approached the window,
and gazed forth upon the open country.

A carriage passed by: in it were two young ladies and two young
gentlemen--and they were all in high spirits, conversing cheerfully and
laughing gaily. Agnes sighed--for the thought struck her that she too
might be happy, and she too might laugh gaily, if she only had friends
and companions!

Presently a lady and gentleman, each on horseback, passed along the
road in front of the cottage. They were proceeding at a very gentle
pace, and were engaged in conversation. The veil was raised from the
fair Amazon’s countenance, and was thrown back over her riding-hat;
her cheeks were blooming with a carnation tinge, and her eyes were
bent with melting tenderness on her companion, whose face was turned
towards her, and whose language was doubtless pleasing to her ears.
The countenance of that lady indicated such real pleasure--denoted
such pure and genuine happiness, that again did a sigh escape from the
bosom of Agnes Vernon, as she marvelled why she herself was retained
in the prisonage of solitude, while other maidens of her own age had
their acquaintances and their associates, and were allowed to divert
themselves in walking or riding about the rural lanes and the roads
that stretched amidst the green fields.

Never before had anything in the form of repining--never until this
time had a sentiment partaking of discontent, arisen in the breast
of Agnes Vernon. She endeavoured to conquer the feeling: she turned
away from the window and played with a beautiful canary bird that
fluttered from its perch towards the front of its handsome cage the
moment she approached it;--but its chirping sounded no longer as sweet
music in her ears--and, in the natural goodness of her gentle soul,
she reproached herself for her indifference to the joyous testimonials
offered by the little feathered chorister to its mistress.

She resumed her seat, and once more directed her attention to her
drawing: but she felt in no humour for an employment that until now was
amongst her most favourite recreations. Closing her portfolio, she took
up “Ivanhoe,” in order to read the concluding pages of the tale: she
however found her thoughts speedily wandering to other subjects,--the
letter of Lord William Trevelyan--the discourse of Mrs. Mortimer--and
the abrupt termination of her interview with that female. Throwing
aside the book, she seated herself at the piano, and ran her taper
fingers over the keys: but the music had no cheering influence upon
her--produced no soothing effect on her restless soul.

Vexed and annoyed with herself for what she could not help, and almost
alarmed at the change which had come over her, despite of her exertions
to the contrary, the bewildered maiden returned to the garden and
gathered fresh flowers wherewith to fill the vases in the parlour:
but the tulip seemed less beautiful, the rose less fragrant, and the
pink less sweet than she had ever before known them;--and her task was
accomplished hurriedly and even neglectfully.

At length she sought an arbour in the most shady and retired part of
the garden; and there--alone with her own thoughts--she fell into a
profound reverie upon her secluded life, the mystery that enveloped her
condition, the letter of Lord William Trevelyan, and the explanations
that Mrs. Mortimer had given her respecting the passion of love.

For, oh! the gentle Agnes loved now:--hence this restlessness--hence
this change which had come upon her!

She did not blame herself for the part she had enacted in respect
to Trevelyan’s letter: her conscience told her that she had behaved
with prudence and propriety;--but she was grieved to think that any
words which had fallen from the lips of Mrs. Mortimer should have cast
suspicion upon the sincerity of the individual who had penned the
contents of that missive.

Then she thought within herself that perhaps the old woman had deceived
her--that Trevelyan could not possibly empower his messenger to
contradict with her lips the assurances he had committed to paper!

“Did he not say in his letter that he sought no secresy nor concealment
in respect to my father?” she asked herself, in the course of her
musings: “how, then, could he prompt his agent to enjoin the necessity
of such secresy and such concealment? Ah! she has deceived _me_--and I
have wronged _him_!”

A feeling of bitterness smote the tender heart of Agnes as she came to
this conclusion: but, in the course of a few moments, the idea struck
her that if Lord William Trevelyan received a faithful report of the
particulars of her interview with Mrs. Mortimer that morning, he would
recognise the propriety of her conduct in returning the letter.

But, ah! had she not bade Mrs. Mortimer desire the young nobleman to
think no more of Agnes Vernon?--and might he not obey the injunction?

Poor, innocent Agnes! thine own love is as yet only in its infancy--and
therefore thou comprehendest not the extent of that devotion which
Trevelyan’s bosom harbours with regard to thee! Although within the
space of a few hours thou hast learnt thy first lesson in the school
of love, and though thy mental vision has obtained some insight into
the mysteries of that passion which has at length shed its influence
on thee,--although a portion of the veil has fallen from thine eyes,
and thou canst now read more of the human heart than ever thou could’st
before,--nevertheless, it is but a nascent flame--a germinating
affection that animates thee,--a feeling as yet vague and undefinable:
for thou art still so much the child of natural simplicity and artless
ingenuousness, that thou canst not entertain a conception of the
lasting and persevering nature of love;--thou knowest not enough of its
essence and its power to initiate in thine imagination the thought that
Trevelyan would no more heed thine injunction, even if it reached his
ears, than the tempest will obey the human voice which dares to order
its fury to subside!

For some hours did the beauteous Agnes remain in the arbour, plunged in
love’s first reverie; and when the pretty housemaid appeared to inform
her that dinner was served up, Miss Vernon started from the seat,
exclaiming, “Is it possible that it can be four o’clock? I did not
suppose that it was more than an hour past mid-day?”

Jane cast a look of surprise upon her mistress--but said nothing; and
almost immediately afterwards the servant ceased to remember that
there had been anything peculiar in the young lady’s manner--for Agnes
composed her countenance, recalled her scattered thoughts, and hurried
back to the cottage,--so that this very haste on her part was mistaken
by the domestic for her usual gleesomeness of disposition.

The afternoon repast was soon disposed of; and Agnes returned to the
garden, where she roamed about until the hour of sunset approached. The
evening was warm and beautiful--the air was fragrant with the perfume
of the flowers--and the hum of insect life was heard around. The scene
had a soothing effect upon the young maiden’s soul; and, though she
was wearied, she was unwilling as yet to return to the cottage. She
felt less lonely in the spacious garden than she should be, as she well
knew, in that parlour where she had vainly endeavoured in the morning
to divert herself with her drawings, her music, and her books.

We know not how it was--but more than once during this evening ramble
in her garden, did Agnes Vernon pass by that very spot where she had
stood in the morning when held in conversation with Mrs. Mortimer.
Those who love, or who have loved, will probably assert that it was
the influence of some vague and undefined hope which thus occasionally
directed the maiden’s footsteps thither,--a hope which nature prompted,
although thus dimly, and in spite of the virgin purity and immaculate
candour of her soul,--a hope, in fine, which whispered, softly as
zephyr’s breath, in her ear, that Trevelyan’s messenger _might_ return
with an assurance from him that no instructions which he had given to
that emissary in any way militated against the honourable, frank, and
straightforward declarations contained in his letter.

And now, then, behold the beauteous Agnes standing on the very spot
where in the morning she had read the letter that first awoke a
scintillation of love’s fire in her bosom: behold her, motionless as
a statue, amidst the foliage of that secluded part of the garden--her
white dress delineating the soft and graceful outlines of her
symmetrical form--and the rays of the sun, now low in the western
horizon, playing upon her angelic countenance, as they penetrated
through the trees that skirted the lane overlooked by the hedge.

Suddenly the maiden starts and listens--like the timid roe disturbed in
the forest by a far-off sound resembling the bay of the hound.

The noise of wheels and of horses’ hoofs falls upon her ear: nearer and
nearer that noise approaches--the vehicle is evidently coming down the
lane!

Yet why does her heart palpitate?--why seems it like the fluttering
bird in its cage? Is it an unusual thing for a carriage or a cart to
pass that way? No: but there is in the maiden’s soul a presentiment
that the occurrence _now_ is not altogether unconnected with her
destinies.

The sounds cease: the vehicle, whatever it may be, has stopped--and
silence once more reigns around.

The sun is sinking lower and lower in the western horizon: yet it is
still quite light;--but the ruddy lustre of the setting orb imparts a
deep autumnal hue to the foliage--brings out into bolder relief the
ripening apples, the yellow pears, and the crimson cherries that gem
the boughs with their fruitage--and imparts a delicate glow to the
beauteous countenance of the young lady, as, with lips apart and in
attitude of suspense, she listens to catch the slightest sound that may
indicate the approach of a human being.

And now there is a rustling as of silk and a tread as of light
footsteps; and Agnes, who, in consequence of the surface of the garden
being much higher than the lane on the other side of the hedge, can
look over that verdant boundary,--Agnes beholds a lady advancing
rapidly down the narrow thoroughfare.

A feeling of disappointment seizes upon her: she sees that it is not
Mrs. Mortimer--and something tells her that Trevelyan would not employ
another female emissary.

[Illustration]

Then it strikes her that she ought to rejoice that no farther progress
should be made in the young nobleman’s suit during her father’s
absence; and she feels that she has done wrong even to remain standing
in that spot under the influence of a contrary expectation and of a
tender though dimly significant hope.

With a sigh, the beauteous creature is about to turn away and re-enter
the cottage, when,--oh! wonder and amazement!--with renewed suspense
and reviving hope, she hears herself called by her name--called, too,
in the tenderest, most melting tones of a woman’s voice.

“Agnes--dearest Agnes! Stay--oh! stay--if only for a few moments!
Stay--I implore you--beloved girl: you know not who it is that thus
addresses you!”

These words were uttered in a voice of warm and passionate
affection--so that a deep and absorbing interest was at once created
in the bosom of Agnes towards that lady of whose handsome countenance
she had now a full view, and the earnest, appealing expression of whose
features gave additional import to her enthusiastic exclamations.

“Madam--I will stay--I will not depart immediately,” faltered Agnes,
forgetting her father’s injunctions relative to the caution which she
was to exercise in regard to strangers: “but how do you know who I
am?--and who are you?”

“Oh! that she should ask me who I am!” cried the lady, clasping her
hands together in deep anguish. “But how beautiful she is!” exclaimed
the stranger, in an altered and rejoicing tone: “how faithful, too, is
the portrait! Agnes--dearest Agnes--I have much to say to you--much
to impart that you will be delighted to learn: but must we continue
to discourse thus, with this barrier between us? Can you not come to
me?--or will you permit me to come to you? I long--oh! how I long to
embrace you, dear girl that you are; and though we are but a few feet
apart--yet does this garden-boundary separate us most cruelly!”

“Madam--I know not how to answer you,” murmured Agnes, strange
feelings of mingled pleasure, apprehension, and hope agitating in her
heart, as if that heart were a well of deep, inexhaustible, and yet
incomprehensible emotions. “Your words seem to move me more than I can
explain----”

“Yes--Agnes--dear Agnes,” ejaculated the lady, stretching out her arms
in an appealing manner towards the maiden: “’tis the voice of nature
that speaks within you! But you hesitate to trust yourself with me?
Ah! doubtless you have been warned--doubtless you have been urged to
act with caution----Oh! my God--that you should look with an eye of
suspicion upon me!”

And with these words, which were uttered in a tone indicative of the
most acute anguish, the lady burst into a flood of tears.

Agnes stood blanched, and trembling, and speechless,--having a deep
conviction that the lady’s fate was in some way linked with her
own--yet not daring to form a conjecture as to the nature of the tie
that thus mysteriously bound them together. A secret impulse appeared
to urge her towards the weeping stranger; and she felt that were the
arms again extended towards her, and were there no barrier in her way,
she should precipitate herself upon that stranger’s bosom, that they
might mingle their tears together and interchange the sympathies that
already drew them to each other.

“Agnes--dearest Agnes,” exclaimed the lady, suddenly breaking silence
and wiping away the traces of her grief,--speaking, too, in a voice of
heart-touching appeal,--“I implore you to come to me--or to show me how
I may enter those precincts without being observed by the inmates of
the dwelling! But, say--tell me,” she added, a sudden thought striking
her,--“is he--your father--_there_?”

“My father is in Paris,” replied Agnes: “he----”

“Thank God!” ejaculated the stranger, with an enthusiasm that
astonished and even startled the maiden. “But Mrs. Gifford--is she
still alive?--is she still in attendance on you?”

“She is in the house at this moment,” returned Agnes, more and more
surprised at these questions--not only on account of their nature,
which showed that the lady was acquainted with many circumstances
regarding her condition; but also in consequence of the vehemence with
which they were put.

“Then how can I join you in that garden?” demanded the lady, in a tone
of bitter disappointment. “Oh! Agnes, you know not how ardent are the
yearnings--how intense the longings that prompt me even to dash through
this hedge and fold you to my bosom! Cruel girl--keep me not thus in an
agony of suspense; but come--come to my arms--as if I were your mother!”

“My mother!” exclaimed Agnes, in a voice of mingled hope and
amazement--while such indescribable emotions started into existence in
her bosom, that she felt overpowered by their influence, and staggering
back a few paces, would have fallen to the ground had she not leant
against a tree for support.

“Agnes--Agnes!” cried the lady, imploringly: “give not way to thoughts
that will deprive you of your presence of mind--for you need all your
self-possession now! Agnes--dear Agnes--answer me----”

“Who are you? O heaven! such strange ideas--such wild hopes--such
bewildering presentiments crowd upon my soul,” exclaimed the beauteous
maiden, “that I know not how to act nor what to conjecture!”

And, again approaching the hedge, she passed her hand across her brow,
throwing from her face the shower of curls that had fallen in disorder
over that charming countenance--the luxuriant locks having been
disturbed by the movement given to the neat little straw bonnet when
she staggered against the tree.

“You ask me who I am,” said the lady: “oh! pity my suspense--have mercy
upon me--come to my arms--and I will tell you all.”

“Stay there, madam--dear madam,” cried Agnes, without another instant’s
hesitation--so earnest, so pathetic was that last appeal: “and I will
join you at all risks!”




CHAPTER CLXXIII.

HOPES FULFILLED.


Without pausing to reflect upon the step which she was
taking--forgetful of all the injunctions she had received from her
father, and all the promises of prudence and caution which she had made
to him--obedient only to the irresistible impulse of her feelings--as
if nature’s voice rose dominant above a sire’s mandates,--the Recluse
of the Cottage disappeared from the view of the lady, who remained in
the path outside the garden, a prey to the most torturing fear lest the
young maiden should be intercepted by the inmates of the dwelling.

But Agnes was not compelled to pass through the house in order to gain
egress from the premises. From the stable-yard a gate opened into
the lane; and by this avenue did she proceed--so that there was no
necessity to exercise any wariness or precaution. Had the contrary been
the case--had she been compelled to pause in order to reflect how she
was to escape the notice of the servants, her artlessness of character
and purity of soul would have prompted her to wait and reflect whether
she were acting in accordance with her father’s counsels. She would
then have flown straight to consult Mrs. Gifford; and the result would
have been inimical to the hopes and wishes of the lady who was so
anxiously expecting her in the lane.

But as nothing impeded the maiden’s progress, nor forced her to stay
her steps even for a single instant,--the gate being always left open
during the day-time for the convenience of the gardeners, and these
men being engaged in front of the house on the present occasion,--the
current of her thoughts, impelling her towards the lady, received no
hindrance--no check; and in a few moments Agnes was speeding along the
lane, with a heart influenced by emotions of hope, curiosity, suspense,
and wild aspiration.

For that word “Mother”--that dear, delightful word, which had so seldom
fallen on her ears, and which in an instant excited so many pleasurable
reflections--so many ineffable feelings in her soul,--that word which,
as if with electric inspiration, had suddenly opened to her view an
elysium of the affections which she had never known before, and which
gave promises of felicity the holiest and the purest,--that word, so
fraught with the tenderest sympathies to one who had hitherto lived
in a semi-orphan state,--that word it was which exercised a magic
influence upon the maiden--absorbed all other considerations--and
rendered her impatient to hear more from the same lips whence this word
had come.

And yet she could not have accounted, had she paused to search, for
the spring of the excitement that now ruled her actions. It was not
that she cherished the conviction of finding a mother in the lady who
was waiting to embrace her; but she did half suspect that such would be
the case,--and she certainly hoped--oh! most fervently hoped that she
was not destined to experience disappointment. The very artlessness of
her disposition made her sanguine;--and under these influences did she
hasten along.

The lady advanced to meet her;--and in a few moments they were clasped
in each other’s arms.

“My child--my dearest child!” murmured the fond mother, who had indeed
recovered a daughter in Agnes Vernon.

“Oh! Is it possible?” exclaimed the beautiful creature, in an ecstasy
of joy: “is it possible that you are my parent?”

“I am, my beloved Agnes--I am: and heaven can attest that, though
separated from thee since thine infancy, I have never ceased to think
of thee--never ceased to love thee!”

A faintness now came upon Agnes;--and her mother felt that she was
clinging the more firmly to her in a convulsive effort to prevent
herself from falling.

“Lean on me, my child--here--let me sustain you, my darling Agnes!”
cried the lady. “Oh! how happy am I at this moment--with thee in my
arms! But----My God! she faints!”

And the maiden, overcome by her emotions, fell into a state of
insensibility.

The lady carried her in her arms along the lane: great was the strength
which now animated the mother who had just recovered a long-lost
daughter;--and in a few minutes a hackney-coach, that was waiting
higher up the avenue, received the precious burthen.

When Agnes came to herself, she started as if, on waking from a
delicious dream, she feared that it might prove all a delusion: but
when, by the rays of the setting sun which streamed through the open
windows of the vehicle, she beheld the handsome, pleasing, and yet
mournful countenance of her mother bending over her, a glow of joy
suffused the charming creature’s face--and, throwing her arms around
her parent’s neck, she exclaimed, “Oh! tell me that it is not a dream!
assure me once more who you are!”

“I am your mother, Agnes dearest--your own fond and loving mother, who
has languished after you for years, and who will never separate from
you again, unless by your own consent, or through the stern decree of
an iron tyranny! Yes, Agnes--I am your mother;--and, beautiful though
you be, I may without vanity declare that the stamp of nature proclaims
you to be my child?”

“Yes--and my own heart’s emotions assure me that you are indeed my
parent,” said the lovely girl. “But you observed that we should not
part without my consent. Oh! can you suppose, dear mother, that I
should ever ask to leave you--ever seek to separate myself from you?”

“No, my child--I am sure that you will not!” exclaimed the lady. “At
the same time, Agnes,” she added, in a different and mournful tone, “it
is my duty to inform you that if you choose to live with me, you must
resign all hope of seeing your father again--at least for two years----”

“Oh! say not so!” ejaculated Agnes, bursting into tears. “Surely it
must be with my father’s knowledge that you came to see me--that you
are taking me away with you. And yet,” she added, a sudden reminiscence
flashing to her mind, and causing her to start painfully,--“and yet,
I recollect now that I left the garden stealthily--that you urged me
to come round to you in the lane, unperceived by the servants--that
you knew not my father was in Paris. Oh! mother, mother,” cried the
young girl, again interrupting herself, and speaking with a burst
of anguish,--“what does all this mean? Whom am I to obey--you or my
father?--for it is clear to me that in yielding deference to the
counsel of the one, I must prove disobedient to the other!”

“Tranquillise yourself, dearest Agnes--tranquillise yourself, I implore
you!” exclaimed the lady, straining the trembling--almost affrighted
maiden to her breast.

“Ah! dearest mother, when I hear your voice and receive your kisses, I
have no thought save for you,” murmured the young girl. “Oh! and now
your tears fall upon my cheek. Mother--dear mother--forgive me for what
I said ere now--I will obey you--and you only. But do not--do not weep,
my beloved parent!”

“May God Almighty bless you, Agnes!” fervently exclaimed the lady, her
tears streaming in blinding torrents from her eyes.

“Oh! do not weep--I implore you!” cried Agnes, in a tone of the most
tender affection. “Are you unhappy, dear mother? If so, tell me the
cause of your sorrow!”

“I am both happy and unhappy, Agnes,” was the response, almost choked
with sobs. “I experience ineffable pleasure and acute pain, all at the
same moment! But your words soothe me--your voice descends into my
soul like sweet music--your caresses are as a balm to my bruised and
weltering spirit!”

“Dear mother, let me embrace you closer still!” murmured Agnes,
clinging to her parent in that narrow chaise as if there were an
imminent danger of their immediate separation. “But wherefore are you
happy and unhappy at the same time?”

“I am happy because I have this evening recovered you, and thus seen
accomplished the hope of long, long years,” returned the lady; “and I
am unhappy because I fear that some untoward circumstance will part us
again.”

“Oh! what circumstance can part us, dear mother?” asked Agnes, her
bosom filled with vague alarms. “May I not dwell with you, if I
choose--and if you choose to have me with you?”

“Yes--oh! yes, Agnes,” replied her mother, earnestly and in an
impassioned tone. “But will you not pine--when the excitement of these
new feelings shall have passed away,--will you not pine, I say, for
your secluded cottage--your beautiful garden--and--and your father?”
she added, her voice suddenly becoming low and tremulously plaintive.

“What is that lovely cottage--what are the choicest flowers of that
garden, in comparison with thy love, my dearest--dearest mother?”
exclaimed Agnes: “and, oh! if I must decide between you, on the one
hand, and my father on the other----And yet he has been so kind--so
very kind to me--that it goes to my very heart----”

“Agnes--Agnes--you love your father better than me!” exclaimed the
mother, in a voice of the most piercing, rending anguish. “But it is
natural--oh! it is natural--for you never knew me until now--at least
not since your infancy! Yes, it is natural, I say! Oh! fool that I was
to hope that you could love me well enough to consent to dwell beneath
my roof in future! No--no--it is impossible: I see it all, Agnes--you
would be wretched--miserable, were you to part from your father! I
will take you back to your cottage, then, my child--I will leave you
then--and we must separate upon its threshold, never--never to meet
again, perhaps, in this life!”

“No, dearest mother--speak not thus despairingly--or you will kill
me--you will break my heart!” cried Agnes, her voice choking with sobs.
“You are unhappy--and it is my duty to remain with you----Oh! and God
forgive me for saying it, if it be a crime--but--but--it is also my
wish!”

And with these words, the maiden again threw herself upon her mother’s
bosom and wept plenteously, while her arms clasped that parent’s neck
with almost convulsive violence--as if she feared to lose her.

“Now, Agnes, I am happy--oh! supremely happy!” exclaimed the fond
woman. “You will remain with me--and I shall not again submit your
feelings to a painful test by proposing the alternatives which have
already rent your bosom. Listen, however, to me for a short space.
I am a lonely and desolate woman, and have experienced a recent
affliction of an almost overpowering nature. Indeed, I should have
succumbed beneath its weight, had not accident--an accident of a most
extraordinary character--last night revealed to me the place where you
dwelt in such seclusion. Then I suddenly felt that I had something
worth living for--and I came to you this evening, with the hope of
seeing you--yes--and also with the hope of inducing you to accompany
me, that we might dwell together in future. For, oh! Agnes, you cannot
divine how tender--how lasting--how invincible is the love of a mother
for her child. Years and years have passed since I saw you; and I have
pictured to myself my darling daughter growing up in beauty and in
virtue--endowed with elegant accomplishments, and trained in all that
she ought to learn or that would become her--save a knowledge of her
mother! Now, my dearest Agnes, you repay me for that immense--that
boundless love which I have ever cherished for you: now you reward me
for the anxious years--the age of sorrow, as I may term the period
which has elapsed, for me, between your infancy and the present time.
Your father is rich--is possessed of many resources for recreation and
pleasure in the world, which a woman cannot enjoy. He has many, many
friends;--and, deeply though he loves you, he will not miss you so much
as I have missed you, and should miss you still, were you now to be
separated from me. It is, then, a mother who implores her daughter to
give her a daughter’s love--to yield her a daughter’s affection--and
perform towards her a daughter’s duty. All this, my Agnes, I see that
you are prepared to accomplish--even at the sacrifice of your feelings
in respect to your sire. Moreover, that sire has been blessed with
your smiles ever since your birth--or at least has had you under his
guardianship and control: and now--oh! now, am I asking too much when
I beseech you to devote a few years of love to me,--to me who am your
mother--who am unhappy--and who, without you, should now feel so lonely
and desolate that the sooner the cold grave were to close over me, the
better!”

“I will not leave you--I will die sooner!” murmured Agnes, her eyes
streaming and her bosom heaving with convulsive sobs. “But you will not
leave my father--nor that kind and good Mrs. Gifford--in ignorance of
what has become of me?”

“I could not be guilty of such cruelty, my darling child,” responded
the mother. “And now,” she continued, after a rapid glance from the
window of the vehicle, which was at this moment passing by Kennington
Common,--“and now listen again to what I have to say to you. My own
house is in the northern suburb of London; and it is possible that
Mrs. Gifford may be acquainted with the place of my abode. I know not
whether she be; and I should conceive that she is _not_--nevertheless,
there _is_ the possibility, as I observed--and, in that case, she would
adopt measures to tear you from my arms. For this night, then, you must
consent to remain at the house of some ladies of my acquaintance. They
will take care of you--they will be rejoiced to have you with them,
though only for a few hours; and by to-morrow evening I shall have a
dwelling fitted up for our reception. It is my intention to give up
my villa which I now possess--and I know of a sweet cottage, with a
beautiful garden, in the neighbourhood of Bayswater, which I shall
hire at once. All these arrangements can be effected in the course of
to-morrow--for by means of money incredible things are accomplished in
London.”

“Be it as you say, my dear mother,” observed Agnes. “But you will
remain with me this night?--you will not leave me with strangers?” she
exclaimed anxiously.

“Certainly, my child, if you wish it, I will stay with you,” returned
her mother. “Listen, however, to me once again. The friends in whose
care I propose to place you, are two elderly ladles, who will receive
you as the daughter of one whom they sincerely love--for they are as
devoted to me as if I were a near and dear relative, and are acquainted
with much that concerns me. You will be as safe in their charge as if I
myself were with you: for, remember,--by to-morrow night I must have a
home--a good home--prepared for my Agnes,--and it will occupy me until
a late hour _this_ night to make the arrangements for the removal of
all my furniture and other property in the morning. In addition to all
this, Agnes, I should be compelled in any case to return to my house
this evening,--as there may be a communication of importance for me
there,--a communication from a generous friend--noble by nature as well
as by name--and who is interesting himself for me and for _another_----”

“Say no more, my dearest parent,” interrupted Agnes. “I am ready to
obey you in all things and to follow your counsel: but promise to
return and take me away with you as early as you can to-morrow,” she
added imploringly.

“Fear not, my darling Agnes,” replied the mother: “I shall be as
anxious to embrace you to-morrow as you possibly can be to see me.”

While this conversation was in progress between the two ladles in
the hackney-coach, the sun had set--twilight had become absorbed in
the shades of night--but the vehicle was now proceeding along the
Blackfriars-road, which was brilliant with the gas-lamps stretching
away in two approximating lines, and ultimately becoming confounded
together on the arching bridge in the distance.

At length the hackney-coach passed out of the Blackfriars-road into
Stamford-street; and Agnes, looking from the left-hand window, saw
that the three first houses on that side of the way, towards which her
eyes were turned, were in a condition so ruinous and dismantled as to
strike a chill to her susceptible heart. But the unpleasant sensation
almost instantly vanished, when the coach drew up at the door of a
house in excellent repair, and presenting, in outward appearance, a
remarkable contrast to those dilapidated buildings.

Here Agnes and her mother alighted; and the young maiden no longer
thought of the sinister-looking ruins adjoining, when she found herself
in a comfortable parlour, where both herself and parent received a
cordial welcome from two elderly ladies whose benevolent countenances,
agreeable manners, and kind speech were calculated to inspire
confidence at once.

The name of these maiden sisters was Theobald; and they were indeed
possessed of excellent dispositions and endowed with the most amiable
qualities. The moment that Agnes’ mother entered the room, they rose to
embrace her with the warmth of an unfeigned friendship; and even before
the young maiden was introduced to them, they exclaimed, as if suddenly
struck by the same sentiment, “Ah! this is the dear girl whom you have
so long pined to recover? We need not wait to be told that she is your
daughter: the likeness between you proclaims the fact!”

And then they embraced Agnes in her turn.

The young lady’s mother drew the elder Miss Theobald aside, and
said, “I propose to leave my beloved child with you for this night.
Circumstances compel me to return home without delay. I have decided
upon taking your beautiful little villa at Bayswater, and shall
remove all my furniture thither the first thing in the morning. It is
fortunate that the sweet dwelling should have been thus in want of a
tenant at this moment.”

“I am delighted for your sake, my dear friend,” responded Miss
Theobald, “that the villa is unoccupied. We will send one of our
servants at day-break to make all the necessary preparations for your
reception. Oh! how sincerely--how deeply do I congratulate you upon
having recovered your long-lost daughter!” added the kind-hearted
woman, in a tone of profound feeling.

“It is indeed a source of indescribable solace to my wounded spirit,
as you, my dear friend, may well conceive--for you are acquainted with
the principal events of my chequered existence. But I must now depart:
it is growing late--and ere I seek my couch this night, I shall have
arranged everything for my removal to Bayswater to-morrow.”

With these words the lady turned towards Agnes, saying, “My dearest
child, I leave you in the care of these excellent friends, whom it is
only necessary to know in order to love.”

“I feel that I do already love them, my dear mother,” responded the
young maiden, as she threw herself into her parent’s arms.

“Farewell--till to-morrow, my sweet Agnes: soon after mid-day you may
expect me--and the Miss Theobalds can tell you that the new home to
which you are then to accompany me, will leave you nothing to regret in
reference to your own little secluded cottage and beautiful garden in
Surrey.”

“Wherever I may dwell with you, dear mother--there shall I enjoy
contentment,” answered Agnes, tenderly embracing her whom in two short
hours she had thus learnt to love with an affection that seemed to have
existed for years.

“Adieu, my darling child,” murmured the fond mother; and she then took
her departure.

Agnes listened until the sounds of the retreating wheels were no longer
audible--or rather, until they were absorbed in the din of the numerous
vehicles passing in the immediate neighbourhood of the house: and then
a sudden chill seized upon her heart--a damp fell upon her spirits--her
feelings, powerfully excited by the incidents of the day, experienced
a rapid revulsion--and, unable to control her emotions, she burst into
tears.




CHAPTER CLXXIV.

A NIGHT OF TERRORS.


The two ladies hastened to console--or, speaking with greater accuracy,
endeavoured to console the weeping girl. But, although she knew
how friendly disposed they were towards her--although she felt the
full extent of their kindness, and even reproached herself with her
inability to yield to its soothing influence,--yet it seemed as if the
departure of her mother had left her more alone in the world than ever
she was before.

“Dry those tears, my sweet Agnes,” said the elder Miss Theobald,
pressing the maiden’s delicate white hand with cordiality and
tenderness.

“Oh! do not give way to a sorrow for which you have no real cause,”
urged the younger of the two ladies. “A few hours will soon pass, my
dear child, and your fond parent will return.”

But Agnes, though acknowledging by her gestures the kindness of the
sisters, could not subdue her grief; and her sobbing became more
convulsive.

For a tide of conflicting and painful reflections rushed in upon her
soul. She remembered all her father’s goodness towards her--the strong
injunctions he had given her not to hold intercourse with any one who
was not the bearer of a letter from him--and the grief that he would
experience when he heard of her departure. She thought, likewise, of
the terror and dismay which must even already reign at the cottage on
account of her mysterious absence: she beheld, in imagination, the
excellent-hearted Mrs. Gifford and the good-natured Jane inconsolable
at her loss;--and, apart from all these ideas, she now felt certain
misgivings arise in her bosom relative to the step she had taken.
Vainly did she endeavour to persuade herself that, acting by the
counsel and in obedience to the prayers of her mother, she could not
have done wrong: a secret voice appeared to reproach her--an unknown
tongue seemed to whisper ominous things in her ears. Terror gained
upon her; and, under its influence, her grief became less violent. But
her thoughts grew confused--there was a hurry in her brain: she felt
as if she had just awakened from a wild and painful dream, and was
still unable to collect her scattered ideas;--and still amidst that
confusion, flashed, with vivid brightness to her memory, the warning
which her sire had so emphatically given to her respecting the snares
that were set by the wicked to entrap the artless and the innocent. At
length, overcome by the terror which thus rapidly acquired a complete
empire over her soul, and forgetting all that was re-assuring and
consolatory in her present petition, Agnes Vernon fell upon her knees
before the two amazed ladies, exclaiming, as she extended her clasped
hands wildly towards them, “Take me home again to my cottage--take me
home again, I implore you!”

“My dearest child,” said the elder Miss Theobald, accompanying
her soothing words with the tenderest caresses; “what do you
fear?--wherefore do you wish to leave us? Are we not your mother’s
friends?--and can you not persuade yourself to look upon us in the same
light?”

“Oh! yes, madam--I know--I feel that you are my friend--that you wish
me well!” cried Agnes, her apprehensions dissipating, but only to allow
scope for her anguish to burst forth again.

“Why, then, do you thus give way to your grief?” asked Miss Theobald,
raising the young maiden gently, and as gently leading her to a seat.

“I cannot explain my sensations,” sobbed the poor girl: “and yet I feel
very--very unhappy.”

“You have doubtless been much excited this evening, my love,” was
the reply: “but a good night’s rest will tranquillise you. And
remember--you are beneath a friendly roof, and where harm cannot reach
you.”

“But I tremble lest I have done wrong, madam,” exclaimed Agnes. “How is
it that my father ordains one thing, and my mother counsels another?
Oh! I am bewildered with misgivings--I know not what to think, nor how
to act?”

“Are you not pleased at having at length embraced a mother?” said the
younger Miss Theobald, in a tone of gentle reproach.

“Yes--oh! yes!” ejaculated Agnes, fervently: then, in a mournful voice,
she observed, “But I have fled--surreptitiously fled from the home
provided for me by a fond and trusting father!”

The two ladies fully comprehended the nature of the conflicting
thoughts that were agitating in the breast of Agnes Vernon; and they
exchanged rapid glances of mingled sorrow and apprehension. They saw
that on one side was a suddenly awakened and ardent love for a mother;
and that on the other was a sense of the deference and obedience, as
well as of the gratitude, due to an affectionate father. They were,
therefore, filled with regret that family circumstances should have
placed that pure, artless, and innocent girl in a position which
compelled her to balance between the two; and, although they would
have moved heaven and earth to induce her to decide in favour of the
maternal parent, they recognised the difficulty of the task, and
entertained the deepest alarm for its results.

“To-morrow evening, long before this hour, my dear Agnes,” said the
elder of the ladies, “you will be comfortably settled in your new home.
The villa which your mother intends to inhabit at Bayswater, belongs
to my sister and myself. It is a neat little dwelling--neither too
much secluded, nor too near to the neighbouring houses; and a large,
well-cultivated, and delightful garden is attached to it. Then, my
dear child, reflect--remember, that you will possess a constant, a
devoted, and a loving companion in your mother: you will no longer
pass many, many hours--indeed, the greater portion of your time--in
solitude and loneliness, nor be thrown upon the incompatible society of
servants, who, however good in heart and well-intentioned, are not such
associates as you would select of your own free will.”

“Ah! madam--your words console me,” said Agnes, endeavouring to stifle
her sobs. “But how happens it that you should be acquainted with my
late mode of life?”

“I did but guess what that mode of life must have been,” returned Miss
Theobald; “and I see that I was not far wrong. I knew that your father
did not--could not dwell with you entirely--that he could only be a
visitor at your place of abode, wherever it might be--and, therefore, I
naturally conjectured that you were thrown almost completely upon your
own resources.”

“And can you tell me, madam,” asked Miss Vernon, ingenuously, as the
thought suddenly struck her,--“can you tell me how it is that my father
should wish me to dwell under his guardianship only, and my mother
wishes me to rely solely upon her? Or, indeed,” she added, after a few
moments’ pause, “I should rather inquire the reason which prevents my
parents from living together beneath the same roof, and having me with
them? for, according to all the books I have ever read----”

“Ah! my dear Agnes,” interrupted the elder sister, “you would not seek
to penetrate into those mysteries which so unhappily belong to the
destinies of your parents?”

“Oh! no--no--if it be improper for a child to ask an explanation of
such secrets!” exclaimed Miss Vernon, the natural purity of her soul
instantly absorbing the sentiment of curiosity that had prompted her
queries. “And now let me implore your pardon for having testified so
much excitement----”

“It was to be expected, dear child,” said Miss Theobald; “and you
have no pardon to solicit. We are delighted to perceive that you have
at length recovered some degree of calmness. Rest assured that you
will be happy in the society of your mother, whom we have known for
years--yes--many, many years, and whom we love as much as if she were
a near relative. You will be surprised to learn, Agnes, that when you
were a babe, we often fondled you in our arms. Yes: you may regard me
with surprise--but it is nevertheless the fact, that my sister and
myself have frequently--very frequently nursed and dandled you for
hours together.”

“Oh! I was wrong to exhibit so much mistrust and want of confidence
in you just now!” exclaimed Agnes, her affectionate soul being deeply
touched by assurances so well calculated to move her, and which were
indeed strictly consonant with truth.

“Think not of what has gone by, my dear child,” said the younger
sister. “We make all possible allowances for the excited state of your
mind; and we sincerely hope, as we believe, that happiness awaits you.
But it is growing late; and you doubtless stand in need of refreshment
ere you retire to rest.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, she rang the bell; and the
servant was ordered to bring in the supper-tray. Agnes was in no
humour to partake of the meal: indeed, she was in that state of mind
when the individual rather loathes the idea of eating, through a total
suspension of the appetite. But so delicate were the attentions of the
kind-hearted sisters, and so persevering were they in their endeavours
to render their guest as much “at home” as possible, that Agnes sate
down with them to table; and, if she scarcely ate anything, yet her
spirits revived somewhat from the sociable nature of the evening
repast.

It was a little after eleven when the Misses Theobald conducted the
young lady to the bedchamber which had been prepared for her reception;
and, having embraced her affectionately, the good sisters left her, as
they hoped, to the enjoyment of that repose of which they knew she must
stand much in need.

The moment she found herself alone, the maiden felt unpleasant thoughts
returning to her mind; and, in order to escape from them, if possible,
she began to lay aside her apparel with unwonted haste. Everything
necessary for her toilette had been provided; and the chamber, which
was at the back of the house and on the second floor, was elegantly
furnished--having an air of comfort that would have been duly
appreciated by one in a more settled state of mind than was the amiable
girl at the time. In a few minutes she retired to rest; and, contrary
to her expectation, sleep soon fell upon her eye-lids--for she was worn
out and exhausted by the exciting incidents of the day.

Her dreams were not, however, of a tranquillising description.

In the first place, she fancied that she was roving in her garden, and
that she beheld Lord William Trevelyan approaching down the lane. In
a few moments he stood by her side; though how he passed the verdant
boundary was not quite clear to her. She did not retreat,--yet she
felt that she ought to retire: but her feet were rivetted to the
ground;--and when he took her hand, the same unknown and invisible
influence which nailed her to the spot, forbade her to withdraw that
hand which trembled in his own. Then she imagined that the young
nobleman began to address her in a style similar to the contents of
his letter: she cast down her eyes--she felt herself blushing--and,
though she knew that she ought to retreat, she nevertheless listened
with emotions of pleasure never experienced before. He pressed her to
be allowed to visit her again; and she was raising her eyes bashfully
towards his countenance, to read his sincerity in his looks, ere she
murmured the affirmative reply that already trembled upon her tongue,
when she was suddenly shocked to perceive a marvellous and signal
change taking place in him. His face grew wrinkled--the handsome
features became distorted and frightful--his clothes took another
appearance--and, as she gazed upon him in speechless wonder and alarm,
she saw standing in his place a hideous old woman, whom she at length
recognised as Mrs. Mortimer. Agnes strove to cry out--but could not:
a spell was upon her lips;--and the harridan’s eyes glared upon her
with savage malignity. The maiden felt herself sinking in terror to the
ground--when the whole scene experienced a sudden variation; and she
was now in the parlour of the cottage, with her father seated by her
side.

Neither was this second dream of a tranquillising description.

Agnes fancied that her sire was angry with her--that he uttered
reproaches for a disobedience of which she had been guilty. At first
she could not comprehend the nature of the offence that had entailed
upon her this vituperation, and rendered her father’s manner so
unusually severe towards her--but at last it flashed to her mind that
she had been incautious in receiving at the cottage evil-intentioned
visitors;--and then she suddenly found her father engaged in a violent
dispute with Mrs. Mortimer, whose countenance seemed more than ever
hideous and revolting. How this dispute originated, or how Mrs.
Mortimer had got into the room, Agnes knew not: there she however
was--and the quarrel waxed warmer and warmer. At length the old woman
took her departure: but ere the door closed behind her, she turned
on Agnes a look of such fiend-like malignity, that a shriek would
have expressed the young maiden’s affright, had not her lips been
mysteriously sealed. When the harridan had disappeared, Mr. Vernon
renewed his reproaches; and Agnes fancied that, on falling on her knees
in the presence of her sire to demand pardon, he spurned her from
him--upbraided her with her disobedience and ingratitude--and warned
her, in a tone of solemnly prophetic meaning, that her readiness to
repose confidence in strangers would bring down some terrible calamity
on her head. She was about to promise never more to prove guilty of
the disobedience which had elicited all these reproaches and produced
all that unwonted harshness on her father’s part, when a third person
appeared on the scene;--and this third person was her mother!

But this new dream which now visited the sleeping maiden, was not of a
tranquillising description.

She fancied that an earnest appeal was now made to her on either side,
placing her in the difficult and most distressing condition of a child
who had to decide as to which of her parents she would cling to, and
which abandon. Here was her father, reminding her of all he had done
for her: there was her mother, proclaiming herself to be unhappy and
to need the society and solace of her daughter. On her right hand
stood the sire whom she had always known: on her left was the maternal
parent whom she had never known before. The countenance of the former
expressed misgivings amounting almost to despair: that of the latter
was bathed in tears, and indicative of all the agonies of a cruel
suspense. Agnes felt that her heart was rent by this scene; and yet
it appeared to her that she was bound to decide, and that promptly,
in one way or the other. She looked towards her father; and he held
out his arms to receive her--his countenance assuming an expression so
profoundly wretched that it seemed to say, “If I lose you, I lose all I
love or care for on earth.” She turned towards her mother, in order to
breathe a last farewell, for that she must accompany her father,--when
she beheld her maternal parent on her knees, and extending her clasped
hands imploringly, while the pale but beauteous face indicated that
life or death was in the decision which was about to be pronounced.
Agnes could not resist this earnest--silently eloquent appeal on the
part of a mother who had proclaimed herself to be unhappy; and the
maiden fancied that she threw herself into that mother’s arms. A cry
of misery burst from her father’s lips; and Agnes awoke with a wild
start,--awoke, to feel her entire frame quaking convulsively, and her
heart palpitating with alarming violence.

For a few moments--nay, for nearly a minute, she lay stretched upon
her back, endeavouring to compel her thoughts to settle themselves in
their proper places, so that she might attain the assurance whether she
had just beheld realities, or had only been the victim of distressing
dreams;--and when she was enabled to arrive at the latter conclusion,
she started up in her bed, exclaiming, “Nevertheless, this is more than
I can endure!”

Then came the consciousness of where she was, and why she was
there,--how she had fled from the home that her father had provided
for her, and in spite of all his solemn injunctions and prudential
warnings,--how her mother had left her in a strange place, and with
persons who were strangers to her,--and how Mrs. Gifford would be
certain to send to Paris without delay and communicate the afflicting
tidings to Mr. Vernon.

The maiden’s brain reeled, as these thoughts flashed through it;--and
at this moment, when her senses appeared to be leaving her, the clock
of Christ Church, in the Blackfriars-road, proclaimed the hour of _one_!

The sound came booming--rolling--vibrating through the air, like a
solemn warning: at least, so it seemed to the disordered fancy of Agnes
Vernon;--and, with feelings worked up to an intolerable pitch, she
leapt from her couch.

To obtain a light was an easy matter--for the necessary materials were
at hand; and when the flame burst from the tip of the lucifer match,
Agnes cast a hurried and affrighted glance around, as if she dreaded
to meet some hideous countenance or horrible form in the chamber. Not
that she was naturally timid: no--far from it;--her very innocence and
purity rendered her courageous on ordinary occasions. But she was now
under the influence of emotions powerfully wrung--of feelings strained
to an unusual tension;--and she had no control over her imagination,
which was disordered and excited.

One idea dominated all the rest. This was to escape from the house--to
escape, at any hazard and at all risks. Not for worlds, she thought,
could she return to that bed where such distressing visions had rent
her soul;--and she could not pass the rest of the night alone, and in
a strange place. No: she must return to the cottage--retrace her way
to the home which her father had provided for her--and endeavour to
reach that friendly threshold in time to prevent Mrs. Gifford from
transmitting to her sire the news of her disobedience.

But her mother! Oh! she should see that parent again--she would explain
everything--and perhaps arrangements might be made to suit the views
and accomplish the happiness of all! In the mean time, however, she
must escape--she must return home,--she could not endure the idea
of remaining another hour--no--nor even a minute longer than was
necessary--in that stranger-dwelling!

With lightning speed did all these thoughts,--or rather glimpses of
thoughts--for they were too brief, too fleetingly vivid, to deserve
the name of reflections--pass through the maiden’s mind, as she threw
on her apparel with a congenial haste; and in three minutes she was
dressed. Her bonnet was in the parlour below: but that she could take
on her way out of the house--or she cared not if she did not find it at
all. She would escape in any case, and at all events; and if she could
not find a vehicle to convey her home--she would walk, although she
might have to ask her way at every step. For Agnes had worked herself
up to a pitch of desperation: a fearful panic was upon her;--she knew
not, neither did she pause to ask in her own soul, why she longed
so ardently to fly from that house:--an irresistible and almost
incomprehensible influence urged her on--and the hurry of her actions
was in accordance with the hurry of her brain.

Her hair was flowing over her shoulders: she just waited a moment--a
single moment, to fasten it up in a large knot behind; and then, taking
the light in her hand, she stole noiselessly down the stairs.

A profound silence--a silence which her footsteps disturbed
not--reigned throughout the house.

All, save the affrighted--half-maddened girl, slept.

She gained the hall--she endeavoured to enter the parlour to procure
her bonnet: but the door was closed--and she now remembered that the
elder Miss Theobald had taken the key with her when they had all
quitted that room for the night.

But we have already said that Agnes cared not for the bonnet;--and
without bestowing a second thought on the matter, she approached the
front-door. Alas! there was a more serious disappointment still--the
key of that door had likewise been taken up stairs.

An expression of bitter vexation passed over the pale countenance of
the maiden--an expression more bitter than that beauteous countenance
had ever before worn: but, in another instant, it was succeeded by
something like a gleam of hope and joy,--for Agnes bethought her that
there was a yard at the back of the house--she had seen it, in the
moonlight, from her bed-room window--and there might be a means of
egress in that direction.

Cautiously descending the stairs leading into the kitchens, which were
below the level of the street, she hastened to the back-door, which, to
her joy, proved only to be bolted.

Oh! now she would escape--she would escape, even if she were forced to
climb a wall and enter the enclosure belonging to a neighbouring house:
for, with the excitement occasioned by her present proceedings, the
panic influence which urged her on acquired fresh power every moment.

Extinguishing the light, she left the candlestick in the house, and
then emerged into the yard.

The fresh air, as it fanned her face, seemed to breathe whispering
promises of freedom, and gave her renewed courage.

The moon was shining gloriously; and as she cast a glance of rapid
survey around, she beheld the backs of the dilapidated houses the
fronts of which had struck her with such sinister effect when she first
entered Stamford Street, in the hackney-coach, in the evening.

There was no mode of egress from the yard save by scaling the boundary
walls, which were low on either side.

Not an instant did Agnes hesitate: the fittings of a water-butt served
as a ladder for her delicate feet;--and, behold! the sylph-like form
of the maiden passes nimbly and lightly over the wall, into the yard
belonging to the ruined house next door: for it strikes her that egress
by means of an uninhabited building must be certain beyond all risk or
doubt.

The moon-light streams, with silvery rays, upon the sombre walls--the
dark window-frames, with the blackened fragments of glass remaining
in them--the back-door hanging crazily and loosely on its hinges--and
the rust-eaten bars of the back-kitchen window. The yard is overgrown
with rank grass, reaching above the ankles; and the ground is ragged
and uneven--the chances of tripping being moreover multiplied by the
brick-bats and the broken bottles scattered about.

[Illustration]

The ruined aspect of the house and the long-neglected condition of the
yard, or small garden as it once was, behind the building, constituted
a scene of desolation, and conveyed an impression of utter loneliness
to the mind of the young lady that made her shrink back for a moment
as she placed her hand on the rusty latch of the crazy door leading
into the lower premises. And seemed she not the sprite of some maiden
who had been foully dealt with in that gloomy, tomb-like place, and
whose unquiet ghost came to haunt the scene where her blood had been
ruthlessly spilt and her mortal remains lay concealed in unconsecrated
ground? Yes--such she indeed appeared, with her ashy pale face--her
white dress, rendered whiter still by the moonbeams that played upon
it--and her long dark hair which, having become loosened in the act
of scaling the wall, now flowed all wildly and dishevelled over her
shoulders!

We said that she hesitated for a moment to push her way into the dark
and ruined building, wrapped as it was in sepulchral silence: but the
dominant influence which had hitherto impelled her, asserted its empire
once again; and, thrusting open the door, which was by no means a
difficult matter--she entered the dilapidated house.

A chill struck to her heart and a vague terror seized upon her, as
she now plunged, as it were, out of the pure moonlight into the utter
darkness of those premises: but, subduing her fears, she advanced a few
paces, with her arms extended so as to grope for the stairs.

Her right hand encountered the bannisters, which were loose and crazy,
and raised a rattling noise as she grasped them: no longer alarmed,
however, but feeling that the means of escape were gained, she was
about to ascend the steps, when a door suddenly opened immediately
in front of her--a light appeared--and the rays of the candle
thus abruptly thrust forth revealed a countenance so hideous--so
monster-like, that for a few moments Agnes stood transfixed in
speechless horror--stupified--paralysed--motionless as a marble statue.

And glaring with horror also, were the eyeballs whose rivetted looks
met her own: then a loud, hoarse, and affrighted voice exclaimed, “The
ghost! the ghost!”--and the light, dropping suddenly on the ground, was
immediately extinguished.

A piercing shriek burst from the lips of Agnes; and she fell senseless
at the foot of the stairs.




CHAPTER CLXXV.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE IN STAMFORD STREET.


We must now carry our narrative backward for a few hours, in order to
explain the incident which has just been described.

At the corner of Stamford Street and the Blackfriars Road, there are
three houses in a most dismantled and dilapidated condition. They seem
to have been ravaged by fire; but time and neglect have in reality
produced that deplorable appearance. The walls are blackened with
accumulated dirt; and the state of the windows bears unequivocal
evidence to the fact that every pane has been broken, individually and
separately, by stones flung from the streets by vagabond boys or other
mischievous persons. The fragments of glass that remain, seem as if
the material never could have been transparent, but had even in its
manufacture been stained with an inky dye; and the shutters wherewith
the casements are closed inside, are equally blackened, as if by a
smoke as dense as that which proceeds from the funnel of a steam-packet
or the chimney of a factory.

For the last twenty years have these three houses been thus left
to fall into ruin: for the fifth part of a century has the work of
dilapidation and decay been going on! That they were once habited is
evident from the fact that the blinds, pulled up round their rollers,
still remain--but so begrimed with black dust and dirt that it is
scarcely possible to believe they were ever white. The cords used
to pull them down, with the tassels at the end, are likewise still
there, and totally discoloured also. Very mournful is the aspect
of those ruined tenements, with these indications that they once
were comfortable dwellings,--that cheerful fires once burnt in the
grates--that lights streamed from the casements in years gone by--and
that the walls echoed to the gay pealing laughter of merry children!

Desolate--desolate, indeed, are the three houses,--a disfigurement
to the entire vicinity, and having an appearance well calculated to
throw a damp upon the spirits even of the most strong-minded of the
neighbours.

There is something picturesque in the aspect which ruins in the open
country--perhaps on the summit of a hill--assume from gradual decay;
because there the ivy grows upon the walls, and the naked hideousness
of dilapidation is concealed by the invasion of a wilderness of shrubs
and sweets. But when the golden rays of a summer sun pour upon the
blackened walls and shattered casements of houses in the midst of a
populous city,--houses which have dwelling-places adjoining them and
all around,--the effect is sombre, sad, and sinister in the extreme.

Such is the impression produced by those three houses in
Stamford-street. Not that the street itself is otherwise cheerful in
aspect: on the contrary, the entire thoroughfare stretching between the
Blackfriars and Waterloo Roads, is gloomy and inhospitable in aspect.
The exterior of the houses has a dinginess of wall and a darkness
of window that are unrelieved by the aristocratic grandeur and the
richness of curtains inside, which characterise the rows of smoke-dyed
dwellings in more fashionable quarters.

The inhabitants of Stamford Street are amazingly prone to the letting
of lodgings, when they can find any persons willing to take them. But
that such pliant and easily-persuaded tenants are rare in that quarter,
is proved to demonstration by the numbers of cards and bills in the
windows announcing furnished apartments to let.

It is a curious study, and one that affords matter for speculation,
to examine the cards and bills thus displayed. Some are written in a
neat feminine hand, so small that the passer-by must protrude his head
far over the railings to enable his vision to decipher the delicate
announcements: others are penned in a bold, coarse hand--and, in them,
the chances are ten to one that the word _let_ is spelt with a double
t;--while others, again, are printed in the types which the experienced
eye has no difficulty in tracing to Peel’s famed establishment in the
New Cut.

More than half of Stamford Street constantly appears to let; and,
from all accounts, landlords experience no trifling difficulty in
collecting the rents from the occupants of their houses. If you pass
along Stamford Street just before quarter-day, and at a very early
hour in the morning, or at a late hour in the night, you will be sure
to perceive several vans loading with furniture; for the habit of
“moon-shining it,” or flitting surreptitiously, is unfortunately of
frequent occurrence in that district.

But these are not the only indications that the affairs of the
inhabitants and lodgers in Stamford Street are far from being in
the most blooming condition: the fact may also be gathered from the
careworn countenance of the tax-gatherer as he leaves a fresh notice
at every door, and from the common occurrence of the water being cut
off. Nor less does the Poor Rates’ collector feel his task to be a most
unpleasant one; while the tradesmen in the Blackfriars Road wonder, as
they look over their ledgers, what the deuce Stamford Street is coming
to. Visitors are frequently answered from the area--an unmistakeable
precaution against the intrusion of sheriff’s officers; and even when
the butcher delivers in his meat or the baker his bread at the front
door, the chain is in many instances kept up.

Such is the prevalent state of affairs in the long thoroughfare
which we have thus briefly described: but it is with the dilapidated
houses--or rather with one of them--that we have now to occupy
ourselves.

As soon as it was dusk, two men emerged from the miserable rookery
constituted by the district of Broad Wall; and, entering Stamford
Street, they proceeded stealthily along until they reached the ruined
house which was next to the dwelling of the Misses Theobald. One of
the men--a tall, stout, ruffian-like fellow, whom we shall presently
describe more particularly--took a key from his pocket and opened the
door of the dilapidated tenement, into which he hastily entered, his
companion closely following him. We should however observe that this
ingress was effected at a moment when no other persons were near; and
that the door was opened and shut in a noiseless manner, so that no
sound might reach the ears of the occupants of the adjacent dwelling.

“Now give us your hand, old feller,” said the ruffian-like individual,
when they were safe inside the passage: “because the stairs is summut
broke away, and the bannisters isn’t to be trusted. Lord! how you
tremble! Why--what the hell are you afeard on?”

“Nothing--nothing, my good friend,” was the answer, delivered in a
nervous tone: “only--it’s--it’s--so--very--very--dark.”

“Dark!” cried the ruffian, with a hoarse laugh: “why, it wery often
_is_ dark in a house at night-time, and where there’s no candle alight.
But p’raps you’re afeard of ghosteses,” he continued, as he dragged
rather than led the nervous old man down the crazy, rotting stairs
towards the lower region of the place: “and if so, you’re in the right
quarters to see a speret--for they do say the young gal which was
murdered here, walks in her shroud;--but, for my part, I never see
her--and I han’t got no fear of that sort.”

By the time these words were uttered, in a tone of coarse jocularity,
the ruffian had conducted his companion to the bottom of the stairs;
and, halting at that point, he struck a lucifer-match against the wall,
and lighted a piece of candle which he took from his pocket.

He then led the way into the front kitchen of the house, bidding the
old man close the door behind him.

The place was black all over with accumulated dust and dirt: the
ceiling appeared as if it had been originally painted a sable hue; and
the floor, broken in several parts, conveyed the same impression. The
shelves above the dresser were in a most dilapidated condition; and the
dense cob-webs clung to them, as well as to the corners of the ceiling,
like masses of rotten rags. The shutters were closed; and over their
entire surface were pasted sheets of thick brown paper--evidently to
prevent the light of candles from peeping through their chinks and
being noticed in the street. There was an old ricketty table in the
middle of the kitchen: there were likewise two chairs, which, being
made of a tough wood, had withstood the ravages of time; and an empty
beer-barrel was placed upright near the table, as if it occasionally
served as a third seat.

The ruffian stuck the candle in the neck of a bottle; and, opening
one of the dresser-drawers, he drew forth a bottle and a couple of
small tumblers:--then, placing himself on the barrel, he proceeded
in a leisurely manner to light his pipe, while the old man--his
companion--sank, nervous and trembling, into one of the Windsor-chairs.

The reader has no doubt already guessed that these two individuals were
Vitriol Bob and Torrens;--and, if so, the surmise is correct.

The latter person needs no description; but the former character must
be more elaborately dealt with on the present occasion. He was indeed,
as Jack Rily had represented him, one of the greatest miscreants that
ever disgraced humanity,--not only in reality, but also in personal
appearance. Of tall stature, athletic frame, and muscular build, he
possessed vast physical strength. He was about thirty-six years of
age: his countenance was naturally ugly even to repulsiveness--but
huge black whiskers meeting under his chin, rendered it positively
ferocious;--and the small, dark, reptile-like eyes glared from beneath
thick, overhanging brows. His lips were remarkably coarse and of a
livid hue; and his nose, broken in the middle, had a deep indentation,
giving an appearance of death’s-head flatness to the broad countenance.
His apparel consisted of a seedy suit of black--a hat with very wide
brims bent even to slouching--and a pair of heavy Wellington boots; and
in his hand he carried a thick stick with a huge nob at one end and a
massive ferrule at the other. This was his “life-preserver;” but he
seldom had occasion to use it--for his proceedings were usually of the
savage and diabolical nature described by the Doctor, and whence he
derived the appellation of _Vitriol Bob_.

This terrible individual was well known to the police: but those
functionaries trembled at the idea of molesting him. They would have
experienced no such dread had his defensive weapons been confined to
life-preservers or pistols: but there was something so horrible in the
thought of having a bottle of burning, blinding fluid broken over the
countenance, that the officers shuddered at the bare idea of tackling
Vitriol Bob. Thus, whenever information was given of some nefarious
deed which he had attempted or perpetrated, the police took very good
care to search for him where they knew he was not to be found; and if
they even met him in one of the bye-streets or obscure alleys on the
Surrey side of the metropolis--the quarter which he chiefly honoured
with his presence--they were suddenly seized with an inclination to
look stedfastly into a picture-shop, or gaze up abstractedly at the
sky, until he had passed.

Vitriol Bob knew that he was an object of terror to the functionaries
of justice in general: but he was also well aware that there were
exceptions to the rule, and that amongst so large a body as the
police-force, some few individuals would pounce upon him at all risks.
In fact, the impunity he enjoyed was not so completely assured as to
render precaution unnecessary; and there was moreover such a thing as
being taken by surprise. For these reasons he accordingly made use of
one of the “haunted houses,”--for so they were denominated,--as a place
of concealment whenever he had committed a deed calculated to lead to
the institution of unpleasant enquiries.

Such was the individual whom we now find in company with Torrens; and
the circumstance that threw them together in the first instance, will
presently transpire through the medium of the conversation that took
place as soon as they were seated in the kitchen of the haunted house.

“Well, here we are safe at last, old feller,” cried Vitriol Bob,
puffing deliberately at his pipe, as if he savoured deliciously the
soothing influences of the tobacco. “By goles! it is one of the best
larks I ever was engaged in. Such a lot of tin, and so easily got!”

“Two thousand seven hundred a piece--eh?” said Torrens, eyeing his
companion with nervous suspense, as if he were eager to assure himself
that a fair and equitable division of the booty would take place.

“Hah!” observed the ruffian, in a complacent manner, as he filled
the two tumblers with brandy from the black bottle: “drink!”--and he
emptied one of the glasses at a draught, just as if it were a mere
thimble-full of the fiery liquid. “It was a good job, old feller,” he
continued, after a short pause, “that you fell in with such a prime
chap as I am--or rayther, it was fortnit that I lodged in the same
house, and as I came in heard you moaning and groaning away in your
cellar. It was also lucky that you let me worm out of you all that had
happened--although you was precious chary of making a confidant of me.
You remember that I couldn’t believe you at fust--I looked on you as a
perfect madman. Thinks I to myself, ‘_There’s a precious lu-nattic just
’scaped out of Bedlam_:’ for how was I to fancy that you’d raly been
robbed of such an amount, living in a cellar as you was!”

“But you believed me at last--you saw that it was all true and
correct,” exclaimed Torrens, perceiving that it suited the man’s humour
to talk on the subject.

“Well, I did,” returned Vitriol Bob: “and now,” he added, tapping his
breeches pockets significantly, “I have got plenty of proof that you
didn’t tell no lies. But, Lord bless ye! you could have done nothink
without me: you would have sat down quietly under your loss. But I
told you that I’d find the old voman out, if so be she was in London
at all; and so I did. The description you gave me of her was not to
be mistaken--’specially by a genelman of eggs-sperience like myself.
I went about all over London, looking for her; and then, behold ye!
arter all she’s living within a stone’s throw of us, as one may say.
By goles! I never shall forget how my heart jumped in my buzzim when I
clapped eyes on her yesterday, as she came out of the coffee-house: but
you don’t know how I found out that she actiwaliy lived there?”

“No--I do not,” said Torrens, observing that his companion bent upon
him a look of mysterious importance, as much as to invite a query
that should furnish him with the opportunity of giving an explanation
relative to the point alluded to. “How did it happen, then?”

“Why, when I see the old voman come out of the coffee-house, I
went straight away to my blewen--that’s Pig-faced Polly, as she’s
called--and I tells her to go to the place, take tea and toast, and
wait till she found out whether the old voman lived there, or not.
But I orders Polly not to make inquiries, for fear of eggs-citing
suspicion. Well, my gal did as I told her--and waited, and waited a
good long time; and when she’d had three teas and four or five buttered
toastesses, she see the old voman come in, and she hears the landlady
come out and say, ‘_Here’s your key, Mrs. Mortimer_.’ Then up goes Mrs.
Mortimer--for such her name seems to be--to her room; and Pig-faced
Poll returns to me with the hintelligence. I knowed that my game was
now safe enough; and it was me which dewised the plan of our going as
officers with a search-warrant, when we’d watched the old voman leave
the coffee-house this morning.”

“Yes--yes: I know that you did it all,” said Torrens, terribly alarmed
lest he who experienced the lion’s share of the trouble, should now
claim the lion’s share of the booty. “But how long shall we be obliged
to remain here? I am in a hurry to get away--with my share--my fair
share of my own money----”

“Your own money, indeed!” ejaculated Vitriol Bob, with a chuckling
laugh. “Was it your’n when Mother Mortimer had it safe in her own box?
And I should just like to know how you fust come by it? Not honestly,
I’ll swear, old feller. Such a seedy-looking cove, living in such a way
as you was, couldn’t have got near upon six thousand pound by wot’s
called legitimate means. But that’s neether here nor there: I don’t
care two figs how you got the tin--and if I ask no questions, I shan’t
have no lies told me. Von thing is wery certain--that I’ve got it now.”

“But--but--you surely--my dear friend--you--” stammered Torrens,
absolutely aghast at the idea, of still remaining a beggar.

“Come, let’s have no more of this drivelling nonsense,” interrupted
Vitriol Bob, in a tone of unmitigated contempt: then, as he refilled
and relighted his pipe, be observed, “Why, you have been in a fidget
and a stew all day, ever since we secured the swag at the coffee-house.
Don’t you see, my dear feller, that people in our sitiwations must act
with somethink like common prudence? The old voman may rouse hell’s
delight about her loss; and that was why I thought we’d better keep
ourselves scarce for a time. So I made you stay close with me at the
flash lodging-ken in the Mint all the arternoon till it was dusk; and
then I brought you here. And here,” added Vitriol Bob, “we are safe
enow: ’cos only Pig-faced Poll, Jack Rily, and one or two others of my
pals knows anythink about this place being my haunt when I’m afeard of
getting into trouble;--and there’s no danger of them splitting on us.
So far from that, the Pig-faced will be sure to come here presently,
when she finds I don’t wisit her own quarters this evening; and she’ll
bring a basket of prog along with her--so that we shall have a jolly
good supper in due time. Drink, old feller!”

Thus speaking, the ruffian refilled his own tumbler, and pushed the
brandy bottle across the dirty table to Torrens, who did not, however,
touch it--for his glass was only half emptied; and he experienced such
lively sensations of alarm, that he felt as if his brain were reeling
and his intellects were leaving him.

There he was--a feeble, helpless, weak old man, entirely in the power
of an individual whom he knew to be of the most desperate character,
but with whom he had joined in companionship only through the hope of
recovering at least one-half of that treasure to gain which, in the
first instance, he had imbrued his hands in blood. There he was--alone
with that miscreant, in a place the aspect of which was sufficient
to fill his attenuated soul with the gloomiest thoughts and the most
melancholy forebodings,--alone with a demon in human shape, in a ruined
and desolate tenement, to augment the cheerless influence of which
superstition had lent its aid,--alone with a very fiend, in a haunt the
ominous features of which were dimly shadowed forth and rendered more
hideous by the dull, glimmering light of the solitary candle with its
long wick and its sickly flame.

“Well--what are you thinking of?--and why don’t you drink?” were
the words which, suddenly falling on the old man’s ears after a
pause, awoke him as it were from a lethargy--a lethargy, however,
in which the mind had been painfully active, though the body was
motionless--petrified!

“I--I--was wondering how long we should have to remain here,” stammered
Torrens, starting as if shaken by a strong spasm or moved by an
electric shock.

“I asked you the question just now--and--and you did not give me a
reply.”

“Well--it all depends, my fine feller,” answered Vitriol Bob. “Three or
four days, perhaps----”

“Three or four days!” almost shrieked Torrens. “I shall die if I linger
so long in this horrible place!”

“Die, indeed!” ejaculated the ruffian, in a contemptuous tone. “Why,
Lord bless you--I’ve stayed here for three veeks at a time, afore
now--without ever budging out. Not be able to linger, as you call it,
in this comfortable crib--smoke and drink all day long--or drink only,
if you don’t like smoking--and sleep in one of them Windsor-cheers as
cozie as a bug in a rug! Besides, won’t you have me for a companion----”

“No--no: I can not--will not endure it!” exclaimed Torrens, starting up
from his chair,--his countenance hideous with its workings--his nerves
strung to the most painful state of tension--and a thousand frightful
thoughts rushing in, with the speed and fury of a torrent, upon his
appalled soul.

“Hold your cursed jaw, you fool!” growled Vitriol Bob, in a tone of
sudden rage: “you will be heard in the street--and----”

“I care not!” screamed Torrens, louder than before. “Give me my share
of the money--let me depart----”

“Be quiet, I say!” spoke the ruffian, in a still more irritated voice,
while he sprang from his seat on the barrel; “or I shall do you a
mischief.”

“I care not!” again cried Torrens--and again his tone grew still more
piercing and shriekingly hysterical; for he was wrought up to a state
of utter despair. “Give me my money, I say--give me----”

“Fool--be still!” exclaimed Vitriol Bob, rushing round the table, and
grasping the old man by the throat.

But Torrens, inspired with a sudden strength that astonished the
ruffian, broke away from his gripe, and rushed towards the door, crying
“Murder--murder!”

“Damnation!” thundered Bob; and bounding after him, he sprang upon the
old man with the fury and the force of a tiger.

“Murder!” again yelled the affrighted, desperate Torrens: but in
another instant he was dashed violently against the wall.

A moan succeeded his agonising cry--and he fell heavily upon the
floor. Vitriol Bob then jumped upon him--and the attenuated form of
the wretched old man writhed beneath the heavy feet of the murderous
ruffian.

There was a faint and stifling appeal for “Mercy! mercy!”--but the
miscreant silenced it with a ferocious stamp of his heel on the mouth
of the dying man;--and in a few moments all was over!

Vitriol Bob was now alone, in the gloomy, cheerless place, with the
crushed and disfigured corpse of him whom he had literally trampled to
death.

But scarcely was the deed accomplished, when a noise, as of gravel
thrown from the street against the kitchen window, fell upon the
ears of the murderer, whose countenance instantly expanded into an
expression of grim delight at the well-known signal.

“Here’s Pig-faced Poll!” he exclaimed hastily: and then he paused to
listen again.

At the expiration of about a minute the signal was repeated; and
Vitriol Bob, no longer harbouring the slightest doubt, hurried up the
stairs to open the street-door.




CHAPTER CLXXVI.

SCENES IN THE HAUNTED HOUSE.


At five-and-twenty minutes past ten, on this eventful night, Mrs.
Mortimer entered the narrow lane leading from the Blackfriars Road into
Collingwood Street.

We have already stated that she had persuaded herself into a belief
of Jack Rily’s fidelity towards his partner or pal in any enterprise:
nevertheless, she could not help wishing that the business in hand was
over--and she mentally exclaimed more than once, as she threaded the
lane, “Would that to-morrow morning were come!” But she had such a
powerful inducement to proceed in the affair at any risk, that the idea
of retreating was discarded each time it faintly suggested itself; and
when Jack Rily made his appearance, punctually to an instant, she felt
her courage worked up to such a pitch that it was difficult to decide
whether it arose from entire confidence or utter desperation.

“So, here you are, my fine old tiger-cat,” said the doctor, grasping
her hand, with a force that might have been very friendly, but was not
the less painful on that account. “I thought you would not flinch:
indeed, I made sure you’d come to the scratch.”

“What have I to be afraid of--since you are so sure of being able
to overpower the wretch whom you call Vitriol Bob!” demanded Mrs.
Mortimer, in a firm tone. “I have already told you that I will
undertake to manage the villain Torrens.”

“I long to see you grapple with him,” returned the doctor. “But we
must not waste time in idle observations. Listen, my good lady, to our
plan of proceeding. Vitriol Bob has a female acquaintance called Molly
Calvert--or, in more familiar terms, Pig-faced Poll. This young woman
knows his haunt--knows also the signals necessary to induce him to open
the door. Besides, whenever he’s missing, she goes straight there, with
a basket of provisions and what not--because she naturally suspects
that he has done something queer and has found it convenient to make
himself scarce. Well--you must be Pig-faced Poll for the nonce----”

“I understand you,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer. “It is for me to give
the signal and obtain admission----”

“Just so, my dear madam--and for us both--because if ever Molly Calvert
and I go there together, it’s always the young woman herself who
whispers a word of assurance to Vitriol Bob when he opens the door.”

“But suppose that the young woman you speak of, has already repaired to
the robber’s haunt--suppose that she is already with him----”

“Now don’t take Jack Rily for an arrant fool!” said the ruffian; and,
dark though it were in the narrow lane where this colloquy took place,
Mrs. Mortimer could see the huge white teeth of her companion gleaming
through the opening of his horrid hare-lip. “I know what I am about,”
he continued. “Lord bless you! do you think I have been idle since I
saw you this morning? No such thing! I went straight away to Molly
Calvert, and made her send out for a bottle of gin. She is uncommonly
fond of blue ruin--particularly when she drinks at another person’s
expense; and as she drank this afternoon at mine, she did not spare it.
In a word, I left her in such a helpless state of intoxication, that
if she moves off her bed before two or three o’clock in the morning,
then tell Jack Rily he is a fool and incapable of managing any business
whatsoever.”

“I give you all possible credit for sagacity and forethought,” said
Mrs. Mortimer, purposely flattering the ruffian. “Well, then, the young
woman you speak of is placed in a condition which will render her
incapable of interfering with our proceedings; and I must personate her
for a moment or two, just to obtain admission into the home.”

“_Personate her_ is scarcely the term, my dear madam,” answered Jack
Rily: “because if Vitriol Bob only caught a glimpse of you by the
neighbouring lamp-light, he would know deuced well that it was not
the Pig-faced who sought admission. But it is a mere matter of _vocal
stratagem_, if you understand me.”

“Speak plainly and briefly,” said Mrs. Mortimer, with some degree of
sharpness in her tone.

“I will put it all into a nut-shell,” responded Jack Rily: then, with
rapid utterance but impressive enunciation, he continued:--“The first
signal is made by throwing a little gravel at a certain window; but,
as that might be accidental, it is necessary to repeat it at the
expiration of a minute or so. In a few seconds afterwards Vitriol Bob
will open the front door as far as the chain inside will permit--and
that is barely an inch: you must then immediately whisper, ‘_It’s me
and the Doctor_,’ and the door will be instantly opened wide, Bob
standing behind it. You pass rapidly in--and I’m at your heels; and
as the passage and the stairs leading down to the kitchen are as dark
as pitch, he won’t observe that it is _not_ Molly Calvert whom he has
admitted into the house. Now, mind, you must walk straight along the
passage, and gain the stairs--and all this without any hesitation,
but with an apparent knowledge of the premises. Go rapidly down the
stairs, and you will then see a light straight before you. That will
be in the front kitchen--and there you are certain to find Torrens.
Spring upon him--tackle him desperately: there will not be a minute to
lose--because the moment you appear in his presence, he will recognise
you--he will utter a cry--and that must be the signal for the fight.
Vitriol Bob will be just behind me--and----”

“You will assail him at the instant that I pounce upon Torrens?” said
the old woman, with a bitter malignity in her tone, as she already
gloated in anticipation upon the vengeance which she hoped to wreak
upon her husband.

“Perform your part, ma’am--do all I have told you,” observed Jack Rily;
“and leave the rest to me. And now are you ready?”

“Quite,” was the reply. “In which direction do we proceed?”

“The house is in Stamford Street,” answered the Doctor. “But you had
now better follow me at a short distance.”

With these words, the man turned round, and proceeded along the narrow
lane into the Blackfriars Road, up which he wended his way until he
reached the corner of Stamford Street, where he looked back to satisfy
himself that Mrs. Mortimer was in his track. He beheld her, by the
light of the lamps, at a short distance behind; and, turning into
Stamford Street, he was duly followed by her. Halting for a moment, he
stooped down, gathered a few small pebbles from the side of the road
joining the kerb-stone, and threw them at a window in the area of the
dilapidated house which stood third from the corner. He then walked on
a few paces, picked up some more little stones and hard crusted dirt,
and turning back, met Mrs. Mortimer just opposite the house alluded
to. The second volley was discharged at the window; and then they both
stationed themselves at the door of the tenement, Mrs. Mortimer being
placed in the most convenient position to give an answer to any summons
that might issue from within.

The door was opened an inch or two; and the old woman, feigning the
tone of a younger female, whispered hastily, “It’s me and the Doctor.”
Thereupon the chain fell inside, and the door was opened half-way,
Vitriol Bob standing behind it.

Mrs. Mortimer passed hastily in, followed by Jack Rily; and Vitriol
Bob, closing the door noiselessly, readjusted the chain.

“Take care, Poll,” he said, in a hoarse and low tone: “don’t be in such
a devil of a hurry to get down them stairs--’cos there’s somethink in
the door-way of the kitchen that you might stumble over.”

“What is it, Bob?” demanded Jack Rily, hastily; for inasmuch as the
real truth flashed to his mind in an instant, he feared lest Mrs.
Mortimer should likewise suspect the fact, and, being thrown off her
guard, betray herself by some sudden exclamation.

“What is it?--why, a stiff ’un,” responded Vitriol Bob, with a
chuckling laugh which sounded horribly in the midst of the total
darkness that prevailed in the passage and on the stairs. “I s’pose
Poll has let you into the business, since you’ve come along with her,”
continued the man; “and though I don’t see what right she had to tell
you anythink about it, I ain’t sorry you have come--’cos you can help
me to bury the old feller, and you shall have your reglars.”

Mrs. Mortimer now fully comprehended that Torrens had been murdered;
and an appalling dread seized upon her--for she felt that she was
completely in the power of two diabolical ruffians, who were as capable
of assassinating her as one had already been to make away with her
husband.

A faintness came over her--and she staggered against the wall for
support; when Jack Rily, in answer to Vitriol Bob’s last observations,
said, “Oh! Poll didn’t tell me a single word about any business that
you had in hand: but as I met her quite by accident and suspected she
was coming here, I forced myself, as one may say, upon her company--for
I thought you’d be glad to see an old pal, if you was under a cloud.”

These words instantaneously re-assured Mrs. Mortimer. She comprehended
that her confederate had uttered them, too, for that purpose; and it
flashed to her mind that he only wanted to get Vitriol Bob down into
the lower part of the house in order to make an attack upon him. She
accordingly recovered her self-possession, and rapidly groped her way
to the bottom of the stairs, when a feeble light, glimmering from the
kitchen, showed her a sinister object lying just inside the threshold.

The blood ran cold in her veins: for, much as she had hated
Torrens--anxiously as she had longed to be avenged upon him--profoundly
as she abhorred the tie that to some degree had linked their fates, she
nevertheless felt horrified at the conviction that the murdered man lay
there--in her very path!

Nevertheless, she still maintained her courage as well as she could,
and, hastily passing the lifeless form, entered the cheerless, gloomy
kitchen, which indeed appeared to be the proper haunt for such a
miscreant as Vitriol Bob, and the fitting scene for such a tragedy as
the one which had been enacted there that night!

In the middle of the kitchen she paused, and listened with breathless
suspense.

Jack Rily had just reached the bottom of the stairs leading thither:
Vitriol Bob had only just begun to descend them.

“Well, here is indeed a stiff ’un,” exclaimed the former, stopping
short in the interval between the foot of the steps and the threshold
of the kitchen. “What had he done to you, Bob?--and when did this
happen?”

“Wait a moment--and I’ll tell you all about it,” was the reply. “I hope
Poll has brought lots of grub--for the business hasn’t taken away my
appetite.”

“She has got a basket with her,” said Jack Rily.

At this moment Vitriol Bob reached the bottom of the stairs, when the
Doctor sprang upon him with the sudden violence of a savage monster;
and the murderer was thrown back on the steps.

“Treachery!” he exclaimed, in a tone resembling the subdued roar of a
wild beast irritated by its keeper; and the two men were locked in a
close embrace--a deadly struggle immediately commencing.

A mortal terror struck to the heart of Mrs. Mortimer, who knew full
well that if her confederate should succumb, her own life would not
be worth a moment’s purchase; and for upwards of a minute she stood
rivetted to the spot, listening to the sounds of the conflict which she
could not see.

Suddenly it struck her that she might aid her companion; and, taking
from beneath her shawl a coil of rope with which she had intended to
bind Torrens, whom she had made certain of subduing, she rushed to the
scene of the struggle.

The gleam of light that reached that place, was sufficient, feeble
though it were, to show her that Vitriol Bob had the advantage. He
had succeeded in getting uppermost; and Jack Rily was struggling
desperately underneath the man whose strength he had miscalculated. The
conflict was thus progressing, accompanied by deep, low, but bitter
execrations, when Mrs. Mortimer, whom a sense of danger suddenly
restored to complete self-possession, threw a noose round Vitriol
Bob’s neck, and instantly drew it tight,--exclaiming, as she performed
this rapid and well-executed feat, “Courage, Rily,--courage: grasp him
firmly--loosen not your hold!”

“Damnation!” ejaculated Vitriol Bob, the moment he felt the cord upon
his neck and heard a strange female voice,--at the same time making a
desperate--nay, almost superhuman effort to tear himself away from his
foe and turn round on his new enemy.

But the woman drew the cord as tight as she could, and a sense of
faintness came suddenly over the murderer,--so that Jack Rily was in
another instant enabled to get uppermost once more.

“Tie his legs, old lady--and then we’ve nothing more to fear!” cried
he, as he placed one knee on Vitriol Bob’s chest, and held the
vanquished ruffian’s wrists firmly with the iron grasp of his sinewy
hands. “Now, keep quiet, old fellow--or you’ll be strangled,” he
continued, addressing himself to the wretch whose eyes glared savagely
up at him even amidst the obscurity of the place: “It’s useless to
resist--you are my prisoner,--and if it’s necessary to make you safer
still, I’ll draw my clasp-knife across your throat--which I should be
sorry to do, on account of old acquaintanceship.”

“What--what have I done to you--Jack--to--to deserve this?” gasped
Vitriol Bob, half strangled with the noose, which, however, was now
somewhat relaxed in consequence of Mrs. Mortimer being occupied in
tying the other end of the rope round his ankles--a task which she
performed with amazing skill and rapidity, and which, in consequence of
Rily’s menaces, the vanquished one did not think it prudent to resist.

“I’ll tell you presently what you have done, Bob,” said the Doctor, in
answer to the other’s query. “Now that you are bound neck and heels,
you are not very formidable: nevertheless, I must just make your arms
secure--and then we’ll hold a parley. Here, old lady--put your hand
in the pocket on the right side of my coat, and give me out the cord
you’ll find there. That’s right! Come--be steady, Bob--or I shall do
you a mischief yet.”

The conqueror then proceeded to bind the wrists of the vanquished; and
when this was done, he said, “Now, my fine fellow, I will just carry
you into the kitchen; and if there is any brandy there, you shall have
a drop to wash the dust out of your mouth.”

With these words, Jack Rily raised Vitriol Bob in his arms, and bore
him into the kitchen, where he placed him on a chair; and the murderer
now perceived for the first time that the female who had mainly
contributed to his defeat, was the one whom himself and Torrens had
robbed.

Jack Rily, on examining the bottle which he found upon the table,
discovered that there was plenty of liquor left in it; and, filling
a tumbler, he placed it to the lips of Vitriol Bob, who greedily
swallowed the contents--for his throat was indeed parched with the dust
raised by the late struggle and the semi-strangulation he had endured.

“Now, my hyena friend--my tiger-cat accomplice,” said the Doctor,
turning towards Mrs. Mortimer, who, exhausted in mind and body, had
sunk into a chair, “you will likewise partake of the stimulant. And
mark you, madam,” he added, with deep emphasis, and in a tone that was
particularly re-assuring to the old woman, “I owe you my life--and,
whatever my intentions concerning you originally were, I can only now
say that I’ll do all that’s fair and honourable towards you. But enough
of that: so, drink!”

Mrs. Mortimer, greatly delighted at the result of the night’s
expedition, smiled as cordially as her repulsive countenance would
permit; but Jack Rily surveyed her with much admiration, for she
reminded him at the moment of a pleased hyena after a copious meal. His
satisfaction was enhanced by the readiness with which she tossed off
the burning fluid; and, taking his turn with the brandy, he drank to
her health.

“Now to business once more!” he exclaimed, as he set the glass upon the
table. “And first, where’s the money, Bob?” he demanded turning towards
the helpless ruffian, who sat moody and scowling in the chair in which
be had been placed.

“I suppose you mean to let me have my reglars, Jack?” he said, in a
tone which he endeavoured to render as conciliatory and agreeable as
possible.

“Not a blessed halfpenny, Bob--and that’s flat,” responded the Doctor,
as he plunged his hands into the pockets of his prisoner. “Ah! here’s
the swag--and a precious heavy parcel it is too!” he exclaimed, after
a few moments’ pause, and in a joyous tone. “My dear madam,” continued
the villain, handing the brown paper packet to Mrs. Mortimer, “count
it over--see that it’s right--and divide its contents equally. You may
as well be satisfied at once that I mean to do what is right towards
you--and then, may be, you will think seriously of the propriety of our
clubbing our fortunes together, and setting up as a gentleman and lady
living on our means--that is, you know, as Mr. and Mrs. Rily.”

All the latter portion of this long sentence was lost--entirely lost
upon Mrs. Mortimer: for the moment that her hands grasped the brown
paper parcel--that parcel which was so significantly weighty--her
whole attention was absorbed in the task of examining its contents.
She placed it upon the table; and, by the dim flickering light of
the miserable candle, she counted the yellow pieces--turned over the
soiled notes--and carefully reckoned up the whole,--exclaiming, at
the completion of the business, “It is all right, save in respect to
a single sovereign, which I dare say the rogues changed and spent
directly. Here is your share, Mr. Rily--and I thank you much for your
valuable aid.”

“You are the handsomest ogress I ever saw, when you appear gloating
over the recovered gold,” said the Doctor. “If I could afford it, I
would actually and positively give you my portion just to have the
pleasure of contemplating your physiognomy while you fingered it. But
perhaps we may have all things in common yet between you and me.”

Thus speaking, the ruffian secured his share of the spoil about his
person--an example that was immediately followed by Mrs. Mortimer in
respect to her division;--and all the while Vitriol Bob sate looking on
with a countenance of the most demoniac ferocity. It was evident that,
could the wretch release himself from his bonds, his rage would endow
him with a strength calculated to give matters quite another turn: but
he was helpless--powerless,--and this consciousness of his enthralled
predicament only rendered his hatred the more savage against his
successful enemies, and made his longings for revenge the more eager
and also the more torturing on account of their unavailing intensity.

“I will now tell you, Bob,” said Jack Rily, turning towards him, “why
I have played you this trick--and you will acknowledge that it is only
tit for tat. You remember the swell’s crib we broke into at Peckham?
Well--you found a bag containing a hundred and twenty sovereigns, in a
drawer--and you never mentioned a word about it when we came to divide
the plunder.”

“It’s a lie--a damned lie!” ejaculated the villain, ferociously.

“Say that again,” cried the Doctor, his hare-lip becoming absolutely
white with rage, while the scar upon his cheek grew crimson,--“and
I will cut your throat from ear to ear. How could I invent such a
tale? But I saw the advertisement in the papers about the robbery--I
read that a bag containing a hundred and twenty pounds in gold was
abstracted from a chest of drawers--and I well remembered that you
searched those drawers, and afterwards assured me there was nothing in
them worth taking. I did not tell you that I had thus become aware of
your treachery, because I resolved to be revenged some day or other.
That day has now arrived--and you have the consolation of knowing
that you have lost thousands in consequence of your beggarly meanness
respecting a paltry sixty sovereigns, which was my share of the sum you
kept back.”

“Well--’sposing it is all as you say, Jack,” exclaimed Vitriol Bob,
assuming a humble and indeed abject tone,--“ain’t you more than even
with me to-night? and won’t you let me have my reglars? We shall then
be good friends again.”

“I do not mean to give you one farthing of my money--and I know this
old lady won’t,” responded the Doctor. “As to our being friends again,
I care not whether we become so, or whether we continue enemies.
You can’t do me so much harm as I can you, Bob,” added Rily, in
an impressive manner, and without a particle of his usual coarse
jocularity: “for you have to-night done a deed that, if known, would
send you to the scaffold.”

A deadly pallor passed over the countenance of the murderer; and he
writhed in his chair with mingled rage and terror.

“Now, my old hyena,” exclaimed the doctor, turning towards Mrs.
Mortimer, “I told you that you should have a good opportunity of seeing
Vitriol Bob in all his hideousness. Which do you think is the ugliest
of the two--he or me?”

And he grinned so horribly with his hare-lip and his gleaming teeth,
that the old woman was for an instant appalled by the fiendish,
malignant joy that caused his countenance thus to assume so frightful
an expression.

“Well--you don’t like to pass an opinion upon the matter,” he said,
with a chuckling laugh: “may be you think I am the ugliest of the two,
and that it would hurt my feelings to tell me so. Lord bless you,
my dear madam--a right down savage, ferocious, revolting ugliness
is a splendid subject for admiration to my mind. The uglier people
are--provided it’s the right sort of ugliness--the handsomer they
are in my eyes. This may seem paradoxical--but it’s the truth; and
it’s on that principle I am ready to marry you to-morrow, if you’ll
have me. However--think upon it: there’s no hurry for your decision,
my dear creature--pardon me for being so familiar. And now I may as
well tell you that it was not my original intention to let you have
one penny piece of all that swag,” he continued, after a few moments’
pause. “I had purposed to make use of you in obtaining it--and then
self-appropriate it; because I didn’t look upon you in the light of
a pal with whom it was necessary to keep faith. The moment, however,
that you interfered in the struggle just now, the case became suddenly
altered: you saved my life--and I wouldn’t harm a hair of your head
for all the world. So you are quite welcome to take your departure at
once if you will: but I should esteem it a mark of confidence if you’d
remain here with me a few hours longer--and I’ll tell you why.”

“Show me a good reason,and I shall not object,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer,
knowing that the man, in spite of his conciliatory observations, had
the power to enforce, if he chose, what he seemed to ask as a favour.

“I will explain myself,” resumed Jack Rily: then glancing towards
Vitriol Bob, he said, “Our friend here must remain in that condition
until I can send Pig-faced Poll to release him from his bonds. It would
not be worth while to risk another conflict by taking on ourselves the
part of liberators. His young woman shall therefore be entrusted with
that agreeable duty: but as she is drunk in bed----”

[Illustration]

Vitriol Bob uttered a sound resembling the savage but subdued growl of
a wild beast.

“As she is drunk in bed,” repeated Jack Rily, with a chuckle, “she
won’t be fit to undertake the task until it’s pretty near daylight; and
it would not be safe to leave the poor devil alone here for so many
hours. I don’t seek his death; but he might fall off his chair, tumble
flat on his face, and not be able to right himself--for it’s by no
means an easy thing to shift one’s position when bound neck and heels
like that. So remain with him I must and will. His company will not,
however, prove the most agreeable after all that has occurred betwixt
us; and now you can guess why I ask you as a favour to stay with
me--say till two o’clock, when we will take our departure and send Poll
Calvert, who will be sufficiently sober by that time, to cut his cords.”

“I consent to remain here until two o’clock,” said Mrs. Mortimer:
“only----”

And she glanced, with shuddering aversion, towards the door.

“Ah! I understand you, my dear tiger-cat,” exclaimed Jack Rily: “you
don’t admire the presence of the stiff ’un there. Lord bless you! if
you’d only been my wife when I was a doctor, you would have become
familiar enough with articles of that kind--aye, and have thought
nothing of shaking hands with a resurrection man. But it’s all habit;
and so, since you would feel more comfortable if that bundle over there
was moved, I’ll just drag it into the back kitchen--and our friend here
will doubtless amuse himself by burying it to-morrow night.”

Having thus delivered himself with characteristic levity, the Doctor
rose from the barrel whereon he had been seated, and taking up the
candle, proceeded to transfer the dead body of Torrens from the
threshold of the door into the back kitchen.

Mrs. Mortimer was now left in the company of the murderer, and in total
darkness; and though she knew that he was bound beyond a chance of
self-release, yet a cold shudder passed over her frame, as she thought
of what would be the consequences were it possible for him to cast off
the strong cords that restrained him.

Scarcely had this reflection entered her mine, when a voice--stealing,
at it were, like the hiss of an invisible serpent through the utter
darkness of the place--smote upon her ear.

“Madam--Mrs. Mortimer--loosen the cord--and I will give you half of
what I shall then take from that villain Rily!” were the earnest,
hastily uttered words that were thus suddenly whispered by the murderer.

The old woman was so startled that she could make no reply; and in
another moment the light reappeared.

She mechanically cast her eyes towards Vitriol Bob; and the returning
glimmer fell upon a countenance infuriate with rage, disappointment,
and renewed spite;--but she did not think it worth while to mention to
the Doctor the treacherous proposal that had been made to her during
his temporary absence.

“I have put the corpse in the back kitchen,” said Rily, resuming his
seat on the barrel: then, after a few moments’ pause, he observed,
“This is the second murder that has been committed in this house.”

“The second!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, suddenly animated with a feeling
of morbid curiosity.

“Yes--the second,” repeated Rily. “What! did you never hear how these
three houses came to be shut up, and why they are supposed to be
haunted?”

“Never,” answered the old woman, her manner convincing the garrulous
Mr. John Rily that she had no objection to be enlightened on the
subject.

“Well--as it can’t be more than half-past eleven o’clock, and we have
two hours and a half to pass away, according to agreement, in this
place,” resumed the Doctor, “I don’t mind telling you the whole story.
Our friend Bob here has heard it often enough, I dare say: but he will
himself admit that it bears telling over and over again.”

Jack Rily paused for a few moments, and then commenced the promised
narrative, which we shall, however, put into our own language, the
semi-jocular and flippant style of the Doctor not being quite suited
for so serious a history.




CHAPTER CLXXVII.

HISTORY OF THE HAUNTED HOUSES IN STAMFORD STREET.


Twenty-five years ago there were not three nicer looking houses
in Stamford Street than those which are now so dilapidated and so
wretched in appearance both outside and internally. The corner
dwelling was inhabited by an old gentleman and his son. Their name
was Mitchell; and a handsomer youth than Leonard, who at that period
had just completed his twentieth year, was seldom to be met with.
But it was not only on account of his prepossessing person, elegant
manners, and great talents, that he was a general favourite: it was
likewise in consequence of his admirable behaviour towards his father.
Mr. Mitchell was for many years a partner in an eminent mercantile
firm; but the sudden death of a beloved wife, who had long been
suffering with a disease of the heart, and who one evening fell a
corpse at her husband’s feet after having appeared gay and cheerful
a few minutes previously, produced such an effect upon him that
he was thrown on a sick bed, whence he arose at the expiration of
several months--palsied in all his limbs! Although he still retained
possession of his intellect, yet his spirit appeared to be completely
broken, and his energies were crushed. An arrangement was accordingly
effected, by virtue of which he withdrew from the firm on condition
of receiving four hundred pounds a year for the remainder of his
life. These incidents occurred during Leonard’s seventeenth year; and
the affectionate youth immediately devoted himself to the duty of
rendering his afflicted sire’s existence as pleasing--or rather, as
little burthensome as possible. His attentions were unremitting, and
yet so delicately administered that the old man was not suffered to
feel how completely dependent he was, for solace and comfort, on his
only child. When the weather was fine, Leonard invariably had some
excuse to induce his father to go out for a walk; and as he supported
the arm of that tottering, feeble, trembling parent, he conversed in
a gay and unrestrained manner, conjuring up those topics which he
knew to be agreeable to the invalid, and never--never exhibiting the
least impatience at being thus chained as it were to the side of the
sufferer. Of an evening, the young man would read aloud those works
which best suited his father’s taste: or he would sit for hours playing
at chess--a game of which Mr. Mitchell was particularly fond. When
invited to a party, Leonard would at first promise to attend, so that
his father might not perceive that he remained away entirely on his
account: but the youth was always sure to have a convenient head-ache
or to sprain his ankle, or adopt some other ingenious and equally
venial little device, in order to have an apology for staying at home.
Now and then his father would see through his motive, and insist upon
him keeping his engagement,--in which case Leonard was always sure to
leave long before the breaking-up of the party; and, on his return
home, he would creep noiselessly to his father’s chamber to assure
himself, ere he proceeded to his own, that the old man was comfortable
and wanted for nothing. In a word, the devotion of this youth to his
afflicted sire was such that all who knew him beheld him with mingled
admiration and respect: and even the giddiest and most thoughtless
young men of his acquaintance could not bring themselves to joke or
jeer him for that conduct which, in any other, they would have looked
upon as a steadiness and sedateness carried to an extreme.

Next door to the Mitchells--that is to say, in the central of the three
houses to which this narrative relates--dwelt Mr. Pomfret, who, by the
secession of the paralysed old gentleman, had become the head of the
firm, the business premises of which were in the City. Mr. Pomfret was
likewise a widower, and likewise possessed an only child. Ellen Pomfret
was a year younger than Leonard; and she was as beautiful as he was
handsome. They had been acquainted from childhood; and the affection
which in its origin was such as exists between a brother and a sister,
by natural degrees ripened into a devoted and profoundly-rooted love.
In the estimation of all who know them, there was a remarkable fitness
in the union of this admirable pair: their style of beauty--their
dispositions--their manners--their acquirements, were of a nature to
adapt them for each other. They were both tall, slight, and gracefully
formed: Ellen’s hair was of a rich brown, scarcely a shade deeper than
that of Leonard;--their foreheads were high and intellectual;--their
eyes were of deep blue--hers more melting and tender than his, which
were animated with the fire of a noble and generous spirit;--and never
did man nor woman possess finer teeth than theirs. Both were fond of
music and drawing: both were imbued with deep religious feelings,
sincere and even enthusiastic--but utterly devoid of bigotry and
uncharitableness;--and both loved virtue for its own sake. Faith with
them was a delight and an inspiration encouraging fond hopes in respect
to this world and confidence in the next,--a religion that knew naught
of ascetic gloom, but that seemed to trace life’s pathway amidst love,
and perfume, and flowers!

Mrs. Pomfret had died when Ellen was about fourteen; and for the two
following years the maiden was blessed with the companionship and
counsels of a kind aunt, who, immediately after the decease of her
sister, took up her abode in the house. But death snatched her away
to the tomb shortly after the sixteenth birth-day of her niece, who
was thus left alone as it were with her father. Mr. Pomfret, though a
kind and well-meaning man originally, was not a prudent one. He had
an over-weening confidence in his commercial abilities and financial
foresight; and he was thus led into speculations from which his
friends, had he condescended to consult them, would have dissuaded him.
Many of these speculations he undertook on his own private account,
and independently of the firm of which, as above described, he became
the head; and his numerous affairs accordingly kept him much away from
home. Ellen was therefore a great deal alone: for maidenly prudence
prevented her from calling in next door as often as she could have
desired, or as Leonard would have wished to see her. Still she did now
and then pass an hour or two with Mr. Mitchell and his son, relieving
the latter in his task of reading or his post at the chess-table. The
old gentleman was deeply attached to Ellen Pomfret; and the more so,
inasmuch as it appeared to be a settled thing that the two families
were to be closely united by means of the marriage of the young people.
But no day was fixed for this event--nor indeed did the engagement
appear to be more than a tacit one; for the reader must remember that
at the time when we introduce the hero and heroine of this narrative,
the former was only twenty years of age, and the latter nineteen.

