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                                  THE
                          MYSTERIES OF LONDON.


                                   BY

                         GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS,

        AUTHOR OF "FAUST," "PICKWICK ABROAD," "ROBERT MACAIRE,"
                   "WAGNER: THE WEHR-WOLF," &C., &C.

                      WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS

                               VOL. III.

                         VOL. I. SECOND SERIES.

                                LONDON:

                G. VICKERS, 3, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.

                              MDCCCXLVII.




                                LONDON:
  PRINTED BY J. FAUTLEY, "BONNER HOUSE" PRINTING OFFICE, SEACOAL LANE.




                        THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.




                          CONTENTS OF VOL. I.


 CHAPTER I.—The Travelling Carriage                                   1
         II.—Tom Rain and Old Death                                   4
         III.—Bow Street                                              6
         IV.—Esther de Medina                                         9
         V.—The Appeal of Love                                       13
         VI.—Dr. Lascelles                                           15
         VII.—The Beautiful Patient                                  18
         VIII.—Seven Dials                                           20
         IX.—A Death-Scene.—Lock's Fields                            23
         X.—A Scene at the House of Sir Christopher Blunt            28
         XI.—The Two Thousand Pounds.—Torrens Cottage                30
         XII.—Adelais and Rosamond                                   33
         XIII.—The Elopement                                         36
         XIV.—Lady Hatfield and Dr. Lascelles.—Esther de Medina      39
         XV.—The Opiate                                              42
         XVI.—The Lover and the Uncle                                43
         XVII.—The Mysterious Letter.—Jacob                          44
         XVIII.—The Lovers                                           48
         XIX.—Mr. Frank Curtis's Pleasant Adventure                  51
         XX.—Happiness.—The Diamond Merchant                         55
         XXI.—The Oath                                               59
         XXII.—The Alarm.—The Letter                                 61
         XXIII.—Old Death                                            64
         XXIV.—Castle Street, Long Acre                              67
         XXV.—Matilda, the Country-Girl                              70
         XXVI.—The Lady's-Maid                                       73
         XXVII.—London on a Rainy Evening.—A Scene in a Post-Chaise  75
         XXVIII.—Tom Rain's Lodgings in Lock's Fields                77
         XXIX.—The Mysteries of Old Death's Establishment            82
         XXX.—The Store-Rooms                                        86
         XXXI.—Another Deed of Infamy brought to Light               88
         XXXII.—Rainford in the Subterranean                         92
         XXXIII.—Mrs. Martha Slingsby                                94
         XXXIV.—The Pious Lady                                       96
         XXXV.—Mr. Sheepshanks                                      100
         XXXVI.—The Baronet and his Mistress                        102
         XXXVII.—Tom Rain and Jacob                                 104
         XXXVIII.—The History of Jacob Smith                        107
         XXXIX.—Continuation of the History of Jacob Smith          116
         XL.—Conclusion of the History of Jacob Smith               120
         XLI.—Fresh Alarms                                          126
         XLII.—The Paragraph in the Newspaper                       128
         XLIII.—Lord Ellingham and Tom Rainford                     131
         XLIV.—Mr. Frank Curtis again                               134
         XLV.—Mr. Dykes and his Myrmidons                           139
         XLVI.—Explanations                                         141
         XLVII.—Farther Explanations                                144
         XLVIII.—Lord Ellingham and Tom Rain                        147
         XLIX.—A Painful Interview                                  151
         L.—The Lawyer's Office                                     155
         LI.—Lord Ellingham in the Dungeon                          157
         LII.—Lord Ellingham's Exertions                            162
         LIII.—The Execution                                        164
         LIV.—Galvanism                                             166
         LV.—The Laboratory.—Esther de Medina                       167
         LVI.—A History of the Past                                 172
         LVII.—A Father                                             185
         LVIII.—The Resuscitated                                    188
         LIX.—The Jew's Family                                      194
         LX.—Sir Christopher Blunt's Domestic Hearth                196
         LXI.—Captain O'Blunderbuss                                 198
         LXII.—Frank's Embarrassments                               202
         LXIII.—The Meeting in Battersea Fields                     204
         LXIV.—Old Death and his Friend Tidmarsh                    206
         LXV.—The Examination                                       208
         LXVI.—Mrs. Slingsby and the Baronet again                  215
         LXVII.—The Marriage.—Rosamond                              219
         LXVIII.—Dr. Wagtail.—Rosamond Torrens                      222
         LXIX.—Misery and Vice                                      229
         LXX.—Tim the Snammer                                       232
         LXXI.—The History of Tim the Snammer                       234
         LXXII.—Mr. and Mrs. Curtis                                 255
         LXXIII.—Captain O'Blunderbuss again                        260
         LXXIV.—Three Months after Marriage                         264
         LXXV.—The Knight and the Captain                           268
         LXXVI.—Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler out on Business     271
         LXXVII.—The Father and Daughter                            273
         LXXVIII.—Retribution                                       276
         LXXIX.—The Earl of Ellingham and Lady Hatfield again       279
         LXXX.—Mrs. Slingsby and Mrs. Torrens                       283
         LXXXI.—Rosamond at Home                                    288
         LXXXII.—The Forged Cheque                                  292
         LXXXIII.—The Reward of Crime                               295
         LXXXIV.—Old Death's Party                                  299
         LXXXV.—The History of a Livery Servant                     303
         LXXXVI.—Conclusion of the History of a Livery-servant      312
         LXXXVII.—The Blackamoor                                    322
         LXXXVIII.—Scenes at the Blackamoor's House                 326
         LXXXIX.—The Surprise.—Jeffreys and Old Death               331
         XC.—The New Justice of the Peace                           334
         XCI.—Captain O'Blunderbuss again.—Another Strange Visitor  337
         XCII.—The Confession                                       342
         XCIII.—Newgate                                             344
         XCIV.—"The Stout House."                                   349
         XCV.—Clarence Villiers and his Aunt                        354
         XCVI.—Sir Christopher Blunt a Hero                         357
         XCVII.—Carlton House                                       360
         XCVIII.—An Acquittal and a Sentence                        363
         XCVIX.—The Condition of the Working Classes                368
         C.—The Earl of Ellingham and Esther de Medina              371
         CI.—The Blackamoor's Strange Adventure                     375
         CII.—A State of Siege                                      380
         CIII.—The Surprise.—A Change of Scene                      384
         CIV.—The Visit.—The Habeas Corpus                          389
         CV.—The King's Bench Prison                                391
         CVI.—A Farther Insight into the King's Bench               396
         CVII.—A Tale of Sorrow                                     400
         CVIII.—Conclusion of the Tale of Sorrow                    408
         CIX.—The Prisoners                                         413




                        ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. I.
                             SECOND SERIES.


                  For Woodcut on page   1 see page   5
                  For Woodcut on page   9 see page  15
                  For Woodcut on page  17 see page  22
                  For Woodcut on page  25 see page  31
                  For Woodcut on page  33 see page  37
                  OLD DEATH                   page  41
                  For Woodcut on page  49 see page  53
                  For Woodcut on page  57 see page  60
                  For Woodcut on page  65 see page  68
                  For Woodcut on page  73 see page  80
                  For Woodcut on page  81 see page  86
                  For Woodcut on page  89 see page  95
                  For Woodcut on page  97 see page 101
                  For Woodcut on page 105 see page 111
                  JACOB SMITH IN THE
         				  POWER OF SATAN      page 113
                  For Woodcut on page 121 see page 127
                  For Woodcut on page 129 see page 131
                  For Woodcut on page 137 see page 141
                  For Woodcut on page 145 see page 150
                  For Woodcut on page 153 see page 159
                  DR. LASCELLES               page 161
                  For Woodcut on page 169 see page 176
                  For Woodcut on page 177 see page 176
                  For Woodcut on page 185 see page 189
                  For Woodcut on page 193 see page 198
                  For Woodcut on page 201 see page 205
                  For Woodcut on page 209 see page 210
                  For Woodcut on page 217 see page 224
                  For Woodcut on page 225 see page 229
                  TIM THE SNAMMER             page 233
                  For Woodcut on page 241 see page 245
                  For Woodcut on page 242 see page 255
                  For Woodcut on page 257 see page 263
                  For Woodcut on page 265 see page 272
                  For Woodcut on page 273 see page 274
                  For Woodcut on page 281 see page 286
                  For Woodcut on page 289 see page 292
                  For Woodcut on page 297 see page 300
                  For Woodcut on page 305 see page 309
                  For Woodcut on page 313 see page 317
                  For Woodcut on page 321 see page 323
                  For Woodcut on page 329 see page 335
                  For Woodcut on page 337 see page 342
                  For Woodcut on page 345 see page 348
                  For Woodcut on page 353 see page 358
                  For Woodcut on page 361 see page 362
                  For Woodcut on page 369 see page 372
                  For Woodcut on page 377 see page 384
                  For Woodcut on page 385 see page 390
                  For Woodcut on page 393 see page 396
                  For Woodcut on page 401 see page 406
                  For Woodcut on page 409 see page 410




                        THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.


[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER I.
                        THE TRAVELLING-CARRIAGE.


It was about nine o'clock in the evening of the 2nd of November, 1826,
that a travelling-carriage stopped, on its way to London, to change
horses at the principal hotel in the little town of Staines.

The inmates of the vehicle were two ladies:—an elderly domestic in
livery and a female attendant occupied the box.

The night was clear, fine, and frosty: the moon shone brightly; and the
carriage lamps threw a strong glare to a considerable distance in front
of the vehicle.

The active ostlers speedily unharnessed the four wearied steeds, and
substituted as many fresh ones in their place: the two postboys leapt
into their saddles; the landlord cried "All right!"—and the carriage
rolled rapidly away from the inn, the horses' shoes striking fire
against the stones.

"If there be any thing particularly calculated to raise the spirits,"
said one lady to the other, a few minutes after the chariot had left the
peaceful town behind, "it is travelling upon such a beauteous night as
this."

"I am delighted to observe that you _are_ in good spirits this evening,
my dear Lady Hatfield," was the reply. "After passing four long months
at Sir Ralph Walsingham's country seat, London will present fresh
attractions for your ladyship."

"My dear Miss Mordaunt," returned Lady Hatfield, in a serious tone, "you
are aware that I am indifferent to those formal parties and ceremonial
assemblies which are reckoned amongst the pleasures of the fashionable
world; and I can assure you that had not my uncle purported to return to
London in a few days, my own inclinations would have urged me to prolong
my stay at Walsingham Manor."

"For my part," said Miss Mordaunt, "I am quite delighted with the idea
of hastening back to the great metropolis. A summer in the country is
only tolerable because each day brings one nearer to the enjoyments of a
winter in town. But really, my dear Lady Hatfield, you are not
reasonable. Rich, young, and beautiful as you are—your own mistress—and
with the handsomest man in England dying to lay his coronet at your
feet——"

"I shall never marry, Julia," hastily interrupted Lady Hatfield. "Pray
let us change the conversation. A few minutes ago I was in excellent
spirits; and now——"

She paused—and a deep sigh escaped her bosom.

"Did I not say that you were quite unreasonable?" exclaimed her
companion. "Here am I—five years older than yourself,—for I do not mind
telling you, my dear friend, that I shall never see thirty again;—and
yet I have not renounced the idea of changing my condition. I know that
I am neither so good-looking nor so wealthy as you;—still I have my
little ambition. Sir Christopher Blunt would deem himself honoured were
I to smile graciously upon him; but my brother, the lieutenant—who, by
the by, expects his captaincy in a few days, thanks to the interest of
your kind uncle Sir Ralph—declares that if ever I marry a mere knight,
he will never speak to me again."

Lady Hatfield had fallen into a profound reverie, and paid not the
slightest regard to the confidential outpourings of her garrulous
companion.

Miss Mordaunt, who laboured under the pleasing impression that Lady
Hatfield's silence was occasioned by the deep interest which she took in
the present topic, continued to rattle away with her tongue as fast as
the carriage did with its wheels.

"I am sure it was a very great act of kindness in you to ask me to spend
the winter with you in London; for as papa is compelled to reside in
Ireland, in consequence of the unsettled state of his tenantry, I should
have been under the necessity of returning to the Emerald Isle, after my
four months' visit with you to Walsingham Manor, had you not taken that
compassion on me. But let us speak of yourself, dear Lady Hatfield.
Without a soul in the world to control your actions—with the means of
procuring every enjoyment—and with Lord Ellingham going mad on your
account——"

"Julia," said Lady Hatfield, with a start,—"again I beseech you to drop
this subject. And, as you will be my companion for some months to come,
let me now, once for all, enjoin you to abstain from such topics. As you
cannot read the secrets of my heart, pray bear in mind the fact that
many a light word uttered thoughtlessly and with no malicious intent,
may touch a chord that will thrill," she added calmly, but bitterly, "to
the inmost recesses of my soul."

"Oh! my dear Lady Hatfield," exclaimed Miss Mordaunt, who, in spite of
her loquacity, was a very good-natured person, "I am rejoiced that you
have given me this warning. And how foolish of me not to have
observed—what indeed I now remember—that the topic of Love never was
agreeable to you. To be sure! it was during the sermon upon the felicity
of the wedded state, that you fainted and were taken into the vestry!"

Lady Hatfield writhed in mental agony; and bitterly at that moment did
she repent the invitation which she had given her thoughtless companion
to pass the winter with her in London.

The carriage had now reached the little town of Bedfont, which it
traversed without stopping; and continued its rapid way towards
Hounslow.

But all of a sudden the course of the chariot was checked—as if by an
unexpected impediment in the way; and the horses began to plunge
frightfully.

At the same time the lady's-maid on the box uttered a dreadful scream.

Lady Hatfield drew down the window nearest to her: the chaise that
moment came to a full stop; and a stern, but evidently disguised voice
exclaimed, "Keep your horses quiet, you damned fools—and don't mind me!
If you stir till I give you leave, I'll blow out the brains of both of
you."

"Robbers!" shrieked Miss Mordaunt in a despairing tone: "Oh! what will
become of us?"

Lady Hatfield looked from the window; and at the same instant a man,
mounted on horseback, with a black mask over his countenance, and a
pistol in each hand, was by the side of the vehicle.

"Villain!" cried the livery-servant on the box. "But you shall swing for
this!"

"Perhaps I may," said the highwayman, coolly, though still speaking in a
feigned tone, as is the custom with individuals of his profession upon
such occasions as the one we are describing: "and if you attempt to
move, old fellow, from where you are, an ounce of lead shall tumble you
down from your perch. Beg pardon, ma'am," continued the robber, turning
towards Lady Hatfield, who had shrunk back into the corner of the
carriage the moment the desperado appeared at the window; "sorry to
inconvenience you; but—your purse!"

Lady Hatfield handed the highwayman her reticule.

"Good!" said he, perceiving by its weight and a certain jingling sound
which it sent forth, that it contained gold. "But you have a companion,
ma'am—_her_ purse!"

Miss Mordaunt complied with this demand, and implored the "good
gentleman" not to murder her.

The highwayman gave no reply; but vouchsafed a most satisfactory proof
of his intended forbearance in that respect, by putting spurs to his
steed, and darting off like an arrow in the direction of Hounslow.

"Cowardly villains that you are!" ejaculated the livery-servant, hurling
this reproach against the postboys.

"And what are you, old fool?" cried the postillion who rode the
wheel-horse. "But he'll be nabbed yet."

"Drive on—drive on!" exclaimed Lady Hatfield from the window. "We are
all frightened—and not hurt."

"Indeed, my dear," said Miss Mordaunt, as the carriage started off
rapidly once more, "I am seriously hurt—grievously wounded!"

"You, Julia!" cried her ladyship, in unfeigned surprise.

"Yes—in pocket," was the answer, implying deep vexation. "All the
remainder of my quarter's allowance——"

"Oh! compose yourself on that head," interrupted Lady Hatfield. "You
shall not be compelled to acquaint Mr. Mordaunt with your loss."

This assurance, conveying a promise of pecuniary assistance, materially
tended to tranquillise the mind of Miss Mordaunt; but the event which
had just occurred—apart from the mere robbery of her reticule—awoke the
most painful reflections in the mind of Lady Hatfield.

"By the by," said Miss Mordaunt, after a short pause—for she never
remained long silent,—"this audacious outrage reminds me of something
your uncle Sir Ralph Walsingham was telling me one day, when you
interrupted him in the middle. I think he informed me that about six or
seven years ago—when you were only eighteen or nineteen—you were staying
at your dear lamented father's country-house, where you were quite
alone—for of course one does not call the servants anybody; when the
mansion was broken into by robbers during the night——"

"Julia!" exclaimed Lady Hatfield, her whole frame fearfully convulsed by
the powerful though useless efforts which she made to subdue her
agitation: "never, I implore you, again allude to that dreadful event!"

"Well—I never will," said Miss Mordaunt. "And yet, if one must not speak
of Love—nor yet of marriage—nor yet of midnight burglaries——"

"Nay—I was wrong to cut you short thus abruptly," remarked Lady
Hatfield, now endeavouring to rob her prayer of the importance with
which her solemn earnestness of manner had invested it: "only, do choose
some more enlivening topic after the fright which we have just
experienced."

"The first thing to-morrow morning," said Miss Mordaunt, who had not
noticed the full extent of the impression which her allusion to the
burglary of some years back had made upon her companion—for Julia was
too flippant, superficial, and volatile to pay much attention to the
emotions of others,—"the first thing to-morrow morning we must give
information to the Bow Street runners concerning this highway robbery:
secondly, we must write to the landlord at Staines to tell him what a
couple of cowardly fellows he has got in the shape of these
postillions;—and thirdly, you must discharge old Mason, who is evidently
incapable of protecting his mistress, much less her friends."

"Discharge old Mason!" exclaimed Lady Hatfield: "impossible! How could
he have protected us! He is unarmed—whereas the highwayman flourished
two large pistols, doubtless loaded. But here we are safe at Hounslow!"

The carriage drew up at the door of the hotel in this town; and the
postillions immediately narrated the particulars of the robbery to the
landlord and his attendant tribe of hangers-on.

"Well, this is fortunate!" cried the landlord, when the tale was told:
"quite a God-send, as one may say."

"As how, please, sir?" exclaimed the elder postboy, astonished at the
remark.

"Why—it happens that Dykes, the famous Bow Street officer, is in the
hotel at this very instant," said the landlord. "John," he added,
turning to a waiter who stood near, "beg Mr. Dykes to step this way."

"And what's Dykes doing down here?" asked the postboy, when the waiter
had disappeared to execute the commission he had received.

"He's been investigating a 'cendiary fire," replied an ostler; for the
landlord, disdaining to hold any farther converse with a postillion, had
stepped up to the window to inquire whether the ladies chose to alight.

Having received a negative answer, accompanied with an intimation that
the sooner the carriage was allowed to proceed the more agreeable it
would be to Lady Hatfield and Miss Mordaunt, the landlord returned
towards the spot where the postillions, the hangers-on of the hotel, and
other loungers were grouped together.

Mr. Dykes almost immediately afterwards made his appearance in the form
of a tall, stout, heavy, but powerfully built man, shabby-genteel in his
attire, and carrying a strong ash-stick in his hand.

The particulars of the highway robbery were described to him in a very
few moments.

"How was the fellow dressed?" asked the officer.

"A black coat," said the first postboy.

"No—it wasn't," cried the second.

"Then what was it?" demanded Mr. Dykes.

"I don't know—but I'm sure it wasn't a black 'un," was the highly
satisfactory answer.

"Describe his horse," said Dykes impatiently.

"Brown—switch tail—standing about fourteen hands——"

"Nonsense!" ejaculated the second postillion, interrupting his companion
who had volunteered the explanation. "It was a light bay—the moon fell
full upon it—so did the carriage-lights."

"Come, I see we are only losing time," cried the officer. "Which way did
he go?"

"He galloped off in this direction," was the reply, which remained
uncontradicted.

"Then he'll be in London to-night, whichever road he took," said Mr.
Dykes. "If your ladies will give me a cast as far as town, I'll be after
the villain. Perhaps he turned off to the left towards Hatton, and so
over by Hanwell and then Shepherd's Bush; or else he made straight for
Richmond, and so over into Surrey. But, one way or another, he's sure to
be in London by midnight; and ten to one if I don't pounce on him. My
business is done down here; and I may just as well toddle back to-night
as to-morrow morning."

The substance of these remarks was communicated to Lady Hatfield, who
could not well do otherwise than accord a seat on the box to Mr. Dykes,
Charlotte, the lady's-maid, removing to the interior of the carriage.

These arrangements having been effected, the vehicle pursued its way;
and shortly after eleven o'clock it drew up at the door of a mansion on
Piccadilly Hill.

Mr. Dykes, having asked the ladies a few questions, promised to
communicate the result of his efforts to capture the highwayman; and
then took his departure.

Lady Hatfield and Miss Mordaunt shortly retired to their respective
bed-chambers: the latter to dream of the delights of London—the former
to moisten her pillow with tears; for the recent adventure had awakened
in her mind feelings of the most agonising description.




                              CHAPTER II.
                        TOM RAIN AND OLD DEATH.


It was about half-past eight on the following morning, when two
individuals entered a public-house in White Hart Street, Drury Lane.

One was a man of about thirty years of age, with florid complexion,
light hair, and red whiskers,—yet possessing a countenance which, viewed
as a whole, was very far from disagreeable. His eyes were of a deep
blue, and indicated not only good-humour but a certain generosity of
disposition which was not impaired by an association with many less
amiable qualities—such as a wild recklessness of character, an undaunted
bravery, a love of perilous adventure, and a sad deficiency of principle
on particular points, the nature of which will hereafter transpire. He
was evidently proud of a very fine set of teeth, the brilliancy of which
compensated for the somewhat coarse thickness of his lips; and the
delicate whiteness of his hands showed that he did not earn his
livelihood by any arduous labour. In person he was about the
middle-height—by no means inclined to corpulency—and yet possessing a
well-knit frame, with a muscular power indicative of great physical
strength. His dress partook of the half-sporting, half-rakish
character—consisting of a high chimney-pot kind of hat, with very narrow
brims, a checked blue silk neckerchief, fine linen, a buff waistcoat,
cut-away Newmarket-style of green coat, drab-breeches, and top-boots.
The proper name of this flash gentleman was Thomas Rainford; but his
friends had taken the liberty of docking each word of a syllable; and he
was invariably known as Tom Rain.

The other individual was an old man, of at least sixty, with white hair,
but eyes of fire glaring from beneath a pair of thick, shaggy grey
brows. He was upwards of six feet in height, and but little bowed by the
weight of years which he bore. Having lost all his teeth, his mouth had
fallen in so as to form a complete angle, the depth of which was
rendered the more remarkable by the extreme prominence of his hooked
nose and his projecting chin. He was as thin as it was possible to be
without having the bones actually protruding through the skin, which
hung upon them like a tanned leather casing. He was dressed in a long
grey surtout coat, reaching below his knees; a pair of shabby black
trousers, very short; and black cloth gaiters fitting loosely over that
description of shoes generally denominated high-lows. On his head he
wore a greasy cap, with a large front: his linen was by no means of the
cleanest; and his appearance altogether was excessively
unprepossessing—if not absolutely revolting. What his real name was,
very few of even his most intimate acquaintances were aware; for his
dreadful emaciation of form had procured for him the frightful pseudonym
of _Old Death_.

Tom Rain and his hideous companion entered the public-house in White
Hart Street, nodded familiarly to the landlord as they passed by the
bar, and ascended the stairs to a private room on the first floor.

Having seated themselves at the table, Tom Rain began the conversation.

"Well, have you considered my proposal?" he asked.

"I have," replied the old man in a deep sepulchral tone; "but I am
cautious—very cautious, my good friend."

"So you told me when I saw you three days ago for the first time,"
observed Rain impatiently. "But Tullock, the landlord of this place, is
a pal of yours; and he knows me well too. Hasn't he satisfied you about
me?"

"Well—well, I can't say that he hasn't," answered Old Death. "Still a
cautious man like me never says _yes_ in a hurry. Tullock knew you eight
or nine years ago down in the country; and there's no doubt that you was
then a right sort of blade."

"And so I am now!" cried Tom Rain, striking the table angrily with his
clenched fist.

"Softly-softly, my good friend," said Old Death. "We shall agree better
afterwards if we have a good understanding at first. I was going to
observe that for some years Tullock loses sight of you; he comes up to
town, takes this public, and doesn't even remember that there's such a
fellow in existence as yourself until you make your appearance here a
few days back."

"When he received me with open arms, and introduced me to you," added
Tom Rain. "But go on: what next?"

"Ah! what next?" replied Old Death, with a horrible chuckle that issued
from his throat as if it come from the depths of a tomb. "Why—you
frankly and candidly told me your intentions and views, I admit;—but you
can't do without me—you can't do without me, my dear boy—and you know
it!"

Again the hideous old man chuckled in his cavern-like tones.

"I never denied what you say," answered Tom Rain. "On the contrary, I am
well aware that no one in my line can think of doing business about
London, and making London his head-quarters, without your assistance."

"To be sure not!" said the old man, evidently pleased by this
compliment. "I've had the monopoly of it all for this thirty years, and
never once got into trouble. But then I do my business with caution—such
caution! I've dealings with all that are worth having dealings with; and
not one of them knows even where I live!"

"Only let me find a sure and ready-money market for _my_ goods,"
exclaimed Tom Rain, "and I'll do more business with you than all the
chaps you speak of put together."

"Well, I suppose we must come to terms," said Old Death after a short
pause. "Tullock assures me that you were straight-forward when he knew
you in the country, and though time changes men's minds as well as their
faces, I'll take it for granted that you're all right. You remember the
conditions?"

"Not a word you uttered three days ago has escaped my memory," answered
Rain.

"Good. When shall you commence business?"

"I opened my shop last night," replied Tom with a hearty laugh.

"Nonsense!" cried the old man, fixing a glance of delight upon his new
friend. "You don't mean to say that——In a word, is _this_ yours?"

As he spoke, Old Death drew from his pocket the morning's newspaper,
pointed to a particular advertisement, and held the journal towards his
companion.

Tom Rain's countenance was overclouded for a moment; but almost
immediately afterwards it expanded into an expression of mingled
surprise and satisfaction; and snapping his fingers joyfully, he
exclaimed, "Is it possible? could it have been _her_? Oh! this business
is speedily settled!"

And rising from his seat, he rang the bell violently.

A pot-boy answered the summons.

"Pen, ink, and paper, and a messenger to carry a letter," said Tom Rain,
with extraordinary rapidity of utterance.

The boy disappeared; and Old Death, recovering partially from the
astonishment into which his companion's ejaculations and manner on
reading the advertisement had thrown him, exclaimed, "What the devil are
you after now?"

"You shall see in a moment," was the reply; "but I don't promise you any
explanation of what you _will_ see," he added with another hearty laugh.

The boy returned, bringing writing materials, and intimating that he was
willing to be the bearer of the letter.

Tom Rain told him to wait; then, having hastily written a few lines upon
a sheet of paper, he tossed the note over to Old Death, who read as
follows:—

  "Remember the night of the 27th of October, 1819;—and stop the
  inquiries instituted in respect to the little business referred to
  by the advertisement in this morning's _Times_."

"This is past all comprehension," exclaimed the old man, still keeping
his eyes fixed upon the paper. "The note has not even a signature."

"It does not require one," coolly observed Tom Rain, as he snatched the
letter from his companion, and proceeded to fold it up.

"And do you hope to crush the business by means of that scrap of
writing?" asked Old Death, evidently perplexed what to think.

"I don't merely hope—I am certain of accomplishing my object," was the
reply.

"Now mind you ain't deceiving yourself, Tom," said Old Death. "The man
who has taken up the affair is persevering as a beaver and crafty as a
fox. You may see that he is in earnest by the expedition he must have
made to get the advertisement into this morning's paper. I should have
hardly thought it possible to be done. However, done it is—and, though
it gives no description of the person, yet it offers a good reward for
his apprehension. No one knows what trivial circumstance may afford a
trace; and——"

"Enough of this, old friend," cried Tom; and handing the letter, now
duly folded, wafered, and directed, to the boy, he said, "Take this to
the address written upon it: see if there's any answer; and I shall wait
here till you come back. Look alive—and you'll earn a crown by the job."

The boy hastened away to execute the commission which he had received.

"And so that was your business, Master Tom?" observed Old Death, as soon
as the messenger had disappeared. "Well—you have made a good beginning:
it promises bright things."

"What! do you fancy that I haven't had plenty of experience down in the
country?" cried Rainford. "Ah! I could tell you a tale or two—but no
matter now."

"And the little business, Tom," inquired the old man,—"did it turn out
worth the trouble? The advertisement says——"

"Hark'ee, Master Death," exclaimed Rainford, firmly; "that business does
not regard you. Our compact dates from this morning——"

"Oh! very good—very good!" interrupted Old Death in a surly tone. "Be it
as you say: but remember—if you _do_ get into any trouble on account of
this, you mustn't expect me to help you out of it."

"Neither do I," answered Tom. "However, I am a generous chap in my way,
and I don't mind yielding to you in this instance; for you must suppose
that I can see your drift plain enough. The advertisement says '_A purse
containing a Bank-note for fifty pounds and eleven sovereigns, and a
reticule containing a purse in which there were three ten-pound notes
and sixteen sovereigns._' This is accurate enough. The reticule I flung
away: the two purses I kept—and here they are."

Thus speaking, Tom Rainford threw upon the table the objects last
mentioned.

Old Death's eyes glared with a kind of savage joy as they caught a
glimpse of the yellow metal and the flimsy paper through the net-work of
the purses.

"Pretty things—pretty things!" he muttered between his toothless gums.
"I think you'll do well, Tom."

"And I am sure I shall. But turn the money out on the table: you care
more about the handling of it than I do."

Old Death "grinned horribly a ghastly smile," and lost no time in
obeying the hint conveyed.

"Twenty-seven golden boys, and eighty pounds in Bank-notes," said the
hideous man. "The gold is yours—that's part of our conditions: half the
value of the Bank-notes is mine, for the risk and trouble in cashing
them—that's also part and parcel of our conditions. So if I give you
forty sovereigns—forty golden sovereigns, Tom—we shall be square."

"Just so," carelessly observed Rain.

Old Death produced a greasy leather bag from a pocket in the breast of
his grey-coat, and counted thence the forty sovereigns on which he had
laid such emphasis.

Tom Rain thrust the coin into his breeches' pocket without reckoning it;
while his companion first secured the Bank-notes in the greasy bag, and
then threw the two purses into the fire.

"You're a good fellow, Tom—a generous-hearted fellow—and I'm much
pleased with you," said the old man. "I shall leave you now, as I have
some little trifling matters to attend to in another part of the town.
When you want me, you know where to leave a message."

"All right," ejaculated Tom Rainford, who did not appear over anxious to
detain his new friend.

They accordingly separated—Old Death taking his departure, and the other
remaining behind to await the return of his messenger.

It is necessary to state that when Old Death quitted the public-house,
he was joined a few paces up the street by a sharp-looking, ill-clad
youth of about fifteen, whose pale countenance, bright eyes, and
restless glances denoted mental activity struggling against bad health.

Approaching the old man, the youth walked by his side without uttering a
syllable.

"Jacob," said Death, after a brief pause, and sinking his voice to a
whisper, "you saw that swell-looking chap who went into Tullock's with
me just now. Well—I told you to be here this morning at a particular
hour, on purpose that you _might_ see him. He will be useful to me—very
useful. But I must know more of him—and he is not the man to be pumped.
Do you wait here, and watch him. Dog him about—find out where he
goes—where he lives—whether he has a mistress or a wife, or neither——"

"Or both," added Jacob, with a low chuckle.

"Yes—any thing that concerns him, in fine," continued Old Death. "I am
going to Toby Bunce's in the Dials, where I shall be for the next three
or four hours if I'm wanted."

"Very good—I understand," said Jacob; and retracing his steps, he hid
himself in a court which commanded a view of Tullock's public-house.

Let us now return to Tom Rain, who was waiting for the reappearance of
his messenger.

It was shortly before ten when the pot-boy once more stood in his
presence.

"Well?" said Rainford, interrogatively.

"I seed the lady herself," was the reply; "and I gived her the note. I
thought it was somethink partickler—and so I told the flunkey I'd on'y
deliver it into her hands."

"And how did she receive it?" asked Tom.

"I was showed into a parlour and told to wait. In a few minutes the door
opened and in come a lady—such a splendid creatur! I never seed such a
fine 'ooman in my life before. Our bar-gal's nothink to her! So I gived
her the note: she looked at the writing on the outside, but didn't seem
to know it. Then she opened the letter—and, my eye! didn't she give a
start? I thought she'd have fell slap on her face. For a minute or so
she couldn't recover herself: at last she says, '_Tell the writer of
this note that it shall be attended to_;'—and she put half-a-crown into
my hand. That's all."

"I knew it would be so!" cried Tom Rain in a triumphant tone. "Here's
the five shillings I promised you, my boy; and I don't think you've made
a bad morning's work of it."

The lad grinned a smile of satisfaction, and withdrew.

Rainford soon after descended to the bar, conversed for a few minutes
with his friend Tullock, the landlord, and then took his departure—duly
watched by Jacob.

He had reached the corner of Drury Lane, when he felt himself somewhat
rudely tapped on the shoulder.

Turning hastily round, he was confronted by a tall stout man, who,
without any ceremonial preface, exclaimed, "You're wanted, my good
fellow."

"I know I am," replied Tom coolly, as he measured the stranger from head
to foot with a calm but searching glance: "and I'm now on my way to the
place where my presence is required."

"Just so," said the stout man: "because you are going to favour me with
your company, that I may introduce you to a party who wishes to become
better acquainted with you."

"Who's the friend you speak of?" asked Tom in an easy, off-hand kind of
manner.

"Sir Walter Ferguson," was the reply. "So come along."

With these words, the stout man took Rainford's arm and led him away to
the Police Court in Bow Street.

Jacob, who was an unsuspected witness of the whole proceeding,
immediately took the shortest way to Seven Dials.




                              CHAPTER III.
                              BOW STREET.


The moment Mr. Dykes had lodged his prisoner in one of the cells
attached to the court, he hurried off to Piccadilly Hill, and knocked
loudly at the door of Lady Hatfield's residence.

Upon explaining the nature of his business to the domestic who answered
the summons, he was admitted into an apartment where Lady Hatfield and
Miss Mordaunt almost immediately joined him.

Lady Hatfield was the orphan daughter of the Earl and Countess of
Mauleverer. She was an only child: the proud title of Mauleverer had
become extinct with the demise of her father; but the family property
had devolved to her. She was in her twenty-fifth year, and surpassingly
beautiful:—the style of her loveliness was fascinating and
intellectual—rendered the more interesting, too, by the tinge of
melancholy which characterised her countenance. Her eyes were large and
of a deep blue: the soul sate enthroned on her pale and lofty
forehead;—her smile, though always plaintively mournful, denoted
amiability and kindness. In stature she was of the middle height; and,
though in the least degree inclining to _embonpoint_, yet the fulness of
her form marred not its lightness nor its grace. The bust was rounded in
voluptuous luxuriance—and the hips were expanded;—but the waist was
naturally small—the limbs tapered gradually downwards—and her step was
so elastic, while her gait was easy though dignified, that even the most
critical judge of female attractions could not have found it in his
heart to cavil at her symmetry.

Miss Mordaunt was a lady who had seen thirty-five summers, although she
would have gone into hysterics had any one suggested that such was
really the fact. She was short, thin, and not particularly good-looking;
for her hair was of so decided a red that it would have been a mockery
instead of a compliment to term it auburn: her eyes were grey, and her
nose suspiciously inclining to the species called "pug:"—but her
complexion was good, her teeth well preserved and white, and her hand
very beautifully formed. Thus, when she looked in her glass—which was as
often as she passed near it—she mentally summed up the good and the bad
points of her personal appearance, invariably striking a balance in
favour of the first, and thence arriving at the very logical conclusion
that she should yet succeed in escaping from a condition of single
blessedness.

It was a little after eleven o'clock when Lady Hatfield and Miss
Mordaunt were informed that Mr. Dykes requested an immediate interview
with them. Some event of that morning's occurrence had already produced
a strange—an almost alarming effect upon Georgiana—such was Lady
Hatfield's Christian name: and in order to regain her spirits—to recover
indeed from a sudden shock which she had received—her ladyship had
proposed an early airing in the carriage. To this Julia, who had some
"shopping to do," readily assented. They had accordingly just completed
their toilette for the purpose, and were now waiting in the drawing-room
for the arrival of the chariot, when the announcement of Mr. Dykes's
name called such an ejaculation of anguish from Lady Hatfield's lips,
that Miss Mordaunt was seriously alarmed.

But Georgiana,—the expression of whose countenance indicated for an
instant the agony of a heart wounded to its very core,—subdued her
emotions by a violent effort; and then, in answer to her friend's
solicitous inquiries, attributed the temporary agitation she had
experienced to a sudden pain passing through her head.

It was nevertheless with feelings of mingled terror and repugnance that
Georgiana accompanied Julia to the room where the Bow Street officer
awaited them.

Her very eye-lids quivered with suspense, when she found herself in the
presence of the celebrated thief-taker.

"Well, ladies," exclaimed Mr. Dykes, rising from a chair, and making an
awkward bow as they entered, "I've good news for you: the highwayman
is——"

"Is——" repeated Georgiana, with nervous impatience.

"Is in custody, my lady; and all I now want——"

"Who is in custody?" demanded Georgiana, hope for a moment wildly
animating her.

"The man that robbed you last night, my lady," answered the officer; "or
else I'm dam——beg pardon—very much mistaken."

"But how do you know he is the same?" exclaimed Lady Hatfield. "Perhaps
you may have erred—your suspicions may have misled you——"

"Ah! my lady," interrupted Dykes, totally mistaking the cause of
Georgiana's warmth; "you surely ain't going to plead in favour of a chap
that stopped you on the King's highway, and did then and there steal
from your person and from the person of your friend——"

"Describe the individual whom you have arrested," said Lady Hatfield
abruptly.

"To a nicety I will," answered the officer, who was now completely in
his element. "About thirty years of age—good complexion—light curly
hair—red whiskers—dark blue eyes—splendid teeth—thick lips——But here's
your carriage come round to the door, my lady; and nothing could
possibly be more convenient. Please not to waste time—as I think we can
get him committed to-day."

The moment Dykes had begun his description, Lady Georgiana's eyes
expressed the agonising nature of the suspense which she endured; but as
he continued, and his portraiture became the more definite, an ashy
paleness overspread her countenance.

This agitation on her part was not however perceived by either the Bow
Street officer or Miss Mordaunt; for the former had a habit of fixing
his eyes on the knob of his ash stick when he was engrossed in a
professional topic; and the latter was drinking in with greedy ears the
description of the supposed highwayman, whom she was quite astonished to
hear represented as so very discrepant from her idea of what a midnight
desperado must be.

The arrival of the carriage was, under the circumstances, quite a relief
to Georgiana; and, without uttering another objection, she allowed Mr.
Dykes to have his own way in the matter.

That experienced officer rang the bell as coolly as if the house was his
own, and desired that the man-servant and lady's-maid, who were in
attendance on their mistress the preceding night, would prepare to
accompany him to Bow Street.

Mason and Charlotte speedily obeyed this request, and the chariot,
instead of taking the ladies up Bond Street, conveyed them, the two
servants, and Mr. Dykes, to the police-office.

On their arrival, Mr. Dykes conducted his witnesses into a private room,
and, after an absence of about five minutes, returned with the
intelligence that the night charges were just disposed of, and that the
prisoner was about to be placed in the dock.

A shudder passed through Georgiana's frame; but, with a desperate effort
to compose herself, she followed Mr. Dykes into the court, Miss Mordaunt
and the two servants remaining in the private room until they should be
summoned individually to give their testimony.

As Georgiana was a lady of rank and fortune she was not treated as a
humble witness would have been, but was accommodated with a chair, Mr.
Dykes assuring her, in a confidential whisper, that she need not stand
up to give her evidence.

The body of the court was crowded with a motley assembly of spectators,
the news that a highwayman was about to be examined having spread like
wildfire throughout the neighbourhood.

Scarcely was Georgiana seated, when a sensation on the part of the crowd
enabled her to judge that the accused was being brought in; and as Tom
Rain leapt nimbly into the dock, she cast a rapid glance towards him—a
glance in which terror was combined with indescribable disgust and
aversion.

The accused affected not to notice her, but lounged in a very easy and
familiar fashion over the front of the dock; surveying, first Sir Walter
Ferguson, and then the clerk, with a complacency which would have almost
induced an uninitiated stranger to imagine that _they_ were the
prisoners and _he_ was the magistrate.

Mr. Dykes, being called upon by Sir Walter to explain the nature of the
charge against the prisoner, declared that, "in consequence of
information which he had received," (the invariable phraseology of old
police-officers,) "he had arrested the accused on suspicion of having
stopped Lady Hatfield's carriage on the preceding evening, and robbed
her ladyship and her ladyship's friend of certain monies specified in an
advertisement which he had caused to be inserted in that morning's
paper." Mr. Dykes further stated that, having searched the prisoner, he
had found upon him a considerable sum in gold; but none of the
Bank-notes stolen.

Lady Hatfield was then sworn, and she corroborated the officer's
statement relative to the robbery.

"Has your ladyship any reason to suppose that the prisoner in the dock
is the person by whom your carriage was stopped?" inquired the
magistrate.

"I feel well convinced, sir," was the reply, delivered, however, in a
tremulous tone, "that the prisoner at the bar is _not_ the man by whom I
was robbed."

A smile of triumph curled the lips of Tom Rain; but Mr. Dykes surveyed
Georgiana with stupid astonishment.

"Not the man, my lady!" he ejaculated, at length: "why, last night, your
ladyship could give no description of what the robber was or what he was
not!"

"Dykes, hold your tongue!" cried the magistrate: "her ladyship is upon
her oath."

"Your worship," said Georgiana, in a firmer voice than before, "I was so
bewildered last evening—so overcome with terror——"

"Naturally so, Lady Hatfield," observed the magistrate, with a very
courteous smile, which seemed to say that he would rather believe the
bare word of a member of the aristocracy—especially a lady—than the
oaths of all his officers and runners out together. "In fact," continued
Sir Walter blandly, "you were too much flurried, to use a common
expression, to reply calmly and deliberately to any questions which
Dykes may have put to you last evening."

"Such was indeed the case, your worship," answered Georgiana. "This
morning, however, I have been enabled to collect my ideas, and to recall
to mind the smallest details of the robbery. The highwayman had a black
mask upon his face; but, by a sudden movement of his horse, as he stood
by the carriage window, the mask slipped aside, and I caught a glimpse
of his countenance by the moonlight."

"And that countenance?" said the magistrate.

"Was quite different from the prisoner's," replied Lady Hatfield firmly.

"Your ladyship did not make that statement when I gave you the
description of the prisoner just now," said Dykes, evidently bewildered
by the nature of Georgiana's testimony.

"Because you hurried me away, together with my friend and two of my
servants, in a manner so precipitate that I had no time to utter a
word," returned Lady Hatfield. "Moreover, as you had taken the prisoner
into custody, I believed it to be necessary that his case should be
brought beneath the cognizance of his worship."

Georgiana spoke in a tone apparently so decided and calm, that the
officer knew not how to reply; although in his heart he suspected her
sincerity.

The magistrate consulted the clerk; and, after the interchange of a few
whispers, Sir Walter said, "I see no reason for detaining the prisoner:
there is evidently some mistake on your part, Dykes."

"Your worship," exclaimed the officer, "I know not what to think. Can
the prisoner give a good account of himself? He rides into London from
Richmond at six o'clock this morning; puts his horse up at an inn in the
Borough; goes to a coffee-house in another street to have his breakfast,
and leaves a pair of pistols for the waiter to take care of for him;
then walks over to a suspicious public not a hundred miles from this
court; meets there a man that me and my partners have long had our eyes
on; and, when he is searched, has a large sum in gold about his person."

"Do you hear what the officer says, prisoner?" inquired the magistrate.

"I do, your worship," answered Tom Rain, coolly; "and I can explain it
all. I come up to London on business, which requires the sum of money
found upon me. I put up my horse where I think fit; and I go elsewhere
to get my breakfast, because I can have it cheaper than at the inn. I
was armed with pistols because I had to travel a lonely road in the
dark; and I left them at the coffee-house because I did not choose to
drag them about with me all day long."

Mr. Dykes was about to reply, when two decently-dressed men, who had
entered the court a few minutes previously, stepped forward.

"Please, your worship," said the first, "I have known Mr. Rainford the
last four years; and a more respectable man does not exist. He came up
to London to buy a couple of horses of me; and he was to pay ready
money. My name's Watkins, your worship; and I've kept livery and bait
stables in Great Queen Street, Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, for the last
seventeen years."

"And I, your worship," said the other person, in his turn, "can answer
for Mr. Rainford. If you doubt my respectability, your worship, send one
of your officers round to Compton Street, and see if the name of
Bertinshaw isn't painted up in precious large letters over the best
jeweller's shop——"

"_And_ pawnbroker's," interrupted Mr. Dykes significantly.

"Well—and pawnbroker's, too," added Bertinshaw: "I'm not ashamed of the
calling."

"Then you are both prepared to guarantee the prisoner's appearance at
any future time?" said the magistrate.

"Certainly, your worship," was the joint reply.

"To answer any charge that may be brought against him?" continued Sir
Walter.

The response was again in the affirmative on the part of Watkins and
Bertinshaw.

The magistrate stated the amount of the recognizances which were to be
entered into, and Tom Rain was desired to stand down from the dock.

This intimation he obeyed with the same air of calm indifference which
had characterized him throughout the proceedings, and which had only
been for a moment disturbed by the profound astonishment he had
experienced when two men, whom he had never before seen nor even heard
of in his life, stepped forward to give him so excellent a character and
become his bail. But a moment's reflection convinced him that Old Death
was the unseen friend who worked the machinery of this manœuvre.

While the clerk was filling up the bail-bond, Lady Georgiana retired
from the office, her bosom a prey to feelings of a strangely conflicting
nature,—joy at having passed through an ordeal which she had
dreaded—grief at having stained her soul with the fell crime of
deliberate perjury—and agony at the sad reminiscences which the presence
of Rainford had recalled so forcibly to her mind.

Miss Mordaunt and the two servants were astonished to hear the
unexpected turn which the proceedings had taken; but their attention was
almost immediately absorbed in the condition of Lady Hatfield, who
scarcely had time to communicate to them the result of her examination
in the court, when a sudden faintness came over her. She had exhausted
all her energies in the endeavour to maintain an air of calmness, and to
reply in a tone of sincerity when in the presence of the magistrate; and
now a reaction took place—her courage gave way—the weight of fearful
reminiscences overpowered her—the glow of excitement which had mantled
her cheeks changed to a death-like pallor—and she fainted in the arms of
her friend.

Fortunately, Miss Mordaunt had a bottle of volatile salts with her; and
by these means Georgiana was speedily recovered. She was then led to her
carriage; but she did not appear to breathe freely until the vehicle was
some distance from the police-court.

-----

[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER IV.
                           ESTHER DE MEDINA.


Let us now return to the interior of the police-office.

The clerk was drawing up the bail-bond; the two securities were
conversing in whispers with Tom Rain, whom they had affected to greet,
when he descended from the dock, as an old acquaintance; and Mr. Dykes
was leaning gloomily against the partition which separated the
magistrate's desk from the body of the court,—when the entrance of two
persons produced a new sensation amongst the crowd.

One was an officer of the court: the other was a lady, closely veiled,
and enveloped in a cloak of rich material.

Her form was tall; and, even though her entire frame was now convulsed
with intense anguish as she passed amidst the gaping throng to the chair
which Lady Hatfield had occupied two or three minutes previously, yet
that excess of grief and terror did not bow her down, nor impair the
graceful dignity of her gait.

The officer motioned her to seat herself, an intimation which she
evidently accepted with gratitude.

"What is it, Bingham?" inquired the magistrate of the officer.

"Please, your worship," was the reply, "it's a serious charge; and the
prosecutor will be here in a moment."

"Very well," said the magistrate: "I will take it directly."

"Who is she?" whispered Dykes, accosting his brother officer.

"Her name is Esther de Medina, she tells me," returned Bingham.

The question and answer were overheard by Tom Rainford, who was standing
close by the officers; and the announcement of the lady's name produced
a strange and almost electrical effect upon him.

The devil-me-care recklessness of his manner suddenly disappeared; and a
sentiment of profound commiseration and deep interest, in respect to
Esther de Medina, seemed to occupy his mind.

He was about to question Mr. Bingham relative to the charge which he had
against her, when the clerk called upon him and his securities to sign
the bond. This ceremony was speedily performed; and Rain's money was
returned to him by Mr. Dykes, who, however, looked at him in a manner
which seemed to say—"I know I am not mistaken in you, although you have
contrived to get off: but I'll have you another time."

Tom cared nothing for the sinister looks of the Bow Street officer;
neither did he pay much attention to the gold which he now poured back
into his pocket; for all his thoughts appeared to be absorbed in the
presence of the veiled lady.

"Come along with us," whispered Bertinshaw, "and we'll celebrate your
escape over a bottle of wine at my place."

"No—not now," replied Tom, hastily: "I mean to stay and hear this case:
it interests me."

"Will you join us presently?" asked his new friend, who had just now
pretended to be a very old one.

"Yes, yes," answered Tom: "in an hour or so."

Bertinshaw and Watkins then took their departure.

"Now, Bingham," cried the clerk; "what is it?"

At that moment a gentleman of handsome appearance and middle age entered
the court.

"Here's the prosecutor who will explain the matter," said the officer.

The prisoner, suddenly remembering the respect due to the bench, raised
her veil; and, at the same time, she glanced in an eager, inquiring
manner towards the individual who now appeared against her.

But we must pause to describe her.

She was not more than eighteen years of age, and surpassingly lovely.
Her complexion was a clear transparent olive, beneath which the delicate
tinge of carnation was not entirely chased away from her cheeks by the
terror and grief that now oppressed her. Her face was of the aquiline
cast—her forehead broad, high, and intelligent; her nose curved, but not
too prominent in shape; her mouth small, with thin vermilion lips,
revealing teeth of pearly whiteness; her chin sweetly rounded; and her
eyes large, black, and brilliant. And never did more splendid orbs of
light mirror the whole power of the soul, or flash brighter glances from
beneath richly-fringed lids. Then her brows were so delicately
pencilled, and so finely arched, that they gave an air of dignity to
that lovely—that fascinating countenance. Her hair, too, was of the
deepest black—a black so intense, that the raven's wing might not have
compared with it. Silken and glossy, the luxuriant mass was parted above
the forehead, and, flowing in two shining bands—one on each side of the
face, for which they appeared to form an ebony frame,—was gathered
behind the ears.

In stature she was tall, sylph-like, and graceful. Her shoulders had
that fine slope which the Italian masters so much admired, and with
which they were delighted to endow the heroines of their pictures. Her
waist was admirably proportioned, and not rendered too thin by the
unnatural art of tight-lacing. Her hand was of exceeding beauty; her
feet and ankles were in perfect keeping with the exquisite symmetry of
her form; and her gestures were full of dignity and grace.

She was a Jewess; and, if the most glorious beauty were honoured with a
diadem, then should Esther de Medina have become Queen of the Scattered
Race.

The moment she raised her veil, all who could catch a glimpse of her
countenance were struck with astonishment at the dazzling loveliness
thus revealed; and even the magistrate felt anxious to learn what
misadventure could have placed so peerless a being within the grasp of
justice. Her crime could scarcely be robbery; for she was well-dressed,
and had the appearance of belonging to even a wealthy family. Besides,
her face—her eyes seemed to denote a conscious purity of soul, in spite
of the painful emotions which her present situation had excited within
her bosom.

But the person who was most interested—most astonished by the sudden
revelation of that exquisite countenance, was Tom Rain. It was not with
lustful desire that he surveyed her; it was not with any unholy passion:
on the contrary, it was with a sentiment of deep devotion and profound
sympathy. He also manifested extreme curiosity to learn upon what
possible charge Esther de Medina could have been brought thither.

On her part, she was evidently altogether unacquainted with the person
of Tom Rain; for as she cast a rapid and timid glance around, her eyes
lingered not upon him.

The middle-aged, handsome-looking man who had just entered the office,
was now desired to state the grounds upon which Esther de Medina was in
custody.

This witness deposed that his name was Edward Gordon, and that he was a
diamond-merchant, residing in Arundel Street, Strand. On the 31st of
October, at about five o'clock in the evening, a female called upon him
and requested him to purchase of her a diamond ring, which she produced.
He examined it by the light of the lamp burning in the apartment where
he received her; and, finding that it was really a jewel of some value,
he offered her a price which he considered fair. That sum was thirty
guineas. She endeavoured to obtain more; but he did not consider himself
justified in acceding to her wish. Finally, she accepted his proposal,
received the amount, left the ring, and departed. He went out
immediately after, carefully locking the door of the room. Having an
engagement to dine with a friend, he returned home late, and did not
enter that particular room until the following morning; when he
discovered that a set of diamonds, which he remembered to have been
lying in an open case upon the table at the time the female called on
the preceding evening, was missing. He searched vainly in all parts of
the room; and at length came to the fixed conclusion that the female in
question had stolen the diamonds. He gave immediate information to
Bingham, the officer, together with an accurate description of the
suspected person; for she was upwards of twenty minutes with him on the
evening of the 31st, and he had therefore seen enough of her to know her
again.

"Moreover," added the prosecutor "two clear days only have elapsed since
the interview which took place between us; and I appeal to your worship
whether the countenance of the prisoner, when once seen, can be readily
forgotten; for painful as it is to accuse so young and interesting a
person of such a crime, my duty to society compels me to take this step;
and I have no hesitation in declaring that the prisoner is the female
who sold me the ring."

A profound sigh escaped from the bosom of Esther; but she uttered not a
word.

Bingham, the officer, then proved that he called about half an hour
previously upon Mr. Gordon to inform him that he had vainly endeavoured
to discover a clue to the supposed thief. Mr. Gordon was on the point of
going out upon particular business, and the officer, in order not to
detain him, walked a part of the way in his company, so that they might
converse upon the subject of the robbery as they went along. They were
passing through Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, when they met the prisoner at the
bar. Mr. Gordon instantly recognised her, and the officer took her into
custody. She manifested much indignation, and said that there must be
some mistake; but when the nature of the charge was stated to her, she
turned deadly pale, and burst into tears.

Rainford had listened to these statements with the deepest—the most
intense interest; and his countenance underwent various changes,
especially while Mr. Gordon was giving his evidence. At one moment Tom
exhibited surprise—then indignation,—and, lastly, the most unfeigned
sorrow.

But suddenly an idea seemed to strike him: for a minute did he reflect
profoundly; and then joy animated his features.

Hastily quitting the court, he hurried to the coffee-house opposite,
called for writing materials, and penned the following letter:—

                                                      "_Nov. 3, 1826._

  "MY LORD,—Esther de Medina is at Bow Street, accused of a crime
  which is alleged to have been committed at about five o'clock in the
  evening of the 31st of October. It is for you to prove her
  innocence. Delay not, then, an instant.

                     "AN UNKNOWN FRIEND TO ESTHER."

Throwing a shilling upon the table, Tom Rain hurried away, took a
hackney-coach at the nearest station, and desired to be driven to the
mansion of Lord Ellingham, Pall-mall, West.

A half-guinea which he slipped into the coachman's hand as he entered
the vehicle, produced the desired effect; for the horses were urged into
a pace the rapidity of which seemed to astonish themselves as a proof of
what they could do if they chose; and, in a very short time, Rainford
leapt out at the door of his lordship's abode.

The nobleman was fortunately at home; and Tom Rain delivered the letter
to the servant who answered his summons.

Then, having desired the coachman to wait, as he might have "a fare"
back to Bow Street, Rainford hurried away at his utmost speed, retracing
his steps to the police-office.

In the meantime, the clerk had taken down the depositions of Mr. Edward
Gordon and Bingham; while the most extraordinary sensation prevailed in
the court. The youth—the loveliness—the modest, yet dignified appearance
of Esther de Medina enlisted all sympathies in her favour; and many a
rude heart then present felt a pang at the idea of believing her to be
guilty.

She had stood up when the prosecutor was called against her; but when he
reached that point in his evidence which mentioned the loss of his
diamonds, she clasped her hand convulsively together, and, trembling
with agitation, sank into the chair from which she had risen.

When the depositions were taken down, the magistrate said, "Prisoner,
you have heard the very serious charge made against you: have you any
thing to say in your defence?"

Then she spoke for the first time since she had entered the court; and
though her words were delivered with impassioned emphasis, the melodious
tones of her voice sounded like a silver bell upon the ears of all
present.

"Sir, I am innocent—I am innocent!" she exclaimed. "Oh! God knows that I
am innocent!"

The glance she darted from beneath her darkly fringed lids spoke even
more eloquently than her words; and every feature of her fine
countenance seemed to bear testimony to the truth of her declaration.

"Would you not do well to send for your friends?" asked the magistrate,
in a kind tone.

These words seemed to touch her most acutely: they summed up as it were
all the painful features of her most distressing position.

"Oh! my father—my dear, dear father!" she exclaimed, her countenance
expressing so much bitter—bitter anguish, that there was scarcely an
unmoistened eye in the court.

"Your worship, I do not wish to prosecute this case—I am sorry I have
gone so far," said the diamond-merchant, wiping away the tears from his
cheeks—for he was really a good-natured man.

"It is not in my power to stay the proceedings," replied Sir Walter
Ferguson. "The evidence is unfortunately strong against the prisoner.
She would do well to send for her friends. Let the case stand over for
half an hour."

Esther was accordingly conducted into the magistrate's private room,
where she was visited by the female-searcher, who endeavoured to
persuade her, with as much gentleness as she could command, to mention
the residence of her parents.

"Alas! my mother has long been dead," was the mournful reply; "and my
poor father—oh! it would break his heart were he to know——"

She checked herself, and fell into a profound reverie—despair expressed
in her countenance. During the remainder of the half hour which
intervened ere she was led back to the office, she replied only in vague
and unsatisfactory, but not self-inculpating, monosyllables to the
questions addressed to her.

At length the female-searcher gave her an indirect intimation, that her
punishment on trial would be more lenient if she admitted her guilt and
expressed her contrition.

"What!" she exclaimed, with a recovering sob; "do you really deem me
culpable of this most heinous charge? My God! have the Christians no
mercy—no compassion? Oh! I should not speak thus to you! But I know that
our race is looked upon with suspicion: we are prejudged, because we are
Jews! And yet," she added, in a different and prouder tone, "there are
as noble sentiments—as generous feelings—as estimable qualities amongst
the members of the scattered tribe, as in the hearts of those Christians
who have persecuted our nation for centuries and centuries!"

The woman, to whom these words were addressed, was astonished at the
enthusiastic manner in which the beautiful Jewess spoke; for there was
something at that moment sublimely interesting—eloquently commanding
about Esther de Medina, as the rich colour glowed more deeply upon her
cheeks, the blue veins dilated on her proud forehead, and the whole
power of her soul seemed thrown into her magnificent eyes.

It was at this moment that the usher of the court entered to conduct the
Jewess back into the office.

Once more she stood in the presence of the magistrate,—now no longer
subdued and crushed with terror; but nerved, as it were by conscious
innocence, to meet the accusation brought against her.

Tom Rain had returned to the court; and, by mingling with the crowd of
spectators, anxiously watched the countenance of Esther de Medina.

"Prisoner," said the magistrate, "have you anything now to offer in your
defence? Or have you sent to communicate with your friends relative to
the position in which you are placed?"

"Sir," answered Esther, her soft and musical tones falling like a
delicious harmony upon the ears, "I have but one word to utter in my
defence; and if I did not speak it when I first stood before you, it was
simply because this terrible accusation, bursting so abruptly upon the
head of an innocent person, stupefied me—deprived me of the power of
collecting my ideas. Neither was it until within a moment of my return
into the court that the fact which I am about to state flashed to my
memory. Sir—I was not in London from two o'clock in the afternoon until
half-past ten o'clock at night, on the 31st of October."

A gentle—a very gentle smile played upon her vermilion lips as she
uttered these words.

"And it was during the interval which you name that the prosecutor was
visited by the female whom he believes to have robbed him of his
diamonds?" observed the magistrate.

"I deny having visited the prosecutor at all," answered Esther, in a
firm but respectful tone. "I never sold him a ring—I never sold an
article of jewellery to a living being. Placed by the honest industry of
my father above want," she continued proudly, "I labour not under the
necessity of parting with my jewellery to obtain money."

At this moment, a fine, tall, handsome young man, of about six and
twenty years of age, entered the court. He was dressed in an elegant but
unassuming manner: his bearing was lofty, without being proud; and his
fine blue eyes indicated a frank and generous disposition.

Slightly inclining in acknowledgment of the respect with which the crowd
made way for him to pass, he advanced towards the magistrate, who
instantly recognised him as an acquaintance.

At the same moment, Esther started with surprise, and murmured the name
of Lord Ellingham.

To the astonishment of all present—Tom Rain, perhaps, excepted,—the
nobleman shook Esther kindly by the hand, saying, "In the name of
heaven, Miss de Medina, what unfortunate—or rather ridiculous mistake
has brought you hither?"

Sir Walter Ferguson immediately directed the clerk to read over the
depositions.

"What!" ejaculated Lord Ellingham, who had scarcely been able to
restrain his indignation during the recital of the previous proceedings:
"the daughter of a respectable and wealthy gentleman to be placed in
such a position as this! But in a moment I will make her innocence
apparent. At the very time when this robbery was alleged to have taken
place—at the hour when the female, for whom this young lady has
evidently been mistaken, called upon the prosecutor—Miss de Medina was
not within six miles of Arundel Street."

These words produced in the court a sensation which was the more lively
because they seemed to corroborate the prisoner's own defence—a defence
which Lord Ellingham had not heard.

Mr. Gordon, the prosecutor, looked astounded—and yet not altogether
grieved at the prospect of the prisoner's discharge.

"Mr. de Medina," continued Lord Ellingham, "has only recently arrived in
London, having retired from an extensive commercial business which he
long carried on at Liverpool. He has become my tenant for a house and
small estate situated at a distance of about seven miles from the
metropolis; and on the 31st of October I accompanied him and his
daughter—the lady now present—on a visit to the property thus leased. We
left London in my own carriage at about two o'clock on the day named;
and it was between ten and eleven at night when we returned. During that
interval of several hours Miss de Medina never quitted her father and
myself."

A murmur of satisfaction arose on the part of the spectators; but it was
almost immediately interrupted by the entrance of an elderly and
venerable-looking man, whose countenance—of that cast which ever
characterises the sons of the scattered tribe—had once been strikingly
handsome. Though not deficient in an expression of generosity, it
nevertheless exhibited great firmness of disposition; and his keen black
eyes denoted a resolute, unbending, and determined soul. He was upwards
of fifty-five years of age, and was plainly, though neatly, dressed.

Advancing into the body of the court, he cast a rapid glance around.

"My father!" exclaimed Esther; and springing forward, she threw herself
into her parent's arms.

He held her tenderly for a few moments: then, gently disengaging himself
from her embrace, he murmured in her ear, "Oh! Esther—Esther, I can
understand it all! You have brought this upon yourself!"

But these words were heard only by Lord Ellingham, who had advanced to
shake hands with the Jew.

That reproach appeared for the moment to be singular and altogether
misplaced, as it was impossible that Esther could have perpetrated the
crime imputed to her: but the nobleman had not leisure to reflect upon
it, for Mr. de Medina now perceived him and accepted the outstretched
hand.

"I was accidentally passing by the court," said the Jew; "and hearing my
own name mentioned by some loungers outside, paused to listen. Their
conversation induced me to make inquiries; and I learnt all the
particulars of this charge."

"And some unknown friend of Miss de Medina sent me a hasty note
conveying the unpleasant intelligence," answered Lord Ellingham. "But I
believe that I have fully convinced his worship of your daughter's
innocence."

These last words were uttered in a louder tone than the former part of
the observation, and were evidently addressed to the magistrate.

"For my part," said Mr. Gordon, "I am perfectly satisfied that there is
a grievous misunderstanding in this matter. Miss de Medina is evidently
unconnected with it; and yet," he added, as his eyes dwelt upon her
countenance, "never was resemblance so striking! However—I am well
pleased to think that Miss de Medina is _not_ the person by whom I was
plundered; and I most sincerely implore her pardon for the
inconvenience—nay, the ignominy to which she has been subjected."

Esther turned an appealing glance towards her father, as if to remind
him of some duty which he ought to perform, or to convey some silent
prayer which he could well understand: but he affected not to notice
that rapid but profoundly significant glance.

The magistrate then declared that the young lady was discharged, without
the slightest stain upon her character.

Hastily drawing down her thick black veil, Esther de Medina bowed
deferentially to the bench; and passed out of the office, leaning on her
father's arm, and accompanied by the Earl of Ellingham.

Tom Rain followed her with his eyes until the door closed behind her.

For a few moments he remained wrapped up in a deep reverie: then,
heaving a profound sigh, he also took his departure.




                               CHAPTER V.
                          THE APPEAL OF LOVE.


It was about eight o'clock in the evening of the day on which so many
strange incidents occurred at Bow Street, that Lady Hatfield was
reclining in a melancholy mood upon the sofa in the drawing-room of her
splendid mansion.

She was dressed in black satin, which set off the beauty of her
complexion to the greatest advantage.

One of her fair hands drooped over the back of the sofa: the other
listlessly held a book, to the perusal of which she had vainly
endeavoured to settle herself.

There was a mysterious air of mournfulness about her that contrasted
strangely with the elegance of the apartment, the cheerful blaze of the
fire, the brilliant lustre of the lamps, and the general appearance of
wealth and luxury by which she was surrounded.

That sorrowful expression, too, was the more unaccountable, inasmuch as
the social position of Georgiana Hatfield seemed to be enviable in the
extreme. Beautiful in person, possessing rank and wealth, and free to
follow her own inclinations, she might have shone the star of
fashion—the centre of that human galaxy whose sphere is the West End of
London.

Oh! bright—gloriously bright are the planets which move in that heaven
of their own:—and yet how useless is their brilliancy! The planets of
God's own sky are made to bestow their light upon the orbs which without
them would revolve in darkness; but the planets of the sphere of
aristocracy and fashion throw not a single ray upon the millions of
inferior stars which are compelled to circle around them!

To Lady Hatfield the pleasures and dissipation of the West End were
unwelcome; and she seldom entered into society, save when a refusal
would prove an offence. Up to the age of seventeen or eighteen she had
been remarkable for a happy, joyous, and gay disposition: but a sudden
change came over her at that period of her life; and since then her
habits had grown retired—her disposition mournful.

But let us return to her, as she lay reclining on the sofa in the
drawing-room.

The robbery of the preceding night and the events of the morning had
evidently produced a powerful impression upon her mind. At times an
expression of acute anguish distorted her fair countenance for a moment;
and once or twice she compressed her lips forcibly, as if to restrain a
burst of mental agony.

The time-piece upon the mantel had just proclaimed the hour of eight,
when a domestic entered the room and announced the Earl of Ellingham.

Georgiana started up—assumed a placid expression of countenance—and
advanced to receive the young nobleman, who, as he took her hand,
respectfully pressed it to his lips.

"Your ladyship will, I hope, pardon me for intruding at this hour," he
said, as he conducted her back to the sofa, and then took a chair at a
short distance; "but I was not aware of your return to town until an
hour ago, when I perused in the evening paper an account of the outrage
of last night and the investigation at Bow Street this morning. How
annoying it must have been to you, my dear Lady Hatfield, to have gone
through the ordeal of a visit to a police-court!"

"There is something gloomy and dispiriting in the aspect of these
tribunals which the crimes of the human race have rendered necessary,"
observed Georgiana. "The countenances of those persons whom I beheld at
the police-office this morning, had all a certain sinister expression
which I cannot define, but which seemed to proclaim that they never
contemplated aught save the dark side of society."

"The same idea struck me this day," said Lord Ellingham: "for I also
paid a visit to Bow Street—and scarcely an hour, I should conceive,
after you must have left the office. But enough of this subject: the
words _Bow Street_—_Police_—and _Tribunal_ grate painfully upon the ear
even of the innocent,—that is, if they possess hearts capable of
sorrowing for the woes and crimes of their fellow-creatures. Lady
Hatfield," continued the Earl, drawing his chair a little closer, "it
was to converse upon another topic—yes, another and a more tender
topic—that I have hastened to your presence this evening."

Georgiana was about to reply;—but the words died upon her quivering
lips—and an oppressive feeling kept her silent.

"Yes, my dear Lady Hatfield," continued the Earl, drawing his chair
still more nigh,—"I can no longer exist in this state of suspense.
During the whole of last winter I was often in your society: you were
kind enough to permit my visits—and it was impossible to be much with
you, and not learn to love you. You departed suddenly for the country
last July: but I dared not follow—for you had not even informed me of
your intended retirement from London at so early a period. Pardon me if
I say I felt hurt,—yes, _hurt_, Lady Hatfield,—because I loved you! And
yet never—during that interval of four months—has your image been absent
from my mind: and now I am again attracted towards you by a spell
stronger than my powers of resistance. Oh! you must long ago have read
my heart, Georgiana:—say, then—_can_ you, _do_ you love me in return?"

There was something so sincere—so earnest—and yet so manly in the fluent
language of the Earl of Ellingham,—his fine countenance was lighted up
with so animated an expression of hope and love,—and his eyes bore such
complete testimony to the candour of his speech,—that Georgiana must
have been ungenerous indeed had she heard that appeal with coldness.

Nor was it so; and the Earl read in the depths of her melting blue orbs
a sentiment reciprocal with his own.

"My lord—Arthur," she murmured, "you ask me if I _can_ love—if I _do_
love you:—and, oh! you know not the pang which that question excites in
my heart! Yes," she added hastily, seeing that the Earl was astonished
at her words, "I _do_ love you, Arthur—for you are all that is good,
generous, and handsome! But—my God!—how can I force my lips to utter the
sad avowal——"

"Speak, Georgiana—speak, I conjure you!" exclaimed Lord Ellingham: "you
alarm me! Oh! keep me not in suspense! You say that you love me——"

"I never loved until I knew you—I shall never love another," answered
Georgiana, fixing her deep, silently expressive, and intellectual eyes
upon the countenance of the Earl.

"A thousand thanks for that declaration, my heart's sole joy!" he cried
in an impassioned tone; and, falling on his knees by the side of the
sofa, he threw his arms around her—he clasped her to his breast—his lips
pressed hers for the first time.

But that joy lasted only for a moment.

With rebounding heart—and with almost a scream of anguish—Georgiana drew
herself back, and abruptly repulsed her ardent lover: then, covering her
face with her hands, she burst into a flood of tears.

"My God! what signifies this strange conduct?" ejaculated the Earl, as,
with wounded pride, he retreated a few paces from the weeping lady.

"Forgive me—forgive me, Arthur!" she wildly cried, turning her streaming
eyes towards him in a beseeching manner. "I am unhappy—very unhappy—and
you should pity me!"

"Pity _you_!" exclaimed the Earl, again approaching the sofa, and taking
her hand, which she did not attempt to withdraw: "how can _you_ be an
object of pity? Beautiful—beloved by one whose life shall be devoted to
ensure the felicity of yours——"

"Oh! your generous affection, Arthur, gives me more pain than all the
rest!" cried Georgiana, in a rapid—half-hysterical tone. "As a weak
woman, I have dared to love you—as an imprudent one, I have confessed
that love;—but now," she added, in a slower and firmer tone, while her
vermilion lips quivered with a bitter smile,—"now, as a strong woman—as
a woman restored to a sense of duty—do I make the avowal—and my heart is
ready to break as I thus speak——"

"Good heavens! relieve me from this cruel—this agonizing suspense!"
passionately exclaimed the Earl.

"I will—I will," returned Lady Hatfield. "Arthur—dearly, fondly,
devotedly as I love you,—proud as I should be to call you my
husband,—happy, happy as I should feel to link my fate with yours,—alas!
it cannot be:—never—never!" she added with a frantic vehemence that
caused every chord to thrill in the heart of her admirer.

"Georgiana, is this possible?" he asked, in a faint tone, while a deadly
pallor overspread his countenance.

"Would that it were _not_!" she murmured, clasping her hands together in
visible anguish of soul.

"And yet it is incomprehensible!" cried the Earl, starting back, and
even manifesting somewhat of impatience. "You are not a foolish girl who
takes delight in trifling with the sincere attachment of an honest man
who adores her:—you are not a heartless coquette, looking upon her
admirer as a slave whom she is justified to torture. No—no: you yourself
possess a generous soul—you have no sympathy with the frivolous portion
of your sex—you are as strong-minded, as sincere as you are beautiful.
Tell me, then, Georgiana—what signifies this strange contradiction? You
love me—you would be happy and proud to become mine;—and yet—my God!—and
yet you the next moment annihilate every hope in my breast!"

"Alas! how unpardonable must my conduct seem—how inexplicable my
behaviour!" exclaimed Lady Hatfield, in a tone of despair. "I am not
indeed a heartless coquette—nor a weak frivolous girl:—in the sincerity
of my heart do I speak, Arthur;—and if you be generous you will forgive
me—but I never can be thine!"

"Then you love another!" cried the Earl, impatiently.

"Have I not solemnly assured you that I never loved till I knew you—and
shall never, never love again!" she added, with a convulsive sob, as if
her heart were breaking.

"But perhaps you were betrothed to another in your youth:—peradventure
that _other_ has some sacred pledge—some irrevocable bond——"

"No—no: I am my own mistress—none can control me!" interrupted
Georgiana, her nervous state of excitement growing each moment more
painful.

"And your uncle—your friends—your advisers?" said the Earl,—"it is
possible that _they_ have become acquainted with my attachment towards
you—that _they_ have some motive to counsel you against my suit?"

"On the contrary——But, my God! do not question me thus!" almost shrieked
the unhappy lady. "I shall go mad—I shall go mad!"

"Oh! there is some dreadful mystery in all this!" cried the Earl; "and I
too shall go mad if it be not explained! Merciful heavens! a terrible
suspicion flashes across my mind. And yet—no—no, it cannot be,—for you
declare that you never loved another! Still—still, what motive, save
_that_, can render you thus resolute not to become mine? Georgiana," he
said, sinking his voice to a low tone, and speaking with a solemn
seriousness which had something even awful in its effect,—"Georgiana, I
conjure you to answer me,—_me_, who am your devoted lover and your
sincerest friend,—as you would reply to your God! Say—if in your giddy
and inexperienced girlhood—ignorant through extreme innocence of the
snare spread for you—and in a moment of weakness—you——"

"Just heavens! that you should suppose me criminal—guilty!" shrieked
Georgiana, covering her face with her hands.

"Pardon—pardon!" cried the Earl, again falling on his knees at the feet
of her whom he adored; and, forcibly possessing himself of one of her
hands, he conveyed it to his lips. "Pardon me for the outrageous idea
that I dared to express—forgive the insulting suspicion which for a
moment occupied my mind! Alas! alas! that I should have provoked the
look of indignation which you ere now cast upon me, when I withdrew your
hand from before your eyes! But, ah—now you smile—and I am forgiven!"

Georgiana _did_ smile—but in a manner so plaintively melancholy, that,
although it implied forgiveness for the injurious suspicion, it still
conveyed no hope!

There was a long and mournful pause.

The Earl of Ellingham burned to penetrate the deep mystery in which the
conduct of Lady Hatfield was shrouded; and yet he knew not what other
hypothesis to suggest.

He had no rival in her affections—her friends offered no objection to
his suit—she was under no pledge to bestow her hand upon any particular
individual—and the evanescent suspicion that she might have once been
frail and was too honourable to bring a polluted person to the
marriage-bed, had been banished beyond the possibility of return:—what,
then, could influence her conduct?

He knew not how to elicit the truth; and yet his happiness was too
deeply interested to permit him to depart in uncertainty and suspense.

"Georgiana," he said, at length, and speaking in a tone which showed how
profoundly his feelings were excited,—"I appeal to your sense of justice
whether you have acted candidly and generously in respect to me?
Throughout the whole of last winter you permitted my visits—I will not
say encouraged them, because you have too much delicacy to have done
that. But you were never denied to me; and you gave me not to understand
that my calls were unwelcome, when they began to exceed the usual limits
of mere friendly visits. At length my attentions became marked towards
you,—and you must have read my feelings in my manner—my language—and my
attentions. Alas! why did you permit me to encourage the blossoming of
hopes which are now so cruelly blighted by the unaccountable decision
that you have uttered to-day?"

"Oh! do not reproach me, Arthur!" exclaimed Georgiana: "and yet I know
that I have acted imprudently. But it was so sweet to be beloved by you,
that I had not courage to destroy the charming vision! At length I took
a decided step—or at least what seemed to me to be so: I departed
suddenly to my uncle's country-seat, without previously intimating my
resolution to you. And remember—no avowal of affection on your part had
then met my ears; and it was impossible that I could have acquainted you
with my proposed departure, even if I had wished so to do—because I did
not _see_ you on the day when I determined to quit London: and had I
_written_ to you then, would you not have thought that my note conveyed
a hint for you to follow me?"

"Fool—idiot that I was not to have declared my passion months and months
ago!" ejaculated the Earl. "But say, Georgiana—had I solicited your hand
last summer, ere you left London, would those reasons which influence
you now——"

"Yes—they were in existence then," was the hasty reply.

"And am I to remain in ignorance of the motives which compel you to
refuse my suit?" asked Lord Ellingham bitterly. "Is there no chance of
their influence ceasing? Oh! give me but a glimpse of hope, and so
powerful is my attachment—so devoted my love——"

"Merciful heavens!" exclaimed Georgiana wildly,—"am I then to lose such
a man as this?"

And again she clasped her hands convulsively together.

"Oh! you love me—you _do_ love me, my angel," cried the Earl; "and yet
you refuse me! What stern fate—what terrible destiny can possibly
separate us! This mystery is appalling!"

"And a mystery it must remain," said Georgiana, suddenly assuming that
quiet and passive manner which indicated despair.

"Then farewell, Lady Hatfield," exclaimed the Earl; "and be not
surprised if I must attribute the disappointment—the anguish—the deep
humiliation which I now experience, to some inexplicable caprice of the
female mind. But, madam," he added, drawing himself up haughtily, and
speaking in a tone of offended pride, "the Earl of Ellingham, whose
wealth and rank may enable him to vie with the mightiest peers of
England, will not be made the sport of the whims and wavering fancies of
even the beautiful Lady Hatfield."

Thus speaking, the nobleman bowed coldly, and advanced towards the door.

"Oh! this is cruel—this is cruel!" cried Georgiana, throwing herself
hysterically back upon the sofa.

"No, madam—it is you who are cruel to reject the honourable suit of one
like me without deigning to vouchsafe an explanation," said the Earl,
persisting in his severity of tone and manner against the promptings of
his generous nature, but with the hope of eliciting a satisfactory
reply.

"Then go, my lord—depart—leave me!" cried Georgiana; "for I never can be
yours!"

The Earl lingered for a moment: convulsive sobs broke from the lips of
the unhappy Lady Hatfield—but not a word to invite him to remain!

His pride would not permit him to offer farther entreaty;—and, suffering
cruelly at heart, he rushed from the room.

In less than a minute Georgiana heard the street-door close; and then,
burying her face in the cushion of the sofa, she gave way unrestrainedly
to all the violence of her grief.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                             DR. LASCELLES.


The interview between Lady Hatfield and the Earl of Ellingham was as
long as it was painful: and ten o'clock struck by the thousand churches
of London, as the nobleman quitted the mansion.

There was such a fierce struggle in his breast between wounded pride and
fervent affection, that his sorrow for the blighted hope of the latter
was rendered less acute by being united with the indignation inspired by
the former.

In spite of his generous nature, he could not help thinking that he had
been trifled with to some extent; for it naturally seemed preposterous
that Georgiana should refuse him without a candid explanation of the
motives, and when every earthly circumstance appeared favourable to
their union.

Then, again, he pondered upon the wildness of her grief—the delirious
anguish which she had shown at several stages of their interview—her
solemn avowal of love for him alone—and her voluntary assurance that she
should be happy and proud to call him her husband. He moreover reflected
upon the steadiness of her character—her aversion to the frivolities of
the fashionable world—her apparent candour of disposition—and her total
want of any thing approaching to coquetry;—and he endeavoured to
persuade himself that he had acted harshly by leaving her in anger.

"Yet what alternative had I?" he asked himself; "and would not any other
man have in the same way cut short an interview of so mysterious and
unsatisfactory—so perplexing and humiliating a nature?"

Alas! the Earl of Ellingham found himself the very next minute dwelling
with an aching and compassionate heart upon the agonised state in which
he had left the being whom he so tenderly loved:—he thought of her
fascinating beauty—her bewitching manners—her well-cultivated mind—her
amiable disposition;—and then he said within himself, "Oh! if I have
indeed lost _her_, I have lost an angel!"

He had reached the immediate vicinity of Hatchett's Hotel, when he
turned back with the resolution of seeking another interview with
Georgiana.

But scarcely had he retraced ten steps of the way, ere he stopped short,
and asked himself what advantage could be gained by such a proceeding?

"The decision is given," he reasoned: "she can never—_never_ be mine!
Wherefore should I renew _her_ grief and _my_ humiliation—evoke fresh
tears from _her_ eyes, and add sharpness to the sting of _my_
disappointment? No: it may not be! Some terrible mystery shrouds her
conduct from my penetration;—but shall I, who am defeated in
love, give way to a base sentiment of curiosity? It would be
unmanly—ignoble—cowardly to attempt to extort her secret from _her_,—for
a profound secret she doubtless cherishes—a secret which has this
evening influenced her conduct! And perhaps," he thought, following the
natural channel of his meditations, "that secret is of a nature which a
modest woman could not reveal to one of the opposite sex?"

This idea, suddenly flashing across his brain, suggested a proceeding
which, after a few minutes of profound reflection, he determined to
adopt.

Passing rapidly up Dover Street, Lord Ellingham entered Grafton Street,
where he knocked at a door on which was a brass-plate engraved with the
name of DR. LASCELLES.

The physician was at home; and the nobleman was immediately ushered into
a parlour, where he was shortly joined by the individual whom he sought.

Dr. Lascelles was a short, thin, sallow-faced man of about fifty. He had
small, restless, sparkling eyes, a prim mouth, and an intelligent though
by no means prepossessing countenance. He was devoted to the art which
he practised, and was reputed the most scientific man of the whole
faculty. His anatomical researches had been prosecuted with an energy
and a perseverance which afforded occupation to half the
resurrection-men in London, and more than once to the doctor's own
personal danger in respect to the law. It was whispered in well-informed
circles that he never hesitated to encounter any peril in order to
possess himself of the corpse of a person who died of an unusual malady.
His devotion to anatomy had materially blunted his feelings and deadened
the kinder sympathies of his nature; but his immense talents, added to a
reputation acquired by several wonderful cures, rendered him the most
fashionable physician of the day.

Such was the medical gentleman whom Lord Ellingham called to consult.

"Excuse this late visit, doctor," said the Earl; "but I knew that I
might take the liberty of intruding upon you."

"The words _early_ and _late_ are not in my vocabulary, so far as they
regard myself," was the reply. "My hours are at the disposal of my
patrons, amongst whom I have the honour to include your lordship."

"Then, without farther apology, I shall proceed to state the object of
my visit," said the nobleman.

"Give me your hand—you look dejected—you are very pale—your pulse——"

"It is not concerning myself altogether that I have to speak,"
interrupted the Earl, withdrawing the hand which the doctor had seized:
"I wish to consult you upon a subject intimately affecting my
happiness."

The physician looked surprised, and drew his chair closer to that in
which the Earl was seated.

"To tell you the truth," continued Arthur, "I am deeply enamoured of a
lady whose social position, beauty, fortune, and intellect render her in
every way worthy to become my wife."

"Well—why don't you propose to her?" demanded the physician drily.

"I have—and am rejected," was the answer, accompanied by a profound
sigh.

"The devil!" said the physician. "But what can I do for you in the
matter? Surely your lordship does not believe in philtres and
love-draughts?"

"Ridiculous!" cried the Earl impatiently. "If you will grant me a few
moments, I will explain myself."

Dr. Lascelles folded his arms, threw himself back in the chair, and
prepared to listen to his young friend's narrative.

"The lady to whom I am attached," continued the Earl, "is, as I ere now
informed you, in every way worthy of an alliance with me; and she is
moreover deeply attached to me. She has never loved another, and
declares that she never can. No apparent circumstances interfere with
our union; and she has done me the honour to assure me that she should
be alike proud and happy to own me as her husband. She is entirely her
own mistress; and, even if she were not, her friends would present no
barrier to our marriage. Yet she refuses me—and for some mysterious
cause which she will not explain. I have just left her,—left her in a
state of anguish such as I never before witnessed—such as I hope never
to behold again!"

[Illustration]

"Perhaps she has been guilty of some weakness which she is afraid you
would discover?" suggested Dr. Lascelles.

"Oh! no—no," exclaimed Arthur, enthusiastically: "in an unguarded
moment—carried away by a hasty suspicion of the kind—I hinted at that
possibility,—and I soon repented of my rashness! The lady's countenance
flushed with a glow of honest indignation; and, instantly veiling her
blushes with her hand, she burst into tears. I could pledge my
existence, doctor, that she is purity itself."

"But wherefore do you consult me in the matter?" asked Lascelles.

"You must admit, doctor," answered Ellingham, "that my position is a
singular one in reference to the lady of whom I speak. What am I to
conjecture? Suspense is terrible; and yet, not for worlds would I again
attempt to extort her secret from her."

"The motive may be a physical one," said the doctor.

"That was the idea which ere now struck me, and which has brought me
hither to consult you!" exclaimed the Earl.

"She may be the prey to some insidious disease which impairs not her
exterior aspect at present," continued Doctor Lascelles; "say, for
instance, a cancer in the breast. Or again, her motive may be a moral
one; inasmuch as she may be aware, from some secret warnings, that she
is in danger of suffering an aberration of reason."

"And if the lady were a patient of your own, doctor," asked the Earl,
"should you be enabled to judge whether she were menaced by that
dreadful mental malady to which you have alluded?"

"Decidedly so," replied the physician.

The Earl rose from his seat, and walked two or three times up and down
the apartment.

Dr. Lascelles followed him with his eyes; and as he surveyed the strong,
well-knit, but slender and graceful form of the young nobleman, the
votary of science could not help thinking what a splendid skeleton he
would make.

At length the Earl stopped abruptly opposite the doctor, and said in an
impressive tone, "You will never reveal the particulars of this
interview?"

"It is scarcely probable," returned Lascelles, with a smile.

"But you promise me—you pledge your word never to breathe a syllable
which may betray the motive of my present visit or the topic of our
conversation?" persisted the Earl.

"Never," exclaimed the physician.

"Then listen," said the Earl, sinking his voice almost to a
whisper;—"the lady of whom I have spoken, is——"

"Lady Hatfield," observed Lascelles.

"What! you have guessed——"

"Simply because every one said last winter that you were dying for her,"
interrupted the doctor coolly; "and therefore I presume you have availed
yourself of her ladyship's return to town to place your coronet at her
feet."

"Yes—I do allude to Georgiana, whose professional attendant you are,"
cried the Earl. "And believe me when I solemnly declare that no
sentiment of impertinent curiosity——"

"Never mind the motives," said the doctor: "let us keep to the facts. I
have known Lady Hatfield for upwards of five years; and I can positively
assure your lordship that there is not the slightest cause, physical or
moral, with which I am acquainted, that can influence her conduct
towards you."

"Then, what can this mystery be?" exclaimed Arthur, more perplexed than
ever. "My God! must I again fall back upon the hypothesis of a woman's
idle caprice—the theory of her unaccountable whims? Is she the victim of
an idiosyncracy which she cannot control? and must I be made its sport?"

"Throughout the sphere of my extensive practice," observed Dr.
Lascelles, "I know not a woman less likely to be swayed by idle caprice
or unaccountable whims than Lady Hatfield. Her mind is strong—her
intellect bright and uncharacterised by the slightest eccentricity. I
have, however, frequently observed that her ladyship is the prey to a
secret melancholy—that she has her dark moments, as one may denominate
them; but at those times the vigour of her soul is not subdued to a
degree that would produce so strange a result as a decision affecting
her own happiness. You say she loves you——"

"I have not a doubt of the sincerity of her attachment!" cried the Earl
emphatically.

"And yet she will not marry you?" said the doctor. "I cannot comprehend
it."