The third house to which our present history especially refers, was
inhabited by an old bachelor, who at the time alluded to was upwards
of sixty. He was a fine man for his age--boasted that he had not
yet taken to spectacles--and walked as upright and as rapidly as if
he were twenty years younger. His rubicund countenance was the very
picture of good-nature: and a very good-natured being he in reality
was. But he was whimsical and eccentric to a degree; and, though very
rich and proud of his elegantly furnished abode, he seldom invited a
grown-up person to cross his threshold--much less to partake of his
hospitality. But, on the other hand, he was devotedly attached to
children; and his greatest delight was to assemble a dozen or so of
his neighbours’ little sons and daughters in his comfortable parlour
or handsome drawing-room, and make them all as happy as he could.
This was certainly a strange and most unusual predilection for an old
bachelor to entertain;--but there are exceptions to all rules--and Mr.
Gamble was a living proof of the dogma. He was wont to say that it did
his heart good to behold rosy-cheeked, flaxen-haired, laughing-eyed
children romping about him,--that it awakened blessed feelings in his
soul to hear their merry shouts and witness their innocent mirth,--and
that he fancied himself young again when presiding at the table around
which he gathered them, and where he dispensed fruit, cake, sweet wine,
and comfitures with no niggard hand. Be it understood, then, that--at
least to our mind--Mr. Gamble was a most estimable character: for he
who is fond of children cannot possibly be a bad man--whereas we have
no confidence whatever in the individual who does _not_ experience a
lively interest in those endearing, artless little beings. Mr. Gamble
did not consider it to be at all derogatory to his nature or his age,
to join in the infantile sports which he loved so much to behold; and
when the curtains were drawn and the door closed, he would even consent
to become an active party to a game of blind-man’s-buff, or allow
himself to be converted for the nonce into a horse for the express
behoof of some chubby urchin more bold in his requisitions than the
rest.

Mr. Gamble was indeed quite a character. He used frequently to
declare that he knew nothing more silly than to give dinner-parties.
“Friendship is a very queer thing,” he would say, “if it must be shown
by my eating at another’s expense, or by him coming to me to eat at
mine. I would sooner spend ten pounds upon cakes and oranges for
children who really enjoy them, than ten shillings on a repast for a
grown-up person, who eats in your presence as if under the influence
of a chilling ceremony.” Relative to adults, therefore, Mr. Gamble
neither gave nor accepted invitations: but twice or thrice a-week he
congregated his little friends around him--and the more they romped,
the better he was pleased,--the more noise they made, the higher
did his spirits rise. If they injured his furniture, he cared not,
provided it was the result of an accident: but if he once discovered a
predilection to wilful destructiveness, or if he were made the butt of
coarse rudeness instead of the object of innocent merriment, he never
again invited the offender to his abode.

Considering that the habits of Mr. Gamble were such as we have taken
some little trouble to describe them, it may easily be supposed that
the neighbours were not a little astonished when it was rumoured, and
ascertained to be a positive fact, that Mr. Pomfret had veritably and
actually been invited to dine with that eccentric gentleman. This was
alone enough to create an impression that a revolution had taken place
in the opinions of the old bachelor: but the wonderment was excessive
when it was reported, and likewise discovered to be true, that Mr.
Gamble had dined in his turn with Mr. Pomfret. At first it was supposed
that the cunning merchant was seeking to ensnare the wealthy bachelor
into a marriage with the beautiful Ellen: but when it was remembered
that she was engaged to Leonard, and moreover when it was ascertained
that she had passed the evening at the Mitchell’s on the occasion
of the old bachelor dining with her father, the above-mentioned
speculation was instantly discarded. That a revolution _had_ taken
place in the habits of Mr. Gamble, was however very certain: for as
time wore on, after those first interchanges of civilities between
him and Mr. Pomfret, their intimacy appeared to increase, and the
parties given by the old bachelor to his juvenile friends grew less
frequent. At length not a day passed without an interview occurring
between Gamble and Pomfret: they were often closetted together for
hours in the evening, when the latter returned home from the City; and
the merchant was moreover frequently seen taking bundles of papers and
correspondence into the other’s house. It was therefore surmised that
they were engaged together in some speculation: but if this were the
case, it was kept very quiet--for even Ellen herself could give her
lover Leonard no explanation relative to the causes of the intimacy
that had sprung up so suddenly between her father and Mr. Gamble.

A conversation which we are about to record, will however throw some
light upon the subject. It was about six months after the intimacy had
commenced, that Mr. Pomfret returned home from the City at a later
hour than usual, and with a countenance so pale and careworn, that
he appeared to his affrighted daughter ten years older than when he
quitted her in the morning. Ellen anxiously implored him to inform her
if anything unpleasant had occurred: but he gave her a sharp reply in
the negative--as much as to enjoin her to abstain from questioning
him in future. The poor girl turned aside to conceal the tears that
gushed from her eyes; and Mr. Pomfret, struck by the sudden conviction
that he had behaved most harshly to his amiable daughter, exclaimed,
“Forgive me, Ellen: but--to tell you the truth--I _have_ received
disagreeable intelligence in the City to-day; and it probably soured
my temper for the moment. You are a good girl,” he added, kissing the
tearful countenance that was now upturned towards his own; “and I
was wrong to speak unkindly to you. But let that pass: I shall have
more command over myself another time.”--“Pray do not dwell upon the
subject, my dearest father,” said Ellen. “Will you have dinner served
up at once?”--“No, my love,” was the answer: “I do not feel in any
humour for eating. I meant to say,” he added, hastily, but with some
degree of confusion, “I dined in the City to-day. And now I shall just
run in and see Mr. Gamble for an hour or two; and you can go and play a
game of chess with Mr. Mitchell. I shall return to supper presently: so
mind and be home again by half-past nine.”--“You told me the day before
yesterday, dear papa,” said Ellen, “that the next time I called on Mr.
Mitchell, I was to be sure and ask you for a cheque for the quarter’s
income due to him, and which has been standing over for nearly a
fortnight.”--“Oh! it does not matter this evening!” ejaculated Mr.
Pomfret, impatiently: “besides, I have not time to sit down and fill up
a cheque at present,” he added, a sickly expression passing over his
countenance, as if his heart were smitten painfully within his breast.
Then, without making another observation and in evident haste to avoid
further parlance on the subject, the merchant threw on his hat and
hurried next door. A sigh escaped from Ellen’s gentle bosom--for she
saw that there was some profound grief in the depths of her father’s
soul, and, anxious to escape from the distressing thoughts which such
a conviction was only too well calculated to engender, she made the
greater speed to dress herself for a visit to her neighbours.

We must for the present follow Mr. Pomfret, whom we shall overtake
in Mr. Gamble’s back-parlour, which was fitted up as a library, and
contained a small but choice collection of books. The old bachelor was
discussing some cool claret--for it was in the midst of a hot summer;
and the moment the merchant made his appearance, he rang for another
glass. Mr. Pomfret sank upon a seat, with the air of a man who is
exhausted in mind and body; and when the servant had retired, he fixed
his eyes intently on his friend’s countenance, as he said in a low and
solemn tone, “Gamble, I have dreadful news for you!”--“For which I am
not altogether unprepared,” returned the old bachelor, his countenance
becoming serious--if not absolutely severe.--“How? what do you mean?”
demanded Pomfret, the gloomy expression of his features giving way
to one of profound astonishment.--“I mean,” replied Mr. Gamble, now
bending his gaze with unmistakeable sternness on his companion, “that
for a week past I have had forced upon my mind the painful conviction
that you were deceiving me.”--“Deceiving you!” cried Mr. Pomfret, his
cheek blanching, and his tall spare form trembling either with rage or
guilt, it was not easy immediately to decide which.--“Yes: deceiving
me, and most grossly deceiving me too!” exclaimed Mr. Gamble, striking
the table violently with his clenched fist.--Mr. Pomfret fell back in
his chair, aghast and speechless, like a man from whose countenance
the visor of duplicity has been suddenly torn.--“You doubtless desire
an explanation,” resumed Mr. Gamble; “and you shall have it. Six
months have elapsed, sir,” he continued, his tone becoming reproachful
rather than angry, “since I called at your counting-house in the
City to receive the amount of a draught which had been forwarded to
me from abroad by a gentleman to whom I advanced a certain sum many
years ago, and which I had given up as lost. The sudden and most
unexpected recovery of that amount somewhat renewed my confidence in
human nature--a confidence not altogether destroyed, but long dormant
in my breast. You remember that we began to converse upon commercial
topics; and you finally stated that if I did not immediately require
the sum I had called to receive, you knew how to lay it out for me in a
safe quarter and at good interest. I accepted the proposal;--firstly,
because the funds were so high at the moment that I did not choose to
buy the money in--secondly, because we were neighbours, and had known
each other, to speak to at least, for some years--and thirdly, because
I was in a good humour with mankind at the moment. You were pleased,
on your side; and when you wrote to me a few days afterwards to state
that the money was invested according to the terms settled between us,
I resolved to carry my good feeling still farther--and I asked you to
dinner. Subsequently you returned the compliment; and I began to think
that my long-sustained misanthropy was founded in error. This belief
opened my heart still farther towards you: and when I came to know
your amiable daughter, I felt convinced that all men and women were
_not_ deceivers. Such was the state of my mind--progressing from a
morbid to a healthy condition--when you proposed certain speculations
to me. I accepted them to a limited extent, and on particular terms.
I advanced the moneys you required to carry out your designs; but I
adopted the precaution to avoid anything like a partnership. And this
I did _only_ as a wise precaution--for I had tutored myself to place
the utmost confidence in you. As time wore on, you constantly demanded
fresh supplies--and I did not refuse them, so specious were your
representations. But by degrees I began to entertain vague suspicions
that everything was not as you would have me view it; and I latterly
instituted inquiries. A week only has elapsed since I acquired the
certainty that the larger portion of the money advanced by me to you
was never laid out in the way and for the purposes represented by
yourself; but that it has been employed to stop up gaps and supply
deficiencies in your deeply-embarrassed establishment!”--“My God!
this is but too true!” murmured the miserable Pomfret. “But you will
be merciful towards a man who is reduced to despair?”--“I shall not
harm you, sir: neither shall I expose you,” returned Mr. Gamble, while
the merchant’s countenance somewhat brightened up at this assurance.
“Perhaps, indeed,” added the old bachelor, after a slight pause, “I
may even save you yet.”--“Save me!” echoed Pomfret. “Oh! no: that is
impossible! I am so deeply involved that I owe three times as much
as all you are likely to possess.”--“I am not so sure of that, sir,”
returned Mr. Gamble, almost in a good-humoured tone: then, immediately
resuming his former seriousness of voice, he said “It is not so much
the loss of my fourteen thousand pounds that I deplore: but it is
that you have changed my habits, and I am not so happy as I was. The
dealings that I had with men in my earlier years, made me mistrust them
and taught me to look upon them with unvarying suspicion. Therefore
was it that when I became rich enough to retire into private life, and
more than rich enough for my purposes, I abjured the society of those
whom the world had spoilt, and sought the society of those who were
too young to be tainted by that world. I withdrew myself from the hot
atmosphere breathed by men and women, and joyed in the freshness of the
pure air in which frank, merry, artless, and sportive children dwelt.
My heart, while closing towards one section of the human race, expanded
towards another; and I have loved the infantine race as dearly--oh! as
dearly as if I had been the father of a vast family. But when I renewed
my intercourse with adults--that is to say, when I was tempted to join
your society and that of the two or three gentlemen and ladies whom I
have occasionally met at your house--I felt my love for that infantine
race diminishing: or rather, their presence afforded me less delight
and amusement. It is all this that I deplore; and the result has been
that my home now seems lonely, and the time hangs heavily upon my
hands. Nay, more: you have been the means of effecting that change in
me which has made me selfish: and I feel capable even of sacrificing
the happiness of another so long as I can in any way minister unto my
own.”--“I do not understand you,” said Pomfret, fearful that these last
words implied some vindictive allusion to himself.--“I will explain
my meaning,” replied Mr. Gamble. “You tell me that you are so deeply
involved that ruin stares you in the face!”--“I am so utterly denuded
of resources at this moment,” answered Pomfret, “that I cannot even
pay the quarter’s income due to my neighbour and late partner, Mr.
Mitchell.”--“And if you fail, that poor paralytic old man will be
reduced to beggary?” said Gamble.--Pomfret covered his face with his
hands, and groaned aloud.

“Nay, more than all this,” continued the old bachelor, after a long
pause, during which he appeared to be sipping his claret complacently,
but was in reality reflecting profoundly,--“more than all this, your
partners will be utterly ruined; and they will curse you as the fatal
cause of their dishonour and their penury. Your daughter, too, will
become a portionless girl; and she will moan the follies of her father
that reduced her from a state of comparative affluence to a condition
of toil for a poor pittance. Lastly, that fine young man, Leonard
Mitchell, will hate and abhor you as the individual who has made his
father’s last years wretched and intolerable,and deprived the afflicted
septuagenarian of the very necessaries of life. All these terrible
things, Mr. Pomfret, will be accomplished on the day when your house
stops payment”--“I know it, alas! too well!” exclaimed the unhappy,
ruined merchant, clasping his hands together in deep agony.--“You are
not so old by ten or a dozen years as I am,” continued Mr. Gamble:
“and yet it does me harm to see you thus reduced to despair. But let
us not waste precious time. What is the amount that will save you from
ruin?”--“I dare not name it,” returned Pomfret--“This is foolish,”
exclaimed the old bachelor, severely: “come, answer me, or else let
our interview terminate at once. Again I demand of you the amount
that can prevent all the lamentable occurrences which I just now
detailed?”-“Eighty thousand pounds,” was the reply, delivered almost in
a fit of desperation.

Mr. Gamble rose, opened his desk, and taking out some Bank securities,
directed the merchant’s attention to the sums specified in those
documents. “Ninety-five thousand pounds!” cried Pomfret, astonished
at these evidences of a wealth far greater than he had supposed the
old bachelor to be possessed of--“You perceive,” observed Mr. Gamble,
returning the papers to his desk, and resuming his seat,--“you perceive
that I am the master of means sufficient to save you from destruction.
Indeed, I can spare the sum necessary, and even then have four hundred
pounds a year left to live upon.”--“But is it possible that you can
even entertain the idea of assisting me to such an extent?” cried
Mr. Pomfret, scarcely able to believe his own ears, and trembling
lest he was indulging in a hope that had no other existence than in a
dream.--“It is quite possible, sir,” responded the old bachelor, piqued
that his word should be questioned even for a moment: “and now it all
depends upon yourself.”--“Upon myself!” repeated Mr. Pomfret, again
surveying his friend with mingled amazement and incredulity--“Yes: upon
yourself,” cried Mr. Gamble: “for the amount you require is at your
service, provided you consent to accept me as your son-in-law!”--These
words were delivered with a solemn seriousness of tone which forbade
the suspicion that they were uttered jocularly; and so completely
astounded was the merchant that several minutes elapsed before he could
make any reply During that interval Mr. Gamble still appeared to sip
his claret with calmness: but he was in reality awaiting with no small
degree of anxiety the answer that would be given to his proposal.

“But do you love my daughter?” inquired Pomfret at length.--“I have
already told you that I begin to feel lonely and cheerless,” replied
Mr. Gamble; “and, moreover, I am irresistibly attracted towards
Miss Ellen. I may also say that I should feel proud and happy to
ensure her an independence: at the same time, I am not endowed with
sufficient philanthropy to induce me to save her father from ruin,
except on the condition of receiving her as a wife. If my suit be
refused, you are ruined; and will it in that case be prudent to
permit her to espouse that young Mitchell, who will likewise be
reduced to penury? It is clear that if she do not accept my offer,
circumstances will effectually interpose a barrier between herself and
Leonard; and thus, happen what will, she must renounce all hope of
becoming his bride.”--“And with the conviction that she _does_ love
Leonard Mitchell, would you accompany her to the altar?” inquired
Mr. Pomfret.--“Assuredly,” replied Mr. Gamble. “I have set my mind
upon it, and will risk everything. She is young, and a first love is
seldom more than a blaze of straw, ardent while it lasts, but speedily
exhausted. When she comes to know me well, and to reflect that I have
saved her father from ruin and dishonour,--when, too, she perceives
all the delicate attentions with which I shall surround her, and the
constancy of my endeavour to ensure her happiness,--she will yield
to the new influences to which she will be thus subjected; and she
will learn to look upon the old man with respect and veneration, with
gratitude and kindly feelings, if not with love. The trial may be for
the first few weeks severe; and there may be deep regrets following
upon the disappointment of the vivid hopes now cherished in her bosom.
But, believe me, she will at length succumb to the conviction that her
happiness has been better consulted by the course chalked out for her
by us, than by that into which the present state of her affections
might impel her.”--Pomfret was man of the world enough to know that
all this was mere sophistry; though Gamble himself believed that he
was arguing on the truest principles: but the merchant was better
acquainted than the old bachelor with the female heart. Nevertheless,
the temptation was irresistible to the man who hovered upon the verge
of ruin: the feelings of the father were sacrificed to the anxieties
of the merchant, who saw destruction staring him in the face;--and,
grasping Gamble’s hand, he said in a deep, impressive tone, “She is
yours!”

In the meantime Ellen Pomfret, little suspecting how her destinies were
being disposed of elsewhere, was passing a couple of hours with Mr.
Mitchell and Leonard. The young man had noticed, the moment she entered
their parlour, that her countenance was pale; and, with the eagle
glance of a lover, he likewise discovered that she had been weeping.
Burning with impatience to ascertain the cause of her grief, and not
choosing to elicit an explanation in the presence of his father, for
fear anything might transpire to give the old gentleman pain, as he
was much attached to the young maiden, whom he looked upon as his
intended daughter-in-law,--Leonard exclaimed, as soon as she had paid
her respects to his parent, “You are just in time, Ellen, to help me
to tie up a few new plants which I have purchased:”--and, taking her
hand, he led her into the little garden at the back of the house. A
very little garden it was, too: but Leonard had made the most of the
circumscribed space; and he had in reality bought some choice flowers
in the morning. It was not however to them that he now directed the
lovely girl’s attention; but the moment they stood in the enclosure,
he took her hand, saying, “Ellen, dearest, you are unhappy this
evening: pray tell me what has annoyed you?”--Miss Pomfret, who was
ingenuousness itself, instantly related the scene that had taken place
between herself and her father; and the tears again started from her
eyes, as she remembered the harsh--almost brutal manner in which he
had spoken to her. Leonard hastened to kiss those diamond drops away
from the damask cheeks adown which they trickled; and he consoled her
by observing that persons in business were liable to those annoyances
that occasionally soured the temper and rendered them severe or hasty
even to the very beings whom they loved the most. Leonard’s powers
of persuasion were omnipotent with Ellen; and she speedily sniffled
through her tears. “And now,” continued the young man, “I will give
you a piece of intelligence that will, I hope, indemnify you, dearest,
for the little vexation you have just experienced. My father has this
day received a letter from an influential friend, stating that I may
rely upon being nominated to a clerkship in a Government Office in the
course of a month or six weeks.”--Ellen expressed her delight at these
news; and after the interchange of a few tender sentiments, the nature
of which our readers can well divine, the youthful lovers returned to
the parlour. There they sate and conversed with the old gentleman until
the time-piece on the mantel indicated that it was twenty-five minutes
past nine, when Ellen rose and took her departure, Leonard escorting
her to the door of the adjoining house, where she dwelt.

Her father had returned about ten minutes previously. The curtains
were drawn in the parlour--the lamp was lighted--and the supper was in
readiness. The moment she entered the room, the beautiful girl cast
an anxious look towards her sire, to gather from his countenance,
if possible, whether his mind had become more composed: but she was
shocked to perceive that his cheeks were ashy pale, and that a strange,
ominous light gleamed in his restless, anxious eyes. She withdrew
her gaze instantly, fearful lest he might observe that she noticed
his peculiarity of manner and altered appearance; and, making some
casual remark, she turned to lay aside her bonnet and also to conceal
the tears that again started into her eyes. For Ellen was of an
affectionate disposition, and loved her father tenderly, and it touched
her heart to the very core to behold the traces of deep, deep care upon
his countenance.

“You have seen Leonard this evening, Ellen?” said Mr. Pomfret, in a
tone so hollow that it startled her: and she could scarcely compose
herself sufficiently to murmur an affirmative.--“And do you love
him very, very much?” asked the merchant, after a long pause.--“Oh!
my dearest father,” she exclaimed, “you know that I do! Have we not
as it were been brought up together from childhood?”--“Yes, yes:
it is natural,” said Mr. Pomfret, bitterly: and he walked to the
mantel-piece, turning his back towards his daughter, to hide the
emotions that swelled his heart almost to bursting. But Ellen caught
sight of his agonising countenance in the mirror; and, terribly
excited, she sprang towards him and threw her arms around his neck,
crying, “Oh! my dearest parent, some dreadful grief oppresses you! May
I not share it? Can I not console you? Is there anything that I, poor
weak girl that I am, can do to ease you of this load of sorrow?”--“Yes,
Ellen,” hastily responded her father, determined to come at once to an
explanation with his daughter; for suspense and delay were intolerable.
“You can do all, everything for me: my honour in your hands! ’Tis for
you also to decide whether we shall be reduced to penury, or remain in
affluence--whether that poor palsied old man next door shall continue
to enjoy the comforts of life, or be plunged into destitution! In a
word, Ellen, my very existence is in your hands; for I will not live
to witness all the terrible afflictions that my accursed folly will
have entailed upon ourselves, as well as upon others!”--Ellen was so
taken by surprise as these alarming revelations burst upon her, that
she started back in dismay, and surveyed her sire with a look of such
passionate grief, that he himself grew affrighted in his turn; and
hastily approaching her, he led her to a seat, saying, “For God’s sake,
compose yourself, Ellen: you have need of all your firmness now!”--With
a frantic gesture she besought him to keep her no longer in suspense,
but to tell her the worst at once.--“I will not torture you, my love,”
said the wretched man, standing like a culprit in her presence. “Know,
then, that I hover on the brink of ruin. It is not that I think
bankruptcy dishonourable: no--the most upright men are liable to
misfortune and cannot control adversity. But, were I to fail, as I am
now circumstanced, I could not save my name from indelible disgrace,
nor my partners and the Mitchells likewise from ruin!”--Speechless
with horror and amazement, the young girl gazed fixedly on her father
as he spoke.--“But there are still means of saving me and the others
also,” he resumed, in a tone so broken that it indicated how difficult
and how painful it was for him to give utterance to this prelude to
an announcement which he knew must prove terrible indeed.--“And those
means?” demanded Ellen, recovering the use of her own voice: for she
saw that there was allusion to herself in her father’s words.--“Nerve
yourself, my poor girl, to hear something very shocking to your gentle
heart,” said Mr. Pomfret.--“I am nerved _now_,” she replied, her
features assuming the settled aspect of despair. “But the means?” she
repeated, more impatiently.--“That you renounce Leonard Mitchell, and
accept Mr. Gamble as your husband,” said the wretched father, speaking
with averted head. A shriek escaped Ellen’s lips--and she started
wildly from her seat: then, staggering forward a few paces, she fell
into her parent’s arms--not insensible, but sobbing convulsively. She
had been prepared for some dreadful tidings: she was not, however,
nerved to meet such a frightful destiny as that so suddenly offered to
her contemplation;--and she felt as if she must sink under the blow.
Mr. Pomfret bore her to the sofa; and, placing himself by her side,
said all he could to console her:--no--not all he _could_--but all he
_dared_;--for he had not courage enough to recall the words that had
sealed her fate!

We must, however, draw a veil over this afflicting scene. Suffice it
to say that the noble-minded girl eventually came to the determination
to sacrifice herself for the sake of her father--yes, and for the sake
of the palsied parent of her lover also! There is a crisis in misery
that is in reality despair, although it may have the outward appearance
of resignation: and this was the condition of the young lady, when
she said to her father, “I will not prove a disobedient daughter. I
therefore consent to renounce Leonard Mitchell, and to become the wife
of him who demands my hand as the price of the succour which he is
willing to afford you in this embarrassment.” Mr. Pomfret embraced her
with the most unfeigned ardour, and thanked her in the most touching
terms for her devotedness; and, strange as it may perhaps appear, Ellen
besought him that the sacrifice should be accomplished as speedily as
possible. This is, however, invariably the case with a noble heart that
resolves upon the immolation of its best affections: the maiden feared
lest selfish considerations should arise from delay, to turn her from
her purpose;--and she was anxious that her self-martyrdom should be
performed heroically and with a good grace. But, oh! in one short hour
how changed was her pure soul: how bitter--how intense was now the
disappointment that succeeded the golden dream she had cherished;--how
stern, and bleak, and cheerless seemed that world on which she had
lately looked as on a fair and sunny landscape, fragrant with flowers
and beautiful with verdure. Yes--gloomy indeed is the earth, and
worthless is existence, when viewed through the same mirror which
reflects the heart’s ruined hopes and blighted affections!

But who was to break the news to Leonard Mitchell? Ellen was not equal
to that task: indeed, she dared not see him. She felt that if she
were to gaze again upon his handsome countenance--if she were to read
despair in his eloquent eyes and listen to the passionate accents of
his melodious though manly voice, appealing to her against the stern
resolve to which circumstances had impelled her,--she felt, we say,
that she should yield, and that by so yielding she should fix her
parent’s doom. Mr. Pomfret therefore took upon himself the mournful
task of imparting to the young man the disappointment that awaited
him; and this was done the morning after the incidents which we have
just described. The merchant threw himself upon Leonard’s mercy,
invoking him by all he deemed sacred not to seek to see his daughter
nor dissuade her by letter from her holy purpose of self-devotion. At
first the impetuosity of youth rendered the lover deaf to all reason
and to all entreaties: but by degrees he appeared to receive a kind of
chivalrous inspiration from the heroic example of her whom he adored;
and he awoke to the necessity of consenting to that dreadful sacrifice,
if only that his sire should not want bread in his helpless old age. He
however begged that Mr. Mitchell might be kept in the dark relative to
all these occurrences, until Ellen should have become the wife of Mr.
Gamble--when it would be too late to recall the sacrifice, and useless
to repine against it. Moreover, Leonard resolved to break the news so
gradiently to his father, that the effect of the blow occasioned by a
son’s deep disappointment might be as much mitigated as possible; and
to these proposals Mr. Pomfret was only too willing to assent. And now,
as another proof of Leonard’s devotedness to his afflicted sire, must
be mentioned the fact that, though bearing in his bosom a heart wrung
almost to breaking, he still maintained a calm exterior; and during
the week which elapsed ere Ellen became the wife of Mr. Gamble, Mr.
Mitchell beheld nothing strange nor suspicious in his son’s manner.

And at the expiration of that week, the sacrifice was consummated.
The marriage was solemnised by special license, and with great
privacy; and it was not known in Stamford-street until a late hour
on the wedding-day that such an extraordinary alliance had taken
place. By that time the victim-bride was far away from London--seated
by the side of her old husband in the post-chaise that was bearing
them to some country-place where they were to pass the honeymoon.
Mr. Pomfret had received the price stipulated for his daughter; and
his honour--his commercial honour, we mean--was saved! Alas! how
many marriages of this unnatural kind are constantly taking place
in this civilised--this enlightened--this Bible-reading--this moral
country!--how many fair young maidens are purchased by old men’s gold,
the performance of the religious ceremony only adding a hideous mockery
to a flagrant injustice! And yet how shocked are those mercenary
fathers and match-making mothers who thus sacrifice their daughters’
pure affections to the most selfish interests--how shocked, we say, are
they when they read that there are countries in the world where men
buy their wives outright! Oh! ye Exeter Hall Saints, who send forth
missionaries to christianise the heathen amongst whom such barter or
purchase prevails, have ye nothing to reform at home? Is the Mussulman
who buys his Circassian or his Georgian wife in a slave-market more
reprehensible than the tottering old lord or the nabob with his liver
eaten away, who purchases an English, a Scotch, or an Irish beauty in
the market of West End Fashion? Go, ye Exeter Hall Saints, into that
sphere where all is glitter outside and hollowness of heart within, and
count the many titled or wealthy septuagenaries to whose corpse-like
side fresh and blooming girls of nineteen and twenty are bound by
marriage-ties! Are such alliances founded upon those holy affections
which God has implanted in the human breast?--or are they proofs of
the rebellion which selfish interests consummate against nature’s laws
and heaven’s own divine promptings? But if we direct our attention to
that sphere wherein the industrious millions struggle with starvation,
oppression, and wrong, do we find such instances of outrage against
all that is natural, moral, and just? Do we discover the agricultural
labourer or the mechanic of seventy with a wife of nineteen? Out of
a hundred marriages in humble life, there is not more than one such
case. And yet the aristocratic, the wealthy, and the great are ever
declaiming upon the immorality of the poor! Immorality indeed! ’Tis
you, ye aristocrats, who are in reality demoralised: ’tis you, ye
oppressors, who would stand a far better chance of winning a place in
heaven, were ye to imitate the humble virtues of the oppressed! Oh! the
soul sickens at the idea that a lazy, insolent, intolerant oligarchy
should be permitted to heap so much abuse upon the toiling, starving,
deeply-wronged millions!

But to return to the thread of our narrative. It was in the evening
of the day on which Ellen became the wife of Mr. Gamble, that Mr.
Mitchell was seated at the open window of his front parlour, a
wire-blind enabling him to note all that passed in the street, but
preventing persons outside from seeing into the room. Leonard was
sitting near him, and racking his brain for the best means to commence
a conversation to which he might give such a turn as to enable him to
break the news of the day to his father. But every time the young man
prepared to speak, his heart’s emotions rose as if to suffocate him;
and at last he was obliged to hurry from the parlour and seek his own
chamber in order to give free vent to feelings that could no longer be
restrained. Scarcely had he left the room, when two gentlemen--dwellers
in Stamford Street--encountered each other precisely opposite the
Mitchells’ window; and after the usual greetings, one said: “I am just
going to call upon our mutual friend Mr. Pomfret, to congratulate
him.”--“Congratulate him!” exclaimed the other: “upon what event?”--“On
the marriage of his daughter with the wealthy Mr. Gamble,” was the
reply. “What! you have not heard of it? Oh! It is quite true, I can
assure you. The ceremony took place this morning: I have the fact
from the clergyman’s own lips.”--“But I thought that Miss Pomfret was
engaged to Leonard Mitchell?” observed the other gentleman, evidently
much amazed by the intelligence he had just received.--“Hush!” said
the first speaker, glancing significantly towards the open window;
and, taking his friend’s arm, he drew him a few paces farther on. But
had they stayed to enter into further explanations, it would have been
all the same: the conviction that his unhappy son had sustained a most
frightful blow to his happiness, burst upon the mind of the wretched
father like a tornado on a traveller in the desert; and when Leonard
returned to the room, he found the old man a corpse in his chair!




CHAPTER CLXXVIII.

CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF THE HAUNTED HOUSES.


Three years had elapsed since the occurrences just related; and it was
on a fine summer afternoon that a tall, handsome young soldier, in
the graceful undress of a private in a dragoon regiment, was walking
down Regent Street. His countenance was somewhat sunburnt; but there
was about him such an air of gentility that, even had he been far less
good-looking than he really was, it would have been impossible to pass
him by with indifference. His figure was slight, but admirably formed
and well knit: his legs were straight as a dart; and he carried his
arms with that gentle rounding which is so compatible with military
grace. His whiskers were small, but curling and glossy; and the slight
moustache that he wore was quite sufficient to turn the head of any
giddy girl--the more so that, as his lips were always kept the least
thing apart, that fringe set off his fine teeth to greater advantage.
His rich brown hair, worn short according to the regulation, stood
out in small but natural curls from beneath his undress cap; and
the somewhat darkly pencilled brows arched above eyes of deep blue,
and in which there was a melancholy expression that did not however
deteriorate from the masculine beauty of his person. His uniform was
scrupulously neat: his boots well polished; his buckskin gloves white
as snow;--and did he remove those gloves, his hands appeared to be
almost as delicate in complexion as a lady’s. In a word he was the very
_beau ideal_ of a soldier; and nature’s stamp of aristocracy was upon
him:--yet was he only a private--a humble private in his regiment!

We said that the day was remarkably fine; and it was at that hour when
the fashionable world goes forth to while away the time until dinner.
Regent Street was thronged with gay equipages filled with elegantly
dressed ladies, and attended by domestics in gaudy liveries; and the
footways were likewise crowded, but with a mere miscellaneous company.
For when the daughters of fashion appear abroad in the afternoon, the
daughters of crime likewise come forth; and yet we doubt whether
the immorality that walks the pavement is so much greater than that
which rides in carriages as the world generally supposes. Behold that
magnificent equipage wherein the elderly dowager and the beauteous
young girl of seventeen or eighteen are seated: it stops at the door of
a fashionable linen-draper’s, and the dowager leans heavily on the arm
of the tall, handsome footman who hands her out, while the young lady
throws a rapid but significant glance at the slim, graceful page who
has likewise dismounted from behind the vehicle. Or again, behold that
gentleman on horseback, moving leisurely along, and gazing intently
at each carriage which approaches down the wide avenue: at length he
recognises the equipage which he is so anxiously expecting--and, riding
up, he exchanges a few words with the fair creature who is its sole
occupant. A day, an hour, and a place are named for an appointment of
even a far less innocent nature than this one; and the lover passes on
with triumph in his heart, while the carriage whirls away the titled
lady who has already assented to a step that must lead to the dishonour
of her husband. Again, behold the splendid chariot, with a coronet
on the panel, and in which three beauteous girls with their maternal
parent--herself a fine woman--are seated. Would you believe that care
was harboured in hearts where smiles appear on radiant countenances?
And yet, the eldest of those sisters is a prey to a mortal
apprehension: she has been frail--weak--the victim of her own strong
desires and the opportunity afforded by some handsome, but obscure and
ineligible lover; and now she dreads lest a few months should betray
her unchastity and ruin her for ever. But we have not leisure to extend
this picture:--we must return to the handsome dragoon who is walking,
in a leisurely but somewhat thoughtful manner, down Regent Street.

[Illustration]

And wherefore was he thus partially pensive? Because nearly three
years had elapsed since he had last seen London, and his return to the
capital revived a thousand reflections which were indeed sufficient to
touch his heart painfully. He thought of his early youth--the hopes
which he had cherished when the future was bright before him--the
crushing disappointments and accumulated miseries that had suddenly
fallen upon his head--and his present position, so different from what
it ought to be. Yes--and he thought, too, of _one_ whom he had loved so
fondly--oh! so fondly, that his passion was a worship--an idolatry, and
whose image was indelibly impressed upon his soul. Time had taught him
the necessity of resignation to a lot which he could not alter--a fate
which he could not change--a destiny which he could not subdue: and
though that same resignation, aided by the faith of a sincere Christian
and a firm reliance on Him who disposeth of all things, had deprived
his anguish of its sting and blunted the iron that had entered into
his soul--there were, nevertheless, moments when the cloud came over
the handsome countenance, and the soldier’s heart swelled almost to
bursting. And this was now the state of his mind as he passed along the
fashionable quarter of that metropolis where he had arrived with his
regiment only the evening before. He had no particular aim in view--he
was not on his way to see any friends: the only being on the face of
the earth in whom he felt interested, was she whom he had once loved so
devotedly--whom he still loved with the mellowed and almost embittered
affection of disappointment--and whom he dared not inquire after, much
less venture to visit. His return to the capital had unsettled him: he
felt no inclination to remain in the barracks and pursue his favourite
recreation of reading--and he had therefore walked abroad in the hope
of diverting his mind from the unpleasant thoughts that intruded upon
it.

The handsome dragoon had just entered the arcade of the Quadrant, when
he was suddenly struck as if by paralysis--or as it were with a violent
blow dealt by an invisible hand: he stopped short--then staggered back
a few paces--and leant against one of the pillars for support,--his
countenance the while denoting the most intense emotions. For,
issuing from a shop, were two persons both of whom he instantaneously
recognised, but on one of whom his eyes became rivetted as if by
enchantment. Yes:--there was Ellen--the Ellen whom he had loved--whom
he still loved--leaning on the arm of her old husband--that man who
had robbed _him_--Leonard Mitchell--of the object of such a fervent
and undying affection! But neither the lady herself nor Mr. Gamble
observed the young soldier: for, on issuing from the shop, they passed
down the Quadrant; and thus their backs were almost immediately turned
upon him. Recovering his presence of mind, and passing his hand hastily
across his brow, as if to tear away a mist that hung upon his eyes,
Leonard Mitchell--for he indeed was the handsome young dragoon--was
already pushing his way amidst the crowd and hurrying after Ellen,
when the thought flashed, like blasting lightning, to his soul, that
she was an elegantly dressed lady, leaning on the arm of a husband who
was evidently a gentleman of substance--and _he_ was a common soldier!
Oh! never--never were the accursed class-distinctions of an artificial
state of society felt so bitterly as on the present occasion. Not that
Leonard mistrusted Ellen’s heart--not that he feared of experiencing
a cold reception from one of her generous nature: but a sense of
propriety--a deep conviction of what was due, under circumstances, to
herself and her husband, caused him suddenly to stop short;--then, in
obedience to the new impulse which was received from this revulsion of
his feelings, he turned abruptly from the Quadrant into one of those
streets that stretch towards the district of Golden Square.

Walking on, like one intoxicated, and with eyes that saw nothing--as
if all the powers of vision, physical and mental, were absorbed in
the necessity of internal contemplation--the young man felt as if
he were going mad. There was a fearful hurry in his brain; and yet,
palpable and distinct, as it were, in his heart was the image that
for years had been there, but each feature--each lineament of which
had suddenly received the most vivid colourings of revival. She was
beautiful as ever--more beautiful, if possible, in the glory of her
womanhood; and, although her countenance was somewhat pale and had a
melancholy--yes, a very melancholy expression--this only added to her
charms, in his estimation, by rendering her the more interesting. By
degrees, his thoughts grew more settled--the whirlwind that raged in
his brain, abated in violence; and suddenly there sprang up in his soul
a feeling of pleasure at the idea that her features wore that shade of
mournfulness. For, oh! there could be no doubt as to the cause: she
was unhappy--unhappy on account of him! She had not, then, forgotten
him--she remembered their youthful loves: perhaps he was still dear to
her? That thought became more delightful, as it seemed more consistent
with probability; and now _he_ was not altogether so thoroughly devoid
of hope--so profoundly a prey to black despair, as he had been a few
minutes previously. Hope, indeed! what could he hope? He knew not--he
did not immediately pause to ask himself the question: but he abandoned
himself to the delicious reverie into which the altered current of
his thoughts thus madly hurried him. When he awoke, as it were, from
this day-dream, he was astonished to find that it had lasted so long,
and without interruption: for, while wrapped up in that vision, he
had threaded many streets--accomplished a considerable distance--and
was now close to the toll-gate of Waterloo Bridge. Entering upon that
mighty viaduct, he seated himself in one of the recesses, and again
gave way to the meditations which the incident of the afternoon had
conjured up.

But how was it that Leonard Mitchell had taken the direction of
Waterloo Bridge, in that species of somnambulism under which he had
been labouring? Because it was the way to Stamford Street; and, in his
walking reverie, an irresistible impulse had influenced his footsteps,
even while he appeared to be proceeding at random. And what now was
the nature of his reflections? He experienced an ardent longing to
cross the bridge--to enter Stamford Street--and to behold once more the
house where all his early years were passed: yes--and to behold also
the dwelling of her whom he loved! But did he know that Mr. and Mrs.
Gamble still resided in Stamford Street? He was completely ignorant
on the subject; and an ardent curiosity impelled him to clear up the
point in question. Still he hesitated: amidst all the feelings by
which he was now animated, and the longings by which he was prompted,
a sense of duty rose up in his mind,--of duty towards her whom he
loved,--towards her husband--and towards himself. Why should he incur
the risk of meeting her, and perhaps unsettling her studied attempts at
unmixed devotion to him whose name she bore?--why should he do aught
that might arouse the suspicion or excite the jealousy of the old man
who doubtless treasured his young wife as a peerless jewel?--and why
should he resuscitate all his own griefs and sorrows, by an encounter
with one who was lost to him perhaps for ever? These questions did he
ask himself over and over again: they were the basis of the reasoning
which he held with his own heart--his own soul--in order to crush
the promptings that urged him towards the scene of past and happier
days. Alas! with all his natural rectitude of principle--with all his
generosity of disposition--with all his honourable feelings, Leonard
Mitchell was but a poor weak mortal, like the rest of us;--and while
still arguing with himself, he was traversing the bridge--he was
directing his way towards Stamford Street!

As he drew nearer to the end of the long thoroughfare--that end which
joins the Blackfriars Road--he relaxed his speed; and though his pace
was slower, his heart beat more rapidly. At length he came within
sight of the three corner houses: he paused--he stopped--heaven alone
knows how acute were the emotions that agitated within him then! Again
he moved onward--he called all his courage, all his presence of mind
to his aid;--and now he passed by Mr. Gamble’s house. Irresistibly
he glanced towards the window: his eyes met those of Ellen;--and he
heard the faint scream of astonishment that burst from her lips! But
the beauteous countenance had disappeared: had she, then, fainted?
No--her feelings had doubtless overcome her for a few moments;--but
she speedily recovered--she reappeared at the window--and a rapid
sign conveyed to him the intimation that she would come forth and
join him presently. All this passed so quickly as to be unobserved by
any of the neighbours; although it is probable that had ten thousand
pairs of eyes been rivetted on the house, Ellen would have not acted
differently--for she saw no one save him of whom she had heard nothing
for three long years. Leonard, half intoxicated with joy at the signal
that had been made by her fair hand, and aided in its interpretation
by the expression of her countenance,--scarcely believing, however,
that such happiness could indeed await him--and not pausing for a
single instant to ask himself whether he were acting well or even
prudently--Leonard, we say, passed on. The central of the three houses
was still occupied by Mr. Pomfret; for his name was on the brass-plate
on the front-door:--but the corner house--the house where Leonard had
dwelt so many years, and where his revered father had died in so sudden
and awful a manner--was shut up, a board intimating that it was to let.
The young soldier had not, however, many minutes’ leisure to reflect
upon the scenes of past days; for, aware that Ellen could not prudently
join him within a few yards of her own door, he crossed the Blackfriars
Road, and loitered at the corner of Holland Street. In a short time he
beheld her approaching: she saw him--she followed the direction which
he took;--and he proceeded farther down the comparatively secluded
place which he had deemed most fitting for this interview. At length
he halted; and in another minute his heart’s idol was by his side. She
had purposely put on a cottage-bonnet and a plain shawl;--and thus the
few people who passed saw nothing very remarkable in a modestly dressed
female in company with a private dragoon.

But even if they had attracted disagreeable notice, what was it to
them who had now no thought--no eyes--no ears save for each other?
Without a word at first--but after a brief though earnest pressure
of the hand--Leonard gave the young lady his arm; and they passed
along Holland Street. A few low, but anxious inquiries were rapidly
interchanged, and as speedily answered;--but frequent, long, and tender
were the looks they fixed upon each other. A few minutes’ walk brought
them to Southwark Bridge, to which they ascended; and when seated in
one of the recesses of that almost entirely deserted viaduct, the
restraint under which they had hitherto laboured was immediately thrown
aside.

“At length we meet again, Ellen,” said Leonard, taking her hand and
retaining it in his own, while he gazed fondly upon her.--“Yes,” she
replied, murmuringly, and holding down her blushing countenance:
“but do you think the worse of me, because, yielding to a sudden and
irresistible impulse, and availing myself of my husband’s temporary
absence, I thus stole forth to meet you--to hear from your own lips
that you are happy?”--“Happy!” repeated Leonard, bitterly: then,
unwilling to cause her additional pain, for his ejaculation had
already brought the diamond-tears to her violet eyes, he said, “How
can I think the worse of you, Ellen, when you come forth as a sister
to pass a few minutes with a brother who can not, dares not visit you
at your own abode? But rather let me ask, whether _you_, Ellen, are
happy?”--The young lady endeavoured to give utterance to a reply:
but, overpowered by her emotions, she burst into an agony of weeping.
Unable to restrain his own feelings any longer, Leonard caught her
in his arms, strained her to his breast and imprinted a thousand
kisses upon her moist lips and her tear-bedewed cheeks: for no eye,
save that of God, beheld them at this moment. Several minutes passed
ere either could recover the faculty of speech; and then they spoke
so low--so feelingly--and in such accents of deep, deep sorrow, that
it was easy for each to perceive that the love of the other had not
become impaired by time, separation, or circumstances.--“You were
wrong, oh! you were very wrong, Leonard,” said Ellen, “to abandon your
home and your friends, the moment after your father’s funeral. It is
true that you did not leave us altogether in uncertainty and suspense
relative to your fate--that you left for me a note acquainting me
with your determination to enlist and earn your bread honourably!
But, oh! wherefore have adopted that distressing alternative?”--“Can
you not understand my feelings, Ellen?” asked the young man, almost
reproachfully. “My father’s death left me without interest to obtain
the situation that had been promised to me through him; and his income
likewise perished with him. I had no claim upon Mr. Pomfret: neither
would I have accepted eleemosynary assistance. What could I do? I
disposed of the furniture to pay off the few debts owing by my father
and the expenses of the funeral; and I made all my arrangements with as
much haste as possible, in order to be able to leave that once happy
neighbourhood before you and--and--your husband should return to it.
I then repaired to Hounslow, and enlisted. Yesterday my regiment was
ordered to London; and within a few hours of my arrival, I experience
the happiness--the indescribable happiness of thus encountering you.
And now, Ellen, let us think--or, at all events, let us talk no more
of the past. I cannot bear to look back upon it. But, my God!” he
exclaimed passionately, and suddenly interrupting himself: “wherefore
should I dread to retrospect, since the happiness of the present is
only transitory, and there is no hope for the future?”--Thus speaking,
the young man covered his face with his hands and moaned audibly.

“Oh! this is dreadful!” exclaimed Ellen, with accents of despair.
“Leonard! I implore you not to give way to affliction thus. Listen
to me, my beloved one--for you are as dearly and as fondly loved
as ever; and I hesitate not to give you that assurance.”--“Oh! is
it possible? can I believe my ears?” cried the young dragoon, now
turning upon the lady a countenance suddenly lighting up with the
animation of indescribable joy and bliss, as the rays of the setting
sun played upon those handsome features. “But you forget,” he said,
after a brief pause, and with a cloud again appearing upon his face,
“that you are the wife of another?”--“Then it is you who love me not!”
exclaimed Ellen, in a tone of disappointment and reproach.--“Not love
you!” repeated Leonard: “Oh! how cruel of you thus to speak!”--and
again snatching her to his bosom, he covered her lips and cheeks with
kisses--kisses which she as fondly and as passionately returned. “Yes:
Ellen, you know that I love and adore you!” he added in a voice of the
tenderest sincerity.--“And I am not ashamed, Leonard, to give you a
reciprocal assurance,” said the young wife of another. “Oh! wherefore
should I attempt to restrain my natural feelings? Believe me that I
am much changed since last we met: I no longer see things in the same
light. For, to speak candidly, I have a deep conviction of the disgrace
of having been sold and bought for that dross which men so much prize.
I cannot help the thoughts that steal upon me; and therefore it is that
I have long ceased to look upon my father with respect. I feel that he
sacrificed me--me, his only daughter, whom he might have made so happy!
I feel also that he who is my husband hesitated not to immolate the
hopes of my youth to his own selfishness. These are sad--nay, terrible
thoughts, Leonard: but I again assure you that I cannot combat against
them. It is true that my father is now rich and prosperous, and that he
sometimes thanks me as the authoress of his fortunes: true also is it
that my husband treats me with the utmost kindness. But never--never
ought I to have been placed in the position to receive such thanks
from the one, nor such kindness from the other: for, between them,
they have wrecked my happiness, blighted my hopes, ruined all my
youthful dreams of felicity. There are times, then, when I feel as if
it would be a relief to fly from the neighbourhood of a father whom I
am almost compelled to look upon as an enemy, and from the arms of a
husband who is loathsome to me!”--As she uttered these last words, in
a low tone but with a bitter emphasis, Ellen bent her countenance--her
burning countenance--over her lover’s hand, which she pressed to her
lips.--“Then you would fly with me even now, dearest,” he said, in a
voice rendered tremulous by indescribable emotions, “did circumstances
permit me to accompany you?”--Ellen made no verbal answer; but the
rapturous manner in which she again pressed his hand to her rich, red
mouth was a sufficiently significant response--“Alas! that may not
be,” resumed Leonard mournfully; and now the young lady absolutely
shuddered in his arms, as if an ice-chill had suddenly fallen upon a
heart an instant before so warm with passion. “No--that may not be,”
continued Leonard, determined not to leave her in the least degree of
suspense. “Behold this uniform--a uniform which is accursed under all
circumstances, not only on account of the soul-crushing, merciless
discipline and degrading servitude of which it is the badge, but
also because it constitutes the barrier to the wishes which you so
generously intimated and which I so enthusiastically share.”--“But your
discharge can be purchased, can it not?” asked Ellen, bending down her
head to conceal her deep blushes.--“When I enlisted, Ellen,” solemnly
and mournfully replied Leonard, “I swore within myself an oath--an
oath ratified by all I deem sacred in heaven and by all my hopes of an
hereafter--to follow the course of this new destiny which I carved out
for myself, and, if possible, to rise to distinction in this service
which I dare not quit. I was young when I made that vow; and the hope
which dictated it never will be fulfilled;--for the English soldier is
a serf--a slave; and the idea of rising--ha! ha!”--and Leonard laughed
wildly. “At all events,” he added hastily, and again assuming a solemn
tone, “I respect the oath that I took; and you, who love me, will not
counsel me to break it. But we can see each other often, Ellen--we can
meet, as we have met to-night----.”--“Then with that assurance must
I content myself, Leonard!” interrupted the impassioned young lady,
in whom, as the reader may have surmised, the hand of affliction, the
tyranny of a parent, and the selfishness of the old man who bought her
with his gold, had deadened those delicate feelings and even undermined
the virtuous principles which had characterised her in her days of
happy innocence.--“Yes,” returned Leonard, “with that understanding
must we endeavour to console ourselves! And now, my beloved one, it is
time for me to leave you: remember,” he added bitterly, “that though a
man in years, I belong to a service where I am treated as a child and
limited to particular hours.”--“Would to God that you were emancipated
from this dreadful thraldom!” exclaimed Ellen, weeping.--“Nay, I was
wrong to say aught to afflict you,” returned Leonard, embracing her
tenderly. A few minutes more did they pass together, exchanging the
most passionate caresses and earnest protestations of unalterable
affection; and when they separated at last, it was not without having
arranged for another meeting at an early day.

It would be scarcely possible to describe the feelings which animated
the young lovers as they respectively hastened to their abodes--the
one to his barracks, the other to her home. As we have before stated,
circumstances had so warped Ellen’s mind, that she paused not even
to reflect for an instant upon the dangerous course on which she had
entered: she had no longer any ties to bind her with filial love to
her father--and she never had any bond of affection to link her to
her husband. Therefore all she now thought of, or cared to think of,
was that she had recovered a lover whom she adored; and she would
have ridiculed and laughed at the idea of disgrace and of a ruined
reputation, had any friend counselled her in the matter. On his side,
Leonard was less hardened--for such indeed is the term which might
be applied to Ellen’s state of mind--to the consequences of this new
phase of his existence. He shuddered at the thought of inducing a young
wife to conduct herself in a manner so injurious to her husband’s
happiness; and he resolved, in his calmer moments, that when he met
Ellen again, according to the appointment already arranged, he would
represent to her the necessity of their eternal separation. But when
they did meet, and in a secluded place, she appeared so ravishingly
beautiful, and spoke with so much tenderness, and seemed so completely
happy in his society, and was withal so unfeignedly loving, that he
could not bring himself to give utterance to the words that trembled
upon his tongue--words that would have chased away those charming
smiles, dimmed with tears the lustre of those melting eyes, hushed with
sighs that language of fervid passion, and changed to dark despair
all that bright and glowing bliss. Therefore they separated a second
time with an arrangement to meet again:--and on the occasion of the
third interview Leonard found himself less disposed than before to
make a representation which would be fatal to the happiness of both.
To be brief, interview succeeded interview, Leonard resolving that
each one should be the last,--until at length love’s dalliance became
irresistible in its consequences; and, opportunity serving in all
respects, the lovers were criminal! From that day forth Leonard thought
no more of the impropriety of their meetings, which thereafter grew
more frequent and longer in duration.

We shall here interrupt the thread of our narrative for a brief space,
in order to make a few observations upon the condition of the private
soldier. And, in the first instance, let us record our conviction that
there is not a more generous-hearted, a nobler-minded, or a more humane
set of men breathing than those who constitute the ranks of the British
Army; while there is not a more tyrannical, overbearing, illiberal,
and self-sufficient class than that composed of the officers of this
army. But how is the latter fact to be accounted for? Because the Army
is the mere plaything of the Aristocracy--a means of providing for the
younger sons of noblemen, and enabling titled mammas to show off their
striplings in red coats. What opinion can we have of the constitution
of the army, so far as the officers are concerned, when we find
Prince Albert suddenly created a Field-Marshal![18] Such a spectacle
is nauseating in the extreme; and the German must have execrably
bad taste, or else be endowed with inordinate conceit, to hold the
_baton_ of a Marshal when he has not even the military knowledge of
a drummer-boy. Since the Army is thus made a mere tool in the hands
of a rascally Aristocracy, what sympathy can possibly exist between
the officers and the men? The former look upon the latter as the scum
of the earth--mere slaves on a level with shoe-blacks; and hence the
barbarous cry of “Flog! flog! flog!” But there is no love lost between
the classes: for the soldiers hate and abhor their officers, whom they
naturally and most justly look upon as their tyrants and oppressors.
It is enough to make the blood boil with indignation to think that
those fine, stalwart, gallant fellows should be kicked about at the
caprice of a wretched ensign or contemptible cornet just loosened
from his mamma’s apron-strings,--or bullied by older officers whose
only “excellence” is their relationship to nobility, and their power
to obtain promotion _by purchase_. The generality of the officers in
the British Army are nothing more nor less than a set of purse-proud
bloodhounds, whose greatest delight is to behold the blood streaming
down the backs of those men who alone win their country’s battles.
When the Duke of York (who was a humane man, though as great a scamp
as ever had a COLUMN OF INFAMY erected to his memory) limited corporal
punishment to 300 lashes, the full amount was invariably inflicted
in nineteen out of twenty cases: but even this would not satisfy the
bloodhounds, who annoyed and pestered the Duke on the subject to such
an extent that he was literally bullied into empowering them to hold
General Regimental Courts-Martial, by whose decision 500 lashes might
be administered to the unhappy victim. For years and years was the
torture of military flogging in England a shame and a scandal to all
Europe; and it was absolutely necessary that a fine fellow should be
_murdered_ at Hounslow by the accursed lash, before the barbarous
Government would interfere. All the world knows that a BRITISH SOLDIER
_was murdered_ in this revolting manner, and in the presence of
his horror-stricken comrades: for be it remembered that when these
appalling spectacles take place, the eyes that weep and the hearts that
grow faint are those of the soldiers--never of the officers!

Again we ask, then, what sympathy can possibly exist between the
privates and those in command? None: the soldiers would be more
grovelling than spaniels if they could possibly kiss the hands that
cuff them, or lick the shoes of those who kick and spurn them. The
British soldier has his feelings as well as others--aye, and his spirit
too; and he feels the iron of a cruel discipline and a heartless
system rankling in his very soul. The celebrated John Wilkes was wont
to say, “The very worst use you can put a man to, is to hang him.” We
agree with the _dictum_: but we aver in addition that it is an equally
vile use to flog him. In fact, the whole treatment of the soldier,
from the day of his enlistment until that of his discharge, is one
continuous system of tyranny. Deception is made use of to ensnare him
into the service--a crushing despotism is maintained to render him
a docile, pliant tool while he is in it--and the basest ingratitude
marks his departure from it, when he is turned adrift on the world
without a penny to help him. The infamy commences with the recruiting
sergeant--is perpetuated by all the officers--and is consummated by
the Government. Take the case of Leonard Mitchell, in respect to
enlistment. The young man was assured by the recruiting sergeant that
his pay would be a guinea a-week: it however turned out to be only
9_s._ 4_d._, from which 5_s._ 10_d._ were stopped for messing and
washing, 2_s._ 7½_d._ for clothes, and 3½_d._ for articles to clean
his uniform with--leaving 7_d._ per week, or _one penny a-day_, for
pocket-money! And this is the condition of a British dragoon--with less
pocket-money than a school-boy receives from his parents!

The Government relies upon the fidelity of the Army from the fact that
it is officered by the scions of the aristocracy, who are of course
interested in upholding all kinds of abuses. Hence the belief which
the Government entertains that in case of a popular convulsion the
troops would be certain to fire upon the people. But, in spite of the
lordlings and aristocratic offshoots who command the army, we firmly
believe that it all depends upon the cause in which such popular
convulsion might arise, whether the troops would really massacre
their civilian-brethren. If it were a glorious and just struggle for
rights pertinaciously withheld and privileges doggedly refused, the
Army would _not_ act against the people. Even the Government itself
has fears on this head, ignorant though it be of the real state of
feeling anywhere save in the circles of the oligarchy;--for on a recent
occasion[19] when tremendous military preparations were made to resist
an expected outbreak of the working-men of London, the Government set
policemen in plain clothes to act as spies in respect to the private
soldiers. These spies threw themselves in the way of the soldiers,
enticed them into public-houses, plied them with drink, and, in an
apparently frank and off-hand manner, questioned them as to their
political opinions. Some of the gallant privates, thus treated and
interrogated, and little thinking that they were in the fangs of the
Government _mouchards_, candidly expressed their sympathy with the
popular cause, and as generously declared that they would sooner cut
their hands off than draw a trigger against the people--adding, “The
working-men and the soldiers are brethren.” What was the consequence?
The spies followed these brave and open-hearted men home to their
barracks, and laid information against them; so that numbers of British
soldiers, thus shamefully entrapped, found themselves suddenly placed
under arrest. Their commanding officers did not dare bring them to
punishment; but they are doubtless marked men, and will be persecuted
with all imaginable rancour and bitterness. To conclude this portion
of our observations, we must remark that if any disturbance had
really occurred on the great public occasion now especially alluded
to, the troops were resolved _not_ to fire upon the people; but they
were equally determined to avenge themselves most signally upon the
police.[20]

The day has gone by for the British soldier to permit himself to be
made the tool of despotism: he will not be behind the French soldier in
noble sentiments, generous conduct, and enlightened feelings, any more
than he is inferior to him in bravery or discipline. But the British
soldier must have his wrongs boldly proclaimed and speedily redressed.
In many, if not in most regiments, the love of self-improvement is
looked upon by the officers as a crime; whereas reading should be
encouraged as much as possible. The barrack-room should be made more
comfortable: at present it is so miserable and cheerless, that the
private soldier is driven to the public-house in spite of his better
inclinations. In many instances, men have become drunkards from this
very fact, and are then entered in the Proscribed List; though all
this might be avoided, were they encouraged to remain and pass their
evenings at home. The food provided for the mess-tables is seldom of a
good description, and frequently of the very worst: the meat especially
is too often of the vilest kind, and unfit for human food. Yet the
poor soldier dares not complain--no, not even in respect to that for
the supply of which he is so heavily mulcted out of his miserable
pittance. Drunkenness even every now and then is a heinous crime in
respect to the private soldier; whereas the veriest stripling that was
ever dubbed ensign or cornet, may get as tipsy as an owl every night
of his life with utter impunity. In fine, the condition of the British
soldier is wretched in the extreme; and while the officer, who _buys_
his rank, enjoys every privilege and riots in luxury and dissipation,
the unfortunate private, who is basely inveigled into the service by a
damnable fraud, is persecuted for the slightest offence, and treated on
all occasions as a mere dog.

And now to return to our narrative. Six months elapsed; and during
that period Leonard and Ellen met as often as the duties of the
former would permit, while the latter cared not to what extent her
husband’s suspicions were aroused by her frequent and unaccountable
absences from home. And that the old man did speedily entertain the
most heart-rending suspicions, was a fact: but if he questioned his
wife, she either took refuge in a stubborn silence, or answered him
in a manner that only provoked him the more. Pride prevented him from
complaining to her father; and he felt that he was now righteously
punished for his selfishness in sacrificing the happiness of the fair
young creature to his own desires. At length, unable any longer to
endure the tortures of uncertainty, and anxious to know the worst at
once, or else acquire the conviction that he had misjudged his wife
altogether, he watched her movements: but she, aware of his proceeding,
and without affecting to notice it, adopted such precautions as
completely to outwit her husband, and to hold meetings with her lover,
undiscovered as before. Up to this period--nearly three years and a
half--the young man had conducted himself in his regiment with the
utmost steadiness: he had never been reported--never incurred the
slightest reprimand from his superiors. This was an extraordinary
case, inasmuch as the private soldier has so many persons to please:
first, the corporal--then the serjeant--then the serjeant-major--then
the subaltern of the troop--next the captain--and lastly the
commanding-officer. No--not _lastly_: for he must likewise please the
Regimental Serjeant-Major, the Adjutant, and the Riding Master. Well,
all these difficult objects had Leonard accomplished with success; and
he was likewise beloved by all his comrades. He was ever in barracks of
an evening at the proper hour; and during the first six months of his
amour with Ellen, not even her sweet society had caused him to be late.

We must state that the more completely to enjoy the company of her
lover, Ellen Gamble had taken a furnished lodging in the neighbourhood
of his barracks; and there they were wont to meet. The landlady of the
place asked no questions, her rent being regularly paid, and so little
use being made of the apartments. It was Ellen’s delight to provide
succulent suppers for Leonard; and these he did not hesitate to partake
of with her: but as for direct pecuniary assistance--when once she had
offered it in as delicate a manner as possible, he refused it with so
much firmness and with such a glowing countenance that she did not
again allude to the subject. One evening,--it was at the expiration
of the six months already alluded to--the conversation had become
more than ordinarily interesting to the pair--the supper was later
than usual--and Ellen had ordered a bottle of champagne by way of an
additional treat. Leonard was remarkably temperate in his habits; and
the wine excited him considerably. He was not however tipsy--only very
much animated; and the time passed away more rapidly than the lovers
had imagined. At length, a neighbouring clock proclaimed the hour when
Leonard should be in quarters: and, starting up, he snatched a hasty
embrace, and hurried away. He reached the barracks ten minutes after
the proper time; and as he was traversing the yard, deeply regretting
that he should be even such a trifle too late, he met a young cornet
who had only joined the regiment six weeks previously. “Holloa, you
sir!” cried Lord Satinet; for such was the officer’s appellation:
“what the devil do you mean by coming in at this hour?”--Leonard,
perceiving that his lordship was so tipsy as to be scarcely able to
stand, endeavoured to get away without making any answer.--“Stop there,
damn your eyes!” exclaimed the nobleman. “What’s your number? Oh! B
57. Very well. But, damn your eyes!” repeated his lordship; “you’re
drunk--as drunk as a beast, I declare.”--“I am not, my lord!” cried
Leonard, indignantly: and again he made for the door leading to his
quarters.--“You infernal scoundrel!” vociferated the splendid specimen
of aristocracy, flying into a furious passion: “how dare you tell me
you are not drunk? Why, curse you, you can hardly stand.” It was his
lordship, however, who staggered.--“I am sober, my lord,” responded
Leonard, still keeping his temper: “and pray permit me to inform
your lordship that I _once_ was a gentleman, and that your lordship
might have a little more consideration for a person so unfortunately
circumstanced as I am!”--“A gentleman _once_!” repeated Lord Satinet,
with an ironical laugh: “a pretty gentleman, I’ll be bound! Your father
was a costermonger, I suppose; and your mother an apple-woman? A
gentleman, indeed! Why, damn your eyes, you’ll be telling me you were a
nobleman next. A gentleman, by the powers! a splendid gentleman! Of the
swell-mob, most likely.”--“Were I now as I was three years and a half
ago, my lord,” said Leonard, scarcely able to master his passion, “you
would not dare to address me thus.”--“Holloa! you threaten me, eh!”
cried Lord Satinet. “Come, sir: tramp off to the guard-room; and I’ll
teach you what it is to insult your officer, and be damned to you!”

Poor Leonard was compelled to obey: but the mere circumstance of being
forced to restrain his boiling indignation, gave him such an excited
appearance, that when he arrived at the guard-room the Serjeant on
duty immediately accused him of having been drinking. Leonard scorned
to utter a falsehood; and he did not therefore deny the fact: but he
declared that he was not inebriated--a statement which was treated with
ridicule. To be brief, he was kept in custody for three days, at the
expiration of which a court-martial assembled to try him. Lord Satinet
made out the case as black as possible against the unfortunate young
man, who in his defence most unwisely but very truly averred that his
lordship himself was excessively tipsy on the occasion referred to. The
nobleman denied the statement with much apparent indignation; and the
judge-advocate declared that Leonard Mitchell had materially aggravated
his own enormity by such an accusation--although the very officer who
thus fulfilled the judicial functions could of himself have proved, had
he chosen, that Lord Satinet _was_ particularly disguised in liquor on
the night in question. The result of that hideous mockery of a trial
was that the accused was pronounced _guilty_ of returning home late
in a condition of extreme intoxication, and of grossly insulting and
even menacing his officer. Leonard Mitchell was accordingly condemned
to receive three hundred lashes with the cat-o’nine-tails: he was then
removed to the black hole, where he passed a night scarcely enviable
even by a man about to suffer the extreme penalty of the law. For, oh!
how could he ever again look the world in the face?--how should he
dare meet his much-loved Ellen? how survive this deep disgrace--this
flagrant shame--this damning infamy? But we dare not pause to analyse
the thoughts or describe the feelings of the wretched young man during
the interval between his condemnation and the execution of the sentence.

The fatal moment arrived when the gallant British soldier, stripped
naked to the waist, was tied up to receive the torture of the lash,
in the presence of the entire regiment, which was marshalled for
the purpose. Leonard’s face was ashy pale--but the compressed lip,
sternly-fixed eye, and determined expression of countenance indicated
his resolution to meet the horrible punishment with as much courage as
he could invoke to his aid. On many an eye-lash in the ranks did the
tear of sympathy--aye, of deep, deep commiseration tremble: but the
officers looked on, the elder ones without emotion--the younger with
curiosity, but with no better feeling. As for Cornet Lord Satinet--he
could scarcely conceal his delight at the inhuman spectacle which he
himself had caused to be enacted; and he thought what a “lion of the
party” he should prove in the evening at his father’s house, when
detailing to his noble mamma and his dear sisters the particulars of
the military flogging of the morning. But, hark! the drums beat--and
the accursed torture commences!--the first blow is inflicted--and nine
long livid marks appear upon the back of the victim. Still he winces
not--and not a murmur escapes his lips. Again does the lash fall--and
of a livelier red are the traces it leaves behind. A third time the
instrument of torture descends--and now blood is drawn. But still the
young man is silent--although his well-knit frame moves with a slight
convulsiveness. A shudder--passing throughout the long ranks like an
electric shock, from flank to flank--denotes the horror--the profound,
intense horror, which strikes to the hearts of the brave dragoons
who behold the appalling laceration of their comrade. And now faster
falls each murderous weapon--for there are two executioners employed
at the same time: and when they have dealt a certain number of blows,
they are relieved by others, so that the victim may gain nothing by
the slightest weariness of arm on the part of his torturers. Still he
maintains a profound silence: but he cannot prevent his countenance
from expressing a keen sense of the mortal agony that he endures.
Down--down comes the horrible weapon, each stroke inflicting _nine_
distinct blows; and, while the blood streams forth in many crimson
rivulets, the knotted cords carry away pieces of the palpitating
flesh. Oh! that such infernal cruelty should be perpetrated in a
country vaunted as the chosen land of freedom, and peopled by beings
who boast their humanity!--Oh! that such a blood-thirsty torture should
be sanctioned by the laws of a nation paying upwards of ten millions
a-year for the maintenance of the ministers of Christ! Gracious God!
do thy thunders sleep when a creature fashioned after thine own image
is thus enduring the torments of the damned,--torments inflicted
not in a paroxysm of rage, and by the hand of a savage individual
vengeance,--but in cold blood, in unprovoked mercilessness, and under
colour of a sanguinary law which would disgrace a community of savages!
People of England! let us blush--let us hang down our heads for very
shame when we reflect that such appalling scenes are enacted amongst
us; or rather let us gnash our teeth with rage--and tear our hair--and
beat our breasts, to think that we are unable to compel our legislators
to receive even a scintillation of that humane spirit which animates
ourselves. For we have a Society to prevent cruelty to animals--and
the man who beats his ox or his ass too severely, is punished; and
if a poor man only happens to jostle against a police-officer, it
is construed into _a savage assault_ and attended with penalties.
But there is no Society to prevent cruelty to human beings; and the
lash--the accursed lash may be used, until the blood flows down the
back--the skin is flayed away--deep wails are made in the quivering
form--morsels of palpitating flesh are torn off--and the muscles are
laid bare,--oh! all this may be done--all these revolting atrocities
may be perpetrated--all these hellish cruelties may be accomplished,
and there is no Association patronised by Royal Highnesses, Bishops,
and Noble Lords, to interfere in behalf of the victims nor to punish
the offenders!

Leonard Mitchell bore his murderous punishment as bravely as man could
endure such fiendish torture. A hundred and fifty lashes had been
inflicted, without eliciting a moan from his lips: but his countenance
betrayed all the intensity of the anguish which he suffered. His eyes
lost their lustre--his under-jaw fell slightly--there was foam upon
his mouth--and his tongue protruded somewhat. As for his back----But,
perdition seize upon the blood-hounds! the indignation which we feel
at this moment will not allow us to extend _that_ portion of the
painful description. Better--oh! better far to be the vilest beggar
that ever grovelled in the mire, than one of those Greenacres of the
House of Commons who advocate corporal punishment, or those Barkers
of colonels who delight in having it inflicted! As for poor Leonard
Mitchell, he received upwards of two hundred lashes without a murmur;
and then the surgeon ordered a pause. Drink was given to him--and he
revived. But was he then removed? Oh! no--no: the feast of blood was
not accomplished--the cup of gore was not full enough--the sum of human
tortures was not finished. Again fell the accursed weapon: and now--we
know not whether it were that after a brief cessation the agony of the
renewal was more intense than before--or that the interval of rest had
allowed the fine spirit of the man to flag,--whatever were the cause,
it is nevertheless a fact that a piercing shriek of anguish burst from
his lips--a shriek so strange, so wild, and so unnatural, that long,
long after did it ring in the ears of those who heard it; for it seemed
to lacerate the very brain as, in its horrible inflections, the rending
sound was sent back from the barrack walls in penetrating echoes and
frightful reverberations. A thrill of horror electrified the startled
ranks of the victim’s comrades; and the gloved hand of many a brave
soldier was drawn rapidly across the countenance, to dash away the
tears that trembled on the quivering eye-lids. For, oh! the British
warrior may indeed well weep at such a scene,--weep--weep with mingled
shame and sorrow--weep, too, with bitterness and indignation!

The punishment was over: soon as that piercing scream had died away,
the prisoner fainted;--and he was forthwith hurried to the infirmary,
where many hours elapsed ere he came to his senses. Then he awoke
to consciousness amidst the most horrible tortures: for the means
that were adopted to prevent his lacerated back from mortifying,
inflicted the agonies of hell. Only fancy, Christian reader--a man
in this country can be beaten into such a state that it is ten to
one whether he will not die of his wounds, and all the surgeon’s art
can with difficulty resuscitate him! But pass we over the lingering
illness endured by the unhappy Leonard---an illness of eight long
weeks; and let us see whether the tortures of the lash have made him
a better man. Alas! far from it! His fine spirit was broken: he saw
that it was useless to endeavour to be good--that it was ridiculous to
practise virtues which experienced no reward. His religious faith was
shaken--nay, almost completely destroyed; and he no longer believed in
the efficacy of prayer. Instead of harbouring feelings of a generous
philanthropy, he began to loathe and detest his superiors and look with
suspicion on his equals. A doggedness of disposition, a recklessness
of character, a species of indifference as to what might become of
him, displaced all those fine qualities and noble attributes that had
previously graced him. For he felt that he was a marked man in his
regiment, and never could hope for promotion--that his character was
gone--and that, like Cain, he bore about him the brand of indelible
infamy. Moreover, he longed for vengeance--bitter, bitter vengeance
upon that young scion of the aristocracy who had lied against him--lied
foully as only such a wretch could lie--and who had brought down all
that disgrace on his devoted head.

In such a frame of mind was it that Leonard Mitchell met Ellen for
the first time after a separation of nearly ten weeks. The young lady
had learnt the misfortunes which had befallen her lover; and she was
prepared, by an intimate knowledge of his character, to hear that he
had been accused as unjustly as he had been punished savagely. She
endeavoured to console him: but he assured her broadly and frankly
that the only solace he could ever know was--_vengeance_! Ellen did
not discourage this idea--did not rebuke this craving; for she also
felt bitterly--bitterly against the despicable lordling who had
persecuted him so foully. It was, nevertheless, with sorrow that she
soon observed the alteration which had taken place in his disposition.
He was still devoted to her: but his passion now partook rather of
a gross sensuality than, of the refinement of love. How could it be
otherwise? The best feelings of the man were blunted; and his brute
impulses, unchecked by that delicacy of sentiment which had once so
peculiarly characterised him, became the more violent. Especially did
he soon manifest a loving for intoxicating liquors; and at the third
or fourth interview with Ellen, after his release from the hospital,
he suffered her to understand pretty plainly that he should no longer
refuse pecuniary assistance at her hands. In the course of a few weeks
he spoke out more plainly still, and unblushingly asked for the amount
he required at the time; and ere many months had passed away, he never
parted from her without receiving a portion of the contents of her
purse. At first she herself was much shocked at this evidence of an
altered disposition: but she was so deeply--so devotedly attached to
him, that she reasoned herself into consolation even on that head; and
the more selfish he became, the more anxious did she appear to minister
to his wants. This was not all: for frequent intoxication irritated
his temper--and he did not hesitate to vent his ill humour upon her.
Sometimes, too, he failed to keep his appointments with her: and when
they did meet at last, he abused her if she dared to reproach him. On
one occasion he actually raised his hand to strike her; but the poor,
loving creature, falling on her knees at his feet, turned up towards
him a countenance so tearful and woe-begone, that the coward blow was
stayed, and he implored her pardon. Nevertheless, she had received a
shock which she could not forget: neither could she avoid contrasting
the Leonard Mitchell whom military punishment had degraded to the same
level as the brutes, with the Leonard Mitchell who formerly appeared
the very type of a gallant, generous-hearted, and high-minded British
Dragoon!

[Illustration]

But Leonard Mitchell must not be blamed if his manners and habits
were thus changed, and if he took inveterately to drinking. He was
one of those whom bad laws had forced into evil courses; and if he
flew to the intoxicating glass, it was because the alcoholic liquor
contained the hours of oblivion. Persecuted as he had been--degraded as
he felt himself, existence had become intolerable unless he lost the
consciousness of at least a portion of it. His comrades noticed the
alteration which had taken place in him, and they well understood the
cause: for it had been the same with every one who had ever undergone
the torture and the disgrace of the lash. In his sober hours Leonard
experienced no remorse--no compunction for the ways which he was
pursuing: he had grown dogged--morose--indifferent;--no--not altogether
indifferent,--for he cherished--dearly, deeply cherished a scheme of
vengeance. And the day and the hour for carrying it into execution
arrived at last.

It was, indeed, on the anniversary of the memorable morning of his
degrading punishment, that a grand review took place in Hyde Park.
Certain German pauper Princes were on a visit to this country,--princes
who received annual incomes from the English Treasury, heaven only
knows for what services performed--and whose very travelling expenses
to and from the Court of St. James’s were duly paid from the public
purse;--for those contemptible petty sovereigns of Germany are as
mean as they are poor, and as proud as they are both mean and poor!
Well, it was on the occasion of the presence of two or three of those
princely beggars in the British metropolis, that the grand review
took place. All the troops quartered in or near London were marched
shortly after ten o’clock in the morning to Hyde Park; and as the day
was remarkably fine, the spectacle was brilliant and imposing. The
Duke of Wellington, the German Princes, and several General-officers,
attended by a numerous staff, shortly afterwards appeared upon the
ground: and the road was thronged with spectators. The review commenced
in the usual manner: the entire force, infantry and cavalry, was
drawn up to receive the Duke, the Princes, and their companions;--and
after the inspection and the “marching past,” various evolutions and
manœuvres were practised. A sham fight was then ordered; and the troops
were accordingly separated for the purpose into two divisions. The
appearance of the dragoon regiment in which Leonard Mitchell served
attracted general notice, not only on account of the reputation it had
acquired of containing some of the finest men in the British army, but
likewise in consequence of its discipline and its perfection in the
evolutions already practised. But had some searching eye scanned each
individual countenance, there was _one_ in that regiment which would
have rivetted the gaze: for, though strikingly handsome, there was then
upon that countenance an expression of fiend-like satisfaction and
sardonic triumph--and the portentous gaze, the curling lip, and the
dilation of the nostrils on the part of the dragoon thus alluded to,
would have convinced the observer that the man’s thoughts were intent
on some sinister design.

And now the sham-fight commences;--and there is advancing and
retreating by turns--and there are echelons and deployings, and
other evolutions--until a general attack commences on the side of
the assailing party. The dragoons are armed with their carbines; and
Leonard Mitchell grasps his weapon with an ardour--an affection--a
species of gratitude, as if it were about to render him some signal
service. The order is given to fire; and the carbines vomit forth
volumes of white, vapoury smoke, which in a moment envelopes the entire
corps. But from the midst of the cloud a piercing scream--a scream of
mortal agony--breaks forth; and then, as the smoke moves slowly away on
the lazy wing of the partial breeze, ejaculations of horror and dismay
announce that some accident has occurred. All is now confusion; but
a report spreads through the dragoon regiment, and thence circulates
like wildfire amidst the troops and the spectators, that Lord Satinet
has been wounded in the sham-fight. And true enough was the rumour;
for there lay the young nobleman, fallen from his horse, and stretched
bleeding and gasping on the green sward! The surgeon hastily proceeded
to render all the assistance that human skill could administer: but the
aid was vain and useless--the victim was mortally wounded by a bullet
which had entered his back--and, without uttering an intelligible
word, he shortly expired in the surgeon’s arms. And now a sad and
heart-rending scene took place: for the parents and the sisters of the
murdered nobleman were upon the ground--and they hastened to the spot,
guided by the common rumour which had appalled them, but which they
hoped to find incorrect, or at all events fearfully exaggerated. They
discovered, however, that it was, alas! too true; and the gala day was
turned into one of bitter mourning for them. The review was broken
up--and the troops were marched away to their respective barracks;
while the spectators crowded to behold the sad procession that bore the
corpse of the young noble to the family mansion in the neighbourhood.

During the return of the dragoon regiment to its quarters, those of
Leonard’s comrades who were near him frequently bent suspicious and
enquiring glances upon him: but his countenance afforded no indication
of guilt. He neither appeared triumphant nor downcast--neither nervous
nor afraid; and the soldiers who thus beheld his calm and tranquil
demeanour, were shaken in the idea which they had formed in respect
to the authorship of the morning’s tragedy. The moment the dragoons
entered the barracks, every cartouche-box was examined; but in none was
found aught save blank cartridges. The suspicions of the officers had
naturally fallen upon Leonard Mitchell; and it was deemed necessary
to place him under arrest until the coroner should have instituted
the usual enquiry. But he energetically declared his innocence; and
those who were the most ready to suspect him, were staggered by the
sincerity which seemed to characterise his protestations, and by the
indignation which he manifested at the crime imputed to him. On the
ensuing day the inquest was held; and the result was favourable to
Mitchell. No particle of evidence appeared to tell against him, unless
indeed it were the fact that he had been flogged a year previously
through the instrumentality of the deceased nobleman. But none of
Leonard’s comrades who were examined, could aver that they had ever
heard him use a threatening expression in respect to Lord Satinet--no,
not even in his cups, when the truth is so likely to slip from a
man’s lips and the real state of his feelings to be proclaimed by
the tongue. That the nobleman’s death was the result of an accident,
was an alternative that could scarcely be adopted: for it was almost
impossible that a ball-cartridge could have been mistaken for a blank
one. Thus, though not a tittle of testimony could be brought against
Leonard Mitchell,--and though he was discharged from custody,--yet in
the minds of all the officers and of many of his comrades, there still
dwelt a suspicion with regard to him. An open verdict was returned
by the jury,--to the effect that “the deceased had met his death by
a ball discharged from a carbine, but whether by accident or guilty
intent, and by what hand, was unknown.” A few days afterwards the
remains of the young nobleman were consigned to the tomb; and the Tory
newspapers, in passing an eulogium upon his character, grouped together
such a variety of admirable qualities, that if he had only possessed
one-tenth of them, he must have been a phœnix of moral perfection and a
prodigy of intellectual power.

The first meeting which took place between Leonard Mitchell and Ellen
after the tragedy just related, was of a painful description. Scarcely
were they alone together in the apartment which she had hired for
these guilty interviews, when, seizing him violently by the wrist,
and speaking in a low, thick tone--while her eyes looked fixedly and
searchingly into the depths of his own--she said, “Leonard, is it
possible that you have done this?”--“I told you that I would have
vengeance,” he replied, almost brutally, as he abruptly withdrew his
arm from her grasp; “and you have even encouraged me in the project.
Do you mean to reproach me now?”--“Oh! my God, it seems so horrible
to contemplate!” cried Ellen, sinking into a chair, and pressing her
hands to her throbbing brows: for, criminal--almost depraved, though
she were, yet she was not so hardened as to be able to stifle the still
small voice which whispered in her ears, “_Thou art the companion
of a murderer!_”--“Horrible to contemplate!” repeated Leonard, with
a brutal laugh. “You are a fool to talk in that style, Ellen. But
perhaps you will go and betray me next?”--“Good heavens! how have I
merited such treatment as this?” exclaimed the wretched woman, now
bursting into a flood of tears. “Have I not sacrificed everything for
you, Leonard?” she demanded, her voice broken with agonising sobs:
“and can you find it in your heart to insult me thus? Oh! consider
my position, and have mercy upon me! Tormented day and night by the
suspicions and the increasing ill-humour of a husband whom I loathe
and abhor--with the greatest difficulty avoiding the snares which he
sets to entrap me, and to acquire proof of that infidelity which he
even more than suspects and subjected latterly to the questions and
remonstrances of my father, who has at length obtained a knowledge of
my frequent and unaccounted-for absences from home,--think you not that
I am sufficiently unhappy, perplexed, and bewildered, without receiving
insult and injury from you?”--“Then why do you provoke me?” demanded
Leonard. “For a year past I have been constantly telling you that I
would have vengeance; and, as I said just now, you have encouraged me
in the idea. But now that it is consummated, and that my mortal enemy
sleeps in a premature grave, you affect horror and disgust.”--“Oh!
Leonard,” ejaculated Ellen, throwing herself at his feet, “pardon me,
and I will offend you no more! I am well aware that the provocation was
immense, and that there are circumstances in which human forbearance
knows no limit--can acknowledge no restraint. Such was your position;
and I was wrong to utter a word deprecatory of your conduct.”--“Well,
well,” said Leonard, raising the infatuated woman from her suppliant
posture, and placing her on the sofa by his side: “let us talk no more
of this little quarrel between us. For you must be aware that I should
have been worse than the spaniel which licks the hand that beats it,
if I had not avenged myself on that miscreant lordling, whom my hatred
accompanies even in his grave. And let me tell you, that in times of
war, many and many an officer is picked off by some soldier who has
felt the iron hand of despotism press upon him, or who has suffered
from the effects of individual persecution. It may be called _murder_,
if you choose: but I look upon it as a _righteous retribution_.”--Ellen
gazed in mingled astonishment and horror, and with a ghastly pallor
of countenance, upon her lover’s face, as he enunciated this dreadful
doctrine: then, perceiving that he was again about to become angry, she
hastened to caress him. He returned the amorous dalliance; but Ellen
could no longer abandon herself wholly and entirely to the delights of
illicit love. Though the course of life which she had for some time
adopted had rendered her insatiably sensual, she now experienced a
feeling of loathing and disgust when in contact with her lover. This
feeling she strove hard to conquer, by conjuring up all the voluptuous
ideas that had ever existed in her soul: but, in spite of this
straining against nature, a voice of blood seemed to ring in her ears,
warning her that she was in the arms of a murderer! She gazed upon his
handsome countenance, in the hope that its beauty would inspire her
with sentiments of a purer affection;--but his eyes appeared to beam
with fiendish triumph and demoniac malignity;--and if she pressed his
hand to her lips, it seemed as if she were kissing flesh stained with
human gore.

Unable to endure these torturing feelings, she hastened to prepare
the supper-table, and bade him draw the cork of a champagne-bottle.
Full readily did he comply; and, having tossed off a bumper first, he
refilled the same glass, saying, “Now drink from this, to convince me
that you do not love me less on account of what has happened.”--The
lady took the glass and placed it to her lips: but the words he had
just uttered, recalled so vividly to her mind those images which
she had striven so forcibly to banish from her imagination, that an
invincible feeling of disgust came over her--a blood-mist appeared to
obscure her sight--and as she drank, it seemed as if a draught from a
sanguine tide were pouring down her throat. Nevertheless, she forced
herself to drain the glass; and as soon as the exciting liquor began
to circulate in her veins, these horrible images rapidly disappeared,
and she felt that she could now abandon herself to a voluptuousness
of soul unmarred by disgust or loathing. Ellen, therefore, as well as
Leonard, discovered that there were charms in the crystal cup filled
with sparkling wine; and she drank the exciting juice with the avidity
of one who knows full well its efficacy in banishing care. Leonard was
both surprised and rejoiced to behold the influence which the nectar
had upon her; and for a long time he had not appeared so tender and
affectionate as he was during the latter part of this interview.

And what was the consequence of that evening’s incidents? That Ellen
took a liking to alcoholic liquor. She had discovered therein a panacea
for disagreeable thoughts; and her reflections in serious moments
were by no means of a pleasurable nature. Thus was it that she, who
was lately so abstemious as scarcely to touch a drop of wine even
after dinner, and who had so deeply deplored the weakness of Leonard
in yielding to the insidious temptations of strong drink,--thus was
it that she, the elegant and lovely Ellen, gave way to that same
fascination, and sought solace in the sparkling glass. At first she
touched no wine until the dinner-hour: but she soon found that all
the morning and afternoon she was a prey to low spirits, distressing
reflections, and feelings of mingled loathing and fondness in respect
to Leonard; and she therefore made the mid-day luncheon an excuse for
taking her first glass. At dinner-time she would freely partake of
her two or three glasses;--and on those evenings when she met Leonard,
she indulged readily in the liquor provided for the supper-table. But
as the habit rapidly gained upon the unfortunate young woman, she
soon began to tipple slily at home; and, even before breakfast, she
eventually found herself compelled by great mental depression to imbibe
a dram. It was about this time that Mr. Gamble’s intellects, racked
and tortured for upwards of a year by the most harrowing suspicions
and by the total estrangement of his wife’s affections and even
attentions, began to give way; and he would sit for hours together
in his chair, with his eyes fixed upon vacancy. It was also at the
same epoch that a turn once more manifested itself in Mr. Pomfret’s
affairs; and, a colossal speculation failing, he was again plunged
into deep embarrassments. Further assistance from his son-in-law was
out of the question; and Mr. Pomfret accordingly devoted all his
energies to sustain the credit of his house in the hope that he might
yet retrieve himself, or in any case postpone the catastrophe for as
long a period as possible. Thus the condition of her husband and the
constant application of her father to his business left Ellen almost
totally free from any supervision; and she was enabled to indulge at
will in the fatal habit that was gaining so rapidly upon her. Leonard
did not fail to notice this growing attachment to liquor on her part;
and he rather encouraged it than otherwise--for he himself had become
utterly depraved and reckless, and when his mistress was in a maudlin
condition of semi-ebriety, she cheerfully parted with all the contents
of her purse. The increasing childishness of her husband gave her a
greater command over his finances; and she was therefore the better
able to supply her lover’s extravagances. At length she acquired the
certainty that Leonard was unfaithful to her; and a desperate quarrel
was the consequence. Nor was the dispute confined to mere words; for
the young man beat her unmercifully--and she, half intoxicated at the
time, retaliated to the best of her ability. The scene was shocking and
disgusting; and when Ellen awoke next morning, and reflected upon all
that had occurred on the preceding evening, she wept bitter--bitter
tears, as she compared the guilty present with the innocent past. Then
she vowed to abstain from liquor in future, and to see Leonard Mitchell
no more; and, temporarily strong in this resolution, she sent him a
note communicating her design. Moreover, under the influence of the
better feelings that were thus awakening within her soul, her heart
smote her for her conduct towards her husband, who was daily becoming
more dependant upon her kindness, and whom she had long neglected
altogether. She even felt happy when she pondered upon her newly-formed
determination to resume a steady course of life;--but all her salutary
schemes and hopes were annihilated in the afternoon of that same day,
by the arrival of a letter from Mitchell, threatening to murder her and
kill himself afterwards unless she repaired in the evening to the usual
place of meeting.

Over that letter Ellen wept scalding tears--for she knew that if she
yielded _now_, her fate was sealed: ruin, degradation, and disgrace
must inevitably await her! She saw herself again entering upon the path
which would lead her to the condition of a confirmed drunkard; and the
awful menaces contained in the missive, filled her with presentiments
that even her death might be premature and violent. Nevertheless, she
had not the moral courage to resist the temptation of meeting her
lover; and she consoled herself--or rather, she endeavoured to quiet
her qualms of conscience and her presaging fears--by saying, “It shall
be for the last time!” To the place of appointment she accordingly
went; and Leonard Mitchell, who feared to lose a mistress possessed of
such ample means to minister to his extravagances, played the hypocrite
so admirably that Ellen--infatuated creature that she was!--believed in
the sincerity of his protestations of undivided love for the future,
and his regrets for the past. The wine-bottle circulated freely; and
she forgot all her remorse--all her compunctions--all her resolves
of reformation. She even went so far as to revive the proposal of
purchasing Leonard’s discharge; but to this he positively refused to
accede. He quoted his oath as a reason: it was not however the correct
one--for even that solemn vow had long ceased to have any influence
upon his depraved and hardened mind. The truth was that he had become
a confirmed voluptuary in respect to women; and he found that his
uniform was an immense auxiliary towards success with the frivolous
and giddy of the sex: moreover, he knew that were he released from the
ranks, he should become completely tacked to the apron-strings of his
mistress; and, as she held the purse, he would not in that case be able
to exercise his independence. It therefore suited him better to remain
in the army; and Ellen was foolish--infatuated enough to believe in the
validity and genuineness of the motive which he alleged for declining
her proposal. She accordingly forbore from pressing it; and the
remainder of that evening was spent in voluptuous enjoyment--sensuality
and champagne constituting the elements of that guilty pair’s
unhallowed pleasures.

Time passed on; and the position of the lovers--if such they could
now be called--became daily more unhappy in respect to each other.
Quarrels between them were of constant occurrence; and on each occasion
blows were exchanged. The affection of Ellen had changed into a gross
sensuality, having lost every particle of refining sentiment; and she
became jealous in the extreme, frequently giving way to such fits
of passion, when she reproached Leonard for his infidelities, that
it was impossible to recognise in the furious, rabid, half-drunken
demoness--the mild, amiable, and chaste young lady of former years.
She still retained her beauty to a marvellous degree, in spite of the
deep potations in which she indulged and the slovenliness that had
crept upon her in respect to dress; and, as she was frequently out in
the streets late of an evening, after her interviews with Leonard,
she was subjected to the licentious proposals of the “young men about
town” who are ever on the look-out for pretty women. The result was
that, although she yielded not to such temptations, her mind became
more thoroughly depraved, by being robbed of every chastening thought
and feminine reflection; for, when under the influence of liquor,
she would frequently converse with the rakes who accosted her in the
manner described. Leonard himself suddenly grew jealous; and, having
followed her one evening, he caught her in discourse with a young
gentleman whom she had encountered more than once during her walks
home. A dreadful scene ensued: and, though Leonard at length suffered
himself to be appeased, simply because afraid of losing one whose
purse was so convenient to him, he nevertheless entertained a firm but
erroneous conviction, of her infidelity. They therefore now harboured
mutual distrust, which on many occasions rose into absolute loathing.
Bad as Leonard was, and much as he had encouraged her in her drinking
habits, he was nevertheless often disgusted when he beheld her reeling
under the influence of liquor, and when he felt upon his face that
breath which, now heated with alcoholic fluid, was once so pure and
balmy. On her side, she could never divest herself of the remembrance
that she was consorting with a murderer; and frequently--oh! how
frequently, the blood-mist would reappear before her eyes, and the
liquor would seem gore in her glass, and sanguine stains would, in her
heated imagination, dye his hands! Thus wretchedly did their connexion
progress,--she still clinging to him through that infatuation which
often belongs to sensuality of soul--and he still tolerating her
because she possessed the means of supplying his pocket.

At length matters had reached a crisis, at which the amour was destined
to have a most tragical termination. Ellen was returning home one
evening, smarting under some insult which her lover had put upon her,
and labouring as usual under the influence of wine, when she met the
young gentleman above alluded to. On this occasion his entreaties were
more urgent than ever; and she was more pliant than he had as yet found
her to be. Her blood was inflamed; and she was moreover in that humour
when to assert her independence of Leonard, even to herself, would
prove a solace and a comfort. She accordingly yielded to the proposals
of the stranger, and accompanied him to an improper house. It was
midnight when they issued forth; and Ellen hastened homeward, having
made an appointment for another evening. In the middle of Waterloo
Bridge she heard hasty steps approaching from behind: it was a clear,
moonlit night--and on turning her head, she beheld Leonard Mitchell
close at hand. A faintness came over her: she instantly suspected--nay,
felt certain that he had watched her;--and, trembling with terrible
apprehensions, she sank upon a seat in one of the recesses. In another
moment the young dragoon was by her side. For almost a minute he spoke
not; and this silence augmented her alarm. Raising her pale--her
haggard countenance, on which the moon-light streamed in all its chaste
and silvery purity, she endeavoured to frame some question that would
lead to an explanation of his presence there: but her lips refused
utterance to the words that rose to them. A mortal terror was upon
her--a consternation, as if she beheld the skeleton form of Death
hovering dimly in the obscure distance.

Taking her hand, and pressing it with convulsive violence, Leonard
said in a low and hollow tone, “Now, Ellen, I have at last obtained
ample proof of your infidelity.”--“Mercy! mercy!” murmured the young
woman, as gazing rapidly up and down the bridge, she saw that it was
completely deserted.--“Oh! I deserve it,” exclaimed Leonard, beating
his brow violently with his open palm: “I know that I deserve it all!
I have long entertained the suspicion that such was the case: but now
that I have acquired the conviction, it seems too dreadful to bear!
Again, however, I say that I deserve it: and yet, bad--vile--depraved
as I am, I feel as if my heart had received a mortal wound.”--“I take
Almighty God to witness, Leonard,” cried Ellen in an impassioned tone,
“that this is the first time I have been unfaithful to you. Your
conduct of the evening wounded me so deeply, that I longed to avenge
myself--longed also to assert my independence of you, even if only to
the knowledge of my own heart. By this I mean that I should have felt
triumphant in proving false to you, even though you yourself were to
remain ignorant of the proceeding. And now if you will pardon me, I
promise never to err again. But, O Leonard--Leonard, do treat me with
at least a little kindness!”--and as she uttered these words in a
tone of deep feeling and profound pathos, she flung herself upon his
breast, throwing her arms around his neck in a paroxysm of reviving
fondness. So touching was her appeal, that it instantly brought to
his soul an overwhelming cloud of reminiscences of all the harshness,
brutality, and cowardly cruelty of which he had been guilty towards
her,--reminiscences, too, of all her love for him--the sacrifices she
had made for him--the generosity of her behaviour in his behalf. He
recollected also--and all in a moment as it were--that if she were
degraded by drink, and defiled by the hot breath of licentiousness,
she was pure and chaste as a wife until he had sought her out on his
return to London,--that her fall, in fine, might be unmistakeably
traced to her fatal connexion with him. Then, too, he recalled to
mind his own condition when two years previously he had crossed that
bridge on his way to snatch a glimpse of the three houses in Stamford
Street,--a condition which, unenviable as he had then deemed it, was
one of supreme happiness compared with his present state. For the mark
of the branding lash was upon his back, and the remorse of a murderer
was in his heart; and he knew himself to be a drunkard--a disgrace to
his regiment--a vile wretch, rioting in pleasures purchased by the
coin that he wrung from the woman whom he ill-treated and abused. And,
lastly, his thoughts were reflected back to those times when all was
bright and smiling before him--when he and Ellen were alike untainted
by guilt, and the willing votaries of virtue--when their loves were
innocent and chaste, and they would have started back in horror and
indignation had it been prophesied to them that they were one day
destined to look upon each other with disgust. All these recollections
and reflections poured in, like an overwhelming torrent, upon the mind
of the young dragoon; and his soul was softened--his heart, long so
hard, was touched--and, melting into tears, as he felt the miserable
woman clinging to him with resuscitated fondness, he pressed her to his
bosom, exclaiming, “Ellen, I have wronged you deeply--deeply: but can
you--can you forgive me?”

The reconciliation was complete; and then Ellen, animated by a sudden
thought, exclaimed, “But, gracious heavens! Leonard, you have absented
yourself from your quarters--and, hark! the clock strikes one.”--The
booming note of St. Paul’s iron tongue had indeed fallen upon their
ears while she was yet speaking.--“I dare not return to the barracks
again,” said Leonard; and she felt that he shuddered convulsively in
her arms.--“But what will you do?” she asked, diffidently.--“Anything!”
he cried: “anything! rather than be flogged again.”--“Flogged!”
repeated Ellen, now shuddering in her turn.--“Yes: I should be
assuredly condemned to that ignominy--that torture,” replied Mitchell.
“My conduct has for some time been so unsteady, and I have been so
often reported ‘_late_,’ that this time nothing could save me from the
_cat_. I have determined not to return to the barracks,” he added,
doggedly.--“But what will you do?” again asked Ellen.--“I know not,”
he responded gloomily. “Unless I can find some secure place wherein
to hide for a few days, until I may escape from the country, I cannot
tell what will become of me.”--“And must you quit the country?”
demanded Ellen.--“Would you have me taken up as a deserter?” asked
Leonard bitterly. “My punishment in that case would be worse than if
I were now to go back and submit to the result of a court-martial
on charges of irregularity, drunkenness, and late hours.”--“Not for
worlds would I have you return under present circumstances,” cried
Ellen, in an impassioned tone: “much less have you eventually incur
the danger of being arrested as a deserter, Leonard,” she added,
after a few moments’ pause, “if you leave the country, I will go
with you.”--“I thought that you would not abandon me,” exclaimed the
dragoon, pressing her closer to him. Then he whispered something in
her ears; and they conversed in a very low tone for several minutes.
At length Ellen yielded to the plan which her lover had suggested, but
which had at first seemed fraught with difficulties.--“Yes,” she said;
“there is no alternative--I must conceal you at my house. And when I
reflect, the two servants are devoted to me: you may suppose that I
have all along bribed them heavily in order to induce them to wink at
my irregularities; and if they refused to become Mr. Gamble’s spies in
these times when he was in full possession of his intellects, they will
not betray me now that he is half childish and does not question them
concerning me any more. Yes: It must be so;--there is no choice left.
Come at once: I possess the latch-key, and can admit you without even
disturbing the servants. It will be sufficient to make confidants of
them to-morrow.”