"Nor I," observed Arthur, with exceeding bitterness of tone. "My
happiness is at stake. What can I do? Had she explained the motive of
her refusal, and were that motive a strong one,—did it reveal some cause
which would render our union infelicitous,—I might have borne up against
this cruel—cruel disappointment. My love for her would then have been
converted, by admiration of her generous candour, into a permanent
friendship; and we might henceforth have met as brother and sister. But
how can I ever visit her again? how can I meet her? Beautiful and
amiable as she is, I adore her;—and yet I dare not in future trust
myself in her presence! No:—I must crush this love in my heart—stifle
it—subdue it altogether! Oh! fool that I am to talk thus;—as if it were
practicable to forget her—as if it were possible to cease to worship
her! Ere now, as I walked through the streets, I endeavoured to blunt
the keenness of my affection by placing it in contact with the amount of
wrong which I deemed myself to have experienced at her hands. But,
unjustly perhaps as she has treated me—humiliated as I felt and still
feel myself to be—chagrined—disappointed—rejected without
explanation,—oh! all these injuries are absorbed in the immensity of the
love which I bear her!"

And in a state of extraordinary excitement, Arthur paced the room with
agitated steps.

The doctor sate musing upon his chair. He had ever been too much devoted
to scientific pursuits to afford leisure for the delights of love; and
though he was married, he had entered the connubial state only through
motives of self-interest. Well aware that ladies prefer a medical
attendant whose propriety of conduct is—or at least appears to
be—guaranteed by marriage, he had one day cast his mental eyes around
the circle of his acquaintance; and his glances were at length fixed
upon a wealthy widow who was one of his patients. Jumping into his cab,
he called upon her, and, in order not to waste time, proposed while he
felt her pulse: she simpered an assent—and, as she could not name the
day, he did it for her while he wrote out a prescription. Then he
pocketed her guinea all the same—not through meanness, but from the
regularity of professional habit; and had she offered him a fee as an
acknowledgment for his loss of time on the morning when they issued from
the church, he would also have taken it. This union was sterile; but the
doctor found that he had obtained an excellent wife, who kept his house
in good order—did the honours of his table to admiration—and never
interrupted him when he was engaged in his study.

We have only introduced this little episode in the life of Dr.
Lascelles, just to convince our readers that he was not at all the man
to comprehend the vehemence of Lord Ellingham's love. Thus, while the
nobleman was pacing the apartment in the manner described above, and
declaiming in reference to his passion, the physician was meditating
profoundly upon the conduct of Lady Hatfield in refusing so excellent a
match. His mind, habituated to connect every thing as much as possible
with the special sphere of science wherein he moved, soon lost itself in
a field of conjecture as to whether there might not be some physical
cause, carefully concealed even from himself, which would elucidate the
mystery. The result of his meditations was not at all satisfactory to
himself; but he resolved that he would not allow the matter to remain
just where it was.

This determination he did not, however, communicate to Lord Ellingham,
who took his leave more bewildered than ever as to the motive which
could have possibly induced Lady Hatfield to assure him of her love and
yet refuse him her hand.




                              CHAPTER VII.
                         THE BEAUTIFUL PATIENT.


Ten minutes had scarcely elapsed since Lord Ellingham took his departure
from the doctor's abode, and the learned gentleman himself was still
pondering on the strange communication which had been made to him, when
a loud and hasty knock at the front-door echoed through the house.

A servant answered the summons, and in a few moments ushered Tom Rain
into the presence of Dr. Lascelles.

"Sir," said the visitor, who was painfully excited, "a female—a young
woman in whom I am deeply interested—has taken poison. Come with me this
instant, I implore you."

Dr. Lascelles snatched up his hat, and followed Rainford without pausing
to ask a single question. A hackney-coach was waiting at the door: the
two individuals leapt in; and the vehicle drove rapidly away.

The doctor now thought it expedient to make a few inquiries relative to
the case which was about to engage his attention.

"What poison has the young woman taken?" he asked.

"Arsenic," was the reply: "for I found the paper which had contained
it."

"And how long ago?"

"Ten minutes before I knocked at your door."

"Has there been any vomiting?"

"I did not delay a single moment in hastening to fetch you, after the
unhappy creature took the poison; and therefore I am unable to answer
that question."

The physician remained silent; and in a few minutes the coach stopped at
a house in South Moulton Street.

The door was opened by a servant-girl; and Rainford led the physician to
a bed-room on the second floor, whither the servant-girl followed them.

By the light of a candle placed upon a chest of drawers, Dr. Lascelles
beheld a young female of great beauty, and with no other garment on than
her night-dress, writhing in excruciating agonies upon the bed. From the
reply given by the servant-girl to a question put by the doctor, it
appeared that the young lady had been seized with violent vomiting the
moment after Tom Rain had left to procure medical aid; and Lascelles
accordingly proceeded to adopt the usual treatment which is pursued in
such cases.[1]

In the course of half an hour the patient was pronounced to be out of
danger; and Tom Rain, who had in the meantime manifested the utmost
anxiety and uneasiness, now exhibited a proportionate liveliness of joy.

"Shall I recover, sir! Oh! tell me—shall I recover?" asked the young
woman in a strange, thrilling, piteous tone, as she fixed her large dark
eyes upon the countenance of the physician.

"You are in a fair way to survive this mad—this wicked attempt upon your
life," answered Lascelles, in a compassionately reproachful rather than
a severe tone. "But you must be kept quiet—and all sources of mental
irritation must be removed or forgotten as much as possible," he added,
glancing towards Rainford.

"Oh! sir—do not imagine for a moment that _he_ will upbraid or ill-treat
me!" exclaimed the young woman, darting a fond look towards Tom Rain:
then, drawing a long and heavy respiration, she said in a different and
more subdued tone, "In justice to _him_, doctor, I must assure you that
no harshness on _his_ part urged me to this shocking deed: but——"

"Yes, my dearest girl," interrupted Rain, rushing to the bed, and taking
one of her hands which he pressed fondly to his lips, "I _did_ upbraid
you—I _did_ speak severely to you——"

"No—no—not more than I deserved!" cried the young woman: "for I was very
wrong—oh! I was very wrong! But say, Tom, can you forgive me?"

"He does forgive you—he has forgiven you," exclaimed the physician. "And
now abandon that subject, which is naturally a painful one. To-morrow
morning I shall call and see you early."

Dr. Lascelles took up his hat to depart, and Rainford followed him into
the passage, where he said in a low but earnest tone, "One word, sir, in
private! Please to step into this room."

And he conducted the physician into a front apartment, the door of which
he carefully closed.

"In the first place, sir," began Rainford when they were thus alone
together, "allow me to thank you for your prompt and effectual aid in
this most painful affair;"—and he slipped five guineas into the doctor's
hand. "Secondly, let me implore of you to grant the favour which I am
about to ask."

"Speak, sir," said Lascelles; "and if your request be not inconsistent
with my honour as a physician and as a gentleman——"

"Far from it!" exclaimed Rainford. "It is this:—Promise me, on your
solemn word of honour, _as a physician and as a gentleman_, that, when
once your professional visits here have ceased, you will forget that you
ever beheld that young woman who is lying in the next room. Promise me,
I say, in the most binding manner, that should you ever henceforth meet
her, alone or in company, you will not even appear to recognise her,
much less attempt to speak to her, unless you be formally introduced to
her, when you will consider your acquaintance with her to begin only
from the moment of such introduction. Promise me all this, sir, I
implore you—for you know not what vitally important interests may be
compromised by your conduct in this matter."

"I have not the slightest objection to tranquillise your mind by giving
the pledge which you demand," returned Dr. Lascelles, without a moment's
hesitation.

"A thousand thanks, sir!" cried Rainford joyfully. "You fully understand
the precise nature of the reserve and silence which I require?"

"Never to allude in any way to the incident of this night, nor to appear
to recognise elsewhere nor henceforth the young lady whom I have just
seen," said the doctor. "You may rely upon me: the secret shall never
transpire from my lips."

"Again I express my gratitude," cried Rainford, with undisguised
satisfaction.

Dr. Lascelles then took his leave; and, as he retraced his way to
Grafton Street, he never once ceased to think of the strange promise
which he had been required to give in respect to the beautiful creature
who had made so resolute an attempt upon her own existence.

On the following morning, shortly after eight o'clock, the physician's
cab stopped at the door of the house in South Moulton Street; but, to
his surprise, he learnt from the landlady that Mr. and Mrs. Jameson (by
which names Rainford and the young woman had been known at their
lodgings) had taken their departure at seven o'clock, before it was even
light.

"Had they resided long with you?" inquired the doctor.

"Only a week, sir," was the answer. "The lady kept herself very quiet,
and seldom went out. When she did, she always had a thick black veil
over her face; and, you may think it strange, sir—but it's true for all
that—which is, sir, that I never once caught a glimpse of her
countenance all the time she was in this house. But the servant-gal says
she was very beautiful—very beautiful indeed! _You_ must, however, be
able to judge whether that report is true or not, sir?"

"I know little, and think less of those matters, my good woman," said
the doctor hastily; and, returning to his cab, he drove off to visit
another patient.

-----

Footnote 1:

  The first great object which we must keep in view, is to promote the
  speedy evacuation of the stomach: if the poison itself has not
  produced vomiting, from ten to twenty grains of sulphate of zinc must
  be given if it can be readily procured; this generally acts as a
  powerful emetic. If this, however, cannot be obtained, a mustard
  emetic should be administered, and the vomiting promoted by drinking
  large quantities of barley water, linseed tea, milk or tepid water:
  the two first being of a mucilaginous nature are to be preferred;
  tickling the back of the throat with a feather will often cause the
  stomach to reject its contents. It frequently happens that this
  treatment alone is sufficient for relief in accidents of this nature.
  After the stomach has been cleansed by the emetic, &c., as described
  above, lime-water, or chalk diffused in water, if it can be procured,
  may be given in large quantities. Hahnemann has recommended soap to be
  dissolved in water, in the proportion of a pound to four pints, and a
  tea-cupful to be given every five or six minutes; this undoubtedly is
  the best treatment if lime-water is not at hand. Powdered charcoal may
  also be administered with advantage if the other remedies are not
  immediately attainable. The above remedies may be used with some
  degree of confidence, although their good effects are not sufficiently
  certain to establish them as "antidotes."—_Ready Remedies in Cases of
  Poisoning, &c. By James Johnson, M.R.C.S._




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                              SEVEN DIALS.


There is not in all London a more extraordinary locality than that which
bears the denomination of Seven Dials.

Situate in the midst of one of the lowest and worst neighbourhoods
throughout the metropolis, and forming a focus where seven streets,
converging towards that point, meet like as many streams flowing into a
common reservoir, the open spot of ground called Seven Dials is a lounge
for all the idle vagabonds and ill-looking persons, men and women, who
occupy the cellars and garrets in the vicinity.

From the centre of the open space alluded to, the eyes may plunge their
glances down into the circumjacent thoroughfares—narrow, dark, filthy,
and formed by dwellings of an appearance so miserable or so repulsive
that they equally pain the heart and shock the sight.

If the wanderer amidst the mazes of this vast city were desired to point
out the chosen abode of poverty and crime, taking as his guide the
physical aspect of all the worst neighbourhoods, he would probably
indicate Seven Dials and its branching streets.

The shops are all of the lowest and dirtiest description; nauseous
odours impregnate the atmosphere. In winter the streets are knee-deep in
mud, save when hardened by the frost; and in summer they are strewed
with the putrefying remnants of vegetables, offal, and filth of every
description.

Half-naked children paddle about in the mire or wallow on the heaps of
decomposing substances just alluded to,—greedily devouring the parings
of turnips and carrots, sucking the marrow out of the rotting bones, and
rejoicing when they happen to find a mouldy crust, a morsel of putrid
meat, or the maggot-eaten head of a fish. Neglected beings, too, are
they—knowing nothing save blows, curses, and hunger at home, and
learning naught save every corrupt habit and ruinous vice abroad.

How can we be surprised if such an infancy becomes imbued with those
evil principles which gaols and treadmills only tend afterwards to
confirm, and which give ample promise of occupation for turnkeys,
penal-settlements, and the hangman?

The Established Church is maintained at an annual expense of several
millions sterling; the clergy belonging to that Church claim the right
of educating and instructing the people;—and yet in no country in the
civilised world is there such an appalling amount of juvenile depravity
as in England!

For ourselves, we declare—we repeat that our Government, our
Legislature, our Clergy, and our Great Landowners are all guilty of the
blackest turpitude in permitting hundreds of thousands—aye, millions of
children to be neglected in so horrible a manner. If a child be seized
with a malignant, infectious, and dangerous disease, what would be said
of the father who looked on indifferently—who omitted to call in medical
advice—and who beheld, with equal calmness, the furious malady spreading
amongst the rest of his offspring! Should we not denounce—should we not
execrate such a man as a monster deserving of any penalty which our
statutes could inflict?

_Yes_—a thousand times _yes_!

By a parity of reasoning, then, do we hold up to abhorrence those men
who seize upon the reins of power merely to gratify their own selfish
ambition; also those men who accept seats in the legislative assemblies,
and fritter away the time of a great nation in their own
party-squabbles,—those men, too, who put on black gowns, preach sermons
as a duty rendered in return for the enjoyment of enormous revenues, and
then declaim against the wickedness of those millions whom they do not
attempt to reform,—and, lastly, those men who wring the sweat from the
poor man's brow to distil pearls for themselves, but who care not for
the welfare of that poor man's offspring!

Hundreds of thousands of pounds are annually subscribed to further the
objects of foreign missions, the scene of whose labours is in far-off
lands scarcely known to us by name, and amongst a race with whom our
sympathies cannot exist;—but beneath our very eyes—crossing our
paths—constantly displaying their loathsome rags to our view, are small
children innumerable, whose only training is for the prison, the hulks,
and the gallows!

Talk not to us of christianizing Barbarians in the remote islands of the
South Seas, when the children of so many of our own fellow-countrymen
and country-women are but barbarous Christians at home!

Let the reader who imagines that we exaggerate the amount of the evil we
denounce,—let him take his stand, any evening, in the midst of Seven
Dials, and well consider the scenes around him.

It is said that there are Seven Cardinal Sins: at the point where we
would wish our sceptical reader to post himself, he may command a view
of seven streets, each one presenting to his contemplation some new
phase in the common sphere of hideous poverty and terrible
demoralisation.

Mark the population of that neighbourhood, consisting of seven principal
streets, with all their connecting lanes and alleys—with their dark,
filthy courts, and their murderous-looking nooks and passages!

Of what does this population consist?

Men brutalised by drink, or rendered desperate by poverty, and in either
state ready to commit a crime,—women of squalid, wasted, and miserable
appearance, who, being beaten by their husbands and fathers, revenge
themselves upon their children or their little brothers and
sisters,—poor shopkeepers who endeavour to make up for the penury of
their petty dealings by cheating their famished customers,—wretched boys
and girls whose growth is stunted by suffering, whose forms are
attenuated through want, and whose minds are poisoned by the scenes of
vice, dissipation, and immorality which open upon them at their very
birth!

What hope—what promise for the future do such beings as these hold out?

In consternation and sorrow, mingled with the most awful misgivings, do
we survey the picture which we are now compelled to draw;—and our
feelings are thus painful because we know this picture to be correct!

And yet we call our country "MERRY ENGLAND!"

Merciful Heavens! what a mockery is this name! Can England be merry
while the most hideous poverty is the lot of half her population; while
her workhouses are crowded with miserable beings who must for ever
resign all hope or idea of again enjoying the comforts of "home;" while
the streets are filled with loathsome wretches, clad in filthy rags,
which barely cover them,—shivering with the cold, or fainting beneath
the intolerable heat—and spurned from the doors not only of the rich,
but also of the very officers appointed to relieve distress; while the
poor mother, maddened with the idea of her own destitution and houseless
condition, presses her famishing child to her breast which yields no
milk, and then rushes in desperation to consign the innocent being to
the waters of the nearest stream; while the wretched father stifles his
children that he may hush for ever in their throats the cry of "Bread!
bread!"—that vain and useless cry to which he cannot respond; while
innocent babes and prattling infants bear upon their countenances and
exhibit in their attenuated frames all the traces of the dread and
agonising pangs of a constant gnawing—craving—never satisfied hunger;
and while hundreds annually _die_ around us of starvation and absolute
want?

Merry England, indeed! What? is England joyous when the shop of the
pawnbroker thrives royally upon the immense interest wrung from the very
vitals of the poor; when the gaols, the hospitals, and the workhouses
are more numerous than the churches; when the hulks are swarming with
convicts pent up in frightful floating dungeons, amidst a fœtid
atmosphere; when the streets throng with unfortunate girls who ask to be
redeemed from an appalling traffic, but who see no avenue of escape from
their loathsome calling; when the voice of starvation, the voice of
crime, the voice of discontent, and the voice of barbarian ignorance
echo up to Heaven, and form such a chorus as could scarcely be expected
to meet the ears beyond the precincts of hell; and when seven-tenths of
the entire population are wretched—oppressed—enslaved—trampled
on—miserable—degraded—demoralised!

Merry England!!!

But let us continue the thread of our narrative.

Two of the thoroughfares which converge to Seven Dials, bear each the
name of Earl Street.

Passing from High Street, St. Giles's, towards St. Martin's Lane, we
must request the reader to turn with us to the right into that Earl
Street which lies between the Dials and one extremity of Monmouth
Street.

Half way up Earl Street stood a house of even a darker and more gloomy
appearance than its companions. Its door-way was lower than the level of
the street, and was reached by descending three steps. The windows were
small; and, as many of the panes were broken, the holes were mended with
pieces of dirty paper, or stopped up with old rags. Altogether, there
was something so poverty-stricken, and yet so sinister, about the
appearance of that tottering, dingy, repulsive-looking dwelling, that no
one possessing an article of jewellery about his person, or having gold
in his pocket, would have chosen to venture amongst its inmates.

And who were those inmates? The neighbours scarcely knew. Certain it
was, however, that over the rickety door of the house were painted the
words—TOBIAS BUNCE, TAILOR; but few were the jobs which Mr. Bunce ever
obtained from the inhabitants in the vicinity; for his manners were too
reserved—too repulsive to gain favour with the class of persons who
might have patronised him. And yet there appeared to be no signs of
absolute poverty in that dwelling. Mrs. Bunce was one of the adjacent
butcher's best customers: a public-house in the Dials was known to be
regularly visited by her for the beer at dinner and supper times; and
pints of gin were occasionally purchased by the same mysterious customer
at the same establishment. She was as averse to gossiping as her
husband; and her neighbours declared that they could not make her out at
all. She always paid ready money for every thing she had; and therefore
the tradespeople were the stanch defenders of the Bunces whenever a word
of suspicion was uttered against them.

Who, then, were these Bunces?

Let us step inside their dwelling, and see if we can ascertain.

It was about eight o'clock in the evening, a few days after the
incidents related in the preceding chapters, that Toby Bunce, his wife,
Old Death, and the lad Jacob sate down to tea in the ground-floor back
room of the house which we have been describing.

Toby Bunce was a short, thin, pale-faced, sneaking-looking man of about
forty. He was dressed in a suit of very shabby black; and his linen was
not remarkable for cleanliness. His coarse brown hair was suffered to
grow to a considerable length; and, as he seldom treated it to an
acquaintance with the comb, it hung in matted curls over his shoulders.
His nails were equally neglected, and resembled claws terminating with
blackened points.

His better-half—as Mrs. Bunce indeed was, not only figuratively, but
also literally—was a tall, thin, scraggy, lantern-faced woman, with a
sharp green eye, a vixenish pug-nose, and a querulous voice; for
although she was excessively reserved when she went out "to do her
marketing," she made up for that silence abroad by an extra amount of
garrulity at home. Her age exceeded by a year or two that of her
husband, and, as she was totally devoid of that sentiment which is so
generally ascribed to the sex—we mean vanity—she did not scruple to
acknowledge the above fact. Indeed, she often advanced it as an argument
to prove that she must know better than he, and as a reason for her
assertion and maintenance of petticoat government. But if vanity were
not her failing, avarice was her ruling vice; and to gratify her love
for gold she never hesitated at a crime.

In this latter respect Mr. Bunce was no better than his spouse—save that
his anxiety to obtain money was not always equalled by his readiness to
face the danger occasionally involved in procuring it. Any act of
turpitude that might be accomplished safely and quietly would find no
moral opponent in the person of Toby Bunce; but when some little daring
or display of firmness was required, he was forced to supply himself
with an artificial energy through the medium of the gin-bottle.

The room to which we have introduced our readers was furnished with bare
necessaries, and nothing more. A rickety, greasy deal-table; four or
five of the commonest description of rush-bottomed chairs; a long form
to accommodate extra company; an old portable cupboard, fitting into one
of the angles of the apartment; and a shelf to serve as a larder,—these
were the principal articles of the domestic economy. The table was
spread with a varied assortment of crockery, none of the cups matching
with the saucers, and no two cups or no two saucers alike.

Toby Bunce, having succeeded in inducing the kettle to boil by means of
sundry bits of wood sparingly applied, his wife Betsy made the tea,
while Jacob cut the bread-and-butter.

"I wonder whether Tom will keep his appointment?" said Old Death, as he
sipped his tea. "It's a full hour past the time that I told him to be
here."

"And we've been a waiting for him till the fire got so low that it took
a power of wood to make it burn up again," observed Toby Bunce.

"S'pose it did?" cried his wife. "You know very well that we don't care
about any expense when our best friend Mr. Bones is with us," she added,
glancing towards Old Death; for the Bunces were amongst the very few of
that individual's acquaintances who knew his real name.

"And yet I should think he would not fail," continued Old Death in a
musing strain. "His conduct seemed straight-forward and right enough the
very first day we agreed to terms; and he even gave me my regulars in a
matter that I'd nothing to do with. But it was well for him that he did
so; or else he'd have been laid up in lavender for want of bail."

"Bertinshaw and Watkins did it pretty tidy," said Jacob, who was making
prodigious inroads upon the bread-and-butter.

"Keep your observations to yourself," growled Old Death in a surly tone.
"Remember, I haven't forgot your negligence in losing sight of Tom Rain
the other day, when he left the police-office."

"It wasn't my fault," returned the lad, his dark eyes flashing angrily.
"I kept lurking about the court after I had been up here to tell you
that Dykes had nabbed Mr. Rainford: I saw him go over to the
coffee-house soon after he was discharged—I followed him when he went in
a coach to Pall Mall—I dogged him back again to Bow Street—and then——"

"And then when the Jewess's case was over, you saw him come out, and you
lost sight of him," interrupted Old Death angrily. "But never mind," he
added, softening a little: "I will set you to watch him another day when
you've nothing better to do, and we will find out all _I_ want to know
about him."

"When did you see him last?" inquired Toby Bunce.

"This morning, at Tullock's; and——"

Old Death was interrupted by a knock at the street door, to which
summons Jacob hastened to respond.

In a few moments he returned, accompanied by Tom Rain, who sauntered
into the room, with a complaisant air and the chimney-pot hat stuck on
the right side of his head.

"So you are come at last, Tom," said Bones, _alias_ Old Death, his
toothless jaws grinning a ghastly satisfaction. "Well, better late than
never. But let me introduce you to my very particular friends Mr. and
Mrs. Bunce; and as they are good friends of mine, they will be good
friends to you. This crib of theirs is convenient in more ways than
one," added the old man significantly; "and you will find it so if you
ever want to lay up for a time until the storm which must menace one
sometimes, blows over."

"The hint may not prove useless at a pinch," said Tom carelessly, as he
seated himself on the form. "But there's some one present whose name
you've not yet mentioned, old chap?"

And he glanced towards the sickly lad, who was still occupied with the
edible portion of the repast.

"Oh! that's my Mercury—my messenger—my confidant—or any thing else you
like to call him," said Bones. "His name Is Jacob Smith, for want of a
better—and he's a perfect treasure in his way. He can scent an officer
two streets off, and would prove the best scout that ever a general
commanding an army could possibly employ. Now you know his
qualifications; and if you ever want to make use of them, he is at your
service."

"Well, my lad," exclaimed Tom Rain, "your master gives a good character
of you; and mind you continue to deserve it," he added with an ironical
smile. "But what is to be done now, old fellow?"

This question was addressed to Bones, who accordingly prepared himself
to answer it.

"There's something to be done to-morrow night, my dear boy," began the
old villain, his dark eyes gleaming from beneath their shaggy,
overhanging brows; "and there's money—much money—to be got. But the
thing is a difficult one, and requires great tact as well as courage."

"You must suppose beforehand that I am the person to manage it
properly," said Rain; "or I should think you would not have applied to
me."

"Very true, Tom," returned Old Death, with a sepulchral chuckle: "very
true! The fact is, you're a dashing, genteel-looking, and well-spoken
fellow when you choose; and you can insinuate yourself into the good
graces of the best-born gentlemen in the land. I am sure you can do
this—don't you think you can, Tom?"

"I should rather fancy I can," replied Rainford, by no means displeased
with the compliment just paid him. "But go on—explain yourself—and we
shall then see what can be done."

"Listen attentively," said Old Death. "Between Streatham and Norwood
there stands a pretty but lonely house, occupied by a gentleman named
Torrens. He is a widower, and has two daughters. The eldest of these
girls is to be married the day after to-morrow to a certain Mr. Frank
Curtis, the nephew of the wealthy Sir Christopher Blunt. It appears that
Mr. Torrens has fallen into some difficulty through over-speculation in
building houses at Norwood; and Sir Christopher has consented to advance
him five thousand pounds, on condition that this match takes place. For
the girl, it seems, is totally opposed to it: she has another lover whom
_she_ loves—and she hates Mr. Frank Curtis. But the father insists on
sacrificing his daughter, to whom Curtis is greatly attached; and Curtis
possesses influence enough over his uncle Sir Christopher to persuade
him to advance the money."

"All this is clear enough," said Rain; "and nothing would give me
greater pleasure than to baulk Sir Christopher, Frank Curtis, and the
selfish old father. But I do not see how the business can in any way
benefit us."

"I will tell you, my dear boy," replied Old Death, with another chuckle
expressive of deep satisfaction. "To-morrow evening Sir Christopher, the
nephew, and Sir Christopher's lawyer will set out for Torrens Cottage,
as the place is called. They will settle all the preliminary business
with the father to-morrow night, so that the marriage may take place the
first thing on the ensuing morning."

"Well?" said Tom inquiringly, seeing that Old Death paused.

"And two thousand pounds out of the five will be conveyed from London to
Torrens Cottage to-morrow night," continued Bones: "_unless_," he added
significantly, "something happens to stop the money on its way."

"But who will have the money about him—Sir Christopher, the nephew, or
the lawyer?" demanded Tom.

"Ah! that's the point to ascertain," cried Old Death. "You must exercise
your tact in solving this doubt; and your courage will afterwards effect
the rest. Did I not say that the business required alike tact and
courage?"

"You did indeed," answered Rain; "and I can scarcely see how the deuce
the thing is to be managed. Still two thousand pounds would prove very
welcome. But how came you to learn all this?"

"The knight's servant, my dear boy, is in my pay," returned Old Death,
with a triumphant grin. "Ah! I have many gentlemen's and noblemen's
domestics devoted to my interests in the same manner; and by their means
I learn a great deal. But to return to our present business. Two
thousand pounds are to be paid down as an earnest of the bargain
to-morrow night; and those two thousand pounds will be much better
appropriated to our uses."

"I perfectly agree with you, old fellow," said Rain. "Could not the
knight's servant inform you who is likely to take charge of the money?"

"Impossible!" cried Bones. "He will most probably accompany the party;
and——"

"How will they go?" demanded Rain, a thought striking him.

"On horseback," answered Old Death. "Sir Christopher and his nephew have
a great opinion of themselves as riders; and the lawyer, Mr. Howard, is
a sporting character. It is, therefore, sure that they will all go on
horseback."

"Then leave the rest to me," cried Tom Rain, snapping his fingers. "What
time do they set out?"

"At six o'clock," was the answer.

"Good again," observed Tom. "It's as dark then as at midnight this time
of the year. Say no more upon the subject: the thing is just the same as
if it was done—provided your information is correct, and no change takes
place in the plan as at present laid down by these gentlemen. One word,
however;—describe Sir Christopher's servant to me."

"A short—thin—dapper-made fellow—dark curly hair—face marked with the
small-pox," replied Old Death. "Drab livery, turned up with red. His
name is John Jeffreys."

"Enough," said Tom. "I shall call at Tullock's to-morrow between two and
three in the afternoon; and if you have any thing fresh to communicate,
you can either leave a note or meet me there. If I neither see nor hear
from you at that time and place, I shall consider that all remains as
you have now represented. You have nothing more to say at present?"

"Nothing," returned Bones, after a moment's reflection.

"Won't you take a drop of brandy-and-water, Mr. Rainford—just a _leetle_
drop?" inquired Toby Bunce, with a deferential glance towards his better
half..

"A leetle drop, stupid!—a good big drop, you mean!" cried the shrew.
"Isn't Mr. Rainford a friend of Mr. Bones?—and ain't all Mr. Bones's
friends _our_ friends? I'm sure if Mr. Rainford would drink a—a quar—a
_pint_ of brandy," she added, emphatically defining the quantity she
felt disposed to place at the service of the new acquaintance, "he is
quite welcome."

"No, thank'ee," said Rainford. "I must be off. The business of to-morrow
night requires consideration; and——"

He was interrupted by a knock at the street-door; and Toby Bunce
hastened to answer the summons.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                     A DEATH-SCENE.—LOCK'S FIELDS.


The room-door was left open; and the inmates could therefore hear every
thing that took place in the passage.

Toby Bunce opened the street-door cautiously, and said, "Who's there?"

"In the name of heaven, grant me a night's lodging," exclaimed the
appealing voice of a female: "if not for myself—at least for this poor
dear child!"

"Toby, shut the door!" screamed the querulous tones of Mrs. Bunce from
the back-room. "We don't want beggars and poor children here."

"Stay!" cried Tom Rain: "never be hard-hearted!"

And, hastening to the street-door, he saw, by the light of a shop-window
opposite, the form of a miserable-looking female crouching upon the
steps, and with one arm round the neck of a little boy who was crying
bitterly.

"Come in, my good woman," said Rainford. "I will pay any expenses that
your presence may entail on the people of the house:—come in, I say."

But the poor creature fell back insensible.

"Toby, take care of the child," cried Tom Rain in an authoritative tone;
"while I lift the woman off the steps."

And, suiting the action to the word, he raised the senseless being in
his arms, and conveyed her into the passage, Toby following with the
little boy, who seemed to be about five or six years old.

"Surely you're mad, Tom," exclaimed Old Death, advancing from the
back-room, "to bring strangers into this house."

"I should be a brute to see a dying woman turned away from the door of
this or any other house," said Rainford firmly. "Stand back, and let me
have my way. My purse shall satisfy the Bunces for any trouble this
business may give them."

"Well, well—be it as you will," growled Old Death: then, in a hasty
whisper to Betsy Bunce, he added, "You had better let him do as he
likes. He is a queer fellow, but very useful—and must not be offended."

Thus advised, and cheered moreover by Rain's liberal promise of payment,
Mrs. Bunce suddenly exhibited a vast amount of sympathy on behalf of the
poor creature; and, having fetched a candle from the back-room, she
lighted Rainford, who carried the still senseless woman in his arms, up
stairs to a chamber where there was a sordid kind of bed.

Rainford placed his burden on the miserable pallet, and Betsy Bunce
applied such restoratives as the circumscribed economy of her household
furnished.

In the meantime Toby had brought the little boy into the chamber; and
the child, hastening towards the bed, exclaimed, "Mamma—dear mamma—speak
to me—why don't you speak to me?"

The woman opened her eyes languidly; but the moment they encountered the
face of the child, they were lighted up with joy; and snatching the boy
to her breast, she murmured in a faint tone, "I thought I had lost you,
Charles—I dreamt that we were separated! Oh! my head—it seems to split!"

And she pressed her open palm to her forehead with all the appearance of
intense suffering.

We must pause a moment to observe that this woman seemed to be about
five-and-thirty years of age; that she was dressed in widow's weeds of
the coarsest materials; and that her entire aspect denoted dreadful
privations and great sufferings, mental as well as physical. The boy was
also attired in mourning garments; and though his little cheeks were
wan, and his form emaciated, still was he a very interesting child.

"My good woman," said Tom Rain, approaching the bed, "banish all
misgivings relative to the present; for you shall be taken care of."

Then, turning towards Mrs. Bunce, he directed her to procure food and to
send Jacob for a surgeon.

"No—no, it's useless," cried the poor woman, alluding to the latter
order. "I feel that I am dying—my last hour is come!"

The child threw his little arms about her neck, and wept piteously.

"Oh! my God!" cried the wretched stranger, "who will now take care of
you, my poor dear—dear little Charles! I who have been to you as a
mother——"

"Yes—you are my mamma—my own mamma," exclaimed the child, his heart
ready to burst, although he scarcely understood the real nature of the
misgivings which oppressed him.

"Sir," said the woman, after a few moments of profound silence, during
which the sobbings of the boy and the uneasy palpitations of her own
breast were alone heard in the chamber,—"sir," she said, addressing
herself abruptly to Rainford, "you spoke to me kindly—you look kindly
upon me,—and, if I may judge by your countenance, you possess a kind
heart——"

"Speak, poor woman!" cried Rain, softened almost to tears. "If there is
any thing I can do for you, confide in me—and I swear——"

"The gratitude of a dying being is all that I can offer you in return
for what I am about to ask," interrupted the woman in a faint, yet
hurried tone—for she seemed to feel that she had not long to live. "Draw
near, sir—there—and now listen attentively. Dreadful privation—exposure
to the cold—sleeping in the fields—and painful wanderings have reduced
me to this state. But I shall die contented—nay, even happy, if I
thought——"

"I understand you," cried Rain. "You are anxious for the welfare of this
boy? Compose your mind—banish those painful reflections—I swear to
protect him!"

There was something so earnest and sincere in the manner, the voice, and
the countenance of Rainford, who was a creature of the most generous
impulses, that the dying woman believed him; and her heart bounded with
fervent gratitude.

Then, making a sign for Rainford to draw nearer to her still, she
collected all her remaining force to utter a few last words; but
physical exhaustion almost completely choked her utterance.

"This boy," she murmured in a faint and dying voice, "is not mine. Do
not weep, Charles, love—I am not your mamma——although I love you——as if
you was my own child. But the moment you were born——in secret——and
mystery——the nurse brought you to me——all having been so
arranged——and——from that moment I——but, my God! I am dying!——oh! give me
strength to declare that——your mother——is——"

"Speak, speak!" cried Tom Rain: "breathe but the name of his mother—I
shall catch it—and I declare most solemnly——O God! she is dead!"

And it was so! Vain were her last, last efforts to give utterance to the
name which trembled upon her tongue: the death-rattle stifled the words
in her throat—her eyes glazed—her countenance settled in inanimation—and
she was no more!

The little Charles would not believe that she was really dead; to him
she only appeared to sleep;-and this infantine delusion Tom Rain
gradually dissipated, making him aware of his sad bereavement in so
delicate a manner, that a stranger would have believed him to be a
father himself as well as an individual of the most upright and noble
principles.

[Illustration]

But if Rainford's morality was in some points of the most indifferent
nature, he nevertheless possessed kind feelings and a generous heart;
and the tears trickled down his cheeks, as he exerted himself to console
the little stranger.

Children seem to be endowed with an intuitive power of discrimination
between those who would treat them well, and those whose dispositions
are severe and harsh; and Charles speedily acquired confidence in the
good intentions of Rainford.

At length, when Tom fancied that he had obtained some degree of
influence over the boy's mind, he led him away from the chamber where
the poor woman had breathed her last.

Old Death had remained in the room below; and Jacob had been sent to
fetch a surgeon, who now arrived, but departed again immediately upon
learning that his services could no longer be rendered available. Toby
and Mrs. Bunce had quitted the chamber of death the moment Rain
ejaculated, "O God! she is dead;"—and thus the child had no leisure to
take particular notice of any one save the individual who manifested so
much kindness towards him.

Fearing that the repulsive appearance of Old Death might alarm the boy,
and even fill his mind with misgivings relative to the person who now
took charge of him, Rainford stopped in the dark passage down stairs;
and calling Mrs. Bunce from the back-room, he placed five guineas in her
hand, saying, "The burial of that poor creature who has just breathed
her last, must be your care. See that it is performed decently; and if
there are any papers about her person—any proofs of who she is—keep them
for me. Be faithful in this respect—and what I have now given you may be
considered as an earnest of additional recompense."

Rainford then left the house, leading the boy by the hand.

Proceeding to the nearest hackney-coach stand, Tom hired one of the
vehicles, and desired to be driven to the Elephant and Castle.

Previously, however, to entering the vehicle, the thoughtful Tom Rain
purchased some of the very best cakes which a shop in such a
neighbourhood could produce; and, though the little boy kept sobbing as
he repeated to himself, "Mamma is dead,"—for he was too young to
understand that she had denied this maternity with her dying breath,—yet
he ate greedily of the food—for he was famished.

Rainford said but little to him, beyond a few occasional cheering and
consolatory words, as they rode along, because the heavy rumbling of the
vehicle rendered it difficult to hear what was uttered within.

In about three-quarters of an hour the coach stopped at the Elephant and
Castle; and Rainford, conducting the boy tenderly by the hand, plunged
into the maze of streets which form a neighbourhood requiring a detailed
description.

Any one who is acquainted with that part of London, or who, with the map
of the great metropolis before him, takes the trouble to follow us in
this portion of our narrative, will understand us when we state that,
almost immediately behind the Elephant and Castle tavern, there is a
considerable district totally _unexplored_ by thousands and thousands of
persons dwelling in other parts of the English capital. This district is
now bounded on the north by the New Kent Road, on the east by the Kent
or Greenwich Road, on the south by Walworth, and on the west by the
Walworth Road. Built upon a low, damp, and unhealthy soil, the dwellings
of the poor there throng in frightful abundance,—forming narrow streets
half choked up with dirt, miserable alleys where the very air is
stagnant, and dark courts, to enter which seems like going into the
fœtid vault of a church. Many of the streets, that appear to have been
huddled together without any architectural plan, but merely upon a
studied system of crowding together as many hovels as possible, have
their back windows looking upon ditches, the black mire and standing
water of which exhale vapours sufficiently noxious to breed a
pestilence. When the sun shines upon these noisome ditches, their
surface displays a thousand prismatic hues, thrown out by the
decomposing offal and putrid vegetables which have been emptied into
those open sewers. But sewers they cannot be called—for instead of
carrying off the filth of the neighbourhood, those ditches preserve it
stagnant.

A considerable portion of the district we are describing is known by the
name of Lock's Fields; and the horrible condition of this locality can
only be properly understood by a visit. The pen cannot convey an
adequate idea of the loathsome squalor of that poverty—the heart-rending
proofs of that wretchedness—and the revolting examples of that utter
demoralization, which characterise this section of the metropolis. The
houses for the most part contain each four rooms; every room serving as
the domicile of a separate family. Perhaps one of the members of such a
family may be afflicted with some infectious malady: there he must lie
upon his flock mattress, or his bundle of rags, or his heap of straw,
until he become, through neglect, so offensive as to render one minute
with him intolerable; and yet his relatives—four, five, or even six in
number—are compelled to sleep in the same apartment with him, inhaling
the stench from that mass of putrefaction, hearing his groans, breathing
the steam from his corrupted lungs, and swarming with the myriads of
loathsome animalcule engendered by the filth of the place. In another
room, perhaps, we shall find some old man, living by himself—starving
upon the miserable pittance obtained by picking up bones or rags, doing
an odd job now and then for a neighbour, and filling up the intervals of
such pursuits by begging,—his entire furniture consisting of a cup, a
kettle, and a knife—no chair, no table—but with a heap of rubbish in one
corner for a bed, on which he sleeps with his clothes on. In a third
room there is most likely a family consisting of a man and his wife, who
at night occupy one mattress, and their grown-up sons and daughters who
all pig together upon another. Shame and decency exist not amongst
them—because they could never have known either. They have all been
accustomed from their infancy to each other's nakedness; and, as their
feelings are brutalised by such a mode of existence, they suffer no
scruples to oppose that fearful intercourse which their sensuality
suggests. Thus—for we _must_ speak plainly, as we speak _the truth_—the
very wretchedness of the poor, which compels this family commingling in
one room and as it were in one bed, leads to incest—horrible, revolting
incest! The fourth room in the house which we take for our example of
the dwellings in Lock's Fields, is occupied by the landlord or landlady,
or both; and there is perhaps no more morality nor cleanliness in their
chamber than in either of the others.

The shops in Lock's Fields are naturally in keeping with the means and
habits of their customers. Beer-shops and public-houses abound: the
lower and the poorer the locality, the greater the number of such
establishments. But who can wonder? Crime requires its stimulants—and
poverty its consolation. Men drink to nerve themselves to perpetrate
misdeeds which are attended with peril: women drink to supply that
artificial flow of spirits necessary to the maintenance of a career of
prostitution;—and the honest poor drink to save themselves from the
access of maddening despair. Children drink also, because they see their
parents drink, and because they have acquired the taste from their
earliest infancy;—and thus beer-shops and public-houses thrive most
gloriously in the most wretched neighbourhoods.

Lock's Fields abound with small "general shops," where every thing
is sold in the minutest detail—a pennyworth of sugar, a
penny-farthing-worth of tea, a farthing candle, or a quarter of a
pound of bacon for a penny. There are also many eating-houses
where leg-of-beef soup can be procured for five farthings the
bowl. The knackers do a good business with the owners of those
establishments. Tripe-shops are likewise far from rare; and upon
their boards in the open windows, may be seen gory slices of
black-looking liver, tongues and brains in a dish, sheep's heads,
huge cow-heels, chitterlings, piles of horses' flesh and rolls of
boiled offal upon sticks—the two last-mentioned species of article
being intended for cat's-meat,—but the whole heaped pell-mell
together, loathsome to behold, and emitting odours of the most
fœtid and nauseating description. Coal-sheds, where potatoes and
greens may likewise be purchased, abound in Lock's Fields; as do
also pie-shops and that kind of eating-houses where pudding fried
in grease, stocking-pudding, and sop-in-the-pan are displayed in
the windows, to tempt with their succulent appearance the
appetites of hungry men passing to their work, or of half-famished
children wearied of playing in the gutter.

It is wretched—heart-rending to linger on a description of this kind:
but we must endeavour to make it as complete as possible. The generality
of the inhabitants of Lock's Fields are in a state of barbarian
ignorance. Nine-tenths of the children, even of ten or twelve years old,
are unable to read, and know not who Jesus Christ is, nor that the
Saviour of Mankind suffered upon the cross to save _them_, as well as
the proudest peers or the most brilliant peeresses that shine in the
realms of fashion. Look more closely at the aspect of the population in
Lock's Fields. What care is depicted upon the pale cheek of that
emaciated woman who is hanging the _one_ change of linen upon the
elder-bushes skirting the black ditch behind her dwelling! And yet she
is better off than many of her neighbours—because her family does
possess the _one_ change of linen! Behold that man sitting on the
threshold of his door, smoking his pipe:—his elbows rest upon his
knees—he stares vacantly before him—not even the opiatic influence of
tobacco soothes him. He is thinking of what will become of his wife and
children when he shall be out of work—because the job on which he has
lately been engaged will be finished on the coming Saturday. His wife
comes out to speak to him—and he answers her harshly: his children
approach him, and endeavour to climb up his knees—but he knocks them
away. Yet that man is not brutal by nature: he loves his wife and
children—and was even debating within himself whether he should not soon
turn thief in order to support them, when they thus accosted him and
were repulsed. Let another person insult his wife—let a stranger lay a
finger upon that man's children, and the demon will be raised within his
breast. But he speaks harshly and treats them all brutally, because he
is miserable—because he is dissatisfied with every thing and every
body—because he is reduced to despair. The unfeeling aspect of the cold
world around him—that world which frowns so sternly upon poverty, and
smiles so sweetly upon wealth—has rendered _him_ unfeeling. His hard
fate drives him to the public-house:—talk of the infamy of which that
man is guilty in spending a few pence—the pence which would buy his
children more bread—upon beer or gin,—it is ridiculous! That man _must_
drink—he _must_ drown his care: thought drives him mad—and from thought
he must therefore fly. But whither can he fly? The rich and the
well-to-do have their theatres and places of amusement: if a penny
tea-garden or a penny theatre be opened in Lock's Fields, or in any
other poor neighbourhood, the magistrates must put it down;—it is a
source of demoralisation—it is a focus of thieves and prostitutes! But
the swell-mob and flash women frequent the Haymarket Theatre—and the
Lyceum—and the Surrey—and the Victoria—aye, and Covent-Garden and Drury
Lane Theatres also. "Oh!" cries the magistrate; "_that_ is very
different!" Yes—every thing in this country is different when the
wealthy or the well-dressed are concerned on one side, and the poor and
the ragged on the other. Then, whither can this pauperised despairing
man in Lock's Fields go to escape the bitterness of his reflections? To
the public-house—or to throw himself into the canal:—those are the only
alternatives!

Is it not dreadful to think that we have a sovereign and a royal family
on whom the country lavishes money by hundreds of thousands,—whose
merest whims cost sums that would feed and clothe from year to year
_all_ the inhabitants of such a place as Lock's Fields;—that we have
also an hereditary aristocracy and innumerable sleek and comfortable
dignitaries of the Church, who devour the fruits of the earth and throw
the parings and the peelings contemptuously to the poor;—in a word, that
we have an oligarchy feasting upon the fatted calf, and flinging the
offal to the patient, enduring, toiling, oppressed millions,—is it not
dreadful, we ask, to think how much those millions do for Royalty,
Aristocracy, Church, and Landed Interest, and how little—how miserably
little, Royalty, Aristocracy, Church, and Landed Interest do for _them_
in return?

But let us go back to Thomas Rainford and the little boy, whom we left
on their way to Lock's Fields—for it was to this district that the
excellent-hearted man was leading his young charge.

And, as they went along, many were the kind words that Tom Rain uttered
to cheer his artless companion.

"Come, don't cry, my dear little fellow," he would say: "here is another
cake—and when we get home you shall have something nice for supper. Are
you cold, Charley? Well, you shall soon warm yourself by the side of a
good blazing fire. And to-night you shall sleep in a soft bed; and
to-morrow morning you shall have some new clothes. I am going to take
you where you will find a pretty lady, who will be as kind to you as the
mamma you have just lost. Are you tired, Charley? Well, I'll take you up
and carry you."

And Tom Rain lifted the poor child in his arms and kissed away the tears
which ran down his cheeks. The boy threw his little arms around the neck
of his kind protector, and said, "Oh! you are as good to me as my dear
papa was."

"And how long has your papa been dead, Charley?" asked Rainford,
supposing that the child meant by his father the husband of the woman
who had died that evening in Toby Bunce's house.

"Not very long—but I don't know how long," was the reply. "Oh! stay—I
think I heard mamma say this morning that he died six months ago."

"And where did you live then, Charley?"

"At a cottage near a great town—Oh! I remember—Winchester."

"Winchester!" cried Rainford. "I know all that part of the country
well—or at least I ought to do so," he murmured to himself, with a
profound sigh. "But what made you leave your cottage?"

"When papa was buried, mamma had no money," replied the child; "and some
naughty people came at last and took away all the things in the cottage,
and turned mamma and me out of doors. And then mamma cried so much—oh!
so much; and we were very often hungry after that—and we sometimes had
no bed to sleep in."

"Poor little fellow!" cried Rainford, hugging the child closer still to
his breast. "What was your papa's name?"

"Watts—and my name is Charley Watts," said the boy.

At this moment Rainford stopped at one of the few decent-looking houses
in Lock's Fields, and knocked at the door, which was immediately opened
by a young and beautiful woman, who appeared overjoyed at his return.

"I have brought you a present in the shape of this poor little boy,"
said Rainford as he entered the house. "If you wish to please me, you
will behave to him as kindly as I shall."

The young woman took Charley in her arms, and kissed him as a proof that
Tom's request should be attended to; and Rainford, well pleased at that
demonstration, closed the street-door behind him.




                               CHAPTER X.
                A SCENE AT THE HOUSE OF SIR CHRISTOPHER
                                 BLUNT.


On the following afternoon, shortly after four o'clock, three gentlemen
sate, sipping their wine after an early dinner, in a magnificently
furnished room in Jermyn Street.

The one who occupied the head of the table was a red-faced, stout,
elderly gentleman, with hair of that blueish-black which denotes the use
of an artificial dye, and with large bushy whiskers of a similar tint.
He was dressed in a blue coat with brass buttons, white waistcoat, and
black kerseymere trousers fitting very tight. A massive gold chain
depended from his neck; and on his fingers he wore several rings of
great value. In manner he was authoritative, even to rudeness: for,
being immensely rich, he firmly believed that money constituted an
aristocracy which had a perfect right to command. His pride was the more
excessive too, as he had risen from nothing: that is, he had begun life
as an errand boy in a linen-draper's shop, and had finished his
mercantile career as a warehouseman in Wood Street, where he amassed a
considerable fortune. He had filled the office of Sheriff, but had
vainly endeavoured to procure an aldermanic gown; and, having failed to
persuade the livery-men of Portsoken Ward that he was the very best
person they could possibly choose to represent them in the superior City
Court, he had ever since affected to rejoice at his rejection, and to
look upon all City men and City matters with contempt. In reality, too,
he was dreadfully mortified at the fact of his low origin; but, with
that clumsy duplicity which vulgar minds often employ in such cases, he
pretended to make a boast of his humble beginning, and used the subject
as a means of constantly reminding his friends and acquaintances of what
he had done for himself. While he held the Shrievalty, it fell to his
lot to present an address to the Prince Regent; and on that occasion he
received the honour of knighthood. Such was Sir Christopher Blunt.

The gentleman who sate at the bottom of the table was Mr. Frank Curtis,
Sir Christopher's nephew. He was a tall, spare, thin, sickly-looking
young man, of three-and-twenty; with long, straight, black hair, large
staring dark eyes, very bad teeth, and a disagreeable, impudent, pert
expression of countenance. He was an orphan, and totally dependent upon
his uncle, who had brought him up to no business, inasmuch as he had
looked upon the young man as his heir. Sir Christopher, however, having
reached his fiftieth year without ever thinking of matrimony, was
suddenly smitten with Miss Julia Mordaunt, Lady Hatfield's friend; and
as Miss Mordaunt belonged to a very ancient though a greatly
impoverished family, Sir Christopher thought that he should gain his
darling wish—namely, obtain standing and consideration in the
fashionable world—by conducting that lady to the hymeneal altar. This
ardent desire he nevertheless kept to himself as much as possible; his
first object being to get rid of his nephew in some way or another. For
Mr. Frank Curtis had acquired considerable influence over his uncle; and
the latter was too much of a moral coward to be able to tell his nephew
boldly and frankly that he proposed "to change his condition." The
passion which Frank had conceived for Miss Adelais Torrens seemed to
furnish the knight with an opportunity to settle the young man, and thus
throw off an influence which impeded his own matrimonial designs: hence
the readiness of Sir Christopher to lend Mr. Torrens five thousand
pounds as an inducement for that gentleman to compel his portionless
daughter to accept Mr. Frank Curtis for a husband. We must add, that
Frank had passed six months on the continent; and this brief sojourn in
France had supplied the staple commodity of his entire conversational
powers. Nor must we forget to observe that he was as arrogant a boaster
as he was in reality a coward; and that he was so afflicted with the
vice of mendaciousness, he could scarcely speak the truth by accident.

The third gentleman present in Sir Christopher's splendid dining-room,
was Mr. Howard, the knight's solicitor. We need not say more relative to
this individual than that he was about five-and-forty years old, enjoyed
an excellent practice, was considered a fine-looking man by the ladies,
and was noted for his devotion to the Turf.

The table was spread with a choice dessert and an assortment of the most
exquisite wines, to which the three gentlemen appeared to be doing ample
justice. Sir Christopher drank copiously, because he felt particularly
well pleased at the prospect of getting rid of his nephew, for whom and
the intended bride he had taken and furnished a beautiful house at
Clapham: Frank had frequent recurrence to the bottle, because he felt
nervous and anxious;—and the lawyer stuck fast to the Burgundy, because
he liked it.

"Take care, Frank, how you fill your glass too often," said Mr. Howard;
"or the young ladies will not find you very agreeable presently."

"Don't mind me, old fellow," exclaimed Curtis: "I can drink you under
the table any day. Why, when I was in Paris I used to think nothing of a
bottle of brandy with my breakfast. I recollect once betting thirty
napoleons with an old Major of grenadiers at Boulogne——"

"A drum-major, I suppose, Frank," said the lawyer with a smile.

"Frank could not so far forget himself as to associate with a
_drum_-major," observed Sir Christopher, in a voice like that of a man
who goes about with a Punch and Judy show. "Thanks to my honest
exertions, I have placed myself—and, in placing myself, have placed
_him_—in a position which you will permit me to call brilliant. You know
I make no secret of what I _was_. I rose from nothing—and I'm proud of
it. And if his gracious Majesty, in acknowledgment of my humble merits,
condescended to bestow upon me the honour of knighthood——"

"Oh! blow that old story, uncle!" cried the dutiful nephew. "I was
telling you how I laid fifty napoleons with a Colonel of French
engineers that I would drink two bottles of champagne to every one of
his share——"

"What time will the horses be round at the door?" demanded Howard of the
knight; for the lawyer was anxious to escape the menaced tale.

"At six o'clock precise," answered Sir Christopher. "I am always
punctual. I learnt punctuality when I was a lad; and I firmly believe it
helped to make me what I am. When I look around and see how I am now
situated, and think of what I was——"

"Do let me tell you this story," interrupted Frank, re-filling his
glass: "it is a capital one, I can assure you. Well, so the French
Major-General and me, we sate down at table, and spread out the hundred
and fifty napoleons that we had bet. Then we rang the bell, and ordered
three bottles of Burgundy to begin with—two for me, and one for him."

"Burgundy was it?" said the lawyer, sipping his wine.

"No—claret, and I told you so," exclaimed Curtis. "But how provoking you
are! Well, so the Lieutenant-General and me, we began to drink the
champagne just as if it was so much water—both of us eyeing the two
hundred napoleons——"

"Half-past four," said Mr. Howard, looking at his watch, and with
difficulty suppressing a yawn.

"For I felt sure of winning—and so did he," continued Frank Curtis.
"Well, I soon disposed of my _two_ bottles of Port, and the General
drank his _one_ like a Trojan. To work we went again—two more for me,
and another for him. Then I proposed cigars, because I knew that I could
stand smoking better than him. He agreed; and we puffed away like two
factory-chimnies. At last he showed signs of distress——"

"Ah! got quite groggy, like a prize-fighter at the fortieth round,"
observed Mr. Howard.

"Exactly," said Frank: "and so by the time I had finished my sixth
bottle of Sherry, and the Field-Marshal had only got half-way through
his third, he was completely sewn up. I pocketed the five hundred
napoleons, as a matter of course—rang the bell to desire the waiter to
take the Admiral off to bed—and then went and did the amiable at an
evening party, where no one could tell that I had ever been drinking at
all."

"And so you think that a very pleasant adventure, Master Frank?" said
Sir Christopher. "Now, for my part, I leave guzzling and hard-drinking
to those vulgar citizens the other side of Temple Bar. Do you know,
Howard, that I really believe it was the most fortunate day of my life
when I lost the election for Portsoken? If I had become an Alderman——"

"You would have _looked_ the Alderman to perfection, Sir Christopher,"
observed the lawyer.

"Well—well—I might have been dignified on the bench—or I might not,"
said the knight complacently: "that is a mere matter of opinion—although
I _have_ been told by a friend who is not accustomed to flatter, that I
have more sense—sound sense, I mean—in my little finger, than all the
Aldermen and Common Councilmen put together. But it was fortunate for
me—very fortunate—that I escaped from the vulgar contact of those
citizens."

At this moment a servant entered the room, to announce that a gentleman
desired to speak to Sir Christopher Blunt.

"Show him up—show him up," cried the knight. "I have no secrets that my
nephew and solicitor may not hear."

The domestic retired; and in a few minutes he re-appeared, ushering in
Rainford by the name of Captain Sparks.

Tom was dressed in his usual sporting garb, over which he wore a white
top-coat—an article of attire much in vogue in those days amongst
gentlemen who were accustomed to ride much on horseback. As he walked,
his silver spurs clinked on the heels of his well-polished boots; and in
his right hand he carried a whip.

"Beg your pardon, gentlemen, for this intrusion," said Tom, as he
entered the room; "but having heard from my very particular friend Mr.
Torrens of the little affair that is to take place to-morrow morning——"

"Pray sit down, Captain Sparks," interrupted Sir Christopher. "Any
friend of Mr. Torrens is welcome in this house. I do not, however,
remember that he has mentioned your name in my hearing."

"Very likely not," said Rainford, drawing a chair close to the table.
"The fact is I have been travelling in the north, for my amusement,
during the last two years; and I only returned to town this morning. The
first thing I did was to run down and see my dear friend Torrens: and
you may fancy how surprised and pleased I was to learn what an excellent
match his eldest daughter was about to make."

"There is the bridegroom, Captain Sparks," said the knight, pompously
waving his hand towards his nephew.

"Very happy to form your acquaintance, Mr. Curtis," exclaimed Tom, with
a polite bow.

"Equally delighted to know you, Captain," replied the nephew. "Here's a
clean glass—and there's the bottle. Help yourself."

"With much pleasure," said Tom, suiting the action to the word. "But I
was about to tell you that Mr. Torrens did me the honour to invite me to
the wedding; and as I was obliged to come back to town to have my
portmanteau sent down to the Cottage, I have made bold to intrude myself
upon you, gentlemen, with the view of joining your party—that is, if you
will permit me."

"We shall be quite charmed, Captain Sparks," answered Sir Christopher
Blunt. "I need not inquire if you proceed to the Cottage on horseback!"

"Oh! yes—none of your coaches or carriages for me," returned Tom. "I
have put up my horse at the stables close by in York Street; for my
groom was taken ill a couple of hours ago——"

"Our horses are also there," interrupted Sir Christopher; "and one of
_my_ grooms," he added ostentatiously, "shall bring round yours when he
fetches ours. But I beg pardon for my rudeness, Captain Sparks:—this
gentleman is Mr. Howard—_my_ solicitor."

Rainford and the lawyer bowed to each other; the wine went round; and
Tom chuckled inwardly at the success of his stratagem to obtain access
to the knight.

"You see, Captain Sparks," said Sir Christopher in a dictatorial tone,
"this projected alliance has met with some little opposition on the part
of the young lady herself."

"So Torrens told me this afternoon," observed Tom coolly. "But the
qualifications of your nephew, Sir Christopher, are doubtless such——"

"I flatter myself," exclaimed Curtis, pleased with this compliment,
"that I have the knack of making myself agreeable to the women when I
choose. Why, the day that I left Paris, a French Marchioness took
poison, and a Countess went melancholy mad—both without any apparent
cause: but _I_ knew deuced well what was the reason, though."

"You're a sad fellow, Frank," said the lawyer.

"Now why should you assert that?" cried the young man, affecting to be
annoyed by the remark. "Did I tell you that any thing particular
occurred between me and those ladies? Suppose the Duchess _did_ have a
little partiality for me—and suppose the Baroness _was_ the least thing
jealous—eh? What then?"

"Ah! what then, indeed?" said Tom Rain. "Mr. Curtis is too much a man of
honour to betray those fair ones who were weak enough to be beguiled by
his soft nonsense."

"Egad! you're right," exclaimed Frank, in whose good opinion the
self-styled Captain was rapidly rising. "I would not give a fig for a
fellow that boasts of his conquests. But if any one _might_ boast on
that subject, I think it is your humble servant. What do you say,
Howard? Haven't I told you some queer tales at times?"

"You have indeed," answered the lawyer drily.

"Talking of boasting, Captain Sparks," said the knight, who now found
means to thrust in a word, "it is _my_ opinion that the only legitimate
boast is that which a man can make of having risen from nothing. Now I
never attempt to conceal my origin: on the contrary, I glory in it. Why,
sir, I began life without a sixpence, and without a friend: and now look
at me!"

Tom Rain did look at Sir Christopher, as he was requested to do; and it
struck our friend that there was nothing very particular to admire in
the worthy knight after all.

"You see me, Captain Sparks?" continued Sir Christopher, in an
authoritative tone. "Well, sir—such as I am now, I made myself."

"And the more to your credit," said Tom, who could not help thinking
that if the knight's words were to be taken literally, it was a great
pity that he had not made himself a trifle handsomer while he was about
it.

"Come, Howard, pass the bottle, old fellow," cried Frank Curtis, who
always got disgustingly familiar when he was in his cups—which was so
often that he was seldom out of them: and, as is the case with all
persons who boast of the quantity they can drink, it did not require
much to upset him. "Remember," he added, "we have rather a lonely road
to travel part of the way——"

"Why—you surely cannot be afraid of robbers, Mr. Curtis?" exclaimed Tom,
bursting out into a merry laugh.

"I afraid!" ejaculated the young man; "not I! I should think not,
indeed! Why, when I was travelling from Abbeville to Paris in the mail,
we were stopped by three highwaymen in the middle of the night. The
government-courier and myself tackled them in a moment: we were the only
persons in the mail, and the postboy was so frightened that he got off
his seat and hid himself under one of the horses. Well, the poor courier
was soon disabled; but I was not easily done up. Egad! in less than
three minutes I forced the whole five scoundrels to sheer off."

"Oh! I have no doubt of it," said Tom very quietly. "A powerful and
courageous young gentleman like you must be a match for any five
highwaymen in the world."

"Come, come now," exclaimed Frank: "I don't say _that_ exactly. But I
will assert this much—that I have no more fears of a robber than I
should have of a child's stopping me on the highway."

"In that case," observed Mr. Howard, throwing a pocket-book across the
table towards Curtis, "you had better take charge of the money that's to
be paid over to Mr. Torrens presently."

"Oh! as for _that_——But, never mind," cried Frank, not appearing
particularly to relish the office of treasurer thus forced upon him, yet
unable to decline the trust after his magniloquent vaunting: "I'll keep
the two thousand safe enough, depend upon it."

Sir Christopher looked at his watch; and, finding that the hour for
departure was approaching, he rang the bell to order the horses.

Precisely as the clock struck six, the party, attended by John Jeffreys,
with whom Rain had found an opportunity to exchange a word or two,
quitted Jermyn Street, and rode towards Westminster Bridge.




                              CHAPTER XI.
               THE TWO THOUSAND POUNDS.—TORRENS COTTAGE.


The evening was bright, clear, and frosty; and the stars shone
resplendently on the wide arch of heaven.

Well wrapped up in their great coats, the party of horsemen pursued
their way; and at about seven o'clock they turned from the main-road
near Streatham Common, into a bye-lane leading towards Torrens Cottage,
thus leaving Streatham itself on their right hand.

Sir Christopher and the lawyer rode about a hundred yards in advance,
Tom Rain and Frank Curtis having stopped at a public-house to procure
cigars. Jeffreys, the groom, was about fifty yards in the rear.

"You must come and see us, Captain Sparks, after the honeymoon," said
Curtis. "We shall be delighted to make you welcome."

"I shall avail myself of your kind offer," returned Tom.

"And you and me will try who can stand his bottle best," continued the
young man. "But what atrocious cigars these are! I remember when I was
in Paris, I was very intimate with a certain foreign Prince who was
staying there—and I don't mind hinting to you that I was a great
favourite with the Princess too. She was a charming woman—a very
charming woman. I never saw such eyes in my life! Well, the Prince was a
great smoker; and he one day gave me a box of his prime cigars—such
cigars! I never smoked such beauties before or since. Poor fellow! he
was killed in a duel shortly afterwards."

"Killed in a duel!" exclaimed Tom: "what—by you?"

"Oh! no—I was his second," replied Curtis, who, as usual, invented the
story as he went on. "It seems that an officer of French horse-guards
had been boasting of the favours which he pretended to have received
from the Marchioness; and the Marquis heard of it. He instantly sent for
me, and desired me to carry the grenadier-officer a message. I did so;
and the hostile encounter took place in Boulogne-wood. The
hussar-officer pinked the Count slap through in no time; for it appeared
that he was the best swordsman in all France. Well, of course I was
desperately savage to see my poor friend the Duke knocked off the hooks
in that unceremonious way; and I determined to avenge him. So I
challenged the light-infantry officer on the spot; and we fought for six
hours without either of us getting a scratch or yielding a foot of
ground. Our swords were worn as thin as skewers——"

"I have no doubt of it," said Tom coolly. "It must have been a splendid
sight."

"It was indeed," returned Frank. "But at last I obtained a trifling
advantage. The artillery-officer had a cold; and I watched him anxiously
to catch him off his guard when he sneezed. Egad! that was a glorious
idea of mine; and it succeeded too;—for after nine hours' hard fighting,
I ran him through just as a cook spits a joint. You cannot imagine what
a reputation that affair gave me in Paris. Every one was desirous to see
the young Englishman who had killed the best swordsman in France. And,
after all, without boasting, it was a feat to be proud of."

"Decidedly so," observed Tom. "But you are too brave a man, Mr. Curtis,
to indulge in idle boasts."

"Of course," cried Frank. "Fellows like you and me, Captain, who know
what swords and pistols mean, are the last to brag of their exploits."

"Do you carry pistols with you, Mr. Curtis?" asked Tom.

"Generally—generally," was the reply. "But I did not think it necessary
to take them with me this evening."

"Well, I did," said Rainford. "And here is one," he added, producing the
weapon from the pocket of his white great-coat.

"Pray don't hold it near me, Captain!" cried Frank, reining in his horse
with a trepidation most remarkable on the part of a gentleman who had
performed such gallant deeds in resisting highwaymen and as a duellist.

"Yes—but I shall not only hold it near you," said Tom: "I shall also
fire it—unless you instantly, and without noise, hand me over that
pocket-book which you have about you."

"Captain Sparks!" ejaculated the trembling young man: "this passes a
joke. Come, now——"

"I never was more serious in my life," interrupted Rainford sharply.
"Give me the pocket-book; or——"

And the sharp click of the pistol, as Tom cocked it, sounded like a
death-warrant upon the cowardly boaster's ears. In fact, he sate
paralysed—motionless—speechless upon his horse, at a loss how to act.

"Come, be quick!" cried Rain, seizing him by the collar of his coat: "I
have no time for any of your nonsense."

"You—you—can't—mean——" stammered the young man, "that—you——"

"Yes—I mean that I am a highwayman, if you like to call me so,"
interrupted Tom impatiently: "and so give me the pocket-book."

Curtis obeyed with trembling hand and sinking heart.

"And now," said Tom, as the sounds of the trampling of a horse announced
that the groom was approaching, "one word of caution! You are going to
drag a young lady into a match most unwelcome to her. Beware how you
accomplish her unhappiness by forcing her to accept as a husband such a
contemptible boaster and arrant liar as you are: beware, I say—or you
will see more than you like of Captain Sparks."

Having thus spoken, Rainford turned his horse round, and galloped away
with lightning-speed.

John Jeffreys, whom he passed in the lane, did not of course attempt to
molest him.

But when the groom overtook Frank Curtis, he said, "Any thing the
matter, sir? I saw the Captain gallop back again like an arrow."

"Captain!" ejaculated the young man: "he is a robber—a thief—a
gallows-bird!"

"What do you mean, sir?" asked Jeffreys, affecting profound
astonishment.

"He has plundered me of two thousand pounds, John," cried Frank, in so
lamentable a tone that the groom could hardly suppress a violent
indication to laugh.

"Robbed you, sir!" exclaimed Jeffreys. "You're joking, sir: no two men
in England could rob you."

"We had a desperate tussle for it, John," replied Curtis; "but the
villain knocked me off my horse with the butt-end of his pistol. It was
a cowardly blow—and I was not prepared for it."

"Most likely not, sir," said the groom drily. "But I thought he must
have used some underhand means, because I know what sort of a customer
you must be."

"You're right enough there, my man," returned Curtis. "I had got the
better of him at one time; and although he has gone off with the two
thousand pounds, he has carried away with him such a drubbing that he
won't forget in a hurry. But let us ride after my uncle and Mr.
Howard—because he might come back," added Frank, casting a terrified
glance behind him.

The young gentleman and the servant put spurs to their horses, and in a
quarter of an hour overtook the knight and the lawyer, to whom Frank
related in his own style the adventure which had just occurred.

"And you mean to say that you surrendered the pocket-book—that you gave
up two thousand pounds?" exclaimed Sir Christopher, in a passion.

"What could I do?" said Frank. "The scoundrel took the money from me by
main force."

"He was stronger than the five highwaymen in France," observed the
lawyer quietly.

"Stronger! I believe you," cried Curtis. "And then he was armed to the
very teeth. Why, when he threw open his green cut-away coat, I could see
by the starlight a belt stuck round with pistols, daggers, and sharp
knives. Or else do you think for a moment that he could have mastered
_me_?"

"Well, the mischief is done," said the knight in a doleful tone; "and a
pretty figure we shall cut at the Torrens's. I dare swear that the
rascal is no more an acquaintance of the family than he is of the King
of England."

"It is to be hoped he is not," observed Mr. Howard, who was mightily
pleased to think that he had handed over the money into Frank's keeping
previously to setting out:—"it is to be hoped not—otherwise your nephew,
Sir Christopher, would be marrying into a nice family."

"Really, Mr. Howard, this is no time for jesting," exclaimed the knight.
"But why didn't you try and stop the Villain, John?"

"I, sir!" said the groom. "How should I know that he had committed a
robbery when he galloped past me? Besides, if he is such a terrible chap
as Mr. Frank represents him, it would have been useless for me to try my
hand with him."

"Certainly! John is quite right," observed Mr. Curtis. "If I could do
nothing with him, I'm sure no one else could. He is as strong as a lion;
and, egad! how he did swear! It was quite horrible to hear him. But what
shall we do?"

"Do, indeed!" ejaculated Sir Christopher. "We shall look like so many
fools when we arrive at the Cottage."

"But Mr. Torrens will take your cheque, Sir Christopher," remarked the
lawyer.

"True. We can manage it in that way," said the knight. "Still the cash
would have appeared more business-like on such an occasion. But it is
growing late: let us push on."

"Yes—let us push on," echoed Frank, casting troubled glances around, and
trembling lest the highwayman should take it into his head to return and
rob the remainder of the party.

In twenty minutes they reached Torrens Cottage, the inmates of which we
must pause to describe.

Mr. Torrens was a widower, and had numbered about five-and-fifty years.
He was a tall, thin, dry-looking man, with a very sallow complexion, a
cold grey eye, and a stern expression of countenance. After having long
held a situation in a Government office, he retired with a pension; and
just at the same period a relation died, leaving him a few thousand
pounds. With this sum he bought a beautiful little villa, which he
denominated Torrens Cottage, and the leasehold of some land at Norwood,
where he set busily to work to build a row of houses to be called
Torrens Terrace. He had long made architecture an amateur-study during
his leisure hours; and the moment he was enabled to retire from his
situation in the Ordnance Office, and became possessed of capital, he
resolved to put his numerous architectural theories into practice. But,
as it frequently happens in such matters, he grew embarrassed; and the
works were menaced with stoppage for want of funds, when Mr. Curtis
became enamoured of his eldest daughter, whom he met at the house of
some of Mr. Torrens's relations in London. The bargain, already
described, was soon after struck between Sir Christopher Blunt and Mr.
Torrens, who did not hesitate to sacrifice his daughter's happiness to
his own pecuniary interests. Unfortunately, too, for the young lady, he
did not regard the contemplated union in the light of a sacrifice at
all; inasmuch as he naturally looked upon Frank Curtis as Sir
Christopher's heir, not dreaming that the worthy knight entertained the
remotest idea of perpetrating matrimony. Mr. Torrens therefore
considered that his daughter Adelais was about to form a most eligible
connexion; and, although he was aware that her affections were engaged
in another quarter, he acted upon the belief that parents must know best
how to ensure their children's happiness.

His two daughters, Adelais and Rosamond, were both charming girls, of
the respective ages of eighteen and sixteen. Their dark clustering
locks, their deep hazel eyes lustrous with liquid light, and their
symmetrical figures filled all beholders with admiration. Adelais was
now pale, melancholy, and drooping; for she loathed the alliance that
was in contemplation for her—loathed it, not only because her heart was
another's, but also because the manners, conversation, and personal
appearance of Frank Curtis were revolting in her estimation. Rosamond
possessed a rich complexion, in which glowed all the innate feelings of
her soul, animating and imparting to every feature of her beautiful face
an additional charm. She was naturally the confidant of her sister,
whose hard fate she deeply deplored; and many were the plans which the
amiable girls had devised and discussed, with a view to overcome their
father's cruel pertinacity in insisting on the sacrifice of Adelais to
Frank Curtis. But each and all of those projects had either failed, or
involved proceedings repugnant to their pure and artless minds. For
instance, they had thought of abandoning the paternal roof, and
endeavouring to seek their livelihood by needlework in some safe
retirement: then Adelais would not permit Rosamond to dare the
misfortunes of the world by flying from a home which she—the younger
sister—had at least no personal motive to desert; and Rosamond on her
side would not allow Adelais to set out alone. Again, a clandestine
marriage between Adelais and her lover was often debated: the young man
urged it himself;—but the daughters dreaded the father's eternal anger;
and thus this project had been abandoned also. To be brief, the dreaded
moment was now at hand; and the seal of misery was about to be set on
the roll of the elder maiden's destinies.

And who was the lover of Adelais? A handsome, generous-hearted,
honourable young man, occupying a situation in the very Government
office where Mr. Torrens had himself served for many years. But,
although Clarence Villiers was so far provided for, and had every
prospect of rising rapidly on account of his steady habits and assiduous
attention to his employment, yet he was at present only a poor clerk
with ninety pounds a-year; and he had no capital. Mr. Torrens, as we
have seen, required capital; and thus Frank Curtis was preferred to
Clarence Villiers.

We cannot quit this description without alluding to the ardent affection
which existed between the sisters. Having lost their mother in their
childhood, and their father being almost constantly from home throughout
the day, they were naturally thrown entirely upon each other for
companionship. An illimitable confidence sprang up between them—a
confidence more intimate far than even that which usually subsists
between sisters; because this confidence on the part of Adelais and
Rosamond extended to a mutual outpouring of their most trivial as well
as of their most important thoughts, hopes, or aspirations. Thus, the
reader will cease to be astonished that, when Adelais, in the anguish of
her heart, had contemplated flight from the paternal roof as the only
alternative save a hateful marriage, Rosamond insisted upon accompanying
her. Much as they loved and revered their father, they were both
prepared to sacrifice even filial affection and filial duty for each
other's sake. This feeling may be looked upon as one involving a
grievous fault on their side: it was not, however, the less firmly
rooted in their minds,—for they were all and all to each other!

-----

[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER XII.
                         ADELAIS AND ROSAMOND.


Sir Christopher Blunt, Mr. Howard, and Frank Curtis were soon seated in
Mr. Torrens' comfortable parlour, the walls of which were adorned with
an infinite variety of architectural plans set in carved oaken frames.

A cheerful fire blazed in the grate; wine was placed upon the table; and
the travellers were speedily as much at their ease as they could wish,
or as their host could render them.

The young ladies were in another apartment, Mr. Torrens having desired
them to remain in the drawing-room while the commercial part of the
projected matrimonial arrangement was being settled in the parlour.

When the usual complimentary phrases had been exchanged, and Sir
Christopher had observed that the weather was remarkably fine but very
cold—a proposition to which Mr. Torrens entirely assented—for somehow or
another people never _do_ contradict each other when commenting on that
subject;—when, also, a glass or two of wine had been imbibed by each,
the knight inquired whether Mr. Torrens happened to be acquainted with a
Captain Sparks?

The answer was a negative.

Sir Christopher then began to relate the adventure of the evening; and,
although he was constantly interrupted by his nephew, who was anxious to
interpolate in the narrative certain saving clauses respecting his own
valour towards the highwayman, the worthy knight nevertheless succeeded
at length in bringing the tale to an end.

"It is clear," said Mr. Torrens, "that you were first duped and then
robbed by an infamous scoundrel. But have you any notion how he could
have learnt enough of the pending arrangements to be enabled to talk so
familiarly with regard to them, when he first introduced himself to
you?"

"That puzzles me, my dear sir," returned Sir Christopher.

"And it is likely to continue to puzzle you, uncle," observed Frank;
"for the whole business defies conjecture. I remember, when I was in
France——"

"The villain evidently knew that you would leave town with a
considerable sum of money in your possession," said Torrens; "and his
aim was to get it. He did get it too."

"But not without a deuced good thrashing into the bargain," cried Frank;
"and that's some consolation."

"I dare say Captain Sparks, as he calls himself, would gladly be
thrashed every hour in the day on the same terms," observed the lawyer.
"But I think that when our little business is concluded, I should do
well to return to London and give information at Bow Street as speedily
as possible."

"By no means," exclaimed Sir Christopher. "We must keep the tale to
ourselves. If it got into the newspapers, with all the particulars, it
would only make us look ridiculous. We might punish the man; but we
should never get back the money. No—no: let the matter drop—for all our
sakes. Thank heaven," continued the knight, assuming a slower and more
pompous tone, "the loss is paltry—very paltry in my estimation. I shall
not miss the amount, I can assure you."

"But you have no objection to my giving the scoundrel another good
drubbing, uncle, the first time I meet him again?" inquired Frank
Curtis, with great apparent earnestness.

"Oh! there can be no objection to that—if the Captain will allow you so
to operate on him," said the lawyer drily.

"Allow me, indeed! I should like to know how he could prevent it,"
exclaimed Frank, affecting deep indignation at the remark. "You should
have seen the struggle we had!"

"Very likely: but I noticed your great-coat when we came in just now—and
it was not soiled," said Howard.

"Of course not: I had him down all the time."

"Then it was a great pity you did not keep him there."

"Come—come—enough of this fencing," cried Sir Christopher. "Produce the
deeds, Mr. Howard: my friend Torrens will take my cheque for the two
thousand."

"Oh! certainly," replied the venal father.

"And to-morrow, let us hope that I shall have to give you another for
three thousand more," added Sir Christopher. "Thank heaven! my cheque is
as good as a Bank-note. But it wasn't twenty years ago, though. Times
have altered since then. And yet, as my friend Howard knows, I am proud
of my humble origin."

"Yes—yes, uncle," exclaimed Frank: "we all know that perfectly. But
let's to business, and then join the young ladies. I shall make them
laugh with the story of the highwayman. It's the first time in my life I
was ever conquered—ever overcome: and now it hasn't been by fair means.
I remember once, when I was at Montreuil, three French peasants had some
of their nonsense with me; but I just——"

"Here are the documents, gentlemen," said Mr. Howard. "Frank shall
conclude his story presently."

The agreements for the loan of the five thousand pounds were then read
over; Mr. Torrens signed them; Sir Christopher Blunt wrote him a cheque
for two thousand on account—the remaining three to be advanced only on
condition that the proposed marriage took place;—and thus terminated the
commercial part of the business.

The four gentlemen then proceeded to the drawing-room, where the two
young ladies were seated.

Adelais was excessively pale; and when the odious Mr. Frank Curtis
tripped smirkingly up to her, and, taking her fair hand, pressed it to
his lips,—his breath, heated with wine and rendered offensive by the
fumes of the cigar, steaming upon that delicate skin,—the maiden
recoiled as if from something loathsome.

Her father, who observed her narrowly, cast upon her a rapid but ireful
glance; and Adelais exerted herself strenuously to recover her
composure.

Like a victim about to be sacrificed at the altar of some avenging god,
she suffered her admirer to lead her to a seat in a remote part of the
room; and placing himself by her side, Frank Curtis darted a triumphant
look at Howard and Sir Christopher, as much as to say, "Just see how
successfully I am going to play the amiable in this quarter."

Then, turning towards the lovely Adelais, whose large blue eyes were
bent timidly down, and whose bosom palpitated with a variety of painful
emotions, he observed, in what he considered to be a most endearing
whisper, "Come, my sweet gal, cheer up: there's nothing to be frightened
at in marriage. I know that I'm not quite a lady's man; but we shall get
on better together by and bye. You see, my dear, I've always been used
to manly sports or to seeking adventures where some glory was to be
gained—such as knocking down watchmen, or fighting with highwaymen, or
killing my man in a duel—and things of that kind. But I've no doubt it
will be pleasant enough to be tied to your apron-string—if the string
itself isn't too tight."

Adelais raised her fine blue eyes, turned them for a moment upon her
admirer, and then again fixed them on the carpet, a profound sigh
escaping her bosom at the same time:—but that glance, so involuntarily
thrown towards her companion, was one of sudden curiosity—as if she were
anxious to discover by the expression of his face whether he were indeed
serious in the insufferable rhodomontade with which he sought to
captivate her.

"There—that's right, my dear gal," said Curtis, mistaking the motive of
that rapid look which was directed towards him; "don't stand on any
ceremony with me. In a few hours more we shall be husband and wife——"

Adelais shuddered visibly.

"Ah! I like this little modesty—it's all very proper on your part,"
continued the disgusting young man; "but it will soon wear off—naturally
so."

The young lady now started indignantly—her countenance became
crimson—and then large tears burst from her eyes. Curtis caught hold of
her hand—but she withdraw it,—she literally snatched it away, as if from
the jaws of a hideous reptile.

"You needn't think I'm going to eat you, Miss," said Frank in a surly
tone. "But I forgot to tell you what an adventure I had just now with a
couple of highwaymen," he continued in a milder voice. "You see, as me
and my uncle and Howard were coming down the lane, I fell back a
little—just to think of you, my dear, at leisure; when all of a sudden
three chaps jumped over a bank, and pointed their blunderbusses at me. I
didn't care a rap for that; but taking the riding-whip by the thin end,
I knocked down three of them—one after the other—with the handle-part,
you know, and had just made up my mind to tackle the fourth, when my
horse reared and threw me. For a moment I was insensible; and during
that time the fifth scoundrel picked my pocket of the two thousand
pounds which I may call the purchase-money of your own dear pretty
little self."

"Sir!" exclaimed Adelais, aloud: "is it your intention to insult me?"

And, without waiting for a reply, but yielding to the tide of anguish
and indignation which now impelled her, she rushed from the room.

Rosamond, who, while engaged in conversation with her father, Sir
Christopher, and Mr. Howard at the other end of the room, had never
ceased to watch her sister with the most lively interest, now
immediately followed the almost heart-broken girl.

The moment the sisters had reached their bed-chamber, Adelais threw
herself into Rosamond's arms, exclaiming, "I will never marry him—I will
die sooner!"

"Has he offended you?" inquired Rosamond, affectionately embracing her
disconsolate sister. "But I need not ask! Your changing countenance—your
anxious looks—your convulsive movements—and then your tears, while he
sate by you——"

"Oh! my very soul revolts against him!" cried Adelais, emphatically, the
conflicts of agonising emotions painfully expressed on her countenance.
"At first—when he approached me—it required all the exertions of which
my fortitude was capable to subdue the feelings of aversion and
disgust—of bitter woe and heart-felt misery—with which I was
agitated;—but when his coarse language met my ears——Oh! Rosamond!"
exclaimed the distracted maiden, "I must fly—I must avoid this dreadful
fate—or my heart will break!"

At this moment Mr. Torrens slowly opened the door, and entered the room.

His countenance wore an expression which gave evidence that anger and
compunction were maintaining a fierce struggle in his breast; but the
former feeling was rapidly obtaining the ascendancy.

"Rash—disobedient girl," he exclaimed, fixing his stern cold eyes upon
Adelais, who still clung to her younger sister, "what signifies this
folly?"

"Spare me—spare me, my dearest father!" cried Adelais, suddenly tearing
herself from Rosamond's embrace, and falling on her knees before her
sire: "I cannot marry that horrible man!"

Mr. Torrens bit his lip almost till the blood came.

"Listen to me, my dear father," continued the despairing girl, joining
her hands together, while her cheeks were of marble whiteness,
unanimated by a tinge of vital colouring,—"I am your daughter, and must
obey you; but if you persist in saying, '_Receive that man as your
husband_,' it is the same as if you were to utter the word, '_Die!_' Oh!
no—you cannot—you will not sacrifice me in this cruel, cruel manner!
What have I done to offend you, that my unhappiness has become your aim?
Dearest father—relent—I implore you: on my knees, I beseech you to save
me ere it be too late!"

"Adelais," exclaimed Mr. Torrens, arming himself with that fatal
sophistry which led him to believe that _he_ was the only judge of what
was fitting for his daughter's welfare and happiness,—"Adelais, rise—I
command you!"

The miserable girl obeyed, but staggered with vacillating and irregular
steps towards a chair, in which she sank, the agony of her soul now
expelling all power of reflection from its seat.

"I have gone too far to retreat—even if I were so disposed," continued
Mr. Torrens. "Your happiness will be ensured by this union."

"Her happiness, father!" said Rosamond, reproachfully. "Oh! no—never,
never!"

"Undutiful girl!" cried the venal parent: "do you league with your
sister against me? I tell you that Adelais is about to become the wife
of a young man who can give her an enviable position in society, and who
at his uncle's death, will inherit an immense fortune. It is true that
Mr. Curtis is somewhat rough in manner and incautious with his tongue;
but perfection exists not in this world. To be brief, this marriage
shall take place—it _must_—I dare not retract."

"Father, one word more," exclaimed Adelais, suddenly recovering her
power of thought and speech—those powers which anguish had for a few
minutes completely subdued: "you are about to _sell_ your daughter to
that man—he boasted to me that a few thousand pounds were the
purchase-money—and hence my abrupt departure from the room."

"The phrase was wrong—ill-chosen—coarse," ejaculated Mr. Torrens,
evidently smarting under this announcement: "but we must not judge of
words themselves—we must only look to the motives of him who utters
them. Mr. Curtis is incapable of insulting you——"

"Oh! you know not how abhorrent is the coarseness of his language!"
cried Adelais, bursting into a torrent of tears.

"You provoke me beyond the limits of human patience!" ejaculated Mr.
Torrens, stamping his foot with rage. "But no more of this. You know my
will—prepare to obey it. I ask you not to return to the drawing-room
to-night;—to-morrow morning let me hope that you will show yourself a
dutiful daughter towards a father who is anxious only to ensure your
prosperity."

Mr. Torrens then imprinted a cold kiss upon the fair foreheads of
Adelais and Rosamond, and hastily quitted the apartment.

For some minutes after the door had closed behind them, the sisters sat
gazing upon each other in the silence of painful and awful reflection.

Yet beautiful were they in their sorrow; for the unstudied attitudes and
abandonment of limb which such a state of mind produces, gave additional
grace to the just proportions of their forms, and imparted an expression
of the most tender interest to the perfect composition of their
features.

"Sister," at length said Rosamond, in a soft and mournful tone, as she
approached Adelais, "what will you do?"

This question suddenly aroused the unhappy young lady to a sense of the
urgent necessity of adopting some decisive measure.

Winding her arms around Rosamond's neck, she said, "I must fly from my
father's house—I must abandon the paternal dwelling. O heaven! wherefore
am I reduced to so fearful an alternative?"

"Speak not only of yourself, beloved Adelais," murmured Rosamond
chidingly; "for you know that my fate, as well as my heart, is
inseparably linked with thine."

"Oh! I doubt not the sincerity of your love for me, dearest sister,"
exclaimed Miss Torrens; "but I tremble at the idea of making you the
companion of my flight. Have we not read in books, dear girl, that
London is a dreadful place—abounding in perils of all kinds, and
concealing pit-falls beneath its most pleasant places? Oh! Rosamond, you
are so young—so very young to quit your father's home and venture in
that great city of danger and crime!"

"But with you as my companion, Adelais, I shall have courage to meet all
those perils of which you speak," responded Rosamond, the tones of her
voice becoming so gentle, so melting, and so persuasive, that never did
she seem so dear—so very dear unto her sister as at this moment.

And now all hesitation was banished on the part of Adelais:—it was
settled—it was determined—Rosamond should become the companion of her
flight!




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                             THE ELOPEMENT.


Let us now return to Rainford, whom we left on his way back to London,
after having so triumphantly eased the vain-glorious Mr. Frank Curtis of
the two thousand pounds.

The highwayman,—for such indeed was the gay, generous-hearted, and brave
Tom Rain,—scarcely condescended to bestow even a chuckle of satisfaction
upon a victory so easily won—an exploit so readily accomplished.

He would have valued the prize far more, had it been obtained by means
of hard blows and as the result of a desperate encounter; for the love
of adventure was inherent in his disposition—and he had often courted
danger in his life, for the exciting pleasure of freeing himself from
its intricacy.

Having galloped his good steed to the beginning of the lane, he checked
its celerity, and then proceeded at a moderate pace along the main road
to the public-house where Curtis and himself had stopped to purchase
their cigars about half an hour previously.

Riding up to the door of the little establishment, the highwayman leapt
from his horse, and threw the reins to a dependant of the place who was
conversing with the postillion of a chaise and pair that had stopped at
the door.

When Rainford sauntered leisurely up to the bar, with his chimney-pot
hat set rakishly on one side, his white coat comfortably buttoned up,
and his riding-whip in his hand, the landlord instantly recollected him
again, and observed, as he drew the liquor which the highwayman ordered,
"Back to London, sir, to-night?"