The reader may now understand that Ellen was about to consummate her
imprudence by taking her paramour beneath her husband’s roof. When the
first moments of dissolving softness and better feelings had passed
away in respect to Leonard, his selfishness again asserted its empire;
and, while determining to desert, he at the same time bethought himself
how he could still make Ellen’s pecuniary means available for his own
purpose. His object was therefore to gain admittance into the house--to
ascertain the precise nature of her resources and find out the amount
of valuables she could dispose of--and then induce her to elope with
him, having previously plundered her husband and his dwelling of
everything worth carrying off. We have seen how far his diabolical and
hastily formed scheme succeeded. Two points were already gained: she
would admit him into the house--and she had promised to accompany him
to another country. The robbery, he felt assured, he should be enabled
to reason her into: if not, menaces could be effectually employed,
no doubt. Such was the design which the once upright and honourable
Leonard Mitchell now had in view; and he chuckled inwardly at the
scheme, as he walked arm-in-arm with Ellen towards Stamford Street.
In ten minutes they reached Mr. Gamble’s house: Ellen opened the
street-door by means of the latch-key which she had about her;--and
the dragoon passed, unobserved and noiselessly, to her bed-room--for
during the past eighteen months she and her husband had occupied
separate chambers. The remainder of that night glided away: in the
morning Ellen admitted the two domestics to her confidence; and as she
at the same time slipped a heavy bribe into their hands, they willingly
promised devotion to her interests. The day passed heavily enough for
the dragoon, who was accustomed to exercise and bustle, and who could
not endure the idea of being pent up within the narrow limits of a
bed-room. He accordingly determined to put the remainder of his scheme
into execution without delay; and he rejoiced when night once more
spread its sable wing over this hemisphere.

It was eleven o’clock: Mr. Gamble had long before retired to rest--the
servants had likewise sought their chamber;--and Leonard was seated at
table with Ellen in the bedroom of the latter. A succulent supper and
rich wines were placed before them: the curtains were drawn carefully
over the windows; and a lamp diffused a mellow lustre throughout
the apartment. Having eaten as much as he cared for, Leonard filled
a tumbler with sherry, which he drank at a draught to inspire him
with courage for the part which he had now to play--for, by fair or
foul means, was he resolved to succeed. “Ellen,” said he, after a
pause, “we must quit the house to-night.”--“To-night!” she exclaimed,
in astonishment: “wherefore this hurry?”--“In the first place,” he
replied, “because I cannot bear confinement here; and secondly,
because it may as well be done now as a week or a month hence.”--“Let
us postpone our departure until to-morrow night,” said Ellen,
imploringly.--“Why so?”--“Because I have not seen my father for many
days,” she answered: “he has been so much engaged in the City; and I
should wish to bid him farewell for ever, if only mentally.”--“This
is childish!” ejaculated Leonard impatiently. “I thought you had lost
all respect for your father?”--“Oh! but I cannot forget that he _is_
my father,” responded Ellen, the tears trickling down her cheeks:
“and now that I have made up my mind to leave England for ever, I
would embrace him once more.”--“Then I must depart without you,” said
Leonard, rising from his chair--“Oh! this is unkind to a degree!”
urged Ellen bitterly. “Surely you can allow me four-and-twenty hours
for the necessary preparations?”--“Our preparations can be made in an
hour,” said Leonard obstinately: then, reseating himself, he drank off
another tumblerful of wine. “Listen to me. What preparations have you
to make, save to possess yourself of all the money, plate, jewels, and
other valuables you can lay your hands upon?”--Ellen stared at her
lover with the fixed gaze of mingled astonishment and horror.--“Well,
what is the matter with you?” he demanded.--“Leonard, you are not in
earnest?” she said at length: “you would not have me rob my husband
of his plate?”--“Certainly,” replied the ruffian: “and of his watch,
and everything of value that is portable in the house. We must not go
away empty-handed, I can tell you.”--“Is it possible that you would
counsel me to do this?” asked Ellen, speaking in a low and agitated
voice. “Leonard, I have never hesitated to supply you with money,
because that is an article which I believe to exist in common between
a husband and wife. Moreover, the household has suffered in no way by
the appropriation of those sums to your wants. But if you mean me to
plunder my husband of his plate--his watch--and other things which are
beyond all question his own exclusively, I declare once for all that
I will not be a party to such a deed. It is sufficient,” she added,
tears now bursting from her eyes, “that I am what I am, without leaving
behind me the reputation of a thief.”--Leonard ground his teeth with
rage: and again he had recourse to the wine-bottle.--“Pray recall the
words that you have uttered,” exclaimed Ellen: “tell me that you were
joking, or that you only made the proposal in order to try me!”--“I
never was more serious in my life,” said Leonard, brutally.--“Oh! what
do I hear?” cried the wretched woman, wringing her hands.--“Enough of
this!” ejaculated the ruffian, starting from his seat. “Do you mean
to accompany me, or do you not?”--“Yes, yes; I have pledged myself
to _that_!”--“And are we to go empty-handed?”--“I have sixty or
seventy pounds in money, and my jewels are worth as much more.”--“And
the plate?” demanded Leonard.--“Is always kept in a box beneath Mr.
Gamble’s bed; and therefore you see how impossible it is to obtain it,
even if I were disposed to plunder him of property which has been in
his family for so many, many years.”

Leonard reseated himself--poured out more wine--drank it--and then
fell into a deep meditation. Ellen watched his countenance, flattering
herself that the reason she had alleged for forbearance in respect to
the plate would prove efficient. But she had only confirmed the ruffian
in his resolution to possess it; inasmuch as she had committed herself
in two ways. Firstly, she had told him where it was; and secondly, by
informing him that it had been in the family for many years, she had
naturally left on his mind the impression that it was of considerable
value--for heir-looms of that species are usually costly. What, then,
was Leonard Mitchell really thinking of--thinking of, too, under the
influence of the deep potations which he had imbibed? He was revolving
a hellish project in his mind. If he endeavoured to possess himself
of the plate contrary to the assent of Ellen, a disturbance would
ensue in the house, and his arrest as a deserter might follow upon the
discovery of his presence there. To depart without the plate was not at
all suitable to his purposes: for if he repaired to a foreign country,
it would not be to toil for a livelihood. How, then, was he to secure
the coveted property, and carry it away without the chance of noise or
detection? Only if Ellen were removed from his path! Yes--_this_ was
the project now revolved in the mind of the lost, depraved young man;
and, having again fortified himself with liquor, he determined to put
his diabolical scheme into execution. Suddenly rising from his seat,
he approached Ellen, and, taking her hand, said, “Forgive me, dearest,
for what I dared to utter just now. We will delay our departure until
to-morrow night; and then you shall take with you just so much as you
choose to select, and nothing more.”--“I freely pardon you, Leonard,”
she replied; and yet, as he bent over her, there was a wild gleaming
in his eye and a peculiarity of expression in his countenance which
caused vague apprehensions to sweep across her mind. “But how strangely
you regard me, Leonard,” she said: “is anything the matter with
you?”--“Nothing, nothing, dearest,” he responded, throwing his arms
round her neck and pressing her head as if in the fervour of affection
against his bosom. All her alarms were immediately dissipated; and,
thrown completely off her guard, she returned the embrace, abandoning
herself entirely to him. At that instant his right hand was withdrawn;
and, as he uttered some words of endearment, he possessed himself of
the carving knife, unperceived by her.--“Let us now retire to rest,
Leonard,” she murmured, as her face lay buried on his chest: “It is
growing late----Oh! heavens----”

And farther utterance was suddenly stopped; for, like a flash of
lightning, the sharp blade, gleaming in the rays of the lamp, was
drawn across her throat--the murderer turning her head and throwing
it back at the same moment in order to aid his fell design. Death was
almost instantaneous; and the miscreant gently lowered the body upon
the floor. For nearly half a minute did he stand gazing upon that
corpse--unable to believe that it was really what it seemed to be, and
that he had perpetrated the deed. Then, as the awful conviction stared
him fully in the face, and the entire sense of his enormity seized upon
his soul, he would have given worlds, had he possessed them, to undo
what was there done! But it was too late--oh! too late; and he must
save himself--he must escape! A bumper of brandy gave him the courage
of a brute: and, taking the lamp in his hand, he crept cautiously to
Mr. Gamble’s bed-room. The door was unlocked, and the old man slept
profoundly. Beneath the bed was the plate-chest: but it was securely
fastened with a padlock. Leonard raised the chest, and, placing it on
his shoulder, was about to quit the room, when he espied upon a chair
the clothes which Mr. Gamble had put off when retiring to rest. These
garments the murderer likewise self-appropriated, as well as a hat,
which was standing on a chest of drawers; and he noiselessly retraced
his way to the chamber where the corpse lay. Turning his back towards
that appalling spectacle, he proceeded to dress himself in Mr. Gamble’s
apparel, which fitted him quite well enough for his purpose, and was at
all events a safer attire than his uniform. He next proceeded to break
open the plate-chest--a task speedily effected by means of the same
knife that had accomplished the murder. The contents of the chest, when
rapidly scanned by his eager eyes, were evidently of great value; and
he hastened to pack them up in towels, and lastly in brown paper. He
then rifled the jewel-box of his murdered paramour; and, in addition to
the costly articles which he found there, were the seventy pounds that
the unfortunate woman had alluded to but a few minutes before she had
ceased to exist. Leonard was satisfied with the booty thus acquired;
and he was moreover in haste to depart. Having secured the money and
jewels about his person, he took the parcel containing the plate
under his arm, and stole cautiously down the stairs. All was silent
throughout the house: several times did he pause to listen--but not a
sound was heard;--and he gained the street without interruption. When,
however, he was in the open air, he knew not whither to go--what plan
to adopt,--whether to seek concealment in London until the coming storm
should have blown over, or to make every effort to get out of England.
The latter plan appeared to be the more advisable; and he accordingly
pushed on towards the Dover road.

It was shortly after sun-rise that Mr. Gamble, awaking from a sound
sleep, beheld a deep stain on the ceiling of his chamber; and, with
eyes rivetted upon it, he lay reflecting what it could possibly be.
The old man was half childish; and the strangest conjectures passed
through his mind. At length he grew frightened: an unknown terror
stole gradually upon him--and he rang his bell violently. In a few
minutes the two female domestics entered the room, having hastily
huddled on some clothing; and they found their master gazing intently
up at the ceiling, with a wild vacancy in the eyes. Their own looks
instantly took the same direction; and one of them suddenly exclaimed,
with shuddering horror, “It is blood!” They then hurried up-stairs;
and a frightful spectacle met their view. Their mistress lay upon
the floor, with her throat cut from ear to ear; and the carpet was
completely saturated with her blood. Screams and shrieks burst from
the lips of the horror-stricken women; and rushing down stairs, they
rashly communicated to Mr. Gamble, without any previous warning
or preparation, the dreadful tragedy which had been enacted. The
flickering, decaying lamp of the old man’s intellect suddenly burnt
up vividly for a few moments: the full powers of reason returned;--he
comprehended the appalling news which were thus unguardedly made known
to him; and with a horrible lamentation he sprang from his bed. With
incredible speed did he ascend to his wife’s chamber; and when the
awful spectacle met his eyes, he threw up his arms in despair, gave
vent to a piteous cry, and sank down on the blood-stained corpse.
Meantime one of the servants had hastened next door to alarm Mr.
Pomfret; and when that gentleman, accompanied by two or three of
his own domestics, appeared on the scene of murder, assistance was
immediately offered to Mr. Gamble. But all endeavours to recover him
were ineffectual: the shock he had received was a death-blow--and life
was extinct!

A few questions hastily put to the old man’s servants elicited many
facts dreadful for Mr. Pomfret to hear. He now learnt enough to
convince him that his daughter had long maintained an illicit connexion
with a handsome young dragoon--that her lover had been admitted the
night before the one of the murder into the house--and that he must
have been the author of the dreadful deed. Farther investigation
corroborated this belief: the uniform was found, and a suit of Mr.
Gamble’s apparel had disappeared;--the plate, jewels, and money
were likewise gone. The distracted father, having heard a long time
previously that Leonard Mitchell had enlisted in a dragoon regiment,
immediately suspected that he must be the criminal; and this idea was
confirmed by the discovery of some letters in Ellen’s desk. Information
of the murder and robbery was accordingly given to the proper
authorities; and Mr. Pomfret, crushed to the very dust by the weight
of misfortune, crept back to his own cheerless dwelling--there to
meditate upon the closing scene of the tragedy in which his own conduct
had originally made his poor daughter the heroine. Bitterness was in
the wretched man’s soul--horror in his eyes--spasmodic shuddering in
all his limbs; and, when he contemplated his child’s horrible end and
his own ruined fortunes, he felt indeed that he had nothing left worth
living for. The cup of his adversity was not, however, quite full yet:
but in a few hours it was overflowing--for his head clerk arrived in
a cab, and, rushing into the parlour without ceremony, announced to
him that the officers of justice were in search of him, a true bill
of indictment having been found against him for certain frauds in his
commercial transactions. “Thank you--thank you, for coming to give me
this timely warning,” said Mr. Pomfret, pressing his clerk’s hand with
painful violence: “I will depart immediately;”--and he staggered from
the room. The clerk waited five minutes, and began to grow impatient:
ten minutes elapsed and still his master did not reappear. The man rose
and rang the bell furiously to summon one of the domestics; but at the
same instant the constables entered the house. These officials, having
learnt from the servant who admitted them, that Mr. Pomfret was at
home, proceeded to search the dwelling; and the clerk, now entertaining
the worst fears, accompanied them to the ruined merchant’s bed-chamber.
There these fears met with immediate confirmation: Mr. Pomfret had put
a period to his existence--he had hanged himself to a strong nail in
his sleeping apartment! The body was instantly cut down, and medical
assistance promptly obtained: but the wretched suicide was no more.

In the evening of that same day a man was arrested under suspicious
circumstances at Dover. The news of the awful occurrences in Stamford
Street had not reached that town at the time--for there was neither
railway nor electric telegraph between London and the Kentish coast in
those days: but the individual alluded to, had presented a quantity
of plate at a pawnbroker’s shop, and, not being able to give a
satisfactory account of how it came into his possession, was detained
until a constable arrived to take him into custody. On the ensuing
morning the tidings of the murder in London reached Dover; and the
particulars given by the newspapers of the preceding evening were ample
enough to identify the person under arrest with the Leonard Mitchell
who was accused of desertion, murder, and robbery. He was accordingly
sent under a strong escort to the metropolis, where, on his arrival,
he was immediately lodged in Newgate. In due course his trial came
on: he was found guilty upon evidence the most conclusive:--and, upon
being called upon to allege anything wherefore sentence of death should
not be passed, he addressed the Judge in the following manner:--“I
acknowledge, my lord, that I am guilty of the dreadful crime imputed
to me; and although it be too late--far too late to express contrition
now, I nevertheless declare that I am deeply, deeply penitent. My
lord, lost--degraded--criminal--and condemned, as I stand here in
your presence, I was once as sincerely attached to virtue as any man
or woman who now hears me. Even when adversity entered the paternal
dwelling, ravaging it with the desolating fury of an army, I yielded
to no evil temptation: neither did my confidence in the justice, the
goodness, and the wisdom of heaven abate. I enlisted, my lord, in order
to obtain an honest livelihood, and to stifle in the bustle of a new
state of existence the painful reminiscences of blighted hopes and
crushed affections. The officers who have appeared before your lordship
this day, have all admitted, in reply to the question I put to them,
that up to the time when I was sentenced to three hundred lashes, I
had never even received a reprimand nor had been once reported for
the slightest irregularity. But from the moment that the first blow
of the torturing and degrading weapon fell upon my back, my existence
assumed a new phase--my soul underwent a sudden and immediate change.
With each drop of blood that oozed from my lacerated back, ebbed away
some sentiment of rectitude--some principle of virtue. My lord, it
was the lash that drove me to drinking--that made me reckless of all
consequences--that made me a liar and a voluptuary, a mean fellow
and a paltry rascal--and that hardened my heart so as to render it
inaccessible to every feeling of honour, mercy, or remorse. It was the
lash, then, that has made me a murderer; and I might almost claim to
be pitied, rather than to be looked upon with loathing. A cruel law
taught me to be cruel: a merciless and barbarian punishment prepared
me to become a ruthless and ferocious assassin. And now, my lord, I am
about to reveal a fact which has long ago been suspected, and which,
situated as I unhappily am, need not exist in doubt or uncertainty any
more. My life must be forfeited for the crime which has been proved
against me this day; and it will unburthen my soul of a heavy secret
to confess another crime, which I perpetrated upwards of a year ago.
Your lordship doubtless remembers that a young nobleman--an officer in
the regiment to which I belonged--was shot at a review in Hyde Park. My
lord, I was the assassin: the man accused me wrongfully--persecuted me
unrelentingly--and lied most foully against me,--and I was avenged.”

[Illustration]

As Leonard uttered these last words in a firm tone and with marked
emphasis, a thrill of horror passed through the crowded court; and
the dead silence which had been observed while he was speaking, was
succeeded by a subdued murmuring as of many voices commenting on what
he had said. Erect, and with an evident determination to meet his doom
courageously, the unhappy young man stood in the dock--his eye quailing
not, his limbs trembling not; and, heinous as his offences were, he
was not altogether without commiseration on the part of many present.
The judge put on the black cap; and the sentence of death--that
barbarian sentence--was pronounced in due form, the culprit receiving
an intimation that he need entertain no hope of mercy. The hint was
unnecessary: he had made up his mind to suffer;--and as firmly as he
walked out of the dock back into the prison, so resolutely did he step
from that same prison ten days afterwards on to the scaffold erected
at the debtors’ door. A tremendous crowd was assembled to witness the
execution; and the unhappy criminal maintained his courage to the last.

From that time have the three houses in Stamford Street been shut up:
from that period have they been suffered to fall into decay. In the
first, old Mr. Mitchell expired suddenly: in the second, Mr. Pomfret
hung himself;--and in the third, Ellen was brutally murdered. The hand
of Fate had marked those three tenements to be the scenes of horror and
of crime: and a superstitious feeling on the part of certain credulous
and weak-minded neighbours soon engendered the report that they were
haunted. It was said that the ghost of the young lady had been seen
walking in her shroud, in the yard behind the house where she was
murdered; and rumour added that on the anniversary night of the dread
crime which had hurried her to a premature grave, she was wont to
wander about the premises, uttering hollow and sepulchral moans. Such
reports as those lose nothing by repetition during the lapse of years,
especially while the buildings which were the scenes of the crimes
engendering the superstition, continue to exist; and therefore is it
that even at the present day the evil reputation of the HAUNTED HOUSES
remains unimpaired in Stamford Street and its neighbourhood.




CHAPTER CLXXIX.

THE GHOST.--AGNES AND MRS. MORTIMER.


The preceding episode has run to a considerable length; but we hope and
believe that our readers will experience no difficulty in resuming the
thread of the general narrative.

It must be remembered that the leading incidents of the story just
placed on record were related to Mrs. Mortimer by Jack Rily, by way
of passing the few hours during which they had agreed to remain with
Vitriol Bob, who, bound hand and foot, was seated helplessly in a chair.

“Yes,” observed Jack Rily, when he had brought his history to a
conclusion, “they do say that the young woman walks at times----”

“Don’t speak in such a solemn tone,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, casting
a shuddering glance around: “you almost make me think that you yourself
believe in the possibility of the spectral visitation.”

“Well--I don’t know how it is.” returned the Doctor, feeling a
certain superstitious influence growing upon him, and which he vainly
endeavoured to shake off,--“but I certainly never before had such
sensations as I experience now. Upon my soul;” he cried, striking the
table violently with his clenched fist, “I am a prey to vague and
undefined alarms to night:--but I will subdue them!”

“And are you sure that this is the house where the young lady was
murdered?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, after a brief pause.

“There is no doubt about _that_!” responded Jack Rily. “Vitriol Bob
there can tell you that the floor of the chamber where the deed took
place is blackened with accumulated dust, yet in the middle there is
a deeper stain; and on the ceiling of the room beneath, it is easy to
descry the same sinister traces, even amidst dirt and cobwebs.”

“Then, as you said just now,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer, drawing her shawl
over her shoulders--for she experienced the chill of superstitious
terror gaining upon her,--“as you said just now, _this_ is the second
murder that has been committed within these walls!”

Scarcely had Mrs. Mortimer ceased speaking when the bell of the
neighbouring church proclaimed the hour of _one_.

“Now is the time for the ghost,” said Vitriol Bob, with a low but
ferocious chuckle; for he experienced a malignant pleasure in observing
that superstitious fears were gaining on the formidable Rily and the
hideous old woman. “You don’t like the near neighbourhood of the stiff
’un, I’m a-thinking! Well--I’ll lay you a wager, Jack, that I’ll go and
shake the old feller by the hand quite in a friendly way--if you will
but take off these cussed cords. There’s no ill feelin’ betwixt us now.”

“I would much rather leave you where you are, and send Polly Calvert to
release you,” replied the Doctor.

“Yes--yes,” hastily exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, “let him be where he is.
But surely we may go now, Mr. Rily? It is getting on for two----”

“It has only just this minit struck one!” cried Vitriol Bob, with a
malignant leer from his dark, reptile-like eyes, which seemed to shine
with a glare of their own, independent of and brighter than the dim
light of the miserable candle. “Besides,” he added, now purposely
rendering his voice as solemn and ominous in its tone as possible,
“’tis just the time for the ghost of the young gal--or rayther, the
young o’oman to walk; and I should be wexed indeed if you didn’t stay
to have a look at her. I’ve seen her more than once----”

“That’s an infernal falsehood, Bob!” exclaimed Jack Rily, starting from
his seat on the barrel, and vainly endeavouring to subdue the nervous
excitement that had gained so rapidly upon him.

“It’s true--true as you’re there!” cried the murderer, who felt a
ferocious joy at thus inspiring terror in the mind of the strong and
hardened ruffian who had conquered him. “And I’ll tell you somethink
more too,” continued Vitriol Bob: “you said just now--and you said
truly also--that on the anniwersary of the murder the young lady
wanders about the place, uttering holler moans. Well--this is the
night, then, that she was murdered just twenty years ago;--and the
clock has struck _one_!”

The effect which these words produced upon Jack Rily and Mrs. Mortimer
was as rapid as it was extraordinary. Although they were both of a
nature peculiarly inaccessible to superstitious terrors on common
occasions, and under any other circumstances would have laughed at the
idea of spectral visitations and ghostly wanderings,--yet now they
vainly struggled against the powerful influence of increasing terror;
and, although in their hearts, they more than half suspected that
Vitriol Bob had spoken only to aggravate their alarms, yet they could
not shake off the awe and consternation that seized upon their souls.
In respect to Jack Rily, it was one of those periods of evanescent
weakness which the most brutal and remorseless ruffians are known
periodically to experience;--but, with regard to Mrs. Mortimer, it
was the singularity of her present position--the consciousness that
she was in a lonely place with two men of desperate character--the
terrible remembrance that the murdered corse of her husband lay in the
adjoining room--the impression made upon her mind by the appalling
history of crime which had been to elaborately detailed to her--the
thought that the very floors and the ceilings of the uppermost chambers
in that house, bore testimony to the tale of blood--and the idea that
the ghost of the assassinated lady was wont to wander in the depth of
the night and on the scene of the crime,--it was all this that struck
Mrs. Mortimer with awe and consternation, rendering her incapable of
serious reflection, and levelling her strong mind as it were beneath
the influence of superstitious terrors.

“Well--what the devil is the matter with you both?” demanded Vitriol
Bob, after a pause.

“How do you mean?” asked Jack Rily, reseating himself, and grasping the
brandy-bottle with a trembling hand.

“Why--you and the old lady looked at each other as if you already heard
the light step and the rustling shroud of the apparition,” said the
murderer.

“Hark! what was that?” ejaculated the Doctor, once more starting to his
feet.

“It certainly was a noise somewhere,” observed Mrs. Mortimer, trembling
from head to foot.

“Perhaps the old man in the back-kitchen has got up and is groping his
way about,” said Vitriol Bob, speaking with an affectation of terror
which was so natural that it cruelly enhanced the superstitious alarms
experienced by his companions.

“This is intolerable!” exclaimed Rily, looking in a ghastly manner
towards the door, as if he more than half expected to behold it
suddenly thrown open, and some hideous form appear on the threshold. “I
can’t make out what it is that has come over me to-night! ’Tis like a
warning--and yet I never believed in ghosts until now.”

“Nor I--nor I!” murmured Mrs. Mortimer. “But to-night--I feel also as
if----”

“Hark!” suddenly cried Vitriol Bob: “there is a noise again!”

“It must be the old man!” ejaculated the Doctor. “Are you sure that you
did for him thoroughly?”

“If anythink like him meets your eyes, Jack, it must be his ghost, I
can assure you,” was the solemn answer--although Vitriol Bob himself
partook not in the slightest degree of the superstitious terrors
that had grown upon his companions, but was on the contrary inwardly
chuckling with malignant joy at their awe-struck state of mind.

“There! did you hear it?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, in a hasty and
excited tone. “I am sure it was a noise this time: there could be no
mistake about it!”

And she endeavoured to rise from her chair;--but terror kept her
motionless--paralysing every limb, though not placing a seal upon her
lips.

“Something dreadful is to happen to-night--I know it--I feel it!” said
Jack Rily, in a tone which indicated remorse for a long career of
crime and turpitude. “By God! ’tis the back-door of the house that is
opening----”

“Then this is serious indeed!” interrupted Vitriol Bob, now alarmed in
his turn--but rather on account of constables than spectres. “Unloose
me--let us fight--resist----”

“Silence!” muttered Jack Rily, in a low but imperious tone.

There was a pause of nearly a minute, during which the three inmates of
the kitchen held their breath to listen, in painful suspense.

Suddenly the rattling of the crazy bannisters outside fell upon their
ears; and Jack Rily, worked up to a pitch of desperation, seized the
candle, saying in a hoarse and dogged tone, “By hell! I will face it,
whatever it may be!”

With these words he tore open the kitchen-door;--and, behold! before
him stood a female form--clothed in white--with a countenance pale as
death--her hair flowing wildly and dishevelled over her shoulders--and
with eyes fixed in unnatural brilliancy upon him.

The ruffian was for a few moments paralyzed--stupified with horror:
then, unable any longer to endure the spectacle which his fears
converted into a corpse wrapped in a winding-sheet, he exclaimed, “The
ghost! the ghost!”--and dropped the candle upon the floor.

Total darkness immediately ensued.

At the same instant a piercing scream echoed through the house; and
Mrs. Mortimer, now recovering all her presence of mind, started to her
feet, crying, “That is no apparition--save of flesh and blood! Haste,
Jack Rily--procure a light! Where are you, man? Let us see who it is!”

“Here I am,” returned the Doctor, likewise regaining his
self-possession. “Bob, where are the lucifers?”

“In my right-hand pocket,” growled the murderer, who, in the excitement
of the past scene, and in the tremendous but ineffectual exertions
which he had made to release himself from his bonds the moment the
light was extinguished, had fallen from his seat and rolled upon the
floor.

Nearly half a minute now elapsed ere the candle was found and lighted
again; and then Jack Rily, closely followed by Mrs. Mortimer, hastened
into the passage, where they beheld the form of a young female
stretched senseless at the foot of the stairs.

The old woman stooped down to raise her: but scarcely had she caught a
glimpse of the pale countenance, on which the finger of death seemed to
have been placed, when, starting with surprise and joy, she exclaimed,
“’Tis Agnes Vernon, as I am a living being!”

“Agnes Vernon--who is she? do you know her?” demanded the Doctor,
holding forward the light. “By Jove! she is a sweet creature, whoever
she is! That’s right--raise her gently. But is she dead, poor thing?”

“No--no: her heart beats--and her lips already begin to move,”
responded Mrs. Mortimer hastily, as she held the still senseless maiden
in her arms. “Well--this is a lucky chance that has thrown her in our
way--and there’s money to be made out of it.”

“So much the better? Shall I get a little water?” asked the Doctor.

“Yes--and use despatch,” returned Mrs. Mortimer.

Jack Rily entered the kitchen, and filled a glass with water.

“Who is it?” demanded Vitriol Bob, whom the Doctor had previously
restored to his position in the chair.

“A young lady that Mrs. Mortimer happens to know,” was the reply.
“There is no danger from other visitors, according to all appearances:
so keep quiet, and don’t alarm yourself.”

The Doctor hastened back into the passage, where Mrs. Mortimer was
seated on the last step of the staircase, supporting Agnes in her arms.

“Now, will you follow my advice, Mr. Rily?” she demanded in a rapid
tone, as she sprinkled the water upon the pallid countenance of the
young lady.

“Yes--if it seems feasible,” was the immediate answer. “What is it?”

“That we do not keep this timid thing a moment longer in the house than
is absolutely necessary,” continued Mrs. Mortimer. “For our own sakes
we must guard against her beholding the interior of that place;” and,
as she uttered these words in a low tone, she nodded significantly
towards the door of the back kitchen where the corpse of Torrens had
been deposited.

“Yes--yes: I understand,” said Jack Rily: “it might be thought that we
were accomplices in the murder. In the same way it would do no good to
let her see Vitriol Bob bound neck and crop in the front kitchen.”

“That is just what I was about to suggest,” observed Mrs. Mortimer. “We
must get her out of the house as soon as possible, and into a cab----”

“Then don’t use any more means to recover her,” interrupted Jack Rily,
snatching the glass of water from the old woman’s hand. “Let her remain
for a short time longer in that trance: it will not kill her, depend
upon it--and you have the advantage of possessing an Æsculapius in me.”

“What do you propose, then?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, casting an anxious
glance upon the countenance of the still senseless girl.

“Don’t be frightened, I tell you,” repeated Jack Rily: “I will
guarantee that she shall recover. But let us be off at once. I
will take her in my arms and carry her into Bennett Street; the
neighbourhood is all quiet and deserted at this hour;--and you shall
order round a cab from the stand in the road There are always two or
three in attendance throughout the night.”

“Good!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer. “We will be off at once.”

“This instant,” said Jack Rily, as he gently raised the motionless,
senseless form in his powerful arms, while Mrs. Mortimer took off her
shawl and wrapped it hastily over the head and shoulders of Agnes.

The Doctor gave a hurried intimation to Vitriol Bob that Molly Calvert
should be sent to him as speedily as possible; and he then stole out of
the house, Mrs. Mortimer having previously ascertained that the coast
was perfectly clear.

Everything was effected as Jack Rily had proposed. He gained Bennett
Street, with his lovely burthen in his arms; and there he waited in the
deep darkness afforded by a large gateway, until Mrs. Mortimer came
round with the cab. The maiden was placed in the vehicle, which the
old woman entered in order to take charge of her; and Jack Rily, after
having made an appointment with his accomplice for the next evening,
bade her a temporary farewell.

The cab drove away towards Park Square; and the Doctor, on his side,
hurried off to the lodgings of Pig-faced Moll.

But the thread of our narrative now lies with Mrs. Mortimer and the
beauteous Agnes Vernon.

Scarcely had the cab moved away from the vicinity of the haunted
houses, when Agnes began rapidly to recover; and, on opening her eyes,
she became aware that she was reclining in the arms of a female, and
that they were being borne speedily along in a vehicle. For an instant
it struck her that she must be with her mother: but in the next moment
the horrors of the night crowded rapidly into her memory,--and,
starting up, she demanded in a hurried, anxious manner, “Where am I?
and who are you?”

Scarcely were the questions put when the young maiden was enabled, by
the silver moon-light, to catch a glimpse of the countenance of her
companion; and she instantly recognised Mrs. Mortimer.

Her first emotions were of joy and gratitude;--for she was delighted to
find herself in the care of a female--especially one of whom she knew
something: and, taking the old woman’s hand, she said, “Madam, I know
not how to thank you--and am scarcely aware of what I have to thank you
for. But--if my impressions be correct--you must have rescued me from
something very terrible! Yes--I recollect now--that door opening--a
light appearing--and then that hideous, horrible face----”

And, with a visible shudder, the maiden threw herself back in the
vehicle, pressing her hands to her throbbing brows in order to collect
her still disjointed and somewhat confused reminiscences.

“You are labouring under dreadful recollections my dear child,” said
Mrs. Mortimer, in a soothing tone. “Know you not--can you not suspect
that you were in the power of a ruffian when I fortunately encountered
you?”

“But where--where?” demanded Agnes, impatiently, as her settling ideas
seemed to coincide with that belief.

“I should rather ask you, my sweet maiden,” said Mrs. Mortimer, “how
you came to be in Stamford Street this night.”

“My mother took me thither--yes--I recollect it all now!” exclaimed
Agnes. “She left me at the house of some dear friends--and I was
ungrateful enough to entertain the most injurious suspicions respecting
them,--yes--and relative to my own dear mother also.”

“Your mother?” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, in astonishment. “I thought
you had never known her--or that she had died when you were in your
infancy.”

“Oh! no--thank God! my mother is alive--and I know her now!” ejaculated
Agnes, with all the enthusiasm of a strongly reviving affection--a
powerfully resuscitating devotion for the parent whom she had so lately
discovered.

“But where is your mother now?” enquired Mrs. Mortimer.

“Ah! that I know not!” replied Agnes. “And this reminds me,” she
exclaimed after a few moments’ pause, “that you must take me back to
the good kind ladies in Stamford Street, that I may remain there until
my mother shall come to fetch me away to the new home which she has
promised to prepare for me.”

“Who are those good ladies?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.

“Their name is Theobald, and they live in Stamford Street,” responded
the artless girl. “You may know the house--or at least the driver of
the vehicle can find it out, when I describe it as being situated
fourth from the corner of the Blackfriars’ Road, and next to three
deserted--dilapidated--sinister-looking houses----”

“Ah! then you must have found your way from the dwelling of your
friends into one of those ruined places,” thought Mrs. Mortimer. “But
I am really at a loss, my dear young lady, to comprehend all you tell
me,” she said aloud.

“Before I give you the necessary explanations to enable you to
understand it all,” said Agnes, “will you inform me which road the
vehicle is pursuing?”

“I am taking you to a place of safety, my dear girl,” responded Mrs.
Mortimer.

“A place of safety!” repeated Agnes, her countenance assuming an
expression of deep anxiety: “am I, then, in any danger? and in what
does the peril consist?”

“I know not, my love,” answered the old woman, speaking in the kindest
tone of voice. “I only judge by the condition in which I found you--the
circumstances which threw us this night together--and the observations
which have fallen from your lips, that you were indeed in a state of
extreme danger.”

“Just heaven!” ejaculated Agnes. “But what observations did I make----”

“That you had entertained suspicions relative to the friends to whose
care your mother had consigned you,” said Mrs. Mortimer.

“Yes--and I told you truly,” resumed the ingenuous maiden. “I know not
how it was--I cannot account for it now--but when I found myself alone
in a strange house, terrible though undefined fears took possession of
my soul--and I resolved to escape. I succeeded in getting as far as the
next house, which I entered: but scarcely had I crossed the threshold
of the back door, when a light suddenly appeared and a countenance was
revealed to my affrighted gaze--a countenance so dreadful to look upon
that I tremble now as I think of it. Then, so far as I can recollect, I
heard a voice thundering something loud but unintelligible in my ears:
I screamed--and fainted. When I came to my senses, I was in your arms
and in this vehicle.”

“I can throw some light upon the matter,” said Mrs. Mortimer, whose
object was to keep the attention of Agnes as much and as unremittingly
engaged as possible, so as to prevent her from growing uneasy
relative to the ultimate destination of the cab: for should she
become alarmed, she might appeal to the driver for protection, and a
disturbance in the streets would prove inevitable. “You must know,”
continued Mrs. Mortimer, “that I was returning home from a friend’s
house in Stamford-street, when I met a great, stout, horribly ugly
man carrying a female form in his arms. The moon-light showed me his
dreadful countenance--and I instantly suspected that some foul play was
intended. I accordingly insisted that he should stop--which he did with
much reluctance, declaring that you were his daughter, and that he was
taking you home, as you had fallen down in a fit.”

“Oh! then some mischief was really meditated towards me!” exclaimed
Agnes, clasping her hands together in shuddering horror of the perils
through which she supposed herself to have passed.

“Yes--my dear child,” observed Mrs. Mortimer, “you doubtless owe your
life to me----”

“Ah! madam,” interrupted Agnes, “how can I ever sufficiently thank you
for your goodness?”--then, as a reminiscence struck to her artless
mind with the pang of a remorse, she exclaimed, as she pressed the
old woman’s wrinkled hands to her lips, “It seems fated that I should
suspect those who are my best friends!”

“Do not think of that, my love,” said the wily old creature, who easily
conjectured what was passing in that amiable maiden’s ingenuous soul.
“When you know me better, you will appreciate my conduct towards you
as it deserves. Doubtless your father set you against me--and then
that little misunderstanding relative to the affair of Lord William
Trevelyan----But enough of that for the present! Let me conclude my
little narrative relative to yourself. Well, I was describing to you
how I compelled the man to stop; and I was about to tell you that I
was by no means satisfied with the explanations he gave me. Indeed, I
threatened to summon the assistance of the police; and you may be well
assured that this menace suddenly became a settled resolution, when,
as the moonlight fell upon the countenance of the fair creature whom
the man carried in his arms, I recognised yourself, my sweet Agnes! You
can conceive my astonishment, perhaps--but you can form no idea of the
apprehension that seized on me; for I really love you dearly, although
I have seen so little of you. The man was dreadfully alarmed when he
perceived that I knew you; and I had no difficulty in compelling him to
surrender you into my charge. He then decamped; and I placed you in a
cab which happened to be passing at the time. You now know all.”

“Ah! from what inconceivable perils have you not saved me!” exclaimed
Agnes, full of enthusiastic and impassioned gratitude towards the woman
whom she looked upon as her deliverer. “My dear mother will thank you
warmly--earnestly--most sincerely for this generous act on your part;
and I shall never, never forget the deep obligation under which you
have placed me.”

“Enough on that subject, my dear child,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “You have
spoken several times of your mother--may I ask how you came to discover
her, or how she happened to have remained so long unknown to you?”

“I am bewildered when I think of all that!” returned Miss Vernon,
in a mournful tone. “It was last evening that she came to me--that
she sought me out in my retirement--that she announced herself as my
parent; and my heart’s feelings gave me the assurance that she was
indeed what she represented herself to be. Then I agreed to accompany
her--for she told me that she was unhappy, and she claimed my love and
my duty as a daughter. Oh! my dear madam, you can doubtless understand
how joyous--how delightful were my emotions on thus encountering a
mother whom I had never known till then! I only thought of giving way
to those delicious feelings--until I found myself left in the charge of
strangers. Then it was that I grew afraid--that vague and undefinable
apprehensions took possession of my soul--that I became suspicions of
all and everything--and that I fled! Foolish, mistaken creature that I
was! That one false step of mine threw me into the hands of a monster,
who would perhaps have killed me had you not rescued me from his power.”

Agnes paused, and arranged her hair--her dark, luxuriant, glossy
hair--floating so wildly and yet so beauteously in its dishevelled
state, over her shoulders;--and now, as the tint of the rose had
returned to her cheeks, and her eyes had recovered their witching
softness of expression, she appeared transcendantly lovely to the view
of the old woman, whom the moon-light enabled to survey the charming
creature seated opposite to her.

Suddenly the vehicle stopped;--and Agnes, hastily looking from the
windows, beheld a row of handsome houses on one side, and an enclosure
of verdant shrubs and plants on the other.

“This is not Stamford Street, madam,” she said to Mrs. Mortimer.

“No, my dear child,” was the almost whispered reply: “but it is a place
of safety to which I have brought you. Do you imagine that I, who have
saved your life this night, could intend you any harm? Wherefore be
thus ever suspicious respecting your best friends?”

These words not only reassured Agnes, but made her blush at what she
deemed to be her ingratitude towards her deliverer;--and, pressing the
old woman’s hand fervently, she murmured, “Forgive me, I implore you!”

“Think no more of it, my love,” said Mrs. Mortimer, as she alighted
from the vehicle: then, turning towards the maiden, she added, “Remain
in your place for a few minutes until I have aroused the people of the
house: the chill air of the early morning will give you cold, lightly
clad as you are.”

Agnes signified an assent; and the old woman hastened up to the front
door of the house at which they had stopped. She knocked and rang: but
some time elapsed ere the summons was answered. At length a domestic,
who had huddled on some clothing, made his appearance; and, to Mrs.
Mortimer’s query whether his master were at home, an affirmative reply
was given.

“Then hesitate not to arouse him--for I have called upon a matter of
great importance to his lordship,” said the old woman.

“Certainly I will do so, madam,” returned the domestic; “since you
assure me that your business is pressing. But will you not walk in and
await his lordship’s readiness to receive you?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Mortimer; “and I have a person with me who must
accompany me. But listen to something that I have to urge upon you. You
will conduct us both, as a matter of course, into the same room: but
when your master is ready to receive me, take care that I obtain an
interview alone with him in the first instance. It is of the highest
consequence that these instructions should be fully attended to.”

“You shall be obeyed, madam,” said the servant.

Mrs. Mortimer now fetched Agnes from the vehicle, which she ordered
to be kept waiting for herself; and the two females were conducted
by the domestic into a handsome apartment, where, having lighted the
wax-candles, he left them.




CHAPTER CLXXX.

AGNES AND TREVELYAN.


In spite of her anxiety to place confidence in Mrs. Mortimer--in spite
of the deep obligation under which she believed herself to be lying
towards her, Agnes could not subdue a partial feeling of uneasiness
when she found that she was in a strange house, evidently the abode of
a rich person.

She gazed round the walls covered with splendid pictures--on the
chandelier suspended to the ceiling--on the elegant and costly
furniture--the superb mantel-ornaments--and down upon the luxurious
carpet, so thick that her tiny feet were almost imbedded in it, as if
she were walking in snow.

Whose dwelling could it be? Assuredly not Mrs. Mortimer’s--for she
was only treated as a visitress. At length, after the lapse of a few
minutes, the young maiden ventured to ask, “Who are the friends, madam,
with whom you propose to leave me?”

“Does not that very question, Agnes, imply a suspicion injurious to
me?” said Mrs. Mortimer, evasively.

“Oh! no--no!” exclaimed Miss Vernon, in a melting tone of the
profoundest sincerity. “But may I not ask so simple a question without
being liable to such a distressing imputation?”

“Can you not leave yourself in the hands of one who has saved your life
and who wishes you well?” said the old woman, speaking in a voice of
mingled reproach and conciliation.

“Yes--certainly, madam,” was the immediate answer: “but you yourself
are not going to remain here--inasmuch as you have ordered the
cabriolet to wait for you.”

“True, Agnes: because I have business of importance to transact at an
early hour this morning, and at a considerable distance hence. Reassure
yourself, my darling girl,” continued the iniquitous hag: “you will be
delighted to meet the person whom you will presently see. Indeed, it
is only a little surprise which I am preparing for you--and, after all
I have done for you, you surely will not deny me the pleasure which
I promise myself in beholding the interview between yourself and the
owner of this splendid mansion.”

By degrees, as Mrs. Mortimer spoke, the countenance of Agnes brightened
up; for it struck the young maiden that it was her mother whom she
was now to meet--and this idea grew into a positive conviction by the
time the old woman had uttered the last words of her sentence. She was
accordingly about to express renewed gratitude for the happy surprise
thus reserved for her, when the door opened and the domestic returned
to the apartment.

“Madam, will you follow me?” he said, addressing himself to Mrs.
Mortimer.

“My dear child,” observed the old woman, turning towards Agnes and
patting her face with a show of affection, “you will remain here
for a few minutes--a very few minutes; and then,” she added, with
a sly smile, which meant as much as to intimate that she read the
hope entertained by Agnes, and should speedily have the pleasure of
gratifying it,--“and then, my love, you will not scold me for having
kept you a little in suspense.”

Tears of gratitude trembled upon the long dark lashes of the beauteous
maiden, although her lips were wreathed in smiles:--but when Nature
melts into April softness, ’tis with mingled rain and sunshine.

While Agnes remained alone in the handsome parlour, cradling herself in
the hope that the lapse of a few minutes would see her embraced in the
arms of her mother, Mrs. Mortimer was conducted into another apartment,
where she found herself in the presence of Lord William Trevelyan, who
had dressed himself with as much despatch as possible.

“Well, madam,” he said, in a hasty and even anxious tone, “what has
brought you hither at this unseasonable hour?--whom have you with
you?--and wherefore this desire, as expressed to my domestic, to see me
alone in the first instance?”

“My lord, it is Agnes Vernon who has accompanied me, and who is in the
room which I have just left,” answered the old woman.

“I thought so--I was afraid that it was so, when the servant gave me a
description of her--a very rapid and partial one, it is true, inasmuch
as he beheld her only for a few moments. But, great heavens! madam,”
continued the young nobleman, speaking with singular and unusual
vivacity, “what means this strange proceeding?”

“That Agnes required an asylum, and I brought her hither,” was the
response.

“And do you for an instant imagine, madam, that I am capable--that I
would be guilty--that I----But, enough! I will say no more to you: I
see through your real character--and I loathe and despise it! My God!
to think that I should have enlisted a common procuress in my service!
Oh! how can I ever look Agnes in the face?--how venture to accost
her, after having thus offered her the most flagrant of insults? But,
tell me, vile woman,” he exclaimed, seizing Mrs. Mortimer forcibly by
the wrist, while his tone and manner alike indicated the most painful
excitement,--“tell me, I say, by what detestable artifices you have
induced that innocent and unsuspecting maiden to accompany you hither?”

“My lord, you will be ashamed of yourself for this unworthy conduct
towards me, when you come to know all,--yes, ashamed and astonished at
the same time,” said Mrs. Mortimer, assuming an air of offended dignity
and wounded pride.

“How!--speak!” ejaculated Lord William, dropping the woman’s arm and
surveying her with mingled surprise and repentance.

“I shall not waste precious time in entering into details,” resumed
Mrs. Mortimer. “Yesterday morning I saw Agnes and induced her to peruse
your letter. She was offended, and tossed it indignantly back to me.”

“Ah!” cried the nobleman, his countenance assuming an expression of
extreme vexation.

“Yes--and here it is,” continued Mrs. Mortimer, producing the epistle
from her reticule, and laying it upon the table.

“But she read it, you say?” exclaimed Lord William.

“Every word,” was the response. “Nevertheless, though softened and even
pleased at first, she subsequently thought better of it, and rejected
the communication in the manner I have described. I was disheartened,
and felt unwilling to return to you with such unwelcome intelligence.
An hour ago I quitted the house of a friend in Stamford Street; and in
that same street the following adventure occurred to me.”

The old woman then related precisely the same anecdote which she had
already told to Agnes, relative to the pretended rescue of that young
lady from the power of a man who was bearing her along insensible in
his arms.

The young nobleman was astounded; and his manner denoted incredulity.

“I perceive that your lordship puts no faith in my narrative,” said
Mrs. Mortimer, who conjectured what was passing in his mind: “but
the tale which Agnes can tell you, will corroborate it. She herself
will inform you how she fell into the power of the ruffian from whom
it was subsequently my good fortune to deliver her; and if you place
confidence in her words, you will perforce be led to accord the same
favour to mine?”

“And her tale--what is it?” demanded the nobleman, impatiently.

“Yesterday she discovered the mother whom she had lost since her
infancy,” answered Mrs. Mortimer.

“Her mother!” exclaimed Trevelyan. “And where is that mother? who is
she? Tell me, that I may hasten to her at as early an hour as possible,
and implore of her to accord me the hand of her daughter.”

“Be not so hasty, my lord. I am totally unacquainted with Agnes
Vernon’s mother; and she herself--poor artless girl! knows, I believe,
but little more. It is however certain that the young lady was induced
to accompany her newly-found parent from the cottage--that she was
consigned to the care of two ladies named Theobald, and dwelling in
Stamford Street--that in the night she became the prey to vague and
unfounded terrors, which induced her to attempt an escape from the
house--and that she fell into the hands of the man from whom I rescued
her.”

“And wherefore have you brought her hither?” asked Lord William. “Why
not have conducted her back to the ladies to whose care her mother had
consigned her--or to the cottage where she has dwelt so long?”

“I have put you in the position of one who may perform a chivalrous
action, and thereby win the permanent esteem, gratitude, and love of
this beautiful creature whom you adore,” said Mrs. Mortimer; “and
now you appear inclined to load me with reproaches. Yes--I perceive
that reproaches _are_ trembling upon your lordship’s tongue;--and I
who have done all I could to serve you, shall experience nought save
ingratitude. Oh! short-sighted lover that you are! Here is a young girl
whom I pick up as it were houseless and homeless--and I am already
half-way with her to your mansion, before I even learn from her lips
how she came in Stamford Street at all, or that she has friends there.
But when I do glean those facts, I find that she has escaped from the
guardianship of those friends: and could I suppose that they would be
willing to receive her again? Now, my lord, it is for you to grant her
an asylum--to treat her with all imaginable delicacy and attention--and
to leave me to find out her mother, that you may restore the lost
daughter to the distracted parent. Doubtless the Miss Theobalds will
give me the desired information: and then calculate the amount of
gratitude that will be due to you! In spite of her father--whoever he
may really be, and whatever opposition he might raise--Agnes is yours;
and you gain the object of your heart’s dearest wishes.”

“And think you, woman,” exclaimed Lord William Trevelyan, unable any
longer to subdue his resentment,--“think you that I will blast the
fair fame of this young lady by retaining her for even a single hour
beneath my roof?--think you that I will obtain for her the inevitable
reputation of having been my mistress, previously to becoming my wife?
No--a thousand times no! And do you imagine that I read not your
heart aright? do you suppose that I am your dupe? I tell you, vile
woman, that in bringing the innocent and artless Agnes hither, you
fancied you would be throwing in my way a temptation which I could
not resist,--a temptation which would thaw all my virtuous principles
and honourable notions, and lead me to sacrifice the purity of the
confiding girl to my passion. Yes--such was your base calculation: or
you would at once and unhesitatingly have conducted her either to the
abode of her friends in Stamford Street, or home to her own cottage!
Ah! madam, because I belong to the aristocracy, you imagine that I
must necessarily be as vile, depraved, and unprincipled as ninety-nine
out of every hundred individuals who bear lordly titles. But you have
deceived yourself--grossly deceived yourself: and you shall at once
have the proof that you are so deceived! Follow me.”

Thus speaking, Lord William advanced rapidly towards the door,
imperiously beckoning the vile woman to accompany him.

“Whither are you going, my lord?” she demanded, finding that she had
indeed over-reached herself--that the nobleman’s principles were more
profoundly rooted than she had imagined--and that all her trouble was
likely to go unrewarded.

“Follow me, I say: as you have done this amount of mischief, you shall
at least see it remedied to the utmost of my power;”--and the nobleman
burst from the room, literally dragging the old woman with him.

In less than a minute they entered the apartment where Agnes was
anxiously--oh! most anxiously awaiting the presence of her mother;--and
the moment the door was opened, she darted forward to precipitate
herself into the arms of her parent.

But, recognising Lord William Trevelyan, she stopped short with a cry
of mingled disappointment, surprise, and alarm; while an ashy pallor
overspread her countenance.

“Reassure yourself, Miss Vernon--I am your friend, and a man of
honour!” were the encouraging words which Trevelyan hastened to address
to her.

“And my mother?” said the young maiden, bending a look of earnest
appeal upon Mrs. Mortimer, who however shrank back in confusion.

“Your mother is not here, Miss Vernon,” exclaimed the nobleman:
“neither does this woman know where to find her. An act of the greatest
imprudence has been committed in bringing you hither----”

“Oh! what do I hear?” cried Agnes, clasping her hands. “Is this your
house, my lord? If so,” she added, with dignity succeeding grief, “I am
innocent of any intention to intrude: indeed, your lordship might full
well conceive that I should not have come hither of my own accord--oh!
no--not for worlds!”

And tears rolled down the cheeks of the gentle girl for she felt
humiliated in the presence of the very man in whose eyes, if her young
heart had a preference, she would have fain appeared in another light.

“Oh! Miss Vernon, it is you who do not understand me!” ejaculated Lord
William, advancing and taking her hand. “If I spoke of the imprudence
which had been committed, it was on your account only! For believe me
when I declare that I should be proud,--yes, and in the enjoyment of
an elysian happiness, could you enter this mansion to remain here--to
command here, with honour to yourself! But I will not avail myself of
this opportunity to urge a suit that I have already ventured to prefer,
and in the prosecution of which I unfortunately selected so improper an
agent.”

As he uttered these words, he bent an indignant look upon Mrs.
Mortimer, who turned away petulantly and made for the door.

“Stop, woman!” cried the young nobleman, hastening to detain her: “I
cannot yet part with you, intolerable as your presence has become to
me. “Miss Vernon,” he continued, again turning toward the maiden, whose
sense of humiliation had vanished, and who in her heart of hearts now
rejoiced in the conviction that Lord William Trevelyan was indeed as
noble in nature as he was in name,--“I need scarcely observe that
circumstances compel me to procure for you an asylum for the remainder
of the night as speedily as possible. You will permit me to conduct you
to the abode of a lady of my acquaintance,--a lady who will receive
you with open arms, and who will to-morrow--or rather, in a few hours’
time--herself conduct you to the abode of your friends in Stamford
Street, or to your own home near Streatham.”

With these words, the nobleman took the hand of the blushing Agnes, and
led her from the house to the vehicle that was still waiting.

“Now, madam, you may depart,” he said sternly to Mrs. Mortimer, as soon
as he had seated himself in the cab, opposite to Agnes.

The old woman turned sulkily away, muttering threats of vengeance;
but these were unheeded by the chivalrous Trevelyan, who gave hasty
instructions to the driver, and the vehicle rolled rapidly on towards
Kentish Town.

Agnes could not do otherwise than appreciate all the delicacy of
Lord William’s conduct towards her; for it is no disparagement to
the extreme artlessness of her mind to state that she comprehended
wherefore he had compelled Mrs. Mortimer to wait until they had quitted
the house. But she could scarcely collect her bewildered ideas into
a settled state--so rapid was the whirl of incidents and adventures
through which she was doomed to pass on this memorable night. Had
she paused to reflect upon her position, with that seriousness which
it required, she would have requested the nobleman to conduct her
at once to the dwelling of the Misses Theobald: but he had deported
himself towards her with the generosity of a brother, and she acted
in obedience to his suggestions without waiting to analyse them. In a
word, she was full of confidence and ingenuous reliance in him; and she
felt as if she had suddenly found a stanch and sincere friend in the
midst of cruel difficulties and deep embarrassments. A dreamy kind of
repose stole over her as she was borne along in the vehicle: and yet
she not only heard the few remarks which her companion addressed to
her, but likewise answered them in a befitting manner.

On his side Trevelyan was a prey to the strangest excitement; accident
having not only thus procured him the acquaintanceship of her whom
he loved so fondly, but having likewise placed them in a relative
position, establishing as it were a friendship--almost an intimacy.
Moreover, had he not touched her delicate white hand--touched it
gently, it is true, and without venturing to press it,--but still
touched it, and even held it for a few moments in his own? Had he
not discovered, too, that if she appeared surpassingly lovely when
seen from a distance, a nearer contemplation of her charms was only
calculated to enhance his admiration and strengthen his devotion? And,
lastly, had not the musical tones of her silver voice been breathed in
his hearing, wafting words that were addressed to himself, and making
every fibre in his heart vibrate deliciously to the dulcet sounds?
Yes--all this he felt and appreciated; and he was happy.

[Illustration]

The conversation that passed between them during the drive to Kentish
Town was slight, and chiefly confined to such observations as a
well-bred gentleman would address to a lady under circumstances of
embarrassment, and to such responses as those remarks were calculated
to elicit. The young nobleman was careful to avoid any allusion to
the letter which he had sent to Agnes, or to the circumstances that
had thus thrown them so singularly together; and she, understanding
his forbearance and perceiving his unwillingness to take the least
advantage of her peculiar position, felt her esteem--we might almost
say her _love_--increase in his favour.

In about twenty minutes the cab stopped at the gate of a beautiful
villa; and as the orient sky was now flickering with the first
struggling beams of a summer sunrise, Agnes was enabled to obtain a
tolerably distinct view of the picturesque spot. The fresh breeze,
too, fanned her countenance, recalling the roses to her damask cheeks;
and as she threw back the shining masses of hair from her forehead,
Trevelyan’s eye could trace the blue veins so delicately marked beneath
the white skin of that fair and polished brow.

On alighting at the entrance to the villa, Trevelyan and his beautiful
companion were both struck by the glimmering of lights which shone
through the divisions in the parlour shutters, and the rays of which,
peeping forth, struggled with sickly effect against the dawning of a
new day. Those lights, too, were evidently moving about; and it was
therefore clear that the inmates of the dwelling were astir even at
that early hour.

The summons at the front door was almost immediately responded to by a
female servant, who, in reply to the young nobleman’s questions, stated
that Mrs. Sefton was at home, and had risen thus early in order to make
preparations for removal to a new house which she had taken in another
suburb of London.

Trevelyan and Agnes were accordingly admitted forthwith; and the
domestic conducted them to the parlour, where Mrs. Sefton was busily
engaged in packing up her effects. She was much surprised when
she heard Trevelyan’s voice, and immediately apprehended that some
misfortune was in store for her--some evil tidings, perhaps, relative
to Sir Gilbert Heathcote.

But scarcely had Agnes reached the threshold of the apartment,
when--the moment Mrs. Sefton turned to receive her visitors--the young
girl gave vent to an ejaculation of mingled astonishment and joy, and,
bounding forward, was in the next instant clasped in that lady’s arms.

“My dearest--dearest mother!”

“Agnes--my beloved child!”

These were the words which explained to Trevelyan the scene that he now
witnessed.




CHAPTER CLXXXI.

EXPLANATIONS.


The reader need scarcely be informed that if Lord William were amazed
at the discovery of the relationship subsisting between two ladies whom
he had hitherto deemed to be perfect strangers to each other, Mrs.
Sefton was not less astonished at having her daughter thus unexpectedly
introduced into her presence and at such an unseasonable hour.

For a few minutes, however, she had no leisure for reflection,--joy
at once more being enabled to strain that beloved child to her bosom
triumphing over all other considerations.

But when the first gush of feeling had somewhat subsided, a horrible
suspicion entered her mind.

Could Lord William have seduced Agnes away from the care of those
friends to whom she was consigned?--could he have entertained the vile
and derogatory idea of using the villa as the receptacle for a young
creature whom he intended to make his mistress?--did he suppose that
Mrs. Sefton would lend herself to such an atrocious proceeding?--and
had he unconsciously brought the child to the house of the mother,
thinking to make a pander of the latter to the dishonour of the former?

All these thoughts flashed with lightning rapidity to Mrs. Sefton’s
mind, as, disengaging herself from the embraces of Agnes, she turned
towards Lord William, and, with flashing eyes and quivering lips,
peremptorily demanded an explanation of the circumstances which had
rendered him the companion of her daughter at such an hour.

Trevelyan instantly divined what was passing in the lady’s bosom; and,
perceiving at once the awkwardness of his position and the grounds of
her suspicions, he hastily gave such explanations as were satisfactory
to Mrs. Sefton, Agnes herself corroborating the main facts.

“Pardon me, my dear friend,” said the now happy mother,
taking Trevelyan’s hand and pressing it fervently in token of
gratitude,--“pardon me if for a moment I entertained the most unjust
and derogatory suspicions.”

“Mention them not, madam,” exclaimed Trevelyan warmly: “but let your
daughter seek that repose which she must so deeply need--and I will
then, as a man of honour, explain to you how I became interested in
her, and how it was that the Mrs. Mortimer whose name has already been
mentioned happened to bring her to my house.”

A slight smile--almost of archness--played upon the lips of Mrs.
Sefton, as she turned towards Agnes,--a smile which seemed to intimate
that she already knew more than the young nobleman fancied, but was not
vexed with him in consequence of the facts thus known to her.

“Come with me, dearest girl,” she said, addressing her daughter, “and I
will conduct you to a chamber where you may obtain a few hours’ repose.
You need not bid farewell to his lordship; for I have no doubt he will
honour us with his presence at breakfast--when you will see him again.”

Agnes blushed and cast down her eyes--she scarcely knew why--as these
words met her ears;--and again the arch smile played upon her mother’s
lips. Trevelyan observed that there was some mystery, though not of a
disagreeable nature, in Mrs. Sefton’s manner; and in a moment--with
galvanic swiftness--the reminiscence of the tears upon the portrait and
the lost letter flashed to his mind.

The ladies disappeared, and Trevelyan threw himself in a chair, to
muse upon the discovery which he had thus made, and which was well
calculated to afford him pleasure. Inasmuch as it was evident from Mrs.
Sefton’s manner and the significant words she had uttered relative to
the meeting at the breakfast-table, that she was _not_ inimical to his
suit.

In a few minutes she returned to the room.

“My dear madam,” said Trevelyan, rising and advancing to meet her, “you
already know that I love your daughter Agnes--that I adore her?”

“And you have already divined how the letter which you must have
missed, came to be lost?” returned Mrs. Sefton, with a smile.

“Yes, madam--and I likewise observed the trace of a tear upon the
portrait which I painted from memory,” continued the young nobleman.

“Oh! then you can make allowance for the feelings of a mother!”
exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, with enthusiasm: “and you will forgive me that
act of apparent ingratitude--nay, of treachery--I mean the purloining
of a document so sacred as a sealed letter--and at a moment, too, when
I sought your aid, and you so generously afforded it?”

“It is for me to implore your pardon as a mother for having dared to
address such a letter to your daughter,” said Trevelyan, with some
degree of embarrassment.

“Then let us accord mutual forgiveness,” exclaimed the lady, extending
her hand, which was immediately pressed with the fervour of gratitude.
I am well aware that my conduct in taking that letter was improper to a
degree,” she continued, after a short pause: “but pray consider all the
circumstances.”

“I do--I do,” interrupted Trevelyan; “and you have nothing to explain.
Oh! I am delighted at the discovery that the beautiful and much-loved
Agnes is your daughter--delighted also to think that, by the perusal
of that letter, you have acquired the certainty of the ardent and
honourable feelings which animate me with regard to her.”

“And Agnes is deserving of your affection, my lord,” said Mrs. Sefton:
“I am convinced that she is in heart and soul all she appears to
be--ingenuousness, amiability, candour, and virtue!”

“Oh! I am well assured of the value of that jewel which, in due time,
I shall implore you to bestow upon me!” exclaimed the generous and
impassioned young nobleman: “and I rejoice that you not only observed
the letter in my apartment, but that you also took it; for it has--”

“It has enabled me to discover my child, whom I had fruitlessly sought
for years, and whom I longed to embrace!” added Mrs. Sefton, wiping
away the tears of joy that started to her eye-lashes. “Oh! my lord, you
may conceive my surprise--my joy, when I beheld that portrait in your
portfolio. Although I had never seen my child since her infancy, yet it
seemed as if a heavenly inspiration imparted to me the conviction that
I was then gazing on her likeness. At all events I murmured to myself,
while contemplating it, ‘_Such must Agnes now be: tall, beautiful, and
with innocence depicted in her countenance, even as this portrait._’
And then I wept as I thought that the dear girl was lost to me for
ever--buried in some seclusion by _one_ who cruelly kept us separated!
I closed the portfolio--rose--and mechanically approached the mantel.
There I beheld the letter--and the address immediately rivetted my
attention. ‘_Miss Agnes Vernon!_’ Oh! yes--it was my own dear daughter
whose portrait I had been contemplating; and I was not mistaken! For
I may be allowed to say, without incurring the imputation of vanity,
that in the countenance of the portrait I traced my own lineaments;
and then--on discovering the letter--I felt assured that nature’s
promptings had not been misinterpreted by me! Because I knew that Agnes
passed under the name of Vernon: that fact I accidentally learnt years
ago, through my husband’s solicitor, who was permitted from time to
time to give me the assurance that my daughter was alive and in health.
You can now conceive, my dear friend, how strong were the emotions
which agitated within me, and which influenced me in seizing upon the
letter--tearing it open--and devouring its contents.”

“And your first impression was doubtless one of indignation against
me for having dared thus to address your daughter?” said Lord William
Trevelyan.

“Far from it, I can assure you!” returned Mrs. Sefton, in a tone of
the deepest sincerity. “I already knew enough of your character to be
well aware that you were honourable in principle and generous in heart!
and the whole tenour of the letter was respectful and delicate, though
earnest and decided,” added the lady, with a smile, as Trevelyan’s
cheeks were suffused with a deep blush. “Besides, my dear friend,”
she continued, in a serious tone, “I have acquainted you with the
history of the crushed hopes and the blighted affections of my own
early years--and I should be the last person in the world to raise an
obstacle in the way of a pure and honourable attachment on the part of
those in whom I felt interested.”

“Then you approve of my suit in respect to your daughter?” exclaimed
Trevelyan, his handsome countenance becoming animated with joy; “and
you will not refuse me her hand?”

“When she attains her twenty-first year, my lord,” replied Mrs. Sefton,
in a solemn tone. “Until then I dare not dispose of her hand in
marriage. She is now nineteen----”

“Two years to wait!” exclaimed Trevelyan, mournfully: “and in the mean
time how many adverse circumstances may occur to separate us!”

“Yours is the age when Hope smiles most brightly,” said Mrs. Sefton;
“and if your affection for my daughter be as strong as you represent
it, believe me, my dear friend, that time will not impair--but rather
strengthen and confirm it.”

“Were years and years to elapse, ere Agnes could become mine, I
should not love her the less!” exclaimed Lord William. “But this may
not be so with her: indeed, I have no reason to hope--much less any
assurance--that she in any degree reciprocates my passion.”

“Agnes will not prove indifferent to your lordship’s merits,” said Mrs.
Sefton, encouragingly. “But we must postpone any farther conversation
on this subject until another occasion. Behold the confusion that
prevails in the house,” she continued, in a more cheerful tone, as she
glanced round the room at the various boxes and packages on which she
had been busied when the arrival of Trevelyan and her daughter had
compelled her to desist from her occupation. “I am about to remove this
morning to a beautiful little villa which I have taken at Bayswater.
By those means I hope to destroy all trace of my new abode, in respect
to those who might seek to tear Agnes from my arms. But I have the law
with me:--yes, the law is in my favour,” she added, in an emphatic
tone; “and I will not surrender up my daughter to _him_----”

She checked herself, and hastily advancing to the window, opened the
shutters.

It was now quite light; and, having extinguished the candles, Mrs.
Sefton returned to her task of placing various valuable effects in a
box. Trevelyan volunteered his assistance, which was accepted; for
circumstances had placed him and the lady on a footing of the most
friendly intimacy together.

“I received your note on my return last evening,” said Mrs. Sefton,
after a pause; “and I regretted much to find that you had obtained no
clue to the place where Sir Gilbert Heathcote is confined.”

“But you must remember, my dear madam, that no time has been lost,”
observed Trevelyan. “It was only yesterday morning that we acquired
the knowledge of Sir Gilbert’s real position; and I have employed my
valet Fitzgeorge, who is an intelligent and faithful man, to obtain an
interview with Green, Heathcote’s clerk, and bribe him to serve us.
From the specimen of the fellow’s character which we had yesterday
morning in this very room, I entertain but little doubt of Fitzgeorge’s
success.”

“God grant that it may be so!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, fervently. “And
if you succeed in discovering the den where Sir Gilbert is confined,
how do you intend to proceed?”

“Still by artifice, my dear madam. We must fight that bad man, James
Heathcote, with his own weapons----”

“Oh! think you not, my lord, that our unfortunate friend is hemmed
round with all imaginable precautions to prevent his flight?” demanded
Mrs. Sefton.

“Doubtless,” answered Trevelyan: “but the janitors and dependants of a
lunatic-asylum are as accessible as other people to the influence of
gold.”

“I now more than ever, if possible, desire the restoration of Sir
Gilbert,” said Mrs. Sefton: then, after a pause, she added in a low
and peculiar tone, “I have many--many strange things yet to tell you,
Lord William: but the present is not the most fitting occasion. In
a few days I will explain every thing--yes, everything,” she said,
emphatically; “and thenceforth there will be no secrets between you and
me.”

The lady again applied herself to the task of preparing for her
removal; and the young nobleman assisted her with as much kindliness
of manner and good-tempered alacrity as if he were her brother, or
already her son-in-law. In this manner the hours passed away until the
time-piece struck nine, when Agnes descended to the breakfast which
was now served up. A messenger was despatched to the Misses Theobald
to give them an assurance of the young maiden’s safety; and in the
course of the day the mother and daughter, accompanied by Lord William,
removed to the beautiful villa prepared for the ladies’ reception at
Bayswater.

Lord William remained with them until the evening, when he took his
leave--but not without observing that pleasure beamed in the eyes of
Agnes as he intimated his intention of becoming a frequent visitor at
the villa.




CHAPTER CLXXXII.

LAURA MORTIMER’S NEW INTRIGUES.


We must now return to Laura Mortimer, whom we left in Paris, and of
whom we have lost sight for some time.

It was in the evening of the fourth day after the incidents recorded
in the preceding chapter, that Laura was seated in her handsome
drawing-room, wrapped up in deep meditation.

Her thoughts were not, however, of a disagreeable nature;--for ever and
anon the fire of triumph flashed from her fine eyes, and her rich moist
lips were wreathed into a smile.

She held a book open in her hand; but her gaze was fixed upon the
ceiling as she lay, rather than sate, on the voluptuous cushions of the
purple velvet ottoman.

The windows were open, and a gentle evening breeze, which had succeeded
the stifling heat of a Parisian summer-day, fanned her countenance
and wantoned with the luxuriant ringlets that floated over her naked
shoulders,--those shoulders so white, so plump, so exquisitely shaped!

The perfumes of choice flowers and the odour of ravishing oriental
scents rendered the atmosphere fragrant: gold and silver fish were
disporting in an immense crystal globe which stood upon a marble table
between the casements--and two beautiful canaries were carolling in a
superb cage suspended in one of those open windows.

On the table near which Laura was placed, stood several crystal dishes
containing the finest fruit that the Parisian market could yield,--the
luscious pine, the refreshing melon, strawberries of extraordinary size
and exquisite flavour, cherries of the richest red, and mulberries of
the deepest purple.

A bottle of champagne stood in a cooler filled with ice; and in the
middle of the table was a superb nosegay of flowers.

The entire appearance of the room and its appointments was luxurious
in the extreme,--comfort being combined with elegance, and the means
of enjoyment distributed with taste;--while she--the mistress of the
place--the presiding genius of the scene--was pillowed voluptuously
upon the immense velvet cushions. So complete was the abandonment of
her attitude, in her deep reverie, that she seemed ten hundred times
more charming than when her artifice devised a thousand studied graces
in order to effect a conquest and captivate a lover.

One of her naked arms, plump, white, and beautifully formed, lay
across her person as the hand held the book, on which the eyes rested
not, and against the dark binding of which the taper fingers were
set off in the dazzling purity of their complexion and the rosy tint
of the almond-shaped nails: the other arm hung down negligently--not
quite straight, but gently rounded--the fingers of that hand playing
mechanically with the ottoman’s golden fringe that swept the thick
carpet. One of her legs lay stretched completely upon the ottoman: the
other hung over the side, displaying the well-formed foot, the delicate
ankle, and the robust swell of the calf. More voluptuously modelled
than Venus, but with all the elegance attributed to the form of that
fabled divinity,--handsome as Juno, without the stern imperiousness
that characterised the queen of heaven,--and with that subdued
nobility of demeanour which Diana, when out of sight of her attendant
huntresses, might have been supposed to wear,--Laura Mortimer united
in her own person the most fascinating of the charms belonging to the
three principal goddesses of heathen worship.

But let us endeavour to ascertain the subject of her thoughts, as she
lay thus wrapped up in a deep reverie.

“Fortune appears resolved to favour me, and I accept the auspicious
omen with joy. The Marquis is in my power--is my slave--inextricably
shackled by my silken chains! Four short days have been sufficient
to accomplish this victory. When first introduced to him in the
Champs Elysées, I saw that he regarded me with attention--nay, with
admiration; and I that moment signalled him out as the man who is
destined to place me in a proud position--to render me independent of
Charles Hatfield’s hated father! The evening before last I met him
for the second time: this was at the party given by my music-master.
The nobleman was almost instantly by my side, as soon as I made my
appearance; and I knew full well how to gain his favour. When handsome
young men approached me, I received them coldly, and continued my
discourse with the Marquis in a more animated and friendly style
than before. I even hinted to him--or rather suffered him to believe
that it was a relief to escape from the frivolities of the average
run of conversation, in the indulgence of discourse on intellectual
subjects. I saw that the old man was flattered--that he thought highly
of me: in a word, I secured his esteem as I had already acquired his
admiration. We sate next to each other at supper; and he lavished all
his attentions upon me--attentions which I accepted with an air as if
they came from a young and handsome gallant. The Marquis handed me to
my carriage, and solicited permission to call. I signified an assent
with an ingenuousness that could not possibly have seemed affected; and
he squeezed my hand slightly as he bade me farewell. On the following
afternoon he called: this was yesterday--and he remained a long
time. Two hours passed--doubtless like two minutes to him: and I was
completely triumphant. Never did I appear to such advantage: my glass
told me that I was radiantly beautiful--and I could observe full well
that my manner--my conversation--and the delicate artifices I called
to aid, were pre-eminently successful. The old man was ready to fall
upon his knees and worship me: he was in that humour when he would
have laid his whole fortune at my feet. He appeared to be longing to
throw his arms around my neck, and exclaim, ‘_Laura, I adore you!_’
But when I had excited him to the highest possible pitch, I suddenly
directed his attention to some subject of comparative indifference;
and thus did I play with his feelings during two long hours. He went
away half crazy--dazzled, bewildered, not knowing what to think or
how to act--intoxicated with sensual passions mingling with the
purer sentiments of a profound admiration and a cordial esteem. Then
this morning he called again, and I made him become my companion at
luncheon. I affected to be rejoiced that he had thus unexpectedly
dropped in, as I had previously felt low-spirited and dull. He seemed
charmed that his presence was calculated to cheer me: It was a delicate
compliment paid to his conversational powers--and he was flattered
and pleased. Oh! how admirably did I wind myself, as it were, around
him during the three hours that he remained with me this morning: how
successfully did I insinuate myself, as one may say, into his very
soul;--not seizing upon his heart by a sudden attack--but gaining
possession of it by means the more sure because so stealthy,--not
carrying that heart by storm--but gradually and imperceptibly enmeshing
it in snares and toils whence it never can escape, so long as my
real character shall remain a mystery to him. Yes--and this morning,
too, was he not a thousand times on the point of falling upon his
knees, and exclaiming,‘_Laura, I adore you!_’ But still I tantalised
him--still I worked him up to the highest possible pitch of excitement,
and then suddenly discouraged him by some word or gesture that threw
a coldness on all I had before said, and which yet would admit of
no positive interpretation so as to render him hopeless altogether.
And now he is to return again--this evening,--to return, by his own
solicitation;--and this evening--yes--this evening,” thought Laura, her
lips wreathing into a smile of triumph,--“he _shall_ fall down at my
feet and exclaim, ‘_Laura, I adore you!_’”

Thus ran the meditations of this dangerous woman,--so strong in the
consciousness of her almost superhuman beauty--so confident in the
power of her matchless charms and in the witchery of her guileful
tongue!

“Yes--four days will have been sufficient to reduce the proud English
noble to the condition of a captive kneeling at my feet.” she
continued, in her silent but triumphant reverie. “What other woman
in the world can thus effect a conquest with such amazing rapidity?
The tigress hunts for her prey--pursuing the affrighted deer through
bramble and through brake--by the margin of the lake in the depths
of the forest--amidst the trackless mazes of the wild woods,--a
long--tedious--and fatiguing chase, with the possibility of escape for
the intended victim after all. But the boa-constrictor fixes its eyes
upon its prey--fascinates it--renders it incapable of retreat--compels
it even to advance nearer and nearer to its mouth--plays with
it--tantalizes it--sets every feeling and every emotion into fluttering
agitation--and even when about to gorge it, licks it over with his
caresses. And thus do I secure my prey! I am the anaconda amongst
women: none whom I choose to make my victim can escape from the
influence of my witchery--the sphere of my fascination! With me it is
no long, tedious, and wearisome chase: ’tis instantaneous capture and
an easy triumph!”

And again the peculiar smile--half haughtiness, half
sweetness--returned to the lips of the peerless beauty, who felt
herself to be ten thousand times more powerful in the possession of her
transcendent charms, than an Amazonian Queen clothed in armour of proof
from head to heel.

Suddenly the bell at the outer door of her suite of apartments
announced the coming of a visitor; and in a few moments the Marquis of
Delmour was ushered into the room.

Laura had already assumed a sitting posture; and she now rose to
receive the English nobleman.

“Good evening, charming Miss Mortimer,” said the Marquis, taking her
hand and gently touching it with his lips: then, leading her to the
ottoman, and placing himself at a short distance from her, he looked at
her tenderly, observing, “You perceive that I am punctual to the hour
at which I was to make my appearance according to the kind permission
you granted me.”

“Your lordship is most generous thus to condescend to enliven an hour
that would otherwise be passed in loneliness by me,” said Laura,
bending upon him all the glory of her fine bright eyes and revealing
the splendour of her brilliant teeth.

“Beautiful, intellectual, and agreeable as you are, Miss Mortimer,”
observed the nobleman, “it is utterly impossible that you can feel
yourself indebted to an old man like me for the recreation of a leisure
hour. You would only need to throw open your drawing-rooms to the
_élite_ of Paris,to be surrounded by admiring guests.”

“And what if I prefer an hour of intellectual conversation to an entire
evening of empty formalities, ceremonial frivolities, and the inane
routine of fashionable _réunions_?” asked Laura, with an affectation of
candour which seemed most real--most natural.

“You possess a mind the strength and soundness of which surprise
me,” exclaimed the Marquis of Delmour, enthusiastically. “How is it
that, rich and beautiful, young and courted, as you are, you can have
taken so just a view of the world,--that you have learnt to prefer
solid enjoyments to artificial pleasures,--and that you can so well
discriminate between the _real_ on which the gay and giddy close their
eyes, and the _ideal_ or the _unreal_ which they so much worship?”

“You would ask me, my lord, I presume, wherefore I dislike that
turmoil of fashionable life which brings one in contact with persons
who flatter in a meaningless manner, and who believe that a woman is
best pleased with him who most skilfully gilds his _pretty nothings_.
It is, my lord, because I do not estimate the world according to the
usual standard,--because I am not dazzled by outside glitter and
external show. If an officer in the army be introduced to me, I am not
captivated by his splendid epaulets and his waving plumes: I wait to
hear his discourse before I form _my_ estimate of his character.”

“Then neither youth nor riches will prove the principal qualifications
of him who shall be fortunate enough to win your hand?” said the
Marquis, fixing his eyes in an impassioned manner upon the syren.

“Oh! you would speak to me upon the topic of marriage!” exclaimed
Laura, laughing gaily. “To tell your lordship the truth, I should be
sorry to surrender up my freedom beyond all possibility of release, to
any man in existence.”

“What!” ejaculated the old nobleman: “do you mean me to infer that you
will never marry?”

“I have more than half made up my mind to that resolution,” responded
Laura, casting down her eyes and forcing a blush to her cheeks.

“Never marry!” cried the Marquis, in unfeigned surprise. “And what if
you happened to fall in love with some fine, handsome, eligible young
man?”

“In the first place it is by no means necessary that a man should be
fine, handsome, or young for me to love him,” answered Laura, as if in
the most ingenuous way in the world; “and when I _do_ love, it is not
a whit the more imperious that the person or the priest should rivet
my hand to that of the object of my affections. It is within the power
of man to unite hands--and that is a mockery: but God alone can unite
hearts--and that is a solemn and sacred compact that should be effected
in the sight of heaven only.”

“I scarcely understand you, beautiful and mysterious being!” exclaimed
the Marquis, drawing nearer to the syren, who did not appear to notice
the movement.

“I am aware that some of my notions are not altogether in accordance
with those of society in general,” observed Laura, with an affectation
of reserve and diffidence: “but since the conversation has taken this
turn, I do not hesitate to admit that I do hold peculiar opinions with
respect to marriage.”

“You would have me understand, Miss Mortimer,” said the Marquis,
“that were you to find your affections enchained by some deserving
individual, you would not hesitate to join your destinies to his,
without the intervention of the Church to cement the union.”

“Your lordship has interpreted my meaning in language so delicate as
to be almost ambiguous,” observed Laura. “And yet why should the truth
be thus wrapped up in verbiage? I do not entertain opinions which I am
afraid to look in the face. God forbid! In a word, then, I would ten
thousand times rather become the mistress of the man I loved, than the
wife of him whom I abhorred;--and in loving the former, and with him
loving me, is it not that union of hearts which, as I ere now said,
should be effected only in the sight of heaven?”

“And have you ever yet loved?” asked the nobleman, in a tone of
profound emotion, as he gazed long and ardently upon the splendid
countenance whereon the light from the casements now fell with a
Rembrandt effect, delineating the faultless profile against the
obscurity that had already begun to occupy the end of the room most
remote from the windows.

“Oh! my lord, that is a question which you can only ask me when we come
to know each other better!” exclaimed Laura, after a few moments’ pause.

“And yet I already feel as if I had known you for as many years as our
acquaintance numbers days,” said the Marquis. “Methought yesterday--and
this morning too--that a species of intimacy--a kind of impromptu
friendship had sprung up between us; and now you are somewhat cold
towards me--your manner is not the same----”

“If I have been guilty of any want of courtesy towards your lordship,
I should be truly--deeply grieved,” exclaimed Laura, surveying the
nobleman with well affected astonishment at the accusation uttered
against her.

“Oh! use not such chilling language, Laura--Miss Mortimer, I mean!”
cried the old nobleman, half inclined to throw himself at her feet and
implore her to take compassion upon him. “But I an mad--I am insane
to appeal to you thus!” he continued, in a species of rage against
himself. “How can I suppose that the society of an old man like me is
agreeable to a young and beautiful creature such as you!--how can I
give way to those glorious but fatal delusions that have occupied my
brain for the last forty-eight hours! Oh! Miss Mortimer--would that I
had never seen you!”

And the old nobleman, covering his face with his hands, literally
sobbed like a youthful lover quarrelling with an adored mistress.

“My lord--my lord, what have I done to offend you?” demanded Laura, as
if deeply excited; and, seizing his hands, she drew them away from his
countenance, well aware that the contact of her soft and warm flesh
would make the blood that age had partially chilled, circulate with
speed and heat in his veins.

“If you had attempted my life,” replied the Marquis, with fervid
emphasis, “I should rejoice at a deed that would elicit such kindness
from you as you manifest towards me now!”

And thus speaking, he raised her hands to his lips and covered them
with kisses.

“Tell me--how did I offend you?” she asked, in a voice that was melting
and musical even to ravishment.

“Oh! let us think not of what has passed,” he exclaimed: “but bless me
with the assurance that you can entertain a sentiment of friendship for
the old man!”

“I would rather possess your friendship, my lord, than that of the
handsomest and wealthiest young gentleman whom we met at the party
the other evening,” responded the artful woman, still abandoning her
hands to the Marquis. “Did you not observe that I was pleased with
your attentions--that I refused to dance in order that I might remain
seated next to you, and listening to your conversation--that when the
gay moths of fashion approached me with their fulsome compliments, I
exhibited signs of impatience, and by my coldness compelled them to
retreat--that I gave no encouragement to them in any way----”

“Yes--yes,” interrupted the enraptured Marquis: “I noticed all
_that_--and were I a young man I should have felt myself justified in
addressing you in the language of passion--aye, of ardent and sincere
affection. But--although such are indeed my sentiments towards you--I
perceive all the folly and ridicule of daring to give utterance to them
in your presence: yet God knows that I am ready to lay my fortune at
your feet--and could I offer to place the coronet of a marchioness upon
your brow----”

“Were you in the position to do so, I should refuse it,” said Laura,
emphatically. “All the rest I might listen to----”

“Then you are aware that I am married?” interrupted the nobleman,
fixing an earnest and enquiring gaze upon her beauteous countenance.

“Rumour declares as much,” replied Laura; “and it likewise avers that
you are not happy in your matrimonial connexion. I pity you from the
bottom of my heart--and I behold in the fact itself a new argument
in support of my own peculiar tenets relative to marriage-ties;--for
assuredly you are endowed with qualities calculated to render a woman
happy--or I am deeply, deeply deceived.”

“Ah! It is a sad tale--and I dare not venture upon the narration now,”
said the Marquis, with a profound sigh. “But should our acquaintance
continue--as I ardently hope it may--I will some day give you the
fullest and most ample explanations. And you yourself, charming
creature--is there not some mystery attached to you? How happens it
that at your age you should be so well acquainted with the world?--how
is it that you seem free to follow the bent of your own inclinations,
uncontrolled even by your mother? For rumour declares that you have a
mother alive----”

“I am independent of her in a pecuniary point of view, my lord,”
interrupted Laura; “and I am determined to consult my own ideas of
happiness, instead of adopting the standard of enjoyment and pleasure
established by the fashionable world.”

“Would to heavens that it lay in my power to ensure your happiness--or
even to contribute to it!” exclaimed the Marquis, gazing upon her
with admiration and ardent passion. “Long years have elapsed since I
encountered any woman who inspired me with even half the interest that
I feel in you; and it seems to me that I become young again when in
your sweet society.”

“And, on my side,” answered Laura, casting down her eyes and assuming
a bashful demeanour, “I do not hesitate to admit that I experience
greater enjoyment from your conversation than from that of any other
nobleman or gentleman with whom I am acquainted.”

“Just now, my sweet Miss Mortimer,” said the Marquis, approaching still
nearer to her, and speaking in a tone that was low and tremulous with
emotion,--“just now you declared that ‘_all the rest you might listen
to_’----”

“And I do not attempt to revoke the admission that thus fell from
my lips,” murmured the designing young woman, turning a glance of
half-timidity and half-fondness upon the old nobleman, who, in spite
of a strong and vigorous intellect, was rendered childish and plunged
as it were into dotage by the fascinating--ravishing influence of the
syren-enchantress.

“What am I to understand by those words?” he asked, in an ecstacy of
delight. “Oh! is it possible that you can become something more to the
old man than a mere acquaintance--something more than even a friend----”

“I could wish to retain your good opinion--your esteem for ever!” said
Laura, now turning upon him a countenance radiant with hope and joy.

“It is scarcely possible--I am dreaming--’tis a delicious delusion--a
heavenly vision!” murmured the Marquis in broken sentences,--for he was
dazzled by the transcendant beauty of the houri who seemed to encourage
him in the aspirations which he had formed.

“Is it, then, so extraordinary that I should have learnt to love one
who is so kind--so generous-hearted--so intellectual as yourself?”
asked Laura, leaning towards him so that her fragrant breath fanned his
countenance and her forehead for an instant touched his own.

“Great heaven! Is it possible that so much happiness awaits me?” cried
the Marquis, scarcely able to believe his eyes or his ears: then, after
gazing upon her for a few instants with all the rapturous ardour of a
youthful lover, he sank upon his knees before her, exclaiming, “_Laura,
I adore you!_”

The designing woman’s triumph was complete: the Marquis was
inextricably entangled in her snares;--and, throwing her arms around
his neck, she murmured, “Oh! it is an honour as well as a joy to
possess your love!”

Then the old man covered the charming young woman’s countenance with
kisses; and for several minutes not a word was spoken between them.
But at length the Marquis, who could scarcely believe that he had
won a prize the possession of which all the noblest, handsomest, and
wealthiest young men in Paris would envy him, began to speak upon the
course which it would be prudent for them to adopt. Laura at once gave
him to understand that she should experience no sentiment of shame in
appearing as his mistress; and she undertook--as well indeed she might
do--to reconcile her mother to this connexion which she had formed.

“Let us then return to England without delay,’ said the Marquis. “The
business which has brought me to Paris is now in such a position that
an agent may manage it for me. But tell me--is your mother dependent
upon you?”

“Entirely,” answered Laura, anticipating the course which her noble
lover was about to adopt.

“And your fortune is doubtless large?” he continued, interrogatively.

“It is not nearly so large as rumour has alleged,” was the reply.
“Still it is a handsome competency for one person.”

“Then, as there shall be nothing having even the slightest appearance
of selfishness in my attachment towards you, Laura,” resumed the
nobleman, “you must immediately assign all your property to your
mother; and I will at once--yea, at once--give you a proof of the
boundless devotion with which you have inspired me. Permit me the use
of your desk for a few moments.”

Laura rang the bell, and ordered Rosalie to bring writing materials;
and when this was done, the marquis seated himself at the table and
wrote something upon a sheet of paper. He next penned a letter, which
he folded up, sealed, and addressed; and, turning towards Laura, he
said, “This draught, beloved girl, is for the sum of sixty thousand
pounds, payable at sight at my bankers’ in London. This letter, which
you will have the kindness to send through the post to-morrow, is to
advise them of the fact of such a cheque having been given, and to
prepare them to meet it, so that there may be no hesitation in paying
such a large amount. For it will be my joy and delight to enrich you,
my dearest Laura; so that the old man may to some extent repay the
immense obligation under which he is placed by the possession of such
a heart as thine. I would not have you remain wealthy through your own
resources: henceforth you must owe every thing to me--for if you cannot
be my wife in name, you shall at least be the sharer of my fortune, as
you have consented to be the partner of my destinies.”

“Your generosity, my dear Marquis, only binds me the more closely to
you,” exclaimed Laura, lavishing upon the old man the most exciting
and apparently fervent caresses. “At the same time permit me to
remind you that there is nothing selfish in that affection which so
suddenly sprang up in my bosom towards you: because I am no needy
adventuress--no intriguing fortune-hunter,--and you are well aware
that many a French nobleman would be proud to lay his title at my feet,
were I disposed to decorate my brow with a coronet. My father--who, as
you have doubtless heard, accumulated some money in India--left me well
provided for; and that fortune I shall cheerfully abandon to my mother,
preferring to remain dependent on yourself.”

“Ah! your father dwelt a long time in India!” exclaimed the Marquis, as
if struck by a sudden idea. “Is it possible, then, that I could have
encountered your mother in England? But, no--that woman could not have
been the parent of such a lovely, charming creature as yourself!”

“To whom do you allude, my lord?” demanded Laura, now seized with the
apprehension that her mother might be known to the wealthy lover whom
she had succeeded in ensnaring, and whom she intended to fleece of the
greater portion of his fortune.

“It was but a momentary thought--it exists no longer in my mind,
dearest,” responded the nobleman, who, as he gazed upon the bright and
splendid being before him, felt an ineffable disgust at having even for
an instant associated her in any way with the loathsome old hag to whom
he was alluding. “The fact is,” he continued, “I met a certain female
in London--or rather, in the neighbourhood of London--a short time
ago--indeed, just before I left England; and this woman bore the name
of Mortimer.”

“It is not altogether an uncommon one,” observed Laura, maintaining
an unruffled countenance, though her heart palpitated with continued
apprehension.

“The singularity of the coincidence is that the female to whom I am
alluding announces herself as the widow of a General-officer who had
died in India,” resumed the Marquis.

“My lamented father was a merchant,” said Laura.

“Then of course there can be no identity in that case,” continued the
nobleman. “Besides, having an intimate acquaintance with all military
matters--as I myself held the post of Secretary at War many years ago,
and have since taken a deep interest in that department--I am enabled
to state that no General-officer of the name of Mortimer has recently
died in India.”

“The woman, then, of whom you am speaking, was an impostress?” said
Laura, interrogatively.

“I have little doubt of it,” answered the marquis. “But let us not
dwell upon a subject so perfectly indifferent to us. We were talking of
our plans. Will it suit you, dearest Laura, to quit Paris to-morrow, or
the day after at latest?”

“To-morrow, if you will,” the young woman hastened to reply: for she
now trembled lest her mother should suddenly return and perhaps prove,
though unintentionally, a marplot to all the plans which her intriguing
disposition had conceived.

“To-morrow, then, be it,” said the Marquis. “At noon I shall call for
you in my travelling-chariot. We will return by easy stages to London;
and, on our arrival in the English capital, the handsomest mansion that
money can procure shall be fitted up with all possible speed for your
abode.”

“I care not for a splendid dwelling in London itself,” replied Laura.
“Rather let me have some beautiful and retired villa in the suburbs,
where you can visit me at your leisure, and where we can pass the hours
together without intrusion on the part of a host of visitors.”

“Your ideas on this subject concur with mine,” observed the Marquis,
enchanted with the belief that Laura intended to retire from the
fashionable world and devote herself wholly to him. “The seclusion of
a charming villa will be delightful; and I think I can promise,” he
added with a smile, “that the said villa will have more of my company
than my town mansion. But I shall now take my departure--although with
reluctance: it is however necessary for me to make certain preparations
this evening, as I am to leave Paris thus unexpectedly to-morrow. For a
few hours, then, my Laura, adieu--adieu!”

The old man embraced the young woman with the most
unfeigned--unaffected fondness; and as his arms were cast about her
neck, and he felt her bosom heaving against his chest, he longed to
implore her to allow him to remain with her until the morning--for
the dalliance and the toyings he had already enjoyed had inflamed
his blood, and he aspired to be completely happy without delay. But
he feared lest he should offend her by any manifestations of sensual
longings; for he flattered himself that the connexion which had
commenced between them had its origin in sentiment on her side. He
accordingly withdrew--but reluctantly--from her embrace; and took
his departure, promising to call for her punctually at noon on the
following day.




CHAPTER CLXXXIII.

AN UNEXPECTED VISIT AND A DREADED ARRIVAL.


The moment Laura heard the outer door close behind the Marquis of
Delmour, she exclaimed aloud, “I have triumphed! I have triumphed!
He is in my power--he fell at my feet--he said, ‘_Laura, I adore
you!_’--and the proof of his utter credulity is here--here!”

Thus speaking, she clutched the draught for sixty thousand
pounds--devoured it with her eyes--and then secured it in her
writing-desk.

“Yes: sixty thousand pounds!” she murmured to herself, as she resumed
her voluptuously reclining position upon the ottoman;--“sixty thousand
pounds--gained with but little trouble and in a short time! It would
scarcely matter if I never touched another piece of gold from his
purse; for I am now independent of him--of the hated Hatfields--of
all the world! But I will not abandon my doating English Marquis in a
hurry: I will not cast aside a nobleman who is so generous--so rich--so
confiding! No--no: he will be worth two hundred thousand pounds to
me;--and then--yes--_then_, I may espouse a peer of high title! My
fortune is assured--my destiny is within the range of prophecy. I have
taken a tremendous step this evening: an hour has seen me grow suddenly
rich--already the possessor of sixty thousand pounds! Thanks to this
more than human beauty of mine--thanks to that witchery of manner which
I know so well how to assume--and thanks also to that fascinating
influence wherewith I can invest my language at will, the Marquis
has become my slave. Thus does the strong-minded--the resolute--the
intellectual man succumb to woman, when she dazzles him with her
loveliness and bewilders him with her guile. Sixty thousand pounds now
own me as their mistress! ’Tis glorious to possess great wealth: but
’tis an elysian happiness--a burning joy--a proud triumph to feel that
I am released from the thraldom of those Hatfields--or rather from
a state of dependence upon the father of him whom I lately loved so
well! And my mother, too--my selfish, intriguing, deceitful old mother,
who has ever hoped to make a profitable market of my charms, and hold
despotic sway over me at the same time,--she is no longer necessary to
me--and I may in a moment assert my independence should she dare to
attempt to tyrannise again. The mad old fool! to fancy that she will
succeed in discovering Torrens,--or, even if she did, to hope that
she could compel him to disgorge the treasures which he has perilled
his life here and his soul hereafter to gain! She will return to me
penniless--totally dependent upon me; and I shall allow her a small
income on condition that she locates herself in some obscure spot,
whence her machinations and her intrigues cannot reach me. Not for
worlds would I have her fastened to my apron-strings in London--that
London whither I am about to return, and where I may yet hope to punish
that Mr. Hatfield who for a time so savagely triumphed over me! No--my
mother must be forced into seclusion; her notoriety of character would
ruin me. Constantly incurring the chance of being discovered as the
Mrs. Slingsby of former years--certain to be recognised as the Mrs.
Fitzhardinge who was arrested on suspicion of being concerned in
the murder of the old miser--and having evidently entered into some
intrigue which has brought her under the notice of the Marquis of
Delmour, she can no longer be allowed to associate with me! _Her_ day
has gone by--_mine_ has scarcely begun.”

[Illustration]

Laura--the beauteous, wanton,unprincipled Laura--had reached this point
in her musings, when she was startled by an unusually violent ringing
at the front door bell; and in a few moments a gentleman burst into the
room, his impatience having urged him to cast away all ceremony and
dispense with the introductory agency of Rosalie, who had uttered an
ejaculation of surprise on beholding him.

“Captain Barthelma!” cried Laura, in an astonishment which even
surpassed that of her abigail.

“Yes--my angel: It is I!” exclaimed the enthusiastic young Italian, as,
bounding towards Laura, he caught her in his arms.

His lips were instantaneously fastened to her ripe mouth; and,
remembering the night of love and pleasure which she had passed with
him, she experienced no vexation at his sudden and most unexpected
appearance.

“Can you pardon me for this intrusion?” he demanded, at length
loosening her from his embrace, but seating himself closely by her side
on the ottoman and taking her hands in his own; “can you pardon me, I
ask, adorable woman?” he repeated, gazing upon her in boundless and
passionate admiration.

“It seems that it were useless to be offended with you,” she replied,
smiling with voluptuous sweetness.

“Oh! then you will not upbraid me--you will not reproach me with having
broken the solemn promise that I made you to depart and seek to see
you no more in Paris?” he exclaimed. “But even if you were inclined to
be angry, Laura, it could not in justice be upon me that your wrath
would fall. You must blame your own matchless beauty--you must take
all the fault unto yourself. I feel that I cannot live without you.
Ever since we parted, my brain has been in a ceaseless ferment--my soul
a prey to incessant excitement. By day and by night has your lovely
image been before me: by day and by night have I fancied that I heard
your voice pouring forth the most eloquent music:--I have dreamt that
your lips, breathing odours and bathed with sweets, were pressed to
mine:--and your looks, beaming love, and happiness, and joy, have ever
been fixed on mine! Oh! my imagination has maintained me in a condition
of such pleasing pain that I have been in a species of restless
elysium,--a giddy and sometimes agonising whirl, although the scene was
paradise! At length I could endure this state no longer: and when at a
considerable distance from Paris, on the road to Italy, I suddenly and
secretly quitted the service of the Grand Duke----”

“Oh! what madness--what insanity!” exclaimed Laura, grieved that the
handsome young Castelcicalan should have made so deep a sacrifice for
her--inasmuch as his generous devotion had not only flattered her
pride, but also touched her soul.

“It may be madness--it may be insanity,” repeated Lorenzo Barthelma,
with impassioned warmth: “but those words must in that case be taken
only as other terms for the deepest--sincerest--and most ardent
devotion. Were I a beggar on the face of the earth, I should have acted
in the same manner; because I should have come to you--I should have
thrown myself at your feet--I should have implored you to render me
happy,--and in return I should have toiled from morning to night to
make up for the deficiency of my means.”

“Generous Lorenzo!” exclaimed Laura, speaking with more sincerity than
had characterised her words for years.

“Ah! then you are somewhat touched by my devotion, angelic woman!”
cried the handsome young officer, drawing her still more closely
towards him, and passing his arm round her slender waist. “But happily
I am no pauper--fortunately I am _not_ dependent upon my own exertions.
When I was with you before, my adorable Laura, I told you that I
possessed a competency; and I then offered to link my destinies with
yours for ever. Now my circumstances have materially altered--and
I rejoice in the fact! For the French papers of this day contain
intelligence of the death of my cousin, the Count of Carignano, at
Montoni; and by that unexpected event I have succeeded alike to his
title and his princely revenues.”

“Oh! my beloved Lorenzo,” exclaimed Laura, now giving way to all
that tenderness towards him which was really in accordance with her
inclinations, but which her more selfish interests would have prompted
her to subdue and stifle had not this last announcement met her ear:
“Oh! my beloved Lorenzo,” she cried, pressing closer to him, so that
he could feel her bosom throbbing like the undulations of a mighty
tide--for she was now powerfully excited, alike morally and sensually:
“how can I reward--how recompense this generosity on your part?”

“By becoming my wife--yes, my wife, Laura--if you will,” returned the
enraptured young man. “For you know not how I love you--how intense is
the passion with which you have inspired me. I am blind and deaf to
all--everything, save your beauties and your witching voice. If you be
the greatest profligate the world ever saw, I care not--so madly do I
love you.”

“And when this delirium shall have passed away, Lorenzo,” murmured
Laura, concealing her burning countenance on his breast, “you will
repent the rashness which induced you to wed with one who had so easily
abandoned herself to you when a complete stranger--and whom--whom--you
knew to be unchaste even then!” she added, her voice becoming
touchingly low and tremulously plaintive.

“To suspect even for an instant that I should ever repent of making you
my wife, Laura, is to doubt my love,” said the Count of Carignano--for
such we may now call him; “and _that_ wounds me to the very soul!
’Tis sufficient for me to know that you are an angel of beauty--and
I reck not if you are a demoness in character. But _that_ I am sure
is impossible. Your loveliness may have led you into temptations,
and your temperament may have induced you to yield: but that you are
generous--good--amiable, I am convinced, Laura;--and that you will
prove faithful to one who places all his own happiness in you, and who
will study incessantly to promote yours--oh! of that I am well assured
also. Say, then, my adored one--can you consent to become the Countess
of Carignano, with a revenue of twelve thousand a year?”

“Not for the dross--oh! not for the despicable dross,” murmured Laura,
scarcely able to restrain her joy within reasonable bounds, and induce
her suitor to believe that no selfish interests were mixed up with the
motives for that assent which she was about to give,--“not for vile and
sordid gold, Lorenzo, do I respond in the affirmative to the generous
proposal that you have now made to me--because I myself am possessed
of a fortune of sixty thousand pounds: but it is because I love
you--yes--I love you, my handsome Lorenzo----”

“Say no more, Laura--beloved Laura!” interrupted the impassioned young
nobleman, straining her to his breast: then fondly--oh! how fondly
did he gaze upon her--upon _her_, that guileful woman--reading the
reflection of his own voluptuous feelings in her fine large eyes, and
then bestowing upon her the most ardent caresses.

Several minutes passed away,--minutes that glided by with rapid and
silent wings;--and the handsome pair scarcely noticed that a single
second had elapsed since last they spoke.

“Tell me, my sweet Laura,” at length said the Count, toying with the
glossy and fragrant tresses of her hair,--“tell me what meant certain
words which you addressed to me on that evening when I was first
blessed with your kindness. You declared that you could not marry me,
although you were not married--that you could not be my mistress,
although you were not the mistress of another--and that you could not
hold out any hope to me, although you were pledged to no other man.”

“That language, apparently so mysterious, is easily explained,”
said Laura, forcing a deep blush into her cheeks as she spoke, and
winding one of her snow-white and naked arms round her lover’s neck,
so that the contact of the firm warm flesh against his cheek sent
the blood rushing through his veins in boiling currents. “I had
abandoned myself to you in a moment of caprice--no, of weakness--of
passion, which I could not subdue: I had yielded to an invincible
impulse, not knowing its nature, and not waiting to ask myself the
question. But when you had been with me a short time, I felt that
I could love you--yes--deeply, tenderly love you; and as I fancied
that, even though you protested the contrary, you could entertain no
lasting affection for me, but on the other hand would soon regret
any hastily and rashly-formed connexion, I was resolved not to place
my own heart in jeopardy, nor incur the risk of loving well and then
sustaining a cruel disappointment. For I feared that you addressed
me in an impassioned tone only because you were labouring under the
delirium of passing excitement and strong though evanescent feelings.
Thus was it, then--for my own sake--that I spoke mysteriously to you,
in order to convince you of the necessity of seeing me no more. But
now, my Lorenzo--now, that you have had several days to reflect upon
the proposal which you then made me--now that I have received such
unequivocal proofs of your love, and that I no longer fear lest you
should be acting in obedience to a sudden impulse,--oh! now, I say, I
can hesitate no longer--and I will become your wife!”

The Count of Carignano drank in the delicious poison of her words
until his very soul was intoxicated; and loving so well as did this
generous-hearted, confiding young man, he paused not for an instant to
demand of himself whether he were loving wisely. But he was contented
to risk all and everything,--happiness--honour--fame--and name,--in
this marriage upon which he had set his mind:--he longed--he burnt--he
craved to possess Laura altogether--to have her to himself;--and he
felt jealous of all the rest of the world until the nuptial knot should
have been tied. It is in this humour and in such a temperament that
the highest peer will marry an actress, who would jump at an offer to
become his pensioned mistress for a few hundreds a-year.

And Laura--what was passing in her mind? The readers may easily
conceive: and yet, lest there should be one or two of imaginations so
opaque as not to be able to divine her thoughts, we will describe them
as succinctly as possible.

She had run down the institution of marriage when in conversation with
the Marquis of Delmour, because she knew that he was already bound in
matrimonial bonds, and that _she_ therefore could not become his wife.
The result was that she was enabled to consent to become his mistress
with much less apparent violation of decency, and without the risk of
shocking his feelings. And his mistress she would have become, as she
indeed promised, had not the arrival of the Count of Carignano turned
her thoughts into an entirely new channel, and placed her interests
altogether in a new light. From the moment that he announced his title
and his wealth, Laura resolved to throw the poor Marquis of Delmour
overboard and accept the proposals of the Italian nobleman.

In fact, Fortune appeared to favour Laura marvellously. Ere now she had
beholden a coronet at the end of a vista of some years: in her musings,
she had said, “The Marquis will be worth two hundred thousand pounds
to me: and _then_ I may espouse a peer of high title!” Such was her
ambitious speculation previously to the arrival of Lorenzo: and now,
since he had come, she no longer need pass through the apprenticeship
of mistress to one nobleman in order to become the wife of another.
No--a coronet was within her grasp: a few days--a few hours might
behold her Countess of Carignano,--with a husband of whom she could not
but be proud, and not with an animated corpse bound to her side.

Here was another triumph for Laura--another cause of glorification
in the possession of those matchless charms which thus captivated so
hastily and triumphed so effectually. Within a few short weeks she
had seen Charles Hatfield--the Marquis of Delmour--and the Count of
Carignano at her feet. The first and last had enjoyed her favours: the
second was in anticipation of them--and, in that anticipation, had paid
sixty thousand pounds. To the first she was wedded--and their marriage
was a secret: to the last she had consented to be allied--and their
union would be proclaimed to all the world!

Oh! associated with all these reflections, were triumphs--glorious
triumphs for Laura Mortimer; and as those thoughts rushed through her
mind, as she lay half embraced in the arms of the fond and doting
Italian nobleman, the delicious rosiness of animation spread over her
cheeks, and kindred fires flashed from under her long silken lashes.

“How beautiful art thou, my adored one!” exclaimed Carignano, as
he contemplated the glorious loveliness of her looks: and then he
pressed his lips to that mouth which was so voluptuously formed, and
which rather resembled a luscious fruit than anything belonging to
human shape. “Oh! how I long to call thee mine--to know that thou art
indissolubly linked to me! But say--tell me--when shall this happy,
happy union take place?--when wilt thou accompany me to the altar?”

“Let us depart for England without delay, my dearest Lorenzo,” murmured
Laura, lavishing upon him the most tender caresses; “and there--in
London--our marriage can be celebrated immediately after our arrival.
Have you any tie--and business on hand to retain you in Paris?”

“None in the world,” was the answer: “and even if I had, everything
should give place to the accomplishment of my felicity and the
fulfilment of your wishes.”

“Then let us take our departure as early as convenient to-morrow
morning,” said Laura.

“And we shall not separate in the meantime?” observed the young Count,
straining the syren to his breast.

She murmured a favourable reply; and, after some minutes of tender
dalliance, she hastened to give her servants the necessary instructions
relative to the preparations for her departure.

A delicate supper was then served up; and the sparkling champagne made
the eyes of the lovers flash more brightly, and enhanced the rich
carnation glow of their countenances.

The time-piece struck eleven; and they were about to retire to rest,
when Rosalie hastily entered the room, and approaching Laura, said in
an under tone, “_Mademoiselle_, your mother has this moment arrived.
I told her that you were engaged--and she awaits your presence in the
breakfast-parlour.”

“It is my mother, dear Lorenzo,” Laura observed to the Count, who had
not overheard the abigail’s communication: “but her arrival will not
in any way interfere with our arrangements,” she hastened to add,
perceiving that the young nobleman’s countenance suddenly expressed
apprehension.

“And yet you yourself appear to be but little pleased at this
occurrence, dearest Laura,” he whispered, gazing fondly upon her.

“I could have wished it were otherwise,” she responded: “but no matter.
There is nothing to fear: I am independent of my mother. Have patience
for ten minutes--and I will return to you.”

With these words, she pressed his hand tenderly and then hurried from
the apartment--the discreet Rosalie having already retired the moment
she had delivered her message.

Laura hastened to the breakfast-parlour; and there she found her
mother, whose garments indicated that she had just arrived in Paris
after a journey in an open vehicle and on a dusty road.




CHAPTER CLXXXIV.

LAURA AND HER MOTHER.--ANOTHER INTERRUPTION.


“Here I am in Paris once more, Perdita--Laura, I mean,” said the old
woman, without moving from the seat which she had taken, and without
offering to embrace her daughter; “and I am within the fortnight
stipulated, too.”

“You have travelled post from Calais or Boulogne, doubtless?” observed
Laura, interrogatively: “for your clothes are covered with dust--and it
is evident that you were not cooped up in the interior of a diligence.
I may therefore conclude that you were successful in your search after
Torrens and your designs upon him,” she added, fixing a penetrating
glance upon her mother’s countenance.

“I was so far successful that I obtained certain intelligence
concerning him,” responded the old woman: “but I failed altogether in
my hope of becoming the possessor of his money.”

“And what was the intelligence to which you allude?” demanded Laura,
who felt convinced from her mother’s manner that she had _not_ failed
in the object of her journey.

“I learnt, beyond all question or doubt, that Torrens really was the
murderer of Percival, but that he himself had met with a violent death.”

“Ah! Torrens is no more?” exclaimed Laura: then, bending a look full of
deep meaning upon her mother, she said in a tone of equal significancy,
“You went to London to be revenged upon him--and he is dead! He
has experienced a violent end. Well--I understand you--I read your
secret--and you need not be more explicit.”

“By heaven! you wrong me, Laura,” exclaimed the old woman, starting
in astonishment and alarm as the justice of her daughter’s horrible
suspicion became suddenly apparent--a suspicion that she herself had
so incautiously engendered by the mysterious manner in which she had
announced Torrens’ death.

“It is not worth while disputing upon the subject,” said Laura, in a
tone which convinced her mother--and, indeed, was intended to convince
her, that no explanation could now possibly wipe away the suspicion
alluded to. “You are doubtless well pleased that Torrens is no
more--and that is sufficient.”

“Perdita--Laura, I mean,” said the old woman, speaking as if her tongue
were parched, or as if ashes clogged up her throat, “why should you
take delight in uttering things to vex and annoy me? For some time
past--indeed ever since the date of your connection with Charles
Hatfield, a barrier has appeared to rise up between us. We seem to
act towards each other as if it were tacitly understood that we are
enemies, or that we mutually harboured distrust and suspicion.”

“I am aware of it, mother--and it is all your own fault,” answered
Laura. “You sought to exercise over me a sway to which I would not and
never will submit; and you menaced me in a manner not easily to be
forgotten.”

“But you had your revenge--for you abused me vilely,” retorted Mrs.
Mortimer, with a malignant bitterness of accent.

“Acknowledged! And you yourself must admit that you provoked my
resentment. But let us not remain here bandying words, which may only
lead to an useless quarrel. Circumstances have opened to me a grand
career--a career, in which my happiness and my interests may be alike
promoted; and I have accepted the destiny thus favourably prepared for
me. In a word, I am about to marry a young Italian nobleman whom I feel
I can love--whom I already love, indeed--and who possesses a proud
title and princely revenues.”

“Ah! you are about to be married?” said Mrs. Mortimer, speaking as
if the project were perfectly natural and without an objection: but
in her heart--in the depths of her foul and vindictive soul, she was
rejoiced,--for this alliance would place her daughter completely in her
power.

The reader will remember that the old woman was aware of Laura’s union
with Charles Hatfield, but that the young lady herself was totally
unsuspicious of that fact being thus known to her mother.

“Yes,” resumed Laura: “I am about to be married. I leave Paris for
England to-morrow morning. I return to London, because I am now
independent of the Hatfields; and at my leisure I shall devise means
to avenge myself for the insults I have received at their hands. It
now remains for you and me to decide upon what terms we are to exist
in future. Be friendly--and I shall allow you a handsome income: be
hostile--and I shall dare all you can do against me.”

“I am sorry that my daughter should think it necessary to propose such
alternatives,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “State what you require me to do.”

“To settle in France--wherever you please,” responded Laura; “and I
will grant you an allowance of two hundred pounds every three months.”

“The pecuniary portion of the conditions is liberal enough,” said Mrs.
Mortimer; “but the rest is as despotic and galling as the terms which
Mr. Hatfield made the other day with you.”

“I much regret that prudence should compel me thus to dictate to you,”
returned Laura: “there is, however, no alternative. ’Tis for you to
yield to my conditions--or open war will at once commence between us.”

“I consent--I agree,” said the old woman, who knew that the time was
not yet come for her to show her teeth in defiance of her daughter.

“So much the better!” exclaimed Laura, but in a tone indicating that
the matter was one of perfect indifference to her; for she little
knew--little suspected how irretrievably her marriage with the Count of
Carignano would place her in her mother’s power. “And now I have one
question to ask you.”

“Speak, Perdita,” observed the old woman.

“Pray remember that my name is _Laura_!” cried her daughter,
petulantly. “You perceive how necessary it is that we should dwell
apart from each other. Your imprudence is really great; and the
question I am about to put to you, refers to some matter in which you
doubtless compromised yourself. Are you acquainted with the Marquis of
Delmour?”

“The Marquis of Delmour!” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, with an expression of
countenance denoting the most unfeigned astonishment. “No--certainly
not. I have heard of him, it is true; but only in the same way that one
hears of any other person conspicuous for rank, wealth, or station. I
have never seen the Marquis of Delmour to my knowledge.”

“Perhaps you have been in his company without knowing who he was,”
resumed Laura. “At all events, have you recently represented yourself,
in any circle or place, as the widow of a General-officer whom you
stated to have died in India?”

The system of duplicity which the old woman determined to adopt towards
her daughter, had so well prepared her to sustain any questioning or
cross-examination on any point, that she did not betray the least
surprise, nor did her countenance undergo the slightest change as that
interrogatory suddenly brought to her mind the conviction that Mr.
Vernon and the Marquis of Delmour must be one and the same person.
Without at the moment perceiving how this discovery could be in any way
useful to her, but still acting with that reserve and wariness with
which she had armed herself in order to meet her daughter, she resolved
not to mention a single word of anything that had occurred in London
relative to the beautiful Recluse of the Cottage, her father, and Lord
William Trevelyan.

Accordingly, and without the least hesitation,--nor quailing, nor
changing colour beneath the penetrating gaze which Laura fixed
upon her,--she said, “I do not remember ever to have made any such
representation as that to which you allude.”

“It is singular--this coincidence,” mused Laura, audibly; “and yet it
is of little import to me.”

“It would appear, at all events, that you must be acquainted with
this Marquis of Delmour of whom you speak?” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a
careless and indifferent tone.

Scarcely were the words uttered, when a violent ringing at the front
door was heard; and in a few moments a voice, instantly recognised
alike by Laura and her mother, exclaimed to Rosalie, “Has your mistress
retired to rest yet? I must see her immediately.”

The abigail, suspecting that it would be better not to allow the
Marquis of Delmour--for he the visitor was--to be brought face to face
with the handsome young Italian, unhesitatingly conducted the nobleman
into the parlour where Laura and Mrs. Mortimer were holding their
interview.

But the moment Rosalie had closed the door behind the Marquis, he
uttered an ejaculation of mingled astonishment and rage, and springing
towards Mrs. Mortimer, exclaimed, “Ah! I meet you again, vile woman!
Give me up my daughter--tell me where you have hidden her!”

And he caught her violently by the arm.

“I know what you mean, my lord,” said the old woman, hastily: “but you
accuse me wrongfully.”

“Wrongfully!” repeated the Marquis, his countenance white with rage:
“no--no! I only accuse you justly--for it must be you who have spirited
away my child--my beloved Agnes!”

“It is false!” ejaculated the old woman, with an emphasis which made
him release his hold of her and fall back two or three paces.

“False, you say!” he cried. “Oh! then, if you have really not done this
flagrant wrong--but if you are in possession of any clue--”

“I am--I am,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, seeing in a moment that a
reward was to be obtained and her spite against Lord William Trevelyan
to be gratified at the same time: for she _did_ cherish the bitterest
animosity against that young nobleman, on account of his conduct
towards her when, four days previously, she had taken Agnes Vernon to
his house in Park Square.

“And yet I cannot conceive you to be innocent in this matter,”
exclaimed the nobleman, surveying her with deep distrust and
aversion--and all this time taking no notice of Laura, so profoundly
were his feelings engrossed by the subject which now occupied his mind:
“for wherefore did you visit the cottage where Agnes dwelt?--why did
you intrude yourself upon her presence?”

“All that can be readily explained, my lord,” responded Mrs. Mortimer,
not losing an atom of her self-possession.

“Then tell me where my daughter is--tell me what has become of her?”
cried the nobleman, in an appealing tone; “and if you have been
concerned in removing her from the cottage, I will forgive you! Nay,
more--I will reward you handsomely.”

“Your daughter is in safety--that much I can inform you at once,” said
Mrs. Mortimer.

“Thanks--thanks for this assurance!” cried the old nobleman, clasping
his hands together in gratitude for the relief thus imparted to his
mind: then, suddenly recollecting the presence of Laura, he turned
towards her, and in a tone of mingled suspicion and reproach, said,
“But how is it that I find you with the very person of whom I spoke to
you somewhat disparagingly two short hours ago?”

“She claims some distant relationship with me, my dear Marquis,”
Laura hastened to observe--but without manifesting the slightest
embarrassment; while the rapid and intelligent sign which she made to
her mother, and which was altogether unperceived by the nobleman, was
fully understood by the old woman.

“Ah! that is on account of her name being _Mortimer_,” said the
Marquis, completely satisfied by the answer which Laura had given
him--especially as the old woman offered no contradiction. “And now
I must request you to accede to some alteration in our plans for
to-morrow,” he continued, drawing Laura aside, and speaking to her in
a low tone. “On my return just now to the hotel where I am staying, I
found a letter containing the afflicting intelligence that a daughter
of mine--a daughter whom circumstances have compelled me to keep in the
strictest seclusion--had suddenly and most mysteriously disappeared
from her dwelling in the neighbourhood of London. This happened five
days ago;--but Mrs. Gifford--my dear child’s housekeeper, and I may
almost say _guardian_--did not immediately write to me, hoping that
Agnes would return. Oh! you may conceive how deeply this event has
grieved me----”

“I sympathise sincerely with you, my dear Marquis,” interrupted Laura,
affecting to wipe away tears from her eyes: for it suited her purpose
to remain on good terms with the old nobleman until she should have
cashed her draft for the sixty thousand pounds. “Yes--I sincerely
sympathise with you,” she repeated: “and I can anticipate the proposed
alterations in our arrangements. You intend to start immediately for
England----”

“Without a moment’s unnecessary delay,” said the Marquis, who was
greatly excited by the intelligence he had received from Mrs. Gifford:
“the instant I return to my hotel, a post-chaise and four will be in
readiness for me. But may I hope that you will follow me to London as
speedily as convenient?”

“I shall depart to-morrow, my dear Marquis, at the hour already
arranged,” responded Laura; “and deeply do I regret that my
preparations are so backward as to render it impossible for me to offer
to become your travelling-companion at once.”

“Dearest Laura!” murmured the Marquis, for a single moment losing the
remembrance of his affliction in the doting passion he had formed for
the beautiful woman who was thus grossly deluding him. “Our separation
will not be very long,” he continued; “and I hope that when we meet in
London three days hence, I may have good news to tell you respecting
Agnes. Now, madam,” he exclaimed aloud, turning towards Mrs. Mortimer,
who, while affecting to be examining the mantel-ornaments, was vainly
endeavouring to catch the sense of what was passing at a little
distance between her daughter and the Marquis; “now, madam,” he said,
approaching her with an abruptness that made her start, “I do not
think I shall be insulting you if I offer you a hundred guineas for
the information which you professed yourself able and willing to give
relative to my daughter--my dear and well-beloved Agnes.”

“A hundred guineas, my lord!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, contemptuously:
“if you really love that young lady whom you call your daughter, you
must surely consider that it is worth five or six times the amount
named in order to regain possession of her.”

“Laura dearest:----I mean, Miss Mortimer,” said the nobleman,
impatiently, as he turned towards the young lady,--“oblige me with
writing materials, and I will speedily satisfy this woman’s rapacity.”

“Perhaps I might also exact a recompense for keeping secret the good
understanding which exists between your lordship and ‘_dearest Laura_,’
and which you so unguardedly betrayed?” observed Mrs. Mortimer, in a
tone of bitter sarcasm, and with a malignant glance darted from her
snake-like eyes at her daughter.

“Silence, woman!” ejaculated the Marquis, speaking with the emphasis of
authority: then, the writing materials being now placed before him, he
sate down and wrote a cheque, which he tossed across the table to Mrs.
Mortimer, saying, “I am sorry that I have not enough money about my
person to satisfy your demands. I am therefore compelled to give you a
draft upon my London bankers; and you will perceive that it is for _six
times_ as much as I at first offered you,” he added, dwelling on the
words which the old woman had herself used to indicate the amount of
her expectations.

“Yes--my lord: I see that it is for six hundred pounds,” she observed,
coolly and quietly, as she folded up the cheque and secured it about
her person. “And now I will tell you what I know concerning your
daughter; and I take heaven to witness that I will not mislead you.”

“If you do, my good woman,” interrupted the Marquis, “you will find
payment of the cheque stopped at the bank. Go on; and delay not--for my
time is precious.”

“In a word, my lord,” said Mrs. Mortimer, the contemptuous manner in
which she was treated by the haughty peer being fully counterbalanced
by the handsome bonus that had just fallen into her hand,--“Lord
William Trevelyan, whom you doubtless know well by name, if not
personally, is deeply enamoured of your daughter; and he employed me to
take a letter to her. I acquitted myself of the task: but Miss Agnes
is a perfect dragon of virtue--and I could make little impression upon
her.”

“God be thanked!” ejaculated the Marquis, fervently.

“Well--although Lord William’s passion is honourable enough, I have no
doubt, yet Miss Agnes----”

“And is it Lord William who has taken her away?” demanded the Marquis,
unable to restrain his impatience or any longer endure the tortures of
suspense.

“No, my lord--it was her mother!” said Mrs. Mortimer, watching through
profound curiosity the effect which this announcement would produce
upon the nobleman.

“Ah! then my worst apprehensions are confirmed!” he exclaimed, in a
tone of poignant anguish.

“But do not give way to despair, my lord,” said Mrs. Mortimer: “for
Miss Agnes subsequently escaped from the house where her mother placed
her----”

“Oh! I then she loves me still--_me_--her father!” exclaimed the
Marquis, in accents of joy: “and she yielded not to the wiles of that
woman----But proceed, madam--proceed!” he cried, suddenly interrupting
himself, and again speaking in a tone of impatience.

“Having escaped, as I have just said,” resumed Mrs. Mortimer, “Agnes
fell into the power of ruffian, from whose hands I was fortunate
enough to rescue her; and, not knowing precisely whither to take her,
I thought it best to consult Lord William Trevelyan upon the proper
course to adopt. His lordship, who is a man of honour--and pray
remember to tell him that I say so,” she added, with a slight accent
of malignity,--“his lordship immediately placed her in the care of a
lady of his acquaintance; and it is to him that you must apply, my Lord
Marquis, for the address of your daughter’s new abode.”

“And all that you have told me is true?” exclaimed the old nobleman.

“If it should prove otherwise, your lordship has in your own hands the
means of punishing me,” responded Mrs. Mortimer.

“True!” cried the Marquis; “and now I am somewhat consoled by the
tidings you have given me. My daughter is safe, and in the society of
honourable persons. I thank you, madam.”

He then turned away to shake Laura cordially by the hand ere he took
his departure.

“You will leave to-morrow at mid-day, dearest,” he said, in an under
tone to her whom he fondly hoped to make his mistress, but who was so
grossly deluding him.

“Yes--without fail,” was the reply.

“And on your arrival in town you will instantly send me word at which
hotel you take up your temporary residence?” continued the Marquis. “I
shall hasten to join you, and hope to have a charming villa ready to
receive you.”

“You are too good, my dear Marquis, to think to much of me at a time
when your heart is so severely lacerated on account of your daughter,”
said Laura, likewise speaking in a whisper.

“There is nothing that I would not do for you, beloved Laura,”
responded the infatuated old noble. “You hold already a cheque for
sixty thousand pounds: that is nothing to what I will do for you, my
dearest angel. And if I allude to pecuniary affairs at all, it is
to convince you how anxious I am to ensure your happiness, not only
now--but likewise when I shall be no more.”

Thus speaking, the Marquis of Delmour pressed Laura’s hand fervently,
and was about to hurry away, when, suddenly recollecting something, he
drew her still farther aside, and said in a very low whisper, “Have
nothing to do with that woman dearest! I dislike her looks--I mistrust
her altogether. She is evidently an adventuress. Oh! how could I have
ever supposed even for an instant that such a wretch was the mother of
such an angelic being as my Laura?”

Another fond and impassioned look--another pressure of the hand--and
the Marquis was gone.

Of all this latter dialogue which took place between that nobleman and
Laura, and which was carried on in a very low tone, Mrs. Mortimer,
who strained all her auricular faculties to catch even a syllable,
succeeded only in overhearing a very short sentence. But that one
sentence she did manage to catch; and a highly significant as well as
deeply important one was it for her.

And these were the words which she thus caught--“_You hold already a
cheque for sixty thousand pounds!_”

Quickly as the first glass of sparkling wine infuses a delicious
sensation throughout the entire frame,--so speedily did that one
sentence create a burning joy in the breast of the old woman. She saw
through it all:--Laura had wheedled the Marquis out of that immense
sum--and now she intended to jilt him, and espouse the Italian noble!

“A cheque for sixty thousand pounds!” thought Mrs. Mortimer within
herself, while the Marquis and Laura were still whispering together:
“sixty thousand pounds! Well--we shall see! It is better than a paltry
six hundred.”

And, while thus musing, she affected to be smelling the flowers on
the mantel-piece, until the door suddenly opened and closed again
instantaneously--and then she turned round towards Laura, for the
Marquis was gone.

“And you assured me that you knew nothing of the nobleman who has just
left us?” said Laura, fixing her eyes with cold contempt on her mother.

“I knew him only as Mr. Vernon until I saw him here this evening,” was
the answer.

“But it was to him that you had passed yourself as the widow of a
General-officer in the Indian army,” persisted Laura: “and yet you
denied having ever made such a representation to any one. You perceive,
mother, that I cannot trust you: you are full of duplicity and deceit
even to me--and still you complain that a coolness subsists between us.”

“I may observe, on my side, Laura,” retorted the old woman, with a
subdued and cunning malignity, “that you were not more communicative
to me relative to the Marquis of Delmour than I was disposed to be to
you. We are therefore even upon that score; and, at all events, let us
not dispute. I shall now leave you, Laura--for I am well aware that
my room will be preferable to my company. It is my present intention
to remain in Paris; and from time to time I will send you tidings of
my whereabouts, so that you may duly remit me my quarterly income, as
promised just now. The cheque of the Marquis I shall send through the
medium of some Parisian banker.”

The old woman then took her departure, a cool “Good-bye” being all the
farewell salutation that passed between her daughter and herself as she
crossed the threshold of the handsome suite of apartments.

“Thank God! she is gone!” thought Laura, as she hastened to rejoin her
handsome Castelcicalan, who was growing impatient of her protracted
absence.

“The haughty and self-sufficient creature!” murmured Mrs. Mortimer to
herself, an she hastily descended the stairs: “she is completely in my
power--at my mercy--in every way!”

And did the old woman remain in Paris in fulfilment of her declared
intention?

No:--wearied and exhausted by travel as she already was, but animated
with an indomitable energy, Mrs. Mortimer hastened, late though the
hour now was, to procure a post-chaise and four; and while Laura was
passing a night of voluptuousness and love in the arms of the handsome
Count of Carignano, her mother was speeding along the road to Boulogne,
on her way back to London.




CHAPTER CLXXXV.

THE LAWYER’S HEAD CLERK.


It was about four o’clock in the afternoon of the day following the
incidents just related, that Mr. James Heathcote, the lawyer, was
seated at his writing-table in that private office which we have
already described to our readers,--when a low, timid knock at the door
fell upon his ears.

“Come in,” he exclaimed, in his short, abrupt, and almost brutal
manner, well knowing that the individual about to enter was the poor
wretch whom he bullied when in an ill-humour, and whom on all occasions
he was wont to make his vile agent and spaniel-like slave.

Creeping up as usual--rather than walking with the natural dignity of
a man--towards the table, Mr. Green bowed humbly and waited until his
dreaded, but also hated master should deign to give him leave to speak.

“Well, Mr. Green,” said Heathcote, after a pause of a few minutes,
during which he waited to see whether his grovelling serf would dare
to open his lips until he received permission,--for the lawyer was a
man who liked to ascertain the full extent of the power that he wielded
over his subordinates, and also to make _them_ feel that he _did_
exercise that power;--“well, Mr. Green, what news this afternoon?”

And, throwing himself back in his arm-chair, he passed his thin, yellow
hand through his iron-grey hair.

“If you please, sir, I have several things to report, as you were so
much engaged this morning that you could not give the time to hear
me,” observed Green, in that subdued and almost affrighted tone of
voice which years of servility had rendered habitual to him;--for such
is ever the case with those who mistake the most abasing sycophancy
for proofs of respect. And here we may observe that it is only in
the demoralising and degrading influence of Royal Courts that this
disgusting susurration is adopted as a species of homage to the
divinity raised up by man’s stupid and most reprehensible idolatry.

“Ah! I recollect--I was busy this morning,” exclaimed Mr. Heathcote.
“Well--what have you to report?”

“Please, sir,” resumed the trembling clerk, “Gregson the upholsterer
has put his affairs into the hands of Goodman and Meanwell, who have
got all his creditors save yourself, sir, to sign a letter of license;
and Mr. Goodman has been here this afternoon to say that unless you
will give your name also, his client must inevitably go into the
_Gazette_.”

“Then let him go--and to the devil also, if he chooses!” vociferated
Mr. Heathcote, flying into a passion--a most unusual thing with
one so cool, calculating, and self-possessed as he. “Goodman and
Meanwell are what are called _honest attorneys_--conscientious
lawyers--straightforward practitioners;--and they will exert all their
energies to carry their client through his difficulties. But I will
thwart them, Mr. Green--by God! I will thwart them; Gregson _shall_ go
into the _Gazette_--even if I lose every penny he owes me. I _hate_
your honest attorneys;”--and his lips were curled in bitter irony and
demoniac malignity. “Go on, sir!” he exclaimed savagely, as if it were
his wretched clerk who had irritated him.

“Thompson, sir--the defendant in Jones’s case, you know,” resumed Mr.
Green, “was arrested yesterday--in pursuance of your orders, sir.
I took the liberty of mentioning, sir, that his wife had just been
confined----”

“Well?” exclaimed Mr. Heathcote, impatiently.

“And that his eldest child was at the point of death, sir,” added
Green, more timidly than before.

“Well--what next?” demanded the attorney.

“The poor child has since died, sir.”

“The poor child, indeed! Who cares a fig about a child? Why--you are
growing quite soft-hearted, Mr. Green,” said Heathcote, in a tone of
cutting irony. “The _poor_ child, indeed! I suppose the wife has died
also?” he added, with heartless jocularity.

“Indeed, sir, I am sorry to say you are right in your conjecture,”
responded Green, scarcely venturing to make the announcement.

“No!--is it really the case, though?” exclaimed Heathcote, startled
for a moment at finding that what he had said as a brutal jest turned
out to be a solemn and shocking truth. “Well--what next?” he demanded,
mastering those emotions which he was ashamed at having betrayed.

“Thompson himself, sir--driven to despair by these numerous
afflictions--cut his throat in prison this afternoon,” added Mr. Green.

“Is this possible?” cried Mr. Heathcote, again excited to a degree more
powerful than the clerk had ever before observed: but speedily subduing
his feelings, by dint of a strong and almost superhuman effort--so
sudden and effective was it--he said, “Well--it is not my fault.
Maudlin sentimentalists will perhaps lay his death at my door----”

“I am afraid, sir, that _all_ the three deaths will be attributed to
you,” interrupted Green, with an affectation of exceeding meekness,
while from beneath his brows he darted a rapid glance of fiend-like
expression at his master--a glance which denoted how the man in his
secret soul feasted upon the pangs which now rent the heart of the
attorney.

“I am tough enough to bear everything that people may say of me, Mr.
Green,” observed Heathcote, in his usually cold tone of irony. “But
proceed with your communications.”

“Beale’s wife, sir, called this morning--you know Beale?--the man you
put into Whitecross Street prison, and whose wife and children have
been starving ever since----”

“Really, Mr. Green,” interrupted Heathcote, fixing a stern look upon
his clerk, “it would appear that you are purposely entering into minute
details this afternoon in order to annoy me. Of course I know who Beale
_is_----”

“_Was_, sir, if you please,” said Green, with difficulty concealing
the savage delight that he took in thus torturing--or, at least,
endeavouring to torture, his master.

“What do you mean, sir?” demanded Heathcote, savagely.

“That Beale died in the infirmary at Whitecross Street last night,
sir,” responded Green, his tone and manner becoming more abjectly
obsequious in proportion as his internal joy augmented at the
increasing excitement and irritation of his master.

“The man was doubtless a drunkard, Green,” observed Heathcote, roughly:
“and therefore, when no longer able to get liquor, the reaction carried
him off.”

“I dare say, sir, that you know best--and I am sure you must be right,”
returned the clerk, with a low bow: “but the man’s friends _do_ say
that a more sober, hard-working, and deserving fellow did not exist.”

[Illustration]

“And therefore I suppose that _his_ death will be laid at my door!”
exclaimed Heathcote, now for the first time in his life glancing
timidly--almost appealing, at his clerk, as if to implore him to devise
some excuse or start some palliation that might ease his troubled
conscience.

But Green, whose very obsequiousness and servility afforded him the
means of venting his spite on his hated master, pretended to take the
observation as an assertion and not an interrogatory, and replied in
a humble tone, “Your foresight and knowledge of the world, sir, are
beyond all dispute; and, as you say, Beale’s death is certain to be
laid at your door. But of course you are perfectly indifferent to the
tittle-tattle of scandalous tongues.”

Heathcote rose from his seat--or rather started from it, and walked
rapidly up and down the room thrice. He felt sorely troubled; for,
hardened as his heart was--obdurate as his soul had become, he could
not shut out the whispering voice of conscience which now proclaimed
him to be the author of all the deaths that his clerk had enumerated.
And, while he was racked by these painful convictions, the thought
suddenly flashed to his brain that Green had displayed a savage delight
in detailing those horrors; and, man of the world as James Heathcote
was, it occurred to him, as a natural sequence to the suspicion just
mentioned, that his clerk hated and abhorred him.

Acting under the influence of these impressions, he stopped suddenly
short close by the spot where Green was standing; and he fixed
his snake-like gaze upon the shabbily-dressed, senile-looking,
self-debasing individual, who appeared to be maintaining his eyes bent
timidly and reverentially on the floor--as if his master’s emotions
were something too sacred to look upon.

“Green!--Mr. Green!” exclaimed Heathcote, laying his hand with such
abruptness and also with such violence upon the grovelling wretch’s
shoulder, that it made him start convulsively--though he knew all the
while that his master had accosted him, and was also gazing on him.

“Yes, sir!” cried the clerk, raising his eyes diffidently toward
Heathcote’s countenance.

“Do you conceive that the deaths of those people can be righteously
attributed to me?” demanded the lawyer, speaking in a low, measured,
and solemn tone, and looking as if he sought to read into the most
secret depths of his clerk’s soul: “do you, I say, dare to associate
any act or deed of mine with _their_ fate?” he asked, raising his
voice, while his face became terrible to gaze upon.

“Who?--I, sir!” ejaculated Green, as if in astonishment at the
questions put to him; and his own countenance assumed such a sinister
aspect that Heathcote surveyed him with increasing suspicion and
distrust.

“Yes--you!” cried the lawyer, ferociously. “Now, mark me, Green,” he
continued, in a lower and more composed tone of voice,--“if you dare
to harbour ill feelings towards me--if even a scintillation of such
feelings should transpire from your words or manner, I will crush you
as I would a worm--I will send you to Newgate--abandon you to your
fate--and, if necessary, _help_ to have you shipped for eternal exile.”

“My God! how have I deserved these implied reproaches--these terrible
menaces?” demanded Green, his countenance expressing real alarm, and
his whole frame shivering from head to heel.

“Perhaps you have _not_ deserved them--and in that case they will
serve as a warning,” said Heathcote, now becoming suddenly calm and
imperiously scornful: “but I think that you _did_ merit all I have
uttered--and now you know me better, perhaps, than you knew me before.
However, let all this pass. I do not for an instant suppose that I
possess your affection; but I will guard against the effects of your
hate. Answer me not, sir: you cannot wipe away the impressions which
this afternoon’s scene has conjured up in my mind. And now proceed with
anything more that you may have to tell me.”

“Fox, the ironmonger, sir,” resumed Green, in a more timid and servile
tone than ever, and with a manner so cowed and grovelling that it
completely veiled the strong pantings for revenge and the emotions of
bitter, burning hate which dwelt in the clerk’s secret soul,--“Fox, the
ironmonger, sir, has realised all his property and absconded.”

“Did I not tell you to issue execution against his goods without
delay?” demanded Heathcote, angrily.

“I obeyed your commands, sir, as soon as the usual forms were gone
through,” responded Green: “but in the interval the man, knowing the
steps you were taking against him, sold off everything and ran away--no
one can tell whither.”

“Then all your intelligence is evil this afternoon, Mr. Green?” said
Heathcote. “What about Mrs. Sefton?”

“The spy that I set to watch her has reported her removal from Kentish
Town to a house at Bayswater, sir,” answered Green; “and as she has a
young lady with her--a Miss Vernon, it appears--she does not seem to be
busying herself in any way that might interfere with your interests.”

“But that insolent young nobleman--that Lord William Trevelyan?”
demanded Heathcote.

“I do not think he is troubling himself any more in the business, sir,”
answered Green.

“Good and well!” ejaculated the attorney. “These latter tidings
constitute something like an agreeable set-off in respect to all your
former communications. Hah!” he cried, suddenly interrupting himself,
as the clock proclaimed the hour: “five already! Well, you may go now,
Green--and see that your spies keep a good look-out upon the movements
of Mrs. Sefton and Lord William Trevelyan.”

“I will, sir,” was the reply; and the clerk bowed himself out of the
office.

Half an hour afterwards Mr. Green was wending his way towards the
aristocratic quarters of the West End; and at length he entered a
respectable-looking public-house in the neighbourhood of Portland Place.

Having called for some refreshment, he took up the newspaper to while
away the time until the arrival of the person whom he was expecting:
but he could not settle his thoughts to the perusal of the journal. He
read an article through, from beginning to end; and, when he reached
the termination, he had not retained a single idea of the subject.

The fact was that the man’s mind was excited and bewildered by the
scene which had taken place that afternoon with his master. He
felt that he had been trampled upon--treated with every possible
indignity--despised, menaced, and almost spit upon;--and he was
compelled to suffer all--to bear everything--to endure those flagrant
wrongs, without daring to murmur.

“But I will be avenged--terribly avenged!” thought he within himself,
as he bent over the table in the public-house parlour, supporting
his head upon his two hands: “yes--even though I should sacrifice
myself, I will be avenged sooner or later. For years and years have
I been his slave--his menial--his instrument--his tool;--and he has
kept me in such utter subjection that it was not until lately I
remembered that I really possessed a soul and a spirit of my own.
The hard-hearted--cruel--remorseless wretch! I hate and abhor him
with a malignant hatred and a savage abhorrence. No words are strong
enough--no terms sufficiently potent to convey even to myself an idea
of the magnitude of that aversion which I now entertain for him. But
if he has me in his power in one way, he is at my mercy in many other
others. He little suspects how deep an insight I possess into his
affairs--his machinations--his dark plots. He thinks that I behold but
the surface: he knows not that I have fathomed to the bottom!”

At this point in the clerk’s musings, the door of the parlour was
opened, and a respectable-looking man, dressed in black, but with a
white cravat entered the room.

“You are somewhat behind your time, Mr. Fitzgeorge,” said Green, as
this individual--who was Lord William Trevelyan’s valet--seated himself
by the clerk’s side.

“Only a few minutes,” responded Fitzgeorge. “And now to business
without delay. It is fortunate that we are all alone in this parlour at
present: otherwise I should have proposed to adjourn to a private room.
Have you thought well of the subject I mentioned to you yesterday?”

“I have,” was the answer, delivered in a tone of decision: “and I
am prepared to meet your wishes. But remember that I told you how
completely I am in the power of the villain Heathcote; and if he were
to discover that your noble master received his information through
me----”

“He cannot possibly detect your instrumentality in the business,
provided you do not betray yourself,” said Fitzgeorge.

“Then I cannot hesitate to serve you,” responded Green.

“Here are a hundred pounds in advance of the sum promised you,”
continued the valet, producing bank-notes to the amount named; “and the
other moiety shall be paid the moment the information you are about to
give me shall have proved to be correct.”

“Ah! it is a long--long time since I could call so much money my own,”
said Green, with a deep sigh, as he gazed upon the notes--half doubting
whether it were possible that they were about to find their way into
his pocket.

“Take up the money and use despatch--for my time is precious,”
exclaimed Fitzgeorge.

The clerk followed the first suggestion with amazing alacrity; and his
sinister countenance was now as radiant with joy as such a face could
be.

“Your master is generous--very generous,” he said, as soon as the
notes were secured in his waistcoat-pocket; “and I will serve him to
the utmost of my power. The mad-house to which Sir Gilbert Heathcote
has been consigned, is kept by Dr. Swinton, and is situated in the
neighbourhood of the new church facing the end of the Bethnal Green
Road.”

“I am well acquainted with the locality,” said Fitzgeorge. “The church
you speak of is in the Cambridge Road, and stands at one of the angles
of the Green?”

“Precisely so,” answered the clerk; “and the lunatic asylum looks upon
the Green itself, its back windows commanding a view of Globe Town. But
here is the exact address,” continued the man, producing a card from
his pocket.

“That is all I require,” said Fitzgeorge. “Three days hence you can
meet me here again; and if in the meantime I should have discovered
that Sir Gilbert Heathcote is really confined in Dr. Swinton’s asylum,
the other hundred pounds shall be handed over to you.”

The valet and the clerk then separated.




CHAPTER CLXXXVI.

DR. SWINTON.


The mad-house kept by Dr. Swinton was a spacious building, with a large
garden, surrounded by a high wall, at the back.

It was by no means a gloomy-looking place, although the casements were
protected by iron bars: for to mitigate that prison-like effect, the
curtains were of a cheerful colour, and the window-sills were adorned
with flowers and verdant evergreens in bright red pots. Moreover, the
front of the house was stuccoed; and wherever paint was used, the
colours were of the gayest kind.

The front door always stood open during the day-time, because there was
an inner door of great strength which led into the hall; and a porter
in handsome livery was constantly lounging about at the entrance.

The Doctor himself was an elderly person, of highly respectable
appearance, and of very pleasing manners _when_ he chose to be
agreeable: but no demon could exhibit greater ferocity than he, when
compelled to exercise his authority in respect to those amongst his
patients who had no friends to care about them.

It was between nine and ten o’clock in the evening of the day following
the interview between Fitzgeorge and Heathcote’s head clerk, that
a plain carriage and pair drove up to the door of Doctor Swinton’s
establishment.

The porter immediately rushed forward to open the door and let down the
steps of the vehicle; and two persons alighted.

One was a tall, handsome young man of genteel bearing, and handsomely
dressed: the other was some years older, and might be described as
respectable without having anything aristocratic in his appearance.

“Have the kindness to say that Mr. Smithson, accompanied by his friend
Mr. Granby, requests an interview with your master,” were the words
immediately addressed to the porter by the elder of the two visitors,
while the other appeared to be gazing about him in a vacant and stolid
manner.

“Walk in, gentlemen,” said the obsequious porter, with a low bow: he
then rang a bell, and a footman in resplendent livery opened the inner
door.

Mr. Granby and Mr. Smithson were now conducted through a spacious
hall into an elegantly furnished parlour, lighted by a superb lustre
suspended to the ceiling.

“The Doctor will be with you in a minute, gentlemen,” said the
domestic, who immediately retired to acquaint his master with their
arrival: but the moment the door had closed behind him, a smile of
deep meaning instantly appeared upon the lips of the visitors, as they
exchanged equally significant looks.

In a few minutes Dr. Swinton appeared--his countenance wearing such a
benignant expression that if the Saints at Exeter Hall could only have
bribed him to attend on the platform at their May Meetings, they would
have secured a sufficiency of _outward appearance_ of philanthropy to
draw gold from the purses of even the most cynical. In fact, the doctor
was precisely the individual from whose lips might be expected a most
touching and lachrymose speech upon the “benighted condition” of the
heathen, and the absolute necessity of procuring funds for the purpose
of circulating a million of Bibles amongst the poor savages of the
Cannibal Islands.

His thin grey hair was combed with precision over his high and massive
forehead: a smile played on his lips, showing his well-preserved
teeth;--and his eyes beamed with mildness--almost with meekness, as
if he had succeeded, by long perseverance, in resigning himself to a
profession which militated sadly against a natural benevolence of heart.

He was dressed in deep black; his linen was of the finest material and
of snowy whiteness;--he wore a low cravat; and his enormous shirt-frill
was prevented from projecting too much by means of a diamond pin that
could not have cost less than fifty guineas.

The middle finger of his right hand was adorned with a ring of equal
value; and a massive chain with a bunch of gold seals depended from his
fob.

We should have observed that the Doctor wore black silk stockings and
shoes--it being evening; and we have every cause to believe that the
reader may now form a tolerably accurate idea of that gentleman’s
personal appearance.

Leaning forward as he walked, and with a kind of mincing gait--half
familiar, and half obsequious--Dr. Swinton advanced towards the
visitors, only one of whom rose at his approach;--and this was Mr.
Smithson, the elder of the two. The other remained in an apparent state
of apathetic laziness on the sofa, where he had taken his seat.

“Your most obedient, Mr. Smithson,” said the Doctor, proffering his
hand to the individual whom he thus addressed. “This is your friend
Mr. Granby, I presume--the gentleman of whom you made mention when you
honoured me with a visit this morning.”

“Yes. Doctor--that is indeed my unfortunate friend Granby,” responded
Smithson, drawing the physician into the window-recess, and speaking in
a whisper.

“He is a fine, handsome young man,” observed the mad-doctor, glancing
towards the subject of his remark, and likewise adopting a low tone.
“What a pity it is!” he added, turning towards Mr. Smithson, and
placing his fore-finger significantly to his forehead.

“A thousand--thousand pities, Doctor!” was the reply, delivered in a
mournful voice. “Such a splendid intellect to be thus clouded!--such a
genius to be thus crushed--annihilated!”

“No--do not anticipate such a calamity,” hastily interposed the
physician. “Rather let us hope that a judicious system--_my_ system,
Mr. Smithson--will eventually succeed in effecting a cure. But have
you the regular certificates, my dear sir?--because you are well aware
that a heavy responsibility rests upon gentlemen of my profession, who
receive patients----”

“Everything is straightforward, Doctor,” interrupted Mr. Smithson,
producing two papers from his pocket. “These certificates are signed by
medical men of eminence, and whose honour is unimpeachable.”

“Oh! assuredly,” exclaimed Swinton, glancing over the documents: “Dr.
Prince is an ornament to the profession--and Mr. Spicer is equally well
known. I have not the pleasure of their personal acquaintance--but
I am no stranger to their high reputation and rigid integrity. So
far, so good, my dear sir,” continued the mad-doctor, restoring the
certificates to Smithson. “And now, I think, we have little more to say
in respect to arrangements----”

“Nothing that I am aware of,” interrupted Mr. Smithson. “When I saw
you this morning, you told me that your usual terms for first-class
patients were six hundred a-year----”

“Each quarter payable in advance, you will please to recollect, my dear
sir,” said the physician, in a tone of bland insinuation. “It is a mere
matter of form, you know--just the bare trouble of writing a cheque at
the beginning instead of the close of the three months----”

“Oh! pray offer no apology for such an excellent regulation,”
interrupted Smithson: “short accounts make long friends.”

“Ah! ah! very good--very good indeed!” said the Doctor, with a jocular
cachinnation. “You are quite right, my dear sir--quite right. Shall I
give you a stamped receipt?” he asked, as Smithson placed in his hands
two bank notes--one for a hundred and the other for fifty pounds.

“You can send me the acknowledgment at your leisure,” answered
Smithson. “And now, as I must take my leave, permit me to beseech you
to bestow all possible attention upon my unhappy friend, and to spare
no expense in rendering him as comfortable as possible. His relations,
who have empowered me thus to place him in your establishment, are very
wealthy, and will cheerfully augment the allowance, if required. No
coercion is necessary with him: he is very tractable and by no means
dangerous. At the same time, any thing resembling restraint would only
induce him to move heaven and earth to escape. He cannot even endure
to have his chamber-door locked at night; and you may safely trust him
with a candle. Indeed, he _will_ have a light. As for placing a keeper
in his room, such a step would be as unwise as it is uncalled for. But
I need not attempt to counsel a gentleman of your great experience and
well-known skill----”

“Pardon me, my dear sir,” interrupted Dr. Swinton, drawing himself up
at the compliment thus paid to his professional ability;--“but I am
always delighted to receive any hints which the friends of my patients
are kind enough to give me; and I can assure you that your suggestions
shall be fully borne in mind. Of course you will call upon Mr. Granby
occasionally?” asked the Doctor, in a tone which was as much as to
imply that the less frequent such visits were, the better he thought it
would be.

“Yes--I shall call now and then,” responded Smithson, catching the
physician’s meaning in a moment: “but not too often--as the visits of
friends are likely, no doubt, to produce an injurious effect on those
minds which, under the influence of your admirable system, are becoming
settled and tranquil. It is however my intention to return in a few
days, just to assure myself that Granby is comfortable, and likewise
that you are not displeased with your patient.”

“Very good,” said the Doctor; “I shall be delighted to see you. But
will you not remain and partake of supper with us? You will then have
an opportunity of judging how I treat my patients--for we all sit down
to table together,--at least, those who belong to the first class, and
who may be termed the parlour boarders. Besides, I forgot to mention
to you this morning that the religious principles of my patients are
not neglected, and that I keep a regular chaplain in the establishment.
If you will stay to supper, you will have the pleasure of hearing him
say grace before meat, and deliver a most soul-refreshing exhortation
afterwards. Indeed, I may consider myself highly fortunate in having
secured the spiritual services and the constant companionship of such a
worthy man as the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks.”

“I should be much gratified by remaining to partake of your
hospitality,” answered Smithson,--“and even still more rejoiced to form
the acquaintance of such an estimable character as Mr. Sheepshanks;
but, unfortunately, my time is precious--and I must depart at once.”

With these words Smithson turned away from the window; and approaching
Mr. Granby, who was lounging upon the sofa, seemingly gazing on
vacancy, he touched him on the shoulder, saying, “Good bye, my dear
friend: you are going to stay here for a few days with Dr. Swinton--and
you will find yourself very comfortable.”

“I am already very comfortable,” observed Granby, beginning to play
with his fingers in a stolid, silly manner. “Can you talk with the
hands, Smithson?”

“Oh! yes--and I will come to-morrow and hold a conversation with you by
that method,” was the answer.

“Well--don’t forget,” said Granby; “and bring all my friends with
you,--twenty--thirty--forty of them, if you like. I shall know how to
entertain them.”

“In that case I will bring them all, my dear fellow,” returned
Smithson: then, in a whisper to the Doctor, he observed, “You perceive
how childish he is--but perfectly harmless.”

“Ah! I begin to fear with you that his cure will be no easy nor
speedily-accomplished matter,” responded the physician, also in a low
tone.

“But you will do your best, Doctor, I know,” said Smithson: then,
turning once more to his friend, he exclaimed, “Good-bye, Granby--I am
off.”

“Well, go--I don’t mean to accompany you,” answered the patient,
without moving from his recumbent position, and without even glancing
towards Smithson; but maintaining his eyes fixed upon his fingers, with
which he appeared to be practising the dumb alphabet. “Go along, I
say--I am very comfortable where I am.”

Mr. Smithson heaved a profound sigh, and, bidding the Doctor farewell,
hurried to the carriage, with his cambric handkerchief to his eyes.

“Ah! he feels deeply for his afflicted friend,” thought Dr. Swinton,
as he remained for a few moments on the threshold of the front door,
looking forth into the mild, clear, and beauteous night: “but I shall
be the greatest fool in existence if ever I allow Mr. Granby to recover
his reason. An annuity of six hundred pounds is not to be thrown away
in a hurry. But I must prevent this fellow Smithson from calling more
than once or twice a-year at the outside--and then only on stated days,
or else with a week’s notice. However, I shall get him here to supper
in a short time, and will then cajole him into anything I propose. He
is a soft-pated fool himself,--_that_ I can see with half an eye.”

Having arrived at this complimentary conclusion in respect to Mr.
Smithson, the Doctor returned to the room where Mr. Granby was still
lying upon the sofa, and still playing with his fingers.




CHAPTER CLXXXVII.

THE LUNATIC ASYLUM.


Almost immediately after the departure of Mr. Smithson, supper was
served up in a spacious and handsomely-furnished apartment.

The table literally groaned beneath the load of plate and China spread
upon it: a splendid epergne, upon a large silver tray, occupied the
middle of the board;--and numerous crystal decanters, containing choice
wines of various sorts, sparkled in the flood of golden light poured
forth from a magnificent lustre suspended to the ceiling.

Upwards of a dozen persons took their places at the table--all the
first-class patients partaking of their meals in the delectable society
of the Doctor.

That eminent individual seated himself at the head of the board;
and our old friend, Mr. Sheepshanks, occupied the other extremity.
The reverend gentleman, though now well stricken in years, was so
little altered since the reader last found himself in his company,
that no minute description of his personal appearance is again
necessary: suffice it to say, that his long, pale countenance was as
sanctimoniously hypocritical at ever,--his hair, now quite grey, was
combed with its wonted sleekness over his forehead,--and his speech
was as drawling in tone and as full of cant in respect to language,
as when we beheld him holding forth to the members of the South Sea
Islands Bible Circulating Society, or figuring so ignominiously in the
Insolvents’ Court.

Mr. Granby, being a new-comer, was placed in the post of
honour--namely, on the Doctor’s right hand: but the unfortunate young
gentleman did not appear to understand, much lest appreciate the
distinction--for he scarcely uttered a syllable, did but little justice
to the succulent viands, and remained for the most part of the time
gazing in listless vacancy straight before him.

We should however observe that, on first being introduced into
the supper-room, he had darted a rapid and searching glance
around,--embracing with that sweeping look the countenances of the
dozen patients who were already assembled there: but immediately
afterwards he resumed his stolid, meaningless expression, as if his
mind were indeed a blank and mournful void.

“Now, Mr. Sheepshanks,” said the Doctor, when all were duly seated at
the table, “will you ask the usual blessing?”

“With your permission, most respected sir,” replied the reverend
gentleman: then, with a countenance as rueful as if he were about to go
forth to the place of execution, he drawled out a lengthy grace in such
a droning voice, that one of the lunatics fell fast asleep, and did not
wake up again until the savoury odour of a plate of roast duck which
was placed before him recalled to him his recollection and his supper.

“How do you find yourself this evening, Mr. Sheepshanks?” inquired Dr.
Swinton, after having assured himself that all his guests were duly
served. “You were complaining of a bilious attack this morning.”

“Alas! yes, kind sir,” responded the reverend gentleman, in a most
doleful tone and with a profound sigh: “it pleased the Lord to ordain
that the salmon of which I partook bountifully at yesterday’s dinner
should disagree with me--or peradventure it was the cucumber;--but, by
the aid of the Divine blessing and the black draught, my dear patron,
I have pretty well come round again. Nevertheless, I feel my appetite
failing me.”

And as he uttered these words, Mr. Sheepshanks helped himself to about
a pound and a quarter of pigeon-pie--that being his second attack on
the same dish.

“I shall be happy to assist you to some roast duck, Mr. Sheepshanks,”
said the Doctor, after a pause of about seven minutes.

“It would be an act of rudeness to decline an offer which bespeaks
such delicate attentions on your part, worthy sir,” returned the pious
gentleman. “I have just managed to pick a morsel of this savoury pie;
and I will endeavour to get through the wing of a duck, with heaven’s
assistance.”

“So you shall,” said the Doctor. “In the meantime I recommend you to
take a little wine--for your stomach’s sake.”

“Ah! that was salutary advice which Paul gave to Timothy--‘_a little
wine for the stomach’s sake_,’” drawled out the excellent Mr.
Sheepshanks;--and to prove that he really thought so, he filled a
tumbler with claret and imbibed the delicious draught without a pause.

By this time a plate, containing the wing, leg, and part of the breast
of a duck, was placed before him; and, with a hollow groan as if he
thought he should never get through it all, he commenced the attack.

We may here observe that the Doctor, who was a widower, was fond
of good living himself, and was well pleased when he found any one
inclined to keep him company in the enjoyment of the pleasures of
the table. For this reason he especially admired the Reverend Mr.
Sheepshanks; and he well knew that when his chaplain pretended to have
no appetite at all, he was in reality prepared to do ample justice to
every dish. Hence the copious supply of duck which the physician had
sent him; and that hospitable gentleman heard with secret pleasure the
groan which Mr. Sheepshanks had given, and which was a sure indication
that the modesty of the reverend glutton would be so far overcome as to
induce him to allow the Doctor to help him again presently.

And here we may likewise remark that Swinton was no niggard of his good
cheer. If he kept an excellent table, he liked to see justice done to
the viands served up; and, as he received handsome remuneration from
the friends of his first-class patients, he could well afford to regale
them sumptuously, and amass a splendid fortune out of them into the
bargain.

In conversation of the trivial kind of which we have just recorded
a specimen, did the Doctor and Sheepshanks pass the time during
supper,--the patients all maintaining a profound silence, and
conducting themselves with the most perfect propriety. Indeed, were
it not for a certain vacancy in the eyes of some, and a peculiar but
inexplicable expression in the looks of the rest, it were impossible
for a stranger to believe that there were any lunatics at all in the
room.

After supper Mr. Sheepshanks delivered himself of a long prayer;--but
as his libations had been somewhat copious, in spite of his
bilious attack, his voice was occasionally so thick as to be
unintelligible,--and it appeared as if he at times fancied himself to
be an Irvingite speaking in the unknown tongues. Towards the conclusion
of his oration, which very much resembled a funeral sermon in those
parts where the meaning and sense could be caught, the reverend
gentleman became so much affected that he began to weep; and had a
maliciously-disposed person been present, he would have probably
entertained the derogatory notion that Mr. Sheepshanks was in that
maudlin condition vulgarly termed “crying drunk.”

However, the affair passed off to the satisfaction of the worthy
Doctor, who, as he thought of all that his chaplain had eaten and drunk
during the evening, felt really proud of having beneath his roof a man
of such splendid qualifications.

The after-supper oration being concluded, the keepers, all dressed in
plain clothes, made their appearance to conduct the patients to their
respective chambers; but as this was Granby’s first night in the house,
the Doctor volunteered to show him to the apartment prepared for his
reception.

The new inmate of the asylum immediately obeyed the hint which the
physician gave him relative to the hour for retiring; and he was
forthwith escorted up a handsome staircase to a long corridor on the
second floor. From this passage, which was carpeted, adorned with
statues in recesses, and lighted by lamps hanging to the ceiling,
opened several rooms, the doors of which were numbered.

At the entrance to the passage the Doctor pulled a wire which
communicated with a bell on the storey overhead; and a matronly,
respectable-looking woman made her appearance in answer to the summons.

“Which chamber is Mr. Granby to occupy, Mrs. Probert?” said the Doctor
to his housekeeper--for such was the situation filled by the female.

“I have moved the gentleman--you know whom I mean, sir--that was in
Number 7----”

“Ah! I understand,” interrupted the physician, with some degree of
impatience, as if he were afraid that his housekeeper was about to be
more communicative than was necessary in the presence of the stranger.
“Well--you have removed a certain person----”

“To Number 12, sir,” replied Mrs. Probert; “and therefore Mr. Granby
will please to occupy Number 7.”

“Very good,” said the Doctor. “Now, Mr. Granby, my dear friend--have
the kindness to follow me.”

The request was instantaneously obeyed; and the physician conducted
his docile patient into the room that had been selected for him, and
which was indeed the most spacious, airy, and elegantly furnished
bed-chamber in the whole establishment. It was usually appropriated
to any new-comer of the first class whose friends appeared to take an
interest in him; so that on the occasion of their first visit after his
location in the asylum, the doctor might be enabled to show them, with
pride, and even triumph, the magnificent apartment in which the patient
was lodged. It was afterwards an easy matter to remove him to another
and inferior, though still comfortable chamber--so as to make room for
another arrival; and it was very seldom that a lunatic ever thought of
mentioning to his friends, when they visited him again, the change of
apartments that had taken place.

Having introduced Mr. Granby into the elegantly furnished chamber, the
Doctor placed the candle upon the table, wished the young gentleman a
good night’s rest, and then retired--closing, but not locking, the door
behind him.

The moment he had departed, a remarkable and signal change took place
in the appearance and manner of Mr. Granby. His countenance lost its
stolid vacancy of expression, and became animated with its natural
intelligence; and, instead of seeming a dull, drivelling idiot, he
stood erect--a fine intrepid young man, conscious of the possession of
superior mental faculties, and prepared to carry out effectually the
scheme which had already been so successfully commenced.

Indeed, all further mystery in this respect being unnecessary, we may
as well at once declare that the fictitious Mr. Granby was the real
Lord William Trevelyan--and that Smithson, who had so well performed
the part of an afflicted and faithful friend, was none, other than the
astute valet, Fitzgeorge.

The young nobleman had made confidants of his two friends, Dr.
Prince and Mr. Spicer, who at his request had drawn up and signed the
certificates necessary to procure his introduction into the abode of
Dr. Swinton.

We must likewise here observe that when the short colloquy had occurred
between the Doctor and his housekeeper, it instantly struck Trevelyan
that allusion was made by them to Sir Gilbert Heathcote as being the
individual whose sleeping-place had been changed from No. 7 to No.
12. He had noticed that the woman had observed a degree of mystery in
referring, in the first instance, to the late occupant of the best
bed-room--and that the Doctor, as if fearful that walls had ears, or
that even a lunatic (such as he believed Trevelyan to be) might learn
a dangerous secret, had hastily interposed to prevent Mrs. Probert
from making a more direct allusion. All these circumstances induced
Trevelyan to conjecture that the late occupant of his room was none
other than Sir Gilbert; and, if this were the case, he had acquired the
certainty that the baronet was the tenant of a neighbouring apartment
in the same corridor.

It was now eleven o’clock; and the young nobleman resolved to wait
until a much later hour ere he took any steps in pursuance of the
clue which he believed himself to have gained relative to the chamber
occupied by his persecuted friend.

He walked to the window, and looked forth through the iron bars, upon
the mass of narrow lanes and squalid alleys constituting the suburb
known as Globe Town, and all the features of which were brought vividly
forward in the powerful moonlight,--for the atmosphere was as bright as
if it were of transparent quicksilver.

But in a few minutes, Trevelyan grew wearied of the sameness of the
prospect, so still and inanimate at that hour; and he began to examine,
more minutely than at first, the chamber in which he found himself.

A massive wardrobe of dark mahogany, and elaborately carved,
particularly attracted his notice; and, impelled by that curiosity
which frequently seizes upon persons who seek to while away an hour or
two by any means that opportunity or accident may afford, he opened
the large and heavy doors. There were several shelves inside, filled
with blankets and counterpanes, evidently deposited there during the
summer-months, when the beds required less clothing than in winter.

Trevelyan was about to close the doors, when he suddenly caught sight
of something that appeared to be a roll of papers thrust between the
blankets. He drew forth the object of his attention, and found that his
conjecture was correct; for he held in his hand a manuscript consisting
of several folios of foolscap closely written upon in a genteel and
fluent style.

A farther examination of the papers showed him, by means of certain
dates, that the manuscript was only recently composed; and an
indescribable feeling of interest, superior to any thing like vulgar
curiosity, prompted him to read the documents that had thus strangely
fallen into his possession.

Besides, he had determined to let a couple of hours slip away ere he
took any step in pursuance of the design that had brought him to the
mad-house; and he was by no means sorry at having discovered a mode of
passing the interval otherwise than by restlessly pacing his chamber or
gazing from the window.

He accordingly seated himself at the table, and commenced the perusal
of the extraordinary document that will be found in the ensuing chapter.




CHAPTER CLXXXVIII.

THE CONFESSIONS OF A LUNATIC.


“My blood has been boiling like a lava-stream. It appears to me as if
I can now freely respire the fresh air, after having only breathed
by gasps. What agony, then, has it been that has thus convulsed my
soul?--of what kind was the anguish which has left such strange and
unnatural sensations behind? Have I just awakened from a reverie
of burning thoughts and appalling visions?--or was there any truth
in the hideous things which seem to have passed like a frightful
phantasmagoria through my brain? What means this suffocating sob that
has struggled upward, and as it were spontaneously from my breast?
O God! it appears to me now as if the wildest--most maniacal ideas
have crowded into volumes, but become compressed into instants! Do I
rave?--am I really here--in a room elegantly furnished--and seated at
this table, writing? Is the bright sun-light streaming in at the open
casement?--and does the breeze penetrate into the chamber, fanning my
feverish cheek and throbbing brow, and wafting to me the delicious
perfume of flowers? Is all this true--or a dream? Am I still a denizen
of the earth,--that earth of which I seem for some time to have lost
all forgetfulness--dwelling during the interval in a chaos peopled with
horrible images--ghastly spectres--frightful beings of nondescript
shape? Oh, I remember--I found this paper, this pen, and this ink in
that large and massive ward-robe so exquisitely carved;--and something
tells me that there are persons watching my movements--spying my
actions--and who will be angry with me--perhaps ill-treat me--if they
behold me writing down my ideas. Oh! I am afraid--I am afraid. My God!
where am I? There is a hurry in my brain--my blood again begins to
boil--my hand trembles as I write. But wherefore do I write at all? I
know not:--and yet it seems to do me good!

“If any persons--any of those men whom I remember to have seen just
now--should endeavour to enter the room, I will hide my papers in
yonder ward-robe. Or else under the bed?--or between the mattresses?
No: in that ward-robe--it is the safest place, I feel confident.

“But why should I not go forth and walk in that garden which I can
see from the window?--or else penetrate into the fields at a great
distance, and lie down and think? If the breeze coming into this room,
does me good, how much more refreshed should I feel were I to ramble
about in the open country! Yes--I will go.

“What does this mean? I have tried the door--and it is locked! Who
dares to treat me thus--_me_--a gentleman of birth and fortune? I will
not endure such conduct: I will appeal to my brother, the magistrate,
for protection. He shall hang the wretches who have perpetrated this
insolence.

“O God! what do I see? There are bars at the window! Great heavens! I
shall go mad!

       *       *       *       *       *

“MAD! Yes--that was the last word that I wrote yesterday--I suppose
it must have been yesterday--when I so hastily concealed my
papers, on hearing some one approach the door. I remember _that_
full well! Yes--it was an elderly man, with a mild and benevolent
countenance--dressed in black, with linen beautifully white--and with
a massive chain and seals. I looked at him well: but I knew him not. I
do not think that I ever saw him before. He sate down by my side--felt
my pulse--and asked me several questions. Ah! a thought flashes to my
mind: that good old gentleman is a doctor. And now,--yes--I think I can
recollect it all,--I abused him--I insulted him very grossly;--and then
some men entered and compelled me to go to bed. They undressed me by
force. I struggled against them; but it was useless.

“Oh! what does it all mean? Why those men to coerce me?--why that
doctor to attend upon me?--and why those bars at the window? Gracious
God! it cannot be--no--no--the horrible thought----

“Yes: it must be so--I am really mad!

       *       *       *       *       *

“Again I sit down, calmly and tranquilly, to write. I have weighed well
my condition--have asked myself a thousand questions--have read what
I have written above--have striven to recollect all the past--have
carefully examined the present--and have dared to think of the future.
By all this--and by the bars at the window--I know that I am _mad_!

“Yes: but I can write the word now without growing excited; and I
must practise writing it again, so that I may by degrees gather to my
aid such an amount of self-possession as to be able to trace on this
paper all that has occurred to me. Then shall I possess a positive
memorial--a substantial key to the past; and should I again forget, in
an interval of delirium, all that has occurred, I can speedily recommit
the mournful history to my memory during a lucid interval like the
present.

“_Mad--mad--mad--mad!_ There--now I can write the word without the
least excitement; and this is a triumph already achieved. By gaining
a complete and accurate knowledge of my real position, I shall know
how to act. I am aware that I am in a lunatic asylum: I am also aware
that I have passed through intervals of fearful delirium. But I must
compose myself as much as possible. I cannot remain in this horrible
place;--and if I cannot become really sane again, I may at all events
pretend to be so--and then they will let me out. But in order to regain
my intellects, or appear to recover my reason, I must remember all that
has occurred to me, so as to be enabled to converse calmly and sensibly
on the subject. Stay! I will think--I will reflect profoundly for the
rest of the day; and to-morrow I will resume my pen.

“God forbid that the doctor or his men--or that prying old housekeeper,
should look into the wardrobe! I would not lose my manuscript for
worlds.

       *       *       *       *       *

  “_June 13th, 1846._

“I have learnt the day of the month. The doctor has been with me for
an hour; and he readily complied with my request to be furnished with
an almanack. He told me that this is the 13th of June; and henceforth
I hope I shall be enabled to keep the dates accurately. When I was
at school--but that is many years ago!--I used to make an almanack
to calculate how long it was to the holidays; and every evening I
scratched out the day that had just passed. Oh! happy--happy age of
boyhood--wilt thou never come back? hast thou gone for ever? Now must
I erase each day as it passes, and hope that the period of my release
is near at hand. _That_ shall be the holiday of my manhood, to which I
must look forward with such anxious--fervid--burning hope!

“But to my narrative.

“A hundred thousand pounds became mine on the day that I attained my
majority. That was nine years ago! I was my own master: my parents had
long been dead--and my guardians attempted not even to advise me--much
less control me. They were not relations--mere men of business to whom
my fortune had been intrusted, with a view to its accumulation. The
moment I became possessed of that wealth, I plunged headlong into the
vortex of pleasure. Heavens! in what dissipation did I indulge. Who
could drink deeper than I, and walk home steadily afterwards?--who
was more sought after and caressed amongst the fair sex?--who was
a more constant attendant at race-courses, gaming-houses, and the
haunts of fashionable vice and aristocratic debauchery? Fool that
I was! I imagined that to spend money profusely, was to enjoy life
largely. I had three mistresses at the same time,--three women, having
each a separate establishment, maintained at my cost! What were the
consequences? At five-and-twenty my constitution was nearly ruined,
and eighty thousand pounds of my fortune had been expended. The very
principles of my existence seemed to be undermined--disease was gnawing
at my vitals--an unbroken career of the wildest dissipation was
hurrying me, with race-horse speed, to the tomb!

“Suddenly I awoke, as from a dream. But it was not because remorse
touched me,--nor because good counsels were proffered me,--nor because
some latent feelings of virtue sprang into existence. Neither was it
because my fortune was nearly wasted and my health failing rapidly.
No: but it was because I at that epoch saw my Editha for the first
time! Oh! how can I retain my calmness _now_, when I think of her as
I _then_ beheld her,--beheld her in all the glory of her matchless
beauty--radiant with that loveliness that seemed to surround her with
the halo that only angels have! Yes--I was then twenty-five, and Editha
Greville was nineteen--that delightful age when the female figure
swells into womanly loveliness--round, full, and exquisitely modelled!

“We loved--almost at first sight; and though several weeks passed ere
I ventured to declare my passion, I could read in Editha’s eyes that
I was far from being displeasing to her. She was an only child; her
father was dead; her mother, though a woman of considerable wealth,
mixed little in society; and the wildness of my conduct was not
therefore fully known to Mrs. Greville. At the same time, she had heard
that I was extravagant and imprudent; but when I implored her to bestow
upon me the hand of her daughter, she yielded her assent, expressing
a hope that I had sown all my wild oats by that time, and should grow
steady in a matrimonial state. Thus was it that I became the recognised
suitor of Editha; and when some of Mrs. Greville’s friends, who knew
me well, represented to her that I was notoriously a half-ruined rake,
the old lady had too much confidence in all the promises of reformation
which I had made, to revoke the consent she had given to our union.
Besides, she saw that Editha was deeply attached to me, and that the
beauteous girl’s happiness depended on the smooth progress of love’s
course.

[Illustration]

“But, alas! painful thoughts forced themselves upon my mind. I felt
that my constitution was ruined--and I believed myself to be in a
consumption. Faithful to the solemn pledges which I had made to Mrs.
Greville, I established a complete change in my habits; and instead of
drinking wine to excess, I foreswore all alcoholic liquor whatsoever.
Likewise, instead of passing my nights in dissipation, I returned
home at an early hour and sought my couch. But the suddenness of this
alteration in my habits produced effects which I can only compare to
the terrible reaction that a man experiences when waking in the morning
after a night of deep debauch. A dead weight fell upon my spirits. I
became so low and depressed that horrible thoughts of suicide were
constantly floating in my brain. My nervousness was extreme, and
intensely painful. An unusually loud knock or ring at the front-door
would make me start as if I had committed a crime and was expecting
the officers of justice to come and arrest me. I was constantly
conjuring up the most shocking visions respecting the future; and when
immersed in those reveries, I verily believed that I was contemplating
realities--such was the morbid state of my mind!

“It was therefore natural that I should begin to reflect upon the step
which I had taken with regard to Editha. I had sought and won the
affections of a beautiful creature, who was possessed of a generous
heart, an amiable disposition, and a loving soul; and I was shocked to
think that such a being, in all the vigorous health of youthfulness,
should be led to the altar by one whose constitution was shattered,
whose vital energies were almost ruined, and who seemed to be hovering
on the very verge of the tomb! Oh! how maddening were these thoughts!
I looked upon myself as a villain--a deceiver; and often--often was I
on the point of throwing myself at Mrs. Greville’s feet and exclaiming,
‘_Pardon me, madam, for having dared to ask the hand of your daughter
in marriage! I am but a phantom--a shadow: the finger of Death is upon
me,--and if Editha should accompany me to the altar, it is probable
that in less than a year she will have to follow me to the tomb!_’--But
when I thought of Editha’s matchless beauty, and pondered upon the
immensity of the love that I experienced for her, I could not command
the courage necessary to enable me to resign the hope of possessing
such a treasure. Besides, in her society I could smile and be gay: her
musical voice was more ravishing to my ears than the inspired strains
of an improvisatrice;--her breath was more fragrant than the perfume of
flowers--her lips more delicious than the honey-dew upon the blossoms!
Oh! no--no: I could not resign my Editha! But no day had been as yet
fixed for our marriage--and six weeks had already elapsed since I had
proposed and was accepted. Shall I confess the truth? I dared not
ask her mother to name the day: I shrank from the idea as if I were
meditating a murder--had marked out my victim--but dreaded to settle
in my own mind the night and the hour when the assassin-blow should be
struck!

“I was lying in bed one morning, reflecting on all these things--for
the dark fit of despondency was upon me--when my valet entered the
room with the morning’s newspapers. I listlessly unfolded one of the
journals, when my eyes suddenly caught sight of an advertisement,
headed thus:--‘_Manhood, the Reasons of its Early Decline; with Plain
Hints for its Complete Resuscitation._’ This book was announced to
be an emanation from the pen of T. L. Surtees and Co., Consulting
Surgeons, residing in one of the streets leading out of Soho Square;
and it appeared by certain quotations of notices from the leading
newspapers, that the book was a medical treatise of great utility,
merit, and importance. Hope now dawned in upon my soul. Perhaps my
constitution was not irretrievably damaged? Perchance I might not be in
a consumption, after all? Such were my thoughts, after perusing that
advertisement over and over again; and I resolved to lose no time in
calling upon the able practitioners who undertook the resuscitation
of any constitution, no matter how hopeless the case might seem.
Accordingly, having hastily dressed myself, I repaired in a street
cab to the address indicated in the advertisement. The house was one
of imposing appearance; and the words ‘_Surtees and Co., Consulting
Surgeons_,’ were displayed in deep-black letters, on immense shining
zinc-plates. The fawn-coloured Venetian blinds were drawn down; and
I said to myself, as I alighted with a fluttering heart, ‘Doubtless
these eminent practitioners have patients waiting in every room to
consult them.’ Entering the passage, I found an inner door, with a
bronze knocker and a ground-glass fan-light, on which were inscribed
the same words as those that appeared on the polished zinc-plates. I
was immediately admitted by a footman, and conducted up stairs to a
drawing-room, every feature of which is at this moment as fresh in my
memory as if I were seated and writing there now.

“This apartment at first sight impressed me with an idea of luxurious
splendour; but a closer examination into its appointments showed me
that the most vulgar taste had presided over its fitting-up. The paper
was of crimson and gold; and to the walls were suspended several
paintings set in magnificent frames, which only rendered the daubs the
more miserably ludicrous. Two of them were covered with plate-glass,
as if they were very valuable; whereas they were as wretched as the
others. ‘Some unprincipled person,’ thought I, ‘must have imposed
upon these worthy doctors, by recommending pictures to which I would
not accord house-room. But men of philosophic minds and who are
devoted to professional studies, are seldom good judges of works of
art.’ Thus ruminating, I continued my examination of the apartment;
and I was struck with surprise at the utter vulgarity and absence of
taste which characterised the profusion of French porcelain ornaments
scattered about. Here was a Chinese Joss, with a moveable head: and
there was a pedlar mounted on a gigantic goat. At the corners of the
fire-place were two paintings evidently cut out of a picture, and
representing little charity-school girls. In the centre of the room
stood a loo-table, upon which a writing-desk was placed; and this was
surrounded by medical publications, bearing on their title-pages the
magical names of those gentlemen whom I was so anxiously waiting to
see. I had the curiosity to open one of the works: but I was disgusted
with the obscenity of the coloured plates which it contained. A
moment’s reflection, however, induced me to believe that there could
be nothing indecent in the development of the divine art of surgery;
and I felt ashamed of myself for having even for an instant entertained
such scruples. As a concluding observation respecting the drawing-room
itself, I must remark that its entire appearance indicated the taste of
a vulgar upstart, rather than the refined elegance of a polished mind.

“Having waited nearly three quarters of an hour, a footman made his
appearance, and, with many obsequious bows, conducted me down stairs
into a dining-room most gaudily and extravagantly furnished. The
same grovelling vulgarity of taste which I had noticed elsewhere
was apparent in the crimson damask curtains with yellow fringes and
tassels--the looking-glasses in ponderous frames--the showy daubs
suspended to the walls--and the furniture arranged for the purpose of
display. Folding-doors admitted me into an inner apartment, of equally
vulgar appearance; and beyond was a little room, only a few feet
square, and which the footman, as he ushered me in, denominated _the
surgery_.

“I must confess that my heart beat violently as I traversed those
two apartments leading to the _sanctum_ where I expected to find
myself in the presence of the eminent medical practitioners. I had
pictured to myself a couple of old and venerable-looking gentlemen,
with genius stamped upon their high bald foreheads, and their eyes
expressing all the powers of vigorous intellects. I was therefore
somewhat surprised when, on being introduced into the surgery, I beheld
only one individual, who was the very reverse of the portraiture I
had drawn by anticipation. His features were of the Jewish cast: his
complexion was of that swarthy and greasy description peculiar to the
lower order of the Hebrew race;--his hair was black and very thick;
and his whiskers met beneath his chin. His eyes were dark, and one
of them was larger than the other: his bottle-nose was rather on one
side; and his countenance altogether was as ignoble, as vulgar, and
as unintellectual as ever served as an index to a sordid, grovelling
soul. His dress was of the flashy kind which belongs partly to the
upstart or _parvenu_, and partly to the swell-mob’s-man. He wore a blue
dress-coat, a gaudy waistcoat, and large loose trousers hollowed at the
instep so as to be shaped to the polished leathern boot. A profusion of
jewellery decorated his person;--a thick gold chain, with a large key,
depended to his watch--his worked shirt was fastened with diamond and
blue enamel studs;--and his dirty hands were covered with costly rings,
which appeared as ill-placed upon the clumsy, grimy fingers as pearls
would be round the neck of a pig.

“Such was the individual in whose presence I found myself; and had I
not been at the time in such a desperate state of mind that I was eager
to clutch at a straw, I should at once have seen through the man and
his system. But I reassured myself with the adage which teaches that
we should never judge by outward appearances; and it flashed to my
mind that many men remarkable for the brilliancy of their intellect,
were far from being prepossessing in either person, manners, or
address. Moreover, I never had partaken in the shameful, unjust, and
absurd prejudices which too many of my fellow-countrymen entertain in
respect to the Jews; and therefore the mere fact of this Mr. Surtees
being a member of the Hebrew race produced on my mind no unfavourable
impression with regard to him.

“‘Pray be seated,’ said the medical gentleman, with a tone and
manner which I at the time mistook for professional independence,
but which I have since discovered to be the vulgar insolence of an
ignorant, self-sufficient upstart. I took a chair in compliance with
the invitation given; and when he had seated himself at his desk, he
extended his dirty but jewel-bedizened paw, saying, ‘Vill you obleege
me vith yer card?’--I did as requested; but not without a little
hesitation, for I had hoped to avoid giving my name and address.--‘Ah!
I see,’ said Mr. Surtees, in a musing tone, as he examined the card:
‘_Mr. Macdonald_,’ he continued, reading my name. ‘By the vay, air
you any relation to the Markiss of Burlington? ’cos his family name
is the same as your’n.’--I replied that I was not a relative of the
nobleman mentioned.--‘Vell, it don’t sinnify,’ proceeded Mr. Surtees.
‘The Markiss is a hexcellent friend of mine. He lays under a sight
of hobligations to me. He come to me in the first hinstance vith a
constitootion so veared out and shattered that no medical carpenter in
all Hingland could have mended it up except me. But in the course of a
foo weeks I putt him as right as a trivet; and now he’d go through fire
and vater to sarve me. It on’y cost him a couple of thousand pounds to
get quite cured; and that was cheap enow, ’evvins knows! But how comed
you to call upon me this mornin’? Were it in consekvence of having
perooged von of my medical vorks? Ah! them sells vell, them does! Or
were it ’cos you seed my adwer_tise_ment in the noospapers?’--I was
so completely bewildered by this outpouring of execrable English and
vile grammar, that for some moments I was utterly unable to answer the
questions put to me. Was it possible that this coarse, ignorant, and
self-sufficient vulgarian could be an eminent medical authority--the
author of valuable publications--the celebrated surgeon whom the
extracts from newspapers[21] quoted in his advertisement, spoke of so
highly? I was astounded. But again did hope blind me to what the man
really was: again did I reassure myself by the reflection that Mr.
Surtees might be an excellent surgeon, although he was a miserable
grammarian; and I accordingly recovered my self-possession sufficiently
to inform him that I had called in consequence of reading his
advertisement in the newspapers.

“The doctor seemed pleased at my answer, and immediately exclaimed,
‘Vell, sir, and vot a blessin’ it is that people _do_ read
adwer_tise_ments: ’cos vy? they gets at the knowledge of heminent
medikle prektishoners, which has devoted their lives to the hart of
ealing all kinds of diseases. You see before you, sir,’ he continued,
in a pompous tone, and with arrogant air, ‘a man vot knows hevery hin
and hout of the human constitootion. No von knows so vell as myself wot
consumption raly is.’--‘Then you have made consumption your particular
study, sir?’ I observed, seeing that he paused, in order to elicit some
remark from me.--‘Rayther!’ was his laconic answer. ‘The fact is,’ he
continued, ‘foo medikle men is aweer what consumption is, nor in vot
part of the frame it begins. Vy, I vonce knowed a gentleman, sir, which
had a rapid decline begin in the great toe of his left foot, and travel
up’ards, till it spread itself over the hentire system. The doctors
had all give him up, and the undertaker was actiwally thinking of the
good job he should soon have putt into his hand, ven I vos consulted. I
made him take seventeen bottles of my bootiful _Balm of Zura_, and he
rekivered in less than a fortnit.’

“Weak, nervous, and attenuated as I was, this anecdote made a deep
impression upon me. I forgot the bad grammar--I lost sight of the
arrogance and self-sufficient vulgarity: I saw and heard only the man
who solemnly assured me that he had redeemed a fellow-creature from the
jaws of death, when all other members of the faculty had given up the
case as hopeless. Mr. Surtees doubtless perceived that he had worked
me up to the pitch suitable to his purposes; and he accordingly said,
‘Vell, my good sir, vill you be so good as to explain wot it is that
you’ve come to consult me for?’ I then frankly and candidly confessed
that I had expended four-fifths of a large fortune in a career of
unbroken dissipation--that my constitution was grievously impaired,
if not absolutely ruined--that since I had given up drinking and all
other sources of unnatural excitement, I was subject to such frequent
fits of despondency that the idea of suicide was almost constantly
in my imagination--that I loved and was beloved by a beautiful girl
who was possessed of property--but that I felt afraid to contract the
matrimonial engagement, lest I should leave her an unprotected widow in
the course of a short time. Mr. Surtees listened with great attention;
and when I had concluded, he appeared to reflect profoundly. At length
he said, ‘Vell, let’s feel yer pulse.’--I extended my hand towards
him; and he applied his thumb to a part of my wrist where I did not
suppose that a pulse lay: but I concluded at the time that his great
proficiency in medicine had led him to discover a new pulse, and that
the best mode to test it was with the thumb.--‘Wery veak pulse indeed!’
he said, shaking his head with as much solemnity as the Chinese Joss
up in his drawing-room might have been expected to display. ‘But don’t
go for to give vay to despair, my dear sir; the case is a bad ’un, I
admit--a wery, wery bad ’un; and I can’t say as how that I ever knowed
a wusser. Pray, who’s the young lady which you intends to marry? I’ve
a motive in axing.’--I thought that as the learned gentleman was
already acquainted with my name and address, there could be no harm in
answering this new question, the more especially as even if I refused
to reply, he could easily institute those enquiries that would lead to
a knowledge of the fact: I accordingly satisfied him on that head. ‘Ah!
I don’t know her,’ he observed, carelessly: then, after a few moments’
reflection, he said ‘Vell, I undertake to cure you; but the business
vill be a hexpensive von. You must write me a cheque for a hundred
guineas, my consultation fee; and then I’ll tell you wot you must do
next.’--Reassured by the promises he thus held out, I unhesitatingly
gave him a draft for the amount demanded. He then opened a drawer,
and drew forth a small case containing six bottles. ‘This here is
the rale elixir of life,’ he said, in a tone of solemn mystery: ‘it
inwigorates the constitootion in no time, and puts a reglar stopper on
the adwance of consumption. The Grand Turk has a case sent every veek
to him through his Hambassador, and all the crowned heads in Europe is
patients of mine, I may say. Take a bottle of this bootiful balm daily;
and ven it’s all gone, come back again to me. The price of them six is
fifteen guineas; and you can write me out another cheque at vonce.’--I
hastened to comply with this demand; and Mr. Surtees bowed me out of
the surgery.

“But here I must leave off writing; for I am wearied--my brain begins
to grow confused--and my memory fails me. Oh! what a fool--what an
idiot I was, not to have seen through the man and his quackery on the
occasion of that visit, the particulars of which I have detailed at
such length.

       *       *       *       *       *

  “_June 18th, 1846._

“I again resume my narrative. Five days have elapsed since I last put
pen to paper; and that interval has been one of darkness. Yes--the fit
was upon me: but it has passed--and I am now calm and collected once
again. I have just read over all that I have written above; and I have
laughed heartily at the fidelity and minuteness of my description of
the first visit that I paid to the quack-doctor. Let me now continue my
narrative; for the incidents are once more all fresh and vivid in my
memory.

“I am well aware that the imagination has much to do with our diseases
and our cures. Possessed of what I deemed to be a salutary medicine,
my spirits rose; and at the close of each of the six days during which
the supply of balm lasted, I said to myself, ‘I certainly feel stronger
and better.’ The fits of despondency were far less frequent, and less
intense: my appetite improved--and the colour came partially back
to my cheeks. This change was no doubt effected principally by the
steady life which I adopted, and by the increased mental tranquillity
which I experienced. I was moreover filled with hope that a complete
restoration to health would be accomplished; and thus, while at the
time I attributed everything to the medicine, I have not the least
doubt that the stuff was utterly valueless in itself. Editha was
rejoiced to find my spirits so much improving; and her mother expressed
her delight at the regular habits which I had adopted. I did not
mention to a soul my visit to Mr. Surtees: that was my secret--and a
sense of shame made me cherish it religiously. At the expiration of the
week I called upon him again, and on this occasion was at once admitted
into his surgery. There was another fee of a hundred guineas--another
six bottles of medicine prescribed, and another cheque given for the
amount thereof. He asked me if I had read his book yet; and I was
compelled to reply in the negative. ‘Vell, never mind,’ he said; ‘I
ain’t offended; but you shall have a hopportunlty of perooging it
before you come agen. I’ll jest step up into the drawing-room and get
you von.’ He accordingly quitted the surgery; and during his temporary
absence an irresistible feeling of curiosity prompted me to look at a
note which lay open upon the table. I read it; and thus it ran, word
for word:--‘_Dear Joe, You ax me 2 lend you mi dipplomy for a few days,
just to make a show with to a new payshent; but i vunce for all tell
you as how i’d rayther not lett it go out of my house. Besides, it’s of
no use to you, ’cos it’s made out in the name of La’Vert, and you’ve
took the name of Surtees. So no more from your affecshonate brother,
&c._’--This note was signed by the name of La’Vert; and therefore it
was apparent that the real appellation of my friend Mr. Surtees was
Joseph La’Vert. It struck me in a moment that I had become the dupe
of a quack; but I had sufficient command over myself to restrain my
indignation when he returned to the room. He was accompanied by a
woman--I cannot say a lady--whom he introduced to me as his wife. And
here I must pause to say a few descriptive words of her.

“Mrs. Surtees was a vulgar, dark-complexioned Jewess, with a long
hooked nose. Her flesh seemed as if it had been smeared with oil, and
then wiped with a dry towel; but on her cheeks she wore an immoderate
quantity of rouge. She was exceedingly stout, with an enormous bust:
her hair, rough and wavy, was arranged in bands and plastered down
with quince-pips. She was dressed in the most outrageous style, and
as she herself expressed it, ’was about to go hout for a haring in
the carridge.’ Her gown was of green velvet; her shawl of bright red;
and her bonnet of rose pink, adorned with a profusion of artificial
flowers, inside and out. She wore very pink silk stockings and short
petticoats, as she had conceived the erroneous impression that there
was something attractive in her elephantine leg. As a matter of course,
she carried a complete jeweller’s shop about her person. She wore no
gloves; and her large red hands were covered with rings. Her ear-rings
were of gold studded with turquoise; and now her portraiture is
complete.

“Scarcely had the ceremony of introduction taken place, when another
female bounced into the apartment, and she was immediately presented
to me as Mrs. Surtees’ sister. Such a pair was never seen before!
They looked like a butcher’s daughters in their Sunday’s best; and
they were attired with an evidently studied view to contrast. For the
sister’s gown was of blue velvet, her shawl of flaunting yellow hue,
and her bonnet white. These ladles, having favoured me with a good long
stare and a few observations relative to the weather and such-like
common-place topics, quitted the room to enter their vehicle which was
waiting at the door. Mr. Surtees had the gallantry to accompany them
as far as the carriage; and the moment I was alone again, I had the
curiosity to traverse the two rooms and take a peep from the front
window. The equipage was in perfect keeping with the appointments of
the house and the attire of the occupants. It was a barouche, painted
bright blue on the body: but all the under part and wheels were of
straw colour. The inside was lined with yellow morocco. It was drawn by
two brown cobs, the harness exhibiting a profusion of silver; and the
coachman’s livery was of a gaudy blue, with buttons also of silver.

“But while I was making these observations from the window, my ears
were saluted with a brief colloquy that took place in the passage
between Mr. Surtees and his wife, ere he handed her to the carriage.
They doubtless believed that I had remained in the surgery, and
little thought that I was near enough to catch all they said.--‘Vell,
Joe,’ exclaimed Mrs. Surtees, ‘any monzel[22] vith that pale-faced
young feller vich you said were so ’ansome and made me come in to
see?’--‘A good moza-motton,’[23] he answered, with a vulgar chuckling
laugh.--‘Oh! then, he stumped the guelt?’[24] demanded the woman,
joining in the cachinnation.--‘To be sure he did, my love,’ responded
this precious consulting-surgeon: ‘and I means to have a good deal more
out on him afore I’ve done.’--‘Oh! wery vell, then,’ returned Mrs.
Surtees: ‘in this case the boy Abey must have a new polka hat, and
little Joe a new welwet dress out of it’--‘All right!’ exclaimed the
consulting-surgeon. ‘Come, cut along, and astonish the natives in the
park a bit. I shall jine you presently.’ He then handed the two women
into the carriage; and I hurried back to the surgery, where I seated
myself till his return--so that he could not suspect I had quitted the
place during his temporary absence. I longed to tell him all I knew or
suspected relative to his real character: but a fear of exposure made
me silent--and I took my leave of him with as much civility as I could
bring myself to bestow upon such a person.

“I knew that I had been completely and thoroughly victimised: but on
reflection, I was glad of it. I saw that the circumstance of taking
the medicine had stimulated my imagination, and had thereby aided in
improving my health. On my return home, I threw the six bottles away
without drinking another drop of the trashy balm; and I sent at once
for a respectable physician, who, for a fee of five guineas, gave me
proper advice. I then came to the conclusion that it is always better,
under any emergency, to have recourse to legitimate assistance than to
seek the aid of advertisers--no matter whether the subject involved
be medicine, law, or money. My health improved rapidly; and at the
expiration of three months I became the happy husband of the equally
happy Editha.

Here must I pause for a time: the recollection of my wedding-day has
revived memories which overpower me!

       *       *       *       *       *

  “_June 20th, 1846._

“I resume my narrative. Twelve months had elapsed after my marriage
with the loveliest and most amiable woman in the universe; and
nothing had transpired to interrupt our felicity. A boy had blest our
union--and I was as happy as a husband and father could possibly be.
My health was almost completely re-established; and my habits were
regular and domestic. I loathed the idea of those exciting pleasures
and feverish enjoyments in the vortex of which I had nearly wrecked
everything--health, fortune, and reputation; and Mrs. Greville, who
dwelt with us, would often assure me with a smile that I was the very
pattern of good husbands. My brother, who had become a magistrate, was
a frequent visitor at our house; and all was progressing in peace,
comfort, and tranquillity, when an incident suddenly occurred to
interfere with that smiling prospect.