"Yes," replied Tom carelessly: "I just escorted my friend as far as
Torrens Cottage, and shall now get home again."

These words produced a visible emotion on the part of a tall, handsome,
dark-haired young man, who was also standing at the bar. He was well
protected by a great coat against the cold; and Tom therefore very
naturally concluded that he was the traveller journeying in the
post-chaise outside.

"Torrens Cottage!" cried the landlord. "Why, I do declare that's the
very ticket. This gentleman here was just making inquiries whether I had
any one that could take a note there in a confidential way."

The landlord blurted forth this announcement without heeding the
significant coughs and "hems" of the tall young gentleman, who seemed
greatly annoyed that the object of his call at the public-house should
thus be published to the very first stranger who entered the place after
him.

"You should keep a closer tongue in your head," said Tom Rain. "How do
you know what harm might be done by your stupidity in letting out the
gentleman's business in this kind of way? Fortunately, I am not the kind
of fellow to do mischief; and in this case, it may be, that I can effect
some good."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the tall young gentleman, his countenance suddenly
exchanging the expression of annoyance which the landlord's garrulity
had excited, for one indicative of hope and joy.

"Yes—I think so," said Tom. "But we must have a few words in private."

"Walk into the parlour, gentlemen," cried the landlord. "There's no one
in that room at present."

Rainford and the tall stranger followed this suggestion; and when the
door was closed behind them, the highwayman said, "If I am not very much
mistaken, you must be the gentleman whom that lying braggart Frank
Curtis is endeavouring to cut out?"

"My name is Clarence Villiers, sir," was the guarded reply.

"And you are the lover of Mr. Torrens's eldest daughter," continued
Rainford. "Now do not waste valuable time by reflecting whether you
shall make me your confidant, or not. I am disposed to serve you: tell
me how I can do it."

"You will excuse me," said Villiers in a polite but somewhat reserved
tone, "if I first request to be informed to whom I have the honour of
speaking."

"Captain Sparks," was the immediate reply. "I happen to know old Sir
Christopher and his precious nephew; and I rode down with them nearly as
far as the cottage. But I did not accept their invitation to go in—for
particular reasons of my own. You may, however, suppose that I am well
acquainted with all the particulars of this infamous case. Miss Adelais
Torrens loves Mr. Clarence Villiers and hates Mr. Frank Curtis; but Mr.
Frank Curtis is the successful suitor with the mercenary father, because
a certain five thousand pounds——"

"Enough, Captain Sparks!" ejaculated Villiers. "I see that you do indeed
know all. And will you serve me in this strait?"

"I will—honour bright!" cried Tom. "There's my hand upon it. Now say
what is to be done. It is already past eight o'clock," he added, after a
hasty reference to a handsome gold watch which he drew from his fob.

"My object was to obtain an interview with Adelais in some way or
another, and urge her to—to——"

"Speak plainly, my friend," cried Rain. "To elope with you. Well?—do you
mean every thing that is honourable?"

"As God is my judge," said the young man solemnly. "I have frequently
urged the dear girl to consent to a clandestine marriage with me; but
the purity of her soul has ever revolted against a course which she
considers to be marked with duplicity."

"Where would you convey her during the interval that must necessarily
elapse before you can marry her?" asked Rainford. "Because, as she is a
minor, I suppose you could not obtain a special licence without her
father's consent."

"I have an aunt in London devoted to my interests," answered Clarence;
"and she would receive her with even maternal affection until I should
acquire a legal right to protect her."

"So far, so good," observed Tom. "And yet a young lady eloping at night
with a young man——remember, I am only speaking for the good of both of
you."

"I had foreseen that difficulty also," said Villiers hastily. "The fact
is, Adelais and her sister Rosamond are so linked together by the
tenderest bonds of affection, that the one would not move a step
unaccompanied by the other."

"The devil!" cried Rainford: "two ladies to carry off! That increases
the embarrassment of the business. Now it is very clear that it is
perfectly useless for us to send a messenger down with a note: it would
be intercepted by the father. But if you will sit down and write what
you choose, I will undertake to have it delivered to the young lady
herself."

"You?" exclaimed Clarence joyfully.

"Yes: what I promise, I will perform," said Rainford. "Follow my
directions—and all shall go well."

Clarence rang the bell, ordered writing materials, and in a few minutes
completed a note to his beloved Adelais, which he read to his companion.

"Seal it," said Tom; "because it may pass through the hands of another
person, after it leaves mine, and before it reaches Miss Torrens."

This suggestion was instantaneously complied with; and Rainford secured
the letter about his person.

"Now," he continued, after a moment's reflection, "do you proceed with
the chaise down the lane, and stop as near the cottage as is consistent
with prudence. I shall retrace my way there at once. Fear nothing—but
wait patiently at the place where you pull up, until I make my
appearance."

Villiers promised to fulfil these instructions; and Rainford, having
taken a temporary leave of him, remounted his horse and galloped towards
Torrens Cottage.

The highwayman had his plan of proceeding ready digested by the time the
white walls of the building, rendered particularly conspicuous in the
starlight, met his view.

Alighting from his horse at a distance of about a hundred yards, he tied
the animal to a tree, and then repaired towards the dwelling.

Having reconnoitred the premises, he speedily discovered the stable;
and, to his infinite joy, a light streamed from one of the windows of
that building.

Leaping over the palings which separated the kitchen-garden from the
adjacent fields, Tom Rain proceeded to the stable; and there, as he had
anticipated, he found John Jeffreys, the groom, busily employed with his
master's horses.

John was alone; and his surprise was great, when, upon being tapped on
the shoulder, he turned round and beheld the highwayman.

"Silence!" said Tom in a whisper; "we have no time to lose in idle
chatter. Here's five guineas for you; and you must get this note
conveyed secretly to Miss Torrens—Adelais, the eldest—you know."

"It shall be done, sir," replied Jeffreys. "I am already far in the good
graces of the housemaid; the cook is old and deaf; and so there's no
fear of my not being able to succeed."

"Good. And you will bring me the answer up the lane, where I shall wait
for you."

"And how can you read it, when you get it?" demanded Jeffreys. "The
night is not quite clear enough for that."

"The answer will be a verbal one—_yes_ or _no_," replied Tom.

Jeffreys promised that no delay should occur on his part; and Rainford
retraced his steps to the spot where he had left his horse.

Many novelists would here pause for the honest but somewhat tedious
purpose of detailing all the reflections which passed through the mind
of Rainford during the mortal half-hour that elapsed ere the sounds of
footsteps upon the hard soil announced the approach of some person. But
as we do not wish either to spin out our narrative with dry material, or
to keep the reader in any unnecessary suspense, we will at once declare
that at the expiration of the aforesaid thirty minutes John Jeffreys
made his appearance at the appointed spot.

"What news?" demanded Tom impatiently.

"All right——"

"And the answer?"

"Is _yes_."

"That's well!" exclaimed Rainford. "You may now go back, John. All that
I require of you is done."

"But I have something to say to _you_, sir," observed the servant. "Just
now, Sir Christopher sent for me up into the parlour to give me some
orders; and I heard Mr. Frank, who is uncommon far gone with
brandy-and-water, making a boast to the lawyer-fellow that he'd walk all
round the grounds to see that every thing is safe. It seems that the
lawyer has been twitting him about his little business with you just now
up the lane, you know; and so Mr. Frank is as bumptious as possible. I
only thought I'd better tell you of this—in case you've any business in
hand that's likely to keep you about the place."

"I am very much obliged to you, John," said Rainford. "Here's another
five guineas for you—and I shall not forget to speak to Old Death in
your favour. But you had better get back as soon as you can, for fear
you should be missed."

Jeffreys thanked the highwayman for the additional remuneration, and
returned to the cottage.

It was now past nine o'clock, and Rainford murmured to himself, "I
wonder how much longer they will be?"

His horse, which was a high-spirited animal, began to grow impatient of
this long stoppage; and he himself shivered, in spite of the good great
coat, with the nipping chill.

Another quarter of an hour elapsed; and, to the infinite joy of Tom
Rain, he suddenly beheld two female figures, well muffled in shawls and
furs, emerge from the obscurity at a short distance.

"All right, ladies," he said, in as loud a voice as he dared use
consistently with prudence.

Adelais and Rosamond hurried towards him, as affrighted lambs to their
shepherd; and yet, when they were close to him, they seemed unable to
utter a word.

"Fear not, ladies," exclaimed the highwayman. "I am the friend to whom
Mr. Villiers alluded in his note."

"Save us, then, sir—save us," said Adelais, in an urgent and imploring
tone; "for Mr. Curtis saw us leave the house: he was in the garden——"

At that moment the sounds of voices were heard in the direction of the
cottage; and they were evidently approaching.

"Hasten up the lane, young ladies—hasten, for God's sake!" said Tom
Rain. "Mr. Villiers is there with the post-chaise—and I will remain here
to bar the way."

Adelais and Rosamond could not even give utterance to the thanks which
their hearts longed to express: terror froze the words that started to
their lips; and, not daring to glance behind them, they hurried up the
lane.

Tom Rainford now mounted his horse, and took his station in the middle
of the way; for several persons were rapidly approaching from the house.

In a few moments they were near enough to enable Rainford to catch what
they said.

"The disobedient—self-willed girls!" exclaimed one, whom Tom was right
in supposing to be Mr. Torrens.

"But wasn't it fortunate that I twigged them?" said Curtis. "Egad!——"

"It will be much more fortunate if we overtake them," observed the
lawyer.

"Bless me!—I'm out of breath," cried Sir Christopher. "I wish John would
come on with the horses. Did you tell him, Frank?"

"To be sure I did. We cannot fail to overtake them. But, poor things!
suppose that highwayman should fall in with them—and me not there to
defend them!"

"I think it would be all the same——"

Howard was interrupted by a sudden ejaculation on the part of Mr.
Torrens, who was a few paces in advance of the others, but who now
abruptly came to a full stop.

"What is it?" demanded Curtis, shaking from head to foot, in spite of
all the liquor he had imbibed during the day.

"Some ruffian on horseback—there—don't you see?" exclaimed Mr. Torrens.
"But I am not afraid of him: his presence here is in some way connected
with my daughters."

And the incensed father rushed furiously towards the highwayman.

"Stand back!" cried Tom in his clear, stentorian voice; and this command
was followed by the sharp clicking of the two pistols which he cocked.

"The robber!" exclaimed Frank Curtis, clinging to the coat-tails of Mr.
Torrens, who had retreated a few paces at the ominous sound of the
pistols. "At him, my dear sir—at him! I'm here to help you."

"Villain—give up the two thousand pounds, and we will let you go—on _my_
honour as a knight!" ejaculated Sir Christopher, keeping as far remote
as he deemed prudent from the sinister form which, wrapped in the white
great coat, and seated composedly on the tall horse, seemed, amidst the
obscurity of the night, to be a ghost disdaining to touch the earth.

"I am very much obliged to you for your kindness, Sir Christopher," said
Tom: "but I am not at all in fear of the necessity of purchasing my
liberty at any price whatsoever. I however give you every one due
warning, that the first who tries to pass this way——"

"Scoundrel! my daughters—where are they?" vociferated Mr. Torrens.

"That's it—give it him!" cried Frank Curtis. "I'll be at him when you've
done."

"Go on at once," cried Howard.

"And why are you standing idle there?"

"Because it is not my business to interfere."

"Well done, lawyer!" exclaimed Tom. "No fees can recompense you for an
ounce of lead in the thigh: for if I do fire, I shall only try to
lame—not kill."

"Mr. Curtis—Sir Christopher—will you not help me to arrest this villain
who beards us to our very faces?" exclaimed Torrens, in a towering
passion.

And again he rushed forward, while Frank Curtis beat a precipitate
retreat behind his uncle.

"Stand back! or, by God, I'll fire!" thundered Rainford, suddenly
spurring his horse in such a manner that the length of the animal was
made to block up nearly the entire width of the bye-lane.

"You dare not murder me!" cried Torrens. "My daughters will escape!"—and
he attempted to pass in front of the horse.

But by a skilful manœuvre, Rainford baffled him—arrested his
progress—and kept him at bay, using all the time the most desperate
menaces, which he did not, however, entertain the remotest idea of
putting into execution.

"Mr. Curtis, sir—will you help me?" cried the infuriate father. "My
daughters are escaping before your very eyes—you are losing your
bride——"

"And you the rest of the money that was to have purchased her," said
Rainford coolly. "Mercenary old man, you are rightly punished."

With these words, the highwayman suddenly wheeled his horse round, and
disappeared in a moment.

He had succeeded in barring the way for upwards of ten minutes against
the pursuers of the two fugitive ladies; and he calculated that in less
than half that time they must have reached the post-chaise which
Clarence Villiers had in readiness to receive them.

Jeffreys had purposely delayed getting the horses out; and even when he
did appear with them, several minutes had elapsed since the highwayman
had left the path free to those who thought fit to avail themselves of
the services of the animals.

These were only two—Mr. Torrens and Jeffreys himself: the latter
volunteering his aid for the purpose of misleading and embarrassing the
father, rather than of assisting him.

Frank Curtis affected to be suddenly taken very unwell: Sir Christopher
was really so; and the lawyer, although by no means a coward, did not
see any utility in hazarding his life against such a desperate character
as Captain Sparks (for by that denomination only did he know Tom Rain)
appeared to be.

Thus, while the knight, his nephew, and the attorney retraced their
steps to the cottage, leading back the horses which had been brought out
for their use, Mr. Torrens and Jeffreys galloped away towards London.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                LADY HATFIELD AND DR. LASCELLES.—ESTHER
                               DE MEDINA.


Two days after the incidents which we have just related, Dr. Lascelles
received a message, at about noon, requesting him to repair immediately
to the dwelling of Lady Hatfield, who was seriously indisposed.

He obeyed this summons with more than usual alacrity; for ever since
Lord Ellingham had made him his confidant, the curiosity of the worthy
doctor had been strangely piqued by the unaccountable fact that Lady
Hatfield should reject the suit of a man whom she not only professed to
love, but who was in every way worthy of her.

On his arrival at Lady Hatfield's residence, he was surprised to learn
from Miss Mordaunt that his patient was too unwell to quit her couch;
and when he was introduced into Georgiana's bed-chamber, he found her
labouring under a strong nervous excitement.

In accordance with the sacred privilege of the physician, he was of
course left alone with her ladyship; and, seating himself by the side of
the bed, he questioned her in the usual manner.

Georgiana explained her sensations; but, although she alluded to nothing
beyond those physical details which directly came within the province of
the medical man, still Dr. Lascelles had no difficulty in perceiving
that the _mind_, rather than the _body_, was affected.

"My dear Lady Hatfield," he said, in as gentle and mild a tone as he
could possibly assume, "it is in the power of the physician to
administer certain drugs which may produce temporary composure; and an
opiate will encourage a good night's rest. But you will forgive me for
observing that the condition in which I now find you, is scarcely one to
which medical science will apply successfully—_unless_ seconded by aid
of a more refined and delicate nature."

"I do not comprehend you, doctor," exclaimed Georgiana, casting upon him
a glance of mingled surprise and uneasiness.

"I mean, Lady Hatfield," resumed Lascelles, "that you are the prey to
some secret grief—some source of vexation and annoyance, which medical
skill cannot remove. The aid of a refined and delicate nature to which I
refer, is such as can be afforded only by a sincere and confidential
friend. Without for an instant seeking to draw you into any
explanations, it is my duty to assure you that unless your mind be
tranquillised, medicine will not successfully encounter this nervous
irritability—this intense anxiety—this oppressive feeling of coming
evil, without apparent cause—and this sleeplessness at night,—of all
which you complain."

"I thank you most sincerely for this candour and frankness on your part,
doctor," said Lady Hatfield, after a long pause, during which she
appeared to reflect profoundly. "To deny that I _have_ suffered much in
mind during the last few days, were to practise a useless deception upon
you. But I require no confidant—I need not the solace of friendship. To
your medical skill I trust for, at all events, a partial restoration to
health; and travelling—change of scene—the excitement of visiting
Paris—or some such means of diversion, will effect the rest."

These last words were, however, accompanied with a deep sigh—as if upon
the lady's soul were forced the sad conviction that happiness and
herself must evermore remain strangers to each other.

"I should scarcely recommend travelling in the winter time, Lady
Hatfield," observed Doctor Lascelles. "Surely our own city can afford
that constant variety of recreation and those ever-changing scenes of
amusement, which may produce a beneficial effect upon your spirits."

"I abhor the pleasures of the fashionable world, doctor," said Georgiana
emphatically. "There is something so cold in the ostentation of that
sphere—so chilling in its magnificence—so formal in its pursuits—so
ceremonial, so thoroughly artificial in all its features and
proceedings, that when in the crowded ball-room or the brilliant
_soirée_, I even feel more _alone_ than when in the solitude of my own
chamber."

"And yet, Lady Hatfield, throughout the extensive circle of your
acquaintance," said the physician, "there must be at least a few endowed
with intellectual qualifications adapted to render them agreeable. The
most pleasant parties, composed of these select, might be given: your
rank—your wealth—your own well-stored mind—and, pardon me, your
beauty,—would ensure to you——"

"Oh! doctor," exclaimed Georgiana, "I can anticipate the arguments you
are about to use; but, alas! my mind appears to be in that morbid state
which discolours all objects with its own jaundiced thoughts. I speak
thus candidly to you, doctor—because I am aware of your friendship for
me—I know also that the admission I have now made will be regarded by
you as a solemn secret—and perhaps your advice," she added, slowly and
hesitatingly, "might prove beneficial to me. But, no—no," she exclaimed,
her utterance suddenly assuming great rapidity, "it is useless to say
more: advice cannot serve _me_!"

"There is scarcely a possible case of human vexation, grief, or
annoyance, which cannot be relieved by the solace, or ameliorated by the
counsel, of a friend," observed Doctor Lascelles, dwelling emphatically
upon his words.

Georgiana played abstractedly with the long, luxuriant hair which
streamed over her shoulders, and spread its shining masses on the white
pillow; but at the same time the snowy night-dress rose and sank rapidly
with the heavings of her bosom.

"Believe me, Lady Hatfield," continued Doctor Lascelles, after a short
pause, during which he vainly awaited a reply to his former observation,
"I am deeply grieved to find that one who so little deserves the sting
of grief or the presence of misfortune, should suffer from either the
sharpness of the first, or the menaces of the latter. But is it not
possible, my dear lady,—and now, forgive me if I avail myself of the
privilege of a physician to ask this question,—is it not possible, I
say, that you have conjured up phantoms which have no substantial
existence? Remember that there are certain conditions of the mind, when
the imagination becomes a prey to the wildest delusions——"

"Doctor, I am no monomaniac," said Lady Hatfield abruptly. "But justly,
indeed—oh! most justly and truly did you ere now assert that I little
deserve the sting of grief! If through any crime—any weakness—any
frailty on my part, I had merited the sore displeasure of heaven—at that
time——"

She checked herself abruptly, and burst into a flood of tears; and for a
few moments her countenance appeared to be the sad index of a breaking
heart.

"Doctor," she observed at length, "pardon this manifestation of weakness
on my part; but my spirits are so depressed—my mind feels so truly
wretched, that I cannot control these tears. Think no more of what we
have been saying: I wish that we had not said so much! Leave me a
prescription, and visit me again in the course of the day."

Lascelles wrote out a prescription, and then took his departure,
wondering more than ever what secret cause of grief was nourished in the
bosom of Lady Hatfield.

That this secret grief was the motive which had induced or compelled her
to refuse the hand of Lord Ellingham, he could not doubt:—that it arose
from no _crime_—_weakness_—nor _frailty_ on her part, he felt assured;
inasmuch as her own words, uttered in a paroxysm of mental anguish and
not in a calm moment when deception might be her aim, proved that
fact;—and that it was associated with any physical ailment, he could
hardly believe. Because, if she were the prey to an insidious disease,
no feeling of shame—no false delicacy could possibly force a woman of
her good sense and naturally powerful mind to keep such a fact from her
physician. What, then, could be that secret and profoundly-rooted cause
of grief? Was it monomania of some novel or very rare kind? The
curiosity of the man of science was keenly whetted: he already began to
suspect that he was destined to discover some new phase in the
constitution of the human mind; and he resolved to adopt all the means
within his reach to solve the mystery.

This curiosity on his part was by no means of a common, vulgar, or base
nature. Considering the profession and researchful disposition of the
man, it was a legitimate and entirely venial sentiment. It was not that
curiosity which loves to feed itself upon the materials of scandal. It
was purely in connexion with the thirst of knowledge and the passion for
discovery which ever animated him in that sphere of science to which he
was so enthusiastically devoted.

The doctor was proceeding homewards, when he encountered Lord Ellingham.
The Earl was walking by the side of an elderly gentleman, on whose arm
hung a tall and graceful young lady; but the physician did not
immediately catch a glimpse of her countenance, as it was turned towards
Lord Ellingham, who was speaking at the moment.

The nobleman shook Lascelles warmly by the hand, and immediately
introduced his companions by the names of Mr. and Miss de Medina.

The doctor bowed, and then cast a glance at the countenance of the young
lady: but he started as if with a sudden pang,—for in the beautiful
Jewess who now stood before him, he beheld—apparently past all
possibility of error—the same female who a few days previously had
attempted self-destruction in South-Moulton Street.

But, almost simultaneously with this unexpected conviction, the solemn
promise which he had made to Tom Rainford (whom he only knew on that
occasion by the denomination of Jameson) flashed to the mind of Doctor
Lascelles; and, instantly composing himself, he uttered some observation
of a general nature.

"I am glad we have thus met, doctor," said Lord Ellingham, who had not
noticed his sudden, but evanescent excitement; "for my friend Mr. de
Medina is a comparative stranger in London, and it is as well," added
the nobleman, with a smile, "that he should become acquainted with the
leading physician of the day."

"I believe that no one enjoys health so good as to be enabled to
dispense altogether with our assistance," said the physician, bowing in
acknowledgment of the compliment thus paid him. "The most perfect piece
of mechanism must necessarily need repair sometimes."

"Decidedly so," said Lord Ellingham. "But we will not assert that
physicians are necessary evils, doctor—in the same sense as the lawyers
are."

"I appeal to Miss de Medina whether his lordship be not, by implication,
too hard upon my profession," exclaimed Lascelles, laughing.

"His lordship," replied Esther, "was yesterday riding a very
high-spirited horse; and had he been thrown in such a manner as to have
incurred injury, I question whether he would have believed that his
medical attendant was an evil, however necessary."

"I owe you my profound gratitude for this powerful defence of my
profession, Miss de Medina," said the doctor, who had thus succeeded in
compelling the young lady to speak.

He then raised his hat and passed on; but he had not proceeded many
paces, when he was overtaken by Lord Ellingham, who had parted from his
companions to have a few minutes' conversation with the doctor.

"That is a lovely girl to whom your lordship has just introduced me,"
said Lascelles.

"And as good in heart as she is beautiful in person," exclaimed the
nobleman.

"Ah!" cried the physician, with a sly glance: "is Lady Hatfield already
forgotten?"

"Far from it!" said Arthur, his tone instantly becoming mournful and his
countenance overclouded. "You cannot think me so fickle—so vacillating,
doctor. No: the image of Georgiana is never absent from my memory. I had
only encountered Mr. de Medina and his daughter a few minutes before we
met you; and, not only am I bound to show them every attention in my
power, as they are tenants of mine and were strongly recommended to me
by mutual friends at Liverpool—but also I am glad to court intellectual
society, wherever it can be found in this city, to distract my mind from
the _one_ topic which so constantly and so painfully engrosses it."

"Are Mr. de Medina and his daughter such very agreeable companions?"
inquired Lascelles, apparently in quite a casual manner.

"Mr. de Medina is a well-informed, intelligent, and even erudite man,"
answered the Earl. "His daughter is highly accomplished, sensible, and
amiable. I feel an additional interest in them, because they belong to a
race whom it is the fashion to revile and often to despise. It is true
that my acquaintance with Mr. de Medina and his daughter scarcely dates
from a month back; but I have already seen—and if not, I have _heard_
enough of them, to know that he is the pattern of integrity and the
young lady the personification of every virtue."

[Illustration]

The doctor made no reply. Certain was he that he "could a tale unfold"
which would totally undeceive his noble friend relative to the character
of Esther. But his lips were sealed by a solemn vow; and, even if they
were not, there was no necessity to detail how he had been summoned to
attend on the young lady and rescue her from the fate and crime of
suicide,—how he had good cause to know that she was either a wife or a
mistress, but he suspected the latter,—how he had seen that splendid
form stretched half-naked upon the bed, the bosom heaving convulsively
with physical and mental agony, and the exquisitely modelled arms flung
wildly about with excruciating pain,—how the large black eyes had been
fixed imploringly upon him, and the vermillion lips had parted to give
utterance to words demanding from himself the fiat of her life or
death:—there was no necessity, we say, to narrate all this, even if no
vow had bound him to silence, because Lord Ellingham sought not that
lovely Jewess as a wife.

That Esther de Medina and the lady of South Moulton Street were one and
the same person, the doctor felt convinced. The tones of Esther's voice,
flowing upon the ear with such silver melody,—the two rows of brilliant,
beautiful teeth,—the face—the hair—the eyes,—the configuration of the
form, with its fine but justly proportioned bust and slender waist,—all
were identical! But what chiefly amazed—nay, bewildered the physician,
was the calm indifference with which Esther had met his rapid, searching
glance,—the admirable composure with which she had encountered him—the
firmness, amounting almost to an insolent assurance, with which she had
spoken to him,—never once quailing, nor blushing, nor manifesting the
slightest embarrassment, but actually treating him as a person whom she
saw for the first time, and as if he were totally unacquainted with any
thing that militated against her character;—all this was naturally a
subject of ineffable astonishment and wonder.

Lord Ellingham accompanied the doctor to Grafton Street; and when they
had entered the house, Dr. Lascelles made him acquainted with Lady
Hatfield's indisposition.

"She is ill!" ejaculated Arthur, profoundly touched by these tidings:
"and I dare not call even to inquire concerning her!"

"And wherefore should you not manifest that courtesy?" asked the doctor.

"I must forget her—I cannot demonstrate any farther interest in her
behalf!" exclaimed the nobleman. "If there really exist reasons which
render it impossible or imprudent for her to change her condition by
marriage, it is useless for us to meet again:—and if she be swayed by
caprice, I cannot suffer myself to be made the sport of her whims."

"There are the wanton, wilful whims of a coquette," said the doctor,
impressively; "and there are the delusions of the monomaniac—but the
latter are not the less conscientiously believed, although they be
nothing save delusions."

"Is it possible?" cried Arthur, a sudden ray of hope breaking in upon
him. "Can Georgiana be subject to phantasies of that nature? Oh! then
she can be cured, doctor—and your skill may yet make us happy!"

"Rest assured, my dear Earl," was the reply, "that all the knowledge
which I possess shall be devoted to that purpose."

"My eternal gratitude will be due to you, doctor," said the nobleman.
"With your permission I shall return in the evening to learn from you
how your charming patient progresses."

The physician signified his assent; and Lord Ellingham took his
departure, new hopes animating his soul.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                              THE OPIATE.


It was about seven o'clock in the evening when Dr. Lascelles returned to
Lady Hatfield's house on Piccadilly Hill.

Miss Mordaunt, whom he encountered in the drawing-room, informed him
that Georgiana had become more composed and tranquil since she had taken
the medicine which he had prescribed for her, and that she had requested
to be left alone, as she experienced an inclination to sleep.

"It is nevertheless necessary that I should see her," said the
physician.

Julia accordingly hastened to her friend's apartment, and speedily
returned with the information that Lady Hatfield was not yet asleep, and
that the doctor might walk up.

Lascelles immediately availed himself of this permission; but he
found—as indeed he had fully anticipated—that his patient was rapidly
yielding to the invincible drowsiness produced by the opiatic medicine
which he had prescribed for her.

He seated himself by the bed-side, asked her a few ordinary questions,
and then suffered her to fall undisturbed into slumber.

At length she slept profoundly.

A smile of satisfaction played for a moment upon the lips of the
physician; but it yielded to a sombre cloud which almost immediately
succeeded it—for a powerful struggle now suddenly arose in the breast of
Dr. Lascelles.

In his ardent devotion to the science which he professed, he longed to
satisfy himself on certain points at present admitting of doubt and
involved in uncertainty: and, on the other hand, he hesitated at the
accomplishment of a deed which he could not help regarding as a gross
abuse of his privileges as a medical man. By virtue of the most sacred
confidence he was admitted to the bed-chamber of his female patient; and
he shrank from exercising that right in an illegitimate way.

Then, again, he reasoned to himself that if he were enabled to ascertain
beyond all doubt that no physical cause induced Lady Hatfield to shrink
from marriage, he must fall back upon the theory that she had become
subject to certain monomaniac notions which influenced her mind to her
own unhappiness; and he at length persuaded himself that he should be
acting for her best interests, were he to put into execution the project
which he had already formed.

Such an opinion, operating upon a man who possessed but few of the
delicate and refined feelings of our nature, and who was ever ready to
sacrifice all considerations to the cause of the medical science,
speedily banished hesitation.

Having convinced himself that Georgiana slept so profoundly that there
was no chance of awaking her, he locked the door, and again approached
the bed.

And now his sacrilegious hands drew aside the snow-white dress which
covered the sleeping lady's bosom; and the treasures of that
gently-heaving breast were exposed to his view. But not a sensual
thought was thereby excited in his mind: cold and passionless, he
surveyed the beauteous spectacle only as a sculptor might measure the
proportions of a marble Venus or Diana the huntress.

And not a trace of cancer was there: no unseemly mark, nor mole, nor
scar, nor wound disfigured the glowing orbs that, rising from a broad
and ample chest, swelled laterally over the upper part of the arms.

Yet wherefore did Dr. Lascelles abruptly start? and why did his
countenance suddenly assume an expression of surprise—or rather of
mingled doubt and astonishment—as his glances wandered over the fair
bust thus exposed to his view?

Carefully and cautiously refastening the strings of the night-dress, he
now assumed the air of a man who had discovered some clue to a mystery
hitherto profoundly veiled; and unhesitatingly did he resolve to clear
up all his doubts and all his newly-awakened suspicions.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Five minutes afterwards Dr. Lascelles left the room, Lady Hatfield still
remaining buried in a deep slumber.

His countenance expressed surprise mingled with sorrow; and,
cold—phlegmatic though his disposition was, he could not help murmuring
to himself, "Is it possible?"

Having just looked into the drawing-room, to take leave of Miss
Mordaunt, and state that his patient was progressing as favourably as
could be expected, Dr. Lascelles returned home.

Lord Ellingham was waiting for him; and this interview the physician now
dreaded.

"Are your tidings favourable, doctor?" was the nobleman's hasty and
anxious inquiry.

"I regret, my dear Earl," answered Lascelles, "that I should have
encouraged hopes——"

"Which are doomed to experience disappointment," added Arthur bitterly.
"Oh! I might have anticipated this—unfortunate being that I am! But how
have you ascertained that your ideas of this morning are unfounded? How
have you convinced yourself that Georgiana is _not_ a prey to those
mental eccentricities which your skill might reach? Has she revealed to
you her motive for refusing—for rejecting me,—_me_ whom she professes to
love?"

"She has revealed nothing, my lord," replied the doctor solemnly. "But I
have satisfied myself that monomania and Lady Hatfield are total
strangers to each other."

"Then must I abandon all hope!" exclaimed the Earl; "for it is evident
that I am the victim of a ridiculous caprice. And yet," he added, a
sudden thought striking him, "I will see her once again. She is ill—she
is suffering—perhaps she will be pleased to behold me—and who knows——"

"Not this evening, my lord—not this evening!" cried the doctor, stopping
the nobleman who had seized his hat and was darting towards the door.
"Lady Hatfield sleeps—and she must not be disturbed."

But Lord Ellingham was too full of his new idea to pay any attention to
the physician; and he rushed from the house.




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                        THE LOVER AND THE UNCLE.


A few minutes brought Arthur to the residence of Lady Hatfield; and his
hand was already upon the knocker, when a sudden idea struck him—and he
asked himself, "How can I demand admission to the bed-chamber of
Georgiana?"

The madness of his project now being evident to him, he mournfully
turned away, when the door suddenly opened, and a tall, stout,
fine-looking man, dressed as a country squire, issued from the house.

Lord Ellingham immediately recognised Sir Ralph Walsingham, Georgiana's
uncle, with whom he was well acquainted. The baronet also perceived the
Earl; and they shook each other cordially by the hand.

"Were you about to call?" inquired Sir Ralph.

"I was," answered Lord Ellingham. "Hearing of Lady Hatfield's illness——"

"She is better—much better," interrupted the baronet. "I have just left
her; and she has not long awoke from a profound and refreshing slumber."

"I am delighted to hear these tidings," said the nobleman.

The servant, seeing that Sir Ralph had stopped to converse with the
Earl, still kept the door open; and, as Arthur had admitted that he was
about to call, there was now no alternative save for him to leave his
card.

The baronet then took his arm; and they walked away together.

"Georgiana is a singular being," observed Sir Ralph; "and although she
is my niece, yet there are times when I hardly know what to make of her.
She is too intellectual—too steady—to be capricious; and still——"

"My dear Sir Ralph," interrupted the Earl, "you have touched upon the
very topic concerning which I longed to speak the moment I met you. Will
you accompany me to my abode, and favour me for a short period with your
attention to what I am so anxious to confide to you?"

"With pleasure," was the reply. "But I have already learnt from
Georgiana's lips the principal fact to which your lordship doubtless
alludes; and it was indeed for the purpose of introducing the subject
that I ere now made the remark relative to the occasional
incomprehensibility of her character. Let us not, however, continue the
discourse in the public street."

The nobleman and the baronet speedily reached the mansion of the former
in Pall-Mall West; and when they were seated in an elegantly furnished
apartment, with a bottle of claret before them, they renewed the
conversation.

"Georgiana," said the baronet, "has informed me that your lordship has
honoured her by the offer of your hand; and I need hardly assure you how
rejoiced I should feel to welcome as a relative one whom I already
esteem as a friend. But—to my inexpressible surprise—I find that—that——"

"That she has refused me," exclaimed the Earl;—"refused me without
assigning any reason."

"I cannot think how it is to be accounted for," continued the baronet;
"but Georgiana has invariably manifested a repugnance to the topic of
marriage whenever I have urged it upon her. Of course, as her uncle—and
double her age, my lord—I can give her advice just as if I were her
father; and for some years past I have recommended her to consider well
the propriety of obtaining a legal protector, her natural ones being no
more. But all my reasoning has proved unavailing; and if your lordship
cannot persuade my obstinate niece," he added, with a sly laugh, "then
no one must hope to do so."

"I will frankly admit to you," said the Earl, "that my happiness depends
on your niece's decision. I am no hero of romance—but I entertain so
sincere, so ardent an affection for Lady Hatfield, that my life will be
embittered by a perseverance in her refusal to allow me to call her
mine."

"She will not persist in this folly—she cannot," exclaimed Sir Ralph
emphatically. "It is a mere whim—a caprice; and indeed I have often
thought that her disposition has somewhat altered ever since a dreadful
fright which she sustained six or seven years ago——"

"Ah!" said the Earl. "What was the nature of the incident to which you
allude?"

"I must tell your lordship," returned the baronet,—"unless, indeed, you
are already acquainted with the fact,—that Hampshire was for three or
four years—between 1818 and 1821 or 22—the scene of the exploits of a
celebrated highwayman——"

"You allude to the Black Mask, no doubt?" interrupted Lord Ellingham
interrogatively.

"Precisely so," answered the baronet. "The Black Mask—as the villain was
called—was one of the most desperate robbers that ever infested the
highways. He would stop the stage-coach as readily as he would a single
traveller on horseback; and such was his valour as well as his
extraordinary skill, that he defied all attempts to capture him."

"I remember reading his exploits at the time," said the Earl. "The most
conflicting accounts were reported concerning him. Some declared he was
an old man—others that he was quite young; but I believe that all agreed
in ascribing to him a more forbearing disposition than usually
characterises persons of his class."

"I will even go so far as to assert that there was something chivalrous
in his character," exclaimed the baronet. "He invariably assured
travellers whom he stopped, that he should be grieved to harm them; but
that if they provoked him by resistance, he would not hesitate to punish
them severely. If he fell in with a carriage containing ladies, he never
attempted to rifle them of their jewellery and trinkets, but contented
himself with simply demanding their purses. Those being surrendered, he
would gallop away. I never heard of any unnecessary violence—nor of any
act of cruelty which he perpetrated. Neither did I ever meet a soul who
could give anything like a credible description of his countenance. The
invariable black mask which concealed his features, and from the use of
which he derived his name, seemed a portion of himself; and although
gossips did now and then tell strange tales about his appearance, they
were all too contradictory to allow a scintillation of the real truth to
transpire."

"But in what manner was the Black Mask connected with the fright which
Lady Hatfield experienced some years ago?" asked the Earl impatiently.

"You are perhaps aware that the late Earl and Countess of Mauleverer
possessed a country-seat between Winchester and New Alresford—not very
far distant from Walsingham Manor, my own rural abode," said Sir Ralph.
"It must have been seven years ago that Georgiana, who always preferred
Mauleverer Lodge to the town-mansion—even during the London season,—was
staying alone there—I mean so far alone, that at the time there were no
other persons at the Lodge save the servants. Well, one night the Black
Mask broke into the place—the only time he was ever known to commit a
burglary—and such was the fright which Georgiana experienced, that for
weeks and months afterwards her family frequently trembled lest her
reason had received a shock."

"It must indeed have been an alarming situation for a young lady—alone,
as it were, in a spacious and secluded country dwelling——"

"And Georgiana was but eighteen, I think, at the time," interrupted Sir
Ralph Walsingham. "She certainly experienced a dreadful fright; and
although, thank God! her reason is as unimpaired as ever it was, still
we cannot say that the sudden shock might not have produced some strange
effect which may probably account for the otherwise inexplicable
whimsicality—for I can denominate it nothing else——"

"Oh! I thank you, my dear Sir Ralph, for this explanation," cried Lord
Ellingham, in the joy of reviving hope. "Yes—I see it all: your niece
experienced a shock which has produced a species of idiosyncratic effect
upon her; but the constant kindness—the unwearied attention of one who
loves her, and whom she loves in return, will restore her mind to its
vigorous and healthy condition. To-morrow will I visit her again:—Oh!
how unkind—how ungenerous of me to remain away so long!"

There was a pause, during which Arthur gave way to all the bright
allurements of the pleasing vision which he now conjured up to his
imagination.

At length Sir Ralph Walsingham felt the silence to be irksome and
awkward; and he ventured to break it.

"We were talking just now, my lord," he said, "of the famous highwayman
known as the Black Mask. He disappeared from Hampshire very suddenly;
and the old women declared that his time being out, he was carried off
by the Devil, who had protected him against all the devices and snares
imagined by the authorities to capture him."

"And perhaps the highwayman who robbed Lady Hatfield the other day,"
observed Lord Ellingham, "may be the very one who rendered himself so
notorious in Hampshire a few years ago?"

"Your lordship judges by the fact that the scoundrel who stopped my
niece near Hounslow wore a black mask," said the baronet; "but the
generality of robbers on the high roads adopt that mode of disguise.
Thank heaven! public depredators of the kind are becoming very scarce in
this country!"

In such conversation did the nobleman and the baronet while away the
time until eleven o'clock, when the latter took his leave, and Arthur
retired to his chamber to dream of the charming but incomprehensible
lady who had obtained such empire over his soul.




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                     THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER.—JACOB.


On the same evening that the interview between the Earl of Ellingham and
Sir Ralph Walsingham took place, as narrated in the preceding chapter,
the following scene occurred at the house of Toby Bunce in Earl Street,
Seven Dials.

Mrs. Bunce was alone in the dirty, dingy back room, which could not be
said to be lighted, but merely redeemed from total darkness, by the
solitary candle that stood on the table; and she was busily employed in
lighting the fire.

Having succeeded in this object, she placed the kettle on the grate to
boil; and then took from a cupboard a bottle half full of gin, two
common blue mugs, a broken basin containing a little lump sugar, and a
couple of pewter spoons, all of which articles she ranged around the
brass candle-stick with a view to make as good a show as possible.

Then she seated herself by the fire, and consulted an old silver-watch
which she drew from her pocket, and which was in reality the property of
her husband, whom she would not however trust with it under any
consideration.

"Eight o'clock," she said aloud in a musing tone. "He can't be very long
now; and Toby won't be in till ten. If he is, I'll send him out
again—with a flea in his ear," she added, chuckling at the idea of her
supremacy in her own domestic sphere. "I wonder who'd be ruled by a
feller like Toby? Not me, indeed! I should think not. But I wish old
Bones would come," she continued, with a glance of satisfaction at the
table. "Every thing does look so comfortable; and I've put 'em in such a
manner that the light falls on 'em all at once. Toby never would have
thought of that. It's only us women that know what tidiness is."

Tidiness indeed! The windows were dingy with dirt—the walls were
begrimed with smoke and dust—the floor was as black as the deck of a
collier—and the cob-webs hung like filthy rags in the corners of the
room.

Scarcely had Mrs. Bunce completed her survey of the place and its
arrangements, when a low knock summoned her to the street-door; and in a
few moments she returned, accompanied by Old Death.

The hideous man was very cold; and, seating himself as near the fire as
possible without actually burning his knees, he said, "Now, Betsy my
dear, brew me a mug of something cheering as soon as possible."

"That I will, Ben," returned Mrs. Bunce, in as pleasant a tone of voice
as she could assume; then she bustled about with great alacrity until
the steaming liquid was duly compounded, and Old Death had expressed his
satisfaction by means of a short grunt after the first sip.

"Is it nice, Ben?" asked Mrs. Bunce endearingly.

"Very. Now make yourself some, Betsy; and sit down quietly, for we must
have a talk about you know what. Business has prevented me from
attending to it before; but now that I have got an evening to spare—and
Toby is out of the way——"

"Oh! you know very well, Ben," interrupted Mrs. Bunce, "that I can
always manage _him_ as I like. He's such a fool, and so completely under
my thumb, that I shouldn't even mind telling him I'd been your mistress
for years before I was his wife."

"Keep your tongue quiet, Betsy—keep your tongue quiet," exclaimed Old
Death, with a hyena-like growl. "Never provoke irritation unnecessarily.
But let's to business. Jacob is out on the watch after Tom Rain; and I
told the lad to come up here before ten. And now about this letter," he
continued drawing one from his pocket-book: "it proves, you see, that
the child is well-born—and if the address had only been written on the
outside, we might make a good thing of the matter."

"Just so," observed Mrs. Bunce. "When Mr. Rainford called this afternoon
he was so particular in asking me whether I had found any papers about
the woman's clothes; but I declared I had not—and he was quite
satisfied. He paid me, too, very handsome for the funeral expenses and
all my trouble. If he was to know about that letter, Ben?"

"How can he know?" exclaimed Old Death impatiently. "Now what I think,"
he continued in a milder tone, "is just this:—the woman Watts was
reduced to such a desperate state of poverty, that she wrote this letter
to the mother of the boy Charles——"

"Why, of course," interrupted Mrs. Bunce. "She says as much _in_ the
letter."

"Will you listen to me?" growled Old Death angrily: "you don't know what
I was going to observe."

"Don't be cross, Ben: I won't stop you again," said the woman in a
coaxing tone.

"Mind you don't, then," ejaculated Bones, allowing himself to be
pacified. "Well, this Sarah Watts wrote that letter, as I was saying,
with the intention of sending it, no doubt, either by post or by an
acquaintance to the lady in London. I think that is plain enough. Then,
when she had finished writing it, something evidently made her change
her mind, and resolve on coming up to London herself. This is also
plain; because, if it wasn't so, why did the letter never go—and why did
she come to London?"

"How well you do talk, Ben," said Mrs. Bunce.

"I talk to the point, I hope," observed Old Death. "Now how stands the
matter? Here is a very important letter, wanting two main things to
render it completely valuable to us. The first thing it wants is the
name of the place from which it would have been dated, had it ever been
sent: and the second thing it wants is the name of the lady to whom it
was intended to be sent. In a word, it wants the address of the writer
and the address of the lady to whom it was written, and who is the
mother of that boy Charles."

"What good would it do you to have the address of the writer, since she
is dead and buried?" asked Mrs. Bunce.

"Because I could then visit the place where the woman was when she wrote
this letter," replied Old Death. "I could make inquiries concerning the
late Sarah Watts; and I know too well how to put two and two together
not to arrive at some certainty in the long run."

"To be sure!" ejaculated Mrs. Bunce. "How clever you are, dear Ben."

"I don't know about being clever, Betsy my dear," returned the hideous
old man; "but _this_ I do think—that I'm rather wide awake."

And then he chuckled so heartily, while his toothless jaws wagged up and
down so horribly, that he appeared to be a corpse under a process of
galvanism; for if a dead body could be made to utter sounds, they would
not be more sepulchral than those which now emanated from the throat of
Old Death.

Mrs. Bunce considered it to be her duty to chuckle also; and her
querulous tones seemed a humble accompaniment to the guttural sounds
which we have attempted to describe.

At length the chuckling ceased on both sides; and Mrs. Bunce replenished
the mugs with hot gin-and-water.

"But even as it is," suddenly observed Old Death, after a hasty glance
at the letter, which he now slowly folded up and returned to his greasy
pocket-book,—"but even as it is, we may still make something of the
business. If we could only find a clue to the mother of that boy, it
would be a fortune in itself. I tell you what we must do!" he exclaimed
emphatically.

"What?" asked his ancient mistress.

"Get that boy into our own keeping," replied Bones, with a sly smile;
"and then we can pump him of all he may happen to know concerning the
deceased Sarah Watts."

"Excellent!" cried Mrs. Bunce, clapping her hands, "But how will you
find out where Mr. Rainford lives?"

"Jacob is after him. For several reasons I want to know as much as I can
about that strange fellow. The very day that I made the bargain with him
about smashing all the flimsies he might bring me, he wrote an
extraordinary note to the very lady whom he had robbed the night before;
and he made her go into the witness-box at Bow Street and deliberately
perjure herself to serve him. Then he starts off to Pall Mall, when the
Jewess prisoner was brought up, and delivers a note at the house of Lord
Ellingham; and Lord Ellingham comes straight down to the Police-Court
and swears black and blue that the Jewess is innocent."

"And was she?" asked Mrs. Bunce.

"That's more than I can say," answered Old Death; "seeing that I know
nothing at all about the affair. Well, these two strange things, showing
an extraordinary influence on the part of Rainford over Lady Hatfield on
the one side, and Lord Ellingham on the other, have quite puzzled me. He
is an enigma that I must solve."

"Does not Tullock know all about him?" demanded Mrs. Bunce.

"Tullock knows only that Tom took to the road some years ago, down in
the country; for Tullock then did at Winchester just what I do now in
London: only," added Bones, with a knowing glance and a compressed smile
of the lips which puckered up his hideous face into one unvaried mass of
wrinkles,—"only, my dear Betsy, Tullock never had the connexion which I
have. He had no correspondent at Hamburg to whom he could send over the
notes that are stolen, and stopped at the Bank: he had no well-contrived
places to receive goods—places," continued Old Death, emphatically,
"which have baffled the police for thirty years, and will baffle them as
long again——if I live."

"And why should you not, dear?" said Mrs. Bunce coaxingly.

"Because I cannot expect it," replied Old Death abruptly. "However—you
know what I have done for myself, and in what way I manage my business.
You only, Betsy dear, are acquainted with my secrets."

"And you are as safe with me as if I was deaf and dumb and unable to
write," rejoined the woman.

"I know that—I know that," said Bones, hastily: then in a slower tone he
added significantly, "Because if there was a smash, we should all go
together, Betsy."

"Lor! Ben—don't talk in that way—don't!" cried Mrs. Bunce. "Let's
see—what were we saying? Oh! you was telling me about Mr. Rainford."

"I was only observing that Tullock lost sight of him for some years, and
knows nothing that happened to him till he turned up in London the other
day."

"I don't suppose Rainford is his proper name?" observed the woman
inquiringly.

"Tullock never told me," answered Bones; "and as he and Tom are thick
together, I can't ask him too many questions. The fact is, Rainford will
prove the most useful man I ever had in my service, as I may call it;
and I must not risk offending him. See how neatly he did that job the
other night—how beautifully he came off with the two thousand!"

"And it never got into the papers either," observed Mrs. Bunce.

"Not a bit of it!" cried Old Death, with another chuckle. "Tom
calculated all that beforehand—or he never would have been fool enough
to go so quietly and introduce himself as Captain Sparks to the very
people he meant to rob. Ha! ha! clear-headed fellow, that Tom! He first
ascertained the precise character of all the parties concerned; and he
knew that he might plunder them with impunity. Sir Christopher and Mr.
Torrens were sure not to talk about it, for fear of the whole
disgraceful story about the purchase of the daughter coming out. Frank
Curtis is a cowardly boaster, who would not like it to be known that a
single highwayman had mastered him;—the lawyer was sure to speak or hold
his tongue, just as his rich client Sir Christopher ordered him;—and
Jeffreys was safe. Tom weighed all this, and boldly introduced himself
to them without the least attempt at disguising his person. Oh! It was
capitally managed—and Tom is a valuable fellow!"

Mr. Bones seldom spoke so long at a time; but he was carried away by his
enthusiastic admiration of Tom Rainford; and he accordingly talked
himself so effectually out of breath, that a fit of coughing supervened,
and he was nearly choked.

Betsy, however, slapped him on the back; and the old man gradually
recovered himself—but not before his fierce-looking eyes were dimmed
with the scalding rheum which overflowed them.

"You are afraid to offend Mr. Rainford," said Mrs. Bunce, after a pause,
"and yet you think of taking away that boy from him."

"Pshaw!" cried Old Death, whom the coughing-fit had put into a bad
humour; "do you think I should steal the child and then tell him of it?"

"Of course not," said Mrs. Bunce. "I am a fool."

"You are indeed, Betsy," rejoined Old Death. "And yet you are the
_least_ foolish woman I ever knew; or else I never should have made you
my confidant as I have done. And now I tell you, Betsy, that I have many
great schemes in my head; and I shall require your assistance. In the
first place we must get hold of that boy Charley somehow or
another—provided we can find out Rainford's abode, which I think is
scarcely doubtful. Then we must act upon all the information we can
glean from the child, and find out who his mother really is. In the next
place I must ascertain all I can concerning this Jewess—this Esther de
Medina. If she _did_ steal the diamonds, she is the cleverest female
thief in all England—for she has managed to get clean off with her
prize; and such a woman would be invaluable to me. Besides, if she
pursues the same game—supposing that she has really begun it—she will
want my assistance to dispose of the property; and she will gladly
listen to my overtures. Such a beautiful creature as I understand she
is, could insinuate herself anywhere, and rob the best houses in London.
Ah! Betsy, I must not sleep over these matters. But, hark! That's
Jacob's knock!"

"Poor Jacob!" cried Mrs. Bunce, with a subdued sigh: "If he only knew——"

"Silence, woman!" cried Bones in a furious manner. "Go to the door."

Mrs. Bunce was frightened by the vehemence of Old Death's manner, and
hastened to obey his command.

In a few moments she returned, followed by Jacob, who seemed sinking
with fatigue.

"Well," said Old Death impatiently, "what news?"

"Give me something to eat first—for I am famished," cried Jacob,
throwing himself upon a chair.

"Not a morsel, till you tell me what you have done!" exclaimed Bones
angrily, as he rose from his seat.

"I will _not_ speak a word on that subject before I have had food," said
Jacob, his bright eyes flashing fire, and a hectic glow appearing on his
pale cheeks. "You make me wander about all day on your business, without
a penny in my pocket to buy a piece of bread——"

"Because he who has to earn his supper works all the better for it,"
ejaculated Bones, his lips quivering with rage. "Now speak, Jacob—or, by
God——"

"You sha'n't bully me in this way," cried the lad, bursting into tears,
and yet with all the evidences of intense passion working upon his
countenance. "By what right do you treat me like a dog? You fling me a
bone when you choose—and you think I will lick your hand like a spaniel.
I tell you once for all, I won't put up with it any longer."

"You won't, Jacob—you won't, eh?" said Old Death, in a very low tone;
but at the same time he dealt the lad such a sudden and severe box on
the ears, that the poor youth was hurled heavily from his chair on the
hard floor.

But, springing up in a moment, he flew like a tiger at Old Death, whose
small amount of strength was exhausted by the effort which it had
required on the part of so aged a man to deal such a blow; and Jacob
would have mastered him in another instant, had not Mrs. Bunce
interfered.

With a loud scream, she precipitated herself on the lad; and, seizing
him in her bony arms, forced him back into his seat, saying—"There,
Jacob—for God's sake be quiet; and I'll give you something nice
directly."

The lad made no reply, but darted a look of vindictive hate towards Old
Death, who had sunk back exhausted on the chair which he had ere now
quitted.

Then Mrs. Bunce hastened to the cupboard and produced a loaf and the
remains of a cold joint, which she placed before Jacob, who, enraged as
he was at the treatment he had just received, could not help wondering
within himself how Toby's wife had become so liberal as to place the
viands without reserve at his disposal.

The woman seemed to penetrate his thoughts; for she said, "Eat as much
as you like, Jacob: don't be afraid. I sha'n't mind if you eat
it—_nearly_ all."

The lad smothered his resentment so far as not to permit it to interfere
with his appetite; and he devoured his supper without once glancing
towards Old Death, who on his side appeared unable to recover from the
surprise into which Jacob's unusually rebellious conduct had thrown him.

A profound silence reigned in that room for several minutes.

At length Jacob made an end of his meal; and then Old Death spoke.

"And so this is the reward," he said, "which I receive for all my
kindness towards you. Without me, what would have become of you?
Deserted by your parents—a foundling—a miserable infant, abandoned to
the tender mercies of the workhouse authorities——"

"Would that I had died _then_!" interrupted Jacob emphatically. "You
make a boast of having taken care of me—of having reared me—such a
rearing as it has been!—and yet I wish you had left me to perish on the
workhouse steps where, you say, you found me. I have tried to be
obedient to you—I have done all I could to please you; but do you ever
utter a kind word to me? Even when I succeed in doing your bidding, what
reward is mine? Blows—reproaches—sorry meals, few and far between——"

"Well, well, Jacob—I think I have not _quite_ done my duty towards you,"
said Old Death, who in reality could have murdered the boy at that
moment, but who was compelled to adopt a conciliatory tone and manner in
order to retain so useful an auxiliary in his service: "but let us say
no more about it—and things shall be better in future. Instead of having
no regular place of abode and sleeping in lodging-houses, you shall have
half-a-crown a week, Jacob, to hire a little room for yourself."

"There—Jacob; only think of that!" cried Mrs. Bunce, in a tone
expressive of high approval of this munificence on the part of Old
Death.

"And you shall have threepence every day for your dinner, Jacob,"
continued Bones, "in addition to your breakfast and tea which you always
get here."

"But will you keep to that arrangement?" asked the lad, considerably
softened by this prospect, which was far brighter than any he had as yet
beheld.

"I will—I will," replied Old Death. "And if you have brought me any good
news to-night, I'll give you ten shillings—ten whole shillings, Jacob—to
buy some nice clothes and shoes in Monmouth Street."

"Put down the money!" cried Jacob, now completely won back to the
interests of the crafty old villain who knew so well how to curb the
evanescent spirit of his miserable slave.

"I will," said Bones; and he laid four half-crowns upon the table.

"That's right!" exclaimed Jacob, his eyes glistening with delight at the
prospect of fingering such a treasure: then he glanced rapidly at his
ragged apparel, with a smile on his lip that expressed his conviction of
shortly being able to procure a more comfortable attire.

"Go on," said Old Death. "What have you done?"

"When Mr. Rainford went away from here this afternoon," returned Jacob,
"I followed him at a good distance—but not so far off that I stood a
chance of losing sight of him. Well, first he went to Tullock's; and
there he stayed some little time. Then he walked into an eating-house in
the Strand; and at that place he stopped about a couple of hours—while I
walked up and down on the other side of the way. At length he came out,
with another gentleman——"

"What was he like?" demanded Old Death.

"A fine—tall—handsome man—with dark hair and eyes," responded Jacob.

"I don't know him," said Bones. "Never mind;—go on with your story, and
let it be as short as possible."

"Well," continued the lad, "this gentleman and Mr. Rainford walked
together as far as Bridge Street, Blackfriars: and there they parted.
The gentleman went into a house in Bridge Street—and Mr. Rainford
crossed the bridge. It was now getting dusk; and I was obliged to keep
closer to him. But he seldom turned round—and when he did, I took good
care he should not see me. So, on he went till he came to the Elephant
and Castle; and close by there he suddenly met a lady with a dark veil
over her face, and holding a little boy by the hand. They stood and
talked for a moment just opposite a shop-window which was lighted up;
and I saw well enough that the little boy was the very same that was
brought here the other night by the woman who was buried so quietly this
morning."

"Then we know that the boy is still in _his_ care!" ejaculated Old
Death, exchanging significant glances with Mrs. Bunce. "Go on, Jacob. I
can see that the ten shillings will be yours."

"Yes—that they will!" cried the lad, apparently having forgotten the
blow which he had recently received. "Well, so I knew the boy at once,
though he is much changed—nicely dressed, and already quite plump and
rosy. Mr. Rainford patted him on the face, and the boy laughed and
seemed so happy! Then Mr. Rainford gave the lady his arm; and they
walked a little way down the road till they came to a jeweller's shop,
where they stopped to look in at the window. Mr. Rainford pointed out
some article to the lady; and they went into the shop, the lady still
holding the little boy carefully by the hand. The moment they were safe
inside, I watched them through the window; and I saw Mr. Rainford
looking at a pair of ear-rings. In a few moments he handed them to the
lady. She lifted up her veil to examine them; and I knew her again in a
moment. But who do you think she was?"

Old Death shook his head.

"No—I don't think you ever could guess," cried Jacob.

"Then who is she?" demanded Bones impatiently.

"The Jewess who was accused of stealing the diamonds at Bow Street the
other day," answered Jacob.

"Esther de Medina!" cried Old Death. "The very person we were speaking
about just now!" he added, exchanging another glance with Mrs. Bunce.
"But go on, Jacob—go on."

"I was rather surprised at that discovery," continued Jacob; "because I
thought it so odd that both Mr. Rainford and the Jewess should have been
had up on the very same day at Bow Street, on different charges, and
that both should have got off."

"It is strange—very strange!" murmured Old Death. "But did you find out
Tom Rain's address? That is the chief thing _I_ want to know."

"Don't be in a hurry," said Jacob: "let me tell my story in my own way.
Well, so the Jewess seemed to like the ear-rings; and she gave Mr.
Rainford such a sweet smile—Oh! what a sweet smile—as he pulled out his
purse and paid for them. I don't know how it was—but it really went to
my heart to think that such a beautiful lady should——"

"Never mind what you felt, Jacob," interrupted Old Death abruptly. "Make
an end of your story."

"Well, the ear-rings were put into a nice little box, with some wool to
keep them from rubbing; and the lady drew down her veil again, before
she left the shop."

"Now, Jacob—tell me the truth," said Old Death: "did either Tom Rain or
the Jewess take any little thing—at a moment, you know, when the
jeweller's back was turned——"

"No—not a thing!" cried the lad emphatically. "I can swear they did
not."

"You are quite sure?" observed Old Death.

"As sure as that I'm here; for I never took my eyes off them from the
moment they entered the shop till they came out," responded Jacob. "And
when they did come out, I was very near being seen by Mr. Rainford—for I
was then in front of them; and I had only just time to slip into the
shade of the wall between the windows of the jeweller's shop and the
next one. Then I heard Mr. Rainford say to the Jewess, '_Now this little
present is in part a recompense for the diamonds which I made you give
up_.'—The lady said something in a low tone; but I could not catch
it—and they went on, the little boy with them."

"Then she did steal the diamonds!" exclaimed Old Death. "But how could
such a man as Lord Ellingham feel any interest in her? and how could he
have been induced to perjure himself to save her?"

"Isn't it strange?" said Mrs. Bunce.

"I'm all in the dark at present," returned Bones. "But go on, Jacob."

"They walked on till they came to a street on the left-hand side; and
into that street they turned. I never lost sight of them once; but two
or three times I thought Mr. Rainford would have twigged me. He did not,
though; and I at last traced them to a house in Lock's Fields——"

"Lock's Fields—eh?" cried Old Death. "Can they possibly be living
there?"

"They are," returned Jacob; "and I can take you over to the very street
and the very house any time you like."

"Well done!" ejaculated Bones, indulging in another long and hearty
chuckle, which was echoed by Mrs. Bunce; and then they both rubbed their
hands gleefully to think that they had made such important discoveries
through the medium of Jacob.

Fresh supplies of grog were brewed; and the lad was not only permitted
to consign the four half-crowns to his pocket, but was also regaled with
an occasional sip of gin-and-water from Mrs. Bunce's own mug.

The return of Toby at ten o'clock prevented any further conversation on
the interesting topics which had previously been discussed; for Mrs.
Bunce's husband was not admitted to the entire confidence of his spouse
and of Mr. Benjamin Bones, alias Old Death.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                              THE LOVERS.


It was noon; and Lady Hatfield sate alone in her drawing-room.

She felt herself so much better, and Dr. Lascelles had that morning so
earnestly recommended her to quit the bed-chamber and seek the change of
scene which even a removal from one apartment to another ever
affords—especially to an invalid, that she had not hesitated to follow
her own inclination and his advice, both of which were fully of accord.

Her uncle, Sir Ralph Walsingham, was announced shortly after Lady
Hatfield had descended to the drawing-room.

"My dear Georgiana," exclaimed the honest and kind-hearted man, as he
entered the apartment, "I am delighted to find you here. But why are you
alone? Where is Miss Mordaunt?"

"In the parlour below," replied Lady Hatfield. "Julia has a visitor,"
she added with an arch smile, in spite of the melancholy which still
oppressed her mind.

"A visitor!" ejaculated the baronet. "Sir Christopher Blunt, I'll be
bound!"

"You have guessed rightly, my dear uncle. But how——"

"How should I know anything about it?" interrupted Sir Ralph. "Surely,
Georgiana, you must be too well acquainted with your friend's
disposition to suppose that she could have possibly held her tongue
relative to the presumed attachment of the worthy knight? Why, all the
time she was at the Manor, did she not absolutely hurl Sir Christopher's
name at every soul whom she could engage in conversation? Was it not
'Sir Christopher had told her _this_ last season,' and 'Sir Christopher
had assured her _that_?' and did she not go much farther than merely to
hint that Sir Christopher was dying for her? For my part, I was sick of
Sir Christopher's name. But now I suppose he has come to lay his title
and fortune at her feet, as the newspapers say: or else what could
possibly signify a visit at so unseemly an hour as mid-day?"

[Illustration]

"It will be an excellent match for Julia," remarked Georgiana, by way of
saying something. "She is not one of those who believe that marriage
should be only a convention of hearts, and not of worldly interests."

And as Lady Hatfield made this observation, a profound sigh escaped her
bosom.

"What means that sigh, niece?" demanded the baronet. "Are you envious of
Miss Mordaunt's worldly-mindedness? I am convinced you are not. By the
way, I met Lord Ellingham last evening——"

"His lordship left his card," said Lady Hatfield, casting down her eyes,
while her bosom again rose and fell with a long and painfully-drawn
sigh.

"Georgiana," exclaimed Sir Ralph, seating himself by the side of his
niece, and taking her hand in a kind manner, "your conduct towards that
young Earl is not just—is not generous—is not rational."

"Oh! my dear uncle," cried Lady Hatfield, starting wildly, "for heaven's
sake renew not the discussion of last evening!"

"Pardon me, my dear niece," said Sir Ralph, affectionately but firmly,
"if I give you pain by referring to the topic of that discussion. I am
your nearest relation—I am a widower, and childless: you know that my
property is extensive—and my fond hope has ever been, since the death of
your aunt Lady Walsingham, that you would marry, and that your children
should inherit those estates and that fortune which I can bequeath to
whomsoever I will. But you refuse to accept the hand of a man who is
every way worthy of you—you reject an alliance which, in every human
probability, would be blessed by a progeny to whom my wealth and yours
may alike descend. Nay—interrupt me not, dear Georgiana: I am old enough
to be your father—I love you as if you were my daughter—and I have your
welfare deeply at heart. To speak frankly, I had a long conversation
last evening with Lord Ellingham——"

Georgiana's attention was for an instant broken by a wild start of
despair.

"My God! what signifies this grief, Georgiana?" asked her uncle. "I
thought to give you pleasure by the assurance I was about to
disclose,—an assurance which conveys to you the unalterable fidelity of
the Earl's affection—his readiness to bury in oblivion any little whim
or caprice which induced you to subject him to the humiliation of a
refusal the other day—his determination to study your happiness so
entirely that any cloud of melancholy, or unknown and unfounded
presentiment—any morbid feeling, in a word—which hangs upon your mind,
shall speedily be dissipated. Such are his generous intentions—such are
his tender aspirations, Georgiana:—can you reject his suit again?"

This appeal, made to the unhappy lady by an individual who, though only
related to her by the fact of having married her mother's sister, had
still ever manifested towards her the sincerest affection and
friendship,—this appeal, we say, came with such overwhelming force upon
the mind of Georgiana, that she knew not how to answer it.

"You consent, Georgiana—you consent!" exclaimed Sir Ralph, entirely
mistaking the cause of her profound silence; and, starting up, he rushed
from the room before her lips could give utterance to a syllable that
might have the effect of stopping him.

"Merciful God! what does he mean to do?" cried Georgiana, clasping her
hands together, while a species of spasmodic shuddering came over her
entire frame.

Hasty footsteps approached the door.

Wildly did the unhappy lady glance around her—with the terrified and
imploring air of one whom the officers of justice were about to fetch to
the scaffold.

The door flew open: Georgiana averted her eyes;—but at the next moment
her hands were grasped in those of another, and warm lips were pressed
upon each fair hand of hers—and for a single instant there streamed
through her whole being the electric warmth of ineffable delight, hope,
and love!

She sank back upon the sofa whence she had risen: her eyes, which for a
moment had seemed to lose the faculty of sight, were involuntarily
turned toward the Earl of Ellingham, who was kneeling at her feet;—and
simultaneously her uncle's voice, sounding like the knell of destiny
upon her ears, exclaimed, "I told you she had consented, Ellingham: be
happy—for Georgiana is yours!"

The door of the apartment was then closed hastily; and Lady Hatfield now
knew that she was alone with her lover.

"Oh! my dearest Georgiana," murmured Arthur, still pressing the lady's
hands in his own, "how happy have you at length made me—and how can I
ever express the joy which animates me at this moment! My heart dances
wildly with joy and gratitude; and all the anguish which I have lately
experienced, is forgotten—as if it never had been. Indeed, my beloved
one, it is for me to implore your pardon—for I should not have remained
absent from you so long. But now that we are re-united, and your
indisposition has passed,——now that your mind has recovered its
naturally healthy tone,—there is nothing, my Georgiana, to interrupt the
free course of our felicity."

Lady Hatfield was seized with a certain involuntary horror, which
completely stupefied her, as these impassioned exclamations fell upon
her ears: and vainly—vainly did she endeavour to reply.

Arthur rose, and seating himself by her side on the sofa, passed his arm
around her slender waist, and drawing her gently towards him, said in a
subdued tone, "From this day forth, beloved Georgiana, you must have no
secrets unknown to me. Confide in me as your best and sincerest
friend—and the tenderest sympathy shall flow from my heart to solace you
in those moments of melancholy which no mortal, however prosperously
placed, can hope altogether to avoid. In the society of a husband who
will never cease to love you—whose constant care shall be to ensure your
felicity—and whose unwearied attention shall be devoted to the promotion
of your happiness, your life will be spent in an atmosphere into which a
cloud shall seldom intrude. Oh! what pictures of perfect bliss present
themselves to my imagination!"

The enamoured nobleman pressed the fair one closer to his breast, as he
thus poured forth his soul with all the ardour of his sincere and
devoted love; and she—in spite of herself,—bewildered, stupefied,
intoxicated as she was by the suddenness with which this scene had been
brought about,—she gazed with mingled rapture and surprise upon that
handsome countenance which the glow of inward passion and ineffable joy
now rendered still more expressive.

She felt as if the hysterical shriek, which for some moments past had
threatened to burst from her lips, were subdued—stifled by some unknown
power, whose influence was strangely sweet and consoling:—her soul
almost sickened in the bliss of that love by which she was surrounded,
and to which her woman's heart could not do otherwise than respond.

Then, again, she felt as if she must start from his arms—reject his
love—dash down that chalice of honied happiness from which they both
were drinking deep draughts—and proclaim to him that it was all a
hideous mistake—that she had never consented to receive him as her
husband—that her uncle had committed a fearful error—and that they must
separate, never, never again to meet!

But at the very moment when she was about to do all this, Arthur drew
her nearer to him;—his breath, sweet as that of flowers, fell on her
burning cheek—his hand pressed hers—she found herself linked to him in
heart by a spell which no mortal courage could at such a moment have
broken—then she caught herself looking into his fine eyes, and reading
the thrilling language of love that was written there—and in another
moment their lips met in one long and delicious kiss.

"Sweet Georgiana, I adore you!" murmured Arthur, his glances speaking
more eloquently than his words. "And now there breathes not a happier
man on the earth's wide surface than I. Say, Georgiana—say, does not
that happiness which I myself experience impart pleasure to you? Could
you now do aught to torture my soul again with the agony of
suspense—with the despair of baffled hope? Believe me, my dearest angel,
that if destiny, in its malignant spite, were now to separate us—if
to-morrow I came and found you gone, or here but cold and altered,—in a
word, if any impediment were to arise to the accomplishment of our
union, I should not survive the blow! As a distracted maniac should I be
borne to a mad-cell—or, if my reason were left me, my grave would be
stained with a suicide's blood!"

Georgiana was appalled by this terrible announcement; and in the agony
of feeling which it excited within her, she cast a glance of profound
tenderness upon the Earl, unwittingly pressing his hand at the same
time.

"Oh! now I know that you entertain the same sentiments as myself," he
cried, mistaking those convulsive movements on her part for the tender
evidences of love: "now I know that your heart beats in unison with
mine. Oh! thrice happy day—the happiest that I ever yet have known. And
happier does it seem, too, because it has dissipated so much previous
anxiety—healed so much acutely-felt pain. Yes—dearest Georgiana—I am
almost glad that you rejected my suit the other day; for the wretched
feelings of the interval have, by contrast, made the present moment
indescribably sweet. And shall I tell you, my beloved one, that I am now
acquainted with the nature of that secret——"

"That secret!" cried Georgiana, with a cold shudder—which Ellingham did
not perceive, for at the moment he pressed her fondly towards him.

"Yes, dearest," he continued: "I know all the power which that secret
influence must occasionally have over you: and, believe me when I
declare that—instead of being any longer annoyed at the fact of that
circumstance having induced you to refuse my hand the other day—I deeply
sympathise with you! And if I now allude to that event—that incident
which years ago, at your late father's country-residence in Hampshire——"

A short convulsive sob burst from Georgiana's breast.

"Oh! pardon me—pardon me, beloved one!" cried the Earl, again imprinting
a kiss upon her lips: "I know that I was wrong to allude to an event
which you can never entirely forget. But if I mentioned it ere now—it
was for the first and the last time—and merely to convince you that he,
whom you will soon receive as your husband, is aware of that secret
influence which holds a sway over your mind; and that he implores you to
forget it—to abandon yourself only to the thoughts of that happiness
which our love and our brilliant social position must ensure us. And
now, my dearest Georgiana, no more on that head: never again let the
topic enter into our discourse—never let us allude to it, even by a
single syllable!"

"Oh! generous—excellent-hearted—noble-minded man," exclaimed Georgiana;
"and is your love for me indeed so strong as this?"

"Can you doubt it, dearest?" said the Earl. "If so—tell me how I can
prove its sincerity?"

"Have you not given me a proof the most convincing that man can give to
woman?" asked Lady Hatfield, concealing her blushing countenance on
Arthur's breast. "Are you not content to receive as your wife one who——"

"No more—no more!" exclaimed the Earl, tenderly hushing her words with
kisses. "Have we not agreed never again to allude to that topic?"

"But one word, Arthur," said Georgiana: "only one word! Who could have
acquainted you——"

"Your uncle, dearest," answered Lord Ellingham;—"that excellent man who
has been mainly instrumental in procuring me the happiness which I now
enjoy!"

"My uncle!" murmured Lady Hatfield, her soul subdued with astonishment
of the most overwhelming nature.

But the Earl's ears caught not the repetition of his answer; neither did
he notice the effect which it produced upon Georgiana;—for her head was
pillowed upon his breast—his hand clasped hers—her fine form leant
against him—and he had no thought save of the pure but intoxicating
happiness which he now enjoyed.

Oh, Love! thou art the sweetest charm of life—the dearest solace in this
sphere of trial and vicissitude—the sentiment that, shining on us as a
star, adds the most refulgent brightness to our lot. Ambition never
imparted consolation to the breaking spirit, and places no curb on the
wild passions and insatiable vices which too often dominate the human
heart. Wealth makes its possessor envied, but also encourages the daring
of the robber, or sharpens the knife of the murderer who seeks to grasp
it. Honours engender hatred in the breasts of those who once were
friends. Pleasure is bought by gold, and must be paid for over and over
again by the health. Genius is a consuming fire: like the spur to the
gallant steed, it urges its votary on, but draws the life-blood in the
act. Glory is the eruption of the volcano—bright, majestic, and
resplendent to gaze upon—yet bearing death in its halo. But thou, O
Love! art the star which beams brighter as the gloom of this cold and
selfish world becomes darker:—thou art the sunshine of the soul—teaching
man to emulate the gentleness, the resignation, and the holy devotion of
woman—and raising woman but one remove from the nature of angels!




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                 MR. FRANK CURTIS'S PLEASANT ADVENTURE.


About half an hour previous to the visit of Lord Ellingham, Mr. Frank
Curtis was lounging along Piccadilly with a swell-mob kind of ease and a
Bagnigge Wells' independence, when a young female, of good figure and
pretty face, attracted his notice.

As he was proceeding in one way, and she in another, they passed each
other; and, Mr. Curtis having nothing to do, it struck him that he would
endeavour to scrape an acquaintance with the young person alluded to.

He accordingly turned round—hesitated for a moment how to devise an
excuse for addressing himself to her—and then, drawing forth his own
white cambric pocket-handkerchief, hurried after the object of his
interest.

"I beg your pardon, Miss," he said, tapping her gently upon the
shoulder; "but I think you dropped this handkerchief."

The young female immediately replied in the negative; but a smile played
upon her lips, and her blue eyes assumed an arch expression, implying
that she fully saw through the young man's trick, which was indeed
transparent enough.

"I really thought it was yours, Miss," exclaimed Curtis, by no means
abashed. "But if it isn't—why, I must keep it till I find the
owner—that's all."

"I rather think it is with the owner now, sir," answered the young
woman.

"Well, my dear," said Frank, "I see you suspect my stratagem. But you
are such a sweet pretty creature, that I was resolved to introduce
myself to you. Now don't be angry, my love: I mean all I assert—and if
you will only tell me where and when I can see you again, I'm sure you
won't be sorry to make my acquaintance."

"Upon my word!" cried the young woman, in that dubious manner which
might have meant disgust, or which might be taken as encouragement.

Mr. Curtis, strong in his self-conceit, adopted the latter view, and
became more pressing in his attentions.

"Now do let me see you again, there's a dear," he exclaimed, continuing
to walk by her side. "If you'll only agree to meet me this evening, I'll
take you to the play—and I'll buy you a gold chain. Money is no object
to me, my love: a man with ten thousand a-year—_and_ a peerage in the
perspective—may indulge his little fancies, I hope."

These falsehoods, conveyed by implication, were uttered in such a tone
of assurance, that the young woman was evidently dazzled by their
splendour; and she threw a rapid, but encouraging glance towards the
mendacious Frank.

"Come, now—will you meet me again?" he demanded. "I _was_ going over to
stay a few days with the Prime Minister of France early next month; and
I _had_ promised to pass my Christmas with his Holiness the Pope at
Rome:—but if you was only kind, now—why, there's no saying that I might
not send excuses to both of them, and stay in London for the pleasure of
seeing you."

"But you men are such gay deceivers," said the young female.

"Well—we may be—sometimes!" ejaculated Frank, rather looking upon the
imputation as a compliment than a reproach. "But you're too pretty for a
man to find it in his heart to deceive you, my dear. In one word, where
shall you be at seven o'clock this evening?"

"I _did_ think of calling upon a friend which is lady's-maid in a family
living in Conduit Street," replied the young woman.

"And if your friend is a lady's-maid, my dear," said Frank, "what may
you be?"

"The same, sir," was the answer.

"The very thing!" cried Curtis. "If there's one class of young ladies
that I like more than another, it is the ladies'-maids. Why, my dear,
when I left Paris—where I stayed some time with the Archbishop of that
city,—for his Grace and I are as thick as two thieves—the ladies'-maids
held a meeting, and appointed a committee to draw up an address
expressive of regret and all that sort of thing at my going away. They
did, upon my honour! But let us come to the point, my dear. Shall you be
in Conduit Street this evening at about seven?"

"I think it's very likely, sir," was the answer. "But you must not go
with me any farther now—for I live at the house with the bay-windows
there."

"But whose service are you in, my dear?" asked Frank.

"In Lady Georgiana Hatfield's," replied the young woman.

"Indeed!" cried Curtis. "I've heard an uncle of mine speak of her
ladyship, I think. But this is a great nuisance, though."

"What is?" asked Charlotte, whom our readers may remember to have been
mentioned at the opening of this tale.

"Why—that you and me must separate just at the moment that we are
getting so friendly together—and without a single kiss, either."

Charlotte giggled—but said nothing.

"You will really be in Conduit Street this evening, my dear?" urged
Frank Curtis, after a brief pause.

"I think I shall be able to get out," responded Charlotte. "But her
ladyship is an invalid; and Miss Mordaunt—her friend, or companion, or
whatever she is—may want me to dress her for some ball or party; and so
I cannot promise for sure."

"But you will try?"

"Yes," murmured the young woman; and she hurried on to the front-door of
Lady Hatfield's house.

Curtis stopped at a short distance and watched her as she tripped along,
her pretty feet and ankles peering from beneath the folds of her dress.

Now it happened that at the very moment when Charlotte was about to ring
the bell, the front-door opened, and a livery-servant issued forth,
doubtless upon some errand. After exchanging a word or two with
Charlotte, he passed on, and the young woman entered the house. But ere
she closed the door she turned a sly glance upon Frank Curtis, who, the
instant he saw the livery-servant make his appearance, sauntered very
leisurely along in the most innocent-looking manner in the world.

The livery-servant was now out of sight—and the pretty face of the
lady's-maid lingered at the door which she kept ajar.

Curtis looked hastily around; and, the coast being tolerably clear at
the moment, he darted up to the entrance.

Charlotte had merely remained on the threshold to give him a parting
glance of intelligence for the purpose of assuring him of the sincerity
of her promise that she would endeavour to meet him in the evening,—for
the young lady was of an intriguing disposition, and flattered herself
that she had captivated some very great, or at all events some very
wealthy person:—but, when she saw him thus precipitately rush towards
the entrance, she drew back and endeavoured to shut the door.

Frank was, however, too quick for her: and he fairly thrust himself into
the hall, closing the street-door behind him.

"For God's sake, go away, sir," said Charlotte imploringly.

"Not till I have had one kiss—just one," cried Frank; and he threw his
arms round the lady's-maid's neck.

"Oh! do let me go, sir—the servants will come—and I shall be ruined,"
she murmured, vainly struggling with the young man, who not only
considered the adventure a capital joke, but was also excited by his
present contact with a pretty girl.

He glued his lips to hers, and pressed her closely to him, when a loud
double-knock suddenly echoed through the hall.

"Good heavens! what shall I do?" exclaimed Charlotte, in a tone of
despair: then, in another moment, she recovered her presence of mind,
and throwing open a side-door, said in a rapid and earnest tone, "Go in
there, sir—and, if any one comes, pray invent some excuse for your being
here—but don't compromise me."

Curtis darted into the parlour with which the side-door communicated:
the lady's-maid hurried away: and old Mason speedily made his appearance
to answer the summons conveyed by the double-knock.

"Is Miss Mordaunt at home?" inquired a voice which Curtis, who was
listening anxiously on the inner side of the parlour door, immediately
recognised to be that of his worthy uncle.

"Yes, Sir Christopher—Miss Mordaunt is at home," replied Mason. "Please
to walk in, sir. This way, sir—Miss Mordaunt is with Lady Hatfield in
the drawing-room."

"I wish to see Miss Mordaunt alone, if you please," said Sir
Christopher. "Give my compliments, and if Miss Mordaunt will accord me a
few minutes—upon some little matter of a private nature——"

"Certainly, Sir Christopher," responded the domestic. "Have the goodness
to step into this room, sir."

And Frank Curtis—now as miserable as he was insolent and exulting a few
moments previously, when embracing Charlotte in the hall—heard the
footsteps of Mason and his uncle approaching the very door at which he
was listening.

Not a moment was to be lost. He was too much confused—too much
bewildered to think of meeting the embarrassment of his position with a
good face and a bold excuse: and concealment instantly suggested itself
to his coward-mind.

A cheerful fire was burning in the grate; and near it was drawn a sofa,
the cushion of which had rich fringes that hung all round, and drooped
nearly to the carpet. To thrust himself beneath this friendly sofa was
the work of an instant with Frank Curtis; and so rapidly was the
manœuvre executed, that the fringes had even ceased to rustle, when Sir
Christopher Blunt stalked pompously into the apartment.

Mason withdrew to deliver the knight's message to Miss Mordaunt; and in
the meantime the knight himself paced the room in somewhat an agitated
manner.

At length he walked straight up to a handsome mirror, and looking fully
at his image as it was reflected in the glass, began to apostrophise
himself.

"Sir Christopher Blunt—Sir Christopher Blunt," he exclaimed aloud, in a
solemn tone, "what is it that you are about to do? Are you taking a
wise, or an imprudent step? Are you, in a word, about to ensure your own
happiness, or—or—to make a damned old fool of yourself?"

Frank Curtis was astounded at this language which came from the lips of
his uncle. Despite of his fears and the unpleasant predicament in which
he found himself, he was on the point of yielding to his natural
propensity for mischief and blurting forth an affirmative response to
the latter portion of the knight's self-interrogation, when the door
opened and a lady entered the room.

Curtis accordingly held his peace, and his breath too as much as he
could; for his curiosity was now so intense as to master even his fears.

"Miss Mordaunt," said the knight, suddenly turning away from the glass
and advancing as jauntily as his massive frame would permit, to meet the
lady, "I have to apologise for this early visit——"

"Oh! no apology, Sir Christopher," exclaimed Julia, in a most affable
manner. "Pray be seated."

"Allow me," said the knight; and taking her hand, he led her to the very
sofa beneath which his nephew lay concealed. Then, seating himself at a
respectful distance from her—but also on the sofa, he continued thus:—"I
hope, Miss Mordaunt, that I shall not offend you with what I am
going—that is, with what I am about—I mean, with what I am on the point
of——"

"Very intelligible, all this!" thought Frank Curtis to himself.

"Sir Christopher Blunt is incapable of offending a lady—especially a
young one," observed Miss Julia, blushing in the most approved style on
such interesting occasions—for she could anticipate what was coming.

"Sir Christopher Blunt thanks you for that compliment, Miss Mordaunt,"
said the knight pompously, and encouraged also by the lady's tone and
manner. "Yes—I am indeed incapable of giving offence wilfully; although
there _are_ certain vulgar people east of Temple Bar who pretend that I
treat them cavalierly. And, thank heaven! Miss Mordaunt, I was _not_
elected Alderman of Portsoken; for I never could have put up with all
the filthy guzzling and swilling—excuse the expressions, ma'am—that seem
inseparable from City affairs. You know, perhaps, Miss Mordaunt, that my
origin was humble—I may say that it was nothing at all. But I glory in
that fact: it is my boast—my pride."

"True merit is sure to force its way in the world, Sir Christopher,"
observed Julia, with a smile which, displaying her white teeth, quite
enchanted the amorous knight.

"Again I thank you for the good opinion of me implied by that remark,"
he said, edging himself a little closer to the lady. "My large
fortune—for large it notoriously is, Miss Mordaunt—has all been acquired
by my own honest industry; and the title which I have the honour to
bear, was bestowed upon me by a gracious Prince in approbation of my
conduct as a public officer."

"You occupy an enviable position in society, Sir Christopher," said
Julia.

"Do you really think so, Miss?" asked the knight, endeavouring to assume
a soft and plaintive tone, but with as little success as if he were a
boatswain labouring under a severe cold: "do you really think so?"—and
again he edged himself nearer to his companion. "Ah! my dear Miss
Mordaunt, how happy should I be to lay my fortune—my title—my all, at
the feet of some charming lady, who, like yourself, would not despise
the man that has risen by his own honest exertions to I may say
affluence and honour."

Miss Mordaunt cast down her eyes and worked herself up into a most
interesting state of blushing excitement; while Sir Christopher boldly
took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

The knight's foot was thrust some little way under the sofa; and as he
wore blucher boots, it was not difficult to stick a pin into the calf of
his leg, if any one had felt so disposed. Such an idea certainly struck
his dutiful nephew at that instant; for Mr. Frank Curtis now fully
comprehended the object of his uncle's visit to Miss Julia Mordaunt; and
the matrimonial designs of the said uncle foreboded any thing but
essential benefit to himself. Then—although he was not the brightest
young man in existence—the selfish motive of Sir Christopher, in
agreeing to _purchase_ Mr. Torrens's elder daughter as his (Frank's)
wife, flashed upon his mind; and in an instant he comprehended the
entire policy of Sir Christopher as well as the reader already
understands it, with regard to the recent matrimonial speculation, which
Tom Rainford had so materially aided to render abortive.

We digressed just at the point where Sir Christopher was venturesome
enough to press the hand of Miss Mordaunt to his lips.

"Oh! Sir Christopher," murmured the lady, apparently quite abashed, and
forgetting, most probably in the agitation of the moment, to withdraw
her fair fingers.

"Julia, my love—for so you must now permit me to call you," exclaimed
the enamoured knight, "will my suit be rejected? can you receive it
favourably? At this moment you see before you a man whom it is in your
power to render happy or miserable for life. And, ah! dear me—what a
dreadful dream I had last night! It was that dream which made me come to
you so early to-day, to know your decision. For whether it was your
image, my beloved Julia—or the cold roast pig that I eat for supper, I'm
sure I can't say; but true it is that——Oh!" screamed the knight, in a
fit of agony.

"My dear Sir Christopher, what—what _is_ the matter?" asked Miss
Mordaunt, alarmed by the sudden ejaculation, which was accompanied by an
equally sudden start.

"Oh! nothing—nothing," said the knight, endeavouring to compose himself:
"a sudden twitch in the leg—just like the pricking of a pin—but it is
nothing—a mere sensation! I was going to tell you, my dear Julia, about
that horrid dream——"

"Pray, Sir Christopher, don't tell me any thing about horrid dreams,"
exclaimed Miss Mordaunt: "you will frighten me out of my wits."

"Well, dearest, I will not. But you have not told me yet whether I may
consider that this fair hand which I now press to my lips——Oh!"

And again the knight started violently.

"What _is_ the matter, Sir Christopher?" asked Julia earnestly.

"Really—I can't make it out—I don't know—but this is the second time
that the same sensation has seized me in the left leg," stammered the
knight: "just for all the world like the pricking of a pin. And yet of
course it cannot be that. But pray, pardon these unpleasant
interruptions, Julia; and relieve me from suspense at once. Say—tell me,
dearest one—will you, will you consent to be mine?"

"Oh! Sir Christopher, what do you ask?" murmured Miss Mordaunt, as if
there were any thing extraordinary or unexpected in the question.

"What do I ask?" repeated the enamoured knight: "I ask you to bestow
upon me this fair hand."

"How can I refuse you, Sir Christopher?" sighed the lady. "You are so
killing!"

"Am I, dearest!" ejaculated the knight; and, encouraged more than ever
by this assurance, he boldly kissed his companion. But almost
immediately a cry of agony burst from his lips; and, starting up from
the sofa, he exclaimed, "My leg! my leg! the—the devil's in it—and
that's the fact!"

The fact was however somewhat different; for Mr. Frank Curtis, having
very quietly and deliberately taken his breast-pin from the frill of his
shirt, was amusing himself with the very pleasant pastime of thrusting
the point into his uncle's leg.

On the third occasion of the application of the aforesaid breast-pin,
Sir Christopher started up and danced about the room, while Miss
Mordaunt, who was most anxious to bring the delicate topic of discourse
to such a point that she might satisfy herself as to the very day on
which she was to change her condition, endeavoured to her utmost to
console him.