“It was late one evening, shortly after my beloved Editha’s recovery
from her confinement, that I was informed that a person who refused
to give his name desired to speak with me in private. I ordered the
servant to show him into the library; and thither I immediately
afterwards proceeded. The man whom I encountered there was a short,
thick-set fellow, with a forbidding countenance: he was flashily
dressed, and had about him an air of jaunty impudence as if he had
come upon some evil mission in which he knew that he should succeed.
I asked him his business, without inviting him to be seated--for I
conceived a dislike to him the instant I set eyes upon his sinister
features. ‘Your name is Macdonald?’ he said, flinging himself into a
chair in a very free-and-easy manner.--‘There is no necessity for you
to acquaint me with that fact,’ I observed, assuming as chilling a
tone as possible.--‘Oh! but there is, though!’ he ejaculated: ‘because
I must make sure that I am speaking to the right person. Well, you
admit your name: now will you tell me whether you’re the gentleman
that married Miss Editha Greville?’--‘What means this impudence?’
I demanded angrily. ‘Explain your business, sir, without farther
circumlocution.’--‘I’ll come to the point in a minute,’ returned the
man, quite unabashed. ‘Fifteen or sixteen months ago you used to visit
a certain gentleman who lives not a hundred miles from Soho Square.’--I
started and turned pale: for it struck me in a moment that the fellow
was alluding to the _consulting-surgeon_.--‘Well, now I see that it’s
all right,’ he exclaimed, doubtless drawing this inference from the
confusion of my manner. ‘Of course you would rather it shouldn’t be
known that you _did_ visit the gentleman,’ he added emphatically.--‘I
do not understand your meaning,’ I replied.--‘Look here, then,’
continued the fellow: ‘it would not be very pleasant to have your
brother, your mother-in-law, your friends, your tradesmen, your
servants, and even your wife, made acquainted with the fact that you
were under Mr. Surtees for some time previous to your marriage.’--‘I
never visited him but twice!’ were the words that I gasped out, for
horrible sensations were coming rapidly over me.--‘Never mind how often
it was,’ cried the man, in a brutal tone: ‘you did call to consult him,
and that’s enough for me. Now then, ’tis for you to say how much you’ll
give me to keep the secret.’--‘Wretch! extortioner!’ I ejaculated, rage
succeeding alarm in my breast--‘It’s of no use to attempt to bully
me,’ said the ruffian, with the most cold-blooded composure: ‘I want
money, and I mean to get it out of you.’--‘Or else?’ I said, all my
wretched feelings returning, as I saw myself threatened with exposure,
shame, and irretrievable degradation.--‘Or else,’ he repeated, ‘I shall
tell the secret to all the people I have named; and then we shall see
whether you will ever hold up your head in society again.’--‘And how
much money do you require?’ I asked, my heart sinking within me.--‘Five
hundred will do for the present,’ he responded imperiously.--‘For the
present?’ I cried, echoing his words: ‘what! do you mean to visit me
again for such a purpose?’--‘Not if you shell out at once, and without
making any more words about it,’ he said.--There was no alternative
save to comply; and I accordingly counted into his hand the Bank-notes
for the sum named. In another minute he had taken his departure--and I
was left alone to meditate upon the scene that had just occurred.

“It was a long time before I could so far compose my countenance and
my feelings as to be able to return to the parlour without exciting
the suspicions of my wife and mother-in-law that something unpleasant
had taken place. But I managed to conceal the sorrow which the event
of the evening had engendered within me; and early on the following
morning I paid a visit to Mr. Surtees. He did not appear at first to
recollect me--or, at all events, if he did, he was a wonderful adept
in playing the part of forgetfulness: but when I mentioned my name,
he exclaimed, ‘Vy, is it possible that you’ve come back to consult me
again?’--‘Far from it,’ I answered, with a bitterness which I could
not hide, and which he failed not to notice; for he bit his lip, and
coloured deeply. I then related to him the particulars of the visit
I had received on the previous evening, and accused him of being the
prime mover in the matter. But he repelled the charge with so much
indignation--whether real or feigned I cannot even now determine--that
I certainly believed him at the time; and, were I at present writing
for the purpose of having my narrative read by the world, I should be
loth indeed to have it inferred that Mr. Surtees was in reality mixed
up with the case of extortion. Much as I hate and despise him, I will
not do him a wanton injustice; and I am therefore bound to state that
he was warm and energetic in his assurances of complete innocence
respecting the transaction.--‘But how could the man have known that I
ever _did_ visit you?’ I asked.--‘Vell things does get abroad in a many
most unaccountable vays,’ he responded: ‘but I take my Gosh to witness
that I’m as clear of this business as the babe vot’s unborn. Vot can I
do to conwince you that such is the fect?’--‘I do not entertain such
a dreadful opinion of human nature as to disbelieve you, sir,’ was my
rejoinder; and I took my leave. But, distressed and harassed as I was,
I could not help noticing the strong and disagreeable odour of fried
fish that came up from the lower regions of the dwelling: nor could I
avoid a smile as I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Surtees, who was running
hastily up stairs, having evidently emerged from the kitchen--for her
swarthy countenance was as greasy as it could be, and her appearance
was dirty and slovenly in the extreme. Yet, a few hours later in the
day, this woman would doubtless turn out in all the flaunting gaud of
her rainbow attire and in the profuse display of her costly jewellery!

“I must again repeat that I quitted Mr. Surtees’ abode with the
conviction that he was anything but an accomplice in the scheme of
extortion; and I said to myself, as I returned homeward, ‘The scene of
last night is one of those penalties which we are doomed to pay for the
irregularities and evil courses of our youthful years. But, even though
Surtees himself be innocent, is not the extortionate deed all the same
a result of an infamous system of quackery? Destroy that system--and
the quietude of men’s homes could not thus be troubled by the visits of
extortioners!’--By degrees my mind grew calmer; and as weeks and months
fled away, I had almost ceased to think of the occurrence which had
so much ruffled me, when one evening the man reappeared at the house.
Again was the ominous message delivered to me while I was seated in
the society of my beloved wife and her excellent mother--again did I
see the man in private--and again was I compelled to endure his cool
insolence and yield to his extortionate demands. Another five hundred
pounds was transferred from my pocket to his own;--and once more was
I forced to veil the real condition of my feelings when I rejoined
the ladies in the parlour. And now, as time slipped away, I did not
lose the misgivings that this second visit had excited in my mind--I
could not forget that I was in the power of a villain, who was certain
to come back again. Months passed; and a third time--I remember it
well--it was on Christmas eve,--the fatal message was delivered to me.
On this occasion I started so violently and betrayed so much confusion
that both my wife and mother-in-law observed my agitation. I however
hurried away, without responding to their anxious enquiries; and when
once more in the presence of the extortioner, I heaped the bitterest
reproaches upon him. He heard me with a coolness and a self-possession
that only augmented my wrath; and at length I ceased speaking through
sheer exhaustion. He then informed me, in his imperious and rude
manner, that he had an opportunity of emigrating under the most
favourable services--that he required a thousand pounds--and that if
I gave him this sum, he would never trouble me again. I bound him by
the most solemn oaths to that pledge; and, to save myself from a shame
that would have crushed me down to the very dust and rendered life
intolerable, I gave the miscreant a cheque on my bankers for the large
amount which he demanded. But on my return to the company of my Editha
and Mrs. Greville, I was compelled to invent falsehoods to account
for my confusion; and I beheld, with pain and bitter grief, that they
both saw that I was deceiving them--that I was concealing the real
truth--and that there was something upon my mind![25]

“Oh! yes--and they conjectured truly; for my peace was now so
thoroughly disturbed, that I despaired of regaining it. I felt
convinced that, in spite of the villain’s solemn vows, he would come
back again; and I dreaded to be at home--for every knock at the
door made me start nervously. If I walked or rode out, on my return
I dreaded lest the servants should inform me that a certain person
had called for me during my absence, and would look in again in the
evening. Thus my life became a veritable burthen to me; and my sorrow
was aggravated by the stern necessity of retaining it all in my own
breast. Often and often did I think of inventing some excuse to
induce my wife and her mother to consent that we should break up our
establishment in London, and repair to the continent. But what apology
could I devise for such a strange proceeding?--and, moreover, would not
the extortioner find me out, if he set himself to the work? because
to imagine any feasible ground for changing our name, was impossible.
Thus months passed away, without seeing me determine upon any plan to
frustrate the extortioner should he return; and I saw that my Editha’s
health and spirits began to fail--because she knew that I was secretly
unhappy!

“And the extortioner _did_ come back: and again was I forced to
yield to his demands. Two thousand pounds did he obtain from me
on this occasion; and when I reminded him of his solemn pledges
and sacred vows, he laughed outright in my face. Oh! how I
hated--abhorred--loathed that man! I could have slain him on the spot:
but I thought of my dear wife and innocent boy, and I restrained
my hand. And now my mind became seriously unsettled--a painful
nervousness constantly maintained its influence over me--my health
gave way again, as rapidly under the heavy weight of sorrow as it
did beneath the wearing effects of dissipation. Oh! yes--and what
was worse than all, was that my Editha grew paler and thinner day by
day--visibly;--and I dared not attempt to console her--I could not
force my tongue to frame a lie to assure her that I myself was happy.
Thus was our once happy home changed to a scene of gloom: a deep
despondency hung upon us all--and I perceived, with ineffable anguish,
that Mrs. Greville began to view me with distrust. Perhaps she thought
that some crime lay heavy upon my soul: yes--this must have been her
impression--or she would doubtless have questioned me. But she did
not live long enough to behold the sad catastrophe: a short though
severe illness snatched her to the tomb--and, circumstanced as I was,
I rejoiced in secret at the event,--for I said to myself, ‘There is at
all events one being the less to deceive--one being the less to watch
me with mournful and silently appealing looks!’--O God! It was not
strange--it was not wonderful if madness were beginning even then to
undermine the strong tower of my reason!

“Scarcely were the remains of my mother-in-law consigned to the tomb,
when the extortioner reappeared at the house. His demands increased
in proportion to the concessions which were made to him by my fears;
but I was totally unable to comply with his present exigences. It is
true that there was much property still left;--but it was settled on
my wife--and I could not command from my own resources the sum needed.
This I candidly told him, and besought him to be merciful;--yes, with
tears in my eyes did I beseech him. The wretch! the monster! what
cared he for my grief--my anguish? He desired me to have recourse
to a discounter--gave me the address of a money-lender--and said he
should return on the following evening. Accordingly--impelled by my
wretched, wretched destiny--I visited the money-lender, who advanced
me three thousand pounds on my own acceptance, and at most usurious
interest. The whole of that money found its way into the pocket of the
extortioner; and when he had taken his departure, I fell down in a fit.
For days and days did I keep my bed; and when I awoke to consciousness,
it was from a delirium. My dear wife was seated by my bed-side; but, O
God!--how pale--how altered--how wan she was with long vigils and deep
grief! I questioned her guardedly to ascertain whether in my ravings
I had betrayed my secret: but I learnt, beyond all doubt, that I had
_not_. Then I began to breathe more freely; and she, throwing her
arms about my neck, exclaimed, while tears streamed in torrents down
her cheeks, ‘My beloved husband, you have some dreadful grief preying
upon your mind. May I not be made your confidant? I have observed that
always after the visits of the man who calls every now and then, and
invariably in the evening, you are stricken as with a heavy affliction.
Oh! what does it all mean?--I endeavoured to console her--to soothe
her--to reassure her as well as I could; but I saw that she only
pretended to be solaced, for my sake!

“Well--I recovered: but happiness and I had shaken hands for ever. I
felt as if I were followed about by an invisible demon, whose breath
poisoned the very atmosphere that I breathed. I know that my brain was
reeling--that my reason was tottering that I was going mad! Often did
I think seriously of murdering my wife and child, and putting an end
to my own existence. But I dared not lay violent hands upon _them_;
and I had too much moral courage still left to seek death so long as
there remained a single tie, however feeble, to bind me to life. But
a new misfortune was in store for me--for _us_. A solicitor in whom I
and my wife trusted, obtained our signatures to certain deeds under
the foulest representations; and by virtue thereof he sold out all the
stock standing in Editha’s name in the Bank. He then absconded; and
we were suddenly reduced from affluence to comparative penury. I was
unable to honour my acceptance; and the discounter would listen to no
terms. He said that he had passed it away in the regular course of
business, and could not take it up himself. I was arrested and thrown
into prison. My friends deserted me, believing that wanton extravagance
on my part had led to this catastrophe. Yes: all save my beloved wife
deserted me--and she, the angel! remained faithful to me! We had two
hundred and fifty pounds a year still left; and on the houses which
produced this income, my wife insisted on raising the money necessary
to obtain my release. But such a proceeding would have left us beggars;
and I could not endure the idea of misery for one--two--three persons!
No: the property was so secured that my creditor could not touch
it--and I resolved, by the advice of an attorney, to apply for relief
to the Insolvents’ Court. I did so; and the creditor opposed me on the
ground of extravagance. I could give no account of the manner in which
I had disposed of the money he had advanced me--and when the opposing
counsel asked me, on my oath, whether I had not lost it at gambling,
I greedily snapped at the means of explanation thus furnished,
and perjured myself by the utterance of an affirmative. Oh! that
miscreant extortioner!--he drove me to ruin--a prison--the Insolvents’
Court--perjury--and lastly to a mad-house! Great God! how can I write
thus tranquilly when I think of all the wrongs that I have endured?

       *       *       *       *       *

  “_July 23rd, 1846._

“I have been compelled to desist again: but at length I resume my
pen. My ideas are rapidly becoming more settled: I think that I shall
recover altogether, if I can but manage to escape from this place!

“I stated that I appeared at the Insolvents’ Court, and was opposed
by the holder of the bill for three thousand pounds. The Commissioner
remanded me to prison for twelve months as a punishment for wanton and
profligate expenditure. I shall not dwell upon that long incarceration:
it was horrible to a sensitive soul like mine. Even Editha, patient and
loving as she was, failed to solace me altogether. There were intervals
of anguish so bitter that I fancied myself at times to be already dead
and enduring the torments of hell. Dreadful thought! But at length the
time passed--and I was once more free. We took a neat little cottage
in the suburbs of the metropolis; and tranquility seemed to have been
restored to us at last. Our son throve gloriously: Oh! what a handsome
boy he became--what a handsome boy he must be now! Nearly two yeas
passed--and I was recovering my mental serenity, when one day I met
the extortioner in the street. Oh! what a cold shudder came over me as
I saw his eyes fixed upon me! It seemed as if a horrible spectre had
suddenly started up from the earth to horrify and appal me. I beheld
_Ruin_ personified; and a faintness came over me. But I was recalled
to a poignant sense of my misery by the well-known voice, that fell
upon my ears, making fresh demands upon my purse. I took the man into
an obscure public-house close by; and, as there was no one in the
room save ourselves at the time, we could converse freely upon the
business. Freely, indeed! when every word he uttered fell like drops
of molten lead upon my heart--and every syllable I breathed in return
hissed from my parched tongue like water passing over red hot iron!
What could I do? The fiend insisted upon having money, and swore that
he would follow me home. He, however, measured his demands to my means,
and insisted upon having three hundred pounds by a given hour the next
evening. We parted--and I saw that he dogged me: indeed, he did not
attempt to conceal himself nor his intentions as he followed me until I
entered my own door--and I knew that it was useless either to turn upon
him in a hostile manner, or to attempt to baffle his aim.

[Illustration]

“Heaven only knows how I contrived to explain to my wife the reason
of my altered appearance--or rather, how I managed to conceal the
real cause beneath a falsehood. But I did succeed in reassuring her
somewhat; and on the following day I went to the discounter--the same
discounter who had lent me money before--to ask him for a loan. It
was a desperate step, taken by a desperate man: but, to my surprise,
he consented without the slightest hesitation to accommodate me. I
received the money--gave my note of hand--and paid the amount to the
extortioner. But things had now reached a crisis with me--and I became
so unsettled in my mind that Editha was seriously alarmed. I remember
that my brother, the magistrate, was sent for; and he visited the house
after having been long estranged from me. Then a mist came over my
memory; and, when I awoke, I was--here!

“Yes--here, where I now pen these lines! Oh! I have been mad--raving
mad; and Heaven knows that I have endured enough to make me so. Such
persecution could only end in insanity. But I am better now: nay--I
am well--although my friends will not believe it. My brother was here
yesterday; and I saw by the way in which he humoured me when I told
him I was fast recovering my reason, that he still imagines me to be
insane. I implored him to let me see Editha and my boy: he declared
that I should have that pleasure next Sunday. He likewise told me that
they were well in health, but deeply grieved on my account.

“Now I have made up my mind how to act. I shall escape from this
horrible place, and proceed to France. There I shall adopt an assumed
name--and thence I shall write to Editha to join me at once with our
son. We shall be beyond the reach of the extortioner--and tranquil,
if not happy days may yet await us. Yes--this is my hope! But shall I
destroy the manuscript upon which I have laboured so arduously, and
which has furnished me with an occupation that has done me so much
good? No: I cannot consent to annihilate the papers which contain a
narrative so fraught with awful warning. But does it not likewise
contain my secret?--and is not my name mentioned in the course of the
recital? Hark! footsteps approach--I must conceal my papers----”




CHAPTER CLXXXIX.

SCENES IN THE LUNATIC ASYLUM.


Thus terminated the extraordinary manuscript which Lord William
Trevelyan found in the wardrobe, and the perusal of which occupied him
nearly two hours.

He was undecided how to dispose of the papers. Should he return
them to the place where they had been concealed?--should he destroy
them?--should he take them away with him, in the hope of being one day
enabled to discover their writer, and by restoring them to him convince
him that they had fallen into the possession of an honourable man, who,
though having had the curiosity to read them, would, nevertheless,
religiously keep the secret which they contained?

For, from the abrupt termination of the manuscript, Lord William very
naturally concluded that the unfortunate author had succeeded in
effecting his escape from the lunatic-asylum very shortly after he
had penned the last words in the narrative; and the young nobleman,
therefore, considered it to be possible, though perhaps not very
probable, that he might sooner or later encounter Mr. Macdonald in the
great and busy world.

Lord William had likewise another motive for retaining the papers.

The reader has seen enough of him to be aware that there was in his
disposition much of the same chivalrous spirit and philanthropic
principle which characterised the Earl of Ellingham; and it was
therefore natural that he should become suddenly impressed with the
idea of adopting measures, in due course, for the purpose of fully
exposing the atrocious system of quackery that was carried on by
pseudo-medical advertisers.

He remembered that the newspapers contained many advertisements
announcing such works as the one which had proved the means of
ensnaring the unfortunate Mr. Macdonald; and he was resolved to lose
no time in employing his solicitor to institute all the necessary
inquiries into the characters, histories, proceedings, and social
positions of the scoundrels who thus accumulated large fortunes by
means of the most atrocious quackery, deceit, rascality, and extortion.

The manuscript which chance had this night thrown in his way, contained
so many important particulars, and furnished such a complete clue to
the entire ramifications of the dark iniquity which the young nobleman
was determined to expose, that he regarded it as a powerful auxiliary
to the crusade he was about to undertake; and this consideration, added
to the motives already mentioned, decided him in retaining possession
of the document.

It was now one o’clock in the morning; and a profound silence reigned
throughout the lunatic asylum.

Lord William noiselessly opened the door of his chamber, and looked
forth into the long passage, which was partially lighted by a single
lamp that had been left burning.

No living being was to be seen; and nothing disturbed the dead
stillness of the hour and the place.

It now struck the young nobleman that the door of the chamber which he
was anxious to enter--namely, No. 12, in the same passage as his own
apartment--was most probably locked; and, in this case, he made up his
mind to force it at all risks.

A little farther reflection suggested to him that, inasmuch as he
had seen the housekeeper with only a single key in her hand, it was
probable that this key was a pass to all the chambers; and he thence
inferred that the key of his own room might perhaps fit the lock of the
door belonging to No. 12.

At all events this was the first experiment that he resolved to try;
and, without any longer delay, he proceeded as cautiously as possible
down the passage, until he reached the chamber which he hoped and
believed to be the one occupied by his friend.

There was a bolt outside the door: this was immediately drawn
back;--and Trevelyan essayed the key.

To his indescribable joy, the key turned easily in the lock; and, with
a beating heart, the nobleman entered the room--closing the door behind
him.

The chamber was quite dark: but Trevelyan speedily groped his way to
the window and drew aside the curtains, so as to permit the powerful
moonlight to pour its silver flood into the room.

He now approached the bed--and there, to his delight, he beheld the
well-known, though worn and wasted, countenance of his friend Sir
Gilbert Heathcote, who was wrapped in slumber.

Lord William shook him gently; the baronet awoke with a sudden start
and ejaculation; but at the same instant a friendly voice said,
hurriedly, “Fear nothing! ’tis I--Trevelyan--and I am come to deliver
you from this accursed place.”

Sir Gilbert, who had raised his head from the pillow, fell back again,
and closed his eyes for a few moments. He fancied that he was dreaming.
He could not believe that those welcome words had in reality sounded in
his ears, or that the moonlight had shown him the form of his friend by
the bed-side.

Trevelyan did not choose to interrupt the baronet’s reverie
immediately; he comprehended the prudence of allowing him to collect
his scattered ideas, and compose his thoughts.

“Is it really you, my dear young friend?” Sir Gilbert asked abruptly;
and, starting up in the bed, he seized Trevelyan’s hand, and gazed
fixedly upon his countenance.

“Yes, it is no dream,” responded Lord William, pressing the baronet’s
hand with all the fervour of his generous friendship; “I am here to
effect your escape, and there is no time to be lost.”

Still the baronet could scarcely believe the joyful announcement thus
made to him; and Trevelyan, duly impressed with the necessity of
tranquilising and reassuring his friend’s mind as much as possible ere
the attempt at departure should be made,--fearing likewise that the
baronet’s intellect had been somewhat impaired by the sense of wrong
and the horrors of imprisonment in a lunatic asylum,--began to speak
upon such topics as were calculated to direct his thoughts into a
salutary channel.

“My dear Heathcote,” he said, “endeavour to call to your aid as much
calmness and self-possession as possible; for a single inadvertence
or false step may ruin our project by alarming the house. Remember
that the place is as well protected and defended, and probably as well
watched, as a gaol: and we must proceed with caution--courage--and
coolness.”

“But how did you find your way into the establishment?” enquired Sir
Gilbert, his ideas becoming more settled.

“By pretending to be insane,” answered Trevelyan; “and I have succeeded
in thoroughly duping the Doctor.”

“Oh! my generous--my noble-hearted friend!” exclaimed the baronet: “how
can I ever sufficiently prove my gratitude----”

“Hush! speak not with excitement!” interrupted Trevelyan. “I am only
doing towards you what you would unhesitatingly perform for me under
the same circumstances. And now--as I am anxious to relieve your
mind as much as possible from any uneasiness or suspense that it may
experience--I must at once inform you that Mrs. Sefton is in good
health, and at this moment in the happy expectation of shortly seeing
you again; for she is aware of the scheme which I have adopted to
restore you to liberty.”

“Heaven be thanked for these assurances!” exclaimed Sir Gilbert: then,
after a few moments’ pause, he said, “I need scarcely ask you to
explain how you became acquainted with Mrs. Sefton. She was no stranger
to the friendship subsisting between you and me--and I therefore
conclude that, alarmed by my sudden and inexplicable disappearance, she
sought your counsel and assistance.”

“All has occurred precisely as you conjecture,” answered Trevelyan.
“But do you now feel equal to the task----”

“Of making an effort to recover my freedom?” ejaculated Sir Gilbert,
leaping from the couch. “Let us not lose another moment! The atmosphere
of this place seems oppressive, and heavy to breathe. I pant--I
yearn--I long for liberty.”

Thus speaking, the baronet began hastily to put on his attire, and in a
few minutes he was dressed.

“Now,” said Trevelyan, “we must decide upon the course to be adopted.
Doubtless there is a porter to keep watch all night in the hall?” he
added, interrogatively.

“Yes,” answered Sir Gilbert: “and I am also certain that a man patrols
the garden. Besides, the keepers inside the house are as wakeful and as
watchful as the fiends of Pandemonium; and the least noise will bring
half-a-dozen strong and desperate fellows upon us. For my part, I have
not the slightest objection to embrace the alternative of fighting our
way through all opposition----”

“But the consequences of defeat would be most disastrous,” interrupted
Trevelyan. “The Doctor would thereby gain an excuse for coercing both
you and me; and although I am as it were my own prisoner, yet I have
sworn not to quit these walls unless accompanied by you.”

“Generous friend!” exclaimed Sir Gilbert. “Were we well armed, we might
bid defiance to the Doctor and all his gang: but weaponless--powerless
as we are----”

“Do not despond, Heathcote,” said Trevelyan, observing that the baronet
spoke in a mournful tone: “the task that I have undertaken, I will
accomplish! There appear to me to be two modes of procedure. The first
is to descend as noiselessly as possible to the hall--seize upon the
porter--master him--and then effect our escape by the front-door. The
other is to force away the bars from the window of this room--make
a rope of the bed-clothing--descend into the garden--and take our
chance with the watchman. Either project is attended with the risk of
creating an alarm: but it is for you to decide, from your knowledge of
the premises and the habits of its inmates, which scheme is the more
feasible.”

“The former,” responded Sir Gilbert, after a few moments’ deep
reflection. “The watchman in the garden would probably observe us at
the window, removing the bars; and an alarm would thus be raised even
before we were prepared to attempt an escape by those means. On the
other hand, the porter sleeps in the hall:--of _this_ fact I am well
assured, because I saw the bed temporarily made up for him there on the
night that I was brought hither:--therefore our chances of success lie
in that direction.”

“Such also is my idea,” observed Trevelyan. “Let us proceed at
once--and permit me to take the lead.”

The young nobleman and the baronet stole cautiously forth from the
chamber, treading so lightly that their steps raised not a sound to
disturb the silence which prevailed throughout the establishment.

They descended to the first floor in safety: and there they paused for
a few minutes on the landing, listening with suspended breath.

The deep and regular respiration of the porter now reached their ears
from the hall below; and they thus obtained the assurance that the man
slumbered.

Exchanging looks of satisfaction, they descended the last flight
of stairs;--and, by the hall lamp, they perceived the porter
comfortably ensconced in a truckle-bed that was made up for him in a
convenient corner. The light fell on his rubicund countenance, which
was surmounted by a cotton nightcap: but the brawny arm that lay
outside the coverlid, and the tracing of his form as shaped by the
bed-clothes, showed full well that he was a man of herculean stature
and proportionate strength.

Nothing daunted--but resolving upon a desperate effort to accomplish
the purpose he had in view--Lord William Trevelyan led the way into
the hall; and he had just ascertained the fact that there was a bunch
of large keys peeping forth from beneath the sleeping porter’s pillow,
when the door of the supper-room suddenly opened, and Mr. Sheepshanks
staggered forth.

The reverend gentleman carried a candle in his hand; and, by his
flushed countenance, vacant stare, and unsteady walk, he was evidently
in a pretty advanced state of intoxication. In fact--and there is no
necessity to disguise the matter--the pious minister had sate up to
enjoy himself alone; and he had carried his libations to such an extent
that he was now, at two o’clock in the morning, most awfully drunk.

The moment Lord William caught sight of the inebriate minister, he
sprang upon him--placed his hand tightly over his mouth--and, thrusting
him back into the supper-room, said in a low but hasty and threatening
tone, “Move hence at your peril!”

He then closed and locked the door.

But in the short and decided scuffle an untoward accident had occurred.

The candlestick had dropped from Mr. Sheepshanks’ hand on the marble
floor of the hall; and the consequence was that the porter sprang up,
and was out of bed in a trice.

Sir Gilbert Heathcote rushed upon him: but not in time to prevent the
man from springing a huge rattle and crying, “Help! help!”

Lord William Trevelyan hesitated not a moment how to act. He darted to
the truckle-bed--seized the keys from beneath the pillow--and sprang to
the door, leaving Sir Gilbert Heathcote wrestling desperately with the
porter.

The reader will remember that there were two doors; and the young
nobleman had only just time to open the first or inner one, when a
rapid glance cast behind showed him his friend Sir Gilbert upon the
floor, completely overpowered by the huge porter, who had placed his
knee upon the baronet’s chest.

It was Trevelyan’s hope that his friend would have been able to keep
the porter engaged in the struggle until he could have opened both the
doors, when he would have turned to the scene of strife, to rescue the
baronet; but scarcely had he observed that Sir Gilbert was already
vanquished, when four of the keepers rushed down stairs into the hall.

With the rapidity and force of a tiger springing upon its prey, Lord
William rushed on the huge porter, hurled him to a distance, and raised
up the prostrate baronet.

All this was the work of an instant: but in another moment the keepers
sprang upon the two friends, and closed with them.

The baronet was again borne down; but Trevelyan, who now saw that
the conflict was really becoming desperate, used the bunch of heavy
door-keys with such effect that he speedily disabled the two keepers
who had assailed him,--stretching one senseless on the floor, and
compelling the other to beat a retreat with the blood pouring down his
face.

To turn his attention to the two men who were dragging away Sir Gilbert
Heathcote, was the intrepid young nobleman’s next step; and in a few
moments the baronet, once more rescued from the enemy, was by the side
of his intrepid friend.

“Take the keys and open the front door!” cried Trevelyan, impetuously
pushing Sir Gilbert towards that extremity of the hall where the means
of egress lay. “Escape, in the name of heaven!--think not of me!”

And having thrust the keys into his friend’s hand, Lord William seized
the Doctor’s gold-headed cane, which hung to a hat-peg in the hall;
and placing himself between the front-door and the keepers, he cried,
“Beware how you provoke me--for I shall not hesitate to defend myself
to the death!”

But scarcely were these words uttered, when the two keepers from whom
he had rescued the baronet, returned to the charge, aided by the burly
porter.

The foremost was instantaneously felled by a blow vigorously dealt
with the cane; and, following up his advantage quickly as the eye can
wink, Trevelyan darted at the other keeper, whom he also levelled on
the spot. But in the next moment the gallant young nobleman was in the
grasp of the porter; and, dropping the cane as no longer useful in a
close tussle, he addressed himself with all his might to this last and
most desperate single combat.

The scene was very exciting; and all that we have yet described since
the first moment that the conflict commenced, did not occupy more than
two minutes.

Scarcely had the intrepid nobleman and the herculean porter closed
together, when the Doctor, attired in his dressing-gown and slippers,
and with his cotton night-cap on his head, appeared at the bottom of
the stairs, holding a chamber-candle in his hand.

At the same instant Sir Gilbert Heathcote had succeeded in opening the
front door; and the morning breeze poured into the hall, in a manner
doubtless highly refreshing to the porter, who, be it remembered, had
nothing on but his shirt--_his_ cap having fallen off in the conflict
which he had maintained with the baronet in the first instance.

Two of the discomfited keepers, animated by the presence of the
Doctor--or perhaps rendered ashamed of their pusillanimity--now
returned to the attack upon Trevelyan, who was just on the point of
hurling the porter to the ground. But Sir Gilbert, having made the
entrance free, rushed back to help his friend; and the contest was
again renewed with desperate energy,--the other two keepers, who had by
this time recovered their senses, joining in the struggle.

And hard would it have gone with Trevelyan and the baronet against such
odds, had not two new-comers suddenly appeared upon the scene.

For, the front door standing wide open, and the lamp being alight in
the hall, two gentlemen who were passing by the house at the time
beheld the extraordinary proceedings that were taking place within;
and the foremost, perceiving in an instant that the odds were two to
five,--namely, Trevelyan and the baronet against the four keepers and
the porter,--exclaimed at the top of a stentorian voice, “Be Jasus!
Frank, and we’ll just give a helping hand to the waker side!”

With these words, the redoubtable Captain O’Blunderbuss--nerved
with all the courage attributed by Sir Walter Scott to Lord
Marmion--“plunged into the fight.”

Or, in less poetical language, he darted into the hall--levelled the
herculean porter with a well-directed blow between the eyes--and sent
a couple of keepers sprawling over the aforesaid porter in an instant.

Frank Curtis, having imbibed just sufficient poteen to subdue his
habitual cowardice and arm him with the bastard though not the less
effectual valour which strong drink inspires, unhesitatingly followed
the example of his gallant leader, and bore his part in the fray; so
that in less than a minute a complete diversion was effected in favour
of Lord William Trevelyan and Sir Gilbert Heathcote, the enemy being
utterly discomfited.

“Villains! murderers! robbers!” shouted the infuriate Doctor, as loud
as he could bawl; and then the screams and shrieks of the affrighted
female servants were heard echoing from the stairs and landing-places.

“Let us depart!” cried Lord William Trevelyan; and, in a very few
moments, he pushed the baronet, the captain, and Frank Curtis, out of
the front door,--he himself pausing only for a single second to secure
the keys.

In another instant he was outside the house; and closing the door
behind him, he locked it so as to prevent the Doctor and his myrmidons
from instituting an immediate pursuit.

“Be Jasus! and this is the rummest lar-r-k I iver had in all my life!”
ejaculated Captain O’Blunderbuss, panting for breath.

“Come with us, gentlemen,” said Lord William, hastily addressing that
gallant officer and Frank Curtis: “you have rendered us a signal
service--and we must know you better. We have likewise certain
necessary explanations to give you relative to the strange scene in
which you took so generous a part. But come away directly--there is not
a moment to be lost--a hue and cry may be raised!”

“Be the power-rs! and is it bur-r-glars ye are?” cried the Captain,
somewhat regretting the precipitation with which he had mixed himself
up in the late affray.

“No--no: far from _that_!” exclaimed Lord William, laughing heartily
at the idea. “But let us get as quickly as we can out of this
neighbourhood.”

And away the four gentlemen scampered into the Cambridge Road, down
which they sped until they reached Mile End, where they fortunately
found a night-cab waiting for a fare.

Into the vehicle they got; and Lord William Trevelyan exclaimed, as an
instruction to the driver, “Park Square, Regent’s Park!”

Away the cab went; and both Captain O’Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis,
who had heard the aristocratic address thus given, were seized with an
insatiable curiosity to learn who their new acquaintances could be.




CHAPTER CXC.

A SCENE IN A CAB.


“Ginthlemen,” exclaimed the gallant Irishman, “I mane to inthroduce
myself and frind to ye without any more bother or pother. My frind,
then, ginthlemen, is Misther Frank Cur-r-tis--discinded from a fine
family, and once possissed of large estates, all of which, be Jasus!
he’s managed to ate up as clane as if dirthy acres were plum-pudding.
My name, ginthlemen, is Capthain O’Bluntherbuss, of Bluntherbuss Park,
Connemar-r-ra--where I shall be delighted to see ye any time ye may be
afther visiting Ould Ireland and I’m at home.”

“Permit me to shake hands with you, Captain O’Blunderbuss,” said the
young nobleman; “and with you also, Mr. Curtis. You have rendered me
and my friend a service which we cannot easily forget.”

“And which we shall never seek to forget,” added the baronet,
emphatically; and then there was a general shaking of hands inside the
cab.

Lord William Trevelyan next proceeded to inform his new friends who he
and Sir Gilbert Heathcote were; and the reader may conceive the huge
delight experienced by Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis when
they found themselves in the company of a real nobleman and a real
baronet.

“And now, my lor-r-d,” said the gallant officer, “will ye be so
obleeging as to explain to us what house that was where all the pother
took place, and what was the maning of the pother itself: for, be the
holy poker-r! I can’t make head or tail of it!”

“The fact is,” responded Lord William Trevelyan, “it was a mad-house.”

“A mad-house!” ejaculated Mr. Frank Curtis, starting as if stung by a
serpent lurking in the straw at the bottom of the cab--while a cold
tremor came over him; for it instantly struck him that he and his Irish
companion had been instrumental in the escape of a couple of lunatics.

“A mad-house!” repeated the Captain, immediately entertaining the same
idea, although not sharing the apprehensions of his friend.

“Neither more nor less,” continued Trevelyan, perfectly unaware of the
impression which his words had produced upon the two gentlemen: for, as
the inside of the cab was quite dark, he could not observe the change
that took place in their countenances.

“You--you--don’t mean to--to--say,” stammered Curtis, fidgetting
uncommonly, and thrusting his hand outside the window to grasp
the handle of the door: for he began to think that the sooner he
emancipated himself from the cab, the better;--“you--you----”

“Hould your tongue, ye spalpeen!” vociferated the Captain, who, fully
acquainted with the character of his friend, guessed pretty accurately
all that was passing in his mind: for the worthy Irishman, on his part,
was determined not to separate from his new friends, whether they were
lunatics or not, until he had ascertained if any thing was to be got
out of them either in the shape of money or whiskey, or both;--“hould
your tongue, ye spalpeen! and let’s hear what his lor-rdship has to say
upon the matther.”

“Well, as I was informing you, gentlemen,” resumed Trevelyan,
who considered that a proper explanation was fully due to those
who had acted such a gallant part in the late proceedings, “the
house whence you just now so effectually aided us to escape, is a
lunatic-asylum--and the men against whom you fought were the keepers.”

“And who--who were the--the--lunatics?” asked Frank Curtis, perspiring
at every pore--for the effects of the whiskey which he had been
drinking were completely absorbed in the terror that now influenced him.

“Be Jasus! and I won’t have such questions put to my intimate frind
his lor-r-dship, and my parthicular frind the baronet!“ ejaculated
Captain O’Blunderbuss, bestowing upon Frank’s ribs such an unmerciful
nudge with his elbow that the gentleman who was made the recipient of
the said poke writhed horribly in his seat. “Prosade, sir--my lor-r-d,
I mane,” added the gallant officer, who, in spite of his civility
towards the nobleman and the baronet, firmly believed that they were
lunatics, and had usurped titles to which they had not the slightest
claim nor right.

“Your companion asked me who were the lunatics,” said Trevelyan,
beginning to be somewhat astonished at the manner of his new friends:
“well, to tell you the candid truth, myself and Sir Gilbert Heathcote
were supposed to be--although I leave you both to judge whether there
could have been the slightest ground for such an idea.”

“O Lord!--O Lord!” murmured Frank Curtis; and again his hand, which he
had withdrawn when the captain nudged him, was thrust out of the window
to grasp the door-latch.

“Are you unwell, my dear sir?” inquired Sir Gilbert Heathcote, in
a tone of much concern--for, being seated precisely opposite to
Curtis, he had heard the murmured ejaculations which had escaped that
individual’s lips.

“Yes--very,” replied Frank, with a hollow groan.

“Be asy, thin, can’t ye?” whispered the Captain savagely in his ear, at
the same time favouring him with another barbarous nudge in the ribs.
“Oh! it’s nothln’ at all, at all, with my frind, I can assure ye, my
lor-r-d and Sir Gilbert,” exclaimed the gallant officer aloud: “he’s
throubled with whazing in the throat when he’s been afther dhrinking an
exthra dhrop of potheen--and may be the motion of the cab don’t quite
agree with him, bad luck to his nonsense! Well, my lor-r-d, ye were
afther telling us that your lor-r-dship’s ownself and Sir Gilbert were
belaved to be the lunatics?”

“Just so,” answered Trevelyan; “and had not the affair proved a very
serious one to my friend Heathcote, I should be inclined to laugh at
the ludicrous manner in which it terminated. Heathcote was immured
in that asylum under most treacherous circumstances a short time
ago--although, I need scarcely inform you, there was not the slightest
pretense for the imputation of insanity----”

“Be the holy poker-r! and any one that’s blind could see that same!”
ejaculated Captain O’Blunderbuss.

“O Lord!” again moaned Frank Curtis; and he slily and stealthily turned
the handle of the cab door.

“Determined to rescue my friend,” continued Lord William Trevelyan,
“I induced two medical gentlemen, who are under some obligations to
me, and whom I admitted into my confidence, to sign the necessary
certificates to consign me to a lunatic asylum----”

“O Lord--O Lord!” groaned Curtis, more deeply than before; for even if
he had hitherto entertained any doubt as to the state of Trevelyan’s
mind, the singular averment just made was quite sufficient to confirm
him in the opinion that he was in company with a decided lunatic.

“What the divvel ails ye, man?” growled Captain O’Blunderbuss.
“Prosade, my lor-r-d. I’m dapely intherested in your lor-rdship’s
narrative.”

“Having thus obtained the certificates,” continued Trevelyan, “I
tutored my valet how to act--and he accordingly consigned me to the
care of Dr. Swinton--the old gentleman whom you saw in a dressing-gown
and night-cap at the foot of the stairs.”

“An arrant ould scounthrel, I’ve no doubt,” interjected the Captain.

“It was necessary, under the circumstances,” resumed Trevelyan, “to
fight Sir Gilbert’s enemies with their own weapons. Cunning against
cunning--duplicity against duplicity! That was the plan I adopted; and
I affected insanity so well, that the Doctor was completely deceived.”

“Be the power-rs! this is excellent,” ejaculated Captain O’Blunderbuss.
“It’s not ivery one that could desayve a mad-docthor so well.”

“I really believe that he imagined me to be as mad as a March hare,”
said Trevelyan.

“And so you are!” yelled forth Frank Curtis, suddenly throwing the door
wide open and making a desperate attempt to leap from the cab, even at
the risk of breaking his neck or fracturing his skull--for his terrors
had risen to such a pitch that confinement in the vehicle along with
two persons whom he firmly believed to be downright mad-men, had become
utterly unendurable:--but the iron grasp of the Captain clutched him
by the back part of his collar just as he was on the point of bounding
franticly forth into the road--and he was compelled, not however
without a struggle, to resume his seat.

This proceeding on the part of Frank Curtis suddenly opened the eyes
of both Trevelyan and the baronet to the impressions which the recent
proceedings had unmistakeably and naturally made on the minds of
their new friends: as if a light had darted in upon them, they now
comprehended the cause of Frank Curtis’s singular manner almost ever
since they first entered the vehicle;--and they likewise perceived
(though they did not rightly interpret) the courtesy which had not only
rendered Captain O’Blunderbuss so good a listener to the explanations
given by Trevelyan, but had also prompted him to silence and coerce his
companion as much as possible.

Accordingly, Trevelyan and Sir Gilbert Heathcote simultaneously broke
out into such a hearty fit of laughter that Frank Curtis began to
console himself with the idea that they were at least harmless; while
Captain O’Blunderbuss set them down as the merriest lunatics he had
ever encountered in all his life, and joined with unfeigned cordiality
in their glee.

“And so you really thought that we were mad?” exclaimed Trevelyan, as
soon as he could compose himself sufficiently to speak.

“Oh! not at all, at all!” cried the Captain.

“But Mr. Curtis firmly believes that we are neither more nor less than
lunatics?” said the young nobleman, enjoying the scene.

“Be Jasus! and if he darrs insulth your lor-rdship and your
lor-rdship’s frind by even suspicting such a thing, he shall mate me
to-morrow mornin’ at twelve paces on Wimbledon Common!” exclaimed the
gallant and warlike gentleman.

“Really you excite yourself too much in our behalf, Captain,” observed
Trevelyan, who saw plainly enough that O’Blunderbuss was adopting
just such a tone and manner as one would use to conciliate and soothe
lunatics. “Now tell us the truth, my dear sir,” continued the young
nobleman: “do you not think that if we are actually and positively
crazy, you and Mr. Curtis cannot boast of being perfectly sane?”

“Be Jasus! and that same is precisely what I’ve often been afther
thinking!” cried the Captain, determined to humour the supposed
lunatics as much as possible. “As for Frank Curtis here, he’s as mad as
the Irish pig that wouldn’t go one particular way save and excipt at
such times that it belaved it was being driv another. As for meself,
bad luck to me! I’m not blind to my own failings--and I know purty well
that I’m as cracked as any damned ould laky tay-kettle.”

The accommodating humour of Captain O’Blunderbuss, who unhesitatingly
pronounced himself and his friend Mr. Curtis to be insane, under the
impression that such an admission would prove highly gratifying to
those to whom it was made, produced such an effect upon the young
nobleman and the baronet, that they became almost convulsed with
laughter: and it was indeed fortunate that this scene occurred,
inasmuch as its extreme ludicrousness tended materially to raise the
spirits of Sir Gilbert Heathcote after the wrongs he had suffered and
the incarceration he had endured.

It is impossible to say how long the equivoque and the consequent
hilarity would have lasted, had not the cab suddenly stopped in front
of a handsome house in Park square.

“Now,” thought both Captain O’Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis at the
same time, “we shall see the bubble burst very shortly; and it will
transpire who our two mad friends really are.”

The summons at the front-door was speedily answered by the appearance
of Fitzgeorge in his plain clothes and a couple of footmen in livery,
all of whom had waited up the whole night in expectation of the
probable return of their master.

As for Fitzgeorge, he ran up to the door of the cab, and perceiving Sir
Gilbert inside, exclaimed with unaffected delight, “Thank God! your
lordship’s scheme has proved triumphant!”

At these words Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis uttered
involuntary ejaculations of astonishment: for they began to think that
one of their new friends was really a nobleman after all, and that they
might neither of them prove to be lunatics in the long run.

Leaping from the cab, Trevelyan invited the gallant gentleman and his
companion to enter the house, observing, with a laugh, “However insane
we may all be, we will at least exercise the common prudence of taking
a little refreshment after all the hard work and momentous proceedings
of the night.”

In a few instants the Captain and Frank found themselves conducted into
an elegantly furnished apartment, in the midst of which was a table
laid out with costly plate, and spread with a cold repast consisting
of dainties that made their months water even to gaze upon. It was
likewise a source of great satisfaction to the two gentlemen to behold
a buffet well stored with wine and spirits, amongst which latter the
Captain had no difficulty in recognising some poteen of the real
orthodox colour.

The nobleman and his guests took their seats at table, and did
ample justice alike to viands and to wine. Indeed, it was amazingly
refreshing to behold the appetite with which the Captain and Frank
Curtis addressed themselves to the former, and the zest with which they
partook of the latter. They no longer believed that either Trevelyan
or Sir Gilbert was mad; and when the former gave them the whole
particulars of the story which he had only half finished in the cab,
they laughed heartily at the misconceptions they had formed.

Under the influence of the poteen, which was duly produced after
supper,--if supper such a meal could called, as it was now long past
three o’clock in the morning,--the Captain and Frank Curtis became
particularly talkative; when it appeared that, existing under grievous
apprehension of certain formidable beings denominated “sheriff’s
officers,” they had hired lodgings in the classic region of Globe
Town, and that, having spent the evening and best portion of the night
at a public-house in the Hackney Road, they were taking a short cut
homeward, past the Doctor’s house, when they became the witnesses of
the scene wherein they immediately after bore so distinguished a part.

From these and other revelations, which the Captain purposely
suffered to ooze out as if quite unintentionally, Trevelyan and Sir
Gilbert gleaned sufficient to convince them that their new friends
were “gentlemen under a cloud;” and they were not sorry at having
ascertained a fact which at once placed them in a position to testify
their gratitude for the services of the night.

Accordingly, after exchanging a few words in a low tone with Sir
Gilbert, Lord William Trevelyan wrote something upon a slip of paper,
and then addressed Captain O’Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis in the
following manner:--

“You will pardon me, my friends, for the liberty I am about to take
and the observations I am on the point of offering. But it has struck
Sir Gilbert Heathcote and myself, from certain words which fell from
your lips in the excitement of convivial discourse, that you have
experienced some little disappointment respecting the arrival of
remittances; and we shall be alike honoured and rejoiced if you will
permit us to use the freedom of friends under such circumstances. It
is probable that a few hundreds may be of some trifling service to you
at this moment; and it will prove a source of unfeigned delight to Sir
Gilbert and myself if, in return for the generous aid you afforded us,
we can in any way relieve you from a temporary inconvenience.”

Thus speaking, Lord William handed the slip of paper to Captain
O’Blunderbuss, who, hastily glancing at it as he folded it up
preparatory to consignment to his pocket, observed that it was a cheque
for five hundred pounds.

“Be Jasus! my dear frinds,” he exclaimed, addressing himself to the
young nobleman and the baronet, “ye do things in such a handsome way
that I don’t know how to expriss my thanks at all, at all. Curthis, ye
spalpeen!” he cried, suddenly turning round upon his companion, “why
the divvel don’t ye jine in making a spache on the occasion?--since
my lor-r-d and Sir Gilbert have lint us five hunthred pounds to
relave us from our timporary difficulties. But I’ll unthertake to
repay that same, my frinds,” he continued, again addressing his words
directly to Trevelyan and Heathcote, “the moment I resave my rints
from Ould Ir-reland--and bad luck to ’em! So here’s afther wishing us
succiss--and be damned to all mad-docthors, say I!”

Having achieved this beautiful peroration, Captain O’Blunderbuss tossed
off at a single draught the entire contents of a large tumbler of
scalding toddy, and then rose to take his departure.

Frank Curtis, who was in a most glorious state of mental
obfuscation--beholding two Trevelyans, two baronets, two captains,
and heaven only knows how many wax-candles--was with some difficulty
induced to stand upon his legs; and his Irish friend was more troubled
still to make him use the aforesaid legs when he did get upon them.
However, after some little persuasion and more threatening on the part
of the Captain, Frank Curtis suffered himself to be led forth from the
hospitable mansion.

As soon as Trevelyan and Sir Gilbert Heathcote were alone, the former
related to his friend the particulars of the various interviews which
had taken place between himself and Mrs. Sefton--that lady’s discovery
of her daughter Agnes--and her removal to the villa at Bayswater.

The baronet was profoundly agitated--but it was with mingled surprise
and joy--when he heard those tidings relative to Agnes: he rose and
paced the room with uneven steps,--and then, reseating himself,
appeared anxious to make certain revelations--or rather, unbosom his
mind to his young friend. But, feeling perhaps unequal to the task
at that moment, after the long hours of excitement through which he
had just passed, he said, abruptly, “Trevelyan, I have matters of
importance to confide to you: but it shall be for another occasion! I
must now leave you--’tis nearly five o’clock--the morning has dawned
some time--and I am impatient to repair to the villa at Bayswater.”

“Will you not take an hour’s repose before you depart?” inquired Lord
William Trevelyan.

“Oh! I could not close my eyes in sleep again until I have embraced
those who----But pardon me for this excitement--this agitation,”
exclaimed Sir Gilbert, interrupting himself suddenly. “To-morrow I will
tell you all--everything,” he added, pressing Trevelyan’s hand warmly:
“and then you will better comprehend the feelings which move me now.
Farewell, my dear friend, for the present.”

Sir Gilbert was about to take his departure, when Fitzgeorge entered
the room, and addressing himself to his master, said, “My lord, I had
forgotten to inform your lordship that when I returned hither last
evening, after leaving you at Dr. Swinton’s, I found the Marquis of
Delmour waiting----”

“The Marquis of Delmour!” ejaculated Sir Gilbert Heathcote.

“Yes, sir,” replied Fitzgeorge. “The Marquis appeared to be in a very
excited state, and was most anxious to see your lordship,” continued
the valet, again addressing himself to his master. “I assured him that
your lordship was gone out of town, and might not return for a day or
two--whereupon he almost flew into a rage with me for giving him such
information. He paced the room in great agitation, and asked me several
questions relative to any ladies who might visit at the mansion: but I
answered that your lordship was not accustomed to receive visitresses
at all. At length he took his departure, stating that he should call
again in the morning at ten o’clock, and take his chance of finding
your lordship at home.”

“I understand full well the meaning of this visit on the part of the
Marquis,” said Sir Gilbert Heathcote to Trevelyan, when the valet had
retired; “but I have not time for explanations now. My impatience to
repair to Bayswater is intense, unseasonable though the hour is for
arousing ladies from their slumbers. One request I have, however,
to make, my dear Trevelyan,” added the baronet; “and this is, that
you will not, under any circumstances, communicate to the Marquis of
Delmour the address of the villa occupied by Mrs. Sefton and Agnes.”

“Be well assured, my dear friend,” answered the young nobleman, “that
the secret is safe with me.”

The baronet wrung Trevelyan’s hand with the cordial warmth of deep
gratitude and sincere attachment, and then took his departure.

Lord William lay down for a few hours, and enjoyed a sound slumber
until nine o’clock, when he rose and dressed himself to receive the
Marquis of Delmour.

Punctually as the clock struck ten, a handsome carriage drove up to the
door; and the Marquis, hastily alighting, was immediately conducted
into the drawing-room where Trevelyan awaited his presence.




CHAPTER CXCI.

THE OLD MARQUIS AND THE YOUNG LORD.


“My lord, you are a man of honour, I have heard,” began the Marquis,
without any prefatory observations; “and I feel assured that you will
at once relieve me from a most painful state of suspense. Pardon
the excitement which I display--and justify the good opinion I have
conceived of you by giving me without delay the information I am about
to seek. In a word, where is Agnes--my daughter Agnes--the young lady
whom you have seen walking in the garden of the secluded cottage near
Norwood?”

“Is that beautiful creature indeed your lordship’s daughter?” exclaimed
Trevelyan, not altogether surprised at the announcement: for the
agitation which Sir Gilbert Heathcote had shown when the name of the
Marquis of Delmour was mentioned, and the request which he had made to
the effect that the residence of Mrs. Sefton should be kept secret, had
already created in the mind of Lord William a suspicion of the real
truth.

“Yes--Agnes is indeed my daughter--and I am proud of her!” cried the
Marquis. “But I know that she was inveigled away from the cottage
by one who----by her own mother, in fine----and I am likewise aware
that you subsequently entrusted her to the care of a lady of your
acquaintance. This latter information I obtained from a certain Mrs.
Mortimer----”

“The information was correct, my lord,” answered Trevelyan. “And now I
must candidly confess that I have a very difficult part to perform: for
I will not condescend to a falsehood--and I dare not reveal the truth.
This much, however, I unhesitatingly declare--that, by a singular
coincidence, the lady to whom I conducted your lordship’s daughter
proved to be none other than her mother.”

“Her mother! then she is at this moment in the care of that woman?”
ejaculated the Marquis, his excitement increasing: “and you will not
tell me where I can find them?”

“That is the truth which, as I said ere now, I dare not repeat,”
responded Trevelyan, profoundly touched by the evident grief of the old
nobleman.

“Will you be the means of separating a father from his child?” asked
the Marquis, now sinking through exhaustion upon a sofa--for hitherto
he had remained standing, although Trevelyan had twice courteously
indicated the chair that had been placed for his accommodation.

[Illustration]

“Were I to yield to your lordship’s desire,” said the young
nobleman,--“were I to give you the address of--of--”

“Call _her_ Mrs. Sefton, if you will,” interrupted the Marquis,
bitterly: “I know that she passes and has long passed under that name.”

“Well, my lord--were I to give you the address of that lady,” resumed
Trevelyan, “I should be adopting a course calculated to separate a
mother from her child.”

“But that mother is unworthy of being entrusted with the care of her
daughter!” exclaimed the Marquis of Delmour, emphatically.

“My lord, I have not the slightest inclination to enter into matters of
a private nature, and regarding your own family,” said Trevelyan, with
firmness, yet courtesy--and even with commiseration for the sorrow of
the old noble: “much less,” he added, “should I like to be constituted
a judge between your lordship and the Marchioness of Delmour--for such
I presume Mrs. Sefton to be.”

“Without placing your lordship in any disagreeable or invidious
position,” said the Marquis, growing more tranquil as his naturally
powerful mind suggested the utter inutility of giving way to
excitement, “I may yet address you not only in your capacity of
a nobleman endowed with high intelligence and strict notions of
integrity, but also as one who--unless I be much deceived--experiences
an honourable passion for my daughter. Ah! I perceive by your
countenance that such indeed is the sentiment you entertain for Agnes:
and now, therefore, as her father will I address you--as her parent,
her protector, and her natural guardian, I invoke your attention.”

“It would be disrespectful alike to your age and rank, and also to your
position as the father of her whom I sincerely and devotedly love, were
I to refuse to hear whatever your lordship may have to communicate,”
said Trevelyan, after a few moments reflection.

“Thanks--a thousand thanks!” ejaculated the Marquis: “I shall yet move
you in my favour! But tell me--you are acquainted with one whom, if you
please, we will continue to call Mrs. Sefton: has she ever communicated
to you any particulars of her earlier life?”

“Frankly and candidly,” replied the young nobleman, “she has confided
to me a portion of those particulars; and I have this day learnt
sufficient to fill up the few blanks which she left in her narrative.”

“You know, then,” resumed his lordship, “that I wedded her against her
consent: but I knew not at the time--as God is my judge!--that I was
so completely sealing her misery by that marriage. Sophia--that is her
Christian name--was young and beautiful when I first saw her--Oh! so
beautiful that I became madly in love with her: and you may perhaps
be aware that love is selfish--claiming its object at any price, and
at any sacrifice. Her father was in deep pecuniary difficulties--nay,
more--he had done things which would have dishonoured his name and
even endangered his personal safety. I had an enormous fortune at my
command--I told him that I adored his daughter--and he promised me her
hand. On that occasion he concealed from me the fact that the young
lady’s affections were already engaged: indeed, he assured me that
love was as yet a stranger to her bosom, but that she had been struck
by my appearance, although I was so much her senior. The duplicity
of the father was the first fault in that long chain of unpleasant
circumstances and untoward incidents: and, relying on all that he had
thus told me, I at once advanced a hundred thousand pounds to relieve
him from his embarrassments. Soon, however, did I begin to perceive
that my visits were rather tolerated than encouraged by his charming
daughter Sophia; and then I learnt--but not from _her_ lips--that she
loved another. I felt indignant with the father--while I passionately
coveted the daughter; and under the influence of those feelings I
pressed my suit. I was resolved not to be made a dupe by the sire, and
sacrificed by the young lady to a rival. Had she herself frankly and
candidly revealed to me the state of her affections--thrown herself
upon my mercy--appealed to my honour, I should have acted a generous
part, my lord--yes--I should have been generous!”

“But the young lady was coerced by her father, who intimidated her at
one time and ridiculed her at another,” observed Trevelyan: “I remember
full well that she told me of her sire’s unfeeling conduct towards her.”

“Yes--and to me also she made the same revelation, when it was too
late,” continued the Marquis. “However, it was under such inauspicious
circumstances that our marriage took place; and again I appeal to
heaven to attest the truth of my words when I declare that I treated
her with all possible tenderness, affection, and regard.”

“She has done your lordship that justice in narrating those particulars
to me,” remarked Trevelyan.

“But I could not render her happy,” resumed the Marquis: “she was
constantly weeping--and our honeymoon resembled an interval of mourning
after a funeral, rather than a season of felicity succeeding a bridal.
Much as I exerted myself to please her--lavish as I was with money to
procure her the means of recreation and enjoyment--profuse as I became
with the most costly gifts, not only to herself but likewise to all her
relatives and friends, I could never win a smile from her lips. Now
your lordship will admit that this was more than an unpleasant life
to lead--it was absolutely wretched. But your lordship may conceive
the deep vexation which I experienced when, having succeeded on one
occasion in inducing the Marchioness to appear at a ball given by some
friends, I saw her pale countenance suddenly glow with animation and
her eye light up with joy as Gilbert Heathcote advanced to solicit
her hand for a quadrille. And she smiled, too--yes, she smiled--and,
oh! how sweetly upon _him_, as her elegant figure moved with dignity
and grace in the mazy dance. My soul seemed as if it were withering
up within me: I am confident that I must have eyed them with the
ferocity of a lynx. But Sophia appeared to have forgotten that I was
present--that there was such a being in the world as I: her whole
attention was devoted to my rival--her whole thoughts were absorbed in
the pleasure of his society. She danced with him more than once--she
sate next to him at the supper-table--and after the banquet she waltzed
with him. I have ever detested that voluptuous--that licentious--that
indecent dance: but how I loathed--oh! how I loathed it on this
occasion! I tore myself away from the ball-room, and sought a secluded
corner in the card-room. There I endeavoured to reason with myself
upon the absurdity of my jealous rage--of the ridicule to which any
manifestation of the feeling would expose me--and of the contempt I
should inevitably draw down upon myself from my wife, did I allow her
to perceive how much I was annoyed at what she would doubtless consider
a trivial matter. Thus exercising a powerful command over my emotions,
I even assumed a smiling countenance when we returned home, and when I
congratulated her upon having been in such high spirits. But all her
coldness and inanimation had come back, and I thought within myself
that she would not appear thus if Gilbert Heathcote were still in her
society.”

“My lord, pardon me--but wherefore enter into details which only arouse
reminiscences so painful to yourself?” interrupted Trevelyan.

“Bear with me yet a little while,” said the Marquis, speaking in so
mild and plaintive a tone that Lord William could not find it in his
heart to manifest any impatience or any farther disinclination to
hear the old nobleman’s narrative: “bear with me, I say--for I have
a motive in entering into these details,” he continued. “At the same
time, I will not be too prolix, although there are a thousand little
circumstances which recur to my memory, and which might be quoted to
prove how patient and enduring I was under the cruel indifference
wherewith I was treated. But I will content myself by observing
that Sophia smiled only on those occasions when she encountered
Gilbert Heathcote in society or in the fashionable promenades: at
other times she shrouded herself in a species of dreamy apathy. Her
father, perceiving when it was too late how utterly he had wrecked
his daughter’s happiness, died of a broken heart: but, strange to
say, it was not long after this event that Sophia appeared suddenly
to rally a little and seek a more active existence. She began to take
frequent airings in the carriage--grew addicted to shopping--accepted
every invitation that was sent for balls, routs, card-parties, and
concerts--and requested me to take a box at the Opera: in fine,
she speedily plunged into the routine of fashionable dissipation.
Nevertheless, when alone with me, she was ever cold and reserved--if
not positively sullen and morose. In the course of time she was in the
way to become a mother--and I hoped that the birth of a child might
subdue a portion of her coldness towards me, even if the tie were not
strong enough to induce her to love me. But when Agnes--my darling
Agnes--was born, her manner varied not one tittle in respect to myself.
Time passed on--and at last I began to entertain serious suspicions of
the fidelity of my wife--for I found that she had frequent interviews,
not altogether accidental, with Sir Gilbert Heathcote, who about that
time succeeded to a baronetcy and a tolerable fortune. I remonstrated
with the Marchioness upon her imprudence--to give her conduct no
harsher name; and then began a series of quarrels, disputes and
bickerings, which made my life more wretched than ever. On one of those
occasions she reproached me for having married her--and she declared
that she never had loved, and never could love me. Alas! I knew it but
too well,--knew also that she _had_ loved, and _still_ loved another!
And it was likewise after one of those disputes to which I have alluded
that a horrible suspicion first entered my mind--a suspicion that the
Marchioness had been unfaithful to me, and that Agnes was not my own
child.”

“Oh! my lord--continue this painful narrative no farther!” exclaimed
Trevelyan. “It shocks me to be thus made the depositary of secrets of
so delicate a nature!”

“Again do I implore your patience, Lord William,” cried the Marquis:
“and as I have advanced thus far in my sad story, permit me to carry it
on to the conclusion. I was observing, then, that a dreadful suspicion
seized upon me--and yet I dared not accuse my wife of incontinency.
_She_ divined what was passing in the depths of my tortured soul--_she_
conjectured the nature of the apprehension which now began to haunt me
like a ghost! Oh! how I longed to question her--to know the worst--or
to hear her proclaim the injustice of my suspicion: but, no--I dared
not touch upon the subject--my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth
whenever I sought to frame the words that should accuse her. And in
this manner did we drag on a wretched existence,--I experiencing all
the misery of having a young wife who could not love me--and she
feeling all the bitterness of her position in being allied to an old
husband who had grown so jealous and so suspicious. At last the day
came when all my repugnance to utter the fatal accusation suddenly
vanished. I had been more than ordinarily provoked--for at a _dejeuner_
given at the house of some friends, the Marchioness received with such
evident satisfaction the marked attentions of Sir Gilbert Heathcote,
that I felt myself insulted and outraged in the presence of the
entire company. Accordingly, when we returned home in the afternoon,
a violent scene took place between the Marchioness and myself; and
it was then that, in a paroxysm of rage, I proclaimed the suspicion
which I had for some time cherished--I accused her of infidelity--I
revealed the doubt which existed in my mind relative to my paternal
claims to the affections of the infant Agnes. Never--never shall I
forget that memorable day! The Marchioness heard me--gazed on me
fixedly--appeared stupefied and astounded for nearly a minute,--while
her countenance became pale as marble--her lips quivered--and her bosom
heaved convulsively. I was terrified at her manner--she appeared at
that moment to be _Injured Innocence_ personified--I could have thrown
myself at her feet and implored her pardon! But, in a thick and hollow
voice, she said, ‘_All is now at an end, my lord, between you and me!
We part--for ever!_’--A dizziness came over me--I felt that I had done
wrong--that I had gone too far,--and I would have given worlds to be
able to recall the fatal accusation! For I was now as firmly convinced
of her innocence, as I had a few minutes before been deeply imbued with
suspicion;--and I cursed--I anathematised the rashness that had marked
my conduct. It was a painful--a distressing scene: for I remember that
I fell upon my knees to implore her forgiveness--to beseech her to
remain, if not for my sake, at least for that of the child. But this
appeal only excited her the more: and when I adjured her in the name
of her infant daughter to stay, she uttered a wild cry and fled, as if
suddenly seized with insanity, from the house.”

Here the Marquis paused for a few moments, and passed his handkerchief
rapidly over his eyes:--the reminiscences of the past were still
powerful enough to move him to tears!

“I shall not now detain you long, my lord,” he resumed. “Whither my
wife went, I knew not;--but in a short time I heard that she was
living in the strictest seclusion and under a feigned name. Will
you not despise me when you learn that I employed a spy to watch
her actions--to institute inquiries concerning her pursuits and her
conduct? But I will conceal nothing from you--and I candidly admit
that such was the course which I adopted: for, though I still believed
that she was innocent up to the time when my abrupt accusation drove
her from the house, I nevertheless naturally conjectured that, on thus
quitting me, she had sought the protection of him whom she loved. I
was not therefore surprised to hear that Sir Gilbert Heathcote was a
frequent visitor at the abode of Mrs. Sefton--by which name she was now
known:--but I was unable to glean any positive evidence of criminality
on her part. And did I seek such evidence? Yes--for a raging jealousy
had taken possession of me; and I longed to punish _her_ for daring to
love my rival as she did! But as time passed on and sober reflection
worked its influence upon me, I grew ashamed of the course I had
adopted--and I now resolved to hush up to the utmost of my power the
unhappy position in which I stood with regard to my wife. For I already
felt deeply attached to my little daughter--and I determined that, if
human precautions could prevent such a misfortune, she should never
have to blush for a mother’s shame. I was strengthened in this resolve
by the fact that the Marchioness herself was disposed to shroud the
past in secrecy as much as possible: else wherefore the feigned name
which she had adopted, and the seclusion in which she dwelt? But in the
course of a few months certain events transpired which threatened to
lay bare to the public the whole of this most painful history. I must
explain myself more fully by stating that my wife’s father had made
a will leaving some landed property to me, and which was to descend
to the child or children that might spring from my marriage with his
daughter. A distant male relative of his now set up a claim to that
property; and proceedings were taken in the Court of Chancery, from
which it transpired that the Marquis and Marchioness of Delmour were
living apart--by mutual consent, as it was alleged--and that their
infant child was in the charge of the Marquis himself. I shall not
weary you with particulars nor details: suffice it to say that the
proceedings took such a turn and were of such a nature as to lead to
a decree to this effect--that the claims of the distant relative were
rejected--that trustees were appointed by the Court to administer the
property, until Agnes should attain the age of twenty-one--and that, as
no allegation of misconduct had been made against the Marchioness of
Delmour, she should have the charge of her daughter!”

This portion of the Marquis’s narrative will explain to the reader
wherefore, when conversing with his daughter at the cottage, as
detailed in Chapter CLXI., he said to her, “Two years more, and I
shall no longer have any secrets from you:” because at the expiration
of that period, Agnes would attain her majority. The decree in
Chancery likewise explained the ground upon which Mrs. Sefton--_alias_
the Marchioness of Delmour--had observed to Trevelyan, in Chapter
CLXXXI., that “the law was in her favour,” in respect to any endeavour
that might be made to wrest Agnes from her care; and the same fact
elucidates the meaning of her ladyship’s remark that two years must
elapse ere she could venture to dispose of the hand of her daughter in
marriage.

“Thus was it,” resumed the Marquis, after a brief pause, “that those
accursed proceedings which I did not provoke, and which, when once
commenced, I could not arrest,--thus was it that they suddenly placed
my infant daughter within the jurisdiction of the Chancery Court,
and deprived me of the right of retaining her in my care. It is true
that I might have instituted counter-proceedings in respect to this
portion of the decree: but then I should have been compelled to
attack the reputation of my wife--prove her to be an adultress, if
such evidence could be acquired--and cover a noble family with shame,
while a species of hereditary taint would cling to the reputation of
my Agnes. Now, my lord, you can understand my motive in rearing her
under circumstances of such privacy--such secresy,--in dooming her
to an existence of seclusion--almost of solitude,--and of adopting
all possible precautions to prevent her falling into the hands of her
mother. And now, also, that you are acquainted with this most sad--this
most unhappy history, I appeal to you whether you will be the means of
permitting the innocent Agnes to remain in the care of her unworthy
parent. If you really love her, my lord--if you propose to make her
your wife when she attains her majority--I put it to your honour and
to your good sense whether it be preferable that she should pass the
interval of two years with her mother, who occupies so equivocal a
position--or with her father, who has ever done his duty towards her.”

Trevelyan was cruelly embarrassed by this appeal, which in reality
carried so much weight with it and involved so important a point,
that he knew not how to act. Much as he was disposed to make all
possible allowances for Mrs. Sefton--as we had better continue to call
her,--much as he pitied her in consequence of the wretched marriage
into which she had been forced--and great as the excuse was for her
connexion with Sir Gilbert Heathcote,--he nevertheless could not avoid
being shocked at the idea of the young creature whom he intended to
make his wife, remaining in the maternal care.

His good sense and propriety of feeling naturally prompted him,
therefore, to advocate the father’s claim to the guardianship of Agnes:
but on the other hand, the solemn pledge he had given to Sir Gilbert
Heathcote, and likewise his confidence in the good principles of Mrs.
Sefton, in spite of her equivocal position--all this forbade him to
side at once with the Marquis. Yet how was he to remain neutral?--he
who had such a deep and tender interest in the welfare of the
lovely--the innocent--the artless Agnes!

While he was still hesitating what course to adopt, and walking up
and down the room in an excited manner,--while, too, the Marquis of
Delmour, who remained seated upon the sofa, was watching him with the
most intense anxiety,--a loud double knock and ring at the front door
startled both the noblemen.

“I will not receive any one at present!” exclaimed Trevelyan; and
hastily opening the drawing-room door, he hurried out upon the landing,
whence he was about to give instructions to the hall-porter to deny him
to the visitor, whoever it might be.

But the front-door was already opened; and both the Marquis and
Trevelyan heard the hall-porter observing, evidently in reply to a
question that had been put to him--“His lordship is particularly
engaged, madam, at the present moment: the Marquis of Delmour is with
his lordship in the drawing-room.”

“The Marquis of Delmour--eh?” exclaimed a female voice, not unknown to
either of the noblemen. “Oh! I am acquainted with the Marquis as well
as with my friend Lord William--and I will therefore take the liberty
of intruding upon them.”

Before the hall-porter could offer any farther objection, the obtrusive
female brushed past him and hurried up the marble staircase--Trevelyan
having already retreated into the drawing-room.

In a few moments the young nobleman and the Marquis were equally
annoyed by the appearance of Mrs. Mortimer, who, decked out in the
gayest style, thus unceremoniously forced her way into their presence.




CHAPTER CXCII.

MRS. MORTIMER IN LONDON AGAIN.


“This is really most fortunate, my lords!” exclaimed the old woman,
as she entered with a smirking countenance and a self-sufficient air.
“I wished to see you both as early as convenient this morning--and,
behold! I find you together. How is the pretty Agnes? Has not your
lordship discovered that I told you the truth, when I referred you
to this house for information respecting her?” she inquired, turning
towards the Marquis.

“Yes, madam,” he exclaimed, hastily: “and as I shall proceed direct
hence to my bankers, to instruct them relative to certain cheques which
I recently gave in Paris, you may present your draft in the course of
the day with the certainty of receiving the amount. I presume that it
was for this purpose you desired to see me!”

“Precisely so, my lord,” responded the old woman, scarcely able to
conceal the boundless joy which she now experienced: for the Marquis
had given her precisely the very information which she was anxious to
obtain--namely, _that his banker would in the course of the day be
directed to cash the various cheques he had recently given when in
Paris!_

“And what business can you possibly have to transact with me, madam?”
demanded Lord William Trevelyan, in a tone of the most chilling hauteur.

“I thought of doing your lordship a service,” answered Mrs. Mortimer;
“and yet the manner in which I am received, is but a sorry recompense
for my good intentions.”

“To speak candidly, madam,” said the young noble, “I mistrust your
intentions and do not require your services.”

“It is true enough that the presence of the Marquis here has
forestalled the purport of my own visit,” observed Mrs. Mortimer,
secretly enjoying the vexation which she evidently caused Lord William
by remaining in the room. “But I may as well prove to you that those
intentions which you affect to mistrust, were really good; and
therefore I will at once inform your lordship that I came to relate
to you all that took place between the Marquis and me in Paris three
days ago. For I thought that I might as well prepare you for a visit on
the part of my Lord Delmour; and I was in hopes of being the first to
reveal to you the high birth of the young lady whom you had believed to
be plain _Agnes Vernon_.”

“For which officiousness you would have expected a handsome
remuneration,” said Lord William, with a contemptuous curling of the
lip. “No--madam: you will not obtain a single guinea from me! I can
read your character thoroughly--and, grieved as I am to be compelled to
address a female in so harsh a manner, I must nevertheless beg you to
relieve me of your presence as speedily as possible.”

“I have no wish to intrude myself any longer upon your lordships,”
observed Mrs. Mortimer; and, with a respectful curtsey to the Marquis
and a stiff inclination of the head to Trevelyan, she took her
departure.

“And now, my lord,” said the impatient Marquis, “that we are relieved
of the company of that despicable woman--for in no other light can I
regard her--may I solicit your decision in the important matter that
yet remains to be settled?”

“It grieves me--believe me, my dear Marquis, it pains me to keep you in
suspense,” returned Trevelyan: “but on one side my inclination prompts
me to act in accordance with your wishes--on the other, my word is
pledged to retain the abode of--of----”

“Mrs. Sefton,” interrupted the old nobleman, hastily.

“To retain the address of that lady a profound secret,” added
Trevelyan. “But this much I will promise--this much I will
undertake:--without delay to repair to Mrs. Sefton and urge her to
deliver up Lady Agnes to your care. I have that confidence in her
rectitude of principle, which induces me to hope for success when I
shall have placed the entire matter before her in its proper light.”

“With this assurance I must rest contented for the present,” observed
the Marquis. “But hear the resolution to which I have come,” he
continued, rising from his seat, and speaking in a tone of excitement.
“Hitherto I have done all I could--aye, and far more than the
generality of injured husbands would have done--to cast a veil over
the unhappy circumstances which I have this morning related to you.
But should she refuse to deliver up my daughter to my care--should she
entrench herself behind the decision of the Chancery Court--I shall
then remain peaceable no longer. It shall be war--open war--between her
and me. I will appeal to the tribunals of my country--I will apply to
the Ecclesiastical Court and the House of Lords for a divorce--and I
will adopt the necessary proceedings and furnish the proper evidence to
induce the Lord Chancellor to deprive the erring mother of the care of
her child. Such is my determination, Lord William--and you may use the
menace, which is no idle one, to bring that woman to reason.”

With these words the Marquis pressed the hand of the young nobleman,
and took his leave hastily.

Mrs. Mortimer, who was seated in a cab at a little distance, watching
for the departure of the Marquis, beheld him enter his carriage, which
immediately drove away; and the humbler vehicle was thereupon directed
to follow the more imposing equipage.

The carriage proceeded into the Strand, and stopped at the door of an
eminent banking-house, which the Marquis entered.

Mrs. Mortimer, having dogged him thither, alighted at a little distance
and dismissed the cab.

She watched the old nobleman come forth again; and then she repaired to
a coffee-house in the neighbourhood where she ordered some refreshment
to be served up in a private room. She likewise demanded writing
materials; and when she was left to herself, she drew forth the cheque
for six hundred pounds which the Marquis of Delmour had given her.

“Now for the grand blow,” she thought within herself, as she carefully
examined the draft: “and it must be struck boldly, too! But the aim is
worth all the risk:--sixty thousand pounds or transportation--those
are the alternatives! I have been possessed of enough money in my life
to know how sweet it is--and I have seen enough of transportation to
be well aware how bitter it is! And the former is so sweet that it
is worth while chancing all the bitters of the latter to obtain it.
Besides--apart from the delicious feeling of having a vast fortune
at my command--how delightful will it be to over-reach the haughty
Perdita--or Laura, as she chooses to call herself!”

And here the old woman’s lips curled into a contemptuous sneer.

“I have hitherto managed matters cleverly enough,” she continued in
her musings. “Ah! hah! Lord William Trevelyan thought that I called
upon him either to gratify some idle curiosity or to extort money. He
little suspected my drift! It was to see whether the Marquis had been
to him--to learn whether my information had been found correct--to
ascertain whether I might present the draft at the bankers’. And then
the old Marquis himself!--it was lucky that I found him there--I was
saved the trouble of calling at his mansion to worm out of him whether
he had instructed his bankers to pay the cheque,--not _my_ paltry draft
for six hundred--but Perdita’s grand amount of sixty thousand! In all
this I succeeded admirably: and now for the desperate venture.”

Having thus communed with herself, Mrs. Mortimer partook of a little
refreshment; for she was anxious to while away an hour before she went
to the bank, so as not to present herself too soon after the visit of
the Marquis of Delmour to the establishment.

When she had eaten and drank as drunk as much as she cared for, she
addressed herself to the grand project which she had in view, and in
furtherance of which she had demanded the private room and the writing
materials at the coffee-house.

The writing of the Marquis was execrably bad; and it was not a very
difficult matter to add _ty_ to the _six_, and transform the word
_hundred_ into _thousand_, in the body of the cheque; while the simple
addition of 00 to the 600_l._ written in figures in the corner,
completed the forgery.

The cheque, therefore, now stood for _sixty thousand pounds_, instead
of _six hundred_, payable to _bearer_, no particular name being
mentioned as the intended recipient.

When the old woman had thus transformed the document, a glow of triumph
animated her hideous countenance: but in a few moments a chill--a cold,
creeping tremor came over her--as if a clammy snake were gradually
coiling itself around her form, underneath her clothes;--for she
remembered all the sensations which she had experienced when she
committed the forgery of Sir Henry Courtenay’s name nineteen years
previously!

By a desperate effort the old woman shook off the painful feeling that
thus influenced her; and, resolving to allow herself no more leisure
for reflection, _lest her thoughts should make a coward of her_,
she rang the bell--paid the trifling amount incurred--and took her
departure from the coffee-house.

During her walk to the bank, which was close at hand, she rapidly
calculated in her mind all the chances of success. The Marquis had
unquestionably been thither to give instructions relative to the
draft held by Laura as well as that which had been given to herself;
and there was not the slightest reason to fear that her daughter had
followed so closely on her steps from Paris as to have been able to
visit the bank during the hour that had just elapsed. As for the
excellence of the forgery--or rather of the alterations, Mrs. Mortimer
entertained no apprehension on that score; and thus, all things
considered, she deemed failure to be impossible.

With an apparent outward composure, but with a palpitating heart, the
old woman entered the bank, and presented her cheque to one of the
clerks. He surveyed it narrowly--took it into the private office,
or parlour, doubtless to submit it to one of the proprietors of the
establishment or some responsible person--and remained away upwards of
two minutes.

Two minutes!--but that interval was an age--a perfect age in the
imagination of the old woman! It was an interval composed of such
intense feelings that the hair of a young person might have turned
suddenly grey,--feelings of such burning hope and such awful suspense,
of such profound terror and fervid expectation, that while molten lead
appeared to drop upon one side of her heart, ice seemed to lay upon the
other!

At length the clerk came back; and Mrs. Mortimer darted a
rapid--searching--penetrating glance at his countenance.

Nothing save respect and civility could she trace thereon: and she
instantly knew that she was safe!

Then came such a revulsion of feeling--such a subsiding of the terrors
and such an exaltation of the hopes which she had conceived--that it
was as if she were shooting upwards from the profundity of a deluge of
dark waters and suddenly breathed the fresh air again and beheld the
bright sun and the smiling heavens overhead.

The clerk proceeded to count out bank-notes for the sum specified
in the cheque; and as he handed the fortune--yes, literally a
fortune--over to the old woman, he considerately gave her a caution to
take care of the vile characters who frequently lurked about the doors
of banking-houses.

Mrs. Mortimer thanked the clerk for his well-meant advice, and sallied
forth from the establishment, with a heart so elate that she could
scarcely believe in the success of the tremendous fraud, now that it
had passed triumphantly through the ordeal.

But as she was crossing the threshold, she heard a name suddenly
mentioned; and, hastily turning her head, she found herself face to
face with Jack Rily, the Doctor!




CHAPTER CXCIII.

JACK RILY AND MRS. MORTIMER.


The individual whom Mrs. Mortimer thus unexpectedly and unpleasantly
encountered, had made a considerable improvement in his personal
appearance during the few days that had elapsed since she saw him last.

The old fur cap, the greasy velveteen shooting-jacket, the rusty
waistcoat, the corduroy trowsers, and the heavy high-lows, were
exchanged for a shining silk hat, a complete suit of black clothes,
and a pair of Wellington boots: his shirt was likewise new and clean,
and he wore a satin stock instead of the blue cotton handkerchief tied
loosely round his neck.

He had evidently endeavoured to make himself look as respectable as
he could: but the almost African hue of his complexion--the horrible
hare-lip, through the opening of which the large white teeth glistened
up to the gums--and the yellow fire that seemed to shine in the small
and restless eyes, gave him such a peculiar aspect that it was scarcely
possible for any one who passed to avoid noticing him.

“Mrs. Mortimer, my beloved tiger-cat, how are you?” he exclaimed,
grasping the old woman’s hand and shaking it violently.

“Very well, thank you, Mr. Rily: but pray do not detain me now, there’s
a good soul--for I have not a moment to spare----”

“I shan’t detain you, old beauty,” interrupted Jack; “because I’ll
just do myself the pleasure of walking along with you. Come--take my
arm--you needn’t be ashamed to do so now: I think I’m pretty tidily
rigged--eh?”

Thus speaking, he glanced complacently over his own person, and then
bestowed a look upon the outward appearance of Mrs. Mortimer, who, as
we have already observed, was dressed with unusual gaiety.

“Come, my dear--take my arm,” exclaimed the Doctor.

“Really, Mr. Rily, you must excuse me,” said the old woman, who was
most anxious to get away from the vicinity of the bank, but by no
means desirous of remaining in the company of the Doctor: “I have a
particular matter to attend to immediately! If, however, you desire to
see me, I shall be most happy to meet you this evening----”

“This fiddlestick!” interrupted Jack Rily, impatiently. “You know that
you never kept the appointment you made with me after that Stamford
Street affair the other day--when you went away with the young girl in
the cab; and yet you assured me that there was money to be got through
her----”

“Well, well--I have not time to talk of the matter now,” said Mrs.
Mortimer, angrily: “and I _must_ take my leave of you.”

“Lord bless you! I’m not going to be put off in this fashion, old
lady,” cried Jack. “It suits me to have a little further chat with
you--and I’m determined the whim shall be gratified. So take my arm at
once, and come along. If we stand here palavering, we shall soon have a
mob about us--because it isn’t every day that two such handsome people
as you and I are seen together,” he added, with a horrible chuckle.

“But perhaps you are not going my way,” said Mrs. Mortimer, still
hesitating to take the proffered arm, and deeply vexed at this
encounter.

“Oh! yes I am--because I’ll go any way you like,” responded Jack Rily,
in the most accommodating spirit.

“Well--you shall be my companion for a short time,” exclaimed Mrs.
Mortimer, affecting to laugh in good humour; and, taking his arm, she
proceeded with him along the Strand.

“I met our friend Vitriol Bob last night at a public-house,” observed
Jack, who seemed quite proud of having the hideous old woman clinging
to him. “He looked remarkably savage when he saw me in my bran new
toggery--for he thought to himself that the money which purchased it
ought to have belonged to him. I hadn’t seen him since the night in
Stamford Street; and, as he had the impudence to stare at me in a
threatening manner, I went up to him and whispered in his ear, ‘_What
about old Torrens, Bob?_’ He turned quite livid with rage, and ground
his teeth together; then, after a few moments’ consideration, he
said--also in a whisper--‘_If it wasn’t that you knew that secret, I’d
serve you out nicely, old fellow: but I’ll be even with you yet, I dare
say._’--‘_Whenever you like, Bob_,’ said I; and then we sate down in
different parts of the room and stared at each other all the time we
were smoking our pipes. But not another word passed between us; and
the other people who were present, knowing that we were excellent pals
until lately, wondered what the devil was the matter.”

“And did he bury the dead body, do you know?” inquired Mrs. Mortimer.

“I didn’t put the question to him,” answered Jack Rily. “Nothing more
passed between us than what I have just told you: but I have no doubt
that he laid old Torrens two or three feet under the kitchen floor in
the Haunted House. And now, how do you suppose that I and Vitriol Bob
stand with regard to each other?”

“As enemies, I should suppose,” replied Mrs. Mortimer, wondering by
what means she could possibly shake off her disagreeable companion.

“As mortal--implacable--unrelenting enemies,” continued the man,
lowering his voice: for his loud talking had already attracted the
notice of the passers-by in the Strand, and he had just caught sight
of a policeman who appeared to be eyeing him rather suspiciously.
“Yes--as bitter enemies,” he repeated. “Not that I have any resentment
_now_ against Bob: because my revenge is gratified, and I am more than
even with him. But as he will take the first opportunity to thrust a
knife into my ribs, or dash his vitriol bottle in my face, whenever he
catches me in a lonely place,--why, I must be prepared to struggle with
him to the very death. So, my old tiger-cat,” added the Doctor, with
amazing cheerfulness, considering the gravity of the topic, “whenever
he and I do so meet, only one of us will walk away alive. That’s as
certain as that you’re leaning on my arm, and that I’m proud of your
company.”

“Is Vitriol Bob, as you call him, such a desperate fellow?” inquired
Mrs. Mortimer, wishing the Doctor at the hottest place she could think
of.

“Why, I’ve told you all about him before,” exclaimed Jack. “And now let
me give you a little piece of advice about yourself, old gal----”

“About me!” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, with a shudder occasioned by a
presentiment of what she was going to hear.

“Yes--about you, my tiger-cat,” repeated the Doctor. “Remember that
Vitriol Bob never forgets or forgives--and he owes you _one_. That’s
all! But, when I think of it, I shall constitute myself your lawful
protector--because I never _did_ meet any woman so precious ugly as you
are; and ugliness, when joined to ferocity, is beauty in my eyes--as I
have before told you.”

“Well, well--we will discuss all these points another time,” said Mrs.
Mortimer. “I must leave you here,” she added, stopping suddenly short
at the corner of Wellington Street, leading to Waterloo Bridge.

“Your way is mine,” observed Jack Rily, coolly, as he compelled her to
walk on. “But, by the bye, what were you doing in that bank at the door
of which I met you?”

“I merely went in to see a clerk of my acquaintance,” replied the
old woman, cursing in her heart the odious companion who thus
pertinaciously attached himself to her.

“Come, that won’t do, old gal!” exclaimed Jack, as he paid the toll for
them both at the gate of the bridge. “I am so well acquainted with all
the rigs and moves of London life, as to be able to tell in a moment
whether a person coming out of a bank has been to receive money, or
not. If it’s a gentleman, he feels at his breeches-pocket to see that
the cash is all safe--or he buttons his coat over his breast which
proves that the notes are in his waistcoat. If it’s a woman, she gripes
her reticule precious tight--or smoothes down her dress just over where
her pocket is--or else settles her shawl over her bosom, when the notes
are there. This last was precisely what you did; and therefore, my old
tiger-cat, I know that you’ve got money in the bosom of your dress as
well as if I saw you put it there.”

“You’re quite wrong for once in your life, Mr. Rily,” said Mrs.
Mortimer, trembling at the remarks which had just fallen upon her ears.

“Then why does your arm shake so as it hangs in mine?” demanded the
Doctor, with an imperturbability which frightened the old woman more
than if he had actually used threats: for, little as she had seen of
him, she was well enough acquainted with his character to perceive that
he was meditating mischief.

“My arm did _not_ shake,” cried Mrs. Mortimer, mastering up all her
courage and presence of mind, “But here we are at the end of the
bridge, and I must bid you good-bye. When shall we meet again?”

“We are not going to separate in a hurry, I can tell you,” said the
Doctor: “so don’t think it. You know I love you,” he added with a
horrible grin, which opened his harelip so wide that he seemed to be an
ogre about to devour her; “and I love much more still the bank-notes
that you have got in your bosom. Besides, it is my duty to protect you
from Vitriol Bob; and, in addition to all this, I think we shall be
able to knock up a very cozie partnership together.”

“And suppose that I decline the honour you intend me?” asked the old
woman, assuming a tone of bitter sarcasm in order to induce Rily to
believe that she was not afraid--though, in reality, her heart was
sinking within her.

“In the case which you have suggested, I shall force you to do as I
choose and act as I desire,” coolly responded the Doctor.

“Force me, indeed!” repeated the old woman, withdrawing her arm, and
stopping short in the Waterloo Road.

“Yes--force you,” said Jack Rily, compelling her to take his arm again
and also to walk on. “You had better not provoke me, because I am not
the man to stick at trifles; and if you make a noise and raise a mob,
I will swear black and blue that you are my wife--that you have bolted
with my money--and that the notes are concealed somewhere about your
person. Then, if the police should interfere, you will have to give
an account of how you became possessed of the notes aforesaid;--and I
dare say, from the estimate I have formed of your character, you would
not like to be questioned on that point. In a word, then--unless I am
mightily deceived--you have committed some nice little bit of roguery;
and I mean to go halves with you.”

This tirade was spun out to such a length and delivered in such a
measured tone of coolness, that Mrs. Mortimer, who was perfectly
astounded at the menaces with which it opened, had leisure to recover
her self-possession: but the rapid survey of her position which she was
enabled to take while the Doctor was finishing his harangue, was far
from consolatory. She had indeed committed a little roguery, and would
indeed be sorry to be questioned by the police; and she knew, moreover,
that Jack Rily was quite capable of carrying all his threats into
immediate execution.

What, then, was she to do? There was no alternative but to bend to
circumstances--make the best of a bad job--and trust to the chapter of
accidents so as to avail herself of any occurrence that might turn up
in her favour.

“Well--you keep silent, old gal,” said the Doctor, after a short pause.
“Is it that you don’t admire me sufficiently to take me as a husband,
in the fashion of leaping over the broom-stick?”

“It is of the utmost importance that I should attend to certain
pressing matters,” returned Mrs. Mortimer; “and afterwards I shall be
happy to fall into all your plans and projects.”

“Well, we will attend to the pressing matters together,” said the
Doctor. “A husband and wife must have no secrets from each other. But
since we have come this way, and as my abode happens to lie in the
immediate neighbourhood, I propose at once to introduce you thereto
and install you as mistress of the place. I have got a comfortable
crib--for Torrens’s money did wonders for me as you may well suppose.”

At this moment a project flashed to the mind of the old woman. What if
she were to yield, without farther hesitation or remonstrance, to the
Doctor’s proposals, and watch her opportunity either to murder him or
escape when he was asleep? By wheedling herself into his confidence,
she would know where he deposited the money which, she feared, must
pass from her hands into his own; and she could repossess herself of
it, if he were disposed of, or if she were wakeful while he slept.

“I do not mind accompanying you to your lodgings,” she said; “and
there we can talk over the whole business much better than in the open
street.”

“There! now you are getting into a better frame of mind,” observed Jack
Rily. “This way:”--and he turned into the low streets lying on the
left-hand side of the Waterloo Road, between Upper Stamford Street and
the New Cut.

The neighbourhood alluded to swarms with brothels of the most infamous
description; and half-naked women may be seen at all hours lounging
about at the doors, and endeavouring to entice into their dens any
respectable-looking men who happen to pass that way. Robberies are of
frequent occurrence in those houses of ill fame; and the great aim of
the vile females inhabiting them, is to entrap persons who are the
worse for liquor and whose appearance denotes a well-filled purse.
Neighbourhoods of this kind should be shunned by all decent persons, as
if a pestilence were raging there!

It was into Roupel-street that Jack Rily conducted Mrs. Mortimer; and
when he had introduced her to a small but well furnished parlour, with
a bed-chamber communicating by means of folding-doors, he produced a
bottle of brandy, saying, “Now let us drink to our happy meeting this
day!”

Filling two glasses with the potent liquor, he handed one to the old
woman, who swallowed the contents greedily: for she felt that she stood
in need of a stimulant.

“Now, my beautiful tiger-cat,” exclaimed the Doctor, as he drew
down the blind over the window, “I am about to subject you to a
little ceremony which may be perhaps looked upon as the least thing
uncourteous; but it must be accomplished all the same. So don’t let us
have any bother about it.”

Thus speaking, he approached the cupboard whence he had taken the
brandy, and drawing forth a huge clasp-knife, he touched a spring which
made the blade fly open and remain fixed as if it were a dagger.

“You do not mean to hurt me?” exclaimed the old woman, now becoming
terribly alarmed--so much so, that she sank exhausted into a chair,
while her looks were fixed appealingly on the man’s countenance.

“Not unless you grow obstreperous or have any of your nonsense,” said
Jack. “I love you too well to harm you,” he added, with a leer that
made him more hideously ugly than ever: “but I must have my own way all
the same. So just be so kind as to place upon the table the Bank-notes
which you have got in the bosom of your gown. It is but fair that I
should have a wife who can bring me a dowry--and you must leave it to
my generosity,” he went on to say, with a chuckling laugh, “how much I
shall settle upon you afterwards.”

[Illustration]

While he was thus speaking, Mrs. Mortimer rapidly revolved in her mind
all the chances that were for or against her at that moment. Were she
to scream and attempt resistance, could she succeed in alarming the
neighbourhood before the miscreant would have plunged his dagger into
her?--or, indeed, would he have recourse to such an extreme measure
at all? These questions she at once decided against herself; and,
reverting to her former project of affecting obedience, she thrust her
hand into her bosom, dexterously separated a couple of the notes from
the rest of the bundle, and threw those two upon the table.

Jack Rily instantly snatched them up; and when he perceived that they
were for _a thousand pounds_ each, he could scarcely contain his joy.

Flinging the terrible clasp-knife on the floor, he rushed upon the old
woman, who was seized with too sudden and too profound a terror to
permit her even to give utterance to the faintest ejaculation--for she
thought that he intended to murder her: but her cruel apprehensions
fled in another moment when the loathsome monster, throwing his arms
about her neck, began to embrace and fondle her as if she were a
blooming beauty of seventeen instead of a hideous harridan upwards of
sixty. Nevertheless, old and polluted as she was, and inured to all
circumstances of disgust as her term of transportation had rendered
her, she revolted with a sickening sensation from the pawings and
caresses of the hare-lipped wretch who had thus enfolded her in his
horrible embrace. She therefore struggled to rid herself of him--to
escape from his arms: but he, almost maddened with the joy which the
sight of the bank-notes had raised up in his breast, hugged her only
the more tightly in proportion as her resistance became the more
desperate.

“By heavens! I’ll kiss you again, old gal!” he exclaimed. “I care
not how ugly the world may consider you----Be quiet now, can’t
you?----to me you’re a paragon of beauty----Perdition! let go of me,
you hell-cat----there! now you’re magnificent in your rage--that’s the
humour I like to see a woman in----Hey-dey! what’s that?”

And, as he uttered this ejaculation, he suddenly quitted his hold upon
Mrs. Mortimer, and pounced upon something that had rolled on the floor.

It was the bundle of Bank-notes, which had fallen from the old woman’s
dress during the struggle.

“By Jove! here’s a treasure--a fortune--a King’s ransom!” ejaculated
the Doctor, scarcely able to believe his eyes, as he hastily turned
over the notes with his hands. “My God! it is impossible!” he cried,
his wonderment increasing to such a pitch, that he began to think he
must be insane: then, a sudden idea striking him, he turned abruptly
towards Mrs. Mortimer, who had sunk back, exhausted and overwhelmed
with rage and grief, into the chair. “Ah! I understand it all now,”
he said, his voice changing in a moment to the low tone of solemn
mystery: “you are a nice old girl, you are! Yes--yes--I understand it
at last! These are all queer screens[26]--and you went into the bank to
smash[27] some of them. By Jove! it’s glorious.”

Mrs. Mortimer, who was gasping for breath, could make no reply: her
mouth was parched--her tongue was as dry as if she had been travelling
for hours over a desert without tasting water.

“And yet,” resumed Jack Rily, scrutinising the notes more narrowly
still, “these are precious good imitations--too good to be imitations,
indeed. I know enough of Bank-notes--aye, and of forged ones too--to
see that these are the genuine flimsies. Blood and thunder! what a
glorious old wretch you are!” he cried, again surveying her with a
joy that was entirely unfeigned and amounted almost to admiration.
“I suppose you have committed some splendid forgery. But of course
it must be something of that kind,” he added, a sudden reminiscence
striking him: “or else you wouldn’t have been so deucedly alarmed when
I threatened just now to kick up a row in the streets and attract the
notice of the police. So, you perceive, that I was pretty keen in my
surmises. I knew you had money concealed in your bosom--and I was
equally well convinced you had not obtained it by means that would bear
inquiry. However, here it is--in my possession--and it can’t be in
safer hands. I’ll just sit down quietly, and count how much there is.”

Thus speaking, the monster picked up his clasp-knife, which he closed
and consigned to his pocket; and he next proceeded to inspect the
Bank-notes. But when he discovered the enormous sum to which they
amounted, his astonishment grew to such an extreme as even to subdue
his joy; and, shaking his head slowly, he observed, “This is such a
heavy affair that the police will leave no stone unturned to detect
the holders of the notes. Whatever we do, must be done at once; and in
order that I should be able to judge what course to pursue, you must
give me all the particulars of the transaction.”

Mrs. Mortimer was struck by the truth of this observation: for she knew
that the moment the forgery was detected, payment of the notes would
be stopped, and advertisements announcing the usual caution would be
inserted in the newspapers.

“Well, I suppose there is no use in disguising the real truth,” she
exclaimed, recovering her self-possession; “and I will tell you all
about it in a few words. A certain nobleman----”

“Who is he?” demanded Rily. “Come--speak out plainly.”

“The Marquis of Delmour, since you must know,” returned the old woman.

“And what did he do,” asked the man, impatiently.

“He gave me a cheque for six hundred pounds for a particular service
that I rendered him; and he also gave my daughter----”

“Ah! you have got a daughter, eh?” exclaimed Jack Rily. “Is she
anything like yourself?”

“She is as beautiful as an angel,” answered Mrs. Mortimer, a
scintillation of a mother’s pride flashing at the moment in her bosom:
“but as depraved and dissolute as a demoness,” she added almost
immediately. “Well, this Marquis of Delmour was wheedled by her out
of a cheque for sixty thousand pounds; and though my daughter kept it
quiet enough, I found out the secret. So away I sped--back to England I
came----”

“Where did all this happen, then?” demanded Jack.

“In Paris--three days ago,” replied Mrs. Mortimer. “On my arrival in
London, my course was easy----”

“You may almost say _natural_,” interrupted the Doctor. “I understand
the business plainly enough at present. You altered your six hundred
pound draft into one for sixty thousand--and you have thus forestalled
your daughter?”

“That is precisely how the matter stands,” said the old woman.

“And when is it likely that your daughter will be in London to present
_her_ cheque?” asked the Doctor.

“I should say that I had about twelve hours’ start of her,” was the
response; “and then, as she would not travel by night--having a
handsome young foreigner as her companion--the circumstance of her
stopping to sleep on the road would delay her pretty nearly another
twelve hours. Besides, she believes me to be still in Paris--she has
not the least idea of my sudden return to England; and therefore she
has no particular motive to induce her to adopt any extraordinary
speed.”

“Well, well,” cried the Doctor, impatiently: “but all this palaver does
not answer my question. When do you expect your daughter will reach
London?”

“This evening,” replied the old woman: “too late to present her
cheque at the bank. And there _are_ means--yes, there are means,” she
continued in a musing tone, “which, if skilfully adopted, would compel
my daughter to refrain from offering her draft at all, and likewise
force her to leave us in undisturbed possession of the money.”

“And those means?” demanded Jack Rily, his eyes brightening.

“Before I explain myself, let us come to a thorough understanding,”
said Mrs. Mortimer. “Will you restore me one-half of the amount you now
hold in your possession? I am content to abandon the other half to you.”

“Yes, that is a bargain,” answered Jack Rily; “for I see that you do
not relish the idea of living with me altogether, and that you will
leave me when this matter is properly settled. Is it not so?”

“Well, such is indeed my intention,” responded the old woman.

“Our relative position now stands in this manner,” continued Jack
Rily: “there are sixty thousand pounds’ worth of good notes. With all
my connexion amongst fences and receivers of such flimsy, I could not
manage to obtain gold for more than two or three thousand in the
course of the day; and to-morrow morning your daughter may present
her cheque, when a discovery will take place, and all the rest of
the notes will be useless. As for going over to the continent, and
endeavouring to pass them there, the thing would be ridiculous; for
the advertisements in the newspapers would put all the money-changers
in Europe upon their guard. Thus far, then, the notes are not worth
more than two or three thousand pounds to me. But, on the other hand,
you say that you have the means of stopping your daughter’s mouth, and
compelling her to put up with the loss. In this case, the whole amount
of notes becomes available; and therefore we will share and share
alike.”

“Then give me my moiety at once,” said the old woman, with greedy
impatience.

“No such thing!” ejaculated Rily: “I must have some guarantee that
you act properly in this business; and you can have no hesitation in
putting your trust in me, because you have had a proof of my good
feeling before. I have not forgotten that you saved my life in the
struggle with Vitriol Bob; and the same feeling that made me give
you half the spoil _then_, will prompt me to act with equal fairness
now. You are therefore at liberty to depart when you choose, and to
go where you like: the notes will remain in my possession--and when
you come back to me with the assurance that you have prevented your
daughter from taking any step that may lead to an explosion of the
whole business, your share shall be immediately forthcoming. I have now
put the matter in the proper light; and with such a good understanding,
there can be no quarrelling. As to whether you afterwards choose to
become my broom-stick wife, I must leave it entirely to yourself: for
though I should be as happy as a king in the possession of your old
person and sixty thousand pounds, yet I shall be able to console myself
for your loss by means of the thirty thousand that will remain to me.”

During this long tirade, all the first portion of which was delivered
in a tone of business-like seriousness, Mrs. Mortimer was hastily
reflecting upon the improvement that had so unexpectedly taken place
in the aspect of her affairs: for she now found herself at liberty to
leave the monster whom she loathed and abhorred, and she had every
chance of regaining and being able to make use of the moiety of the
Bank-notes.

She accordingly assented to the conditions proposed by the Doctor,
leaving the broom-stick marriage “an open question;” and having settled
her disordered attire, she took her departure--not however before she
had been compelled to submit to another hugging on the part of the
hare-lipped wretch whose caresses were so revolting and intolerable.




CHAPTER CXCIV.

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER AGAIN.


It was about five o’clock in the evening of the same day on which
these events occurred, that Laura Mortimer and the Count of Carignano,
attended by Rosalie, arrived in London by the South Eastern Railway;
and they immediately repaired to an hotel at the west-end of the town.

Although the young Italian nobleman had experienced sufficient leisure
for reflection with regard to the step which he was about to take, the
enthusiasm of his passion had not undergone the least abatement: on
the contrary, the more he saw of Laura, and the longer he was in her
company, the more ardently did he burn to make her his wife.

Nor can this infatuation on his part be a subject of wonder or surprise
with our readers: for when it is remembered that the artful creature
united the most winning ways and captivating manners to the most
transcendent loveliness, and that the Count of Carignano had the warm
Italian blood flowing in his veins,--when, too, it is recollected
that the syren maintained an incessant fire upon his heart with the
artillery of her charms and her fascinations--never permitting the
conversation to droop throughout the journey, and never seeming wearied
of lavishing the tenderest caresses upon her handsome companion,--when
all these circumstances are taken into consideration, it cannot be
a matter of wonderment if the silken chains in which Lorenzo was
ensnared, were completely rivetted.

There was also this fact which served to strengthen _his_ love and
_her_ power: namely, that she had not invited him to return to her
in Paris--she had not sought to retain him within the sphere of her
influence on the occasion of their first amour--she had not played the
part of a mere adventuress or husband-hunter towards him. No: she had
dismissed him with the understanding that their connexion could not be
renewed--that she could neither become his wife nor his mistress;--and
the young man had of his own accord flown back to her, as a suppliant
for her hand! That she _could_ be an adventuress or a husband-hunter,
never therefore entered his imagination--even if for an instant he
paused to ponder with any degree of seriousness upon her character; and
so far from considering that he was bestowing any favour upon her by
making her the sharer of his wealth and title, he looked upon himself
as the party owing the obligation--he regarded himself as the happy
individual who had the greater reason to rejoice at the connexion.

On her part, Laura Mortimer was most anxious that the marriage-knot
should be tied as speedily as possible: for she naturally longed to
place beyond all possibility of doubt or disappointment the brilliant
destiny that had suddenly developed itself to her view. Even the
possession of the cheque for sixty thousand pounds was a secondary
consideration, in comparison with her desire to secure that proud title
of Countess which was now within her reach.

Having partaken of a hasty dinner at the hotel, Laura and her intended
husband repaired without delay to a fashionable house-agent in the
neighbourhood; and it happened that he had upon his list a furnished
villa of which possession might be taken at an hour’s notice. It was
situated in Westbourne Place, Pimlico, and was in perfect readiness
for the reception of occupants. Thither the Count, Laura, and the
house-agent immediately proceeded; and as the villa fully corresponded,
in all its conveniences and appointments, with the description given,
an arrangement was effected upon the spot for the tenancy.

Laura and the Count returned, however, to the hotel for that night;
and early in the morning they repaired to Doctors’ Commons, where the
young nobleman speedily obtained a special license. Thence, attended
by Rosalie, they drove to a church at no very great distance; and by
eleven o’clock the hands of Laura Mortimer and the Count of Carignano
were united at the altar.

The incidents of this forenoon had, however, been closely watched by
Mrs. Mortimer.

The wily old woman, upon quitting the Doctor the day before, had
reasoned thus within herself:--

“Laura has captivated a young Italian nobleman _whom she feels she
can love--whom she already loves--and who possesses a proud title and
princely revenues_. Those were the very words which she used when she
communicated her matrimonial intentions to me in Paris. I know her well
enough to be fully convinced that she will not delay a moment after
her return to London, in securing her admirer. A special license must
be the means--and, as her intended husband is a foreigner, Laura will
no doubt accompany him, at least into the neighbourhood of Doctors’
Commons. Even the presentation of her cheque at the banker’s will
be quite a secondary matter, when compared with the grand object of
securing the coronet which she so much covets!”

It was in consequence of these reflections that Mrs. Mortimer rose
early in the morning and repaired to the district of Doctors’ Commons,
where it is no difficult matter to become an observer without being
observed, in the maze of narrow streets and little courts forming that
neighbourhood. Nor was she mistaken in her conjecture--neither had she
long to wait. In a short time a carriage--hired from the hotel--made
its appearance, and a handsome young man, with a clear olive complexion
and a glossy moustache, alighted. A lady thrust out her head to give
him a few whispered instructions; and the beauteous countenance was
not so completely shaded by the white bonnet and the veil, but that
Mrs. Mortimer, from the nook where she had concealed herself, could
recognise the features of her daughter. In a short time the handsome
Italian returned, his own countenance glowing with delight; and the
moment he re-entered the vehicle, it drove away. Mrs. Mortimer had
a cab in attendance; and she followed the carriage to within sight
of the church at which it stopped. She then dismissed the cab, and
boldly entered the church, in order to become perfectly convinced that
no unexpected accident should interfere with the marriage ceremony.
Seating herself in a pew at a distance from the altar, she could
behold everything without being observed by those whom she was thus
watching. She saw Laura converse for a few moments with the sexton, who
immediately afterwards hurried away; and in about a quarter of an hour
he returned in company with the clergyman and the clerk. The ceremony
then took place; and when the Count of Carignano was leading Laura back
to the carriage, Rosalie being in close attendance upon them, Mrs.
Mortimer suddenly emerged from the pew.

For an instant her daughter started and seemed profoundly vexed at
this abrupt and unaccountable appearance of her parent; but in the
next moment she recovered her self-possession, and, assuming a smiling
countenance, said, “I thought you were in Paris; this therefore is an
unexpected pleasure. Permit me, Lorenzo,” she added, turning, towards
her husband, “to present my mother, who has thus accidentally happened
to enter, _for her own devotions_, the very church where our marriage
has taken place.”

As she uttered these words, Laura glanced with imperious signification
at the old woman, as much as to enjoin her not to undeceive the
Count relative to the accidental nature of this meeting: for the
bride now understood full well that her mother had been watching her
movements--though for what purpose she could not possibly divine.

“I am delighted to have the honour of an introduction to Mrs.
Mortimer,” said the Count, taking the old woman’s hand: “and I hope
that she approves of the alliance which her daughter has just formed?”

“Oh! assuredly, my lord,” answered the harridan: “but I regret that I
was not duly invited to be present at the ceremony. However, I am not
the less contented that it should have taken place; and as my stay in
London is very short, your lordship will perhaps excuse me if I crave a
few minutes’ private conversation with my daughter.”

“You may accompany us to the house which we have taken, mother,” said
Laura: “and my dear Lorenzo will there grant us an opportunity of
discoursing alone----on family matters----for a short time.”

“Certainly!” exclaimed the nobleman, who was too happy to offer an
objection to anything proposed by his charming wife, and who saw
nothing sinister nor strange in the present scene, unless indeed it
were the sudden and unexpected presence of the mother: but as she had
offered no objection to the match, he did not choose to trouble his own
felicity with any conjecture as to the cause of her abrupt appearance
on the occasion.

The bride, bridegroom, Mrs. Mortimer, and Rosalie (who had acted as
bridemaid) accordingly entered the carriage, which drove away at a
rapid pace towards Pimlico.

During the ride the conversation was of that general nature which
settled upon no particular topic, and which therefore needs no detail
here; and on the arrival of the party at the beautiful little villa
in Westbourne Place, Mrs. Mortimer and Laura were speedily closetted
together.

The moment they were thus alone, Laura’s countenance suddenly changed;
and her features assumed an expression of something more than
sternness--for it was rage--as she said in an imperious tone, “Why have
you been watching my movements?--and how dared you thus to intrude
yourself upon me at such a time and place?”

“Because it is of the utmost importance that I should confer with
you at once on a subject of deep interest to us both,” replied Mrs.
Mortimer, adopting a voice and manner of such cool insolence as to
convince the shrewd and penetrating Laura that some circumstance had
transpired to enable the old woman to proclaim her independence.

“And of what nature is that subject?” inquired the young lady, still
treating her mother with a coolness almost amounting to disdain.

“In one sense, I am completely in your power: in another sense, you
are entirely in mine,” returned Mrs. Mortimer; “and therefore mutual
concessions are necessary to enable us both to enjoy peace, and follow
our own ways unmolested.”

“You must explain yourself more fully yet,” said Laura, believing the
announcement that _she_ was in her mother’s power to allude to the
secrets which the old woman might reveal relative to the dissoluteness
of her former life. “If you desire me to render you any service,” she
added, after a few moments’ pause, “you should not address me in the
shape of menaces; because you know my disposition well enough to be
fully aware that I am not likely to yield to them, even though my own
interests should suffer by my obstinacy in that respect.”

“Perhaps you will talk differently in a few minutes,” observed the old
woman. “If we now stand face to face as enemies, it is your own fault.”

“We will not re-argue all the points involved in that accusation,” said
Laura. “Remember the scene in Suffolk Street--remember also the remarks
which passed between us the other evening in Paris; and then cease to
charge me with the misunderstandings that may have sprung up between
us. You desired to play the despot’s part--I resisted--and in these
few words all our differences are summed up. But I imagine that those
differences were settled, and that an arrangement was made, whereby
you were to dwell apart from me and receive a quarterly stipend of two
hundred pounds. Have you thought better of the business?--or do you
require some other terms?”

“Yes--I require other terms, indeed,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer: then,
fixing her eyes full upon the countenance of her daughter, she said, “I
am in possession of a secret which would ruin you----”

“Enough, mother!” ejaculated Laura, her beauteous countenance becoming
scarlet with rage. “I will hear no more--for I understand your menace.
But now listen to _me_! You fancy that I am in your power:--you think
that if you seek my husband and reveal to him all the particulars of my
past life--my amours--my profligacy,--you flatter yourself, I say, that
his love will turn to hatred, and that he will discard me! Now, I dare
you to do your worst--I fear you not! In the first place, you shall not
see my husband again: in the second, you could succeed in working no
change in his sentiments towards me. I would give you the lie to every
word you uttered! He knows that I am not a goddess of purity: but I
should have little difficulty in persuading him that you are magnifying
a comparatively venial frailty into a monstrous dissoluteness. And now,
mother, you may leave me as speedily as you choose--and spare me the
pain of thrusting you from my doors by main force.”

Sublime and grand in the majesty of her beauty was the
voluptuous--wanton--unprincipled Perdita,--(for on this occasion
we must give her the name which so admirably represents her
character),--as, drawn up to her full height, and with heaving bosom,
flashing eyes, and expanding nostrils, she thus addressed her mother.
Having laid aside her bonnet, shawl, and long white gloves, she
seemed like a Pythoness in her bridal garments; and her manner was as
energetic and awe-inspiring, as her voice was emphatic and determined
in its full silver tones.

But the old woman lost not her composure: on the contrary, she listened
to her daughter with the calm insolence of one possessing a last
argument the enunciation of which would crush and overwhelm.

“One word, Laura,” she said, in a voice that commanded the young lady’s
attention: “one word--and then act as you choose. If I ere now adopted
a tone of menace, it was not with the intention of wielding such paltry
and poor weapons as those to which you have alluded. I had not _then_,
and have not _now_, the slightest intention of venting my spite in
petty tittle-tattle relative to your amours: I will not afford you the
chance,” she added, with keen sarcasm, “of using your sophistry for the
purpose of colouring your dissoluteness so as to give it the air of a
mere feminine frailty.”

“Cease this long preface, and come to the point at once,” said Laura, a
vague fear coming over her, but which she concealed beneath a cold and
rigid expression of countenance: at the same time, she saw full well
that her mother was really possessed of some secret power whereof she
was determined to make the most.

“My preface is done,” continued Mrs. Mortimer; “and now for the matter
to which it was to lead. You have this day married the Count of
Carignano?”

“You need scarcely ask that question,” said Laura; “since you have ere
now accompanied us from the church where the ceremony was performed.”

“And you will henceforth style yourself _Countess of Carignano?_”
proceeded the old woman, still adopting an interrogatory style.

“Certainly,” responded Laura: “I shall use the title to which marriage
has given me a right. But to what point, may I once more ask, is all
this long discourse to come?”

“To _this_,” answered the old woman, approaching her daughter and
sinking her voice to a low whisper: “to _this_,” she repeated, her
countenance becoming stern and resolute, while she abruptly stamped her
foot imperiously upon the carpet: “to _this_, Laura--that your marriage
of to-day is no marriage at all--that you consequently have no more
right than I to the title of Countess--and that you have drawn down
upon your head the peril of a prosecution for _bigamy_!”

An ice-chill came upon the heart of the young lady as these withering
words met her ears: but, by means of an effort so powerful that it was
anguish even to exercise it,--yes, agony thus to restrain her pent-up
rage from finding a vent in a furious outburst,--she preserved an
outward calmness which astonished her mother, who had expected to bring
her down as an abject suppliant upon her knees.

“You must still explain yourself farther,” said Laura, in a cold tone.

“What! you affect not to understand me?” exclaimed the old woman. “Or
would you have the insolence to deny that you are already married to
Charles Hatfield?”

“I do not condescend to a falsehood upon the subject--at least with
_you_,” responded Laura, contemptuously: though internally her
agitation was immense.

“And yet you _did_ deny it in Paris,” said the old woman. “But I was
aware of the fact at the time--and I cherished the secret, well knowing
that it would serve me some day or another. I little thought, however,
that I should so soon be compelled to make use of it.”

“And for what purpose have you now proclaimed your knowledge thereof?”
demanded Laura, a gleam of joy lighting up in her soul as she perceived
that her mother was vexed and embarrassed by the calmness with which
her menaces were received.

“In a word,” resumed the old woman, “we are in the power of each other.
You can transport _me_--and I can transport _you_.”

“Again must I request you to explain yourself,” said Laura. “You
are evidently fencing with something that you wish, yet fear to
communicate.”

“I will speak out at once,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer. “The cheque which
the Marquis of Delmour gave me for six hundred pounds, I altered in
such a way as to make it represent sixty thousand; and I yesterday
obtained the amount from the bankers. If you present _your_ cheque, I
shall be ruined; and therefore I propose a compromise.”

“And by way of opening the negociation, you level menaces at my head,”
said Laura, who, though at first startled by the announcement of the
tremendous fraud perpetrated by her mother, had speedily recovered her
self-possession.

“What, then, is your decision?” asked the old woman, trembling from
head to foot, and no longer able to conceal the horrible fears that had
come upon her: for she began to fancy that her daughter would not yield
even to the threats that had been used to coerce her. “What is your
decision, I repeat?”

“To refuse all compromise--to accept the gauntlet which you threw down
at first, and which you would now gladly take back again--to place
myself in a condition of open hostility to you!” answered Laura, her
countenance growing stern and pale, and her lips quivering slightly.

“But it will be transportation for us both,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer:
“I for forgery--you for bigamy!”

“Permit me to give you _my_ view of the case,” said Laura. “I hold a
cheque for sixty thousand pounds, which I shall present to-morrow; and
the money must be paid to me. The bankers will be the sufferers by the
forgery--not I, nor the Marquis of Delmour. This disposes of one part
of the question. For the rest, I have only to observe that even if I
were tried and convicted for bigamy, a fortune of sixty thousand pounds
would be no mean consolation during, perhaps, imprisonment for two
years or transportation for seven. I am not, however, so sure that any
prosecution of the kind will take place, be you never so vindictive:
for I question whether you will have the courage to open your lips to
accuse _me_ of bigamy, seeing that it would not only be _forgery_ with
which I should charge you--but _murder!_”

“Murder!” repeated the old woman, half in indignation and half in
terror: “what mean you?”

“I mean that Mr. Torrens, your husband, _met with a violent death_,”
answered Laura,--“that you yourself gave me this information--and that
you came over to London to be revenged upon him for his conduct of
former times! Now, mother,” she exclaimed, her countenance suddenly
becoming radiant with triumph,--“_now_ will you dare to repeat your
menaces against me?”

The old woman staggered back a few paces, and sank into a chair.
The tables had been completely turned against her: she had come to
conquer--and she must depart conquered;--she had sought out Laura in
the hope of reducing her to submission--she was herself now crushed and
overwhelmed.

There was something shocking in the mortal enmity which had thus
sprung up between the mother and daughter,--the former threatening
transportation--the latter pointing to the gibbet looming in the
distance!

“But you know--you know, in your own heart, that I did _not_ take the
life of Torrens?” suddenly ejaculated the old woman, starting from her
seat.

“I know nothing more than what you yourself told me, mother,” said
Laura; “and if the matter should happen to go before the magistrate
for investigation, I shall only state _what I do know_--and shall not
assist your cause with any conjecture relative to your innocence.”

“And would you send me to the scaffold?” demanded the wretched woman,
her voice becoming plaintive and mournful: “would you place me in such
a position that I must inevitably sink beneath a mass of circumstantial
evidence, and be condemned as a murderess?”

“Would you send your own child into transportation, the horrors of
which you yourself have experienced?” asked Laura, bitterly.

“Oh! my God--this is a punishment for all my crimes!” exclaimed the
miserable Mrs. Mortimer, a pang of remorse suddenly shooting through
her heart like a barbed and fiery arrow.

“You should have calculated all the consequences before you came hither
to menace me,” observed Laura, still in a cold and severe tone--a tone
that was unpitying and merciless.

“Can nothing move you?” asked the wretched woman, now completely
subdued and cast down--overwhelmed and spirit-broken.

“Nothing!” responded Laura, sternly. “You may do your worst--I fear you
not; and henceforth I acknowledge you not as my mother!”

Saturated with crimes--steeped in profligacy as the old woman’s soul
was, nevertheless this sudden renunciation of her by her own daughter
went like a death-pang to her heart. She fell back again into the seat
from which she had started a few minutes previously--a deadly pallor
came over her countenance, rendering it hideous and ghastly as if the
finger of the Destroyer were upon her--and her breath came in long and
difficult sobs.

But her daughter stood gazing unmoved on this piteous spectacle,--stood
like an avenging goddess, in her white robes, as if about to immolate
her victim upon an altar!

“Give me a glass of water, Laura--for the love of God, a glass of
water!” gasped the old woman at length, as she extended her arms
piteously towards the relentless being, whose heart, so voluptuously
tender beneath the influence of love, was hard as adamant against the
appeals of her parent.

“Nothing--no, not even a drop of water, nor a crust of bread shall you
receive beneath my roof,” was the unpitying, remorseless answer.

“Then my curse be upon you--my curse be upon your dwelling, and all
whom it contains!” cried the old woman, suddenly recovering her own
energy and firmness--for the last words of her daughter had goaded her
to desperation.

“The curses of fiends turn to blessings,” said Laura, in a calm and
deliberate voice.

“But a mother’s curse is a terrible--terrible thing!” exclaimed Mrs.
Mortimer, fixing her haggard eyes intently upon her daughter, who
returned the gaze with looks of proud disdain and haughty defiance.

The old woman then rose slowly from her seat, and as slowly walked
towards the door; on reaching which she turned round, and said, “Is
there no way of restoring peace between us?”

“None,” was the resolute and laconic answer.

Mrs. Mortimer hesitated yet for a few moments; then, as if suddenly
embracing a desperate resolve, or struck by some terrible idea of
vengeance, she abruptly quitted the room.

Laura listened, with suspended breath, to hear whether there was any
one in the hall for her mother to speak to; but her apprehensions on
this head were speedily relieved, and in a few moments the front door
closed behind the old woman.

The Count of Carignano, who had watched her departure from the
drawing-room window, now hastened to join his lovely wife.

“The interview has been a long one--and, I fear, not altogether
pleasant, dearest,” he exclaimed, as he clasped Laura in his arms.

“My mother wished to exercise over me a despotism to which I cannot
yield,” responded the bride. “But wherefore did you conjecture that our
meeting was disagreeable?”

“Became your countenance is very pale, my love,” answered the Count, in
a voice full of tenderness. “Ah! now it is growing animated--and the
colour of the rose is returning to your lovely cheeks.”

“Yes,” murmured the fascinating woman, as she wound her snowy arms
about her husband’s neck, “it is because your presence has restored
me to happiness, and banished from my mind the unpleasant impressions
excited by my mother’s behaviour. But we shall see her no more--and
naught can now interfere with our perfect felicity.”

“This assurance delights me,” answered the Count, gazing with a joyous
admiration upon the splendid creature who had that morning become his
bride.




CHAPTER CXCV.

HORRORS.


It will be recollected that Mrs. Mortimer was far from being unprovided
with money--her share of the spoil obtained from Torrens still being in
her possession, with the trifling deduction of the few pounds she had
expended in travelling, clothes, and maintenance, during the interval
that had elapsed since the occurrences in Stamford Street.

The bulk of the amount thus remaining to her had been carefully sewn in
her stays, so that it had altogether escaped the notice of Jack Rily:
and thus the old woman was not destitute of resources.

But the sum in her possession was a mere trifle when compared with
that which she had hoped to acquire from the forgery; and she now
resolved to leave no stone unturned--no measure unattempted, however
desperate, in order to accomplish her aim. Besides, she longed--she
craved to wreak a terrific vengeance upon her daughter,--yes--upon her
own daughter: for the remorse and the softer feelings which had ere now
found an avenue into her breast, when Laura renounced her, were only
evanescent and short-lived. We have moreover seen that this temporary
weakness was speedily succeeded by the desperation produced by a
terrible resolve to which her mind came as it were all in a moment!

Impelled by this sinister influence, Mrs. Mortimer lost no time in
repairing to Roupel Street, where she found Jack Rily lolling in a
chair, smoking his pipe and enjoying a quart of half-and-half.

“Well, my old tiger-cat, what news?” he exclaimed, the moment Mrs.
Mortimer made her appearance. “Have you succeeded with your beautiful
daughter?”

“Very far from it,” was the answer. “And now,” she added, ere the
Doctor had time to give vent to the oath which rose to his lips through
the vexation of disappointment,--“and now the matter has come to
that extreme point when nothing but a desperate step can prevent the
presentation of the genuine cheque to-morrow.”

“Are you sure it will not be presented to-day?” demanded Jack Rily.

“Yes; my daughter said that she should present it _to-morrow_,”
responded Mrs. Mortimer; “and I have every reason to believe that she
will not go near the bank to-day. In fact, she was married this morning
to a young Italian nobleman, whom she loves deeply, and whom she will
not therefore quit, even for an hour, on her wedding-day.”

“Well, and what do you propose?” asked Jack Rily, fixing upon her a
significant look, which shewed that he already more than half divined
what was passing in her bosom.

“Are you man enough to risk all--every thing--for the sake of that
thirty thousand pounds which will become your share if we succeed?”
demanded the old woman, returning the look with one of equally ominous
meaning.

“I am man enough to do any thing for such a sum!” he answered, sinking
his voice to a low whisper, and laying down his pipe--a proof that he
considered the topic of discourse to be growing too serious to permit
any abstraction of the thoughts.

“Then you understand me?” said Mrs. Mortimer, leaning forward, and
surveying him with a penetration which appeared to read the secrets of
his inmost soul.

“Yes--I understand you, my tiger-cat,” replied the man; and he drew his
hand significantly across his throat.

“Well, and will you do it?” she asked.

“But it is your own daughter,” he observed, shuddering at the atrocity
of the woman’s mind which could calmly contemplate such a fearful deed.

“She has renounced me,” was the laconic answer.

“Nevertheless, you are still her mother,” persisted Jack Rily.

“I discard her--for ever!” responded the horrible old woman.

“Well--you astounded me at first,” said the Doctor, in a slow tone, as
he reflected profoundly upon the extreme step suggested: “but I can
look at the business with a more steady eye _now_. I always thought
that I was bad enough: but, by God! you beat anything I ever knew in
the shape of wickedness.”

“Then you refuse--you decline?” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer,
interrogatively, while rage convulsed her entire frame--for she dreaded
lest the money should be lost, and Laura escape her vengeance.

“By Satan!” cried the Doctor; “if you have pluck enough to propose, I
am not the man to refuse to execute the scheme. But how do I know that
when the critical moment comes, remorse won’t seize on you, and you’ll
cry off?”

“When I have made up my mind to anything, I am not to be deterred
by difficulty--danger--or compunction,” answered the old woman. “I
implored the ungrateful girl to give me a glass of water, when I was
choking--and she refused. What mercy can I have towards her?”

“None,” responded Jack Rily. “But you must enter into farther
explanations, old tiger-cat: because at present I’m pretty well in the
dark relative to the precise nature of your plans, and the way in which
they are to be executed. It’s now four o’clock in the afternoon--and we
must settle everything without delay, if it’s to be done _to-night_.”

“It _is_ for to-night,” said the old woman, emphatically. “My daughter
and her husband have taken a house in Pimlico----”

“How many servants?” demanded Jack Rily.

“I cannot exactly answer the question: but I know that there is
a French lady’s maid; and I saw an English valet, who had been
recommended by the house-agent----”

“Never mind who recommended him,” interrupted the Doctor, impatiently;
“he is there--and that’s enough for us. All I care about knowing is how
many people we may have to deal with.”

“But the venture must be made at any risk,” observed Mrs. Mortimer. “It
is of the highest consequence to us to gain possession of the genuine
cheque----”

“And put the holder of it out of the way,” added Jack Rily. “Oh! I
understand your drift plainly enough: but I wish to see my course
clear--because I’d better do the best I can with the notes under
existing circumstances, rather than get a bullet through my brain or
find myself laid by the heels in Newgate some time between this and
to-morrow morning.”

“Certainly--certainly,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer. “Well--upon what do you
decide?”

“To risk the business,” answered Jack, starting from his seat. “And now
I’ll just go and take a quiet walk down into Pimlico, for the purpose
of surveying the premises. Whereabouts is it?”

“Westbourne Place, No.----,” replied Mrs. Mortimer.

“Well--you can meet me again down in that neighbourhood at about
midnight,” said the Doctor. “Where shall the place of appointment be?”

“In Sloane Square, if you like,” observed the old woman.

“Good--precisely at midnight. And now be off--because I am going to
hide the Bank-notes so that nobody may be able to find them during
my absence,” said the Doctor, with a meaning look. “Of course I need
hardly tell you that if you are scheming or manœuvring to get me into
a plant down at Pimlico, you’ll never go away alive to make a boast of
it.”

“The idea that I should act in such a way, is ridiculous,” returned
Mrs. Mortimer.

“Well--there is no harm in giving you the caution, old tiger-cat,”
remarked the Doctor, carelessly. “So tramp off--and be punctual to our
appointment.”

“I shall not fail,” said the horrible woman, who thereupon took her
departure.

How she passed the remainder of that day, we know not. Suffice it to
say that the leisure-time which she had for reflection did not induce
her to change her mind nor swerve from her purpose: on the contrary,
as she entered Sloane Square a few minutes before midnight, it was
with a determination to take her share in the awful tragedy which she
contemplated--namely, the murder of her own daughter and the Count of
Carignano. Bad and depraved as she was, never in her life until this
occasion had she thought so calmly and coolly of shedding blood: for
if on the previous day she had harboured the design of assassinating
Jack Rily, in order to regain possession of the Bank-notes, it was
not without a cold shudder, even though there was something like
aggravation to inspire the idea. But now she had brought herself--or
circumstances had tutored her--to survey with a diabolical tranquillity
the hideous, appalling crime which she had in view; and as she walked
along, she clutched with savage triumph a clasp-knife that she had
purchased during the evening.

Precisely as the clock struck twelve Jack Rily joined her.

“Well, you have not altered your mind?” he said.

“It is rather for me to ask you that question,” was her response.

“Oh, I am resolute enough!” he observed; and through the semi-obscurity
of the night she could see his large white teeth flashing hideously
between the opening in his lip. “I have taken a good survey of the
premises,” he continued, “and know exactly how to proceed. Have you got
any weapon, old tiger-cat?”

“This,” she replied, placing the clasp-knife in his hand.

He opened the blade--felt it--closed it again--and, returning the knife
to his companion, said, “That will do. But there is one thing that
troubles me a little,” he added, after a few moments’ hesitation; “and
I’ll be hanged if I can get it off my mind. Yet--perdition seize it!--I
am no coward either.”

“What have you to fear, then?” demanded the old woman, hastily.

“Why, to tell you the truth----but come along farther away from the
lamps----to tell you the truth, as I was jogging quietly down Sloane
Street just now,” continued Rily, glancing furtively around, “some one,
coming hastily up from a narrow street on the right-hand side, passed
just in front of me. We almost ran against each other, and I caught a
glimpse of the fellow’s countenance----”

“Who was he?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, shuddering in anticipation of the
reply.

“Vitriol Bob,” was the answer.

“I thought you were going to say so,” exclaimed the old woman. “But
perhaps he did not notice you--and even if he did, I suppose you are
not afraid that he will attempt any mischief?”

“Whether he noticed me or not, I can’t say,” replied the Doctor;
“because the encounter was so abrupt--so sudden--that he was off again
in an instant. But if he did, I am well aware that he is capable of
anything. However, I don’t mean to let _that_ prey upon my mind, I can
tell you.”

“And yet it _does_ seem to have depressed you a little,” said Mrs.
Mortimer.

“Well--I’d rather it shouldn’t have happened--that’s all!” ejaculated
the ruffian, forcing himself to assume a gaiety which he did not
altogether feel; for, though no coward, yet the incident of his meeting
with his sworn foe in the manner described, had troubled him.

Doubtless the man’s mind, contemplating a diabolical crime, was more
disposed to superstitious terrors, and to acknowledge the influence of
presentiments, than on ordinary occasions: hence the vague uneasiness
and undefined apprehensions that had seized upon him.

Mrs. Mortimer caught the dispiriting effects of the encounter which her
confederate had experienced with one of the most desperate ruffians
in London; and such a chill fell upon her mind, that she was about
to propose the abandonment of the scheme, when Jack Rily suddenly
exclaimed, “Well thought of! I’ve something in my pocket that will do
us good!”

[Illustration]

With these words he produced a flask of brandy, which he handed to the
old woman, who drank deeply: he then applied it to his own lips, and
drained it of its contents.

“Now I feel all right again!” he cried, as he restored the empty bottle
to his pocket. “There’s nothing like a drop of the bingo at a crisis of
this nature.”

“Nothing!” observed Mrs. Mortimer, assentingly: for she likewise felt
all her resolution--or rather hard-heartedness--suddenly revive under
the influence of the alcohol.

“Now, then, let us proceed to business,” said Jack. “I have got my
own clasp-knife--a darkey[28]--and a small jimmey,”[29] he continued;
“and blowed if it shall be my fault, should we fail in the crack[30]
to-night----”

“And all that is to follow,” added Mrs. Mortimer, to whom the brandy
had imparted a ferociousness which made her thirst as it were to drink
her own daughter’s blood.

The two miscreants--male and female--now proceeded in silence; and as
they entered Westbourne Place a lovely moon broke forth from behind a
cloud hitherto dark and menacing.

“This is the house,” said Mrs. Mortimer, when they came within sight of
the dwelling where Laura and the Count of Carignano were slumbering in
each other’s arms.

“I know it, old gal,” responded Jack Rily. “We must turn into the lane
that leads down by the side of the premises. Come along--quick--there’s
a person approaching from behind.”

And, followed by the old woman, he darted into the alley which
separated the Count of Carignano’s abode from the neighbouring row of
houses.

At the back of the villa there was a small garden, the boundary-wall
of which was of no great height; and the Doctor, in the survey of the
premises which he took during the evening, had made up his mind to
effect an entry in the rear of the building.

“All is quiet,” he said, in a low whisper to his companion. “I will
climb on to the top of the wall, and then help you up. We will soon
make light work of it.”

But scarcely were these words uttered, when a dark shadow appeared at
the end of the lane--and in another moment Jack Rily and Mrs. Mortimer
beheld a man hastening towards them.

The old woman instinctively drew close up to her powerful confederate
for protection, in case mischief should be intended; and scarcely was
this movement effected, when the cause of apprehension was close up to
the spot where she and Rily were standing in the deep shade of the wall.

At that instant the moon-beams fell fully upon the man’s countenance;
and a cry of horror burst from the lips of Mrs. Mortimer as she
recognised her terrible enemy--Vitriol Bob! Simultaneously with that
cry, an ejaculation of rage escaped from Jack Rily, who, dashing the
old woman away from him, sprang towards the formidable foe.

But ere the sounds of the cry and the ejaculation had died in the air,
Vitriol Bob, nimbly eluding the attack of the Doctor, raised above his
head _something_ which his right hand grasped; and although the blow
was intended for Jack Rily, it fell with an ominous crash full upon the
countenance of Mrs. Mortimer, who, striving to escape, but bewildered
by terror, was running across the lane, in front of Vitriol Bob, at the
instant.

Then--O heavens! what a shriek of agony--what a yell of indescribable
anguish broke upon the silence of the night--rending the air with its
piercing sound, and raising echoes of even more horrifying wildness
throughout the neighbourhood.

Vitriol Bob fled in one direction--Jack Rily in another; and the old
woman was abandoned, alike by friend and foe, to her wretched fate!

But--see! the lights gleam in the windows of the very villa which
was to have been the scene of a horrible murder: the painful yells,
which still continue to beat the air with their agonising vibrations,
have aroused the Count of Carignano--aroused also the lovely creature
in whose arms he was sleeping. The valet and Rosalie likewise start
from their respective couches; and the young Italian nobleman and the
man-servant, having hastily thrown on some clothing, descend into the
street.

The cries proceed from the lane: they rush to the spot--and there
upon the ground they behold a female writhing like a stricken snake,
evidently in the most horrible tortures.

What can it mean?

They do not wait to ask the question; but, raising the wretched
sufferer from the ground, they bear her into the house--her shrieks and
screams lacerating their ears all the time, and her contortions and
writhings being so powerful that they can scarcely carry her along.

The neighbours have likewise been alarmed; but none have imitated
the example of the generous young Italian, and descended from
their bed-rooms to afford assistance. They look forth from their
windows--satisfy themselves that aid _is_ at hand--and, believing the
uproar to be created by some poor woman in a fit, close the curtains
and hasten back to bed again.

In the meantime the Count of Carignano and his valet have borne the
writhing--yelling sufferer into the hall; and Laura descends the stairs
with a candle in her hand. She has thrown on a dressing-gown, and
thrust her naked feet into slippers; and her magnificent hair floats in
messy modulations and luxuriant waves over her fine shoulders and her
ample bosom.

But scarcely do the rays of the light fall upon the countenance of the
suffering wretch, when the Count of Carignano starts back in horror,
exclaiming, “Merciful God! do my eyes deceive me?--is it possible?
Laura, dearest----”

“’Tis my mother!” cried the young lady, hastening up to the spot where
the old woman lay writhing and screaming fearfully upon the mat.

“Ah! that voice!” said the dying Mrs. Mortimer, suddenly desisting
from the outpourings of ineffable agony, as the musical tones of her
daughter fell upon her ears: “Laura--is it indeed you? Come near--give
me your hand--I cannot see you----My God! I am blind--the fiend--the
wretch----Come near, I say----Oh! I am dying--and this is the beginning
of hell----”

“Mother--mother!” exclaimed Laura, whose heart was touched by
witnessing the appalling pain that writhed the form of the old woman.

“Forgive me, my child--forgive me,” gasped the dying wretch: “I came
to----But all is growing dark in my mind as well as my eyes----forgive
me, I say--forgive me----Oh! God!” she suddenly shrieked
forth,--“this--_this_ that I feel now must be Death!”

As these words fell from the old woman’s tongue amidst gasps of agony,
convulsions seized upon her--and she expired in the most shocking
agonies.




CHAPTER CXCVI.

RESOLUTIONS.


We must now return to Lord William Trevelyan, who, in pursuance of the
promise made to the Marquis of Delmour, proceeded, the moment after
that nobleman had left him, to the villa at Bayswater, which he reached
shortly after mid-day; and he was at once conducted into the presence
of Mrs. Sefton.

This lady was alone in the parlour; and the young nobleman immediately
perceived that she had been weeping--although she endeavoured to
conceal the fact beneath a smiling countenance as she rose to welcome
him.

“My dear friend,” she said, in a voice rendered tremulous by
deep emotions; “how can I ever sufficiently thank you for your
generosity--your unparalleled goodness, in adopting such measures to
procure the liberation of Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”

“You have, then, seen him?” observed Trevelyan.

“He has but this moment left me,” was the slow and mournful response:
and, after a short pause, Mrs. Sefton said, as she sank back into her
chair, “Our interview was at first a most joyous one--but at the end
most melancholy.”

“I cannot understand you,” exclaimed Trevelyan, seating himself near
her.

“Nevertheless, it is not my intention to affect any farther mystery,
with regard to myself or my affairs, towards you,” said Mrs. Sefton,
hastily wiping away the tears that had started to her eyes, and
composing her features with the sudden resolution of one who has
determined upon the particular course which duty suggests. “Your
conduct--the generosity of your disposition--and the attachment which
you experience for my beloved daughter, are all inducements and
reasons wherefore I should at once communicate to you all my plans.”

She again paused for a few moments, and then continued in the following
manner:--

“The dearest hope of my life was accomplished on that day when my
darling Agnes was restored to me: and since we have together occupied
this secluded but delightful spot, I have had leisure to reflect upon
those duties which I owe to my daughter. Moreover, I have well weighed
all the circumstances of her position and my own; and I cannot blind my
eyes to the fact that a great sacrifice must be made on my part to her
reputation--her welfare--her purity of soul.”

“I begin to understand you now, my dear friend,” said Lord William
Trevelyan, his countenance lighting up with the animation of joy:
for he felt assured that he had not formed a wrong estimate of Mrs.
Sefton’s character, when he attributed to her the most amiable
qualifications and excellent principles, in spite of her connexion with
Sir Gilbert Heathcote.

“Oh! could you suspect even for an instant that I should permit my own
selfish passion to triumph over my affection for that dear daughter who
has been so miraculously restored to me?” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton. “No,
my lord--no, my esteemed friend--I am not a woman of such a despicable
description! Not an hour has elapsed since, in this very room, I said
to Sir Gilbert Heathcote, ‘_We must separate, my well-beloved--and
perhaps for a long, long time--if not for ever!_’ He understood me--he
appreciated my motives; and he scarcely sought to reason against my
resolution--But, oh! this yielding--this assent on his part, was all
the more generous--all the more praiseworthy--all the more noble!”
cried Mrs. Sefton, in enthusiastic admiration of the absent baronet’s
character: “for I must no longer keep the fact a secret from you, my
dear friend--although I blush to acknowledge it----But you will not
think the worse of Agnes on account of her mother’s crime----”

“Heaven forbid that I should be so unjust!” ejaculated Trevelyan, in an
impassioned tone of profound sincerity.

“Thanks for that assurance--a thousand thanks!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton.
“Yes--she indeed is pure and virtuous; and I would sooner perish by
my own hand than present to her an example of demoralisation in my
own conduct. And it is this same sentiment that animates Sir Gilbert
Heathcote--that has induced him to sacrifice all his own happiness to
her welfare--so that she may never have to think ill of _her mother_!
And now, my dear friend, you can probably conjecture the truth which my
lips scarcely dare frame?--you can perhaps divine wherefore Sir Gilbert
Heathcote is so deeply--so profoundly interested in the welfare of
Agnes?”

“Yes--I comprehend it all!” cried Trevelyan.

“And now you must look upon me with loathing--with abhorrence,”
murmured Mrs. Sefton, burying her countenance in her hands: “you must
despise and contemn the adulterous woman who allowed her husband to
exist in the belief that another’s child was his own!”

“No--no, my dear madam,” exclaimed the young nobleman; “I entertain no
such feelings towards you. I am acquainted with all your history--yes,
all----”

“All!” she repeated, in a tone of surprise: then, suddenly recollecting
herself, she said, “Oh! true--Sir Gilbert told me that my husband was
to call upon you this morning; and his lordship has therefore given you
_his_ version of our marriage-history.”

“Indeed, my dear friend,” returned Trevelyan, “he not only corroborated
every thing you had already made known to me, but gave me so many
additional details, all speaking in your favour--or at least in
extenuation----”

“I am glad that the Marquis does me so much justice,” interrupted Mrs.
Sefton: “heaven knows that I wish him all possible happiness! And that
he _has_ endeavoured to obliterate all recollection of me from his
mind, I am well aware; and in the arms of his mistresses he has sought
relief from any sense of injury or wrong that he may have experienced.
I do not mention this fact for the base and unworthy purpose of
disparaging the man whom I know that I _have_ injured: but it is in
justice to myself----”

“Ah! my dear lady, let us turn away from this topic as soon as
possible,” interrupted Trevelyan.

“Cheerfully--most cheerfully!” ejaculated Mrs. Sefton. “We will speak
of Agnes--and of the resolutions which a sense of duty towards her has
engendered on the part of Sir Gilbert and myself. Thus stand all our
relative positions:--Should Sir Gilbert Heathcote become a frequent
visitor at this house, the tongue of scandal would soon find food for
its morbid appetite in this neighbourhood; and the discredit into which
I should fall--the opprobrium heaped upon me, would be reflected upon
my innocent daughter. That is one grave and important consideration.
Another is that, even if the former did not exist, or if Sir Gilbert
merely called occasionally in the light of a friend, it would be
impossible, situated as we are, to avoid little familiarities or marks
of affection, which would inevitably appear strange and extraordinary
to Agnes, and by degrees shock her pure mind. Lastly, your lordship has
honoured her with your attachment--you have demanded of me her hand in
marriage when the suitable time shall arrive;--and in the interval the
guardianship of the treasure which is to become your own, rests with
me. I must fulfil that trust in a manner that will give you no cause
to blush for the wife whom you will have to introduce to the world. It
is known in some few quarters already--it may become generally known
eventually, that the Marquis and Marchioness of Delmour have long
ceased to dwell together: but the actual cause of this separation has
never transpired, and need not. Thus, hitherto, nothing has occurred
to reflect dishonour upon the name of Lady Agnes; and it behoves alike
her mother, and _him who is her real father_, to pursue such a line of
conduct as may be most suitable to the welfare, happiness, and peace of
that beloved child.”

“I thank you--most cordially, most sincerely do I thank you,” exclaimed
Lord William Trevelyan, “for all the resolutions you have adopted, and
all the assurances you have now given me! Yes--I am indeed interested
in the welfare of your charming daughter; and the generous sacrifices
which yourself and Sir Gilbert have decided upon making, for her
benefit, prove how noble are your hearts!”

“Nay--now you compliment us too highly,” said Mrs. Sefton, with a
smile. “We have determined upon performing our duty;--and if, by so
doing,” she continued, in a more serious strain, “I can convince you
that the equivocal position in which I have so many years been placed,
has not destroyed the sense of rectitude and the true feelings of a
mother in my breast, I shall yet be able to receive the assurances of
your friendship without a blush, and without experiencing a sense of
shame in your presence.”

“Look upon me as your intended son-in-law, my excellent friend!”
exclaimed Lord William. “My opinion of you is as high as if I
were ignorant altogether of that equivocal position to which you
allude; and my sentiments towards Sir Gilbert Heathcote are of the
warmest description. For the sake of that daughter whom he dares not
acknowledge as such, he renounces your society--he tears himself away
from you--he abjures the companionship of her whom he has loved so
faithfully for many, many years! This is a self-sacrifice--a generous
devotion which cannot be too deeply appreciated. And now, my dear
friend,” continued the young nobleman, “it is my turn to give certain
explanations. In a word, I have this morning seen your husband, as
you are already aware--and he implored me to become instrumental in
restoring his daughter to his care. To speak candidly, I came hither
for the purpose of reasoning with you on the propriety of yielding to
that desire on his part----”

“Oh! you would not separate me from my Agnes?” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton,
clasping her hands in an appealing manner, while her countenance
suddenly became pale and expressive of the acute anguish which the bare
idea caused her to experience.

“No--not after all you have now told me!” cried Trevelyan, in a tone
so emphatic as to be completely re-assuring. “I have such illimitable
confidence in you that it would be an insult,--nay, more--a flagrant
wrong,--to entertain the notion under existing circumstances. I shall
call upon the Marquis of Delmour this evening or to-morrow, and
candidly inform him that I can no longer recommend the separation of
Lady Agnes from her mother.”

“I return you my sincerest thanks for this proof of confidence which
you give me,” said Mrs. Sefton. “You had not, however, heard all the
resolutions upon which Sir Gilbert and myself have this morning agreed;
and now I have to make known to you a step that is about to be taken,
and which is rendered necessary by the perseverance that the Marquis of
Delmour is certain to exert with a view to regain possession of Agnes.
I propose to take her to France, where we may dwell in some peaceful
seclusion, until the two remaining years of her minority be passed.”

“And during those two years,” demanded Trevelyan, in a mournful tone,
“am I to be debarred from the pleasure of beholding her whom I love so
well?”

“I do not attempt to establish any interdiction of the kind,” said
Mrs. Sefton, with a smile. “You will of course be made acquainted with
the place of our abode; and your correspondence or your visits--or
both--will be received with delight.”

“In this case, I must not offer a single objection to your plan,”
exclaimed Trevelyan, his countenance lighting up again.

“And had I recommended you neither to visit nor correspond,” said Mrs.
Sefton, in an arch tone of semi-reproach, “should you have opposed our
departure?”

“Oh! no--no: do not think that I am so selfish!” he cried. “I should
have considered this to be the day of self-devotion for all who are
interested in the welfare of your beautiful--your amiable Agnes. But
I behold her in the garden!” he exclaimed, as he looked towards the
window opening on the lawn at the back of the villa. “Have I your
permission to join her there for a few minutes?”

Mrs. Sefton signified her assent with a smile and a graceful gesture;
and in a few moments Trevelyan was by the side of the beauteous Agnes
in the garden.

The young lady was mournful at first--because her mother had already
communicated to her their intended departure for the continent: but
when Trevelyan, turning the discourse upon that topic, gave her to
understand that he had received permission to visit them wheresoever
they might fix their abode, and correspond with them frequently,--when
he even ventured so far as to hint how it was more than probable that
he would follow them to the same place, and establish his own temporary
dwelling there, so as to be able to see them every day,--then was
it that the young maiden’s countenance brightened up, and Trevelyan
gathered therefrom the silent but eloquent assurance that he was not
indifferent to her.

The few minutes which he had obtained permission to pass with Agnes
grew into hours; and when, between four and five o’clock in the
evening, Mrs. Sefton came herself to announce to the youthful pair in
the garden that dinner was already served up, he uttered an ejaculation
of surprise that it could be so late! Agnes said nothing--but cast
down her eyes, and blushed deeply; and her mother, who knew what love
was and all its symptoms, was now fully convinced that her daughter’s
gentle heart was well disposed towards the noble suitor for her hand.




CHAPTER CXCVII.

THE MARQUIS OF DELMOUR.


On the following morning, Lord William Trevelyan called upon the
Marquis of Delmour, whom he found pacing his apartment in great
agitation.

The old nobleman had two sources of annoyance at that moment: the first
was the suspense in which he existed relative to the result of his
endeavours to regain possession of Agnes, whom he devotedly loved;--and
the other was in respect to Laura Mortimer.

He had heard from his bankers on the previous evening that the cheque
for sixty thousand pounds had been duly presented and cashed; and he
therefore concluded that the young lady had arrived in London. But why
had she not written to him? His impatience to receive a note from her
was in proportion to the madness--the intensity, of that passion with
which her transcendent loveliness and her syren witcheries had inspired
him; and his excited imagination conjured up a thousand reasons for
this silence. He fancied that some accident might have occurred to
her,--or that she had written, and her letter had miscarried; in which
case she herself would be marvelling at his tardiness in repairing
to her,--or that she had changed her mind, and repented of the
promise she had made to become the old man’s mistress. Then jealousy
took possession of his soul; and he could scarcely control within
reasonable bounds the emotions that agitated in his breast.

The arrival of Trevelyan, however, promised to relieve him of at least
one cause of suspense and anxiety; and, the moment the young nobleman
entered the apartment, the Marquis rushed precipitately forward to meet
him.

“In pursuance of my promise,” said Lord William, when the usual
compliments were interchanged, “I called upon her ladyship--Mrs.
Sefton, I mean, yesterday--and had a long interview with her.”

“And the result?” demanded, the Marquis, impatiently.

“I regret to state that, after all I heard upon the occasion, I cannot
either recommend the withdrawal of Lady Agnes from her mother’s charge,
or interfere any farther in this family matter,” responded the young
nobleman. “Mrs. Sefton will see Sir Gilbert Heathcote no more, and will
devote herself to that maternal care which she is so well qualified to
bestow upon her daughter.”

“Then, my lord,” exclaimed the Marquis, impetuously, “I shall at once
appeal to the tribunals of my country for that redress which I ought to
have demanded long ago.”

“Pardon me, my lord,” said Trevelyan, “for reminding you that there is
much to be considered ere you put this threat into execution. By giving
publicity to your unhappy family-affairs, you may to some extent act
injuriously to the welfare of your daughter.”

“True!” ejaculated the old nobleman, struck by the observation. “And
yet am I to remain quiet and tranquil beneath this additional wrong
which is thus thrust upon me by her who in law is still my wife?”

“For your daughter’s sake you must endure it--if a wrong it indeed be,”
answered Trevelyan solemnly.

“And Agnes--has she learnt the secret of her birth?--does she cling to
her mother, in preference to me?--does she devote not a single thought
to the father who has ever behaved with so much tenderness towards
her?” demanded the Marquis. “Reply, my lord, to all these questions.”

“Your daughter still believes herself to be plain Miss Agnes,” was the
answer; “and she is not taught to forget her father.”

“But what must she think of the strange circumstance, that while she
believes herself to be the bearer of her father’s name of Vernon, her
mother is known by that of Sefton?” asked the nobleman.

“She has adopted the latter name, as a natural consequence of her
restoration to the maternal parent,” was the reply; “but her pure and
artless mind cherishes not the curiosity which, in ordinary cases,
would prompt many questions relative to all these points. She imagines,
generally, that particular causes of unhappiness have led to the
separation of her parents, and that the adoption of different names was
the necessary result. For the rest, believe me that she will be well
cared for by her mother, and that she will never be tutored to think of
you otherwise than with respect and gratitude.”

“Is she happy with her mother--happier than she was in her own cottage,
under my care?” inquired the Marquis, after a long panic, during which
he seemed to reflect deeply.

“She is happy, my lord,” responded Trevelyan: “but I will not aver that
she is _happier_ than she was. She thinks of you constantly--speaks of
you often----”

“Then I will do nothing that shall interfere with her
tranquillity--nothing that shall bring into the light of publicity
those circumstances that would give her so much pain,” interrupted
the Marquis, who, though sensual, jealous, and imperious in
disposition,--though addicted to pleasures of a profligate
description,--was nevertheless characterised by many lofty feelings and
generous sentiments, as indeed the whole tenour of his conduct towards
Agnes had fully proven.

Lord William Trevelyan thanked him for the assurances which he had just
given, and shortly afterwards took his leave, highly rejoiced at the
manner in which the interview had terminated.

It must be observed that the passion which the Marquis of Delmour
had formed for Laura Mortimer and the hope which he entertained of
speedily possessing her as his mistress, had in a slight degree
diminished the intensity of his anxiety to recover Agnes; inasmuch as
his arrangements in respect to Laura had not only served to occupy his
mind--abstract his thoughts somewhat from the contemplation of the loss
of his daughter--and hold forth the promise of a solace to be derived
from the society of that lovely creature whose unaccountable silence
nevertheless tormented him sadly.

The day passed--and still no communication arrived. Let it be
remembered it was on this self-same day that Laura and the Count were
married; and it was during the following night that Mrs. Mortimer met
her dreadful death in the manner already described.

The ensuing morning found the Marquis pale, agitated, and racked by a
thousand anxious fears, amongst which jealousy was often uppermost as
he revolved in his mind all the possible reasons that could account for
the protracted silence of the young lady.

He sate down to breakfast for form’s sake--but ate nothing. Never did
his gilded saloons appear more desolate--more lonely;--and yet it was
not to them that he had contemplated bringing his beautiful mistress!

Presently the morning papers were laid upon the table; and mechanically
casting his eyes over one of them, he observed a short article, headed
“DIABOLICAL OUTRAGE AND FRIGHTFUL DEATH.”

He commenced the perusal of the account; and the apathy with which he
began, speedily changed into the most intense interest: for the article
ran thus:--

“Last night, shortly after the hour of twelve, the inhabitants of
Westbourne Place and the immediate neighbourhood were thrown into
the greatest alarm by the sudden outburst of the most dreadful
screaming, as of a female in mortal agonies. These terrific signs
of distress appeared to emanate from a narrow lane, passing by the
side of a beautiful villa in the occupation of the Count and Countess
of Carignano, who, it appears, had been married in the morning, and
had only entered their new abode immediately after the ceremony.
His lordship, attended by his valet, lost no time in descending to
the succour of the afflicted person, whoever it might be; and they
discovered an elderly lady in the agonies of death. They conveyed her
into the villa, where, to the horror of the Count and his lovely
bride, it was found that the dying woman was none other than Mrs.
Mortimer, the mother of the Countess. Medical assistance was promptly
sent for; but before the nearest surgeon could arrive death had
terminated the sufferings of the lamented lady. The horrible nature
of those sufferings can be readily understood, when, on surgical
examination, it transpired that an immense quantity of the strongest
vitriol had been thrown over her; and there were proofs that the bottle
containing the burning fluid had been broken over her head. The affair
is involved in some mystery: but it is presumed that, while repairing
to her daughter’s abode, she must have missed her way and got into
the lane, where some murderous ruffian, undeserving of the name of a
man, perpetrated the frightful outrage. Our readers may remember that
this is not the only case of the terrible use of vitriol which we have
recently been so painfully compelled to record; and, from all we can
learn, there is a monster in human shape, well known to the police,
and bearing the significant though horrible denomination of _Vitriol
Robert_--or more familiarly, _Vitriol Bob_--who has for some time
past infested the metropolis, and who makes use of the burning liquid
as an adjunct to his predatory attacks on the unwary in lone or dark
neighbourhoods. The above are all the particulars which we have been as
yet able to obtain, owing to the advanced period of the night when the
diabolical outrage was perpetrated.

This narrative, detailed with all the mannerism of an export
penny-a-liner, excited the jealous rage of the Marquis of Delmour
almost to madness.

The whole thing was as clear as daylight! The Mrs. Mortimer who had
met her death in such a dreadful way, was evidently the old woman
whom he had seen on several occasions; and she _was_, after all, the
mother of Laura! The perfidious Laura herself had become the wife of
another;--and the Marquis was compelled to open his eyes to the fact
that he had been most egregiously duped by an adventuress.

Hastily summoning his carriage, the Marquis proceeded direct to his
bankers’; where he found that the sixty thousand pounds had indeed been
paid; but, on farther inquiry, he ascertained that an old woman had
presented the cheque. The description of the recipient was then given
by the clerk who cashed the draft; and the Marquis became convinced
that she was none other than Mrs. Mortimer. The bankers perceiving that
he was anxious to learn who had actually obtained the money, produced
the cheque itself, the female’s name being written on the back in token
of acquittal; and there were the words--MARTHA MORTIMER.

In a mechanical way, and while deliberating what step next to
take, the enraged nobleman cast his eyes over the draft; when he
started convulsively--for he instantly detected the forgery, or
rather alteration, that had been effected: and then, in his furious
excitement, the principal facts of the story came out--showing how he
had been induced to give the cheque.

All was now amazement and alarm in the bank-parlour; and one of the
partners in the firm suggested the propriety of repairing immediately
to the dwelling of the Count of Carignano, for the purpose of
communicating with the Countess relative to the transaction. But the
Marquis, who by this time had grown somewhat more cool, began to
reflect that any publicity which was given to the matter would only
cover him with ridicule; and as the money was not of such consequence
to him as the avoidance of the shame attendant on the business, he
wisely resolved to hush up the whole affair.

The bankers were by no means averse to this amicable mode of
adjustment, inasmuch as it relieved them from all doubt or uncertainty,
and all possibility of dispute relative to the party on whom the loss
consequent on the forgery was to fall; and they therefore readily
consented to retain the transaction profoundly secret. At the same
time, they understood fully that they were not to pay the genuine
cheque for sixty thousand pounds, in case of its presentation; the
Marquis resolving to take time to consider what course he should pursue
with regard to that portion of the business.

The old nobleman drove home again; and, on his arrival at his stately
mansion, he shut himself up in his own chamber to reflect upon the
startling revelations of that day.

Not for an instant did he entertain the idea of seeking an interview
with Laura. Such a step was useless: for she had no doubt married, he
reasoned, according to her taste. Moreover, his pride revolted at the
bare idea of undergoing the humiliation and shame of being laughed at
by one who would probably care nothing for any reproaches that might be
levelled against her.

But how was he to recover the cheque? It was valid in her hands: for
even if she had connived at her mother’s forgery, the collusion could
not be brought home to her. Still, the Marquis did not at all admire
the idea of paying another sixty thousand--especially for one who had
so grossly deluded him.

By degrees the old nobleman’s thoughts became so bewildering that he
felt as if he were going mad. He had lost his daughter--he had lost his
mistress--he had been duped out of his money--and, vile though Laura
evidently was, he nevertheless still adored her image with a devouring
passion.

He walked up and down his room in a state of excitement that was
increasing cruelly, and that produced a hurry in the brain--a confusion
in the ideas--a delirium in the imagination.

The fever of his reflections augmented to such a height that he began
to conjure up a variety of evils and annoyances which did not really
exist. He pictured to himself his bankers laughing heartily at his
folly--retelling the scandal as an excellent joke--and propagating
the most offensive rumours all over the town. He fancied that he
beheld his friends and acquaintances endeavouring to conceal their
satirical smiles as they accosted him--he beheld the entire House
of Lords forgetting their dignity and whispering together in a
significant manner as he entered the assembly. Then his thoughts
suddenly travelled to Agnes; and all his ancient doubts and fears
relative to his paternity in respect to her, returned with overpowering
violence; until he felt convinced that she was indeed the offspring of
an adulterous connexion between his wife and Sir Gilbert Heathcote.
Lastly, by a rapid transition, his imagination wandered to the
abode of the Count and Countessa of Carignano; and he pictured the
lovely--seducing--voluptuous Laura in the arms of a rival!

All these reflections maddened the old man--deprived him of his
reason--rendered him desperate--and made life appear to him a burthen
of anguish and an intolerable misfortune.

He did not remember his boundless wealth--his proud titles--his
stately mansions--and all the means of pleasure, enjoyment, and
solace that were within his reach: his morbid condition of mind
obtained such a potent sway over him, that he only saw in himself a
lone--desolate--wretched old man,--deprived of his daughter--deprived
of his mistress--deprived of his money--and with the myriad fingers of
scorn pointing towards him.

Though the sun was shining joyously, and its golden beams penetrated
into the chamber through the opening in the rich drapery,--yet all
seemed dark--dreary--and cheerless to the miserable Marquis of Delmour:
his powerful intellect--his vigorous understanding--his moral courage,
were all subdued--crushed--overwhelmed beneath a weight of trifling
realities and tremendous fancies.

In this state of mind the miserable man suddenly rushed to his
toilette-case--seized his razor--and inflicted a ghastly wound upon his
throat.

At the same instant that he fell--the blood pouring forth like a
torrent--a valet entered the room, bearing a letter upon a silver tray.




CHAPTER CXCVIII.

CASTELCICALA.


Turn we now to the State of Castelcicala--that lovely land which lies
between the northern frontiers of the Neapolitan dominions and the
southern confines of the Papal territory.

It was a glorious morning--and bright and varied were the hues which
the sea took from the rosy clouds, as a splendid war-steamer advanced
rapidly over the bosom of the waters.

The Royal Standard of Castelcicala floated from the main-mast; and upon
the deck was a group of officers in magnificent uniforms, gathered
around a young man of tall form and noble air, who was attired in deep
black. But upon his breast a star denoted his sovereign rank; and his
commanding, though unaffected demeanour well became the chieftain of a
mighty State.

That gallant steamer was the _Torione_, the pride of the Royal Navy of
Castelcicala--that young man was Richard Markham, now become the Grand
Duke of the principality which he had rescued from slavery--and amongst
the aides-de-camp in attendance was his enthusiastic admirer, the
erring but deeply repentant Charles Hatfield.

Shortly after ten o’clock on this glorious morning the steamer came
within sight of Montoni, the capital of Castelcicala; and as soon
as the Royal Standard was descried by those in that city who were
earnestly watching the arrival of their new monarch, the artillery of
the batteries and the cannon of the ships in the harbour thundered
forth a salute in honour of the illustrious prince.

In an hour and a half the steamer swept gallantly into the fine port of
Montoni; the yards of all the vessels were manned; and the welkin rang
with enthusiastic shouts of welcome.

Richard--or, as we should rather call him, Ricardo--was deeply affected
by these demonstrations, which he acknowledged with many graceful bows;
and when he landed amongst the greatest concourse of multitudes ever
assembled on the quays of Montoni, and amidst the most joyous cries
and the thunder of the artillery, he retained his hat in his hand as a
proof of respect to that Sovereign People from whom his power emanated.

The royal carriages were in attendance; and as he rode along the
streets towards the palace, the vast crowds kept pace with the
vehicles, cheering and waving their hats and handkerchiefs all
the way. The windows and balconies were filled with gentlemen and
elegantly-dressed ladies; and flowers were thrown forth by fair hands
in token of the general delight which attended upon the arrival of the
warrior-prince.

As on the day after the memorable battle of Montoni, which gave peace
and freedom to Castelcicala, the bells were ringing in every tower, and
the cannon were still vomiting forth their thunder, their fire, and
their smoke, when the Grand Duke Ricardo alighted at the entrance of
the palace. There--upon the marble steps--stood the joy of his heart,
the charming and well-beloved Isabella, with their two children, the
little Prince Alberto and the Princess Eliza--so called after a valued
friend.[31] In company with Isabella were her mother (now Dowager Grand
Duchess), Ricardo’s sister the Princess Katherine, and her husband
Prince Mario. All were dressed in deep mourning: but the presence of
Ricardo evoked smiles as well as tears,--and those who wept for the
loss of the late lamented Grand Duke, found consolation and experienced
a source of ineffable joy in the possession of him who had become his
successor.

Moreover, the funeral of the departed one had already taken place; and
there was consequently no sad ceremony to be performed which might
revive the bitterness of grief.

That evening Montoni was brilliantly illuminated; and the streets were
thronged with multitudes who made a general holiday on the occasion of
the arrival of that excellent prince to whom they owed so much.

And it was a glorious spectacle to behold the appearance of the people
in that capital of the most prosperous country in the whole world. Not
a mendicant was to be seen: the loathsome rags and hideous emblems of
poverty which meet the eye in every thoroughfare and in every corner of
London, had ceased to exist in Montoni. The industrious classes were
all cheerful in looks and neat in attire; and instead of the emaciated
women, and pale, sickly children observable in such appalling numbers
in the British metropolis, the wives of the working-men were all comely
and contented, and their offspring ruddy with the hues of vigorous
health. Oh! it was a blessed--blessed thing to behold those gay and
happy multitudes--rendered thus gay and thus happy by means of good
institutions, honest Ministers, and a Parliament chosen by the entire
male adult population!

Though the streets were thus thronged to excess, and the houses
of entertainment were crowded, the utmost order, sobriety, and
tranquillity prevailed. There were no police visible: because none
were required. Every citizen, whether employer or employed--whether
capitalist or mechanic--whether gentleman or artizan--whether
landowner or labourer, was himself a policeman, as it were, in his
own good conduct and excellent example. _For from the time that
liberal and enlightened institutions, involving the true spirit of
Republicanism, were applied to Castelcicala, the regular police-force
had been abolished and no necessity arose for its revival._

Such was the aspect of the capital of Castelcicala--that model State
where Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality were acknowledged principles,
practically known and duly appreciated.

On the ensuing morning the Grand Duke Ricardo proceeded to the Chamber
of Deputies, where the Senators were also assembled on the occasion.
The galleries were crowded with ladies and gentlemen; and the whole of
the diplomatic corps were in the seats allotted to them. Even though
all present were in deep mourning for the late sovereign, the aspect of
the spacious hall was far from gloomy, though solemn and imposing.

The arrival of the new Grand Duke was expected with the most intense
interest. It was well known that not only had he suggested the
principal reforms which Duke Alberto had applied to Castelcicala, but
that he was even far more liberal in his political opinions than his
departed father-in-law. It was consequently anticipated that on the
present occasion he would enunciate the line of policy which it was his
intention to adopt; and every one felt convinced that this would prove
a day memorable in the history of Castelcicala.

We should observe that on the platform of the Chamber, instead of the
throne being placed for the reception of the Grand Duke, a simple
arm-chair was raised about three feet higher than that occupied by the
President of the Deputies; and instead of the royal standard flowing
with its graceful drapery over-head, the tricolour was suspended to the
wall. These changes, it was well known, had been effected by order of
the Grand Duke himself; and all present were aware that his Sovereign
Highness was not the man merely to displace the symbols of royalty
without having some congenial and practical object in view.

At half-past ten o’clock the Ministers entered and took their seats
amidst loud applause from the galleries; for this was the same
Cabinet that Ricardo had nominated five years previously, during his
brief Regency; and its policy had been such as to gain for it the
enthusiastic affection of the nation and the admiration of the whole
civilised world.

Shortly after the arrival of those high functionaries, the Royal Family
appeared in the Chamber, amidst deafening cheers, and took their seats
upon the platform, behind the President’s desk; and in a few minutes
the roar of the artillery on the ramparts announced to the capital that
the Grand Duke had quitted the palace on his way to the legislative
assembly.

It was precisely at eleven that Ricardo, attended by his staff, entered
the hall; and his presence was the signal for a more hearty renewal
of the cheering, while the ladies in the galleries waved their snowy
handkerchiefs in unfeigned welcome.

But it was almost immediately noticed that the Grand Duke appeared--not
in the royal robes worn on such occasions by all his predecessors--but
in the uniform of a Field-Marshal, with a black crape round his left
arm in token of mourning for the late monarch. He was decorated only
with the Castelcicalan Order of Knighthood, and did not even wear
upon his breast the star that denoted his sovereign rank. These
circumstances gave a sharper edge to the keenness of curiosity; and
when the cheering, which was loud and long, died away beneath the lofty
roof of the spacious hall, the silence that ensued was deep and solemn
as that of the tomb.

Then the Grand Duke, rising from the arm-chair which he had for a few
moments occupied, addressed the assembly in the following manner:

“MY LORDS AND GENTLEMEN,--You have recently experienced a great and
grievous loss in the death of a wise, enlightened, and virtuous
Sovereign, whose brief but glorious reign was devoted to those measures
best calculated to ensure the happiness, prosperity, and morality of
the Castelcicalan people. The name of Alberto will live in history so
long as the world shall endure; and his memory will be cherished in the
hearts of this and all succeeding generations of the inhabitants of
that clime which his wisdom and his example have so supremely blessed.

“Had I consulted my own private feelings, I should have allowed some
time to elapse ere I appeared before you to shadow forth that line
of policy which it is my duty to recommend to your deliberations: I
should have craved leisure to weep over the loss of my illustrious
father-in-law, and meditate upon those grand lessons which his
memorable reign have taught us. But I feel that the welfare of an
entire people is too solemnly important and too sacred a thing to be
for even a moment lost sight of; and that when the head of a State is
called away to the tomb, his successor must devote no time to a grief
which cannot recall the departed, but must at once take up without
intermission the grand work of reform that was progressing at the
period of Death’s arrival. For it is a great and flagrant wrong for
those who are entrusted with power, to interpose delays in the proper
exercise thereof; and that man is a traitor to his country and deserves
execration who dares to intimate that there is no need of haste in
accomplishing a great national good.

“These are the motives which have induced me to appear thus before you
even at so early a period that the remains of my lamented predecessor
can scarcely be said to have grown cold in the tomb: but I repeat that
if men accept the responsibilities of power and office, they must
permit no considerations to retard them in the performance of their
duty and the fulfilment of their high vicarious mission.

“Last evening I assembled the Ministers around me, and submitted to
them the views which I had some time ago matured, and which I proposed
to put into practice so soon as the natural course of events and the
will of the Sovereign People should place me at the head of affairs.
The Ministers were unanimous in adopting those views, and cheerfully
undertook to lay them in the usual manner before the Legislative
Assemblies. But in the meantime, it behoves me briefly to detail the
nature of these plans which are thus deemed suitable to the interests
and in accordance with the just rights of the Castelcicalans.

“In the first place I propose that the form of Government shall be
Republican, not merely in institutions, but likewise in name; and in
order that this idea may be fully carried out, it will be necessary
that certain sacrifices should be made in particular quarters. I
now especially allude to the class denominated the _nobility_. The
existence of aristocratic titles is totally incompatible with the
purity and simplicity of Republicanism; and the country therefore
expects from the patriotism of the nobles a ready concession of these
invidious distinctions,--distinctions which are nothing more nor
less than the relics of feudal barbarism. For my part, I cheerfully
undertake to set the example, if example be indeed required to induce
men to the performance of their duty. With this determination I have
come before you to-day,--not as the Grand Duke of Castelcicala--not
as a Sovereign-Prince,--but as the First Magistrate of the State,
retaining only that military rank which I have won upon the fields of
victory. From this moment, then, you may know me, and I wish to be
known only, as General Markham; and this same abnegation of title I
proclaim on the part of my beloved wife, my revered mother-in-law, and
the rest of the Royal Family.”

[Illustration]

During several parts of his speech, Ricardo had been frequently
interrupted by outbursts of enthusiastic cheering: but when he reached
this solemn and important climax, the whole assembly rose and greeted
him with the most joyous shouts--the most fervent applause that ever
expressed the unfeigned admiration of a generous patriotism. The ladies
in the galleries absolutely wept in the excitement of their feelings:
for never--never was seen so sublime a spectacle as this of a mighty
Prince casting his crown, his sceptre, and his titles at the feet of
the Goddess of Liberty!

“I accept with ineffable pleasure this demonstration of approval,”
resumed Ricardo, after a long pause; “and it gave me unspeakable
delight to behold the Peers themselves joining as enthusiastically as
the rest in those evidences of assent. When all titles are abolished,
save those which properly and necessarily belong to the various grades
of naval and military rank, the vanity attending upon the pride of
birth will perish through a deserved inanition, and emulation will
point to the only true aristocracy,--namely, that of VIRTUE and of
MIND. The Ministers will accordingly propose to you such measures as
may tend effectually to establish Republican Institutions in this
State. They will recommend the abolition of the Upper House, and the
retention only of the Chamber of Deputies, which must be numerically
strengthened. They will propose that the Chief Magistrate, to be
denominated _President_, shall be chosen for a period of three years,
and liable to re-election. The power of _veto_, the privilege of making
peace or declaring war, and other attributes purely monarchical, will
not he conceded to the President, but must exist in the Chamber itself;
and instead of the effigy of the ruler upon the current coin, the arms
of the Republic should be impressed. Every public act and deed must
be accomplished in the name of the Sovereign People, the President
serving the purpose of the executive agent, as responsible for his own
conduct as the Ministers themselves are held to be for theirs. These
and other reforms, all tending to the prompt and complete establishment
of pure Republican Institutions, will be at once submitted to your
deliberations.

“I have not the slightest doubt that the moment the news of all
that is passing within these walls, shall reach the ears of the
other potentates of Italy, remonstrances will be poured in by their
diplomatic agents resident in Montoni;--and perhaps even menaces may be
used. I however feel convinced that no argument which may be adopted
in such remonstrances can possibly blind your eyes to the beauty of
Freedom and the excellence of Liberty: and as for the menaces, I need
only observe that a Castelcicalan army, animated by a republican
spirit, would prove invincible.”

These words again elicited the most tremendous cheering: and after
another long pause, Ricardo wound up his address in the following
manner:--

“All of you who are here present well remember the condition
of the country previously to the accession of the late Grand
Duke. Poverty, and its invariable handmaids--squalor, filth and
demoralisation--presided over the lot of the industrious classes.
Oppression was felt everywhere--happiness existed only in the mansions
of a favoured few. The people were looked upon as the serfs and
slaves of the rich oligarchy; and the very vitals of a healthy state
of society were thus corrupt and rotten. But a change came over the
country: it was decreed that every man should have fair wages for fair
work; and that all able and willing to work, should have work found
for them. In order to accomplish these aims, it was necessary to set
about reclaiming the waste lands in those districts where they lay;
and in others, the owners of estates were by a just law compelled to
throw certain portions of their parks and pleasure-grounds into a
corn cultivation, and to level all their game-preserves for the same
purpose. What have been the results of these measures? Labour has been
abundant, and wages high: employment has extirpated mendicancy; and
squalor, filth, and demoralisation exist no longer within the confines
of Castelcicala. But what would I have you infer from these facts? That
if the people of this country have already so largely and so admirably
profited by liberal institutions,--if the reforms hitherto accomplished
have so materially enhanced the general prosperity, producing
abundance, happiness, and contentment,--who shall be able to divine
to what point that prosperity may arrive, under the pure, simple, and
truly Christian institutions of republicanism.”

Having thus spoken, with the tone, manner, and eloquence of deep
conviction, General Markham--for so we must now denominate him--bowed
to the assembly, and withdrew amidst applause which was prolonged for
some minutes after he had quitted the spacious hall.

His wife and illustrious relatives left the platform at the same
time;--and now behold this illustrious family returning to the palace,
attended by the grateful and rejoicing myriads, who, having assembled
round the Chamber, had already received the intelligence of the
memorable proceedings that had taken place within;--proceedings which
in a single hour had accomplished the most effectual and yet utterly
bloodless revolution ever known in any age or in any country!




CHAPTER CXCIX.

THE MARCHIONESS OF DELMOUR.


The Marquis of Delmour awoke, as it were from a deep trance; and,
opening his languid eyes, he beheld a female form bending over him. He
attempted to speak: but the lady placed one slender finger on her lips
in token of silence;--and, closing his eyes again, the old nobleman
endeavoured to collect his scattered ideas--or rather, to dispel the
mist which hung over them.

It struck him that the countenance which he had just seen was not
unknown to him;--and as he dwelt upon it in imagination, it gradually
became more familiar,--while, by imperceptible degrees, it awoke
reminiscences of the past--some of pleasure, but most of pain,--until
an idea of the real truth dawned in upon the mind of the Marquis.

Then again he opened his eyes;--and though long years had elapsed
since last he beheld that countenance, each feature--each lineament
was immediately recognised. But so confused were his thoughts that he
could not recollect why a feeling of aversion and repugnance prevented
him from experiencing joy at the presence of her who was standing, in
painful suspense, by his bed-side.

At last, as reason asserted her empire, a knowledge of who she was and
all the incidents associated with her revived in his soul; while, at
the same time and with a species of under-current of the reflections,
a feeling of what had happened to himself and why he was stretched
in his couch came slowly upon him. They he suddenly raised his hand
to his throat; and the bandage _there_ convinced him that the last
reminiscence which had just stolen into his mind, was indeed too true!

Averting his eyes from the mournful and plaintive countenance which was
still bending over him, he groaned aloud in very bitterness:--and then
a deep silence ensued in the chamber.

Several minutes elapsed, during which the burning tears streamed down
the lady’s face: but she subdued the sobs that almost choked her--for
she would not for worlds permit any evidence of her own deep grief to
disturb the meditations of the enfeebled nobleman. On his side, he
was absorbed in profound thought,--the incidents of the past rapidly
becoming more definite and vivid in his memory, until there were few
things left in uncertainty or doubt--and nothing in oblivion.

Slowly turning towards the lady, the Marquis saw that she was
overwhelmed with sorrow--although she hastily wiped away her
tears;--and moved--deeply moved by this spectacle, as well as
influenced by a host of tender recollections, the old man extended his
hand towards her, murmuring, “My wife! is it indeed she who is now
watching by my side?”

“O heaven! he recollects me--he will forgive me!” she exclaimed, in a
tone of the liveliest joy; and carrying her husband’s emaciated hand to
her lips, she covered it with kisses.

“Sophia,” said the old man, in a low voice and speaking with
difficulty, “we meet after a long--long separation. But let us forget
the past----”

“Is it possible that _you_ can forget it?” asked Mrs. Sefton--or rather
the Marchioness of Delmour; and bending her burning face over his hand
which she still retained in both her own, she added in a tone so low
that it seemed as if she feared even to hear her own words, “You have
so much to pardon! But I never viewed my conduct in this light until I
came and beheld you stretched upon the bed of--of----”

“Of death,” said the Marquis, his pale countenance becoming, if
possible, more ghastly pallid still.

“No--no,” exclaimed the Marchioness, with the excitement of voice and
the gesture of despair; “you must not talk nor think thus despondingly!
But tell me, my husband--tell me--oh! say, can you forgive me for the
past?”

“We have much to forgive on either side, Sophia,” responded the
Marquis: “and as I was the first cause of dissension between us--as I
indeed was the author of all your unhappiness, by forcing you into a
marriage which you abhorred--’tis for me to demand pardon first. Tell
me, then, Sophia--tell me that you _can_ pardon me for all the misery I
have been the wretched means of heaping upon your head?”

“Oh! yes--yes!” exclaimed the lady, the tears again pouring in torrents
down her cheeks: “would to heaven that I could prove to you how deeply
sensible I am of this kindness which you now manifest towards me!”

“Then you forgive me!” cried the nobleman, pressing her hand tenderly,
while joy beamed in his eyes hitherto dim with the glazing influence
of a mortal enervation:--“then you forgive me!” he repeated, his voice
becoming stronger.

“Yes--oh! yes--a thousand times _yes_!” she exclaimed; and bending over
him, she pressed her lips upon his cold forehead. “But do you pardon me
likewise?” she asked, after a few moments’ pause.

“It was I who provoked all that has occurred--I who was the unhappy
means of blighting the pure affections of your youth,” returned the
Marquis; “and therefore--whatever may have been the consequences--I am
bound to pardon and forget. Alas! Sophia, often and often--and with
feelings of ineffable pain and anguish--have I thought of that fatal
day when, long years ago, I levelled at you a terrible accusation. But
I was a coward--and I was cruel thus to have taxed you with a fault
which at that period my jealous suspicions alone----”

“To what do you allude?” demanded the Marchioness, inwardly shocked,
and with her heart bleeding as she asked the question: for she divined
too well to what her husband _did_ allude--and she was almost crushed
with a devouring sense of shame.

“Oh! if you can have forgotten that fatal day,” exclaimed the Marquis,
whose sight was too dim, and whose mental powers of perception were
too weak to enable him to understand rightly his wife’s present
emotions,--“then are you happy indeed! For, alas! I referred to the day
on which we separated, sixteen or seventeen years ago--I cannot now
remember accurately how many have passed since then----”

“And why allude to that unhappy epoch?” asked the lady, in a low and
tremulous tone.

“Because I wish to convince you that I am indeed repentant for all the
share which I took in sealing our misery,” replied the nobleman. “On
that memorable day, I accused you of infidelity towards me--and yet
subsequent reflection has convinced me that you were innocent _then_!
Oh! never--never shall I forget that tone in which you breathed the
fatal words--‘_All is now at an end between you and me! We part--for
ever!_’ I have thought since--aye, and I have said that you resembled
what would be a sculptor’s or an artist’s conception of _Injured
Innocence_; and then, when I adjured you in the name of your infant
daughter to stay, you uttered a wild cry and fled! That cry rings in my
ears now--has vibrated in my brain ever since----”

“Oh! in the name of heaven, proceed not thus!” murmured the
Marchioness, covering her face with her hands and sobbing bitterly.

But wherefore, did she thus weep?--wherefore were her emotions so
powerful? Why was her heart thus wrung until every fibre appeared to
be stretched to its utmost power of tension? It was because on the
occasion to which the Marquis referred, _guilt_ and not _innocence_
had made her voice hollow and thick as she breathed the words which
decreed an eternal separation!--it was because that wild cry had been
wrung from her by the appeal that was made in the name of the infant
child whom she knew to be the offspring of her amour with Sir Gilbert
Heathcote! But there are times when _Conscious Guilt_ so much resembles
_Injured Innocence_, that the most keen observer may be deceived;--and
such was the fact in the case now alluded to.

A long pause ensued--during which the Marquis, still totally ignorant
of the real nature of his wife’s emotions, gazed upon her with an
affectionate interest that was rapidly growing into a resuscitated love.

“Weep not, dearest,” he at length said;--“weep not, I implore you!”

“I weep, because I feel that I am so completely unworthy of your
present kindness,” responded the Marchioness, withdrawing her hands
from her face, and bending her tearful eyes with an expression of such
mournfulness and such profound penitence upon her husband, that had he
the power to raise himself in the bed, he would have snatched her to
his bosom.

“It is now my turn to implore you not to dwell longer upon the past,”
he said, taking one of her hands and conveying it to his lips. “We
have promised mutual forgiveness. You have pardoned me for forcing you
into a marriage which caused all your unhappiness: and I have pardoned
you for your connexion with Sir Gilbert Heathcote since the period of
our separation. This is the understanding between us, Sophia--and now
we are friends again. But tell me, my dear wife--tell me how long I
have been stretched on this bed, and how you came thus to be here to
minister unto me?”

“Four days have elapsed since you--since--” began the Marchioness,
hesitating how to allude to the dreadful attempt at suicide which her
husband had committed.

“Oh! name not the horrible deed!” he groaned forth, writhing in anguish.

“But it is not known--save to three or four persons,” hastily observed
his wife, well aware that this assurance would prove consolatory.

“Heaven be thanked!” murmured the old nobleman, clasping his hands
fervently. “And now tell me, my dear Sophia, how you came to learn the
shocking intelligence?”

“If you will compose yourself as much as you can, and speak but little,
I will explain every thing to you,” she answered, assuming, with
captivating tenderness of tone and manner, the position of wife and
nurse.

“One word first!” exclaimed the Marquis. “Agnes--”

“Is here--beneath your roof,” was the reply.

“My daughter again near me!” he murmured, joy animating his
countenance: but in another moment a cloud overspread his features, as
he said hesitatingly, “Does she know of the dreadful attempt that I
made upon my life?”

“Heaven forbid!” ejaculated the Marchioness, shocked at the bare idea.
“That circumstance has been religiously withheld from her. She is
however now aware that she is the daughter of the Marquis of Delmour,
and not of plain Mr. Vernon; and she believes you to be dangerously
ill. She has indeed been my companion for hours together by your
bed-side----”

“Dearest Agnes!” exclaimed the nobleman, with an effusion of tenderness
in his tone. “I will see her presently--when I am more composed,” he
added. “And now give me the promised explanations relative to all I
have asked you.”

“Listen, then, my dear husband--and do not interrupt me. Yon have
already spoken too much, considering your depressed and enfeebled
state; and Sir John Lascelles, when he calls again, will be angry
with me for permitting you to use such exertions. Oh! you know not
how kind--how attentive he has been! But you will shortly have an
opportunity of thanking him with your own lips--for he will be here in
an hour. Though the room be darkened, it is now about eleven o’clock in
the morning; and he will call at noon. Compose yourself, therefore; and
I will give you all the details you require.”

The Marchioness arranged her husband’s pillows--kissed his forehead
once more--and then, seating herself by his bed-side, proceeded as
follows:--

“That excellent young nobleman, Lord William Trevelyan, called upon me
a few days ago, in consequence of an interview which he had had with
you. It was relative to Agnes. I assured him that Sir Gilbert Heathcote
and myself had come to an understanding that we should see each other
no more; and I likewise informed Lord William that it was my intention
to repair with Agnes to the Continent. But after he had taken his
departure, I reflected profoundly upon the plans I had somewhat too
hastily determined to adopt;--and another project suggested itself.
For you may believe me when I solemnly avow that all my solicitude was
relative to Agnes. Her present happiness and her future welfare in the
world alone occupied my attention. Thus was it that the thought stole
into my mind, of how unfortunate it was for her to be separated from
the father whom she loved so well, and how prejudicial to her interests
the equivocal position of her mother was likely to become. Then I
resolved to see _you_--to throw myself upon your mercy--to implore
forgiveness for the past--and to beseech you that we might all dwell
once again beneath the same roof! For I reflected that as you had shown
so much forbearance in never appealing to the courts of justice to
divorce me legally--and as you had rather manifested every inclination
to envelope in secrecy the causes of our unfortunate differences,--the
conviction gained upon my mind that you were generous enough to be
capable of still farther sacrifices for the sake of Agnes. Oh! you can
comprehend a mother’s solicitude, my dear husband----”

“Yes--yes: proceed!” exclaimed the Marquis, powerfully affected.

“Well--animated with the hopes inspired by all these considerations,”
resumed the Marchioness, “I passed the night in meditating upon the
best course to adopt in order to procure an interview with you,--an
interview after so long a separation! At length I determined to pen a
brief note, stating that family affairs of the utmost importance to us
both had induced me to take this step; and a letter to that effect did
I accordingly write on the following morning. But when I had completed
this much of my task, another idea struck me,--which was to become the
personal bearer of my own note. I will now candidly admit that I shrank
from undertaking a task which might appear to you to evince a matchless
audacity and presumption; but when I thought of Agnes, I resolved to
risk any mortification or shame which could possibly be inflicted upon
me.”

“Oh! no mortification--no shame!” cried the nobleman. “Would to heaven
that you had only come in time to----to----”

“Hush!” exclaimed the Marchioness, placing her finger upon her lip:
“you promised that you would listen, without exerting yourself to
speak.”

“Proceed, dearest,” said the Marquis, who all this while had one of his
wife’s hands locked in his own.

“Summoning all my courage to my aid,” she resumed, “I resolved on
presenting myself at your abode. I arrived--I sent up the letter by
your valet: but in a few minutes he came rushing down the stairs
with a countenance that had horror depicted in every lineament. I
shall not however dwell upon this portion of my adventure. You may
probably conjecture how dreadful was my alarm--how great my grief,
when I learnt from the broken sentences in which the man spoke, the
frightful intelligence of the condition in which he had found you. Then
I revealed to him who I was; and, recovering my presence of mind, bade
him place a seal on his lips with regard to every one save the doctor,
whom I dispatched him to fetch. In a few moments I was with you: I
stanched the blood--I did all that an unassisted and inexperienced
woman could do in such a case. Sir John Lascelles arrived--and the
information he gave me, after inspecting the wound, was reassuring. I
then resolved to remain with you; and I sent the valet to fetch Agnes.
This is all the explanation that I have to give;--unless indeed I
should add that I communicated with Lord William Trevelyan, who, as a
generous friend and as the intended husband of Agnes----”

“Has he visited this chamber?” asked the old nobleman, hastily.

“Yes,” was the reply. “Considering that he was alike in your
confidence and in mine, I did not think it either grateful or prudent
to leave him unacquainted with all that had occurred. The secret
therefore rests with him, the good physician, the valet, and myself;
and the household generally believes that you were found in a fit,
which has been followed by a dangerous illness.”

“My dearest wife,” said the Marquis, after a long pause, “were there
no circumstances which compelled me, as an honest man, to ask _your_
pardon for the past, in the same way as you have demanded and obtained
my forgiveness,--all that you have now told me would efface from my
memory every thing that it had ever cherished to your prejudice. The
delicacy you have displayed--your generosity--your watchfulness----”

“Nay--I cannot permit you thus to exert yourself,” interrupted the
Marchioness, placing her hand upon his mouth.

“But you _must_ permit me to declare how deep is the gratitude that
I experience for your conduct towards me,” he said. “Oh! my beloved
wife--for so I must again call you--I was mad at the time when I laid
violent hands upon myself!”

“Oh! speak not of _that_!” exclaimed the lady. “My God! was it in
consequence of that last interview which you had with Trevelyan----”

“No--no,” interrupted the Marquis: “do not blame yourself in any way!
It was _not_ on account of the determination which you had expressed,
and which he explained to me, to retain Agnes in your care. No--alas! a
far less worthy cause----But tell me,” he exclaimed, suddenly checking
himself, as an idea struck him: “has there been any communication made
from my bankers----”

“Do not harass yourself with matters of business,” said the
Marchioness, in a tone expressive of the deepest solicitude.

“Nay--if I am to endure the tortures of suspense, I shall never
recover,” exclaimed the nobleman, with strong emphasis. “Besides, I see
by your manner that something _has_ occurred, Sophia----”

“Well--I will explain every thing,” said the Marchioness; “and then
your mind will be relieved: for I see that it is useless to expect you
to compose yourself while any cause of vexation or excitement exists.
Tranquillise your mind, therefore, relative to the matter which is now
uppermost in your thoughts. Your honour has been duly cared for--no
exposure has given existence to shame or humiliation.”

“Oh! again--again I thank you, my generous wife,” cried the Marquis.
“But pray give me an explanation of all this!”

“I will do so without farther preface,” she said. “In the course of the
day following the mournful one whose chief incident made me an inmate
of the house to which I only came in the first instance as a visitor,
the principal partner in the banking firm in the Strand called with
an earnest request to see you immediately. In pursuance of certain
orders which I had given to the servants relative to any visitors who
might come upon business, I was immediately made acquainted with the
banker’s presence; and I hastened to the room where he was waiting.
I assured him that you had been seized with a sudden fit, and were
unable to see any one; and, as I had already made myself known in
the house as your wife, I informed him that I was the Marchioness
of Delmour. He said that it was of the greatest consequence for him
to see you; and I replied that you were insensible to all that was
passing around you. He appeared much annoyed--indeed bewildered by
this announcement; and I conjured him to be candid with me. He then
stated that a forgery had been committed upon the bank, your name
having been already used to procure the sum of sixty thousand pounds;
that the legitimate owner of the cheque had just called to obtain the
cash, and was actually waiting at the bank at that instant; and that
he himself had come to require final instructions from _you_, as the
lady was resolute in enforcing her demand. Pardon me, my husband,”
continued the Marchioness, “if I tell you I suspected that the affair
was one which you would be unwilling to have exposed; and, indeed, on
a little farther conversation with the banker, I heard sufficient to
convince me that such was the fact. I accordingly took it upon myself
to desire him to effect a compromise with the lady in question: but she
being obstinate, he paid the entire amount. This result he subsequently
called to communicate to me; and I hope that you will at least approve
of my motives, if not of the instructions that I gave.”

“I approve of both,” answered the Marquis; “and I again thank you,
Sophia, for the delicacy which you have exhibited in my behalf.”

At this moment a knock at the door of the chamber was heard; and Sir
John Lascelles immediately afterwards made his appearance.

The worthy physician was much delighted at the sudden and unexpected
improvement which had manifested itself in his patient: and, after a
few inquiries of a purely professional nature, he turned towards the
Marchioness, saying, “To her ladyship, my lord, are you indebted for
your life. Her prompt attention and the singular presence of mind
with which she adopted the proper--indeed, the only effectual course,
immediately after the discovery of your alarming condition--saved
your lordship from a speedy death. During the four days and four
nights which have elapsed since the occurrence,” continued Sir John
Lascelles, alluding as delicately as he could to the attempted suicide,
“her ladyship has been constant and unwearied in her attendance at
your bed-side. In order to retain the sad secret within as narrow a
circle as possible, her ladyship would not even permit a nurse to
be engaged;--but, unassisted, she has sustained all the cares--all
the anxieties--and all the fatigues inevitably associated with daily
watchings and long vigils. Pardon me, madam, for speaking thus
enthusiastically; but, throughout my experience, which embraces a
lengthened series of years, I never--never beheld such devotion.”

“I thank you, doctor,” said the nobleman, “for dwelling with
such emphasis upon conduct as noble as it is generous. Certain
differences--trifling in reality, and all in consequence of faults on
_my_ side,” continued the Marquis, “had long kept us apart. But we are
now reunited, never again to separate until Death shall lay his hand
upon me, Doctor,” added the nobleman, after a short pause,--while the
Marchioness was weeping through deep emotion,--“should you ever hear
any one allude to our protracted separation, I beg--I implore you to
declare, upon the authority of my own avowal, that I alone was the
offending party, and that her ladyship has generously forgiven me every
thing.”

“I shall not wait to hear people allude to this matter, ere I myself
broach the subject, in order to volunteer that explanation,” said Sir
John Lascelles, who, firmly believing all that the Marquis had uttered,
naturally considered that the most ample justice should be done towards
a lady who had exhibited such a noble devotion to her husband under
such peculiar circumstances.

When the physician had taken his leave, after prescribing certain
medicines and giving the instructions necessary in the case,
the Marchioness bent over her husband, and with deeply blushing
countenance, said, “If there were anything at all deserving of praise
in my conduct, yours is beyond all commendation: for I have merely
performed a duty--whereas you have proved yourself to be the most
generous of men. Oh! how can I ever sufficiently thank you, my dear
husband, for having thus disarmed scandal of its weapons--thereby
saving my honour even from the faintest breath of suspicion? And in
order to do this, you have taken upon yourself the odium which attaches
itself to the separation of man and wife.”

“I need--I deserve no thanks,” said the Marquis. “You have saved my
life--you have recalled me to existence: to you am I indebted for
that leisure which, by God’s mercy, may yet be afforded me wherein to
repent of the heinous crime I have committed in laying violent hands
upon myself. Sir John Lascelles goes much into society--he is intimate
in all the first houses at the West End: and he will be careful to
propagate the intelligence which I gave him. You may therefore hold up
your head proudly, Sophia: for _your_ secret is also retained within as
narrow a circle as my own. And now as you have eased my mind on so many
points, let me relieve you from any shadow of uncertainty that may hang
over yours, in respect to the cause of this dreadful deed, the fatal
results of which were averted only by your timely aid. It was through
disappointment in respect to that very lady who presented herself at my
bankers’----”

“Enough!” exclaimed the Marchioness: “we have already had too many
painful revelations this day,” she added, in a low and affectionate
tone. “If you are now strong enough to see her, I will fetch Agnes to
remain with us for a few minutes.”