Convinced that the pain he experienced could be nothing more than some
sudden but very galling spasmodic attack, neither Sir Christopher nor
Julia entertained the least thought of looking beneath the sofa: they
therefore re-seated themselves upon it, and continued their tender
discourse.

"And when shall it be?" asked Sir Christopher, taking it for granted
that it _was_ to be.

"Whenever—that is—so soon—I mean—when you choose," murmured Miss
Mordaunt. "But you will communicate your intentions to my brother, who
obtained his captaincy a few days ago, and whom I _must_ consult."

"And why consult him?" asked Sir Christopher, a misgiving entering his
mind.

"Oh! he might—I do not say that he will—but he _might_ object," answered
Miss Mordaunt.

"Then perhaps you wish me to state my views to my nephew also," said the
knight somewhat testily: "as _he_ might also object."

"But a nephew, Sir Christopher," urged the lady,—"a nephew is not a
brother."

"Very true," replied Blunt, as if some grand truth had just been made
apparent to him. "And yet it appears, Julia," he added, in a coaxing
tone, "that we have each a relation to whom we would rather not mention
the matter—until after it was over."

"Oh! you killing man—what would you have me understand by that remark?"
cried Miss Mordaunt.

"Simply that we should——"

"Should what, dear Sir Christopher?"

"Should be married privately—or run away to Gretna Green," answered the
knight. "And now the truth is out."

"Oh! naughty—naughty man!" exclaimed Julia, casting on her swain one of
her most bewitching smiles: but at the same time she imagined to herself
all the excitement attending a run-a-way match to Gretna—the rapidity of
travelling—the bustle that would be excited at the way-side inns—the
sensation that must arise in the fashionable world—the paragraphs in the
newspapers—the _éclat_ attached to such a proceeding—and the importance
with which her reappearance in town, after the union, would be
attended:—of all this she thought—and the knight's proposal was
therefore most welcome to her; for, while she contemplated the agreeable
side of the picture, she never once reflected on the ridicule and
absurdity that must attach themselves to such a step on the part of two
persons of the respective ages of Sir Christopher Blunt and herself.

"Well, dearest, what are you thinking of?" asked the knight.

"Of what you were saying, dear Sir Christopher," murmured the lady in a
languishing tone.

"Then, how shall it be! a private marriage—or Gretna?"

"The arrangements for a private marriage might be suspected," sighed
Julia, casting down her eyes and managing a blush, which was respectable
enough, seeing that it scarcely came voluntarily to her aid.

"Just my opinion!" ejaculated Sir Christopher. "I would not have that
prying nephew of mine, Frank Curtis—the young scapegrace—getting a hint
of it beforehand, for any money."

"Nor would I wish my brother to know of it until it is all over, dear
Sir Christopher," returned Julia.

"Then be it Gretna!" exclaimed the knight. "And now when shall it take
place?"

"I could not say to-day, Sir Christopher—but to-morrow—to-morrow——"
murmured the lady in a faint tone, as if quite overpowered by the
importance of the step she was about to take, but which she would
willingly have taken long before, had the proposal been made to
her:—"to-morrow," she added, "I shall be prepared—to——"

"I understand you, my angel," interrupted the knight; and this time he
caught the lady fairly in his arms and subjected her to a process of
hearty kissing.

Mr. Frank Curtis had in the meantime restored his breast-pin to the
frill of his shirt; for, since the conversation had turned upon a
regular elopement, the matter had become far too serious for him to
trifle with. He suddenly found himself menaced with something bordering
on total disinheritance in respect to his uncle's property; for, even if
this projected union should yield no issue, still the lady might obtain
so much influence over the knight as to induce him to will all his
fortune to herself. Frank was therefore in rather an unpleasant state of
mind, as well as being in an uneasy predicament under the sofa. He
nevertheless saw that cunning must be met with cunning; and he now lay
as quiet as a mouse, in order to avoid detection. But he vowed seriously
that the moment he should escape from the kind of prison in which he
found himself, he would not let the grass grow under his feet ere he
adopted measures to defeat the matrimonial scheme of Sir Christopher
Blunt and Miss Julia Mordaunt.

At length, to his unspeakable relief, the knight took his leave of Miss
Mordaunt, after having settled the hour and place where they were to
meet on the following evening.

Sir Christopher being gone, Julia also left the room; and poor
Charlotte, who had been on the tenter-hooks of suspense and alarm ever
since Frank Curtis had first entered the house, now hurried to the
parlour, wondering how he could possibly have managed to avoid an
exposure.

But when she entered the room, and perceived no one, she was more
astonished still.

Her surprise was not, however, of long duration; for Curtis, having
peeped through the fringe and ascertained who the new-comer was,
suddenly emerged from his hiding-place.

"Oh! dear me, sir," exclaimed the young woman, "what a fright I have
been in, to be sure!"

"And what a pickle I have been in!" cried Frank sulkily.

"You cannot say that it was my fault, sir," observed Charlotte
reproachfully.

"Nor more I do, my dear," answered Curtis, warming himself into a better
humour by means of a kiss or two on the lady's-maid's red lips. "But, I
say, my dear," he continued, after a few moments' dalliance of that
sort, "you _must_ come to meet me this evening; because, independent of
my desire to chat with you and all that sort of thing, you can be of
service to me."

"Lor'! sir," cried Charlotte, astonished at this intimation.

"Indeed you can: but I must not stay to explain myself now," returned
Curtis. "Here, my dear—take these five guineas as an earnest of what I
will do for you; and mind and be punctual in Conduit Street at seven
o'clock this evening."

"I shall not fail, sir," replied Charlotte.

"And in the meantime," added Frank, "watch Miss Mordaunt well. Don't ask
me any questions now—I will tell you all about it this evening. But mind
you watch her; and if possible, get into conversation with her. Should
she ask you to do her any service—no matter of what kind—promise her
that you will; and leave the rest to me. Do you hear?"

"Yes, sir—and I will do as you tell me," was the answer.

"Well, then—that's right," said Curtis. "And now let me see if I can't
slip out without running plump up against one of your liveried flunkeys
here."

"Wait an instant," cried Charlotte; and she disappeared from the room,
closing the door carefully behind her.

In a few moments she returned, with the welcome tidings that the coast
was clear; and Frank Curtis succeeded in quitting Lady Hatfield's house
without being perceived by any one save the faithful Charlotte.




                              CHAPTER XX.
                    HAPPINESS.—THE DIAMOND-MERCHANT.


When Lord Ellingham took his leave of Lady Hatfield, the latter hurried
to her bed-chamber; and, locking the door behind her, sate down in an
arm-chair near the fire to ponder unconstrainedly upon the conversation
of the previous hour.

And that hour—what changes had it worked in respect to the mind and
prospects of this patrician lady!

"Oh! how generous and noble-hearted is my Arthur!" she mused inwardly:
"how boundless is his love for me! But is it possible that I am really
to become his wife? or am I the sport of a wild and delusive dream?
No—it is all true: I am awake—I see the various objects around me—there
is no confusion in my brain. Yes—it _is_ all true; and he will marry
me—he will make me his wife—in spite of——But let me avoid thinking of
the past! The future is now bright and glorious before me. My own
Arthur—whom I love so fondly, and who alone has ever possessed and will
possess my heart,—my own noble, generous Arthur has surmounted all
prejudice—flung aside all disgust—and has promised to make me happy! Oh!
not in the wildest of my dreams could I have imagined so much bliss. The
clouds which have so long hung heavily around the star of my destiny,
have been suddenly dispersed by one who views my heart aright—who
understands me—who knows my sad history, but recognises my
innocence—who, in a word, rises superior to all the prejudices which
shackle the world. Oh! dearest—dearest Arthur! how can I ever reward you
adequately for this generosity on your part? All the love which I bear
you—all the adoration I feel for you—all the devotion I shall manifest
towards you, will not repay the immense debt that I owe you! It is true
that I possess great wealth—that the services of my father to the State
induced his Majesty to create me a Peeress in my own right—and that I
have some pretensions to beauty:—all this is true—but it is not
sufficient to induce my noble-hearted Arthur to make me the partner of
his bed. No: for he himself is rich far beyond his desires—he also owns
a proud and ancient name—and England has daughters far lovelier than I.
But he loves me for myself—apart from all selfish considerations: and,
Oh! what bliss to be thus loved!"

Lady Hatfield sank her head upon her fair hand, and gave way to the new
and ineffable bliss which had so suddenly enveloped her in its halo.

At length another idea struck her.

"But my uncle—how could _he_ have known my secret?" she exclaimed aloud.
"And how did he discover it? Oh! he must have been aware of it from the
very first! The good—the kind-hearted man—never to have even appeared
to——"

Georgiana's reverie was interrupted by a hasty knock at her door.

She rose, unlocked it, and gave admission to her friend Julia.

"My dear Lady Hatfield," exclaimed Miss Mordaunt, her entire countenance
illuminated with joy, "congratulate me. It is all settled!"

"That you are to become Lady Blunt?" asked Georgiana, smiling.

"Yes, my dearest friend—Lady Blunt! How well it sounds! only think of
'_Lady Blunt_' upon a card—printed, for instance, in the old English
letter—or German text—or whatever it is. And then—'_Lady Blunt's
carriage!_'—and all that sort of thing! Really I am so happy—I don't
know whether to dance or sing—or both!"

"I am delighted to see you so happy, my dear Julia," said Lady Hatfield;
"and most sincerely do I congratulate you. But have you acted prudently
to accept Sir Christopher without communicating his proposal to your
relations?"

"I think that I am quite old enough to manage my own affairs in this
respect at least," answered Julia, laughing: "and yet—after all—I am not
so very old—only just thirty. Still it is high time to settle one-self
in life. But for the present, my dear Lady Hatfield, I must implore you
to keep my engagement a profound secret—for reasons which I will explain
in a few days——"

"I shall keep your secret, Julia, without seeking to learn your motives
until you may choose to communicate them," replied Georgiana. "And now I
am about to surprise you in respect to myself. Lord Ellingham has been
here this morning."

"So I heard from old Mason just now," said Miss Mordaunt. "But you knew
he would call, my dear friend, after leaving his card last night. And—if
you speak candidly—you will confess that you _hoped_ he would."

"I _did_ hope he would call, Julia," answered Georgiana; "but I could
_not_ imagine that our interview would have terminated——However," she
added, checking herself, and smiling joyously, "you must now
congratulate me; for in a few weeks I shall become the Countess of
Ellingham."

"I do indeed congratulate you, my dearest Lady Hatfield," replied Miss
Mordaunt. "But upon my word, wonders will never cease. Here were you
only a few days ago rejecting the Earl in opposition to every thing like
common sense—and certainly against the wishes of your very best
friends——"

"Let us not talk of the past, Julia," interrupted Georgiana. "The future
opens so brightly before me, that I am almost dazzled by its brilliancy.
And I am happy—supremely happy—Oh! almost too happy!"

As she uttered these words, Georgiana threw herself into the arm-chair
which she had quitted for the purpose of giving admission to Miss
Mordaunt; and never did the beauty of her soul-speaking countenance
shine to greater advantage than at that moment.

And no wonder that even her friend, whose volatile disposition seldom
permitted her mind to settle its attention on subjects concerning
another, was struck by the loveliness of Lady Hatfield on this
occasion:—no wonder, we say, that Julia gazed with admiration for a long
time on that beauteous woman: for happiness seemed to have invested her
with new charms.

Her cheeks—lately so pale with mental anxiety and partial
indisposition—were now tinged with a warm carnation hue:—joy flashed
from her large liquid eyes, usually of so mild though lustrous a
languor;—and smiles played upon those rosy lips which were wont to
remain apart with serious expression.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The Earl of Ellingham, upon taking leave of Georgiana that morning,—but,
be it well understood, with the promise of returning to pass an hour or
two in the evening,—experienced that kind of heart-felt happiness which
requires a vent by means of imparting the fact of its existence to a
friend.

To the abode of Dr. Lascelles was the Earl accordingly hastening, when
he was suddenly accosted by a gentleman; who addressed him by name, and
whom in another moment he remembered to be Mr. Gordon, the
diamond-merchant.

"I beg your lordship's pardon for thus stopping you," said that
individual: "but I thought you might be gratified to learn that the
jewels which I lost so mysteriously, have been restored to me."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Arthur. "I am rejoiced to hear these tidings. And
now, I presume, you are fully convinced that Miss Esther de Medina was
entirely innocent of the theft so ridiculously imputed to her."

"On the contrary, my lord," answered the diamond-merchant: "I am more
than ever certain that Miss de Medina was the person who took them."

"Mr. Gordon," exclaimed the Earl indignantly, "I should have thought
that, after the investigation which took place at the office in Bow
Street, you would not have clung to an opinion so dishonourable—so
unjust towards an innocent young lady. Moreover, sir, I should have
conceived that my testimony to that young lady's character would have
dispelled any doubts which had still hung on your mind."

"That your lordship gave such testimony conscientiously, I cannot for an
instant question," was the firm but respectful answer. "At the same time
that your lordship was and is still deceived in that young lady, I am
confident."

[Illustration]

"Perhaps, sir," observed the Earl coldly, "you will have no objection to
communicate the reasons which have thus induced you to change your
opinion; for, if I remember rightly, you yourself declared, in the
public office, that you were satisfied there was some grievous mistake,
and that Miss de Medina was innocent of the deed imputed to her at
first."

"I admit, my lord," replied the diamond-merchant, "that I was staggered
by the singularity of the turn given to the proceedings when your
lordship appeared to speak in Miss de Medina's defence. But listen, my
lord, to the subsequent events which revived all my suspicions. Upon
leaving the Police-Court I returned home, but was scarcely able to
attend to my business, so bewildered was I by the occurrences of the
morning, and so annoyed was I also at the loss which I had so
mysteriously experienced. It was probably four o'clock in the afternoon,
when a lady was announced; and the moment she raised her veil, I
recognised Miss de Medina. You may conceive, my lord, how surprised I
was by this visit: but much greater was my astonishment, when she said
to me, without a single word of preface, '_Sir, what is the value of the
diamonds which you have lost?_'—'_Six hundred pounds_,' was my
answer.—Miss de Medina immediately drew forth a small packet from her
dress, and counted six Bank-notes, each of a hundred pounds, and which
she placed before me on the table,—'_Here is the amount, sir_,' she
said; and I offered her a receipt, which she however declined. For a few
moments she lingered—as if anxious to say something more: then, suddenly
turning away, she abruptly quitted the house."

"Extraordinary!" cried the Earl of Ellingham. "And yet——"

"One instant, my lord," interrupted Mr. Gordon: "the most mysterious
part of the whole transaction is yet to be revealed to you. Not ten
minutes had elapsed from the moment of Miss de Medina's departure, when
a person, whom I remembered to have seen in the court, was announced. I
do not know whether your lordship observed at the office a man of florid
complexion—light curly hair—red whiskers—and dressed in a sporting
suit——"

"I not only observed him," replied the Earl; "but from the description
subsequently given by one of my servants, whom I questioned after my
return home from the police-office, I have every reason to believe that
the individual whom you describe was the bearer of a letter which had
induced me to hasten to Bow Street to give my testimony in proof of Miss
de Medina's innocence."

"And does your lordship know that man?" inquired the diamond-merchant.

"I never saw him, to my knowledge, until that day, when the attention he
appeared to devote to the proceedings attracted my notice—although he
was in the midst of the crowd congregated near the door. But please to
continue your own narrative."

"This individual, my lord, of whom we have been speaking," returned Mr.
Gordon, "was the person introduced to my office a few minutes after the
departure of Miss de Medina. He seated himself in a free and easy,
off-hand manner, and said, '_I think I can give you some little
information concerning the diamonds which you have lost._'—'_Indeed!_' I
exclaimed: and, anxious to hear what he was about to state, I said
nothing relative to the visit of Miss de Medina and the payment of the
amount at which the lost jewels were valued.—'_Yes_,' he continued: and,
with the utmost coolness, he produced a pistol from one pocket and a
small parcel, wrapped up in brown paper, from the other.—'_What is the
meaning of this strange conduct?_' I demanded, glancing towards the
weapon which the man held in his hand.—'_Oh! it is soon explained_,' he
said. '_This pistol is merely to defend myself in case you should take
it into your head to give me into the charge of a constable on suspicion
of being connected with the person who stole your property: and as for
the parcel, open it, and see what it contains._'—Thus speaking, he
tossed the packet across the table to me, crossed his legs, and began to
hum a tune. I opened the parcel; and to my surprise perceived the
diamonds which I had lost.—'_Is the set complete?_' asked the
man.—'_Quite perfect_,' I replied in the most unfeigned astonishment at
the singularity of the whole proceedings. '_But how does it happen_,' I
continued,'_that you have come to restore them to me, when a quarter of
an hour has scarcely elapsed since Miss de Medina herself called and
paid me six hundred pounds at which they are valued?_'—It now appeared
to be the man's turn to be surprised: but, in another moment, he
exclaimed,'_Oh! I understand it all._'—'_What do you understand?_' said
I: '_for I must candidly confess that I understand nothing of the whole
transaction, which is one involved in the deepest mystery_.'—'_So let it
remain_, he cried abruptly: '_and now mark me_,' he added in a slower
and more impressive tone; '_beware how you ever utter a word derogatory
to the honour of Esther de Medina_.' And he quitted the apartment,
leaving me in possession of my jewels and of the six hundred pounds
also."

"This narrative is so singular, Mr. Gordon," said the Earl of Ellingham,
"that were you not a respectable merchant, and that you can have no
possible interest in amusing me with a fiction, I should not believe the
portion which relates to Miss de Medina."

"I declare before my Maker," ejaculated the diamond-merchant solemnly,
"that I have not exaggerated one tittle of my history. I have even more
to state. The restoration of my property convinced me that I had no
right to retain the money which Miss de Medina had paid to me as a
recompense for its loss. I therefore determined to give it back to her.
But I was unacquainted with her residence. Then I recollected that your
lordship had stated that Mr. de Medina had become your tenant for a
house and small estate about seven miles from London. I immediately
repaired to your lordship's residence in Pall Mall to inquire the
address of Mr. de Medina; but you were not at home. Your valet, however,
furnished me with the information I required; and on the following
morning I proceeded to Finchley. I called at the house to which I had
been directed, and learnt that Mr. de Medina and his daughter did not
intend to settle there until the Spring; but from the servant in charge
of the premises I ascertained where Mr. de Medina resided in town. I
accordingly returned to London, and forthwith repaired to Great Ormond
Street, where I obtained an interview with Miss de Medina. Her father
was out—a circumstance which, on the occasion, appeared to give her
pleasure; because she asked the servant who announced me, whether Mr. de
Medina were in his study; and on receiving a reply to the effect that he
had gone out a few minutes previous to my arrival, she was evidently
relieved of some anxiety. I communicated the nature of my business; but
when I mentioned the particulars of the visit I had received from the
light-haired gentleman, her countenance suddenly assumed so singular an
expression that I can scarcely define its meaning. It was not alarm
alone—nor surprise—nor shame—nor sorrow, which her looks denoted; but a
feeling composed of all those sentiments blended together. Then, when I
explained to her that this man had restored my lost diamonds, her
countenance suddenly assumed an expression of joy. I handed her the six
hundred pounds, which she received; and then—as on the occasion of her
visit to me the preceding evening—she seemed anxious to make some
remark, to which she could not, however, give utterance. The silence
became awkward—and I took my leave. Your lordship now knows all."

"And can you for one moment imagine that Esther de Medina was the person
who stole your diamonds?" exclaimed Lord Ellingham: "or that she was in
any way connected with that man who restored them to you?"

"My belief is that she parted with them in some way to that man,"
answered Mr. Gordon; "and that her father most probably gave her the
money to recompense me for my loss; but that when she paid it, she was
unaware that the man had the intention of restoring the jewels."

Lord Ellingham made no answer: for there suddenly flashed upon his mind
a reminiscence which staggered him.

The reader will recollect that when Mr. de Medina encountered his
daughter at the police-court, he said to her, "_Oh! Esther—Esther, I can
understand it all. You have brought this upon yourself!_" These words
were overheard at the time by Lord Ellingham: but they had since escaped
his memory—or else failed to make any very deep impression upon him,—his
own mind, since that day, having been a prey to much acute anxiety,
suspense, and conflicting feelings, on account of Lady Hatfield.

But now, when he recalled those words, and considered them in all their
significance,—when he pondered upon the tale which he had just heard
from the lips of the diamond-merchant,—when he remembered that the man
who had restored those jewels was doubtless the same who had conveyed to
Pall Mall the letter which so mysteriously urged him to hasten to the
police-court and give his testimony in Esther's defence,—he began to
share Mr. Gordon's belief that there must be some connexion between that
florid, light-haired man and Miss de Medina.

At the same time, Lord Ellingham was convinced that Esther had _not_
stolen the diamonds; or that, if she had, Mr. Gordon had mistaken the
hour of the day, if not the day itself, on which such theft was
committed. Because Arthur remembered, beyond all possibility of error,
that from two o'clock on the afternoon until near eleven o'clock at
night, on the day specified by the diamond-merchant, Esther was engaged
in visiting the house which her father had hired from him (Lord
Ellingham), and which was situate about a mile beyond Finchley. Arthur
himself accompanied Mr. de Medina and Esther on that occasion; and
Esther was never absent from his sight, save perhaps for a few minutes
at a time, during the interval above named.

There was a profound mystery somewhere: and though the Earl was not
characterised by any feeling of impertinent curiosity, yet he longed to
clear up the doubts and misgivings which had at length arisen in his
mind. He entertained the greatest respect for Mr. de Medina, and—until
now—the same sentiment towards Esther, whom he had hitherto looked upon
as a model of purity, amiability, and innocence. He therefore felt
grieved—vexed—disappointed—annoyed, for the honour of the human race,
and especially for the credit of the female sex, to think it possible
that he had been so grossly deceived in that beautiful Jewess.

He walked slowly along, the diamond-merchant by his side.

"Well, my lord," said the latter, at length breaking the protracted
silence, "what is your opinion now?"

"I confess that I am bewildered," was the reply. "But I shall not judge
hastily. In the meantime, I pray you so far to suspend your opinion upon
the subject as to avoid the utterance of aught prejudicial to Miss de
Medina's character; and if I succeed in fathoming this mystery, the fact
of that young lady's guilt or innocence shall be duly communicated to
you."

The diamond-merchant bowed respectfully, and departed in another
direction; while Lord Ellingham continued his way towards Grafton
Street.




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                               THE OATH.


Dr. Lascelles was at home, and immediately granted an audience to the
Earl of Ellingham.

Popular physicians are potentates in their way, and access to them, save
on matters of professional business, is frequently difficult.

But the doctor had taken a greater fancy to the young nobleman than he
was ever known to entertain for any of his acquaintances; and he
therefore received him as one who did not encroach on his very valuable
time.

"Well," said the physician, as the Earl made his appearance in the
professional reception-room, "something new about Lady Hatfield, I'll be
bound?"

"You are right, my dear doctor," answered the lover: "and I am the
happiest of men."

"I am charmed to hear it," said Lascelles, casting a glance of
curiosity, not unmingled with surprise, towards the Earl.

"Yes, doctor," cried the latter, his handsome countenance irradiated
with the lustre of complete felicity, "the beautiful Georgiana has
consented to become my wife."

"Your wife!" ejaculated the physician.

"And wherefore not?" asked the Earl, astonished at the tone and manner
of his friend. "Do you think that I will allow what must be considered a
misfortune to stand in the way of my happiness?"

"Certainly—if you can rise superior to a prejudice which influences the
generality of the world," said the physician, thrown off his guard by
Lord Ellingham's last observation. "I do not see——"

"Ah! then you also know all?" ejaculated the Earl. "But let us not dwell
on this topic. Suffice it that I have heard from Sir Ralph Walsingham
enough to convince me that his niece is to be commiserated in a certain
respect; and I have had a full explanation with her on the subject. In a
few weeks she will be Lady Ellingham; and it shall be my duty—as it will
also prove my delight—to make her so completely happy that she shall
forget the incident which has had so powerful an effect upon her mind."

"I sincerely wish you all possible felicity, my dear Earl," said the
doctor, shaking the young nobleman warmly by the hand.

"A thousand thanks, doctor," exclaimed Arthur, cordially returning the
pressure. "But how became you acquainted with that incident in
Georgiana's life which has exercised such influence over her? I thought
you told me yesterday that she had not entered into any explanations
with you?"

"Neither had she—nor has she, my dear lord," observed the physician, who
seemed slightly surprised, if not puzzled, by the observations of his
young friend. "But—as you yourself ere now said—let us not dwell on that
topic;—it is of too delicate a nature."

"It _is_ delicate, my dear doctor," responded the Earl. "But as I am my
own master, and labour not under the necessity of consulting my
relatives as to those proceedings which are connected with my interest
or happiness——"

"Oh! certainly," said the doctor. "You love Lady Hatfield—and she loves
you in return. It is quite natural. I have known many such cases—more,
perhaps, than you could imagine."

"I do not doubt you," replied the Earl. "But I will not longer intrude
on your valuable time," he added, smiling; "for I know that you are not
in the habit of receiving visits of a merely friendly nature at this
period of the day."

"To you only am I accessible on such terms," replied the physician.

The Earl then took his leave, and was about to return home, when he
bethought himself of the strange communication he had received from Mr.
Gordon, the diamond-merchant; and, as the weather was fine and frosty,
he determined to walk as far as the residence of Mr. de Medina in Great
Ormond Street.

On his arrival at that gentleman's house, he found the servant standing
at the front-door in the act of receiving some articles from a
tradesman's boy; and this trivial fact is only recorded, inasmuch as it
explains the reason how Lord Ellingham ascended to the drawing-room
without being duly announced. He considered himself to be on terms of
sufficient intimacy with Mr. de Medina to take such a liberty; and when
the domestic made a movement to conduct him up stairs, Arthur desired
him in a condescending manner not to take the trouble, as he knew the
way.

Accordingly, the Earl proceeded to the drawing-room, where he did not,
however, find Mr. de Medina and his daughter, although, from the
statement of the servant, he had expected to meet them there.

The floor was spread with a thick, rich Turkey carpet, on which his
footsteps fell noiselessly. He was about to seat himself, when voices in
the adjoining apartment, which was only separated from the drawing-room
by folding-doors, met his ears.

"Esther," said Mr. de Medina, speaking in an earnest and solemn tone,
"this is the third anniversary of that dreadful day which——"

"Oh! do not refer more than is necessary to that sad event, dear
father!" exclaimed the Jewess, in an imploring voice.

"Heaven knows, my child," responded her sire, "that—if you feel as I
do——"

"I do—I do, dearest father!" cried Esther.

"Yes:—but not all the degradation—the infamy—the shame——"

"All—all, father,—even as acutely as yourself!" she said, in a voice
denoting the most intense anguish.

"And yet, undutiful girl that you are," exclaimed Mr. de Medina, "you
persist in seeing that lost—abandoned——"

The sudden rattling of a carriage in the street drowned the remainder of
this sentence.

"Oh! my dearest father, forgive me!" cried Esther in a tone of the most
earnest appeal. "You cannot imagine the extent of my love—my boundless
love—for that unfortunate——"

"Unfortunate!" repeated Mr. de Medina angrily: "no—no! Say that most
wretched—guilty—criminal——"

"My God! use not such harsh terms!" almost shrieked the beautiful
Jewess; and the Earl of Ellingham could judge by the sound that she fell
upon her knees as she spoke.

"Yes—Esther—on your knees implore my forgiveness for your oft-repeated
disobedience!" exclaimed Mr. de Medina. "Consider, undutiful—ungrateful
girl—of the position—the scandalous, disgraceful position in which you
were placed a few days ago. That ring which was sold to the
diamond-merchant——"

"Pardon me, dearest father—oh! pardon me!" cried the young lady, her
voice becoming wildly hysterical.

Again a vehicle rolled along the street; and of the Jew's reply all that
the Earl could distinguish were the words——"those diamonds, Esther—the
theft of those diamonds! Oh! my God—I shall yet go mad with the dreadful
thought!"

"Oh! this is cruel—most cruel, after all I have suffered!" cried Esther.
"Wherefore revive those terrible reproaches now? Say—speak, father—what
do you require of me? wherefore this conversation?"

"Again I must remind you," answered Mr. de Medina solemnly, "that this
is the third anniversary of that day——"

"I know it—I know it? Oh! how can I ever forget it?" said Esther in a
tone of the most painful emotion.

"And now," continued Mr. de Medina, apparently but little moved by his
daughter's grief,—"now must you swear, Esther—upon that book which
contains the principles of our creed—that you will never, under any
circumstances——"

Mr. de Medina here sank his voice to so low a tone, that the Earl could
only catch a few disjointed phrases, such as these—"renew your connexion
with——acknowledge that——such infamy and disgrace——honoured
name——family——seduced my daughter——robbed her of her purity——although
the world may not suspect——degradation on yourself——discard you for
ever——Thomas Rainford——"

"I swear!" said Esther, in a tone which led the Earl to imagine that she
took the proscribed oath with a dreadful shudder.

"And now rise," exclaimed Mr. de Medina. "It is over."

These words suddenly awoke the Earl to a consciousness of his position:
and his face became scarlet as the thought flashed upon his mind that he
had been playing the part of an eaves-dropper. He despised himself for
having listened to the dialogue between Mr. de Medina and his daughter:
but his attention had been so completely rivetted to this
strange—mysterious—and exciting conversation, that he had unwittingly
remained a hearer. An invisible spell had nailed him as it were to the
spot—had forced him to linger and drink in that discourse which, alas!
appeared to speak so eloquently to the discredit of her whose character
he had so warmly defended two hours before!

And now, suddenly awaking—as we said—to a sense of his position, he
perceived that a subterfuge could alone save him from the imputation of
being an eaves-dropper: and to that subterfuge was this really
noble-minded peer compelled to stoop.

Hastily stepping to the drawing-room door, he opened it and closed it
again with unusual violence, so that the sound might fall upon the ears
of Mr. de Medina and Esther, and induce them to believe that he had only
just entered the room.

The stratagem succeeded; for Mr. de Medina immediately made his
appearance from the inner apartment, and welcomed the Earl with his
wonted calmness of manner.

In reply to Arthur's polite inquiries relative to Miss de Medina, the
father replied that his daughter was somewhat indisposed, and hoped the
Earl would excuse her absence.

A quarter of an hour passed in conversation of no particular interest to
the reader; and Lord Ellingham then took his leave.

When he found himself once more in the open street, he could scarcely
believe that he was not the sport of some wild and delusive dream. Had
he heard aright? or had his ears beguiled him? Was it true that all
those reproaches had been levelled by an angry father at the head of a
daughter who did not attempt to deny her guilt, but who was compelled to
implore that outraged parent's forgiveness? Had he not prescribed to her
an oath which seemed to imply, in plain terms,—although the Earl had
caught but detached portions,—that Esther had been seduced—robbed of her
purity,—and that the villain was one Thomas Rainford? Had not that oath
been administered for the purpose of binding her to break off her
connexion with this Thomas Rainford? And did not Mr. de Medina assure
her that, though the world might not suspect it, yet she had not the
less brought degradation on herself? In fine—did not the angry father
threaten to discard her for ever, unless she swore to obey his
injunctions?

In what other way could the blanks in the terms of the oath—as Ellingham
had gathered them by means of the few but significant disjointed
passages thereof,—in what other way could those blanks be filled up than
in the manner above detailed?

"It is too apparent!" thought the Earl within himself: "and Esther is an
abandoned—lost—degraded girl! And yet how deceptive is her
appearance—how delusive her demeanour! Purity seems to be expressed in
every glance:—innocence characterises every word she utters! Merciful
heavens! what must I think of the female sex after such a discovery as
this? And yet, let me not judge harshly of the whole, because _one_ is
frail. My own Georgiana is quite different from that artful hypocrite,
Esther de Medina. Georgiana conceals not a tainted soul beneath a chaste
exterior: she is purity in mind as well as in appearance. And, after
all, Esther _did_ steal the diamonds: her father upbraided her with the
theft! He even alluded to the ring which she sold to Mr. Gordon. Yes—it
is indeed too apparent: she is utterly depraved! But that name of
_Thomas Rainford_—surely I have heard it before?"

The Earl strove to recollect himself.

"Oh! I remember now!" he thought at the expiration of a few moments: "it
was Thomas Rainford who was accused of robbing my Georgiana on the
highway! How strange is this coincidence! And yet it was _not_ that man
who plundered her—for she proved his innocence of at least this
imputation. But it was doubtless Rainford who sent me the letter
desiring me to appear in the defence of Esther; and it must also have
been he who restored the diamonds to the merchant! That Esther stole
those diamonds is clear—for her father accused her of it. At least such
is the inference that must be drawn from his words. But that Gordon was
wrong as to the day, or the hour of the day on which the theft was
committed, is also clear; inasmuch as Esther was at Finchley at the time
stated! Still Gordon was so positive—and, when he appeared to prosecute
the Jewess at the police-office, so short a time had elapsed—only a few
hours, indeed—since the act was perpetrated, that it is difficult to
believe how he could have mistaken the date! There is a mystery yet
attending on this affair;—but that its elucidation would establish
Esther's innocence, cannot for a moment be believed!"

Such was the train of thought into which the Earl of Ellingham was
naturally led by the dialogue he had overheard between the Jew and his
daughter.

He was sincerely grieved to be forced to come to the conviction that
Esther de Medina was a lost and ruined girl, instead of the pure and
artless being he had previously believed her to be. Although his
affections were undividedly Georgiana's, yet he had entertained a
sentiment of friendship for the Jewess; and he was pained and shocked to
think that he had ever experienced any interest—even the slightest—in a
female so utterly unworthy his notice. For the father he still felt
respect, which was also now blended with profound commiseration; for he
beheld in him an honest and honourable man, who was cursed with a
daughter characterised by bad passions and evil propensities.

The Earl was well aware that Mr. de Medina was a very rich man: he could
not therefore suppose that necessity had induced Esther either to
dispose of the ring or to steal the jewels. What, then, could he
conclude? That she required funds to support a worthless, abandoned, and
lost man—her paramour! Hence the sale of the ring—hence the theft of the
diamonds.

Arthur now remembered his promise to Mr. Gordon to make him acquainted
with any particulars which he might discover relative to that business.
But how could he fulfil his pledge? He shrank from the contemplation of
the circumstance which had made him acquainted with Esther's guilt: he
felt annoyed and vexed with himself for having allowed his curiosity so
far to dominate his honourable principles as to render him an
eaves-dropper. He would not therefore aggravate his offence by imparting
its results to another; and, with an endeavour to banish the subject
from his memory and turn his attention to more pleasurable topics, he
hastily pursued his way homeward.




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                         THE ALARM.—THE LETTER.


In the meantime Esther de Medina had retired to her own apartment,
immediately after the strange, painful, and exciting scene which had
taken place with her father.

Seating herself upon a sofa, she burst into a violent flood of tears.

The delicate tinge of carnation which usually appeared beneath the
clear, transparent olive hue of her complexion, was now chased away; and
she was pale—very pale.

Her grief was evidently intense: anguish overwhelmed her spirit.

Oh, Esther! if thou art indeed a guilty—frail—fallen being, the eye
cannot refuse a tear of pity to thy lost condition!

No:—for never has even the enamoured poet in his dreams conceived a form
and face more perfect than nature had bestowed upon her. There appeared,
too, such a virgin freshness about that charming creature who was just
bursting into womanhood,—such a halo of innocence seemed to surround
her,—so much modesty, so much propriety characterised her slightest
attitudes and her most unimportant words, that to contemplate her for a
few minutes and yet retain the stubborn conviction that she was a
wanton, amounted almost to an impossibility.

And now—to behold her plunged in grief—alone with her own wretched
thoughts, and weeping,—who could believe that the lips, on which purity
appeared to dwell, had ever been pressed by those of the seducer,—that
the sylph-like form, whose sweeping, undulating outlines were so
gracefully set forth by the mournfulness of her attitude, had ever
unveiled its beauties on the bed of illicit love,—that the rude hand of
licentiousness had ever disturbed the treasures of the bosom so
carefully concealed:—who could believe all this?

Nevertheless, says the reader, appearances are so completely against
her—the evidences of her guilt seem so damning—that, alas! there is not
a hope of her innocence!

But let us continue the thread of our narrative.

For half an hour did Esther remain absorbed in the most profound
affliction—a prey to thoughts and reminiscences of a very painful
nature.

At length she rose abruptly, and evidently strove to conquer her grief.

She wiped away the tears from her fine black eyes, and advanced towards
the window, from behind the curtains of which she gazed into the street
with the view of directing her thoughts into some new channel.

Suddenly an idea struck her; and she hastened to her writing-desk, at
which she sate down and began to pen a letter.

While she was thus engaged, the crystal drops ever and anon started from
her eyes, and trembled on the jetty fringes, the glossy darkness of
which no oriental dye could have enhanced.

In the midst of her occupation—the progress of which was marked by many
an ill-subdued sob—a female servant entered the room to acquaint Miss de
Medina that her father had just received a letter on some business that
required his immediate attention, and that she was not to expect him
home to dinner.

The domestic then withdrew; and Esther finished her letter, which she
folded and concealed in her bosom.

It was now five o'clock; and she descended to the dining-room;—but she
had no appetite—and the ceremony of the repast, to which she was
compelled to sit down alone, was by no means calculated to enliven her
spirits.

Quitting the table as soon as possible, she returned to her chamber, put
on her bonnet and shawl, and hurried into the fresh air, which she hoped
would have an exhilarating influence upon her.

Esther drew her veil closely over her face, and proceeded to Southampton
Row, where she entered a shop at which the local post-office was
stationed.

The woman who stood behind the counter appeared to recognise her, and
immediately handed her a letter which was addressed simply to "_A. B.
C., Post-Office, Southampton Row. To be left till called for._"

Miss de Medina purchased a few articles of fancy stationery—evidently
with the view to recompense the shopkeeper for the trouble of receiving
her letters, and not because she required the things; and while the
woman was occupied in making up the parcel, Esther proceeded to read the
communication just placed in her hands.

For this purpose she raised her veil, and approached the light which
burnt near the window.

The letter was short: but its contents drew tears from the eyes of the
beautiful Jewess.

Scarcely had she terminated the perusal, when she was startled by
hearing a voice at the door distinctly exclaim, "There she is, by
heaven!"

Instinctively glancing in that direction, she beheld a very pale-faced
lad of apparently fifteen or sixteen gazing intently upon her from the
immediate vicinity of the threshold of the shop; and close behind
him—with his eyes also fixed upon her—stood a very tall, thin, old man
of most repulsive aspect.

The instant Esther looked towards them, the old man laid his hand on the
lad's shoulder and hurried him away; and Esther—somewhat alarmed by the
incident—took up the little parcel of stationery, wished the woman a
courteous "good evening," and quitted the shop.

When she again found herself in the street, she drew down her veil, and
hastened towards the nearest hackney-coach stand.

A vehicle speedily drew alongside of the kerb-stone for her
accommodation; and as she was stepping into it, she distinctly beheld,
through the folds of her veil, the tall old man and the pale lad
entering another vehicle at a little distance.

She could not be mistaken—for the shops sent forth a flood of light
which rendered the forms of those two persons plainly visible.

The coachman had to repeat his inquiry whither he was to drive, ere
Esther could recover her presence of mind sufficiently to reply.

"To the nearest post-office in Holborn," she at length said.

"Why, Lord bless you, ma'am—there's one close by here—not ten yards
off," answered the Jarvey, who was an honest fellow in his way.

"Never mind," said Esther. "I wish to be taken to another."

The man urged no farther objection, but mounted his box and drove
away—quietly settling in his own mind that his "fare" was either mad or
tipsy, he neither knew nor cared which.

Miss de Medina could not shake off an oppressive suspicion which had
forced itself upon her. She fancied that she was watched;—and, for the
simple reason that she knew nothing of the old man and the lad, her
uneasiness increased into actual alarm.

This feeling was enhanced, too, when her quick ears caught the rumbling
sound of another vehicle behind: and she began to blame herself for
having ventured abroad at such an hour.

Then she reasoned with herself that no harm could possibly happen to her
in the midst of a densely populated city, and while people were walking
about in all directions:—but still, in spite of this attempt at
self-assurance, the pale countenance of the lad and the sinister looks
of the old man haunted her like spirits of evil.

But in a few minutes the hackney-coach entered Holborn; and the blaze of
light—the bustle—the throng of vehicles—the crowd of foot-passengers—and
the animated appearance of the whole scene, dispelled nearly all her
alarms.

The vehicle draw up nearly at the corner of Fetter Lane; and Esther
alighted.

Another hackney-coach stopped simultaneously at a short distance; and
her eyes were immediately directed towards it.

"Here's the post-office, ma'am," said the driver of the vehicle which
she had hired.

Miss de Medina started—recollected herself—and hastened to thrust into
the letter-box the epistle which she had written ere she left home.

The address on that epistle was—"_T. R., No. 5, Brandon Street, Lock's
Fields._"

This superscription was caught by the sharp eyes of the pale-faced boy,
who had stolen—quick as thought—up to the shop-window, and now stood by
Esther's side as she dropped the letter into the box.

When Esther turned hastily to regain the vehicle, she beheld the lad
retreating with strange speed from the spot.

"What can this mean?" she thought within herself. "Who is it that is
thus watching my movements?"

And, seriously alarmed, she hurried back to the coach, giving orders to
be driven direct to Great Ormond Street.

Away went the vehicle again; and the noise of crowded Holborn prevented
the Jewess from judging by sounds whether the other hackney-coach was
following——for that she was watched, she had no longer any doubt.

Suddenly a suspicion struck her like an icy chill. Could her father have
employed spies to dog her—to mark her movements? Circumstances, on the
one hand, suggested the probability of such an occurrence; while, on the
other, the character of her parent was of a nature repugnant to such a
proceeding. He was stern and severe, but strictly honourable; and Esther
knew that he was not a man likely to adopt underhand measures.

Then wherefore was she watched? and why had the lad crept close up to
her as she put the letter into the box?

The coach had turned up Gray's Inn Lane, which thoroughfare was more
quiet than Holborn; and Esther could hear no sounds of a second vehicle.

Our readers are probably aware that the generality of hackney-coaches
have, or rather _had_ (for they are nearly extinct at the present day) a
little window behind, covered with a sort of flap made of the same
material as the lining.

Esther turned round and raised the flap to assure herself that there was
really no vehicle following the one in which she was. But at the same
instant a face disappeared as if it had suddenly sunk into the earth;
but not before the Jewess had recognised the pale features and dark eyes
of the lad.

A faint cry escaped her lips; and she fell back on the seat, a prey to
vague but serious alarm.

In a few moments she recovered her self-possession, and again
endeavoured to dispel her fears by arguing that no harm could possibly
befall her—that, if any outrage were intended, her screams would
speedily bring hundreds to her rescue—and that after all no real cause
for apprehension might exist.

She arrived without accident in Great Ormond Street; and when she
alighted at her own door, the lad who had terrified her was no longer to
be seen.

Her father had not yet returned; and she was therefore again left to the
companionship of her own thoughts. But when she was seated by the
cheerful fire in the drawing-room, and with the bright lamp burning on
the table, she smiled at those alarms which had ere now oppressed her.

The entire adventure now wore quite another aspect in her imagination.
The old man and the boy were probably thieves who prowled about to
pursue their avocation where they could: she had most likely been
mistaken in the idea that they had entered a hackney-coach in
Southampton Row simultaneously with herself; but they had followed her
vehicle on foot; and when she stepped out to post her letter, the lad
had taken that opportunity of creeping close up to her to pick her
pocket. Having failed by the suddenness with which she had turned round,
he had afterwards got up behind the coach to dog her to the end of her
journey, with the hope of still succeeding in his predatory design; but
when she had looked through the back-window, he had disappeared.

Such was the explanation which she now arranged in her mind for her own
satisfaction. But, then, what could mean the words uttered at the door
of the shop in Southampton Row—"There she is, by heaven!"

Fancy again came to her aid to set this point at rest:—she had most
probably been watched by the old man and the lad before she was aware of
the fact; and they had lost sight of her; but when they passed the shop
her presence there had elicited the ejaculation from the youth.

Such was the manner in which Esther tranquillised herself relative to
the little occurrence that had so much alarmed her:—whether her
conjectures were well-founded, or not, the reader may judge by what we
are about to relate.

No sooner had she posted her letter in Holborn, than Jacob, who had
managed to get sight of its superscription, darted back to the second
hackney-coach which had stopped near the top of Fetter Lane, and leaping
in, said to Old Death, who was inside, "The letter is addressed to '_T.
R., No. 5, Brandon Street, Lock's Fields_.'"

"And that is Tom Rain's place," ejaculated Bones. "Well—do you follow
her—get up behind the coach—and meet me at Bunce's presently."