The Marquis joyfully assented; and Sophia, having arranged the collar
of his linen in such a manner that the bandage on the throat could not
be observed, quitted the room. She however almost immediately returned,
followed by her daughter, who was overwhelmed with delight to find him
whom she believed to be her father so much improved.

But when the Marchioness contemplated the heart-felt joy with which her
husband welcomed Agnes to his arms, she was stricken with remorse at
the deceit she was practising upon him,--permitting him to regard that
beauteous girl as his own offspring! Could she, however, destroy an
illusion which gave him so much delight, and was the source of so much
happiness?--will our readers blame her for cherishing this secret in
her own breast, instead of uselessly destroying the fabric of domestic
peace which had once more been built up in that lordly mansion?

After this interview with Agnes, the Marquis shortly fell into a deep
and refreshing slumber, which continued until the evening.

On the following morning he was so much farther improved, that when
Trevelyan called, he insisted upon seeing that good young nobleman,
who was delighted beyond measure to find that such a signal change had
taken place in his condition.




CHAPTER CC.

JACK RILY AND THE LAWYER’S CLERK.


It was about nine in the evening, and Mr. John Rily, _alias_ the
Doctor, was seated in his chamber at the house in Roupel Street,
smoking his pipe and pondering upon the best mode of disposing of the
Bank-notes that were in his possession.

He had seen by the newspapers that his late companion, Mrs. Mortimer,
had died from the effects of the terrible punishment inflicted upon her
by Vitriol Bob: but he had not observed any advertisement proclaiming
the notes that had been derived from the forgery;--and the journals
were likewise silent respecting the forgery itself.

The Doctor accordingly concluded that the fraud remained undetected,
and that the legitimate cheque had not been presented; and as several
days had now elapsed since the notes had found their way into his
possession, he began seriously to meditate how he could convert them
into gold.

It may seem a singular thing to some that a man having in his
possession sixty thousand pounds’ _worth_, was at a loss for the means
to realise the amount: but such is often the predicament in which
thieves are placed.

For thus stood the matter in respect to Jack Rily:--If he were to
take a quantity of the notes to the Bank of England, his appearance
might be so much against him as to excite suspicion: for he was not
endowed with vanity sufficient to blind his eyes to the fact that his
outward aspect was of the most villanously hang-dog description it was
possible to conceive. Besides, he was not certain that the notes might
not have been privately stopped. Again, if he applied to the “fences”
and receivers of stolen property with whom he was acquainted, he knew
that they could not cash more than two or three thousand pounds’
worth of the notes; and in doing even this much, they might mulct him
of one-half the value. Besides, they were only to be trusted by men
in such desperate circumstances as to leave no other alternative:
whereas the Doctor had plenty of gold remaining from his share of
the plunder derived from the adventure in the Haunted Houses. Lastly
in the catalogue of difficulties now enumerated, Jack Rily had heard
from a friend so much of the galleys in France, that he did not at all
relish the idea of repairing to that country and standing the chance
of visiting those places by attempting to pass notes concerning which
private information might have been sent, for any thing he knew to the
contrary, to the various money-changers.

All these considerations were occupying the Doctor’s thoughts on the
evening alluded to; when his landlord entered to acquaint him that a
gentleman named Green desired to speak to him.

“Ah! my old school-pal!” ejaculated Rily, joyfully: “show him up by all
means!”

And during the short interval which elapsed ere the attorney’s clerk
made his appearance, the Doctor placed the brandy-bottle, a couple of
tumblers, and a clean pipe upon the table.

By the time these preparations were completed, Mr. Green entered
the room, and was received with the familiarity of a long-standing
acquaintance.

“Well, it is quite an age since I saw you last!” exclaimed the Doctor,
as soon as his visitor was seated. “What have you been doing with
yourself? Still drudging on at old Heathcote’s?”

“Just the same--or rather worse,” was the reply.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” observed the Doctor. “Come, help yourself.
But how came you to find me out in my new quarters?”

“I was passing by here yesterday to serve a writ upon a poor devil in
this street,” answered Mr. Green, “and I twigged you at the window. You
didn’t see me: but I made up my mind to give you a call--and so here I
am.”

“And I feel devilish glad to see you,” responded Jack Rily. “You may
observe that my circumstances have improved a trifle or so, of late.”

“Ah! I wish to heaven that _mine_ would show any proof of amendment,”
said Green, with a profound sigh, as he helped himself to a tumbler of
brandy-and-water. “I made a couple of hundred pounds the other day--it
was an affair of giving information about a lunatic-asylum in which
Heathcote had locked up his own brother;--and because I treated myself
to this new suit of clothes,” he added, glancing down at his dress,
“the old villain declared that I must have robbed him to procure the
money. Oh! how I long to be revenged on that man!”

“Well, I don’t suppose it’s so very difficult,” observed Rily: “at
least I should think, from all you have told me at different times,
that you know enough about him to make him quake in his shoes.”

“Yes--yes--but--then,” stammered the clerk, with the hesitation of one
who longs to open his heart to another, yet shrinks from the avowal of
a villany even to the ears of a villain.

“But what?” demanded the Doctor, relighting his pipe. “If you’ve come
to consult me, then out with everything at once. Do nothing by halves,
old fellow--I never do.”

“Well, you see--the truth is--that--I--I am in the man’s
power--completely in his power,” responded Green: “and now he’s making
my life so wretched--oh! so wretched, that I think of running away
to America with my two hundred pounds. But then I know that he would
move heaven and earth to find me out; he would advertise me--give a
description of my person--swear that I had robbed him, or something
of that kind;--anything, indeed, would he do to revenge himself
upon me. He is one of those despicable characters that cherish the
bitterest--the most fiend-like malignity.”

“And what is he doing to you now?” demanded Jack, smoking his pipe at
his ease while his friend was thus pouring forth his complaints.

“What doesn’t he do, you should rather ask me,” exclaimed Green, in
a tone of mingled rage, hate, and despair. “As I just now told you,
he put his brother Sir Gilbert into a lunatic asylum, in the hope
of getting into his own hands the management of all the baronet’s
property--and doubtless in the expectation likewise that grief would
send the unfortunate gentleman to his last home. Well, Sir Gilbert
escaped----”

“Through your connivance, eh?” interrupted the Doctor, with a knowing
chuckle.

“Yes--with my connivance,” responded Green; “and it is the suspicion of
this fact that makes Heathcote so intolerable in his conduct towards
me. Besides, seeing me with a new suit of clothes, he swore that if I
had not robbed him I must have been bribed to give information relative
to the place where his brother was confined. It was all in vain that I
reminded him of my salary being quite sufficient to keep me in decent
attire----”

“Why, don’t you see,” again interrupted the Doctor,--“when once a man
has got a certain suspicion into his head, he won’t very easily part
with it. He cherishes it--feeds upon it--sleeps upon it--dreams of it,
just as a young girl does of her first love.”

“I suppose that this must be the case,” said Green. “At all events, I
have been made so miserable by Heathcote for the last few days, that
it was like a ray of hope when I saw you at the window of this room
yesterday; and I determined to come and chat with you over the matter.”

“And yet I don’t see very well how I can assist you, since you declare
that you are completely in Heathcote’s power,” observed Jack Rily. “But
you must tell me every thing.”

“Well--there’s no use in denying, then, that Heathcote can transport
me if he chooses,” said Green. “Some years ago I--I--committed--a--a
forgery----”

“Oh! that’s nothing,” exclaimed Jack, assuming a consolatory tone. “But
go on.”

“Nothing do you call it!” cried the clerk, looking apprehensively
around him, as if he were fearful that the very walls had ears. “In
a month’s time a thousand pounds must be forthcoming--or I shall be
transported. Up to this time Heathcote has all along given me to
understand that he will replace the money for me: but this business
of his brother’s escape and two or three other matters that have gone
wrong with him lately----”

“I understand you,” said Jack Rily: “they have put the kyebosh upon it.”

“The what?” demanded Green, unskilled in slang phrases.

“Put a stopper on the affair, I mean,” explained the Doctor, whom an
idea had struck while his companion was talking; and this idea was
that Mr. Green might be made instrumental in procuring cash for a
considerable portion of the Bank-notes.

“I am indeed afraid that Heathcote will not assist me,” pursued the
wretched clerk; “and if he does not, I cannot say what will become of
me. In fact there is no use in buoying myself up with the hope that
Heathcote _will_ do any thing for me: he himself has lost money lately
in several ways--and moreover his temper is terribly soured by this
affair about his brother.”

“Is Sir Gilbert taking steps to punish him, then?” asked Jack.

“Oh! no--he is too generous and too forgiving in his disposition,”
replied Green: “but he has compelled the two surgeons who signed the
certificate of insanity, to give him a counter-declaration--and indeed
a confession to the effect that they were bribed to sign the document
on the strength of which he was placed in the mad-house. There is
consequently the danger of all this becoming known; and Heathcote,
finding his reputation to be hanging by a thread, has grown as it were
desperate,--not caring what may happen to himself--still less what may
befall _me_.”

“I should think, then, that if you had a thousand pounds, you would
fancy yourself a very lucky fellow, and be able to defy Heathcote
altogether,” observed Jack Rily.

“I would give the last ten years of my life to reach such happiness,”
said the clerk. “But it is useless--vain to hope--”

“Will you give a few hours of your time and a little of your
ingenuity?” demanded the Doctor, now fixing upon him a look full of
deep and mysterious meaning.

“Do not banter me--do not make a jest of my misfortune,” exclaimed
Green.

“By Satan! I never was more serious in my life,” returned the Doctor.
“Nay--you may stare at me as you will: but the thousand pounds are
nearer within your reach than you fancy--and you might still keep your
two hundred pounds for your own purposes.”

“Pray explain yourself!” cried the clerk, not daring to yield to the
hope which suddenly appeared to rise up before him. “Keep me not in
suspense, I conjure you! Can you do anything for me?--can you put me
into the way----”

“Yes--I can,” answered the Doctor, emphatically. “And now you may as
well tell me candidly that you thought I _might_ be able to assist you,
when you resolved upon calling here. Because, since we were at school
together--which is many long years ago--our paths in life have been so
different, that it is not very likely you would have honoured me by
your company without some pressing motive.”

“You must at the same time admit that whenever I have met you, I have
always spoken civilly to you--and sometimes stood treat,” added Green,
diffidently.

“Once or twice,” observed Jack. “But that don’t matter one way or
the other. I asked you a question: and before I open my mind any
farther----”

“Well--I candidly admit, then,” interrupted Green, wishing to bring the
matter to the point as speedily as possible--“I candidly admit that I
_did_ hope you could help me in some way or another. But it was only
the hope of a desperate man: for as to the idea that you could assist
me to eight hundred or a thousand pounds, it would have been insane to
harbour it even for an instant. To speak more frankly still, I almost
thought of asking you to let me join you in your own way of life,
although I hardly know what your pursuits positively are.”

“They require courage and firmness, at all events,” answered Jack Rily,
with a coarse laugh; “whereas you have got into such cursed cringing,
bowing, and scraping ways, that you are only fit for a toad-eater.
Excuse me for speaking frankly--but as we are talking on matters of
business----”

“Quite correct,” interrupted Green, swallowing his resentment: for he
felt but little pleased at the home-truth which had just been told him.
“And now for the information which is to relieve me from such cruel
suspense.”

“First answer me one or two questions,” said the Doctor. “I suppose you
are often in the habit of changing Bank-notes for your master?”

“Yes: but not to any considerable amount at a time,” answered Green:
“he is too suspicious to trust me with a sum sufficiently large to
tempt me to run away with it.”

“Nevertheless, I suppose you could manage to change a few heavy notes,
if you had them?” pursued the Doctor.

“Heavy notes?” repeated Green, turning pale and trembling. “Are
they--fo--or--ged?”

“Not they!” exclaimed Rily, half disgusted with his timorous companion.
“They are genuine Bank of England flimsies: but as they didn’t come
into my hands in a very regular manner, and as my appearance isn’t
altogether in my favour, I can’t pass them myself.”

“Oh! I--I--can get cash for them,” said Green, with all the eagerness
of a man in a desperate predicament. “Heathcote’s bankers would do me
as many as you can possibly have.”

“I question it,” observed the Doctor, drily. “Would they cash you two
notes for a thousand each?”

“Yes--yes: assuredly they would,” was the prompt answer.

“And you must know other places----”

“Several--several,” interrupted Green, anticipating the remainder
of the questions. “But would it not be shorter to go to the Bank of
England at once?”

“Well--I think it would,” responded Jack.

“Unless--unless--there’s any fear--any danger, I mean--I----”

“Curse upon your fears and dangers!” ejaculated the hare-lipped
villain, savagely: “there are none at all--only, as I just now said, I
can’t go myself. But if you can get ten thousand changed to-morrow, you
may have one thousand for your own purposes.”

Mr. Green could not find words to express his gratitude in return for
this assurance: he was overwhelmed with a delight which he had not
experienced for years. The thought of emancipating himself from the
thraldom of his despot-master was too brilliant--too dazzling to gaze
upon. He could not believe that there was anything beyond a mere chance
in his favour:--that the matter was a certainty, he dared not imagine.

But when Jack Rily displayed a few of the notes, and mysteriously
hinted that they were the produce of a forgery which could not possibly
be detected, Mr. Green started from his chair, and actually danced for
joy!




CHAPTER CCI.

MR. HEATHCOTE AND HIS CLERK.


It was five o’clock in the morning of the day after the interview
described in the last chapter; and Mr. Heathcote was seated at the
writing-table in his private office.

He was busily occupied with papers;--for his was a disposition that
could not endure idleness. Even when vexed and annoyed--as he was at
present--it was impossible for him to remain inactive. Had he been an
author, he would have eclipsed Walter Scott or Paul de Koek in the
number of his works.

There was a deep gloom upon his brow and a sinister light in his
restless eyes, as he bent over the parchment-deeds which he was
inspecting; and from time to time he cast an anxious glance towards the
door.

At length be rang the bell; and the junior clerk answered the summons.

“Has not Mr. Green made his appearance _yet_?” demanded the lawyer,
with an emphasis on the last word.

“No, sir--he has not,” was the reply, given timidly--for the young man
beheld both the gloom on the brow and the gleaming in the eye.

[Illustration]

“Not yet!” ejaculated Heathcote, fiercely, and frowning in his own
peculiar fashion at the same time. “Nor sent either?” he added,
interrogatively.

“No, sir,” responded the junior clerk.

“This is strange--very strange,” murmured the lawyer. “He can’t be
ill--poor devils like him cannot afford to be unwell. But if he
were,--if he _did_ happen to be so indisposed that be couldn’t shut his
eyes to the fact,--he would have sent word. You know where he lives?
demanded Mr. Heathcote, abruptly addressing himself to the young man.

“Yes, sir,” was the answer.

“Then go to his lodgings directly,” exclaimed the lawyer, in an
imperious tone; “and if you find him at home, tell him that I am very
angry indeed at his absence. Should he be ill, you must desire him to
get out of bed, take a cab, and come to me at once to give an account
of his conduct. Two guineas a-week, indeed, to a fellow who takes it
into his head to be ill!”

And with this humane reflection Mr. Heathcote was about to resume his
work, while the young clerk was turning towards the door, when Mr.
Green suddenly made his appearance.

“Oh! you are come at last, sir--are you?” cried the lawyer, glancing up
at the clock. “A quarter past five--and the office hours are from nine
till six. What the deuce does this mean, sir?”

“I had a little business to transact, sir,” answered the head clerk,
closing the door by which the junior functionary had just evaporated.

“A little business!” repeated Mr. Heathcote, staring at the man in
unfeigned amazement: for he could not possibly conceive how Mr. Green
should have any affairs of his own to attend to.

“Yes, sir--a little business,” returned the head clerk, who, though now
feeling comparatively independent of his master could not shake off
an obsequiousness of manner, which had become habitual to him. “Is it
strange, sir, that for once in a way I should have taken the holiday
which was certain to be refused if solicited beforehand?”

“Have you been drinking, Mr. Green--or are you mad--to talk to me in
this style?” demanded Heathcote, surveying his clerk with more than
usual attention.

“I have had nothing to drink, sir, beyond a single glass of sherry--and
I beg to inform you that I am _not_ crazy,” answered the head clerk,
growing a trifle bolder.

“A glass of sherry!” repeated Heathcote, again evincing the most
unfeigned astonishment. “How is it possible, sir, that you can indulge
in such extravagances and pay for them honestly? A few days ago you
ventured to appear before me in a new suit of clothes, with the gloss
actually on them--whereas your regular office-suit had not been
thread-bare more than two years. Let me tell you, sir, that I take
note of these things: I observe the most minute symptoms of change
in a man’s character or habits; and no one can deceive _me_, Mr.
Green--no one can deceive _me_,” repeated the lawyer, looking hard at
the individual whom he thus addressed, as much as to say that he had
suspected something wrong and was now certain of it.

“Well, sir--and who has attempted to deceive you?” asked Green, in a
bolder tone than had ever yet characterised his language when in the
presence of his hitherto dreaded master.

“Who has attempted to deceive me!” vociferated Heathcote, his lips
becoming white and quivering with rage. “You, sir--_you_ have made the
endeavour--you are making it now! But it will not do, Mr. Green--it
will not do. Take care of yourself! New suits of clothes--sherry--a
day’s absence without leave, and even without the humble apology that
should mark your return,--all this is suspicious, sir--very suspicious,
let me tell you.”

“Suspicious of what?” demanded the head clerk, approaching Mr.
Heathcote’s desk, and looking steadily across it at that gentleman.

“That you were either bribed in my brother’s affair--or that you have
robbed me,” was the immediate answer.

“You are a liar, sir--a deliberate liar,” exclaimed Green, now
beginning to experience the first feelings of exultation at the
independence which he was enabled to assert.

The lawyer could make no reply: he was amazed--bewildered--stupefied!

“Yes, sir,” continued Green, his voice now losing all its
obsequiousness and his manner rising completely above servility,--“you
are a liar if you say that I robbed you! Where was the chance, even
if I had possessed the inclination, of pilfering even a single
farthing? You know that you reckon up the office-money to the very last
penny--and that if I tell you how a box of lucifers, or a piece of
tape, or any other trifling article was required, you were always sure
to say we were very extravagant in that front-office. These are truths,
sir; and therefore how dare you pretend to believe in the possibility
of my robbing you?”

“Mr. Green--Mr. Green,” exclaimed Heathcote, absolutely frightened at
his head clerk’s manner: “what is the cause of all this excitement?”

The lawyer was frightened, we say,--because his conscience told him
that something had occurred to place Mr. Green upon a more independent
footing with regard to him; and the greater became such independence
on the part of one who had long been his tool and instrument, the less
secure was the lawyer himself in his own position. In fact, when a
wretched being who had long grovelled in the dust at his feet, suddenly
started up and dared to look him in the face,--it was a sign that the
fabric of despotism was shaken and was tottering to its fall. Mr.
Heathcote felt all this--and he trembled for a moment,--trembled with
a cold and death-like shudder, as he beheld his clerk’s eyes glaring
savagely at him; and it was under the influence of this sensation that
he uttered the words which, by proving his own weakness, gave Green
additional courage.

“You ask what is the cause of all this excitement,” exclaimed the
latter: “and yet only a few minutes have elapsed since you dared to
accuse me of having robbed you.”

“A man who has committed a forgery, may very well be suspected of
theft,” returned Heathcote, who, having recovered his presence of mind,
answered with his usual brutality of manner.

“And what may you not be accused of, then?” demanded Green, scarcely
able to restrain himself from flying like a tiger-cat at his master:
“for what have you not committed?”

“By heaven, Mr. Green, this shall last no longer!” ejaculated
Heathcote, starting from his seat: “you are drunk, sir--you have been
drinking, I tell you. Come--be reasonable,” he continued, almost in a
coaxing tone: “go home quietly--and be here early in the morning to
make an apology for your present bad conduct. I promise to forgive you.”

“Forgive me!” repeated Green:--“forgive me!” he exclaimed again, with a
chuckling laugh which did Mr. Heathcote harm to hear it: “I have done
nothing, sir, that needs forgiveness--and if I was to kick you thrice
round this room where you have tyrannised over me for twelve years, it
would only be paying back a minute portion of all I owe you.”

“Mr. Green, you will provoke me to do something desperate,” retorted
Heathcote, in a low, thick tone, as he approached his head clerk to
read in that individual’s countenance the solution of his present
enigmatical conduct: “you will provoke me, I say--and then you will be
sorry for your rashness. Consider--reflect--in another month’s time the
thousand pounds must positively be forthcoming----”

“Will you replace it for me?” demanded Green, abruptly.

“You know what I have always said----”

“Yes--and I now know likewise what you have always _meant_,”
interrupted Green, darting a look full of malignant hate and savage
spite at the lawyer. “For twelve long years, sir, I have been your
slave--your vile and abject slave. I was a criminal, it is true, when I
first came to you--for I had committed that forgery which you detected,
and which placed me in your power. But I had still the feelings of a
man--whereas you soon imbued me with such ideas and reduced me to such
a miserable state of servitude, that I have wept bitter, bitter tears
at the thought of my own deep degradation. I could have lied for you--I
could have committed perjury for you--I could have performed all the
meannesses and condescended to do all the vile and low trickery which
form part and parcel of your business:--but when I found myself used
as a mere tool and instrument and treated like a spaniel, without
ever having a single kind word uttered to cheer me beneath a yoke of
crushing despotism----”

“You have had two guineas a week, paid with scrupulous regularity,”
interposed Heathcote, who, from the tenour of the observations which
Green had just made, began to fancy that he was only excited by liquor
to make vague and general complaints, but that he was still as much in
his power as ever.

“Two guineas a-week!” repeated the man, indignantly: “you are always
dinning that fact in my ears. But heaven knows that were my salary
six times as much, it would not repay me for all the cruelty I have
endured at your hands--nor for all that one is obliged to _see_ and
_go through_ while in your employment. I had some tender feelings
once: but they have long ago been stifled by the horrible spectacles
of woe and misery which have been forced upon my sight, and which
have sprung from your detestable covetousness. I have seen children
starving--mothers weeping over their dying babes--while the fathers
and husbands have been languishing in gaol,--yes, in the debtor’s gaol
where you have thrown them, and where some of them have died, cursing
the name of James Heathcote! Yes, sir--I have seen all this: and what
is more--aye, and worse, too--far worse--I have been an involuntary
instrument, as your clerk, in causing much of that awful misery, the
mere thought of which almost drives me mad. Talk of the black turpitude
of murdering with a dagger or a pistol!--why, it is a mercy to the
slow--lingering--piece-meal murders which you and men of your stamp
are constantly perpetrating. _For as true as there is a God in heaven,
there are more slow and cold-blooded murders committed in one year by a
certain class of attorneys, than are recorded in the annals of Newgate
for a whole century!_”

Heathcote’s fears had all returned by rapid degrees as his head clerk,
turning full upon him, levelled at his head the terrible charges summed
up in the preceding speech: but when these last words fell upon his
ear, he grew ghastly pale, and, staggering back a few paces, sank into
his chair,--_for he knew how sternly true was the appalling accusation!_

“Ah! well may your eyes glare upon me in horror,” resumed Green: “but
it is high time that you should hear a few home truths--even though
they come from such lips as mine. For you doubtless think that it is
all very fine to issue a writ--refuse delay--decline everything in the
shape of compromise--and then seize upon the goods of your victim,
or clap him into gaol:--but it is we who sit in the outer office--we
clerks, who can best penetrate into the effects of such a heartless
course. When we see the door open, and the miserable wretch come
in with _care_ as legibly written on his countenance as if it were
printed in letters on a piece of paper,--and when he comes crawling
up to our desk, as if _his_ utter self-abasement would be so pleasing
to us clerks as to induce us to say a good word in his behalf to
_you_,--then, when he asks in a tone of anguish which is ready to
burst forth into a flood of tears, ‘_Do you think it likely that Mr.
Heathcote will give me time?_’--it is _then_, I say, that the real
feelings of such poor wretches transpire, and the murderous effects
of the harsh proceedings adopted by lawyers of _your_ stamp become
painfully apparent.”

“To what is all this to lead, Mr. Green?” demanded Heathcote, in a low
and subdued tone: for it struck him that such a long address could
only be meant to herald some evil tidings, to which his clerk, in
the refinement of vindictive cruelty, sought to impart a more vivid
poignancy by prefatory delays.

“To what is all this to lead?” repeated Green: “why--to your
utter confusion, black-hearted old man that you are! Think of the
conversation that took place between us a few days ago: did I not then
tell you that there were many deaths to be laid to your door? And I was
right! You sent off Thompson to prison--his wife and child perished,
and he cut his throat:--_you_ are the murderer of those three human
beings! The man Beale, whom you likewise threw into Whitecross Street,
died in the infirmary of that gaol--died of a broken heart, sir;--and
_you_ were his murderer! Hundreds and hundreds of deaths have you
caused in the same way,--_hundreds and hundreds of legal murders!_”

“Green--Mr. Green!” gasped the lawyer, writhing as if he were a dwarf
in the grasp of a giant: then, wondering why he should thus put up
with the insolence of his clerk, and falling back upon the belief that
the man could not possibly conduct himself in such a way unless he
were under the influence of liquor, he suddenly started from his seat,
exclaiming, “By heaven! sir, you have gone so far that all hope of
forgiveness on my part is impossible.”

“I care nothing for your pardon--and shall not even condescend to
solicit it,” replied Mr. Green, in a tone of complete and unmistakeable
defiance. “I am going to leave you at once----”

“Leave me!” ejaculated Heathcote, who had hitherto believed it to be
impossible that his clerk could throw off the chains of servitude
and thraldom which had been so firmly rivetted upon him: “leave me!”
he repeated: “yes--oh! yes,” he added, his countenance assuming an
expression of the most diabolical sardonism;--“yes--you shall indeed
leave me--but it will be to change your quarters for a cell in Newgate!”

“Perhaps _you_ will be the first to repair thither,” said Green, with
a chuckle that seemed to grate upon the lawyer’s ears like the sound
emitted by the process of sharpening the teeth of a saw.

“In less than two hours, Mr. Green, Clarence Villiers shall be made
acquainted with the fact that the thousand pounds have long ceased to
be in the Bank of England,” exclaimed Heathcote.

“The thousand pounds are there, sir--yes, _there_ at this very minute,”
answered Green, in a tone of assurance which convinced Heathcote that
the man was speaking the truth. “And what is more, sir, Mr. Villiers
knows all--and has forgiven all! This morning did I replace the money;
this afternoon did I repair to Brompton to throw myself at the feet
of Mr. Villiers--confess everything--and implore his pardon. Oh! sir,
he is a generous man--and he forgave me. ‘_You have been guilty of a
terrible breach of trust--nay, a heinous crime, Mr. Green_,’ he said;
‘_but you have atoned for your turpitude. It is our duty in this world
to forgive where true contrition is manifested; and I will take care to
hold you harmless in this case, should it ever transpire that the money
had been sold out._’--I wept while I thanked him; and I said, ‘_But
I have a bitter enemy who is acquainted with the whole transaction:
what can be done to save me from disgrace, should he inform against
me?_’--‘_He cannot prove that you forged my name_,’ responded Villiers:
‘_I alone can prove that; and under present circumstances, I would not
for worlds inflict an injury upon you._’ I again thanked him, and took
my leave. You now perceive, Mr. Heathcote, that so far from being in
_your_ power, _you_ are entirely in mine. The other day you told me
that you would crush me as if I were a worm--that you would send me to
Newgate--that you would abandon me to my fate--and that you would even
_help_ to have me shipped for eternal exile. I thank you for all your
kind intentions, sir,” added Green, in a tone of bitter satire; “and
I mean to show my gratitude by exposing you and your villany to the
utmost of my ability.”

“And what injury can _you_ do me, reptile?” exclaimed Heathcote,
quivering with rage.

“What injury!” repeated Green: “I can ruin you!” he added, speaking
loudly and triumphantly. “Oh! I am acquainted with far more of your
dark transactions and nefarious schemes than you can possibly imagine.
The deeds that are contained therein,” he added, pointing to the
japanned tin-boxes, “are not sealed books to me. I have read them
all--yes, _all_--and have gleaned enough information to enable me to
bring upon you such a host of ruined and defrauded clients, that you
would never dare to face them even for a moment. Ah! you may turn
pale as death--and your eyes may glare with rage: but it is not the
less true that I hold you in my power. If you destroy those deeds,
you then annihilate the only documents which prove your title to the
vast property which you have accumulated: if you do not destroy them,
you leave in existence the damning evidences of your villany. At this
very moment there are old men and old women struggling on in the
bitterest penury, and cursing the life from which they have not the
moral courage to fly through the medium of suicide,--some of them in
the workhouse--others dependent on the bounty of relatives;--and all
these have been plunged into this appalling misery by _you_! But every
step you took to enmesh and ensnare them--every scheme you devised
to get them completely into your power, so that you might wrench
from them the last acre of their lands and the last guinea of their
fortunes,--all--all has been illegal--fraudulent--extortionate--vile!
Oh! it will alone prove a fine harvest for me, when I again take out
my certificate to practise as an attorney--which I am about to do,--it
will be a splendid commencement, I say, to take up the causes of all
those persons and compel you to render an account to your ruined
clients. This, sir, is what I am about to do: and now it shall be war
between us--war to the very knife,--and ere many months have elapsed,
you will bitterly repent your conduct to one who only asked for a
little kindness in return for his faithful--far too faithful services.”

Having thus spoken, Mr. Green abruptly quitted the office, leaving
James Heathcote in a state of mind not even to be envied by a criminal
about to ascend the steps of the scaffold.




CHAPTER CCII.

JACK RILY AND VITRIOL BOB.


Mr. Green had so well managed matters in respect to the Bank-notes,
that in the course of a few hours he had contrived to obtain cash for
about twelve thousand pounds’ worth; and the Doctor was so delighted
at his success, that he had testified his satisfaction by making him a
present of a couple of thousand for himself.

Being now a rich man, Mr. Rily resolved to quit his lodgings in
Roupel-street and take superior apartments in a better neighbourhood.
Then it struck him, as he was walking leisurely along in the City,
after having parted from Green, that it would be far more agreeable to
become the possessor of a nice little cottage in a pleasant suburb;
and, while this idea was uppermost in his mind, he happened to observe
in the window of a house-agent an announcement to the effect that
“several elegant and desirable villas were to be let on lease or sold,
in the most delightful part of Pentonville.” The Doctor entered the
office, obtained a card to view the premises thus advertised, and,
taking a cab, proceeded straight to the suburb indicated.

Having nothing particular to do, Jack Rily spent several hours in
inspecting the villas, and at length fixed upon one which he resolved
to purchase. The individual who had built the houses on speculation,
and who was compelled to dispose of one on any terms before he could
possibly finish another, resided close at hand; and a bargain being
speedily concluded, a particular hour on the following day was agreed
upon as the time for a final settlement.

Jack Rily, having proceeded thus far in his arrangements, entered
a public-house which had lately been built on an eminence within a
quarter of a mile of the New Model Prison; and there he ordered some
dinner--for it was now four o’clock in the afternoon. The repast over,
he took a seat at an open window which commanded a view of Copenhagen
Fields and all the neighbouring district; and with his pipe and some
hot brandy-and-water he was enjoying himself to his heart’s content,
when he was suddenly startled by the appearance of Vitriol Bob, who
happened to pass that way.

Though a brave, fearless, and desperate man, the Doctor nevertheless
uttered an ejaculation of mingled surprise and annoyance; and his
enemy, who would not have otherwise perceived him, instantly glanced
towards the window. Their looks met--and a diabolical scowl distorted
the countenance of Vitriol Bob,--while Jack Rily, immediately
recovering his presence of mind, surveyed the miscreant with cool
defiance.

Vitriol Bob appeared to hesitate for a moment what course to pursue:
then, suddenly making up his mind, he entered the public-room where the
Doctor was seated.

Taking a chair at another table, he rang the bell and ordered some
spirits-and-water, in payment for which he threw down a sovereign,
receiving the change.

When the waiter had disappeared, and the two villains were alone
together, Vitriol Bob looked maliciously at Jack Rily, as much as to
say, “You see I am not without money;” and then he glanced complacently
at the new suit of black which he had on.

For a change had taken place in Vitriol Bob’s appearance; and he
seemed to be “in high feather,” as well as his enemy the Doctor. His
huge black whiskers had been trimmed, oiled, and curled--a process
that did not however materially mitigate the hang-dog expression of
his countenance: for his small, reptile eyes still glared ferociously
from beneath his thick, overhanging brows,--his lips were as usual of
a livid hue,--and his broken nose positively appeared more flat on his
face than ever.

“Your health, Jack,” said the miscreant, nodding with a kind of
malignant familiarity, as he raised the steaming glass to his lips.

“Thank’ee kindly, Bob,” returned the Doctor, in a tone of mock civility.

“Now that we have met at last, old feller, we won’t part again in a
hurry,” observed Vitriol Bob after a pause, during which he lighted a
cigar.

“Just as you choose, my tulip,” said Rily, calmly puffing away and
contemplating the thin blueish vapour which curled lazily from the bowl
of his pipe out of the window.

“You and I have a score to settle, you know, Jack,” continued Vitriol
Bob; “and it seems as if the Devil had thrown us in each other’s way
this evenin’ on purpose to reggilate our accounts.”

“Oh! that’s the construction you put upon it, eh?” said the Doctor.
“Well--just as you like.”

“You know that you used me shameful in that Stamford-street business
t’other day,” proceeded Vitriol Bob.

“It was only what you deserved for the trick you played me, old
fellow,” retorted the Doctor, but with amazing coolness alike of tone
and manner.

“I don’t deny that I bilked you out of a part of your reglars in the
matter alluded to,” said Bob: “but it didn’t deserve such a return as
you gived me in the Haunted House. Thank God, I had my revenge on the
old o’oman t’other night.”

“Yes--she’s disposed of,” observed Jack; “and I can’t forgive you
for it, Bob--even if you wished us to be friends. She was a fine
old creature,--and I had an affection for her, because she was the
ugliest wretch I ever saw in the shape of a woman--and her spirit was
admirable.”

“I meant the blow for _you_, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob: “but it’s just
as well now that the bottle broke over her, since you and me have met
again.”

“Have you got another bottle in your pocket, Bob?” demanded the Doctor:
“because if we are to have a tuzzle for it before we part, I may as
well put myself on as equal terms with you as possible.”

“I shan’t take no unfair advantage, Jack,” was the reply: and, as the
villain thus spoke, he slapped his hands against the skirts of his coat
his breeches’ pockets, and his breast, to convince his antagonist that
he had no bottle about his person.

“There’s nothing like fair play, Bob,” returned the Doctor; “and
therefore if you like to feel about me to convince yourself that I have
no fire-arms, you’re welcome.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Jack,” responded Vitriol Bob. “But I
suppose you have got a clasp-knife.”

“I never go without one,” was the answer: “and it’s as sharp as a
razor.”

“So is mine,” observed the other miscreant; and then there was a long
pause, during which the two men contemplated each other with a calmness
and serenity that would have prevented even the most acute observer
from noticing the malignant light that gleamed in the depths of their
eyes.

And while the one continued to puff his pipe in a leisurely manner, the
other smoked his cigar with equal ease; so that they appeared to be
two friends enjoying themselves in a pleasant way in the cool of the
evening.

“I suppose I interrupted some sport t’other night, Jack,” said
Vitriol Bob, at length breaking the silence. “You and the old o’oman
wasn’t out together at that hour for nothink--particklerly in such a
neighbourhood.”

“Yes--we were going to do a little business together,” observed the
Doctor. “You first twigged me in Sloane Street. I saw you!”

“I knowed you did: but you didn’t suspect that I follered you.”

“Rather,” said Jack Rily. “At least, I thought it very probable.”

“You’re aweer that the old o’oman’s dead, I suppose?”

“I said as much just now. ’Twas in the papers,” remarked Jack Rily.

“Yes--I read it in the _Adwertiser_,” responded Vitriol Bob.

There was another pause, during which the two miscreants had their
glasses replenished. The Doctor also refilled his pipe, and the other
lighted a second cigar.

“We’ll make ourselves comfortable, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob, “as long as
you like: and whenever you feel disposed to go, mind that I shall be
arter you.”

“Well--I can’t prevent _that_,” observed the Doctor, coolly. “You’ve a
right to walk which way you choose in this free country.”

“Thank’ee for giving me the information,” said Bob, in a satirical
tone. “But of course I mean to stick to you till you’re so wearied of
my company that you _must_ come to a last struggle either to shake me
off altogether, or perish yourself. For, mind, if I catch you asleep,
Jack, I shall stick my clasp-knife into you up to the haft.”

“I’m obliged to you for letting me know your kind intentions
beforehand,” observed the Doctor: “because I shall adopt precisely the
same mode of warfare.”

“Now, then, we understand each other,” said Vitriol Bob; “and that’s a
comfort. But it’s a great pity that two such fine fellers as you and
me should be at loggerheads. Howsomever, it can’t be helped--and a
reconcilement, or whatever they call it, is impossible. Your life or
mine, Jack--that’s the question to be decided now.”

“Depend upon it, old fellow, that you’ll be a croaker before morning,”
returned the Doctor, as he raised his glass to his lips.

“No--it’s you that’ll be a stiff’un, my boy,” was the pleasant retort.

“Time must show. Remember that it’s no infant you’ll have to deal with.”

“I should have beat you that night in the Haunted House, Jack, if the
old o’oman hadn’t come to your assistance,” observed Vitriol Bob, with
a low but diabolical chuckle.

“Yes--but it was because I slipped over something, old fellow,” was
the answer; “and I shall take care to keep more steady on my pins next
time.”

“Depend upon it that when the death-struggle _does_ come, Jack,
the fust that slips will be the dead ’un. Did you ever hear of the
Kentuckian fashion of dealing with an enemy?” demanded Vitriol Bob.

“Never,” was the reply. “But I dare say it’s something damnable--as
bad, perhaps, as breaking a vitriol-bottle over a person’s face--or
else you wouldn’t know anything about it.”

“You’re right there, Jack: it’s _gouging_ that I mean.”

“And what’s gouging, pray?”

“Tearing a fellow’s eye out of its socket,” answered Vitriol Bob.

“One can play at that game as well as another,” observed the Doctor,
totally unmoved by the horrid nature of the conversation.

“To be sure: and we shall sooner or later see who beats at it.”

Another pause succeeded this last remark of Vitriol Bob; and again did
the two men sit contemplating each his enemy with a composure that was
unnatural and dreadful to a degree under the circumstances.

Time wore on in this manner: their glasses were frequently
replenished--and yet the liquor appeared not to produce the least
effect upon them; but, cool, collected, and self-possessed, they
sate measuring each other’s form and calculating its strength, until
darkness insensibly stole upon them. The waiter then entered to light
the gas; and several frequenters of the house began to drop in to take
their evening’s allowance of alcoholic drink and stupifying tobacco.

At length Jack Rily rose, and, looking hard at his enemy, said, “I am
going _now_.”

“Wery well,” returned Vitriol Bob: “I’ll keep you company.”

There was nothing in these observations to excite either the curiosity
or the suspicions of the other persons in the public-house-parlour:
nevertheless, those words had a terrible significancy for the two men
who had exchanged them.

The Doctor walked leisurely out of the room first; and Vitriol Bob
followed him. But the instant they were outside the premises, the
former turned abruptly round upon his enemy, saying, “Come, let us
proceed abreast: I don’t mean to give you a chance of stabbing me from
behind.”

“Just as you like,” observed Vitriol Bob; and he placed himself at the
Doctor’s right hand, leaving an interval of about a couple of feet
between them.

In this manner they walked on in silence,--each occupied with his own
peculiar reflections.

Vitriol Bob was intent only on vengeance,--dread, full, complete, and
diabolical vengeance; and, though he seemed to be looking straight
forward, he was nevertheless watching his companion with the sidelong
glances of his reptile-like eyes.

Jack Rily was calculating in his mind what course he should adopt.
He was naturally as brave as a lion: but he did not perceive any
advantage in risking his life in a struggle that, even were he
victorious, would produce neither profit nor glory. The only possible
good that could result to him from a triumphant issue of the quarrel,
would be the removal of a bitter, inveterate, and determined enemy.
Nevertheless, the Doctor had most potent reasons to induce him to avoid
this deadly encounter. He had just obtained a vast sum of money, and
had the means of realising five times as much: the world, therefore,
had suddenly assumed a smiling aspect in his eyes. He had already
resolved to abandon his nefarious pursuits, which indeed were no longer
necessary--and settle down quietly in the cottage for the purchase of
which he had that day concluded a bargain;--and all these prospects
were to be staked on the hazard of a die--risked fearfully at the
bidding of the miscreant who was walking by his side!

At one moment the Doctor seriously thought of giving his companion
into charge to the first corps of policemen whom they might encounter;
for this was the hour when the little detachments of constables went
about relieving their comrades on duty. But that idea was abandoned
almost as soon as formed: inasmuch as Jack Rily had all his money about
him, and he knew that if he handed Vitriol Bob over to the police
as the murderer of Torrens or of Mrs. Mortimer, the miscreant would
unhesitatingly turn round with some charge that would at least place
him (the Doctor) in temporary restraint, and lead to an examination of
his person.

Jack Rily therefore came to the determination of pushing on into
the heart of London, well knowing that Vitriol Bob’s object was not
to assail him in any neighbourhood where the contest was likely to
be observed and prevented, but to drive him by dint of persecution,
dogging, and a hateful companionship, into the open country, where
through very desperation the Doctor should make up his mind to settle
the matter decisively by a struggle on equal terms. Feeling convinced
that this was his enemy’s purpose, Jack Rily resolved either to
weary him out or give him the slip if possible--or else to seize an
opportunity of stabbing him suddenly in some place where an immediate
escape was practicable.

We must again observe it was through no cowardice that the Doctor was
desirous of avoiding a conflict from which only one could possibly
depart alive: but he had so many inducements to cling to existence,
that he saw no advantage in risking them all in a quarrel where the
personal animosity was entirely on the other side.

In the course of half an hour they arrived in the vicinity of the Angel
at Islington; and Jack Rily, now breaking the silence which had lasted
since they quitted the public-house at Pentonville, said, “This walking
makes one thirsty: let’s have some beer.”

“Willingly,” answered Vitriol Bob: “and we’ll drink out of the same pot
to make people believe we’re friends.”

They accordingly entered a gin-shop and shared a pot of porter at the
bar; after which they resumed their walk, passing down the City Road.
They kept abreast, and preserved a deep silence,--each watching the
movements of the other--the Doctor in the hope of being able to give
his companion a sudden thrust with his knife--and Vitriol Bob for the
purpose of preventing the escape of his enemy.

It was ten o’clock when they came within sight of the Bank of England;
and as they passed under its solid wall, Jack Rily wondered whether
he should be alive to keep an appointment which he had with Green for
eleven next morning in order to have some more of his notes changed by
that individual.

“All the money in that there place, old feller, won’t save one or
t’other of us from death before many hours is gone by,” observed
Vitriol Bob, in a low and ferocious tone.

“You must make the best use of your time, then,” returned Jack; “since
you’ve got a presentiment that it’s so near.”

“No--it’s you that had better say your prayers,” retorted the
miscreant. “But what’s the use of keeping both your hands in your
pockets? If you think you’ll be able to draw out your knife suddenly
and give me a poke under the ribs, you’re uncommonly mistaken.”

“I wasn’t dreaming of such a thing,” answered Jack Rily, for the first
time showing a slight degree of confusion in his manner.

“It’s false, old feller,” said Vitriol Bob: “you’ve got the
clasp-knife open in your pocket--I know you have. The gas-lights is
strong enough about there to enable a sharp-sighted chap, like me, to
twig all that goes on.”

“It’s you that speaks false,” returned Jack Rily, still keeping his
hands in his pockets.

And, again relapsing into silence, they pursued their way.

Passing in front of the Exchange, and up Cornhill, they turned into
Birchin Lane. There Jack Rily hesitated for an instant which way to
proceed: but suddenly recollecting that in a little passage to the left
there was a public-house called the Bengal Arms, he said, “There’s a
crib here where they sell capital ale.”

“Let’s have some,” cried Vitriol Bob. “You go on fust--the place is too
narrer for us both.”

“No--you go first,” said the Doctor.

“In this way then,” responded Vitriol Bob: and stepping nimbly in
front of his companion, he turned round and walked backwards along the
passage until it suddenly grew wider opposite the door of the Bengal
Arms.

Jack Rily laughed at this manœuvre: but he was in reality
disappointed--for had Vitriol Bob acted with less precaution, he would
have assuredly received the whole length of the Doctor’s formidable
knife in his back, ere he had proceeded half way up the passage.

“We’ll go into the parlour here,” said Jack, “and have some bread and
cheese. I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” observed Vitriol Bob, in a dry, laconic tone which
denoted the terrible determination that inspired the man’s mind,--a
determination never to part from his companion until one of them should
be no more!

There was something awful--something frightfully revolting and
hideously appalling in the circumstance of those two miscreants thus
wandering about together in a manner that appeared amicable enough to
all who beheld them,--two wretches possessing the hearts of fiends and
the external ugliness of monsters,--two incarnate demons capable of any
turpitude, however black the dye!




CHAPTER CCIII.

THE BENGAL ARMS.--RENEWED WANDERINGS.


The parlour at the Bengal Arms is--or at least was at the time whereof
we are writing--a long, low, dingy room, very dark in the day-time and
indifferently lighted in the evening. It is always filled with a motley
assembly of guests; and ale is the beverage most in request--while to
one who indulges in a cigar, at least ten patronise the unaffected
enjoyment of the clay-pipe.

On the present occasion the company was numerous: the tobacco-smoke
hung like a dense mist in the place, the gas-burners showing dimly
through the pestiferous haze;--and the heat was intense.

Jack Rily and Vitriol Bob contrived to find room at one of the tables;
and a slip-shod waiter supplied them in due time with a pot of ale and
bread and cheese, to the discussion of which they addressed themselves
in a manner affording not the slightest suspicion of the deadly enmity
which existed between them.

While they were thus engaged they had an opportunity of listening to
the conversation that was taking place amongst the other guests.

“Well, for my part,” said a little, stout, podgy individual, with a
bald head and a round, red, good-humoured countenance, “I have always
been taught to look on the City institootions as the blessedest things
ever inwented.”

“And I maintain that they’re the foulest abuses in the universe,”
exclaimed a tall, thin, sallow-faced individual, striking the table
with his clenched fist as he spoke. “Why should everything east of
Temple Bar be different from everything west?” he demanded, looking
sternly round upon the company as if to defy any one to answer
his questions. “Why should it be necessary to have barristers as
magistrates in Westminster, and fat stupid old Aldermen in the
City?--why should the ridiculous ostentation, useless trappings,
and preposterous display of the Mayoralty be maintained for so
miserably small a fraction of the great metropolis? Talk of your City
Institutions, indeed!--they are either the most awful nonsense that
ever made grown up persons look more absurd than little boys playing
with paper cocked-hats and wooden swords--or else they are rottenness
and corruption. When the Municipal Corporations were reformed in 1835,
why was the City of London omitted! Did not Lord John Russell then
pledge himself _most solemnly and sacredly_ to bring in a separate bill
for the London Corporation?--and has this promise, almost amounting to
a vow, ever been fulfilled? No: and why? Because every Government, one
after another, is afraid to lose the political support of this precious
Corporation. And to these selfish considerations is sacrificed every
principle of justice, propriety, and common sense. Look at the rascally
extravagance and vile profusion which characterise the Corporation.
The parish of St. Marylebone, with its hundred and forty thousand
inhabitants, only expends _a hundred and twenty-eight thousand pounds_
for those parochial purposes which cost the City, with a population of
ten thousand less than the other, nearly _a million_! The difference is
that Marylebone is governed by an intelligent vestry--whereas London is
under a stupid Corporation! Look, again, at the iniquities perpetrated
by the Aldermen in their capacity as licensing magistrates--the gross
partiality that they show towards some publicans, and the inveterate
hostility they manifest towards others. The _rights of the freemen_
are a scandal and a shame--many able mechanics and other operatives
being frequently driven from the City on account of their inability
to pay the money for taking up their freedom.[32] Then again, look at
the preposterous power which the Lord Mayor enjoys of stopping up all
the thoroughfares and impeding business in every shape and way, on any
occasion when it may suit him and his bloated, guzzling, purse-proud
adherents to pass in their gingerbread coaches through the City. Is
this consistent with British freedom?--is it compatible with the rights
or interests of the citizens? Faugh!”

And the speaker resumed his pipe, in deep disgust at the abuses which
he had thus succinctly, but most truly enumerated.

“Well, I don’t know--but I like all our old institutions,” said
the bald-headed man, with the stolid obstinacy and contemptible
narrow-mindedness which so frequently characterise the John Bullism of
a certain class. “The wisdom of our ancestors----”

“The wisdom of the devil!” ejaculated the tall, sallow-faced individual
who had held forth on the City abuses. “That is a fool’s reason for
admiring established and inveterate corruption. The wisdom of our
ancestors, indeed! Why--those ancestors believed in the divine right of
Kings, and were sincere in praying on the 30th of January as if Charles
the First was really a Martyr instead of a Traitor. Our ancestors, too,
put faith in witches--aye, and burnt them also! It was our ancestors
who kindled the fires in Smithfield where persons suffered at the
stake; and our ancestors advocated the most blood-thirsty code of
laws in Europe, in virtue of which men were strung up by dozens at a
time at the Old Bailey. Our ancestors prosecuted writers for their
political and religious opinions, and seemed to take a delight in
everything that gratified the inhuman ambition of Kings and Queens, to
the prejudice of real freedom. Our ancestors, in fact, were the most
ignorant--besotted--bloody-minded miscreants that ever disgraced God’s
earth; and any man who turns an adoring glance upon the deeds of those
ruffians, deserves to be hooted out of all decent society.”

Having thus delivered his sentiments on the subject, the sallow-faced
individual was about to resume his pipe, when, another idea occurring
to him, he suddenly burst forth again in the following terms:--

“But who are those people that generalise so inanely when they speak
of the wisdom of our ancestors? They are persons who inherit all
the old, wretched, and worn-out prejudices of their forefathers,
without having the intellect or the courage to think for themselves.
They are the statesmen who gladly fall back upon any argument in
order to defend the monstrous abuses of our institutions against the
enlightening influence of reform. They are the churchmen who are
deeply interested in preserving the loaves and fishes of which their
ancestors in the hierarchy plundered the nation. They are, in fact, all
those individuals who have anything to lose by wholesome innovation,
and everything to gain by the maintenance of a system so thoroughly
rotten, corrupt, and loathsome that it infects and demoralizes every
grade of society. The Peer eulogises the wisdom of his ancestors,
because they handed down to him usurped privileges and an hereditary
rank the principle of which is a crying shame. The Member of the House
of Commons speaks of the wisdom of his ancestors, because he holds
his seat through the frightful corruption introduced by them into the
electoral system. The placeman talks of the wisdom of his ancestors,
because they invented sinecures and distributed with the lavish hand
of robbers the gold which they wrung from the marrow and the sinew
of the industrious millions. The parson praises the wisdom of his
ancestors, because they invented the atrocious system of allowing a
rector to enjoy five thousand a-year for doing nothing, and paying his
curate ninety pounds a-year for doing everything. The lawyer praises
the wisdom of his ancestors, because they devised such myriads of
insane, stupid, unjust, rascally, and contradictory enactments, that a
man cannot move hand or foot even in the most trivial and common sense
affairs, without the intervention of an attorney: and wherever that
common sense does exist on one side, law is almost sure to be on the
other; in the same way that wherever justice _is_, there law _is not_.
For my part, I do firmly believe that there is not a more wretched and
oppressed country in all the world than England--nor a more duped,
deceived, gulled, and humbugged people on the face of the earth than
the English. Talk of freedom, indeed: why, almost every institution you
have is in favour of the rich and against the poor!”

“I can’t say that I see it,” observed the bald-pated man, in the
usually dogmatic tone of confirmed obstinacy and unmitigated ignorance.

“Then you must be blind!” ejaculated the other, his emphasis indicating
sovereign contempt for the individual whom he addressed. “Look at
the Game Laws: are they made for the rich or for the poor? Are not
thousands of miserable creatures thrown into gaols for daring to kill
a hare or a pheasant, because, forsooth! it interferes with the sport
of the ‘squire? Do not the rich ride when out hunting through the
corn-fields of their tenants?--and what redress can the latter obtain?
Then, again, look at the state of the law generally. What chance has
a poor man of bringing a wealthy oppressor to justice?--who can go to
Westminster Hall without a pocket full of gold? Why, the very Railway
Companies make it a boast that by means of capital they can ruin--aye,
and break the heart of any poor antagonist in a law-court, let his
cause be ever so just! Look, too, at the privileges enjoyed by the
landowners: what proportion of the taxes do they bear in comparison
with the industrious, toiling, starving peasantry or mechanics on
those estates? Look at the condition of our taxation: are not all the
necessaries of life subjected to frightful imposts, while the luxuries
are comparatively cheap to the favoured few who can obtain them? What
is the proportion between the duty on a poor man’s horse and cart and
a rich man’s carriage and four?--what the proportion between the poor
man’s beer and spirits and the rich man’s foreign wines? Again, if
a scion of the aristocracy wants money, he is provided with a good
place if not an absolute sinecure; whereas the poor man is sent to
die a lingering and degraded death in that awful gaol denominated a
work-house. Look at the combination of capital against labour. If
capitalists and monopolists lower wages, there is no redress save by
means of _a strike_ on the part of the workmen; and _a strike_ is
looked upon as something akin to rebellion against the Sovereign. In
every way is the law in favour of the rich--in every way is it grinding
and oppressive to the poor.”

A profound silence followed these observations: for every one present,
save the bald-pated man, perceived their truth and recognized their
justice,--and even _he_ had not impudence enough to venture a denial
which he could not sustain by argument.

“What we require, then,” resumed the sallow-faced individual, at length
breaking the long pause, “is an entire reform,--a radical reform, and
not a measure bearing the name without any of the reality. I love
my country and my countrymen as well as any British subject: but it
makes my heart bleed to witness the misery which exists throughout the
sphere of our industrious population;--and it makes my blood boil to
think that nothing is done to remedy the crying evils and reform the
tremendous abuses which I have this night enumerated.”

[Illustration]

The discourse was now taken up by several other individuals present,
the bald-headed gentleman declining to pursue it farther; and the
sallow-faced guest fearlessly and ably dissected the whole social and
governmental system, concluding with an emphatic declaration that the
community should agitate morally, but unweariedly, for those reforms
which were so much needed.

It was twelve o’clock when Jack Rily and Vitriol Bob issued from the
Bengal Arms; and passing through George Yard, they entered Lombard
Street.

Thence they proceeded towards London Bridge, over which they walked in
a leisurely manner--side by side--watching each other--and maintaining
a profound silence.

Down the Blackfriars’ Road they went; and on reaching the obelisk in
St. George’s Fields, the Doctor paused for a few minutes to make up his
mind what course to pursue.

He was already wearied--and a mental irritation was growing upon him in
spite of his characteristic recklessness and indifference: he required
rest--and he knew that he could obtain none so long as his terrible
enemy was by his side.

“Perhaps I may weary him out,” thought the Doctor to himself: “or
if I lead him into the open country I shall perhaps be able to give
him the slip. Otherwise we must fight it out in some place where no
interruption need be dreaded.”

Influenced by these ideas, Jack Rily resumed his wanderings, Vitriol
Bob still remaining by his side like the ghost of some murdered victim.

They proceeded towards the Elephant and Castle; and on reaching that
celebrated tavern, they once more refreshed themselves with beer, as
the establishment was still open in consequence of some parochial
entertainment that was given there on that particular evening.

On issuing from the house, the two men proceeded along the Kent Road.

Nearly an hour had now elapsed since they had last exchanged a word;
for the feeling of desperate irritation was growing stronger and
stronger on the part of Jack Rily--while Vitriol Bob was becoming
impatient of this delay in the gratification of his implacable
vengeance.

But delight filled the soul of the latter when he found that his
companion was taking a direction that led into the open country; and,
breaking the long silence which had prevailed, he said tauntingly, “You
are getting tired, Jack.”

“Not a bit,” replied the Doctor, assuming a cheerful tone.

“Oh! yes--you are, old feller,” exclaimed Vitriol Bob: “you drag your
feet along as if you was.”

“I could walk all night without being wearied so much as you are now,”
returned the Doctor: and, thus speaking, he mended his pace.

“I never felt less tired than I am at present, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob:
“but you are failing in spite of this pretended briskness. You can’t
keep it up.”

“You shall see,” answered the Doctor, his irritation augmenting
fearfully.

Vitriol Bob made no further observation upon the subject; and the two
miscreants walked on, side by side, until they reached the Green Man at
Blackheath.

There was no tavern--no beer-shop open; and both were thirsty, alike
with fatigue and the workings of evil passions.

Seating himself upon a bench fixed against the wall of a public-house,
Jack Rily could not help gnashing his teeth with rage; and as he
maintained his looks fixed upon the countenance of his enemy, his eyes
glared with a savage and ferocious malignity. The moon-light enabled
Vitriol Bob to catch the full significancy of that expression which
distorted the Doctor’s features; and, sitting down close by his side,
he said, “You are growing desperate now, Jack: I knowed I should
disturb your coolness and composure before long.”

“By God! you’re right, my man!” ejaculated the Doctor, unable to
restrain his irritation. “I had no enmity against you at first--I would
have shaken hands with you and been as good friends as ever--aye,
and have given you more money than you’ve ever yet seen in all your
life,--given it to you as a present! But now I hate and detest you--I
loathe and abhor you! Damnation! I could stick my knife into you this
very minute!”

“Two can play at that game,” returned Vitriol Bob, savagely. “But
remember that we’re talking tolerably loud just underneath the windows
of this ’ere public; and I don’t feel at all inclined to be baulked of
the satisfaction----”

“Of a last and desperate struggle, eh?” exclaimed the Doctor, starting
up. “Well--we will not delay it much longer. Come along:--it is pretty
near time that this child’s play was put an end to--I am getting sick
of it.”

“Bless ye, I’ve no such excitement,” said Vitriol Bob, rising from
the bench and again placing himself by the side of his companion: “I
rayther like it than anythink else. We’ve had a nice walk--plenty of
refreshments--and now and then a cozie little bit of chat--besides the
advantage of hearing them political sermons in at the Bengal Arms: and
so I don’t think you can say we’ve spent the time wery disagreeably.”

All this was said to irritate the Doctor still more; for Vitriol Bob,
well acquainted with the disposition of his enemy, knew that when once
he was thus excited it was impossible for him to regain his composure.

Jack Rily made no answer--but continued his way in silence, weariness
gaining upon his body as rapidly as bitter ferocity was acquiring a
more potent influence over his mind.




CHAPTER CCIV.

THE CATASTROPHE.


It was two o’clock in the morning when the Doctor and Vitriol Bob
ascended Shooter’s Hill.

Both were much fatigued--but the former far more so than the latter.

The moon rode high in the heavens, which were spangled with thousands
of stars; and every feature of the scene was brought out into strong
relief by the pure silvery light that filled the air.

The countenance of Jack Rily was ghastly pale and hideous to gaze
upon--his large teeth gleaming through the opening in his upper lip,
and his eyes glaring like those of a wild beast about to spring
upon its prey;--whereas the features of Vitriol Bob denoted a
stern--dogged--ferocious determination.

Having reached the top of the hill, the two men paused as if by mutual
though tacit consent; and glancing rapidly along the road in each
direction, they neither saw nor heard anything that threatened to
interfere with the deadly purpose on which they were now both intent.

No sound of vehicles met their ears--no human forms dotted the long
highway which, with its white dust, had the appearance of a river
traversing the dark plains.

“Well--are you pretty nearly tired out, Jack?” demanded Vitriol Bob.

“I am as fresh as ever,” answered the Doctor.

“But you’re afraid, old feller,” exclaimed the other.

“Not afraid of _you_!” retorted Jack Rily, contemptuously.

“You would have run away if you could,” said his enemy.

“You are a liar, Bob,” was the savage response.

“No--it’s you that tells the lie, Jack. I’ve watched you narrerly--and
I could see all that was a-passing in your mind as plain as if it was a
book.”

“But you can’t read a book, Bob, when you have it open before you.”

“There you’re wrong, Doctor: I’ve had my hedication as well as you.”

“And a pretty use you’ve made of it! But I don’t see any use in our
standing palavering here: I want to get back to London--and so the
sooner you let me polish you off, the better.”

“I’m as anxious to come to the scratch as you. Where shall it be?”

“In the field close by, Bob. We may be interrupted in the road.”

“And yet there’s nothink and no one to be seen.”

“Never mind. We’ll make as sure as possible,” observed the Doctor, who
throughout this rapid and laconic colloquy had endeavoured to appear as
collected and as composed as possible: but his words had hissed through
his teeth--for his mouth was as parched as if he had been swallowing
the dry dust of the road.

“Let’s over the hedge, then,” said Vitriol Bob.

The two men accordingly made their way into the adjoining field; and
having proceeded to a short distance down the sloping meadow, they
suddenly stopped short and confronted each other.

“Shall it be here?” demanded Vitriol Bob.

“Yes,” responded Jack Rily; and drawing his clasp-knife, which was
already open, from his pocket, he sprang with a savage howl upon his
enemy.

But Vitriol Bob was also prepared with his sharp weapon; and catching
the Doctor’s right arm with his left hand, he inflicted a wound upon
the shoulder upon his foe. Then the two men closed completely upon each
other--and the death-struggle commenced!

It was an appalling spectacle,--the knives flashing in the pure
moon-light--and the eyes of the miscreants glaring savagely, while they
writhed in each other’s embrace, savage howls bursting from them at
short intervals.

In less than a minute they were covered with blood: but the nature
of the contest only permitted them to inflict hideous gashes and not
decisive wounds upon each other. But suddenly Jack Rily’s foot slipped,
and he fell backward--bringing however his adversary down upon him: for
the left hand of each held a firm grasp upon the collar of the other.

As they thus tumbled, Vitriol Bob endeavoured to plant his knife in the
breast of his antagonist--but the spring of the weapon broke, and the
blade suddenly closing as it glanced over the Doctor’s shoulder, cut
through its owner’s fingers to the very bone. A yell of mingled rage
and pain escaped him; but the chances were at the same moment equalised
by the fact of Rily’s clasp-knife escaping from his hand.

The death-struggle was now continued by mere brute force; and the
Doctor succeeded in getting uppermost. At the same time he seized upon
Vitriol Bob’s nose with his large sharp teeth and bit it completely
off--in spite of the almost superhuman efforts of the other to resist
this savage attack.

Yelling horribly with the pain, and with his countenance bathed
in blood, Vitriol Bob once more got his foe beneath him; and
the Doctor echoed those appalling cries of agony as he felt the
fore-finger of his adversary’s left hand thrust into one of his eyes.
Frightful--terrific--revolting was the contest at this crisis,--the two
miscreants writhing, struggling, convulsing like snakes in each other’s
grasp,--and the ferocious process of gouging inflicting the agonies of
hell upon the maddened Jack Rily.

’Twas done: the eye was literally torn out of its socket; but the
pain excited the Doctor to the most tremendous efforts in order to
wreak a deadly vengeance upon his foe. And as they rolled over on the
blood-stained sward, Rily’s hand came in contact with the knife which
he had ere now lost; and clutching it with a savage yell of triumph, he
plunged it into Vitriol Bob’s throat.

The miscreant, mortally wounded, rolled over on the grass with a
gurgling sound coming from between his lips; and Jack Rily was
immediately upon him, brandishing the fatal weapon.

Then, at that moment, as the moon-light fell fully upon the countenance
of Vitriol Bob, as he gazed up at his victorious enemy, what fiendish
hate--what impotent rage--what diabolical malignity were depicted upon
those distorted features and expressed in every lineament of that
blood-smeared face,--a face rendered the more frightful by the loss of
the nose.

“Who will return to London this morning, Bob?” demanded Jack Rily,
scarcely able to articulate, so parched was his throat--so agonising
was the pain in the socket whence the eye had been torn out. “Ah! you
can’t answer--but you know well enough what the reply should be!”

Vitriol Bob made a sudden and desperate effort to throw his enemy off
him: but he was easily overpowered--and in another moment the Doctor
drove the sharp blade of the knife through the man’s right eye, deep
into the brain.

So strong was the convulsive spasm which shot through the form of
Vitriol Bob, that the Doctor was hurled completely off him: but all
danger of a renewal of the contest was past--Jack Rily’s enemy was no
more!

The conqueror lay for some minutes upon the sward, so exhausted that it
almost seemed possible to give up the ghost at a gasp: it appeared, in
fact, as if he retained a spark of life within himself by his own free
will--but that were he to breathe even too hard, existence would become
extinct that moment.

A sensation of numbness came over him, deadening the pain which his
eyeless socket occasioned him; and for nearly ten minutes a sort of
dreamy repose stole upon the man, the incidents of the night becoming
confused and all his ideas jumbling together pell-mell.

But suddenly--swift as the lightning darts forth from the thunder-cloud
upon the obscurity of a stormy sky--a feeling of all that had happened
and where he was sprang up in the Doctor’s soul; and half rising from
his recumbent posture, he gazed wildly around with the visual organ
that was still left.

The motionless corpse of his slaughtered enemy lay near;--and the
moon-light rendered the ghastly countenance fearfully visible.

The pain in the socket now returned with renewed force; and the Doctor,
raising himself up with difficulty, began to drag his heavy limbs
slowly away from the scene of a horrible contest and a dreadful death.

He was wounded in many places; and the anguish which he now again
endured through the loss of his eye, was maddening him.

At the bottom of the field there was a pond; and Jack Rily, on reaching
the bank of the stagnant pool, felt that he could at that moment give
all the money he possessed for a single glass of pure water. A draught
from that pond would be delicious: but how was he to obtain it? He
might stoop down, and endeavour to raise it with his hand--or he might
even fill his hat: but the bank was steep all round--and the wretched
man was so exhausted and enfeebled that he knew he should fall in and
most likely be suffocated.

Seating himself upon the bank, he maintained his one eye fixed upon
the pond in which the moonbeams were reflected; and at the expiration
of a few minutes he resolved to make an attempt to assuage his burning
thirst, even though the consequences should be fatal.

Stooping cautiously down, he succeeded in filling his hat; but as he
was drawing it up, he overbalanced himself, and fell headlong into the
water.

The pond was deep: but Jack Rily managed to drag himself out;--and on
gaining the bank he fainted.

How long he remained in a senseless state, he knew not: or whether a
deep sleep had succeeded the fit, he was likewise unable to conjecture.
Certain it was, however, that on awaking slowly from what appeared to
have been a profound trance, a stronger light than that which he had
last seen fell upon his view--for the sun had just risen.

Then all the horrors of the past night came back to the wretch’s
memory; and, though the pain in his eyeless socket was much mitigated,
it was still poignant enough to wring bitter imprecations from his lips.

He endeavoured to rise: but he was as stiff all over as if he had been
beaten soundly with a thick stick wielded by a strong hand--and he was
also weakened by loss of blood and the fatigues which he had undergone.

He longed to get back to London, not only in order to have surgical
assistance to assuage the pain consequent on the frightful injury he
had sustained by the loss of his eye; but also because he was fearful
that the body of his murdered enemy would be shortly discovered and his
own arrest follow as a matter of course.

Therefore, although he would have given worlds to be enabled to lie on
the grass for hours longer, he raised himself up, and moved slowly away
across the fields.

But how could he enter London in the broad day-light--covered with
blood and maimed as he was? One course only appeared open to him:
namely, to remain concealed somewhere until night, and then return to
his lodgings. Accordingly, he lay down under a hedge at the distance of
about a mile from the scene of the previous night’s deadly contest; and
again did he sink into a deep trance.

From this he was awakened by the sounds of voices; and starting up,
he heard people talking on the other side of the hedge. They were
labourers--and having discovered the corpse of Vitriol Bob in the field
adjoining Shooter’s Hill, they were hurrying back to the farm to which
they belonged, in order to give an alarm. Their pace was rapid--their
remarks denoted indescribable horror--and Jack Rily remained a
breathless listener until they were out of sight and hearing.

He then rose and moved off across the fields as quickly as he could
drag himself along.

The sun was now high in the heavens; and he thereby knew that it was
nearly mid-day. Not a breath of wind stirred the air; and the heat was
stifling.

He had bandaged his head in such a way with his handkerchief as to
conceal the frightful injury which he had received by the loss of his
eye: but the pain he experienced was excruciating.

In a short time he reached a rivulet, where he washed himself; and he
was likewise enabled to slake his thirst. A turnip plucked from a field
afforded him a sorry meal;--and thus was a man having thousands of
pounds secured about his person, reduced to the most miserable shifts
and compelled to wander about in the most deplorable condition that it
is possible to conceive.

Never had the time appeared to pass with such leaden wings;--and, oh!
how the man longed for night to fall. Not more ardently did Wellington
at Waterloo crave for the coming of the obscurity of evening, when,
beaten and hopeless, he was in full retreat ere the Prussians made
their appearance to change the fortune of the day and win the victory
which England so arrogantly claims, not more earnestly did the Iron
Duke desire the presence of the darkness on that occasion, than Jack
Rily in the present instance.

At last the sun was sinking in the western horizon; and the Doctor bent
his steps towards the metropolis which lay at a distance of about seven
miles.

It was nine o’clock in the evening, when Jack Rily entered the southern
suburbs; and he succeeded in gaining his lodgings in Roupel Street
without attracting any particular observation. A surgeon with whom
he was acquainted, and who did not ask any questions so long as he
was well paid, dressed his wounds: and the Doctor began to think the
victory over his mortal enemy cheaply bought by the loss of an eye.
The black patch which he was compelled to wear, certainly increased
the hideousness of his countenance: but as vanity was not one of
his failings, this circumstance did not so much trouble him as the
inconvenience and the pain attendant upon the loss of the optic.

In the course of the ensuing day, the report spread all over London
that the body of a man, frightfully mutilated, had been discovered
in a field near Shooter’s Hill; and that it had been removed to a
public-house at Blackheath, in order to lie there for recognition.
A minute description of the clothing which the corpse had on, was
given in the newspapers and also in placards posted in the principal
thoroughfares of the metropolis; and it was likewise stated that the
clasp-knife, with which the mortal blow was struck, had been left by
the murderer sticking in the victim’s head.

Now it happened that Mary Calvert--_alias_ Pig-faced Moll--and whom
the reader will recollect to have been already represented as Vitriol
Bob’s paramour, was alarmed by the protracted absence of her fancy-man;
and while wandering about in search of him at his usual haunts, she
observed one of the placards.

The attire therein specified exactly corresponded with the dress which
Vitriol Bob wore when he quitted her two days previously; and she at
once went to the public-house where the body was lying. A glance was
sufficient to convince her that her suspicions were well founded; and
on examining the clasp-knife, she instantly recognised it as one which
she had frequently seen in the possession of Jack Rily.

Everything was now clearly apparent to Molly Calvert. She knew the
deadly animosity that Vitriol Bob had nourished against the Doctor: she
was likewise acquainted with the intention of her paramour to wreak his
vengeance upon that individual on the first suitable occasion;--and
she therefore concluded that a deadly conflict had taken place between
them, ending in the murder of her fancy-man.

From the public-house where the body lay, she proceeded straight to a
police-station, where she gave such information as led to an immediate
search after the Doctor. In the course of the next day a member of
the Detectives ascertained that Jack Rily had recently been living in
Roupel Street, and that he had only quitted his lodgings there the
preceding evening. For the Doctor, alarmed by the publicity given to
the discovery of Vitriol Bob’s body, had deemed it prudent to flit.

Several days elapsed without affording the police any clue to his
whereabouts: but at the expiration of a week Molly Calvert herself one
evening traced him to an obscure pot-house in one of the vilest parts
of Bethnal Green; and he was immediately arrested.

Upon his person was found a vast sum in gold and bank-notes--but
chiefly consisting of the latter; and this amount was accordingly
seized by the officers. Jack Rily was then locked up for the night, and
on the following morning he was taken before a magistrate.

When charged with the murder of Vitriol Bob, he at once admitted that
he had been the cause of that individual’s death, but declared that it
was in self-defence. His story was corroborated by many circumstances,
amongst which the loss of his eye was not the least; for the organ had
been found, as it was torn out of its socket, close by the corpse.
The gashes which the man had received--Vitriol Bob’s own clasp-knife,
discovered on the fatal spot--and the evident marks of a fearful
struggle having taken place,--all proved that the deed was neither
cold-blooded nor accomplished by surprise. On the other hand, might not
Jack Rily have himself provoked the contest which terminated so fatally
to his opponent? This point the magistrate left to a jury to decide;
and the Doctor was ordered to be committed for trial. Relative to the
money found upon his person, he persisted in declaring that it was his
own, and that he had come by it honestly,--but from what source he
refused to state.




CHAPTER CCV.

THE CASTELCICALAN REPUBLIC.


Castelcicala became a Republic; and Richard Markham had the immortal
honour of founding a purely democratic government in the finest State
belonging to the Italian Peninsula.

The Chamber of Senators voted by an immense majority the very measure
which deprived them of their rank of Peers, and abolished titles of
nobility altogether. This species of suicidal process, adopted in
obedience to the popular will, the interests of the community at large,
and the dictates of a consummate civilisation, presented a glorious
spectacle to the eyes of all the world. And these good men who thus
sacrificed their own family interests to those of their country,
experienced a rich reward in the enthusiasm with which they were
received by the people when the result of the division on the third
reading of the Bill was made known. For no empty honours could outvie
that applause which grateful myriads thus poured forth; and if Dukes,
Marquises, Counts, Viscounts, and Barons went home that day denuded of
those titles, they had the proud recompense of a conviction that their
names would shine all the more resplendently in history through their
own unartificial light. Their’s was now the aristocracy of VIRTUE and
INTELLIGENCE!

The Chamber of Peers was abolished; but all those who had voted in
favour of the Government measures were returned by a grateful people as
members of the National Assembly which was now convoked--the new system
admitting of only one House of Parliament. The moment that august body
met, one of its earliest duties was to frame the new Constitution;
and this was done on the broadest and most liberal principles. It
was resolved, amongst other matters thus definitively settled, that
the President of the Republic should be elected on the principle of
universal suffrage, and for three years; and we need scarcely inform
our readers that there was not even any opposition attempted against
General Markham.

But in the meantime--for these proceedings occupied upwards of two
months--the other Italian States had become seriously alarmed at the
establishment of Democracy in Castelcicala; and the diplomatic agents
of Naples, Rome, Tuscany, and Sardinia were ordered by their respective
Governments to demand their passports. These were instantaneously
granted; and shortly after the departure of the envoys, a league was
formed by the Sovereigns of the States which we have named for the
purpose of compelling Castelcicala to return into the sisterhood of
monarchical countries. Protocols first poured into the Foreign Office
at Montoni; and these were logically answered by the Minister presiding
over that department. Menaces followed;--and these were treated with a
firmness proving how confidently General Markham and his Cabinet relied
upon the Castelcicalans to defend the institutions which they had
consecrated. An ultimatum, threatening immediate hostilities, was now
signed by that blood-thirsty miscreant the King of Naples--by the weak,
timid, and vacillating Pope Pius IX.--by the Grand Duke of Tuscany--and
by Charles Albert, King of Sardinia. To this document Richard Markham
replied, through the Minister of Foreign Affairs, insisting upon the
right of the Castelcicalans, as a free people, to choose their own
form of Government; and the argument was so well sustained by a mass
of reasoning, that the King of Sardinia and the Grand-Duke of Tuscany
withdrew from the league, re-accrediting their diplomatic agents
to the Castelcicalan Republic. The timid Pope was frightened by a
knowledge of Markham’s military prowess into a similar course; and the
tyrant Ferdinand of Naples was left alone in hostility against the
newly-established Democracy.

This monarch--obstinate, self-willed, and blood-thirsty, like all
the Bourbons--was not disheartened by what he called the “defection”
of the Pontiff, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and the King of Piedmont;
but he immediately declared war against the Castelcicalan Republic.
Thereupon General Markham commenced the most active preparations,
not only to prevent an invasion, but to carry hostilities into the
enemy’s country. In a short time an army of twenty-six thousand men was
collected in the south of the State; and Richard, having taken leave
of his family, proceeded to join it, attended by a numerous staff, of
which Charles Hatfield was a member. The executive power was in the
meantime delegated to Signor Bassano, the General’s brother-in-law; and
the utmost enthusiasm pervaded the entire Castelcicalan population, so
great was the confidence entertained in the valour of the army and the
skill of its commander.

It was in the first week of December, 1846, that the Castelcicalan
forces commenced their march towards the Neapolitan frontier.
Intelligence had already arrived to the effect that the Neapolitans,
to the number of forty thousand men, were advancing under the command
of General Avellino; but Markham, well knowing that the spirit of
a republican army was far greater than that which animates troops
belonging to a monarchy, was not daunted by this immense numerical
superiority on the part of the enemy. He was deeply impressed with the
opinion that Napoleon Bonaparte had damped the ardour of his soldiers
by exchanging the consular cap for the imperial crown: his knowledge
of French history told him that Bonaparte’s grandest victories were
gained with a republican army;--and he was likewise well aware that
the Neapolitan troops loathed and abhorred the monarch who had sent
them out to fight against liberal institutions. He therefore resolved
to push on and meet the enemy; for his generous nature contemplated
with horror the prospect of an invasion of the fertile plains of
Castelcicala by an army which even in its own country acted the lawless
and ferocious part of a horde of plunderers and ravagers.

On the 7th of December, General Markham entered the Neapolitan
territory at the head of his troops; and on the same evening he
encamped beneath the walls of Casino, which surrendered without the
least attempt at resistance. Here he waited four days in the hope that
the Neapolitans would advance to the attack: but hearing that they had
halted to rest awhile at Sabino--a place about sixty miles distant--he
determined to continue his march. Accordingly, in the afternoon of the
13th, he came within sight of General Avellino’s army, which he found
to be occupying a strong position at a short distance from Sabino.

General Markham ascended an elevated flat to reconnoitre the precise
distribution of the Neapolitans, and he was speedily convinced that
an immense advantage might be gained by placing the artillery upon
that height. The task was a difficult one to accomplish: but nothing
was impossible to an active commander and enthusiastic troops;--and
thus in a few hours, hollows were filled up, projections levelled,
and a pathway cleared for the ascent of the cannon. Meantime General
Avellino had made no movement on his side; and ere sunset the work of
establishing the artillery on the eminence was complete.

The inactivity of the enemy during the entire afternoon led Markham
to believe that Avellino meditated an attack in the course of the
night; and the Castelcicalans were therefore fully prepared to give the
Neapolitans a warm reception. But hour after hour passed without any
indication of the approach of the enemy; and General Markham resolved
to take the initiative at day-break.

Scarcely had the sun risen on the morning of the 14th of December, when
the action commenced by a smart fire on the part of the Castelcicalan
light troops, commanded by an active and gallant officer in whom the
General had full confidence. The Neapolitans were thereby dislodged
from an apparently inaccessible position near Sabino; and the result
was that the Castelcicalans were enabled to stretch out upon the plains
so as to threaten the enemy’s flanks. Both armies were soon within
cannon shot; and by nine o’clock in the forenoon the action became
general.

The manœuvres on the Castelcicalan side were performed with a
marvellous precision, fully compensating for the numerical inferiority
of Markham’s troops; and by mid-day they had succeeded in gaining
possession of a wood which covered one of the enemy’s corps. At the
same time the cannon upon the height were scattering death throughout
the Neapolitan ranks; and General Avellino ordered up his reserve of
cavalry to take a share in the conflict. Markham was well prepared for
this proceeding; and at the head of his cuirassiers he dashed against
the new-comers. This charge was made with an impetuosity altogether
irresistible; and the Neapolitans were thrown into disorder in that
part of the field. The Castelcicalans pursued their advantage; and by
four o’clock in the afternoon the enemy were completely overwhelmed.

The Neapolitan loss was immense: upwards of twelve thousand men of
that army lay dead upon the field--while an equal number had been made
prisoners. On Markham’s side the number of killed did not exceed two
thousand; but the generous-hearted young man considered his splendid
victory to be dearly bought even by means of that sacrifice--and the
eyes which flashed with the fires of heroism on the battle-field, now
melted into tears at the evidences of the sanguinary fight.

We should observe that the conduct of Charles Hatfield was admirable
throughout this memorable day. In the charge upon the Neapolitan
cavalry, he comported himself in a manner that more than once gained
for him the approval of his commander; and when the strife was over and
the victory was won, Markham complimented him on his prowess in the
presence of the officers gathered about him at the time.

The booty acquired by this great battle was immense; for the
Neapolitans who survived the conflict were compelled to retreat with
such precipitation as to leave all their baggage and artillery in the
hands of their enemy.

On the following day Markham set his army in motion towards the
capital, at the gates of which he was determined to force the King to
acknowledge the Castelcicalan Republic. But in his progress through
the Neapolitan dominions, he adopted the most rigorous measures to
protect the innocent inhabitants from plunder or wrong at the hands of
his victorious troops; and he issued a proclamation to the effect that
any soldier found guilty of an act of oppression or outrage, should be
expelled the army and deprived of his civil rights as a Castelcicalan
citizen.

It was at about mid-day on the 17th of December that Markham came
within sight of Naples; and he was then met by plenipotentiaries
sent by King Ferdinand to treat for an armistice, preparatory to
negociations for peace. The victorious General received the deputies
with the utmost courtesy; he however bade them observe that it was
not for him to _treat_--but to _dictate_. Thereupon he drew up the
conditions on which he would spare the capital and retire from the
kingdom,--those terms being the acknowledgment of the Castelcicalan
Republic, the payment of all the expenses incurred by Castelcicala
in consequence of this war, and a guarantee against the renewal of
hostilities on the same pretence.

To these conditions Ferdinand refused to accede; and the citizens of
Naples were called upon to arm in defence of the capital. But the
people rose up as one man within the walls of the city, and threatened
to dethrone the King unless he accepted the terms set forth by General
Markham. The blood-thirsty Ferdinand was accordingly compelled to
submit to the demands of the Castelcicalan General; and the conditions
being fulfilled in the course of a few days, Markham began to retrace
his way to the State which he had thus a second time saved from
destruction.

It would be impossible to describe the enthusiasm with which the
victorious General and his army were received on their return to
Castelcicala. The roads were lined with a grateful population,
anxious to catch a glimpse of the hero and to testify their joy
at the conquest which he had achieved over the enemy. Triumphal
arches were raised--flags were waving in all directions--towns were
illuminated--municipal corporations appeared with congratulatory
addresses--and the peasantry made bonfires on the hills as proofs of
their delight.

When the army approached Montoni, the General’s family came out to meet
him: and Isabella experienced more sincere pride in embracing a husband
whose citizen name it was an honour to bear, than if he still wore a
princely title and held a sovereign rank.

Peace was thus ensured to Castelcicala; and the Republic was firmly
established, not only by the will of the people, but likewise by the
prowess of the army.

Charles Hatfield, who, as one of the General’s aides-de-camp, already
held the rank of lieutenant, was now invested with a captaincy; and
one of the members of the National Assembly happening to die at the
time, the constituency thus left temporarily unrepresented, offered to
elect him as their deputy. But he felt anxious to return to England;
for letters reached him about this period, informing him that Mr.
Hatfield’s health had latterly caused serious apprehensions to his
relatives and friends;--and the young man accordingly demanded leave of
absence for a period. This was granted without hesitation; and Charles
Hatfield took his departure, laden with presents from Markham and his
family, and attended with their sincerest wishes for his prosperity.




CHAPTER CCVI.

CHARLES HATFIELD IN LONDON AGAIN.


The information which Charles Hatfield had received respecting his
father’s health, was too true. Indeed, the accounts were purposely
mitigated in order to alarm him as little as possible; and on his
arrival at Lord Ellingham’s mansion in Pall Mall, he found Mr. Hatfield
confined to his bed.

Charles was greatly shocked at this circumstance: for he could not
help fancying that his conduct had contributed mainly to undermine
his father’s health; but Mr. Hatfield reassured him on that head by
declaring that a severe cold was the commencement of his illness.

“Were I thrown upon this bed of sickness by any fault of yours,
Charles,” he said, pressing his son’s hand affectionately in both his
own, “your behaviour during your short sojourn in Italy would speedily
raise me from it. Not only have the newspapers mentioned your name in
a manner highly creditable to you: but General Markham has sent us
accounts of the most satisfactory nature concerning you.”

These words were gratifying indeed to the young man.

“I can assure you, my revered parent,” he said, “that I am indeed
fully and completely changed. The image of that vile woman whom we
will not name, is loathsome and abhorrent to me--and I would as
readily come in contact with a serpent, as meet her again. Respecting
that insane ambition which animated me at the same time I formed that
disastrous attachment,--an ambition which prompted me to aspire to
a noble title,--it has all vanished as if it had never been. I have
contemplated Republican institutions--I have seen a mighty Prince and
all his family lay aside their high rank without regret and abandon
their titles with cheerfulness and at their own free will,--I have
likewise beheld the magnates of the land following the same example,
so that the equality of citizenship may be fully established;--and
I am now astonished that I could ever have aspired to mere titular
distinction. My eyes have been opened to the fact that men may be great
and rise to fame, without those adventitious aids which savour of
feudal barbarism;--and I am prouder of that rank of _Captain_ which the
battle of Sabino gave me in the army of Republican Castelcicala, than
I could possibly be were the coronet of Ellingham placed upon my brow.
Oh! how happy should I feel, could we all proceed to Castelcicala and
settle for life in that beautiful city of Montoni which I love so well:
yes--all of us to fix our habitation there,” continued Charles, with
the enthusiasm that was characteristic of his nature,--“you--my dear
mother, who received me so kindly--the excellent Earl and his amiable
Countess--myself--”

“And what is to become of poor Lady Frances?” asked Mr. Hatfield, with
a smile in spite of his severe indisposition. “Wherefore is she not
included in your list? Do you think that the Earl and the Countess
would leave their amiable and lovely daughter behind them?”

Charles Hatfield blushed deeply as his father thus addressed him.

“Well, my dear boy--you make no reply,” resumed Mr. Hatfield, with the
smile--and a smile of ineffable satisfaction it was--still playing
upon his pale countenance: “has Lady Frances offended you? Did she not
receive you on your arrival ere now with as much kindness as the rest?”

“Oh! yes--yes,” exclaimed Charles; “and she appeared to me more
exquisitely beautiful than ever! Fool that I was--insensate
dolt--idiot--madman, ever to place myself in a position which----”

“Do not excite yourself thus, my dear boy,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield.
“You admire Lady Frances?” he observed, after a short pause, and now
attentively watching his son’s countenance.

“My God! do not ask me that question, my dear father!” ejaculated
Charles, with an expression of deep anguish on his features. “I love
my beautiful cousin--I love her--and she cannot be mine! Oh! since I
have been absent I have pondered on her image--I have cherished it as
if it were that of a guardian angel! I have compared the amiability and
excellence of Frances with the character of _that woman_--and you may
judge how resplendently the charming girl shines by means of such a
contrast!”

“And you may hope--yes, you may hope, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield,
raising himself partially up in the bed. “Happiness yet awaits you.”

“Happiness--hope--my dear father!” ejaculated Charles; “you speak in
enigmas--you----”

“Nay--I speak only what I mean; and all I say is intelligible,”
interrupted Mr. Hatfield. “I tell you that you may hope for
happiness--that Lady Frances may yet become your wife!”

“Is it possible?” cried the young man, clasping his hands in the
wildness of his joy. “But how? Is that woman dead?” he demanded,
speaking with strange rapidity of utterance.

“No--she is not dead,” responded his father: “but she has married
again!”

“Married!” ejaculated Charles. “And yet I do not see how that
circumstance will alter my position,” he added, in a desponding tone.

“Listen attentively--and do not excite yourself at one moment, and in
the next give way to despair,” said Mr. Hatfield.

Charles seated himself at his father’s bed-side, and prepared to hear
with attention the words that were about to be addressed to him.

“Some time ago--when it was first resolved that you should proceed to
Italy for a short time,” said Mr. Hatfield, “the Earl of Ellingham
communicated to me the generous views which he entertained with regard
to you. He observed that, as you had already discarded the woman who
had ensnared you, and as she had agreed never more to molest you, you
were morally severed in respect to the matrimonial bond. He moreover
declared that should this woman contract another marriage and thereby
prove that such severance was complete, it would be a despicable
fastidiousness and a contemptible affectation to tell you _that you
must never know matrimonial happiness, but that you must remain in your
present false position, a husband without a wife, for the remainder of
your days_. Those were the very words which his lordship used, Charles,
on the occasion to which I am alluding.”

“Oh! am I to understand--” exclaimed the young man.

“Silence!” interrupted Mr. Hatfield: “be not impatient nor
impetuous--but hear me out. Lord Ellingham continued to observe that
if the woman should contract a new marriage, and if _you_, Charles,
manifested contrition for the past,--if your conduct were such as to
afford sure guarantees for the future,--and if your attachment for
Lady Frances should revive,--under all those circumstances the Earl
declared that he should not consider himself justified in stamping the
unhappiness alike of yourself and his daughter by refusing his consent
to your union.”

“Do I hear aright?” exclaimed Charles, a giddiness coming over him
through excessive joy. “Oh! what generosity on the part of the Earl!”

“Yes--his sentiments on this subject were fraught with liberality,”
returned Mr. Hatfield. “He argued in the following manner:--A young man
is ensnared into an alliance with a woman whom he believed to be pure,
but whom in a few hours he discovered to be a demon of pollution. They
separate upon written conditions of the most positive character,--a
private arrangement being deemed preferable to the public scandal of an
appeal to the tribunals. This woman marries again--and every remnant
of a claim which she might have had upon the individual whom she had
ensnared and deluded, ceases at once. There is a complete snapping of
the bond--a total severance of the tie; and her conduct by the fact
of the second marriage proves that she so understands it. The law may
certainly proclaim the first marriage to be the only legal one: but
morality, which holds marriage to be a covenant between two parties,
revolts against the principle which the code establishes. It is upon
these grounds that the Earl of Ellingham will give you the hand of his
lovely and amiable daughter.”

It were useless to attempt to describe the joy which filled the soul
of Charles Hatfield when these tidings met his ears. He seized his
father’s hand and pressed it to his lips with grateful fervour: then,
promising to return in a few minutes, he flew to the library where he
understood the Earl to be at the moment; and casting himself at the
feet of that good nobleman, he implored pardon for his past conduct,
declaring that nothing should induce him to swerve from the path of
rectitude in future.

The Earl of Ellingham raised the contrite young man--embraced him
affectionately--and bade him throw a complete veil over all that
related to his unfortunate marriage. His lordship then repeated, but
more concisely, the observations which Mr. Hatfield had already made
to his son; and at the conclusion of the interview he said, “And now,
Charles, if your inclinations really and truly prompt you to take the
step, you have my permission to solicit Lady Frances to allow you to
become the suitor for her hand.”

Captain Hatfield expressed his liveliest gratitude in suitable terms;
and hastening back to his father, he narrated all that had just
occurred between himself and the Earl. Mr. Hatfield was cheered and
delighted by the spectacle of his son’s happiness, and bade him repair
to the drawing-room to pass an hour with the ladies.

We need scarcely state that Lady Georgiana was much pleased by
the return of Charles to England, especially as he had so highly
distinguished himself in the Neapolitan campaign. Nor less was the
Countess of Ellingham--the amiable Esther--gratified by an event which
restored the missing one to the family circle: while Lady Frances
attempted not to conceal the joy that the young soldier’s presence
afforded her.

It is not, however, our purpose to dwell upon this subject:--for we
have now to relate an incident which led to consequences of great
importance to several persons who have figured in our narrative.

The day after Charles Hatfield’s arrival in London, he was proceeding
on foot up Regent Street, in order to pay a visit to his tailor for
the purpose of making some additions to his wardrobe, when he met
Captain Barthelma: for Laura’s husband had lost his title of Count
of Carignano, in consequence of the establishment of the Republic in
Castelcicala.

The young Italian was alone; and the meeting between the two was
most friendly and cordial,--for during the short time that they were
acquainted, Charles had observed many excellent qualities on the part
of Barthelma, who on his side was enraptured with the heroic conduct
that Captain Hatfield had displayed at the battle of Sabino, a full
narrative of which had duly appeared in the English newspapers.

Taking the arm of Charles, Captain Barthelma walked with him up Regent
Street; and for some time they conversed upon the late Neapolitan
campaign--the glorious destinies of Republican Castelcicala--the noble
conduct of President Markham--and various other matters connected with
the Italian’s native land.

“It has grieved me greatly in one sense,” observed Barthelma, “that
I should have been absent from my post about the person of General
Markham at a time when such momentous incidents were taking place. But
on the other hand I rejoice in my withdrawal from that hero’s service,
inasmuch as I thereby secured the hand of one of the most lovely--nay,
_the_ most lovely woman in the world.”

[Illustration]

“I congratulate you most sincerely upon having formed an alliance which
appears to afford you so much happiness,” answered Charles; “and I hope
to have the honour of being presented to the signora--for I presume you
have espoused a lady belonging to your own country.”

“No--she is an Englishwoman,” returned Captain Barthelma; “and you have
seen her.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Charles.

“Yes--you have seen her,” repeated the Italian. “But tell me--do you
recollect that day when you, Lieutenant Di Ponta, and myself walked
together in the Champs Elysées in consequence of a mysterious note
which we received from a pretended Spanish refugee----”

“Oh! yes--yes--I well remember that day!” exclaimed Captain Hatfield.
“Indeed, how could I ever forget it?”

“You speak with excitement, my dear friend,” said Barthelma, surprised
at his companion’s manner, but entertaining not the slightest suspicion
of the real cause of his agitation.

“Ah! if you only knew all!” observed the young man. “But I will tell
you enough to warn you against falling into the power of the vilest
woman that ever wore an angel shape to conceal a demon heart: I will
reveal to you sufficient to place you on your guard against that syren,
should you ever happen to encounter her. For her disposition is such
that, to gratify her wantonness, her caprice, or her avarice, she would
as readily prey upon a married as on an unmarried man.”

“Indeed! you interest me,” said the Castelcicalan, still altogether
unsuspicious of the real meaning of the allusion.

“Yes--but the interest will soon become of an appalling character,”
resumed Charles, speaking in a tone of deep solemnity. “For there is in
the world a woman whose loveliness is so superhuman and whose witchery
is so irresistible that she would move the heart of an anchorite.
This woman was born in Newgate, where her mother was incarcerated on
a charge of forgery, and whence she was soon afterwards transported
to Australia. The child was called _Perdita_, or ‘The Lost One;’ and
the mother took the babe with her to her place of exile. Years passed
away--and Perdita had grown up to a lovely girl. But the natural
wantonness of her disposition manifested itself at a very early age;
and her profligacy soon became notorious at Sydney. Well, in due time
the mother returned to England, Perdita accompanying her; and in London
did those women commence their grand scheme of preying upon the public.
Alas! shall I confess how weak--how mad--how insensate I was? But the
delirium has passed away--and I now look back upon it with a loathing
which prevents me from contemplating it coolly. For I was ensnared by
that vile Perdita--and I became her victim. I proceeded with her to
Paris; and my father followed to rescue me from ruin. He discovered the
place of our abode, and painted the character of that woman in such
frightful--such appalling colours, without the least exaggeration,
that I was reduced to despair on account of the conduct which I had
pursued. I quitted Paris--returned to London--and was then received
into the service of General Markham. But you ere now asked me if I
remembered the day when yourself Di Ponta and I walked together in the
Champs Elysées. You shall now judge whether I have reason to retain
the incident in my memory. For you, Barthelma, cannot have forgotten
that lady who so much attracted your notice, and who purposely let fall
her parasol----But, heavens! what is the matter with you?” ejaculated
Captain Hatfield, perceiving that his companion started as if a ghastly
spectre had suddenly sprang up before him.

“My God! is it possible?--that woman--in the Champs Elysées--” gasped
the young Italian, a deadly pallor overspreading his countenance, while
he staggered backward and would have fallen had not Charles sustained
him by the arm.

“That woman--for a lady I can scarcely call her--was Perdita Mortimer,”
said Hatfield, emphatically.

“Oh! malediction upon the hateful syren!” exclaimed Barthelma, terribly
excited.

“Compose yourself!--what is the matter?” cried Charles. “You will
attract observation--the people will notice you----”

“I am composed--yes, I am cool and collected now,” murmured the
unhappy young Italian, all his tremendous imprudence bursting upon
his comprehension like a thunder-storm. “Here--let us pass up this
street--it is comparatively deserted--and we can converse more at
our ease,” he faltered painfully, as he dragged his companion up New
Burlington Street.

A suspicion had in the meantime flashed to the imagination of Charles
Hatfield. Was it possible that Barthelma could have married the
profligate Perdita, or Laura? He himself had not learnt from his father
how he knew that the syren-demoness was married again, or whom she
had thus ensnared;--and the Italian’s sudden excitement could not be
accounted for otherwise than by the fact that he had made her his wife.

“My God! this intelligence is overwhelming!” murmured Captain
Barthelma. “Oh! my dear friend,” he exclaimed, turning with the
abruptness of an almost maddening excitement towards Hatfield, “pity
me--pity me; that woman of whom you have spoken is----”

“Is what?” demanded Charles impatiently.

“My wife!” responded Barthelma;--and the moment the words were uttered
his excitement gave way to a blank despair.

“Malediction upon my communicativeness--my insane garrulity!”
ejaculated Charles. “I shall never--never forgive myself for having
made these most uncalled-for revelations!”

“Do not blame yourself, my dear friend,” returned the young Italian,
in a tone of the deepest melancholy: “you knew not how painfully your
words would affect me--you could not anticipate that the warning which
you generously intended to convey would come far too late!”

“And, after all, there may be some error--some mistake,” cried Charles,
catching at a straw on behalf of his afflicted companion: “the woman
whom I mean may not be the same as the lady whom you have espoused----”

“Yes--yes: ’tis the same!” ejaculated the Italian, impatiently: “Laura
Mortimer--the beauteous creature whom we saw in the Champs Elysées, and
whose mother met with a horrible death some months ago.”

“Ah! that old woman is no more!” exclaimed Charles. “But of what nature
was the death of which you speak so shudderingly?”

“The frightful incident occurred when you were in Italy,” answered
Barthelma. “Some villain broke a bottle of aqua-fortis or vitriol over
her head--and she died in fearful agonies. But I must leave you now, my
dear friend,” said the Castelcicalan, with wild abruptness of manner;
and hastily wringing both of Hatfield’s hands, he darted away and was
out of sight in a few moments.




CHAPTER CCVII.

MR. GREEN’S OFFICE.


On the same morning, and at about the same time that Charles Hatfield
and Captain Barthelma thus encountered each other in Regent Street,
certain incidents of importance to the thread of our narrative occurred
elsewhere.

We must request the reader to accompany us to a newly fitted up suite
of offices in Warwick Court, Holborn; and in the private room we shall
find Mr. Green seated at a desk covered with papers.

A material alteration had taken place in the external appearance of
this individual. He was well dressed--looked clean and neat--and wore
an air of assurance instead of the downcast, obsequious, grovelling
demeanour that had characterised him when in the service of Mr.
Heathcote.

His private room was neatly furnished and had a business-like aspect:
in the front office two clerks were busily employed in drawing up
statements to be laid before counsel in several heavy suits; and in the
passage outside a process-server was waiting for instructions.

Mr. Green had drawn his table near the fire that blazed in the
grate--for the reader must remember that several months had elapsed
since the adventures of this individual with Jack Rily, and it was now
the commencement of February, 1847.

The cheerful flames roared half-way up the chimney;--and as Green
felt the genial heat diffusing a glow throughout his frame, he
smiled triumphantly as he contrasted his present position with what
it was in those times when he was compelled to sit without a fire,
from nine in the morning till six in the evening, on the hard high
stool in Heathcote’s front office. Now he was a solicitor on his own
account--had his name once more in the Law List--could look with
complacency into his banker’s book--and, when business was over for the
day, had nothing to do but to step into an omnibus and ride as far as
the door of his neat little dwelling at Bayswater.

No wonder, then, that Mr. Green’s countenance had lost its downcast
look and its haggard, broken-hearted expression: no wonder that hope
beamed in his eyes, and that his tone and manner had recovered the
assurance, if not the actual dignity, of former days.

On the particular morning of which we are writing, Mr. Green was more
than usually elate; and as he looked over the papers that lay before
him, the inward exultation which he experienced imparted the glow of
animation to his features.

Presently the door opened and his junior clerk appeared, saying, “Mr.
Heathcote, sir.”

“Let him walk in,” returned Green, assuming a cold tone: but his heart
was palpitating violently with mingled feelings of joy, triumph, and
insatiate revenge.

In a few moments James Heathcote entered the room.

But, oh! how changed was that man, not only in countenance but also in
deportment! His face was thin--haggard--care-worn: his eyes, sunken
in their sockets, were dim and glazed;--his form was bowed;--and in
the course of a few months his hair had turned from an iron grey to
a stainless white. His aspect was deplorable; and his manner was
indicative of deep mental distress--anxiety--suffering--and humiliation.

“Sit down, sir,” said Green, in a patronising tone.

Heathcote placed his hat upon the floor and took a chair: then,
fixing his hollow eyes upon his ex-clerk, he was about to open his
business--but, unable to bear up against the tide of reminiscences that
rushed to his soul, he burst into tears.

Green affected not to notice this ebullition of grief; but deliberately
poked the fire.

For a few minutes the old lawyer sate sobbing in the presence of the
man whom he had trampled upon during the long period of his vassalage;
and at length recovering sufficient composure to enable his tongue to
give utterance to the ideas that were uppermost, he said, “Mr. Green,
you are doubtless astonished to receive a visit from _me_!”

“Not at all, sir: I expected it,” was the laconic reply.

“And wherefore should you have expected it?” asked Heathcote, anxiously.

“Because the result of yesterday’s trial in the Court of Queen’s Bench
places you completely in the power of my victorious client,” responded
Green; “and you are likewise well aware that every other action pending
against you must he decided in the same manner.”

“Yes--I cannot close my eyes to that fact,” observed Heathcote,
actually wringing his hands.

“And therefore you are ruined--totally ruined,” returned Green, with a
demoniac smile of triumph.

“Ruined--totally ruined!” repeated Heathcote, with that mechanical
unconsciousness which is indicative of despair--blank despair.

“Not only ruined in pocket, but in character likewise,” resumed
Green, his tone becoming merciless--nay, absolutely savage and
ferocious. “That long trial of yesterday--a trial which occupied
eight hours--revealed you in your true colours to all the world. The
counsel whom I employed, tore you to pieces. All your chicanery was
unravelled--all your manœvres traced, followed up, and exposed--all
your fraudulent proceedings dragged to light. Oh! you, who never
spared a human being, Mr. Heathcote, were not spared yesterday:
you, who never pitied a living soul, were not pitied yesterday! The
barrister resembled a giant, and you a dwarf whom he held up writhing
and shrieking in presence of the whole court--aye, the whole country.
Every newspaper published this morning, contains a long account of the
proceedings;--and by this time your character stinks in the nostrils of
the entire profession.”

“Then am I not sufficiently punished, Mr. Green?” asked Heathcote, the
tears rolling down his thin, emaciated, and sallow countenance. “Since
you first commenced these numerous suits against me, I have not known
a moment’s peace. Sleep has scarcely ever visited my pillow: the awful
gulph of infamy and disgrace was always yawning at my feet. Look at
me, Mr. Green--look at me! Am I not changed? My God! I am twenty years
older than I was on that day when you quitted me in such anger and with
such dreadful threats!”

“And those threats shall be fulfilled to the very letter--yes, to the
very letter,” said Mr. Green, in a tone of unmitigated bitterness.
“I told you that there should be war between us--war to the very
knife;--and I have kept my word! I told you that ere a few months had
elapsed, you would bitterly repent your conduct to one who only asked
for a little kindness in return for his faithful services;--and you
have already repented! But my memory is immortal, Mr. Heathcote--and I
can never, never forget the injuries, the insults, the degradations,
and the wrongs I have received at your hands. My thirst for revenge is
therefore insatiable--and this very day shall I adopt another and still
more important proceeding with regard to you.”

“My God! all this amounts to a persecution!” ejaculated Heathcote,
literally writhing upon his chair.

“Call it what you will, sir,” responded Green, savagely: “no words--no
entreaties--no menaces--no prayers on your part can stay me in the
course which I am adopting.”

“And that course?” said Heathcote, shuddering with apprehension.

“Is an indictment at the Old Bailey for conspiracy,” answered Green.

“No--no: you cannot do it!” cried Heathcote, now becoming dreadfully
excited.

“You are lawyer enough to know that I _can_ do it,” rejoined Green,
with a smile of infernal triumph. “The evidence obtained from
yesterday’s proceedings inculpated another person with you in the
fraud--the damnable fraud that you practised upon my client years ago;
and at this very moment my clerks are drawing up the statement to be
submitted to counsel with a view to an indictment against yourself and
your accomplice!”

“I could have borne everything but this!” exclaimed the miserable man,
covering his face with his two thin hands, and then shaking his head
wildly, as if in a species of hysteria.

“Yes--and you suspected that such would be the course that I should
adopt,” resumed Green: “for it is precisely the measure that you
yourself would have taken in similar circumstances. What you have done
to others, Mr. Heathcote, shall now be done to you;--and it were as
reasonable to implore the forbearance of a ravenous tiger, as to appeal
to me for mercy!”

“One word, Mr. Green--one word!” ejaculated Heathcote, starting from
his seat. “I will at once--yes, this very moment--surrender up all the
various sums and properties you claim on behalf of the numerous clients
whom you represent _against_ me,--I will satisfy and liquidate all your
demands--leaving myself a beggar--yes, a beggar upon the face of the
earth--on condition that you abandon this criminal prosecution!”

“Peruse that list of my clients and the amount of their claims,” said
Green, handing the wretched man a paper.

“The sum is enormous--frightful!” exclaimed Heathcote, his countenance
becoming hideous to gaze upon.

“And to that amount must be added a thousand pounds to satisfy me for
the costs which I shall lose by the compromise,” returned Green, with
implacable coldness both of tone and manner.

“As God is my judge, I cannot command that additional thousand pounds
which you stipulate for!” cried Heathcote, trembling with nervous
excitement.

“Then apply to your brother, Sir Gilbert,” responded Green, a sardonic
smile curling his lips.

“He is not in England--he has gone abroad, I know not whither!”
exclaimed the miserable man. “Months have now elapsed since his
mistress became reconciled to her husband, the Marquis of Delmour--and
Gilbert suddenly quitted England about the same time. He refused to
see me previous to his departure: he rejected my proposals--my humble
proposals for a reconciliation. Therefore, were I even acquainted with
his present abode, it would be useless and vain to apply to him for
succour.”

“Thus is it that all your grand schemes--your magnificent designs--your
comprehensive plans, have fallen in with a tremendous crash, burying
you in the ruins!” said Green, in a slow and measured tone that was
torturing and intolerable with its diabolical sardonism. “Well,” he
continued, after a few moments’ pause, “I will renounce the demand of
the thousand pounds, on condition that you at once--and ere you quit
my presence--assign all your property, of whatever kind, with a view
to the liquidation of these claims and the settlement of all the suits
pending against you.”

“I will do so,” said Heathcote, “provided that you give me an
undertaking to abandon all criminal proceedings against me.”

“Agreed,” was the response; and the two lawyers drew up certain
documents which they forthwith exchanged: and we may observe that
whereas Green’s handwriting was firm, clear, and legible, that of
his discomfited opponent was trembling, blotted, and indicative of a
terrible excitement.

“My ruin--my utter ruin is now consummated!” groaned Heathcote,
wringing his hands bitterly. “All that I had heaped up for my old
age----”

“And that you had obtained at the sacrifice of the happiness of
hundreds,” interrupted Green, his tone suddenly assuming the savage
triumph of one who gloats over the downfall of a hated enemy. “But we
will not prolong our interview, sir. The day of retribution has come at
last--and in a few minutes I have wreaked the pent-up vengeance of long
years. Begone, sir--offend me not another moment with your presence! My
head clerk shall accompany you to your own office in order that you may
place in his hands the securities and the documents specified in the
agreement that you have given me.”

Heathcote made no reply: but turning hastily away, took his departure,
followed by Green’s managing man, who received the necessary
instructions from his master.

Scarcely had the ruined lawyer thus quitted the establishment of his
flourishing and merciless oppressor, when a lady wearing a thick black
veil entered the front office and requested an immediate interview with
Mr. Green. The junior clerk delivered this message to his employer, and
the lady was forthwith introduced to the legal gentleman’s presence in
the comfortable back room.

A rapid glance at his visitress convinced Mr. Green that she was
likely to prove no ordinary client: for the elegance of her dress, the
gracefulness of her demeanour, and the dignity of her gait bespoke a
lady of distinction;--and when, on taking the chair which he hastened
to place for her accommodation, she raised her veil, he was struck by
the transcendent beauty of the countenance thus revealed to him.

“We are alone together, sir,” said the lovely stranger, looking
intently around: “but can listeners overhear anything that may pass
between us?”

“There is no need of apprehension on that head, madam,” answered Green.
“Speak freely--and without reserve.”

“I have called upon business of great importance to myself, and which
may prove most lucrative to you,” continued the lady.

“Before we proceed farther, madam,” said the lawyer, “may I request to
be informed who recommended you to me?”

“A client of yours who resides in Pimlico, and with whom I am
acquainted,” answered the beautiful woman. “Perhaps you have heard
mention made of my name. I _was_ the Countess of Carignano: but I
presume that, since my husband’s native land has become a Republic and
abolished titles of nobility, I must introduce myself to you as Signora
Barthelma.”

“I have heard of you, madam,” responded Green: “and I shall be
delighted to number you amongst my clients.”

“It is for this purpose that I have addressed myself to you to-day,”
observed Laura. “But I must at once inform you that the object of my
visit is scarcely connected with law.”

“If I can serve you, madam----” began Green, who was completely
fascinated by her beauty and her manners.

“And serve yourself also?” added Laura: “yes--you can do both!
Know, then, that I cherish a rancourous--burning hatred against two
individuals--father and son--and that the time has now come for me to
wreak my vengeance upon them. The son has just returned from Italy--I
saw his arrival mentioned in this morning’s paper; and not another
day--not another hour can I rest ere a train be laid that must lead to
the explosion of all the happiness they now expect to enjoy.”

“And who are these persons, madam?” asked Green.

“Their name is Hatfield--and they reside at the mansion of the Earl
of Ellingham, in Pall Mall,” responded Laura. “I am acquainted with
a terrific secret regarding that family--a secret which would make
the hair of all England’s proud aristocracy stand on end--a secret,
in fine, that now affords me the means of humbling my two mortal
enemies in the dust. Will you, sir, become the instrument of my
vengeance?--will you perform my bidding in all respects? I know that
I ask a great deal--that I am about to involve you in no trifling nor
unimportant enterprise--and that the business does not with propriety
come within the sphere of your professional avocations. But the
recompense shall be most liberal; and I proffer this note for five
hundred pounds as an earnest of my intentions in that respect.”

Green’s eyes glistened at the sight of this generous gift; and he
hastened to assure Signora Barthelma that he not only undertook her
business with cheerfulness, but would enter into it with as much
enthusiasm as if he were interested in it from personal feeling.

“I thought that I was not deceived in your character, from what
I had heard,” observed Laura. “For let there be no mistake nor
misunderstanding between us, Mr. Green,” she continued, fixing her
fine, large grey eyes intently upon him: “_you_ have no objection
to make money--_I_ have money to dispense amongst those who serve
me;--_you_ will not feel qualmish nor entertain a maudlin sentiment of
honour in matters that are likely to prove lucrative--and _I_ am ready
to pay handsomely for the assistance which you can render me.”

“Proceed, madam,” said Green: “we understand each other.”

“Good!” ejaculated Laura; “and now listen attentively. I am about to
communicate to you secrets of the most startling character; and it is
by the use which must be made of those revelations, that my vengeance
is to be gratified. At the same time you are to act in this matter
without suffering it to be known that you are instigated by me. If
questioned respecting the manner in which you became acquainted with
these tremendous secrets, you must give some evasive reply; and if
my name be suggested as your probable informant, you must declare
boldly that you never even heard of me in your life. For those whom I
am anxious to crush--overwhelm--and cover with confusion, might tell
certain tales of a disagreeable nature concerning myself: but if they
be kept in ignorance that it is I who am in the background, they will
remain silent in these respects. You see that I am candid with you, Mr.
Green.”

“And that very frankness, madam, renders me the more anxious to serve
you,” answered the unprincipled attorney.

“Thanks for this assurance,” said Laura, delighted at having found so
ready and willing an instrument to carry out her vindictive designs.
“And now for these tremendous secrets to which I have already alluded!
Learn, then, that the elder Mr. Hatfield of whom I have spoken, and who
is a gentleman apparently of high respectability and enjoying a good
reputation,--learn, I say, that he is in reality none other than the
celebrated highwayman Thomas Rainford of former times! Yes--you may
well start and be amazed, Mr. Green,” continued Laura, emphatically:
“but it is the truth--the solemn truth! And it is nothing to that
revelation which I have next to make. For this Mr. Hatfield, or rather
Thomas Rainford, was the elder son of the late Earl of Ellingham; and,
being legitimately born, he is the rightful possessor of the peerage
and the entailed estates.”

“This is most wonderful!” ejaculated Green, staring almost stupidly
with amazement.

“I have yet other revelations to make,” continued Laura, in a tone of
subdued triumph. “Thomas Rainford married a certain Lady Georgiana
Hatfield, and adopted _her_ name. They have a son, whose name is
Charles, and who passes as their nephew, because he is illegitimate.
It is this son whose arrival in London yesterday is announced in this
morning’s journals. The same paragraph which records his return from
Italy, hints at the probability of his shortly leading Lady Frances
Ellingham to the altar. You know the sickening, fulsome terms in
which such matters are glanced at in the department of fashionable
intelligence? But before such marriage shall take place, it is my
purpose to carry woe--desolation of heart--infamy--disgrace--and the
deepest, deepest humiliation into that proud mansion! I care not
that these Hatfields should remain in ignorance of the fact that it
is really I who strike the blow: ’twill be sufficient for me to be
convinced that the blow itself _is_ struck. Do you begin to comprehend
me?”

“I understand you altogether and completely, madam!” exclaimed Green.
“You would have me repair forthwith to Ellingham House, and by seeking
some cause of dispute with one or more of its inmates, seize the
opportunity to proclaim aloud all the tremendous secrets which you have
just revealed to me. Is not this your purpose?”

“It is,” responded Laura: then, in a lower but more emphatic tone,
she added, “And take care that the whole proceeding be accompanied
with such circumstances of notoriety, that it must inevitably engage
the attention of the public press. In a word, contrive that all those
revelations shall appear in print, Mr. Green; and a thousand guineas
shall be your recompense!”

“It shall be done, madam--it shall be done,” answered the lawyer, his
heart exulting at the idea of the munificent reward thus promised.

“To-morrow I shall visit you again,” said Laura. “But remember, this
affair rests between you and me! Should you ever encounter me when I am
walking or riding out with my husband, you will not appear to know me:
we are strangers to each other everywhere save within the four walls of
this room!”

“I understand and will obey all your wishes, madam,” returned Green.

The lovely but vindictive and profligate woman then took her departure;
and the lawyer lost no time in repairing to Pall Mall.




CHAPTER CCVIII.

PERDITA, THE LOST ONE!


IT was about three o’clock in the afternoon when Laura reached the
villa on Westbourne Terrace; and, having laid aside her bonnet and
handsome furs, she proceeded to the drawing-room, where, as Rosalie
had already informed her, her husband Lorenzo was anxiously awaiting
her presence.

The fact that he should have stated to the servant his desire that she
would speedily return home, was a proceeding so unusual on his part,
appearing, as it did, to imply annoyance at her absence, that it roused
the haughty temper of the imperious Laura; and for the first time since
their marriage, she wore a frown upon her features when she entered his
presence.

It was also for the first time that _his_ handsome countenance denoted
a storm raging within his breast, and all the pent-up violence of which
was about to explode against the deceitful, wanton creature into whose
character he had obtained so complete but fatal an insight that morning.

“You have been asking for me, Lorenzo?” said Laura, in a cold tone, as
she seated herself with an air of exhaustion upon a sofa.

“Yes, madam--I was most anxious to see you as soon as possible,”
answered the Italian, turning abruptly away from the window at which
he had been standing, and now advancing towards her. “When I came home
an hour ago I was surprised to find that you had been absent since
mid-day.”

“And pray, Lorenzo, am I to be kept a prisoner in this house?” demanded
Laura, in a tone of unfeigned surprise. “I had certain purchases
to make at different shops--and I went out in the carriage for the
purpose. Permit me to observe that your conduct is undignified in the
extreme, since you so far forget yourself as to express your feelings
to my lady’s-maid.”

“My God! and were I to proclaim my feelings to the whole world,
there would be but little cause for wonder!” exclaimed the Italian,
vehemently; and as he spoke, he thrust his hand into his bosom, and
clutched a dagger which he had concealed there.

But his eyes fell upon the countenance of his wife,--that countenance
so glorious in its beauty, though now with the sombre cloud
overshadowing it;--and he would have slain her then and there, had not
his glance thus suddenly embraced all the loveliness of her features
and all the rich contours of her splendid form. For, like a whelming
tide, rushed to his soul a thousand tender reminiscences,--vividly
recalling to his imagination all the joys and delights he had
experienced in her arms--the fervid passion he had seen reflected in
those magnificent eyes--the luscious kisses he had imprinted on those
lips--the wanton playfulness with which her long luxuriant hair had
oft-times swept across his cheeks--the ineffable bliss that had filled
his raptured soul when his head was pillowed on that glowing, swelling
bosom, which now palpitated with haughty indignation,--oh! he thought
of all this, and he felt that he could not slay one so exquisitely
lovely--so transcendently beautiful!

“Assuredly, your humour is strange to-day, Lorenzo,” said Laura, who,
though longing to make it up with the man whom she really and sincerely
loved, nevertheless was resolved to exact the homage which all women
under such circumstances require--namely, the first overture towards a
reconciliation. “At one moment your eyes glare savagely upon me as if I
had given you some mortal offence;--and now they assume an expression
of pity and commiseration. Come, sir, confess that you have entertained
some outrageous suspicion--that you are jealous of me--and I shall take
the avowal as a proof of affection. Do this,” she added, a faint smile
of encouragement appearing upon her lips, and allowing a glimpse of her
brilliant teeth; “do this, Lorenzo--and I will pardon your unkindness.”

“Pardon _me_!” exclaimed the Italian, bitterly--for the conduct of his
wife now appeared to him to be aggravated by levity and flippancy of
the most irritating nature, though in reality she was totally ignorant
of the fact that grave and serious charges were agitating in his mind
against her: “pardon _me_!” he repeated, his tone now assuming a
fierceness that began to amaze and even alarm the young woman, whose
conscience, as the reader is well aware, was not the clearest in the
world. “Oh! this is indeed a hideous mockery--a cool, deliberate
insult,” he continued,--“yes--a vile insult, to offer to pardon _me_!
What have I ever done to offend _you_--or merit _your_ forbearance
or _your_ forgiveness? My God! ’tis I who have been generous and
confiding--and ’tis you who have been the gross deceiver and the
unprincipled hypocrite!”

“These are harsh words, Lorenzo,” exclaimed Laura, rising from the
sofa, and drawing herself up to her full height; and though not tall
in stature, there was nevertheless something regal and majestically
imperious in her air and bearing: “yes--they are harsh words, I
repeat--and they may lead to a quarrel which no subsequent regrets nor
apologies can repair.”

“Let the quarrel be eternal--or to the very death!” returned Lorenzo,
his handsome countenance now distorted with rage. “Oh! I am sick of
this world with its hideous deceits--its hollow hearts--its boundless
profligacy! I care not how soon I throw off the coil of this life’s
trammels: but with my last breath shall I curse--bitterly, bitterly
curse--the odious name of _Perdita_!”

“Ah!” ejaculated the guilty woman, now perceiving that she was indeed
unmasked: but almost immediately recovering her self-possession, she
approached her husband and said in her softest, most seductive tones,
“You have heard evil reports concerning me, Lorenzo: and I hope ere
you prejudge me, that I shall be allowed an opportunity to give a full
explanation. Consider my position:--it is that of a friendless and
orphan woman, about to lose, perhaps, the only being on earth whom she
ever loved, or who has ever sincerely loved her!”

“Oh! how is it that such a demon heart is harboured in such an angelic
form!” cried Lorenzo Barthelma, surveying her for a moment with mingled
pity and admiration: then immediately afterwards, a full sense of all
her tremendous profligacy and deceit springing up in his soul, his eyes
glared upon her with the ferocity of a lynx, and a feeling of deep and
burning hatred took possession of him.

“If you refuse me a hearing--if you intend to cast me off with
contumely and insult,” said Perdita, her own eyes flashing fire
in their turn--but it seemed like living fire!--“if such be your
intentions,” she continued, in a tone of mingled bitterness and haughty
indifference, “the sooner this interview be terminated, the better.”

And she advanced towards the door, her bosom heaving with convulsions
almost to bursting from its confinement.

“No--no--you shall not leave me yet, nor thus!” cried the Italian,
darting after and catching her violently by the arm. “You _shall_ have
the opportunity of explanation which you desire; and God help you in
the task!”

Thus speaking he forced her back to the sofa; and then locked the door
of the apartment, putting the key in his pocket.

“This behaviour on your part, signor,” said Perdita, assuming a
composure which she did not--could not feel, “is alike mean and
cowardly. You seek to intimidate me--and that is mean: you use violence
towards me--and that is cowardly. What have you heard against me?
Name the calumniator, and recite the calumnies. But if the accusation
resolve itself into _this_,--that I was frail--weak--unchaste before I
became your wife, remember that I never deceived you on that subject!
You yourself were my paramour before you were my husband; and when
you offered me your hand, I reminded you that it was no virgin-bride
whom you would receive to the bridal-bed. Ere now you called me
_Perdita_--and I admit that such is my Christian name. But am I
responsible for the circumstances which induced my mother to bestow
it upon me? You are doubtless aware, from the same source whence you
have gleaned evil tidings concerning me, that I was born in Newgate,
and that my maternal parent gave me that odious name in a moment of
contrition. Well--is this my fault? Be just, Lorenzo--I do not ask you
to be generous;--but again I say, be just!”

“I have listened to you with attention, Perdita--and I am bound to
declare that you seek to veil a hideous depravity beneath the most
specious sophistry,” said Barthelma, speaking in a slow, measured
tone, but with a concentrated fury in his soul. “I do not reproach you
for your mother’s crimes--I commiserate you on that score. But I feel
indignant--oh! bitterly, bitterly indignant at all the treachery--the
perfidy you have practised towards me! I knew that you were unchaste,
as you yourself express it--but I believed that it was mere frailty
on your part, and not inveterate profligacy? Oh! Perdita, how dared
you bring to the marriage-bed of an honourable man a body polluted
with all the vice and iniquity of a penal colony, and which had been
for years common as that of the vilest prostitute? I gave you a noble
name--circumstances have robbed it of its aristocratic lustre--but it
is still honourable;--and now how is it menaced? You have lavished
your favours upon hundreds--you have led a life of such frightful
wantonness, young in years as you are, that your soul has grown old
in iniquity! Oh! I know it all--I know everything, Perdita: all the
intricacies of your character are revealed to me--I have read the
mysteries of its darkest depths--and my eyes are at length opened to
the astounding folly that I perpetrated in linking my fate with such as
you!”

“Then let us separate at once,” exclaimed Perdita, her cheeks flushing
with indignation. “Wherefore prolong this interview? Our quarrel
has gone too far and become too serious ever to admit of pardon or
oblivion.”

“It is not I who will seek such reconciliation,” returned Barthelma,
with terrible malignity in his tone and manner. “I loved you,
Perdita--God only knows how tenderly, how sincerely, how devotedly I
loved you! I would have died for you,--aye, and should have rejoiced
to surrender up my life, could such a sacrifice have benefitted you!
Confident, frank, and full of generous candour, I gave you the love of
an honourable man;--and you deceived me! Oh! I am now no stranger to
all your syren wiles--your Circean witcheries: I recognise all that
artifice and all that duplicity in many of the circumstances which
marked our first meetings, and which rivetted the chains that you threw
around me. What! do you suppose that I can consent to live and become
the scorn, the laughing-stock, and the scandal of all who know me?--and
think you that I will permit _you_ to go forth into the world and point
me out with taunting finger to the first idiot whom you may win as your
paramour? My God! the thought is maddening--it sears my very brain!”

And so terrible became the young Italian’s aspect,--with his flashing
eyes, convulsing countenance, and quivering lips,--that Perdita, now
seriously alarmed, rushed to the door, forgetting that it was locked.

But it opened not to her touch, and, with a cry of terror, she
turned towards her husband, who was evidently exercising superhuman
efforts to restrain the fury that boiled in his breast and darted in
lightning-shafts from his wild eyes.

“O Lorenzo--Lorenzo!” she exclaimed, joining her hands together; “what
do you mean to do?--what is it that you require of me? My God! I know
that I have been wicked--vile--profligate: but I have been faithful
to you--I have never ceased to love you from the first moment we met!
That day in the Champs Elysées has ever been a bright one--aye, the
brightest on which my retrospective looks could dwell--”

“That day in the Champs Elysées,” repeated Barthelma, in a low
and hollow tone, “is one accursed in my memory and in my life!
Wretch--profligate--shameless wanton,” he exclaimed, all his infuriate
passion now bursting forth,--“how dare you allude to that day?--how
can you think of it without the crimson blush of shame? For whose sake
did you deck yourself out so meretriciously on that occasion?--whose
jealousy was it to inspire, that you bent your warm and lustful looks
on me that day?--whom to beguile and win back to your arms, perhaps,
was that deceptive note written that induced me, Di Ponta, and Charles
Hatfield--”

“Ah! then you know every thing!” exclaimed Perdita, suddenly throwing
off the suppliant air and the appealing looks which she had ere now
assumed, and resolving to act with the energy natural to her character.
“It is useless, signor, to prolong this painful interview: I have
already made the same observation--and I now wish you to understand
that I will not remain a prisoner any longer here. Open that door and
let me depart--or I shall summon the servants.”

Thus speaking, she advanced towards the bell-pull.

“You menace me--you dare to menace me?” exclaimed Barthelma, springing
forward and confronting her so as to bar the way; and his whole frame
was quivering with a rage that appeared ready to burst forth into the
ungovernable fury of a perfect madness.

“How dare you thus coerce me?” demanded Perdita, her eyes flashing
fire. “Out of my path, coward--unless you intend to enact the Italian
bravo in this country where men are wont to be brave and chivalrous.”

And, as she spoke, she pushed him disdainfully aside.

But ere the eye had time to wink or the heart to palpitate once--and
while a sound, between a cry and a yell, of frenzied rage burst from
the lips of the maddened Barthelma,--his dagger flashed before the
sight of Perdita, and was instantly buried deep in her bosom.

A thrilling, agonising scream proclaimed her mortal agony--then ceased
suddenly; and, staggering forward a few paces, she fell heavily on the
carpet--and expired!

Barthelma stood for a few moments rivetted to the spot, silent and
motionless with horror at the deed which he had perpetrated; while in
his soul a revulsion of feeling took place with the whelming rapidity
that marks the ebb of a portentous tide.

A mortal dread came over him--and then he burst into an agony of
tears; and throwing himself on the still palpitating body of her whose
wondrous beauty had been his pride and his joy, he began to lament her
death in the most passionate terms.

But suddenly there was a sound as of several footsteps rushing up the
stairs--and then came a loud knocking at the door, and the voices of
the valet, Rosalie, and another servant demanding what was the matter
and what meant the piercing scream that had reached their ears.

Then Barthelma recollected that, as a murderer, he would receive
a murderer’s doom; and in a moment to his appalled soul started
up all the grim and terrible array of the criminal tribunal--the
executioner--the assembled myriads--and the gibbet!

All the frenzy of his maddening mind returned;--and tearing forth the
stiletto from the bosom of his slaughtered wife, he plunged it deep
into his own breast.

At the same instant the door of the apartment was forced in; and the
horror-stricken domestics caught sight of their master just at the
moment that he fell upon the corpse of their mistress!

       *       *       *       *       *

So perished this youthful pair,--each endowed with a beauty of no
ordinary kind!

Yes--thus died the tender, impassioned Lorenzo, and the profligate,
wanton Perdita!

The world has seen no loveliness superior to hers, nor known a
depravity more inveterate.

But was she to be blamed only, and not pitied in the slightest degree?
It were unjust thus to regard her memory:--for, when her eyes first
saw the light, had some kind hand been nigh to receive the innocent
babe--to bear it away from that Newgate-cell which was the ominous
scene of its birth--to rear it tenderly and save it from passing in
the arms of a felon-mother into a penal settlement,--then to foster
and cherish the growing girl with a true maternal care--bend her
mind to the contemplation of virtue, and protect it from all bad
influences--preserve her soul from the effects of vile examples, and
inculcate principles of chastity, rectitude, and religion,--Oh! then
would the prison-born Perdita have given by her conduct a refutation to
her name, and she would have haply excelled in every accomplishment,
every amiable characteristic, and every endearing qualification that
combine like brilliant gems to form for the chaste woman’s brow a
diadem such as angels wear!

Oh! my Lady Duchess--or you, highborn daughter of some proud Peer
whose line of ancestry may be traced back to the period of the Norman
Conquest,--look not with unmitigated disgust upon the character of
Perdita, the _Lost One_! Let pity temper the feeling;--for--though the
truth which we are about to tell may be not over palatable--yet is the
moral which the Lost One’s history affords deserving of consideration.
Suppose, my Lady Duchess--or you, highborn maiden,--suppose that either
of you had been ushered into this world under such circumstances as
those which attended on the birth of Perdita;--suppose that you first
saw the light in Newgate--that you had been taken by a vile mother
to the far-off place of her exile--that you had been reared where
temptations abounded and virtuous influences were unknown--and that
every example you had before you was evil and profligate,--what would
have been the result? Do not dare to say, my Lady Duchess--or you,
highborn maiden--that an innate perception of right and wrong, and
a natural inclination to virtue, would have preserved you pure, and
chaste, and untainted throughout the terrible ordeal! No--no--you
would have fallen as Perdita fell--you would have been dragged through
the mire of demoralisation as she was--you would have imbibed the
infectious poison of vice as she did,--and, under such circumstances,
you, my Lady Duchess--and you, highborn maiden--would have justified
and illustrated in your own lives the history of the Lost One!

What, then, do we wish to impress upon our readers?--what do we seek
to impress upon the Legislature and the Government? That it is better
to adopt means to prevent crime, than to study how to punish it when
it is committed. We have a thousand laws which proclaim how a man may
be sent to the treadmill, or to the bulks, or to the penal colonies,
or to the gibbet: but we have none devising measures to keep him away
from those places. Everything is to punish--nothing to prevent. The
codes are crowded with enactments inflicting penalties upon grown-up
criminals,--but do not contain a single statute for the protection of
the children of the poor against contamination. Look at those emaciated
little beings rolling about all day long in the gutters, or eating the
offal off dust-heaps: does the law stretch forth its hand and pluck
them out of that filth which is only too painfully emblematical of the
moral mire in which their minds are likewise wallowing? No: the law
allows them to play on unheeded; but when, a few years afterwards,
these unhappy creatures, who can neither read nor write, and have no
idea of God nor hope nor heaven, pilfer a slice of rusty bacon or a
morsel of cheese from a shop-board in order to satisfy the cravings of
hunger--_then_ does the Law thrust forth its long arm and its great
hand, and seize upon the victims of----what?--its own neglect!

Yes: those are truths which we are never wearied of insisting upon.
Session after session is frittered away in party squabbles; but what
remedial steps are taken to moralise, christianise, and civilise the
children of the poor?


[Illustration]




CHAPTER CCIX.

MR. GREEN’S MISSION.


In the meantime Mr. Green had taken a cab, and ordered himself to be
driven to the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham in Pall Mall.

While he was proceeding thither, he threw himself back in the vehicle
and gave way to a variety of pleasurable reflections. He considered
his prospects to be most brilliant; and he believed that he was on
the high road to amass as considerable a fortune as that which his
late master Heathcote had once enjoyed. It was fortunate for him that
he had applied to Jack Rily in the hour of his need: the Doctor had
proved of the greatest assistance to him;--and he resolved to run down
to Woolwich some day and call upon his old friend at the hulks. For
Jack Rily had been tried for the murder of Vitriol Bob, and acquitted
of the capital charge: but he was condemned to two years’ imprisonment
in a convict-ship for manslaughter, the police having appeared to give
him a character which by no means recommended him to the good opinion
of the jury nor the mercy of the Court. As for the immense quantity
of Bank-notes found upon his person at the time of his arrest, he had
positively refused to give any satisfactory account concerning them;
and as no one stood forward to claim them, nor to throw any light upon
this mysterious subject, they were declared to be forfeited to the
Crown on the prisoner’s conviction for manslaughter.

Pondering upon these and other matters, Mr. Green arrived in due course
at the noble mansion in Pall Mall; and on inquiring for Mr. Hatfield,
he was informed that this gentleman was ill in bed.

“But my business is of the most urgent character,” said the attorney;
“and I must see him.”

The domestic to whom this assurance was given, conducted Mr. Green into
a parlour, and hastened to report to the Earl of Ellingham the presence
of the visitor.

The nobleman accordingly repaired to the room in which Green was
waiting, and represented to him that Mr. Hatfield was too much
indisposed to receive any stranger.

“If, however,” added the Earl, “you will communicate to me the nature
of the affair which has brought you hither, your object will be gained
as readily as if you saw Mr. Hatfield. He is an intimate friend of
mine--indeed, a bosom friend,” said the nobleman, emphatically; “and we
have no secrets from each other.”

“I must respectfully decline to open my business to your lordship in
the first instance,” returned Mr. Green. “But I should be glad if your
lordship would witness what I have to say to Mr. Hatfield.”

“Your card informs me that you are an attorney, sir,” said the Earl
of Ellingham: “may I ask if the object of your visit be of a legal
nature?--because in that case, you would do well to address yourself to
my solicitor.”

“You must excuse me, my lord,” was the laconic answer, “if I decline
giving any explanations.”

“Although I consider your behaviour to be far from courteous, Mr.
Green,” said the Earl, “I will communicate to Mr. Hatfield your desire
to have an interview with him; and perhaps, under the circumstances, he
may see you.”

“Good, my lord,” responded the attorney. “I am in no particular
hurry--and will cheerfully wait an hour or two in order to have the
pleasure of seeing Mr. Hatfield.”

The Earl of Ellingham forthwith repaired to his half-brother’s
room, and mentioned to him all that had occurred. Mr. Hatfield,
though feeling weak after the long illness which he had experienced,
considered the behaviour of the visitor to be so extraordinary that it
was advisable to grant the interview demanded.

Lord Ellingham accordingly returned to the parlour, and thence
conducted the attorney to the chamber where Mr. Hatfield was lying in
bed.

The invalid cast a rapid and searching glance at Green as he entered
the room; but he recognised in the visitor no one with whom he
remembered to have ever been acquainted.

Scarcely was the door closed, when it opened again--and the Countess of
Ellingham, accompanied by Lady Georgiana, made her appearance: but, on
perceiving a stranger, they both drew back and were about to withdraw.

“There are no secrets here, ladies--no secrets, I can assure you,”
exclaimed Mr. Green, with a smirking expression of countenance, which,
nevertheless, had a deep malignity in it.

“In that case, come in,” said Lord Ellingham; and the two ladies
accordingly entered the room.

“Will you now explain the object of your visit, sir?” asked Mr.
Hatfield, who had observed the sinister aspect which the attorney’s
features had ere now assumed, and who entertained a vague presentiment
of evil.

“I must begin by informing you,” said Green, taking a seat, and
glancing around on those present, as much as to intimate that he spoke
to no one in particular, but was addressing them all collectively,--“I
must begin by informing you that I am a very extraordinary person in
one respect--which is, that I am constantly ferretting about amongst
old papers, musty documents, and ancient records; and while engaged in
this occupation I frequently light upon strange secrets--very strange
indeed.”

While he was yet uttering these last words, the rapid look which he
threw around convinced him that he had already made a most unpleasant
impression upon his auditory: for the ladies both turned pale and
started--while the Earl and Mr. Hatfield exchanged glances significant
of alarm.

“Yes--such is the case,” continued Mr. Green, chuckling inwardly,
though maintaining an external composure: “and amongst the most
singular--the most astounding of the secrets which I have thus dragged
to light, the one that I have discovered in connexion with your
lordship’s family, is not the least remarkable.”

As he thus spoke, the attorney fixed his eyes upon the nobleman, who
coloured deeply in spite of himself: for it naturally struck him
that Green alluded to matters with which the reader is already well
acquainted. The same apprehension seized upon Hatfield, Lady Georgiana,
and the Countess of Ellingham; and the suspense which the lawyer’s
auditory now endured, was poignant in the extreme.

“Your lordship can of course conjecture to what I allude,” continued
Green; “and you, Mr. Hatfield,” he added, turning towards the invalid,
“cannot possibly misunderstand me.”

Lady Georgiana rose from the seat which she had taken on entering the
room, and proceeded to place herself instinctively as it were near the
head of the couch, so as to be close to her husband. It was a movement
which said as eloquently as if her lips had simultaneously explained
it--“This man menaces evil: but I am near to console you with all the
sympathy of a loving wife.”

“Mr. Green,” exclaimed the Earl of Ellingham, after a few moments’
reflection, “I appeal to you whether it will not be better that these
matters at which you have glanced should be discussed privately between
yourself and me. Mr. Hatfield has been ill--very ill: and it would be
cruel to excite him at the moment when he is approaching convalescence.”

“I have already stated to your lordship that whatever communication
I have to make must be in the presence of witnesses,” returned the
implacable Green. “I presume that this lady,” he added, with a gentle
inclination of his head towards the invalid’s wife, “is Lady Georgiana
Hatfield?”

“You are correct, sir,” observed the lady herself, with a haughty tone
and distant manner.

“And this lady is the Countess of Ellingham, doubtless?” said Green,
altogether unabashed.

The beautiful Esther bowed in an affirmative reply.

“But what mean these questions, sir?” demanded the Earl, impatiently.
“Surely you will not use language that may prove outrageous to the
feelings of ladies who have never offended you?”

“If the truths which I am about to utter should prove so very
disagreeable to hear, my lord,” responded Green, “they must be equally
unpleasant to cherish in the depths of the soul. In a word, you are
doubtless all too much accustomed to contemplate these truths to be
liable to any startling effect when they are shaped in words and
whispered to the ear.”

“This is an insolence of behaviour, sir, which I cannot--will not
tolerate,” exclaimed the Earl of Ellingham. “You shall not force your
way into the bosom of a family with a view to play upon their feelings
with a cruelty that is as refined as it is unaccountable.”

“Very good, my lord,” returned Green, rising from his seat, and taking
up his hat; “I can as easily proclaim from the head of the stairs--or
in the hall of your mansion--every thing I know relative to your
family, as I can talk the matter quietly over with you in this room.”

And the villain was moving towards the door, when Lord Ellingham caught
him by the arm, saying, “Nay--you must not leave us thus! What object
have you in view?--what use do you propose to make of the secrets which
you have discovered? Speak frankly--candidly--openly: is it money that
you require?”

A new idea flashed to the mind of Mr. Green, as these words fell upon
his ears.

By serving Signora Barthelma he would gain a thousand guineas, half of
which sum was already in his possession: he had therefore only another
five hundred to receive--and it was possible that he might obtain as
many thousands by striking a bargain with the nobleman and making a
market of the secrets in his possession.

“Wherefore does your lordship ask me if I require money?” he demanded,
by way of sounding the Earl’s intentions.

“Because I am rich enough to bribe you,” was the unhesitating response:
for the nobleman had already formed a pretty accurate idea of the
attorney’s character.

Green paused--reflected--and began to grow embarrassed. He knew not how
to act--how much to demand--what terms to propose. Fearful of spoiling
all, by carrying his extortionate views too high, he was likewise
apprehensive of losing a large by agreeing to take a small amount.

The Earl guessed what was passing in his mind; and, pointing to writing
materials that lay upon the table, he said, “Draw a cheque--and I will
sign it.”

Mr. Green sat down, and with trembling hand wrote a draft for five
thousand pounds.

Lord Ellingham glanced over it, and immediately affixed his signature
to the document, inserting the names of his bankers in the corner.

“Stop!” ejaculated Mr. Hatfield, starting up in his couch: “Arthur,
retain that cheque--let not the villain take it!”

And the Earl of Ellingham instantly obeyed this injunction; while Green
turned, with a countenance livid through rage and disappointment,
towards the invalid.

“Not one shilling shall this man extort from us!” continued Mr.
Hatfield, powerfully excited. “His story is a fabrication! There are no
documents in existence which can have revealed our family secrets to
him. He has been sent hither by an enemy--and who that enemy is I can
too well divine!”

“Yes--yes--I understand you!” cried the Earl, the name of _Perdita_
suggesting itself immediately to his memory: but at the same time he
recollected that neither the Countess of Ellingham nor Lady Georgiana
was acquainted with the secret of that fatal marriage which Charles had
contracted.

“Vile--despicable tool that you are!” resumed Mr. Hatfield, addressing
himself to the attorney: “I can see through all your conduct as if
your very soul were transparent! The vengeance of an enemy sent you
hither--and the demand which the Earl of Ellingham made respecting your
object, was suggestive of this extortionate deed that you sought to
perpetrate. Begone, sir--do your worst--we fear you not! You may reveal
family matters that may cause pain--but you can do no serious injury:
for if you allude to the secrets which I myself am referring to, your
malignant aim is completely baffled--inasmuch as the documents that
could alone corroborate your assertions, are no longer in existence. I
myself destroyed them!”

And thoroughly exhausted, Mr. Hatfield sank back upon the pillow.

At this moment the door was hastily opened; and Clarence Villiers
rushed into the room.

“Pardon this abrupt intrusion,” he exclaimed, not immediately noticing
Green: “but I have news of some importance--though of horrible
interest--to communicate. That woman Perdita, who ensnared my friend
Charles with her wiles and witcheries, is no more!”

“Dead?” cried Mr. Hatfield, again starting up in the couch.

“Murdered--assassinated--and by her own husband!” ejaculated Villiers.
“I was driving past Westbourne Terrace ere now--I saw a crowd--I heard
appalling rumours--I enquired the cause--and I learnt the outline of
the frightful tragedy! She is dead--and Barthelma, her husband, who
destroyed her, has perished by his own hand!”

“Then Charles is beyond all danger for the future!” exclaimed Mr.
Hatfield;--and again did he fall back on his pillow.

Lady Georgiana and the Countess of Ellingham hastened to administer
restoratives to the invalid: although they themselves were greatly
excited by the intelligence which had just arrived--for, it will be
remembered, they were aware that Charles had fled from London with an
abandoned woman who had gained a powerful ascendancy over him; and
horrified as they were at the tidings of the murder, they could not
help feeling that all apprehension of a relapse on the young man’s part
into the meshes of the intriguing Perdita, was now suddenly removed.

While the ladies were ministering to Mr. Hatfield, Clarence Villiers
had turned and recognised Green, who was standing stupefied and
motionless at the sudden news which revealed to him that his fair
client Perdita Barthelma had been murdered!

“Ah! Mr. Green,” exclaimed Villiers, in astonishment at beholding the
attorney in the room; “what brings you hither?”

“Do you know this person, Clarence?” demanded the Earl, bending his
looks with mingled indignation and abhorrence upon the man.

“I have been acquainted with him for many years----” began Villiers.

“Stop, sir!” cried the nobleman, again seizing the arm of the attorney,
who was making for the door. “Before you leave us, you shall be
thoroughly unmasked in the presence of a gentleman who appears to
address you as a friend.”

“Let me go, my lord!” exclaimed Green, struggling to get away; for he
knew that Villiers could reveal a secret which would at once place the
infamy of his character beyond question: “let me go, I say--you have no
right to detain me against my will!”

“You shall remain yet a few minutes!” cried the Earl, holding his
arm with a strong grasp. “This villain,” continued the nobleman,
turning towards Clarence, “came hither as the instrument of that
woman Perdita’s vengeance! That such is the fact, I have no doubt.
But in a short time he changed his character--he began to act a part
for himself--he played the scoundrel on his own account--and he
attempted to extort from me the sum of five thousand pounds, as the
purchase-money for retaining all the secrets which Perdita could alone
have revealed to him!”

“You offered me the money--and the amount was not extravagant,
considering the purpose for which it was to have been given,” said
Green, glancing anxiously at Clarence Villiers.

“I told you to name your own terms--and you drew up this draft,”
exclaimed the Earl, exhibiting the slip of paper.

“Then, by heaven! forbearance in respect to such a man as you, is a
positive crime on my part!” said Villiers, in an excited tone; and,
seizing the wretched attorney by the collar, he cried, “You go not
hence, Mr. Green, save in the custody of an officer, and under an
accusation of forgery!”

“Forgery!” exclaimed the Earl, in amazement; and at the same time the
ladies and Mr. Hatfield became interested observers of the scene that
was now passing.

“Yes--forgery, my lord!” cried Villiers, still retaining his hold upon
Green. “This man was left joint trustee with myself, on behalf of a
youth who had a small sum bequeathed to him: the money was sold out
of the funds years ago, my signature to the power of attorney being
forged! That forgery was perpetrated by the villain before you. Some
six months ago he replaced the money--he called upon me--he confessed
the deed--he avowed his contrition--and I promised to shield him. But
now, my lord--_now_, that he dares to set himself up as the persecutor
of those whom I have so many reasons to esteem and revere,--_now_, that
he has ventured to direct his villanies against the peace of an amiable
family,--I cannot--will not--must not spare him!”

“No, Clarence--you shall keep your promise,” said the Earl; “and
perhaps the man may be moved by gratitude to repentance.”

“My promise was conditional, my lord,” exclaimed Villiers: “and if
he have represented it otherwise to a living soul, he has uttered a
falsehood. I declared to him at the time that I would forgive him,
provided he undertook to enter upon the ways of rectitude and honesty:
and it is he who has now forfeited his solemn pledge to that effect! No
mercy, then, for this bad--this heartless man!”

“One word!” cried Green, in a menacing tone. “Fulfil your threat, Mr.
Villiers, and I will at once--without the slightest hesitation or
remorse--proclaim to all the world that the man known as Mr. Hatfield--”

“Silence, villain!” thundered Clarence: “silence!--or I will strangle
you!”

“No--no--you shall not coerce me! I _will_ speak out!” cried Green,
struggling to disengage himself from the strong grasp in which he was
held. “Mark what I say--hear me--hear me, all of you! Mr. Hatfield
bears an assumed name--he is the Earl’s eldest brother--the heir to the
title--aye, and also Thomas Rainford, who was hanged at Horsemonger
Lane Gaol!”

A blow from the clenched fist of Villiers felled the attorney as these
last words burst from his lips;--and at the same instant a wild shriek,
uttered by Lady Georgiana, rang through the room. For Mr. Hatfield had
sunk back upon the pillow, with a low moan and a death-like pallor of
countenance;--and almost immediately afterwards, blood oozed from his
mouth.

All was now confusion and dismay in the chamber of the invalid: but at
this juncture, Sir John Lascelles made his appearance. A few words,
hurriedly spoken by the Earl of Ellingham, conveyed to the physician
an idea of what had caused the relapse of his patient; and the worthy
man speedily ordered the requisite restoratives. But these were all in
vain:--Mr. Hatfield had broken a blood-vessel internally--and a few
minutes after the arrival of the doctor, he expired without a groan!

       *       *       *       *       *

We must draw a veil over the scene of sorrow which the chamber of death
presented, and which we cannot find words to describe. The intensity
of that anguish was increased by the almost frantic grief of Charles
Hatfield, who, having been out for several hours upon his own and his
father’s business, returned but a few minutes too late to witness the
sad catastrophe.

He threw himself upon the corpse of his sire--uttered the most
passionate lamentations--and even pushed his mother aside when she
endeavoured to console him.

But at length a reaction came; and the violence of the young man’s
grief gave way to a profound sorrow,--a sorrow that was deeply, deeply
shared by many other hearts!

In the confusion that had taken place when Lady Georgiana’s scream
echoed through the room, denoting the occurrence of something
dreadful,--Green had risen from the floor and made his escape, inwardly
cursing himself for having undertaken to become the agent of Perdita’s
vengeance.

But Villiers, who entertained the most sincere friendship for Mr.
Hatfield, and who was goaded almost to madness by the conduct of the
vile attorney towards the man whom he thus loved as a brother, vowed
that such infamy should not go unpunished. Scarcely, therefore, had the
terrible conviction burst upon all present in the chamber of death,
that Mr. Hatfield was indeed no more, when Villiers rushed franticly in
pursuit of him whom he looked upon as the murderer!

The chase was successful--and in less than half an hour, Green was in
custody on a charge of forgery!




CONCLUSION.


Our narrative is about to close: but ere we lay aside the pen, a few
observations are requisite in order to render the history of each
prominent character as complete as possible. Several have already been
disposed of: but there yet remain many in whose fate the reader may
feel more or less interested; and we accordingly proceed to sum up
in a few words all the particulars which are wanting to the faithful
accomplishment of our task.

Mr. Green in due time figured at the Old Bailey, where Clarence
Villiers appeared to prosecute him for forgery; but the prisoner
pleaded guilty in order to obtain the merciful consideration of the
court, and was sentenced to transportation for seven years, instead
of for the term of his natural life. Preparatory, however, to his
expatriation, he was lodged in one of the convict-hulks at Woolwich;
and there he encountered his friend Jack Rily the Doctor, who,
instead of consoling the wretched attorney, only laughed at him for
the tears which he shed and the useless repinings to which he gave
vent. Mr. Green is at this present moment occupied in the healthy but
disagreeable task of repairing the high roads in Van Diemen’s Land, in
company with some of the greatest scoundrels that ever disgraced the
human species; and he even looks back with bitter regret to those times
when he was the oppressed, crushed, and despised instrument of James
Heathcote. Nor was it a source of solace to Mr. Green when one fine
morning, about ten months ago, he recognised the Doctor in a new-comer
who was thus added to the gang of convicts: for Mr. Rily, having
endeavoured to stir up his brethren in the Woolwich hulk to rebellion,
was discovered in the attempt and forthwith packed off to the island
which Nature had in the origin made a terrestrial paradise, but which
the English Government has converted into “a den of thieves.”

James Heathcote, being utterly ruined by the transfer of all his
property for the benefit of the numerous clients whom he had
robbed,--for this affair was completely carried out by Green’s head
clerk,--was compelled to abandon his fine house and take a humble
office where he strove hard to reconstruct his once extensive
business. But the exposure which his character had received in the
Court of Queen’s Bench, proved a fatal blow to his prospects and an
insurmountable obstacle in his path; and at the end of six months,
being unable to pay his rent, he was turned out of the little nook to
which he had retired, and plunged into the deepest poverty. At this
juncture his brother Sir Gilbert returned to England; and James wrote
him a penitential letter, imploring his succour. The baronet refused
to see him, but generously undertook to allow him two guineas a-week
in order to keep him from starving; and on this pittance--for such it
is in comparison with the wealth he once possessed--the broken-down,
baffled, and dispirited man still subsists in some suburb of the
metropolis.

The Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks has experienced many ups and downs since
we last saw him at the lunatic asylum in Bethnal Green. It appears
that one evening Dr. Swinton gave a grand supper to the relatives and
friends of his pensioners, who were present on the occasion as usual;
and that previously to the repast being served up, the Doctor had
been holding forth in a highly eulogistic style upon the excellent
qualities, Christian virtues, and profound piety of his chaplain. Now
the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks was out at the time, the Doctor both
declaring and believing that “the good man had gone to pay his usual
evening visits to the poor in the neighbourhood;” and the guests were
all very anxious for the return of the worthy individual who possessed
such numerous claims upon their esteem, veneration, and respect. But
the truth was--and the truth _must_ be told--that the Reverend Mr.
Sheepshanks, instead of visiting the poor or even dreaming of such
a thing, was smoking his pipe and drinking his gin-and-water at the
_Cat and the Fiddle_ in Globe Town; and as he happened to take an
extra pipe and two extra glasses on this particular occasion, the
fumes thereof became more potent than the odour of sanctity. The
consequence was that on his return to the lunatic asylum, his walk
was so unsteady and irregular that his progress up the gravel walk to
the front door resembled that of a ship tacking about in the Channel;
and when he entered the supper-room, just as the company were sitting
down to the well-spread table, his nose was so red, his cheeks were so
flushed, and his eyes so vacant and watery, that the Doctor inquired
in a tone of bland anxiety if he were unwell? “No, sir--I am quite
well--and I am all right!” was the somewhat savage answer.--“Then
will you have the kindness to ask a blessing, Mr. Sheepshanks?” said
the Doctor.--“No, sir,” responded the pious gentleman: “I will see
you and the blessing at the devil first. You’re drunk, sir--and I’m
ashamed of you.”--It would be impossible to describe the dismay--we
might almost term it horrified amazement--which this peremptory refusal
to say grace, and the scandalous attack upon Dr. Swinton’s sobriety,
produced amongst the guests. The physician himself started up in a
furious rage, forgetful of all his propriety; and applying his right
foot to the proper quarter, he kicked the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks
ignominiously forth from the lunatic asylum. On the following morning
this pious gentleman, who was endowed with so many Christian virtues,
awoke in a station-house to a sense of his altered position; but
when introduced to the notice of a magistrate for being “drunk and
disorderly, and kicking up a row at Dr. Swinton’s door,” he boldly
proclaimed himself a martyr, and held forth at great length, and in a
peculiar nasal drone, on the vanities of this world. The magistrate
was, however, compelled to cut him short, by inflicting a fine: but
as Mr. Sheepshanks had exhausted all his pecuniary resources at the
_Cat and the Fiddle_ on the preceding evening, he was doomed to extend
his experience of worldly vanities beneath the roof of the House of
Correction. There he found that the treadmill was one of the most
uncomfortable vanities he had ever yet encountered; and the redness
of his nose was considerably subdued by the prison skilly. On his
emancipation at the end of a week, he took up his abode at the house
of a poor widow with whom he was acquainted, and whom he induced to
convert her front-parlour into a receptacle for prayer-meetings. This
succeeded very well for a few months, the congregation being delighted
with Mr. Sheepshanks’ discourse, and a tolerable amount of pence being
collected every evening in furtherance of the pious gentleman’s holy
purpose of supplying the benighted Esquimaux with flannel-jackets
and religious tracts: but the widow proving at length to be in the
family-way, and Mr. Sheepshanks not choosing to wait to have the
paternity of the expected offspring fixed upon his reverend shoulders,
his sudden evaporation from the neighbourhood led to the break-up
of the prayer-meetings and the total ruin of the unfortunate woman.
What became of Mr. Sheepshanks for the next six months, we cannot
say: but one fine Sunday morning he turned up at the Obelisk in St.
George’s Fields, where he addressed a crowd in his usual strain. His
discourse was however suddenly cut short by the presence of the poor
widow, who, wrapped in rags and with a baby in her arms, was begging
in that neighbourhood; and when the reverend gentleman’s delinquencies
were proclaimed by the miserable woman, he was hooted, pelted, and
maltreated all up the Westminster-road, until he managed to escape
from his assailants by diving into one of the narrow streets leading
out of that great thoroughfare. After this affair, the pious man
again disappeared for a season; and when we last heard of him, he had
given up preaching as a trade which he had thoroughly worn out, and
had betaken himself to the highly respectable and cheering avocation
of beating the drum and playing the month-organ--_alias_ pandean
pipes--for a colleague who exhibited a Punch and Judy show.

We must now direct attention to Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank
Curtis. Upon the strength of the handsome pecuniary present made to
them by Lord William Trevelyan, the former forthwith dubbed himself
_Major_; and for the first six weeks after this self-bestowed
elevation, he was under the disagreeable necessity of thrashing his
bosom friend soundly at least once a day for being oblivious of
the new rank and calling him _Captain_. At length he succeeded in
completely beating into the head of Frank Curtis that he was really
a Major; and when they were seated together of an evening over their
whisky-and-water, at some public-house, the gallant Irishman never
failed to recount to his companion all the military services he had
rendered the State, and all the splendours of his paternal mansion
of Blunderbuss Park, Connemara. These statements, though ostensibly
addressed to Mr. Frank Curtis, were really intended for the behoof
of the frequenters of the parlours where they were enunciated; and
the quiet tradesmen into whose ears the flaming narratives were thus
dinned, ended by being particularly proud of the acquaintance of
Major Gorman O’Blunderbuss. At length, what with succulent dinners
at eating-houses and oceans of “potheen” every evening, the sum so
liberally given by Lord William Trevelyan came to a termination; and
the two friends were one day holding a council of war--or rather
sitting in “committee of ways and means”--when a paragraph in the
newspaper informed them that Lady Blunt and her son had been upset in
a boat during an aquatic excursion at Richmond, and drowned “in spite
of all the efforts made by the footman to save them.” Up jumped both
the Major and Frank Curtis in ectasies of joy, dissolving themselves
as a committee then and there by kicking over the table; and away
they sped to the mansion in Jermyn Street. The Intelligence was true:
Lady Blunt and her son were no more;--and the stout footman was
disconsolate. There was no will; and Frank Curtis accordingly found
himself, as if by magic, the heir-at-law to all those possessions
from which his uncle had sought to exclude him years ago. The day on
which the remains of the deceased lady and her son were consigned to
the tomb, was the happiest that Major O’Blunderbuss and his friend
had ever passed in their lives: for the gallant officer resolved to
make a regular Irish wake of it, and the good “potheen” circulated
so rapidly that the assembled mourners alarmed the whole street with
their noise and laughter. And a most refreshing spectacle was it when
Major O’Blunderbuss, with a view to enhance the hilarity of the scene,
kicked the stout footman completely out of the house and tossed his
clothes and wages ignominiously from the window. In the course of a few
days the two friends paid a visit to Mr. Strongitharms, the celebrated
engraver in St. James’s Street, for the purpose of having their cards
printed with their armorial bearings on the top; and when Frank blandly
directed the shopman who took the order to write down in his book the
names of _Mr. Curtis_ and _Major O’Bluntherbuss_, the latter exclaimed
in a tone of mingled indignation and disgust, “Be Jasus! Frank, and
your mimory grows worse and worse ivery day: for, be the holy poker-r!
and isn’t it _Colonel O’Bluntherbuss_ that I am, the new rank being
conferred upon me by her Gracious Majesty for my services in the East
Indies?”--The shopman wrote down _Colonel O’Blunderbuss_ accordingly;
and as a colonel is the gallant gentleman known at the present day.
Reader, if you happen to be passing along Jermyn Street any time in
the evening after five o’clock, you will hear such shouts of laughter
and peals of merriment issuing from one of the houses, that there can
be no mistake as to the identity of that dwelling. We need not tell
you the number of the mansion, because you cannot fail to discover
where Colonel O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Curtis reside by means of the
uproarious sounds that emanate from the front-parlour, in spite of
the closed shutters and heavy draperies. And to tell you the truth,
the neighbours look upon that house as a complete nuisance; and rents
are falling rapidly in the immediate neighbourhood--for quiet old
bachelor-gentlemen, families, and even young blades about town, are
frightened away from the lodgings that are let in the three or four
nearest tenements on either side of the one where the two friends have
settled themselves. But these worthies care nothing for the opinion of
their neighbours and are deaf to all remonstrances: they lead a jolly
life after their own hearts and in their own peculiar fashion--and
to witness them in their happy domesticity, a stranger unacquainted
with their history could not tell that the house and the fortune both
belonged to Frank Curtis, for the Colonel is as much master of both
dwelling and purse as his devoted friend.

Although Rosalie, the French lady’s-maid, has not performed a very
conspicuous part on the stage of our narrative, we are nevertheless
induced to trace her career up to the present time. Compelled to
appear as a witness at the Coroner’s Inquest which was holden upon
her late master and mistress, she attracted the notice of a young
baronet who attended the proceedings through motives of curiosity:
and as the overtures which he subsequently made her, were far from
displeasing, she accepted them after a due amount of affected
hesitation. The baronet was rich, and provided in a sumptuous manner
for his mistress. He hired and furnished a house for her accommodation
in a fashionable street at the West End--bought her a brougham and pair
of handsome bays--took for her use a box at the Opera--and allowed
her fifty guineas a month for her domestic expenses. In return for
this generosity, she treated him with a capriciousness that would
have been intolerable on the part of a sensible man, but which only
confirmed the insensate spendthrift’s infatuation. Rosalie’s conduct
was a matter of calculation, and not the unavoidable result of a wilful
disposition. She knew that she had only to be kind and winning, in
order to coax him into any extravagant expenditure which would minister
to her enjoyments; and her smiles were thus literally purchased with
gold and diamonds. Six months only did the baronet’s fortune stand
this wanton devastation; and when he could no longer draw cheques for
the sums which she required, she at once accepted the “protection”
of an old nobleman who made her very handsome offers, and who was in
his dotage. But now mark the wayward inconsistency of this woman’s
conduct! The moment she ceased to be dependent upon the baronet, she
conceived a violent affection for him--was never happy save when in
his society--bestowed upon him two-thirds of the money which she
received from the ancient peer--and even stinted herself to supply
his extravagances. She never treated him with the slightest indication
of caprice--but served him as if she were a purchased slave, and he a
Pacha. He gave way to intemperance, and in his drunken freaks would
beat and ill-use her. She endured it all without a murmur, so long as
he would _forgive_ her when he was sober! At length the old nobleman
died one day of indigestion--and Rosalie passed into the keeping
of a Bishop. The Right Reverend Father was one of the most staunch
supporters of all measures for the better observance of the Sabbath.
He hated Sunday trading as something a shade or two worse than wilful
murder--and no one declaimed more eloquently than he against the
steam-boats plying on the Lord’s Day. He even wished to prevent the
railway-trains from running on the Sabbath; and his heart rejoiced
when he read in the newspapers that apple-women, orange-girls, and
shrimp-boys had been taken into custody for attempting to earn a penny
to buy a meal on the “day of rest.” But every Sunday evening this
respectable old prelate made it a rule to dine with his mistress--aye,
and remain with her too until past twelve at night; and heaven only
knows what lying excuses he made to his wife for these intervals
of absence. He was, however, far more stingy towards Rosalie than
the deceased nobleman; and she accordingly cut him in favour of his
Archdeacon, who was as unmitigated an old sinner as himself. Meantime
the baronet continued to be the young woman’s real favourite; and when
he happened to find himself locked up in the Queen’s Bench Prison, she
never failed to visit him every day. Her diamonds--her jewels--her
rings--her very watch she pawned to raise the sum necessary to procure
his release; although the more his temper grew soured by adversity,
the more brutal became his conduct towards her. From the keeping of
the Archdeacon, she passed into that of a wealthy tradesman who had a
splendid establishment in Regent Street. He likewise had a wife and six
children; but he neglected them for the sake of his mistress--and while
he grudged the former even common necessaries, he lavished all his
gains upon the latter. At length he learnt that Rosalie was constantly
visited by the baronet; and he broke off the connexion. No admirer
immediately appearing to supply his place, the Frenchwoman wrote a very
pretty letter to the Bishop, complimenting him upon his last speech
against Sunday-trading, and declaring how much pleasure she should
experience if he would honour her with a visit. The invitation was
irresistible--the prelate went--and the result was that Rosalie once
more became his mistress. The renewal of their connexion has not since
been interrupted; and the baronet is still the object of the young
woman’s affection--still the recipient of two-thirds of all the money
she can obtain--and still the only person in the world who would dare
to raise his hand against her.

For nearly a year after his attempted suicide, the Marquis of Delmour
lived happily with his wife, the past being buried in oblivion. Lady
Delmour devoted herself to her husband as far as her own blighted and
crushed affections would permit; and she at least had the supreme
felicity of witnessing the unalloyed happiness which was experienced
by Lord William Trevelyan and the lovely Agnes, who were united about
six months after the reconciliation of the young lady’s parents, the
consent of the Lord Chancellor being obtained to sanction the marriage.
But in the summer of 1847 the Marquis of Delmour was seized with a
sudden and alarming illness; and in spite of the unwearied attentions
of Sir John Lascelles and Lady Delmour, the old nobleman succumbed to
the tyrant sway of Death. Upwards of a year has elapsed since that
event; and we observe by a recent paragraph in the newspapers that the
Marchioness has bestowed her hand upon Sir Gilbert Heathcote.

Lord William Trevelyan and Agnes are as happy as mortals can hope to
be on earth. Their mode of life is somewhat secluded--for it is in
each other’s society that their enjoyment of existence consists. Their
charity is unbounded, but bestowed privately and unostentatiously;
and although you will never hear the name of Lord William Trevelyan
proclaimed from the platform of Exeter Hall, amidst a list of liberal
subscribers to Missionary Societies and other legalised swindles and
robberies of the same class, yet rest assured that many and many a poor
family has reason to bless that good nobleman and his amiable wife.

Timothy Splint, _alias_ Tim the Snammer, continues the occupant
of a fine farm in the backwoods of the United States: indeed, the
property has spread out to an extent which renders the denomination
of “estate” the more correct one. Joshua Pedlar and his wife have
prospered equally well in Canada; and they are now in possession of a
large mercantile establishment at Quebec. Mrs. Bunce is dead: but her
husband still resides at Saint Peter’s Port in Guernsey, and earns
a very comfortable livelihood. Jeffreys leads a steady, industrious
life at Liverpool, where he has became a substantial merchant, and
is deservedly respected. Had all these persons been consigned to the
horrors of transportation to a penal colony, their redemption from sin
would have become an impossibility: but when placed in a condition
to earn an honourable independence, even _murderers_ may be put to a
better use than hanging them like dogs, or sending them into the midst
of a vile community where their example would only produce a deeper
demoralisation.

Poor Mr. Bubbleton Styles, having failed in getting up his Railway
Company, was compelled to pass through the Insolvents’ Court; and
during the eighteen months which have elapsed since that event, he has
turned his attention to at least a dozen different occupations. On his
discharge from the process of white-washing in Portugal Street, he
became a wine-merchant: but finding that this market was completely
glutted, he entered the coal and coke trade--with may be a little
dealing in slates as a necessary adjunct thereto. This speculation not
succeeding “for want of capital,” Mr. Styles turned drysalter--then
town-traveller for an ale-brewer--then commission-agent for a house
in the woollen line--and then something else. But none of these
occupations answering his purpose, and hearing of the good luck which
had befallen his friends O’Blunderbuss and Curtis, he put on his last
clean shirt and paid them a visit. His reception was not at first very
encouraging, inasmuch as the gallant Irishman commenced by knocking
him down and bunging up his right eye, for the simple reason that Mr.
Styles was unaware of that formidable gentleman’s elevation to the rank
of _Colonel_, and had called him _Captain_: but when explanations took
place, complete harmony was restored; and the worthy Bubbleton, having
been made uncommonly drunk by his two friends, received a cheque for a
hundred guineas to enable him to begin the world again. He has made the
recommencement accordingly, and seems in a fair way to get a living by
adhering to one particular occupation instead of having a hundred upon
his hands at the same time.

Clarence Villiers and Adelais continue to reside at Brompton. They
are well off in a pecuniary point of view; and though the ardent love
of their youth has mellowed down into a deep attachment, still are
they as happy in each other’s society as they were in those days when
the marriage-state was as yet new with them. And often and often,
when seated together of an evening, do they speak with never-failing
gratitude and regret of poor Tom Rain!

Our readers will doubtless recollect the manuscript which Lord William
Trevelyan discovered at the lunatic-asylum in Bethnal Green, and
which recorded the experiences of a victim to that detestable system
of quackery which the law allows. We may as well observe that in the
course of a short tour which the young nobleman and his wife took to
the south of France, a few months back, Trevelyan encountered Mr.
Macdonald, the author of that lamentable history. This gentleman had
completely recovered his mental equilibrium, and was living in a
strict but happy seclusion with his Editha and their son. Trevelyan
communicated to him the circumstances under which he had found the
manuscript, and the motives which had induced him to convey it away
from its place of concealment in the mad-house. Macdonald expressed
his fervent gratitude for the young nobleman’s generosity; and the
papers were consigned to the flames. We will not mention the name of
the town where Mr. Macdonald is residing: for, were we guilty of such
imprudence, the extortioner would be assuredly sent after him.

We have now to speak of the inmates of Ellingham House. Reader, the
family circle there is as happy as the mournful reminiscence of Mr.
Hatfield’s sudden death will permit. Charles has become the husband
of the beautiful and accomplished Lady Frances; and the youthful pair
continue to dwell at the Earl’s mansion. Lady Georgiana is likewise
a permanent resident beneath the same roof; and her son amply repays
her by his affectionate devotion for any temporary uneasiness or
grief which he might have caused her at the lamentable period of his
connexion with Perdita. Sir John Lascelles is a frequent visitor at
the mansion in Pall Mall; and we need scarcely add that he is always a
welcome guest.

The Republic of Castelcicala flourishes under the free institutions
which General Markham gave it. It is the Model-State in Europe; and
appears to be the solution of a problem whether it is possible for
honest rulers, a conscientious legislature, and a democratic system to
extirpate poverty from a country, and make an entire people contented,
free, and prosperous. There the Rights of Labour are recognised in
all the plenitude of industry’s claims: there no man who is willing
to work, can possibly starve. Mendicity is unknown throughout the
Republic; and when the Castelcicalans read paragraphs translated from
the English papers into their own prints, and detailing how men, women,
and children _die of starvation_--aye, and very frequently too--in the
British Islands, they say to each other, “It is a hideous mockery to
pretend that true freedom has any existence _there_!”

But, thank God! the tide of liberal sentiments is rolling rapidly over
Europe--sweeping away the remnants of feudal barbarism--levelling all
oppressive institutions--compelling tyrants to bend to the will of
the masses--and giving such an impulse to enlightened notions as the
world never saw before. And may that tide still flow on with unabating
force--not wearing off the asperities of barbaric systems by degrees,
but whirling all abuses away at once and in a moment;--not proceeding
without certainty or uniformity, like a stream that is sometimes free
and sometimes checked--but rushing on in a channel that is broad
and deep;--not here diverted from its course by some obstacle--nor
there dammed up until the weight of its waters break down the
impediment,--but rolling on with a mighty and irresistible volume, and
expanding into a glorious and illimitable flood!


THE END.


[ADVERTISEMENT.]

The Proprietor of the “MYSTERIES OF LONDON,” having, at present,
an opportunity of carrying out his original design--viz. that of
presenting the public with faithful and unexaggerated sketches of
every class of society forming the “world of London,” has determined
upon submitting to his readers a NEW SERIES of the “MYSTERIES OF
LONDON,” and which will be from the pen of a writer of the most eminent
reputation,


THOMAS MILLER, ESQ.,

AUTHOR OF “ROYSTON GOWER;” “FAIR ROSAMOND;” “LADY JANE GREY;” “GODFREY
MALVERN;” “PICTURES OF COUNTRY LIFE;” “RURAL SKETCHES;” “BEAUTIES OF
THE COUNTRY;” “A DAY IN THE WOODS;” “THE POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS;”
“THE BOY’S YEAR BOOK;” POEMS, ETC. ETC.

This NEW SERIES will be entitled “MYSTERIES OF LONDON; OR, LIGHTS AND
SHADOWS OF LONDON LIFE.”

THE FIRST NUMBER WILL APPEAR ON WEDNESDAY, 20th SEPTEMBER.


London: WALTER SULLY, Printer, “Bonner House,” Seacoal Lane.




FOOTNOTES:


[1] See the First Series of “THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.”

[2] See Chapter LIX.

[3] See Chapter LXIV.

[4] See last paragraph of Chapter LXV.

[5] See Chapter LXXIX.

[6] This was when Rainford quitted the packet-ship at Guernsey, and
commenced his career as the Blackamoor.

[7] See first paragraph, second column, page 28, of this Volume of the
Second Series.

[8] “An obscure threepenny print, called the _Daily News_, published in
its impression of November 2nd, an article purporting to be a notice
of the leading works belonging to the sphere of Cheap Literature, but
in which a vile, cowardly, and ruffian-like attack was made upon Mrs.
Reynolds’s novel of ‘GRETNA GREEN.’ The article alluded to appeared in
the evening of the same date in the _Express_, a paper made up from the
contents of the other, but of whose existence we were totally unaware
until the occurrence of the matter in question. The attack, though
evidently written by some silly boy, was so savage and malignant, and
was made up of such a pack of atrocious lies, that it became necessary
to take some kind of notice of it, although neither the _Daily News_
nor its evening reflex enjoy a circulation or an influence sufficient
to effect the amount of mischief which the dastardly scribe sought to
accomplish. Our solicitors were accordingly instructed to write to the
Editors of the _News_ and _Express_, requiring a complete contradiction
to the libel, or menacing an action as the alternative. The letter
which our legal advisers despatched was a gentlemanly and talented
remonstrance, which soon brought the stupid Editors of the _Daily News_
and the _Express_ to reason. Bradbury and Evans, the proprietors of
those threepenny prints, shook in their shoes at the idea of an action,
they already having enough law business on their hands in consequence
of their treatment of Messrs. Powell and Wareing:--and, accordingly,
the _News_ and _Express_ ate their own words, on Tuesday, Nov. 9th, in
the following terms:--

“‘We have received a letter, protesting against Mrs. S. F. Reynolds’
work of “GRETNA GREEN” being included in that list of popular works
described as marked by “looseness, warmth of colouring in criminal
scenes, and the false glow cast around guilty indulgencies.” We must
admit that “GRETNA GREEN” does not merit this; and that, whatever its
faults it certainly contains nothing derogatory to the character or
delicacy of a lady writer.’

“Now let our readers mark well the atrocity of the proceeding on the
part of the _News_ and the _Express_. They first denounce ‘GRETNA
GREEN’ in the strongest terms: they are afterwards compelled, _by
the fear of law proceedings_, to ’admit that “GRETNA GREEN” does not
merit this, and that it contains nothing derogatory to the character
or delicacy of a lady writer.’ Then how dared the wretched scribe
to act such a miscreant’s part as to accuse a lady of writing with
’looseness,’ when he must have known the charge to be unfounded? He
told a downright, deliberate, wilful lie: he has proclaimed himself,
and likewise admitted himself to be, an abominable liar! And as such we
denounce him.

“But of what value can criticisms of the _News_ and _Express_ be, when
a contemptible scribe is thus allowed to make the columns of these
prints the vehicle for his own beastly malignity? What authority can
belong to a reviewer who is obliged to say on the 9th of November,
‘I was guilty of a foul, cowardly, and unjustifiable calumny against
a lady’s character on the 2nd of November.’ And these two papers
belong to men who are so very particular that they turned off their
sub--editors. Messrs. Powell and Wareing, because, forsooth, these
gentlemen gave insertion to a particular bankruptcy case which the
bankrupt himself had written to implore Bradbury and Evans _not_ to
publish!

“We hope the contemptible slanderer who ‘does the criticisms’ for the
_News_ and _Express_ will treat his readers (two grown-up persons and
a small boy for the _News_, and the small boy without the grown-up
persons for the _Express_) with an account of the origin, progress,
and present condition of those threepenny things. If so, he must
state how the _News_ first came out at five-pence with the intention
of smashing every thing,--how Charles Dickens was the man entrusted
with the obstetric process of introducing this phenomenon to the
world,--how froth was never so frothy, and vapouring never so vapoury,
as when the bills, placards, and advertisements appeared,--and how
the mountain at last brought forth a mouse! In fact, no failure was
ever more miserable--more ludicrous--more contemptible than that of
the _Daily News_. When a friend once spoke of his uppermost garment to
Brummell, the ‘exquisite,’ laying his finger upon the collar thereof,
said, ‘Do you call this thing a coat?’--and when the _News_ first
came out, people held it up between the tips of their forefinger and
thumb, and asked each other innocently, ‘Do you call this thing a
newspaper?’ Well, after continuing remarkably sickly for some time,
and seeing the utter folly of hoping to compete with the established
daily newspapers, Bradbury and Evans--dear, kind, worthy souls!--said
one morning to each other, ‘This will never do: the public will not be
gulled--we must really sell our wares at what they are worth;’--and so
down went the price of the _News_ to twopence-halfpenny! ‘Hurrah for
the _cheap_ newspaper press!’ vociferated they who now affect to look
down with contempt on cheap literature altogether: and forthwith they
fetch Mr. Dilk all the way from the _Athenæum_ office in Wellington
Street to manage their paper for them. And such management as it has
been! Mr. Dilk knows about as much of newspapers in general as he does
of courtesy in the _Athenæum_ in particular;--and Bradbury and Evans
very soon found that a twopenny-halfpenny daily thing was ‘no go.’ The
price is accordingly raised to threepence; and, just to eke out by hook
and by crook, the _Express_ is issued as an evening paper, its contents
being precisely those of the _News_, with perhaps half-a-dozen lines of
new matter just to make a show under the head of ‘Latest Intelligence.’
Thus has the _Daily News_ been tinkered about in all shapes and
ways, with the hope of establishing it on some kind of basis or
another;--and, after such a career, it fancies itself to be respectable
and influential enough to undertake the duties of Mentor! But it has
entrusted the office to a disgusting twaddler who scruples not to
season his mawkish composition with diabolical lies, as a make-shift
for ‘Attic salt.’ However, enough of this for the present:--we have
compelled the _News_ and the _Express_ to acknowledge themselves to be
slanderers;--but we are afraid that after all they have got the better
of us, inasmuch as they probably provoked us only for the purpose
of obtaining _a gratuitous advertisement_ through the medium of any
reply which might be made to them in THE MISCELLANY.”--_Reynolds’s
Miscellany, No. 56._

[9] The readers of the First Series of “THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON” will
recollect the character of Lady Adeline Enfield in the “History of an
Unfortunate Woman.” Lady Caroline Jerningham is drawn expressly in
contrast with that heroine,--one of the objects of “THE MYSTERIES OF
LONDON” being to depict the good and the bad--the generous and the
selfish--of all classes of society.

[10] Fact.

[11] Fact. This incident shows how the Ministers of the Established
Church will at times unscrupulously set the laws of the land at
defiance.

[12] Equivalent to “Miss” in English.

[13] The Industrious classes in Great Britain should take into their
serious consideration the ensuing plan, which the operatives in France
have submitted to the Provisional Government. The basis of a similar
scheme might be established in London; and there are doubtless many
persons, possessing the intelligence required for the initiative
of the grand work, who would devote a few hours per week, without
fee or reward, to the foundation of so glorious an institution. The
plan alluded to is conceived as follows; but we have substituted the
equivalent sums of English money for the French coins specified in the
original document;--

“Petition for a bill to establish a National Pension Fund for every
workman that has attained the age of fifty-five years.

“Every citizen of the two sexes from seventeen to fifty-five years of
age shall be bound to pay each day one farthing, or 7½_d._ per month,
or 7_s._ 6_d._ per annum; every town or village shall be bound to pay
for the totality of its inhabitants.

“Every workman employing workmen or servants is bound to keep back this
amount from their wages, and is to be considered responsible therefore.

“Every father of a family who is unfortunate, and has several mouths to
support, shall be _de jure_ exempted from paying his annual quota until
such time as his family shall be able to work.

“Are excluded from the advantages of the pension-fund all persons
having a revenue above 32_l._ a year; the most severe laws to be made
against such persons as should rob the money of the poor.

“A scale of pension is to be fixed, giving 20_l._ a year at 55 years,
28_l._ at 65 years, and 44_l._ at 75 years.

“The pension-fund is to be for all citizens: thus bankers, notaries,
advocates, in a word, all persons who may have been favoured by fortune
all their life-time, will have as much right to it, if they become
unfortunate, as the workman who all his life-time has known only labour
and privation.

“What workman is there who cannot save 1¾d. per week? Who is there
that would not blush to receive alms when age shall have weakened his
strength and courage?

“The pension which he will receive will be the economy of his whole
life; and if he throws a glance backwards, it will be to bless the
progress of civilisation.

“The day on which this law will pass, the payment of the pension
may commence; since from the age of 17 to 55 all citizens will
contribute to the common stock; and since the funds, in place of being
capitalised, will be distributed every year. During 15 years the State
will have little to add in order to complete the pensions, but after
that period it will every year have some sacrifice to make. Let, during
the fifteen years, the money hitherto spent on royalty be capitalised.
Let the resources of the Civil List be added to them, and the sum will
be more than sufficient. If fears are entertained not to obtain a sum
sufficient to pay all the pensions, let the diamonds of the crown be
sold. The most glorious crown of a government aught to be the happiness
of the people.”

[14] Witness the noble conduct of the Parisian operatives, as described
in the following extract from the _Constitutional_ newspaper:--

“We have already stated that by the care of the Minister of the
Interior prompt measures had been taken to ensure the preservation
of the furniture and other articles of value at the Tuileries. The
following are some further details:--The citizen Chalon d’Argé, one
of the special commissaries appointed by the minister, after having
concerted with Captain St. Amand, commandant of the Tuileries,
proceeded to an inventory of the jewels, objects of art, &c., found
there. These gentlemen soon ascertained that the people had respected
the various articles scattered about. The apartment of the Duke de
Nemours had alone been thrown into disorder, but nothing was taken
away. The apartments of the other members of the royal family remained
intact. Not a picture was touched in the saloons of the late Duke of
Orleans, containing, as they did, a celebrated collection. The most
valuable pictures were taken to the Louvre, under the direction of M.
Mérinée. A great quantity of coined money was found in the different
apartments; a man of the people conceived the idea of throwing all this
money into a baignoire, over which he placed a coverlet, so as to give
it the appearance of a couch. He then placed himself on it, and waited
in that position until some persons came up who could save the treasure
which he had collected. To give an idea of the wealth thus preserved,
we may state that on Saturday alone four fourgons, and on Sunday two
others, transported to the Treasury masses of silver plate, as well
as coffers containing the diamonds of the ex-princesses. In these
fourgons there was property to the amount of several millions. The same
people which had contributed to save these valuable articles helped
to pack them up, and escorted them to the national Treasury. It was a
touching sight to behold these hard hands taking up with the greatest
precautions diamonds, necklaces, jewels of all kinds. It is useless to
say that not an article in the inventory was missing. When M. Bastide
and M. Bixio, who had been entrusted by the Provisional Government to
take charge of the jewels and other valuable property left behind in
the Tuileries, and which had been collected and packed up by men of the
people, and an inventory taken of them under the superintendence of a
student of the Polytechnic School, and a National Guard, the Government
commissioners found the chests, trunks, and other packages in which
they had been placed, under the charge of some of the people who had
been employed in collecting them. When the whole were removed, one of
the men went up to M. Bastide, and said, ‘_Sir, we have been forgotten
since yesterday. It is now twelve o’clock, and we have not yet
anything to eat. Can you order me some bread?_ All present were deeply
affected by this proof of disinterested fidelity to men, resisting the
temptation of property at their command greater in value than any they
had ever before seen, and demanding a piece of bread as their only
reward. M. Bastide repeatedly urged the man who spoke to him to give
his name, but he constantly refused, saying--‘_We want nothing more.
We can earn our food by our labour. To-morrow we shall return to work,
and to-day ask only for the bread we have been unable to obtain._’ They
were then fed, and took their departure with the same resolution.”

[15] At the “monster meeting” in Trafalgar-square, on Monday, March
6th, we were called upon to preside in the absence of Mr. Cochrane.
The _London Telegraph_ contained the ensuing sketch or outline of the
speech which we delivered on that occasion, and which we now transfer
to the pages of “THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON” simply for the purpose of
convincing our readers that we are not afraid to proclaim in all
possible ways the opinions which we have for years promulgated through
the medium of our writings:--

“Mr. Reynolds rose, and, suggesting that the parties present should
form a meeting to congratulate the Parisians on their recent triumph,
addressed the meeting. He had been voted to preside at this assembly,
in the absence of Mr. Cochrane. Where that gentleman was, he could not
say. His conduct was, at least, extraordinary, in convening a meeting
which he neglected to attend. He (Mr. Reynolds) must beg of the meeting
to be orderly; it was moral force which would gain their ends for them.
Let them, therefore, show that, though met to demand their rights, they
knew how to conduct themselves. The French revolution was a glorious
triumph of public feeling. The French had recognised the rights of the
working-classes. What the people of this country wanted was, that every
man who was willing to work and fit for work should have work to do.
(Loud cheers.) The working-classes only wanted fair wages. They were
willing to give the fair value of labour for them. (Hear.) The right
of labour had been recognised in France; and the rights of labour must
be recognised in England. Let them not take the leading articles of
aristocratic newspapers as the public voice; but let them listen to
the shout which they would now hear from thousands of people met to
express their adhesion to the principles of liberty. (Loud cheers).
This meeting had been called to oppose the income-tax. Let them show
by their cheers that they were opposed to all oppressive taxation.
But let them be peaceable. Let there be no disturbance. Let them
show the police and the Government-spies in plain clothes, that the
working-classes of England could conduct themselves in a quiet orderly
manner when met to discuss their wrongs. Mr. Reynolds sat down amidst
the most vociferous cheering.”

In the evening of the same day we attended another “monster meeting”
held on Clerkenwell Green, on which occasion the following outline of
the speech which we delivered was given by the _London Telegraph_ and
other newspapers:--

“Mr. Reynolds, the well-known author, next spoke at some length.
He drew attention to the meeting which had taken place that day in
Trafalgar-square, and commented on the aggressive conduct of the
police. The time, he also contended, was come, when they ought no
longer to mince matters. (Cheers.) The people of France had really done
their duty, and it now remained with the people of this country to do
the same. They were bound to demand their rights by every moral means;
and if they were forced to have recourse to bloodshed, their oppressors
would have to account for the result, not themselves. (Cheers.) He
rejoiced at the exhibition of feeling that had taken place in France.
(Cheers.) The people had raised a man to power, who had turned round
and sought, by a large array of armed forces, to crush them. (Groans.)
They, however, he rejoiced to find, gave him his deserts, and hurled
him from his throne. (Cheers.) He was now in this country--an exiled
villain. (Cheers.) Far, indeed, was it from him (the speaker) to
wish that the tyrant should be molested or disturbed while suffering
in a foreign land the pangs of remorse. No; he wished him to remain
harmless and in insignificance. (Hear, hear.) But he did not see why
the gallant and noble people of France were to be insulted by the
feelings of sympathy which Her Majesty and some other personages were
exhibiting towards the exiled tyrant (Hear.) He complained of this,
and particularly that the people of England should be identified with
the anti-liberal opinions of those persons. (Hear, hear.) What, if
the gallant people of France were to be so exasperated as to declare
war against this country, would the hard-working people of England,
Scotland, and Ireland consent to be war-taxed became of the caprice
of a number of individuals--(no, no)--who, while wallowing in luxury,
had no sympathy whatever with the masses of their fellow-creatures
suffering from sickness and starvation? Mr. Reynolds, at some length,
very ably and forcibly dwelt on the evils of class-legislation, and
showed, from his writings, that he had ever been the friend of the
working-men. He concluded, amidst much cheering, by proposing the first
resolution.”

[16] Letting the thieves know that he was aware of the fact of the
robbery, and demanding a portion for himself. This is a common practice
amongst thieves; and the claim of the person thus “declaring on” is
seldom disputed, even though he had nothing to do with the robbery.

[17] Share of the plunder.

[18] This mighty warrior _ran away_ from London when danger was
apprehended in consequence of the glorious democratic meeting of
250,000 enlightened working men, at Kennington Common, on the 10th of
April, 1848.

[19] The memorable day of the 10th of April, 1848.

[20] With deep sorrow and indignation we have frequently noticed
blackguard boys and dirty vagabonds insult private soldiers in the
streets. Nothing can be more reprehensible than such conduct as this;
but we are sure that the British soldier is too enlightened and too
generous-hearted to suppose that any respectable working-man would
treat him with indignity. There is and ought to be a deep sympathy
between the military and the operative-classes,--both alike being
diabolically oppressed by the aristocratic and wealthy classes, and
both having rights to claim, privileges to acquire, abuses to rectify,
and tyranny to subdue. In the name of common sense and common justice,
let no insult ever be offered to the private soldier who conducts
himself properly.

[21] It may seem astonishing how any respectable journals could be
induced to lend themselves to such disgraceful puffery: but we will
give our readers some little explanation upon the subject. The fact
is that the quacks pay in the first instance for the insertion of the
puffs as “paragraph-advertisements,” and then quote them as being the
editorial opinions of the newspapers in which they are thus inserted!
We quote from some of the quack-advertisements a few specimens of these
“_ad captandum_” notices:--

    “The task of preparing and producing the work entitled * * *
    *, by Messrs. * * *, though apparently not one of magnitude,
    demands a most intimate acquaintance with the mysteries of a
    profession of the highest character. To say that the author
    has produced a volume which cannot be otherwise considered
    than as a treasure, and a blessing to the community, is not
    saying too much; and being written by a duly qualified medical
    practitioner, its pages give evidence of the results of much
    personal investigation, and great researches in the study of
    medicine. In a word, the work has merits which develope no
    superficial attainments, and we cordially and most earnestly
    recommend it for general perusal.--_Weekly Chronicle._”

    “To the gay and thoughtless we trust this little work will
    serve as a beacon to warn them of the danger attendant upon
    the too rash indulgence of their passions; whilst to some it
    may serve as a monitor in the hour of temptation, and to the
    afflicted as a sure guide to health.--_Chronicle._”

    “Their long experience and reputation is the patient’s
    guarantee, and well deserves for the work its immense
    circulation.--_Era._”

    “This is a medical publication, ably written, and developes the
    treatment of a class of painful maladies which has too long
    been the prey of the illiterate and the designing.--_United
    Service Gazette._”

    “The author of this singular and talented work is a legally
    qualified medical man, who has had considerable experience
    in the treatment of the various disorders arising from the
    follies of early indiscretion. The engravings demonstrate the
    consequences of excesses, and, by its perusal, many questions
    may be satisfactorily replied to that admit of no appeal, even
    to the most confidential friend.--_Era._”

To explain more fully still the proceedings of the quacks and the
artfulness of quackery, we refer our readers to the _Weekly Dispatch_
of Sunday, July 2; and at the bottom of a column (not in the regular
advertising department) will be found the ensuing advertisement:--

    “[ADVERTISEMENT.]--Holloway’s Pills an excellent Remedy for
    Indigestion, Bilious and Liver Complaints.--All painful and
    distressing sensations arising from these complaints (which are
    too well known to sufferers to require a description here of
    their symptoms) may be easily removed by a few doses of this
    inestimable medicine; for such is its efficacy, that the most
    debilitated constitutions are effectually strengthened, and
    the aversion to motion overcome, thus giving buoyancy to the
    spirits, creating an appetite, and promoting digestion. At this
    season, when epidemics are so prevalent, these pills should be
    taken, as they surpass every other remedy as a preventative
    of disorders, even of the most malignant kind. Sold by all
    Druggists, and at Professor Holloway’s Establishment, 244,
    Strand, London.”

This advertisement was of course duly paid for: but Mr. Holloway may
now, if he choose to do so, quote the _Dispatch_ as having recommended
the efficacy of his medicines to “strengthen the most debilitated
constitutions;” and the public, trusting to such a powerful and honest
authority as the _Dispatch_, will be induced to purchase the pills. Our
readers can now comprehend how the medical quacks obtain reviews of
their obscene books.

[22] Luck.

[23] Piece of luck.

[24] Money.

[25] In a publication entitled _The Medical Adviser_, and issued some
years ago, we find the following observations relative to quacks and
quackery:--“The legislators in almost every civilized society have
considered them as pests and a disgrace to every country where they
are to be found, and penal laws have therefore been enacted for the
suppression of quackery. The Colleges of Physicians were instituted in
different kingdoms of Europe, to examine all persons who undertook the
practice of the art, to inspect all drugs in the apothecaries’ shops,
and destroy such as were unfit; and there can be no doubt but their
power extended to the examinations of nostrums in general, and on their
report, the vendors were subject to severe penalties. In the reign of
James I., an order of council, grounded on former laws, was issued
for the apprehension of all quacks, in order to their being examined
by the censors of the College of Physicians; on that occasion several
mountebanks, water-tasters, ague-charmers, and vendors of nostrums
were fined, imprisoned, and banished. This wholesome severity, it may
be supposed, checked the evil for a time; but in the reign of William
III. it became again necessary to put the laws in force against these
base vermin and miscreants, in consequence of which many of them,
when examined, confessed their utter ignorance to such a degree, as
to be unable either to read or write; others, it was found, had been
attempting to procure abortion in unfortunate single women; several of
them were discovered to be fortune-tellers, match-makers, frauders,
pimps, and bawds; some of these miscreants were set in the pillory,
some put on horseback with their faces to the horse’s tail, with
their noses and lips slit, and their necks decorated with a collar of
urinals, and afterwards whipped, imprisoned, branded, and banished.”

The victims of quacks might even now show the scoundrels, if they
chose, that there are laws in existence fully strong enough to punish
them; and we should advise those who have been plundered to state their
cases to their solicitors. It is intolerable that the public should be
prayed upon by a set of villains who live in splendid mansions, ride in
their carriages, and maintain luxurious tables at the expense of the
unfortunate dupes whom their advertisements entrap.

Several years ago, Mr. Charles Dunne, a surgeon, presented to
Parliament a petition against Quackery; and in that well reasoned
document we find the ensuing paragraph, which, we feel convinced, our
readers will peruse with interest:--

“That the mal-practices of quack doctors are wisely guarded against
in every country of Europe, except Britain; for no person (under
pain of fine and imprisonment), is allowed to take the charge of the
sick, or even to direct the application of medicines, without having
gone through the proper ordeals of examination as to his professional
knowledge and acquirements. In England it is notorious that we have not
only carpenters, tailors, bricklayers’ labourers, lead-pencil-makers,
Jews old clothes men, journeymen, linen-drapers, and men of colour,
but even women quacks, who practise their duplicities on the unwary
and unthinking part of the public, by plundering all those who have
the folly to approach them, whilst many are absolutely deprived of
life by them, and others, who have the misfortune to escape death,
are left to drag on a miserable existence with an entirely broken
constitution for the remainder of their days. The baneful effects, too,
of patent medicines, as they are called, deserve particular notice,
the composition of which is formed in such a manner as to render their
administration at all times dangerous, and but too often fraught with
death; whereas, on the Continent, no medicines (similar to those with
us called patent) are permitted to be sold, without first having been
analyzed by the constituted chemical authorities, and duly examined by
the respective faculties of medicine. It is clear from what occurs in
law, divinity, and physic, that a foundation or competent education
by a course of study, is essentially necessary to exercise any of
these different departments, and whoever exercises them without this
education cannot possibly do it with advantage to the community. For
an unscientific knowledge of the treatment of any disease, even if
occasionally successful in its object, can never be trusted to; for if
any unforeseen circumstance should arise, such practitioner can neither
avert the mischief, nor find means to relieve the patient, as a man of
real science would do;--mere experience alone, devoid of science, can
have no other claim on public notice than as empiricism, and, like a
seaman, incapable of taking an observation when anything inauspicious
occurs at sea, is unable to direct his course. Empiricism in all
professions being the opposite to science, and directed by no regular
principle but the knowledge of one or two isolated facts, is evidently
hostile to the advancement of liberal principles, and too often ruinous
to those confiding in such hollow pretensions. Empiricism, therefore,
in religion, law, politics, and physic, is the hydra to be guarded
against, as the bane of real knowledge and improvement; and wherever
encouraged, such empiricism is always subversive of the best interests
of mankind. The great object of legislation should be to impose a
wholesome restraint on any attempt calculated to overstep the just and
fair bounds, which the welfare of the people requires.”

[26] Flash, or fictitious, notes.

[27] Pass off, or change.

[28] Dark lanthorn.

[29] A crow-bar used by burglars.

[30] Burglary.

[31] Eliza Sydney. See First Series of “THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.”

[32] This was the case with the celebrated Watt, the improver of
the steam-engine. He was driven from the city of London, at the
commencement of his career, through his inability to pay the fine,
then amounting to 40_l._ This fact remains on record to the immortal
disgrace of the Corporation.


[Transcriber’s Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]