Away started Jacob; and when he was gone, Old Death alighted from the
vehicle which he had hired in Southampton Row to follow Esther,
dismissed it, and walked boldly into the shop where that young lady had
posted her letter.

A lad was in attendance behind the counter.

"My boy," said Old Death, in as pleasant a tone as he could assume, "I
just this minute dropped a letter into the box; and I remember that I
have made a mistake in a particular circumstance mentioned in its
contents."

"You can't have it back again," replied the boy. "It's against the
rules."

"Well, I know it is," said Old Death coaxingly. "But it's of the
greatest consequence to me to alter a particular part of it; and, if
you'll oblige me, here's half-a-crown for your trouble."

Thus speaking, he displayed the proffered coin.

Now half-a-crown was a great temptation to a lad who only earned
eighteen-pence a week in addition to his food: moreover, the master of
the shop was absent at the moment, and not very likely to return in a
hurry—for the boy knew he was with a party of friends at a neighbouring
public-house:—and thus Old Death's silver argument was effectual.

"Well—I s'pose I must," said the youth. "But don't tell any body about
it, though. What's the address?"

"_T. R., No. 5, Brandon Street, Lock's Fields._"

The boy unlocked the letter-box, selected the particular epistle, and
handed it to Old Death, who threw the half-crown on the counter, and
marched off with the letter.

He could not restrain his curiosity until he reached Seven Dials or any
other place which he was in the habit of frequenting, and accordingly
turned into a public-house in the neighbourhood. There he ordered some
refreshment, seated himself in a corner of the parlour, and carefully
opened the letter in such a way that it might be re-sealed without
exciting a suspicion of having ever been tampered with.

He then read the contents, which ran as follow:—

  "I sit down in anguish of heart to pen a few lines to you—to you
  whom I love so sincerely, but whom I must never see more. My father
  has just made me take a terrible oath to that effect; and so
  determined was his manner—so resolute was he—so stern—so
  severe—(alas! that I should be compelled to say so!)—that I dared
  not refuse to obey his command. And yet you know that I am as
  devotedly attached to you as ever:—all I have suffered—all I have
  undergone on your account, must convince you of my unchanged,
  unchangeable affection. Do not, then, think ill of me on account of
  the oath which my father wrested—tore from me! My God! how my heart
  palpitates, as I write these lines! Oh! If you knew the state of my
  mind you would pity me! I am wretched:—heaven send that you are more
  happy than I! Alas! cannot you take compassion upon me—upon _me_,
  your own tender Esther—and quit the path which you are pursuing? It
  is not too late to do so—it is never too late. All might yet be
  well: my father would forget the past—and we should be re-united.
  Think of this—ponder well upon it—and remember how much happiness
  will be wrecked for ever, if you persist in a course which I tremble
  to reflect upon. To be connected with a highwayman is dreadful!
  Pardon me—forgive me for speaking thus plainly;—but you know how
  sincerely I love you—and if I write that terrible word
  '_highwayman_,' it is merely to fix your thoughts the more seriously
  on that point. What must be the end of this course of life? Public
  infamy—or perhaps a scaffold! Again I say, forgive me for writing
  thus:—I scarcely know what I commit to paper—there are moments when
  my brain reels as I contemplate the subject of my letter.

  "I can write no more. Perhaps I shall find a note from you at the
  post office in Southampton Row: I hope so—and I also hope that I may
  discover in it some cause of satisfaction to myself. Adieu—dearest,
  adieu.

                                                             "ESTHER."

The contents of this letter sadly puzzled Old Death. They were quite
different from what he had expected to find them; but without waiting to
reflect upon their nature, he obtained a piece of sealing-wax from the
waiter, and so cleverly closed the letter again that even a clerk in the
General Post-Office could not have told it had been opened.

He then retraced his way to the shop in Holborn where it was originally
posted, and threw it back into the box.

This being done, he bent his way towards Toby Bunce's house in Earl
Street, Seven Dials.




                             CHAPTER XXIII.
                               OLD DEATH.


When Bones reached the place whither he had bent his steps, he learnt to
his satisfaction that Toby Bunce had been sent out by his wife on some
errand which would keep him at least an hour away. He accordingly
followed Mrs. Bunce into the back room, and explained to her all that
had occurred.

Having stated how he and Jacob had followed Esther in the hackney-coach
from Southampton Row to Holborn, he said—"When Jacob first pointed her
out to me as she was reading a letter in a shop, I felt sure he must be
mistaken; for I could not conceive why she should be up at that part of
the town, since from what Jacob discovered last night, I thought she was
certainly living with Tom Rain in Lock's Fields. However, I determined
to follow her; and when she got down at a shop in Holborn, I told Jacob
to jump out and get another good look at her, if possible. But, instead
of going into the shop, she merely stopped there to post a letter; and
Jacob was quick enough to catch sight of the address. Well, when he came
back to me, and told me what that address was, I desired him to follow
her directly; for I thought that if she was writing to Tom Rain, it was
clear she didn't live with him, and therefore it was as well to find out
where she does live."

"To be sure," said Mrs. Bunce approvingly.

"Then it struck me," continued Old Death, "that if I could only get
sight of the contents of that letter which she had posted to Tom Rain,
it might open some farther clue to the nature of their connexion. And I
did get the letter——"

"Oh! you clever fellow!" interrupted Betsy, shaking her head with mock
gravity. "But what did the letter say?"

"Why, it was a regular sermon," answered Old Death. "It talked about how
much she loved him—all she had done and suffered on his account—and a
lot of gammon of that kind. She told him how her father had made her
take an oath not to see him any more, and how unhappy she was. Then she
begged of him to repent and leave a course of life that is sure to end
at Tuck-up Fair."

"Did she use them words?" demanded Mrs. Bunce.

"No, you fool!" cried Old Death. "She writes quite like a lady, and in a
beautiful hand too! But, after having said all I have told you, she let
him know that she shuddered at the idea of being connected with a
highwayman: and she begged his pardon for calling him so."

"A pleasant letter for Tom to receive!" observed Mrs. Bunce.

"Very. And she drops a hint," continued Old Death, "that if he will give
up his business, there is a chance of her father forgiving Tom for what
is past, and of their being _re-united_—that's the very word."

"Do you think they are married, then?" asked the woman.

"I should say not," replied Bones; "because she talks of being
_connected_ with a highwayman—and that's not a word a wife uses to her
husband. Besides, the whole letter didn't look like one written by a
wife—but rather a mistress. And then it ends by saying that she hopes to
find a letter from him at the post-office in Southampton Row."

"Find a letter—when?" asked Mrs. Bunce.

"Why, to-day—this evening, I suppose," said Old Death. "She had
evidently written _her_ letter _before_ she went to the post-office in
Southampton Row, where she _did_ find one from him—because she was
reading a note when Jacob first twigged her. And it was singular enough
that we were just talking of her at that very identical moment."

"Then the letter you read wasn't an answer to the one she received in
Southampton Row?" said Mrs. Bunce.

"Of course not, stupid!" cried Old Death. "We followed her straight down
to Holborn, and she never stopped or went in any where to write an
answer. The letter I read was already written—written too in the
afternoon, most likely just before she came out to go to Southampton
Row. And another reason that made me anxious to get hold of her letter
to Tom Rain, was that she didn't post it at the office where she
received _his_, but took the trouble to go down to Holborn to put it
into another box."

[Illustration]

"I wonder why she did that?" said Mrs. Bunce.

"Oh! most likely to avoid exciting any suspicion or curiosity at the
office in Southampton Row. Then there's another thing that puzzles
me:—she was with Tom Rain last night—Jacob saw them together, and
followed them home to Lock's Fields; and she is away from him
to-day—writes to him this afternoon—and hopes to find a letter from him
when she goes to Southampton Row this evening. One would think, by this,
that they have been in the habit of corresponding together, and that the
place in Southampton Row is where he directs his letters to her. So it's
pretty clear that they don't live together for good and all. But what
perplexes me most is the sermon that she wrote him. It's plain she stole
the diamonds, from what Jacob overheard Tom say to her when he gave her
the ear-rings last night; and yet she doesn't reproach herself a bit in
the letter to him. She only tries to convert Rainford; and, to read that
letter, one would think she was as innocent of a theft or such-like
thing as a child unborn."

"Oh! I dare say she wrote the letter for some object or another which we
can't see," observed Mrs. Bunce.

"I scarcely think so," returned Bones: "there was so much seriousness
about it."

"But she's a precious deep one, depend on it," said Betsy. "Look how she
got off about the diamonds. And, after all, perhaps her father had been
talking her over; and so, if she wrote to Tom Rain in a serious way, the
humour won't last very long."

"Well—we shall see," exclaimed Old Death. "I should like to secure her
in my interests."

"What did you do with the letter she wrote to Tom Rain?" asked Mrs.
Bunce.

"Put it back into the post," was the reply. "Fancy if Esther and Tom
_did_ get together again, and, on comparing notes, he found that the
letter from her had miscarried, he might suspect a trick somewhere, and
fix foul play on me. No—no: it was more prudent to let the note go,
since I had gathered its contents."

"Well—perhaps it was," said Mrs. Bunce. "One thing is very clear, Ben——"

"What's that, Betsy?"

"Why—that since Esther isn't any longer with Mr. Rainford in the Fields,
it will be much easier to get the little boy away."

"I thought of that just now," said Old Death: then, after a pause, he
added, "And I'll tell you what's to be done. The boy most be got into
our power to-morrow night."

"To-morrow night!" repeated Mrs. Bunce.

"Yes—to-morrow night," returned Bones emphatically. "I'll trump up
something to get Tom out of the way; and me, Toby, and Jacob, will go
over and kidnap the child. If we don't do it quick, the Jewess will be
getting spooney on Tom again and going back to live with him in spite of
her oath to her father; and then we may not find such another chance for
some time to come."

Mrs. Bunce smiled an approval of this scheme, and was about to offer a
comment, when a knock summoned her to the front-door.

She shortly returned to the back-room, followed by Jacob.

"What news?" demanded Old Death.

"I found out where the Jewess lives," was the lad's answer; and he named
the address in Great Ormond Street.

"Good!" exclaimed Bones. "That shows why she has her letters sent to
Southampton Row;—it is close by; and as she's known in the
neighbourhood, she posts her answers at another place. But give Jacob
his supper—and brew me some grog, Betsy."

While Mrs. Bunce was busily employed in executing these orders, another
knock at the front-door was heard. Jacob hastened to answer it, and
returned with a letter directed to "MR. TOBY BUNCE;" but which, having a
peculiar mark placed somewhere amidst the writing, was instantly
discovered by Old Death to be intended for himself.

He accordingly opened it, and read as follows:—

  "Tim put on the tats yesterday and went out a durry-nakin on the
  shallows, gadding the hoof. He buzzed a bloak and a shakester of a
  yack and a skin. His jomen Mutton-Face Sal, with her moll-sack
  queering a raclan, stalled. A cross-cove, who had his regulars,
  tipped the office '_Cop Busy!_' and Tim twigged that a pig was
  marking. So he speeled to the crib, while his jomen shoved her trunk
  too. To-day Tim sent the yack to church and christen; but the
  churchman came to it through poll, as Tim's shaler had slummed on
  him a sprat and an alderman last week. So Tim didn't fight cocum
  enough, and was grabbed. The skin had three finnips and a foont,
  which I've got at the padding-ken, T's 23, where I'll cop them to
  you for edging the gaff. A fly kidden-gonnoff will leave this flim.

                                                        "TWENTY-FIVE."

Old Death having read this singular composition to himself, threw it
into the fire.

He then sate pondering for a few moments upon the course which he should
pursue under the circumstances just made known to him.

And while he is thus engaged in meditation, we will lay before our
readers a translation of the slang document:—

  "Tim dressed himself in rags yesterday, and went out disguised as a
  beggar half-naked and without shoes or stockings. He robbed a
  gentleman and a lady of a watch and a purse. His mistress
  Mutton-Face Sal, with her reticule, and looking like a respectable
  female, was on the look-out close at hand. A confederate-thief, who
  went shares with Tim, suddenly gave the alarm, so that Tim might
  hand him over the plunder; and Tim saw that a person was watching
  him. So he hurried off home, while his woman got off safely also.
  To-day Tim sent the watch to have the works taken out and put in
  another case and to get the maker's name altered; but the
  watch-maker informed against him through spite, because Tim's
  mistress had passed off on him (the watch-maker) a bad sixpence and
  half-crown last week. So Tim wasn't wary enough, and was taken into
  custody. The purse had three five-pound notes and a sovereign in it,
  which I have got at Thompson's lodging-house, No. 23, where I will
  hand them over to you if you will try and get Tim off. A sharp
  boy-thief will leave this letter."

The signature "TWENTY-FIVE" indicated the number attached to the
writer's name in Old Death's private list of those thieves who were
accustomed to do business with him.

"Any thing new?" inquired Mrs. Bunce, handing him a glass of hot
gin-and-water.

"Nothing particular," was the reply. "Only Tim the Snammer[2] got
himself into a scrape. But I shall go and see about it directly."

"Tim isn't on your list—is he?" demanded Mrs. Bunce.

"No: but Josh Pedler—that's Number Twenty-five—has got Tim's money, and
will hand it over to me. So——"

A loud knock at the door interrupted Old Death's observation.

Jacob was sent to answer the summons; and in a few moments Tom Rain
walked jauntily into the room.

"Well, my prince of fences," he exclaimed, addressing Old Death, as he
cast himself unceremoniously into a chair, and stretched out his legs in
a free and independent manner, "any thing new in the wind?"

"Yes—a trifling job—for to-morrow night, Tom," answered Bones. "But
you'll be making your fortune at this rate?" he added, with one of his
hideous chuckles.

"The sooner, the better," cried the highwayman.

"And then you'd be able to retire from business—marry—and settle
yourself comfortably," said Old Death, with apparent indifference of
manner, but in reality watching Rainford's countenance attentively as he
uttered the word "_marry_."

"Oh! as for settling," exclaimed Tom, laughing, "I am not the chap to
bury myself in a cottage in Wales or Devonshire. I don't like that sort
of thing. Business and bustle suit me best."

"But what do you say to marriage, Tom? A good-looking fellow like you
might do something in that line to great advantage," observed Old Death.

"That's my own affair," returned the highwayman hastily.

"By-the-bye, what have you done with the boy that was thrown on your
hands t'other night?" asked Old Death.

"I am taking care of him, to be sure," was the answer. "If I abandon
him, he must go to the workhouse. But what is the little job you were
talking about?"

"A worthy citizen and his wife will pass over Shooter's Hill to-morrow
night, at about eleven o'clock, in a yellow post-chaise," replied Bones,
inventing the tale as he went on. "The cit will have enough in his
pocket-book to make it worth while to ease him of it; and the postboy
will stop when he's ordered to do so. They were to have gone to-night;
but something has happened to put off their journey till to-morrow."

"Good," said Tom. "The business shall be done. Any thing else to
communicate to-night?"

"Nothing," was the answer.

"Won't you stay and take a drop of something warm, Mr. Rainford?" asked
Betsy Bunce, in her most winning way.

"No, thank 'ee," returned Tom. "I must be off. Good night."

And the highwayman took his departure.

When the front-door was closed behind him, Old Death said, with a
chuckle, "Well, he'll be out of the way to-morrow night; and we shall
get hold of the boy. But I shall now just step up to Castle Street, and
see what's going on at twenty-three."

"Shall you come back here to-night?" asked Mrs. Bunce.

"I can't say. It's now nine o'clock; and if I do, it will be by ten.
Jacob, my boy, you needn't wait unless you like."

Old Death then left the house.

-----

Footnote 2:

  Snammer—a thief.




                             CHAPTER XXIV.
                       CASTLE STREET, LONG ACRE.


To the north of Long Acre runs Castle Street—for many years notorious as
a nest of thieves, prostitutes, and juvenile vagabonds of the most
degraded description.

At the period of which we are writing, a person, of the name of
Thompson, owned—and probably still possesses—the lodging-houses numbered
23, 24, and 25 in Castle Street. This individual resided in Mint Street,
Borough, where he had similar houses, in addition to others in
Buckeridge Street, St. Giles's.

The houses in Buckeridge Street would make up one hundred beds; and
those in Castle Street sixty.

At lodging-houses of this description the rooms are filled with low
truckle-beds, each having a straw mattress, two coarse sheets, a
blanket, and a rug. The price of half a bed is threepence; and it need
scarcely be observed that men, women, and children sleep together in
these filthy receptacles without the slightest regard to decency or
modesty. Sometimes, when the lodging-houses are particularly crowded,
three persons will share one bed;—or motives of economy frequently
compel a poor family thus to herd together. It is by no means an
uncommon occurrence for a grown-up girl to sleep with her father and
mother, or with her brothers:—a poor married couple will even share
their bed with a male friend;—and no shame is known!

Who can define where the shades of doubtful honesty and confirmed
roguery meet and blend in these low lodging-houses? The labouring man is
in nightly company with the habitual thief—his wife and his as yet
uncorrupted daughter are forced to associate with the lowest
prostitutes. How long will that wife remain faithful—that daughter
taint-less? The very children who breathe that infected atmosphere soon
become lost, and triumph in their degradation!

The principal frequenters and patrons of these low lodging-houses are
regular customers, and consist of thieves, prostitutes, beggars,
coiners, burglars, and hawkers. The casual lodgers are labouring men and
their families whom poverty compels to sleep in such horrible places.

The hawkers make a great deal of money. They can buy steel-pens for
9_d._ a gross, pocket-books for 3_d._ each, snuff-boxes for 6_d._ each,
and penknives for 4½_d._ each. On every article they can gain one
hundred per cent. Many of these hawkers consider nine or ten shillings
to be only a reasonable, and by no means a good, day's work.

Some of the women who frequent the lodging-houses in Castle Street and
elsewhere, and who have no children of their own, hire infants for 4_d._
or 6_d._ a day, and obtain in the shape of alms at least four or five
shillings a day each. Females of this class care not whether their
husbands or lovers work or remain idle; for they boast that they can
keep them—and keep them well, too. Some of these women knit caps in the
streets; and they make more money than those who merely trust to the
children accompanying them as the motive of charitable persons'
compassion.[3]

In the low lodging-houses of Castle Street, and wherever else they may
be found, the most frightful dissipation as well as the most appalling
immorality prevails. Drunkenness is the presiding genius of these dens.

And how much has STRONG DRINK to answer for?

It is strong drink that helps to fill the gaols—the hulks—the asylums
for the wretched, the diseased, and the insane. It is strong drink that
calls forth so many sighs and such bitter tears—shortens
existence—perpetuates family disease—and fosters maladies of all species
and of all kinds. Strong drink often places the criminal in the
condemned cell, and reduces the beautiful girl to barter her charms for
bread. Strong drink strews the land with old rags and bleaching bones.

Let Temperance and Moderation be the guides of all:—for what are the
results of Intemperance and habitual Drunkenness? Behold them in all the
poor and low neighbourhoods of London! And if you ask, reader, by what
signs you are to recognise them, we will tell you:—by the leaden
eyes—the tottering steps—the shaking limbs—the haggard countenances—the
feverish brows—the parched lips—the dry and furred tongue—the hot and
pestilential breath—and the tremulous voices, of the confirmed votaries
of strong drink. Apoplexy—palsy—delirium tremens—enlarged liver—ossified
heart—impaired digestion—yellow jaundice—cancerous stomach—and
dropsy,—all these attend upon strong drink. And the hideous catalogue of
evils includes, also, broken limbs—fearful accidents and gushing
wounds,—as well as many of those hereditary maladies which are handed
down from father unto son!

In an earlier chapter we ridiculed the phrase of "Merry England." Oh! is
it merry to see so much misery—so much crime—so much oppression—so much
sorrow—so much absence of sympathy? If all this be joyous, then, of a
surety, is England the merriest country, and London the merriest city,
on the face of the earth. If a man can find music in the cries that
issue from our crowded prisons and the wails that flow from our
barbarous workhouses, then may he dance long and heartily to that
melody—for it never ceases. If poverty can excite felicitous sensations
within him, heaven knows he need never be sad. If crime can bring smiles
to his lips, his countenance need never wear a melancholy aspect. And if
he can slake his thirst in the heart-wrung tears of human agony, he need
never step out of his way to look for a fountain or a spring!

In this light, England is indeed merry; for the observer of human
nature, as he walks through the crowded streets of London, is
jostled and hemmed in by all the gaunt and hideous forms
that bear the denominations and wear the characteristics of
Crime—Poverty—Disease—Sorrow—and Despair!

Old Death knocked at the door of No. 23, Castle Street, and was
instantly admitted by a tall, pale, and rather handsome girl, who
exclaimed, "Ah! my fine fellow—I thought you would come."

"Is it you, Mutton-Face?" said Bones, with a grim smile.

"Me—and no one else," answered the girl. "But walk in."

Old Death accepted the invitation, and followed Mutton-Face Sal into a
room where about two dozen persons, male and female, were crowded round
a large fire.

One was a young man, of the name of Quin, and who obtained a handsome
income by means of imposture. He was accustomed to appear in the streets
as a wretched-looking, deplorable old man, bent double with age and
infirmity, supporting himself on a stick, and crawling along in a
painful manner at the slowest possible rate. He used to swallow a dose
of some strong acid every morning to make himself look ghastly pale; and
he succeeded so well in counterfeiting an aspect of the most lamentable
nature, that he seldom returned to Castle Street at night with less than
ten shillings in his pocket. He had now thrown off his disguise, and was
whiling away the time, after a good supper, with a quart of egg-hot.

Next to him sate a young woman, stout, florid, and rather good-looking.
She was in her stays and petticoat, having very quietly taken off her
gown to mend a rent; and she experienced not the slightest shame at thus
exposing all the upper part of her person to the mixed society present.
Neither did they appear to think there was any thing at all remarkable
in her conduct. How, indeed, could it be otherwise?—since she would
presently undress herself entirely in that very room—and before all her
companions, who would do the same—male and female—when the hour arrived
to repair to the beds ranged along the wall. This girl was known as Jane
Cummins, and was the mistress of the impostor Quin.

Farther on was a fellow who was sitting upright enough in his chair
then, but who appeared daily in the streets as a bent cripple. He was
accustomed to go about imitating a cuckoo, by which avocation he made a
good living. He invariably got drunk every night.

Next to this impostor was a little deformity who was tied round the body
to his chair. He had no legs, and was dragged about the streets of a day
in a kind of cart drawn by two beautiful dogs, and having a banner
unfurled behind him. The woman in charge of No. 23 paid him the greatest
attention—put him to bed at night—helped him to rise in the
morning—carried him out to his vehicle—strapped him in—and saw him safe
off on his excursion about the metropolis. He usually returned at four
to his dinner, and did not go out afterwards. His "earnings" were on the
average ten shillings a-day.

A woman of about thirty, dressed in widow's weeds, and far advanced in
the family way, sate next to the little deformity. She had never been
married, but was possessed of five children, who were now playing in one
corner of the room. She was accustomed to take her stand in some public
thoroughfare, with her children drawn up in a row; and this game she had
carried on, at the time of which we are writing, for four years—rather a
long period of widowhood. She disliked fine weather, because the hearts
of the charitable are more easily touched by the spectacle of a
"destitute family" standing in the midst of a pouring rain or on the
snow; and she reckoned that in bad weather she could earn eight or nine
shillings a-day. Every Saturday night she took her station in some poor
neighbourhood—such as Church Street (Bethnal Green), Leather Lane,
Lambeth Marsh, High Street (St. Giles's), or Clare Market; and on those
occasions she often obtained as much as fifteen shillings. But then, as
she very justly observed, Sunday was a day of rest; and so it was indeed
to her—for she was in the habit of getting so awfully drunk every
Saturday night, after her return home to Castle Street, that she was
compelled to lie in bed all the next day until three or four o'clock,
when she rose to a good dinner. She always kept herself and children
remarkably neat and clean—not from any principle, but as a matter of
calculation. Charitable people thought she was a good mother, and a
deserving though distressed woman; and alms poured in upon her. When
questioned by any individual who relieved her, she would reply that "her
husband was a bricklayer who had fallen off a ladder and killed himself
six weeks ago;" or that "he was an honest, hard-working man whose career
was suddenly cut short by his being run over by a gentleman's carriage:"
or some such tale.

Next to her sate a young woman who was wont to take her stand in the
evening, after dusk, close by the entrance to Somerset House. In the
summer she would hold a few flowers in her hand: in the winter, laces
and bobbins; and her invariable cry was "Oh! pray, dear sir"——or "dear
lady," as the case might be——"pray do assist me: I have only this moment
come out of the hospital, and have nowhere to sleep." By these means she
realized her five shillings in three or four hours, and hastened back to
Castle Street to spend them with a worthless fellow—her paramour.

Another individual whom we must mention, was an elderly man, who in his
youth had been apprenticed to a chemist. He obtained his living by
displaying a fearfully ulcerated arm, having himself originally produced
the sores by means of corrosive acids and by the juices of various
plants—such as the ranunculus acris and sceleratus, the sponge-laurel,
euphorbium, arum maculatum, &c. He regularly revived and aggravated the
ulcers every time they began to heal, and his arm was really shocking to
contemplate. He would take his stand before a window, and, raising his
shirt-sleeve, display the ulcers, so that the ladies or gentlemen at the
casement sent him out a sixpence or a shilling as much for the purpose
of getting rid of so loathsome a spectacle as through motives of
charity. It was this man's boast that three hours in a fashionable
street or square would produce him seven or eight shillings.

Another impostor present on this occasion was a man of about forty, who
was a perfect adept in disguising his person, and who feigned a
different malady for every change in his attire and outward appearance.
At one time he was suffering from ophthalmia, produced by the
application of irritants—such as snuff, pepper, tobacco, blue vitriol,
salt, alum, &c. At another he would actually produce blindness for a
time by the application of belladonna, henbane, or sponge-laurel; and
then he was led about by a little boy. Again, he would appear as a
miserable creature afflicted with a horrible jaundice—the yellow colour
being produced by a dye. He was also perfect in the counterfeit of
spasmodic complaints, paralysis, and convulsions. His earnings were
usually considerable: but on one occasion, "when things were very bad,"
he obtained admission into a hospital as an epileptic patient; and so
well did he assume the dreadful attacks at particular intervals, that he
remained in the institution for several weeks.

Lying on one of the beds, in a filthy state of intoxication, was a
miserable object who was accustomed to go about the streets on his hands
and knees, holding iron grapnels. His spine was bent upwards—rounded
like that of a cat in a passion; and his legs were moreover deformed.
His supine position was no counterfeit: he could not walk on his feet
like other human beings. Thus far he certainly was an object of
compassion: but in his character he was a worthless fellow—abusive,
insolent, drunken, and addicted to thieving.

Sitting on another bed, and so far gone in liquor that he could scarcely
hold the pipe he was smoking, sate a man about forty years of age, named
Barlow. He had been a clergyman and was now a begging-letter impostor.
He possessed an excellent address, and was most plausible in his speech
as he was fluent with his pen; but the moment he obtained any money, he
was never sober until it was spent. He had travelled all over
England—knew every nobleman's or gentleman's country seat—and had
carried on an excellent business by means of his begging-letters.[4]

A labouring man, his wife, and daughter were amongst this precious
company. The girl was about fifteen, and tolerably good-looking. The
family had been three days in that lodging-house; and she already
laughed at the obscene jest and applauded the licentious song.

Two or three hawkers—a couple of juvenile thieves—and some young girls,
confirmed prostitutes, made up the amount of the precious company into
whose presence Mutton-Face Sal had conducted Old Death.

Those who were acquainted with him saluted him respectfully; for he was
a great man—a very great man—amongst persons of a particular class.

"Who is that horrible old wretch?" asked the labourer's daughter, in a
whisper to Jane Cummins.

"The richest fence in London," returned the other in the same low tone
of voice.

"And what's a _fence_, Miss?"

"A fence, you fool, is a buyer of stolen goods, as the beaks call it.
That old covey is rolling in riches—shabby and mean as you see him. He
has been at it, they tell me, upwards of thirty years, and has never got
his-self lumbered yet. But the best of it is, no one knows where his
stores are: no one even knows where he lives. He has certain houses of
call; but the cunningest Bow Street Officer can't find out his abode."

"What do you mean by _lumbered_?" asked the girl, whose name was
Matilda.

"Put into quod, to be sure. But how green you are. We must teach you
what's what, I see that. Here—help me to put on my gown—it's mended now.
Thank'ee. Now come with me to the window, and I'll tell you what a happy
kind of life I lead—and how you may do the same if you like."

But even as she uttered these words, Jane Cummins heaved a sigh—although
she strove hard to subdue it.

The girl walked aside with her; and they continued their conversation in
whispers at the window.

"I'm afraid our Tilda'll get no good here," said the labourer, in a low
tone, to his wife, as he glanced uneasily towards his daughter.

"Nonsense, you fool!" returned the woman. "You can't get no work—and we
must starve if we don't do something. Our gal can keep us, if she
will—and she must too. Sooner or later it will come to _that_ with
her—and as well now as ever."

The poor labourer sighed: he would have remained honest, and kept his
wife and daughter so, if he could; but want and houseless wanderings in
the cold street stared him in the face—and he resigned himself to the
bitter destiny that was thus forced upon him and his family!

In the mean time Old Death had taken a seat near the fire, and was deep
in a whispered conversation with Mutton-Face Sal.

"Where's Josh Pedler?" he asked.

"He'll be in shortly," was the answer. "He's only gone out to fetch
something for his supper."

"And so Tim the Snammer is lumbered?" said Old Death.

"Yes: he's in Clerkenwell. But you'll get him off when he goes up again
'afore the beak on Saturday—won't you, old chap?—now, won't you?"

"I don't know—I don't know. He isn't one of my men: he never would give
me a turn. His name doesn't appear against a number on my list."

"But he will give you all his business in future, if you'll get him off
this time—just this time," said the girl coaxingly.

"We shall see what Josh has to tell me—I never promise in a hurry,"
returned Old Death. "Besides, it's not the rule to assist a man that
goes to others to do his business. Tim gets his notes changed at old
Isaacs[5]—or at Milberry's[6]—or at Mrs. Davis's[7]—or at
Rayner's[8]—or——"

And as Old Death enumerated his competitors, telling them off on his
fingers slowly, one after the other, his jealousy arose to such a pitch
that the workings of his countenance became absolutely frightful.

"Now, what's the use of going on like this?" said Sal. "I tell you that
Tim shan't have no more to do with them people, if you'll only get him
off this time. None of them can do it as sure as you; and if you only
tell me it shall be done, why—it's as good as done."

At this moment the door opened, and a tall, rather good-looking, but
rakish and shabbily-dressed man, of about five-and-twenty, made his
appearance.

"Here's Josh!" cried the girl.

The thief and Old Death exchanged greetings; and the latter proposed to
adjourn to a public-house in the neighbourhood to talk over the
business. Thither the two men, accompanied by Mutton-Face Sal,
accordingly repaired; and Bones suffered himself to be persuaded to
receive the three five-pound notes and the sovereign, mentioned in the
flash letter, as the price of his endeavours to procure the discharge of
Tim the Snammer.

The old man then took his departure, and Josh Pedler returned with Sal
to the lodging-house.

-----

Footnote 3:

  A police-serjeant, from whom we have obtained much valuable
  information relative to the poverty, mendicity, immorality, and crime
  in London, one day informed us that he knew of two sisters, both
  single women, who were confined at about the same time, and who took
  it by turns to go out with the children. They passed the babies off as
  twins, and made upon an average seven shillings a day by this
  imposture. The money was spent in riotous living and debauchery, in
  the evening, along with their flash men, who existed in complete
  idleness, living, however, far better than many a poor tradesman. One
  evening, the police-serjeant above alluded to had occasion to visit
  the room which the sisters occupied at one of Thompson's houses in
  Castle Street (a robbery having been committed in the dwelling), and
  he found the two young women and their paramours at supper. On the
  table were a baked shoulder of mutton and potatoes, two quarts of
  porter, and a bottle of gin. One of the sisters is at the present
  moment a prostitute in Fleet Street.

Footnote 4:

  All the characters just depicted are real ones. Some of them are still
  about town.

Footnote 5:

  A notorious fence living in Liquorpond Street.

Footnote 6:

  A flash public-house at the corner of Laurence Lane, St. Giles's.

Footnote 7:

  A fence living in Belson Street.

Footnote 8:

  A stick-maker, and a noted fence, living in Coach and Horses Yard,
  Drury Lane.




                              CHAPTER XXV.
                       MATILDA, THE COUNTRY-GIRL.


In the meantime Jane Cummins had been using all her eloquence for the
purpose of inducing Matilda Briggs, the poor labourer's daughter, to
become as bad as herself.

"You don't know what a pleasant life we lead," she repeated, when she
had drawn the girl aside to the window. "Quin—my man—earns lots of
money—and we know how to spend it. To-night we'd a roast loin of pork
and apple-sauce for supper at a slap-up eating-house: then we'd some
rum-and-water: and then we came home here. Look how Quin's enjoying
himself with that egg-hot. Isn't he a capital fellow to be able to get
so much money—and all so easy too? and don't you think I'm happy to have
nothing to do but to help him spend it?"

Again the young woman struggled fruitlessly to keep down a sigh; for—in
reality—she loathed, she abhorred the life which she was leading.

"And what do you suppose will become of you and your father and mother?"
she continued. "Why—if it wasn't for that good-natured fellow Josh
Pedler you'd have all been turned out last night into the streets. And
when the woman came in just now to collect the three-pences, didn't he
take and pay for you and the old people? And didn't he give you all the
grub you had to-day?"

"Why do you speak so much about _him_?" asked the country-girl.

"Oh! I don't know—only because he seems to have taken a fancy to you,"
returned Jane Cummins. "And I tell you what it is—you may become his
jomen if you like."

"His what?" said Matilda, blushing—for she half understood the meaning
of the word.

"Why—his wife, over the left, if you choose," was the answer. "But what
a fool you are! You're not so innocent as you pretend to be. Come—tell
me—have you ever had a lover?"

"Never," replied the girl.

"Then it's high time you should. The truth is, Josh told me to sound
you," she added in a mysterious manner; "and if you only say the word,
we'll have a wedding here to-night. Josh has got plenty of money at this
moment. He found a purse the day before yesterday——"

"Where?" inquired the country-girl.

"In a gentleman's pocket, at the theatre," returned Jane coolly; "and he
talks of setting up a mint——"

"A mint! what with?" asked Matilda.

"With Queen's metal, to be sure," responded the other; "and I think he's
a very thriving young fellow. You'd be as happy as a princess along with
him;—and wouldn't he come out strong to-night with the lush, if you was
to say _yes_."

"But my father—my mother——" murmured the girl hesitatingly.

"Oh! leave them to me!" said Jane Cummins. "Go and sit down again—I'll
manage the old woman—and she can manage the old man herself."

Matilda returned to her seat; and Quin, who could pretty well guess what
his mistress had been about, handed the country-girl the quart-pot of
egg-flip. She declined to partake of it; but he pressed her hard—and she
drank a few drops.

"Oh! that's nothink—a mere taste!" cried Quin. "Take another sip. Come."

And she did as she was desired.

"Lord bless the girl—she's quite afraid of it!" said Quin. "But you must
and shall have a good draught."

Resistance was vain: Quin held the pewter-pot to her lips, and forced
her to imbibe a considerable quantity.

He then passed the measure to her mother, who did not require any
entreaty to drink; and the labourer himself was not one likely to refuse
good liquor when it was offered to him.

Quin thus got upon very pleasant terms with the poor family; and, making
Briggs sit next to him, he began to chatter away in a familiar style,
not forgetting to hand round the quart-pot at short intervals.

Meantime Jane Cummins had drawn Mrs. Briggs aside, and made certain
representations to her—the result of which was that Matilda should that
very night become the mistress of Josh Pedler. The arrangement was,
however, to be kept quiet until Josh should return, for fear that he
might have altered his mind since he spoke to Jane on the subject in the
morning.

At length Pedler came back, accompanied by Mutton-Face Sal; and, as he
entered the room, he exclaimed, "Well, pals, it's all right! Old Death
has took it in hand—and so Tim is as good as out. I've ordered round a
gallon of gin-punch to make merry in consequence."

This announcement was received with loud cheers.

"Come you here, Josh," cried Jane Cummins: "I want to say a word to
you."

"Well—what is it?" demanded the thief.

"Oh! nothing bad," she replied, with a significant look at her paramour
Quin, who laughed heartily—as if an excellent piece of fun were in
preparation.

Jane then whispered a few words in Josh Pedler's ears: the man did not,
however, wait to hear all she had to say; but, bursting away from her,
caught Matilda Briggs in his arms, and, giving her three or four hearty
smacks with his lips, shouted, "A wedding, pals! a wedding!"

"A wedding!" repeated those who were only now let into the meaning of
all the mysterious whispering that had been going on—first between Jane
and Matilda—then between Jane and Mrs. Briggs—afterwards between Mrs.
Briggs and her husband—and lastly between Jane and Josh Pedler:—"a
wedding!" they cried: "hooray!"

"Yes—a wedding, in right good earnest!" exclaimed Josh. "But where's
that drunken old file Barlow?"

"He's fallen asleep on his bed," observed Mutton-Face Sal.

"Then rouse him—and be damned to him!" cried Pedler.

Sal approached the bed, and speedily awoke the parson, who was at first
mighty wroth at what he considered to be a very great liberty: but when
he was informed that his services were required to perform a matrimonial
ceremony—that he was to have five shillings for the job—and that a
gallon of gin-punch was expected immediately, he uttered a tremendous
oath by way of expressing his joy, and leapt up with as much alacrity as
the fumes of liquor, which still influenced his brain, would permit him
to display.

A circle was then formed, in the midst of which Josh Pedler, Matilda
Briggs, and the begging-letter-impostor parson took their station. One
of the hawkers produced a common brass ring, which he handed to Barlow,
over whose person Quin threw a sheet by way of surplice, while another
individual gave him an obscene book.

The greatest excitement now prevailed amongst the rogues and loose women
present: and even Matilda herself entered into the spirit of the
proceeding—for she was excited with the liquor which Quin had forced
upon her. Her poor father alone experienced a qualm of conscience:—but
he dared not utter a word calculated to betray his scruples or manifest
his regrets—for his wife, of whom he stood in dread, cordially approved
of the arrangement.

The drunken parson now commenced the ceremony; and assuming, as well as
he could, the seriousness of former days, he recited the following slang
chant:—[9]

                   "I, parish prig and bouncing ben,
                   Do here, within this padding-ken,
                   Josh Pedler—if thou wilt agree—
                   Cop that young shaler unto thee.
                   To her a fancy bloak be thou:—
                   Tip mauleys—she's thy jomen now."

Barlow made the bride and bridegroom join hands, and then continued
thus:—

                "When thou art out upon the cross,
                May she be faithful to thy doss.
                If things go rough, and traps are nigh,
                May she upon the nose be fly."

The company then repeated in chorus the last line; after which display
of their vocal powers, the ceremony was continued by the parson in the
following words:—

                "If you should pinch a lob—or plan
                A sneezer, or a randlesman—
                Or work the bulls and couters rum—
                Or go the jump and speel the drum—
                Or turn shop-bouncer at a pinch,—
                Should you do this and get the clinch,
                May she, while thou art lumbered, be
                Still true and faithful, Josh, to thee."

The parson paused for few moments, and concluded with this distich:—

                  "Be witness, all, to what is said:—
                  And with this fawney ye are wed!"

Barlow handed Josh the ring, which the thief placed on the girl's
finger, and then gave her a hearty kiss.

The spectators immediately set up a shout of acclamation; and at that
instant the gin-punch made its appearance.

A scene of debauchery—noise—quarrelling—and ribaldry now followed. The
parson was voted into the chair, which was constituted by the foot of
one of the beds; and the punch went rapidly round in pewter-pots.

The bowl was soon emptied; whereupon Josh Pedler sent to the
public-house and ordered another. The little deformity, without legs,
sang a filthy song: even the man with the curved spine, and who went
about on grapnels, forgot his wonted ill-humour and insolence, and
joined in the mirth.

The woman, who had charge of the house, was summoned; and, for a
consideration of seven shillings and sixpence, she agreed to provide a
separate room for the accommodation of the "happy couple." This amount
was duly paid; and the woman was made drunk into the bargain for her
trouble.

At length some one proposed a dance; to which the parson objected, and
moved "another bowl of punch" as an amendment. Jane Cummins, however,
put an end to the argument by undressing herself, and performing sundry
saltatory evolutions in a complete state of nudity—an example which was
very speedily followed by Mutton-Face Sal, whose grief for the loss of
her paramour, Tim the Snammer, was temporarily drowned in punch. Even
the woman in widow's weeds was about to adopt the same course; but she
was too tipsy to accomplish her purpose, and, on rising from her chair,
fell on one of the beds and into a profound sleep at the same time.

The noise, confusion, and disgusting licentiousness of the scene
increased to an extraordinary degree; but Josh Pedler led Matilda
away—or rather carried her; for the unfortunate girl was now in a
complete state of intoxication.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Revolting as the contemplation of such a scene as that just described
must be to the rightly-constituted mind, it was nevertheless requisite
to introduce it into such a work as the present.

Its details prove how necessary it is to establish in the great
metropolis cheap and well-conducted lodging-houses for the use of poor
but honest families.

This cannot be done by private speculators, because an efficient
management could only be secured by legislative enactment.

The Government, then, should direct its attention to this very important
subject.

A poor man is compelled to quit his native town or village in the
provinces, and comes to London to seek for work. He is accompanied by
his wife and daughter. Penury compels him to fix upon the cheapest
lodging he can find; and a cheap lodging-house cannot be a respectable
one. Its landlord and landlady have neither the time nor the means—even
if they possess the inclination—to discriminate between the various
applicants for admission:—on the contrary, they are well aware that the
worst characters are most likely to prove their best customers. Their
only consideration is to make their establishment answer; and so long as
their lodgers pay for the accommodation they seek, no questions can be
asked.

To such a den, therefore, is the poor man forced to take his wife and
his daughter. The obscene language which falls upon this young girl's
ears—the fact of being compelled to lay aside her garments in the
presence of several males, who unconcernedly undress themselves before
her—the debauchery of the day—the licentiousness of the night,—to all
these elements of ruin is she immediately exposed. A veil drops
suddenly, as it were, from before her eyes; and she finds herself hemmed
in by moral corruption—surrounded by temptation—excited by new
desires—and encouraged to go astray by her companions. How can she leave
that sink of impurity, otherwise than impure? how can she quit that
abode of infamy, otherwise than infamous? Many a high-born lady has
succumbed to the seducer under circumstances less venial,—under
influences admitting a far less amount of extenuation!

Were the Government, with the consent of the Legislature, to establish
lodging-houses for poor but honest persons, an immense benefit would be
conferred upon that class, and the fearful progress of immorality would
receive a check at least in one point. The respectability of such
institutions might be ensured by placing trustworthy married couples at
their head, and applying a system of rules which would enforce regular
hours, exclude ardent spirits, and only permit a moderate quantity of
beer to be brought in for the use of each individual, and likewise
empower magistrates to punish those who might be brought before them
charged with breaking the regulations, or otherwise subverting the
wholesome discipline enjoined.

Thieves, prostitutes, and bad characters would not attempt to obtain
admission to establishments if this description:—no more than a person
enjoying a competency would endeavour to become the inmate of a
workhouse. Scenes of debauchery and unbounded license alone suit
abandoned males and females;—and thus every guarantee would exist for
the respectable management of those institutions which would save the
honest poor from the low lodging-houses of London.[10]

-----

Footnote 9:

  The following is a glossary which will enable the reader to comprehend
  the flash terms used in the thieves' marriage-service:—

    _Parish prig_, clergyman.
    _Bouncing ben_, learned man.
    _Padding-ken_, lodging-house.
    _Cop_, make over.
    _Shaler_, girl—young lady.
    _Fancy bloak_, paramour—fancy man.
    _Tip mauleys_, shake hands.
    _Jomen_, paramour—fancy girl.
    _On the cross_, out thieving.
    _Doss_, bed.
    _Traps_, constables.
    _Upon the nose_, on the watch.
    _Fly_, alert.
    _Pinch a lob_, rob a till.
    _Plan_, steal.
    _Sneezer_, snuff-box.
    _Randlesman_, a silk pocket handkerchief.
    _Work the bulls_, pass bad 5_s._ pieces (a favourite specie with
      coiners in those days).
    _Couters_, sovereigns.
    _Rum_, bad—spurious.
    _Go the jump_, steal into a room through a window.
    _Speel the drum_, run away with stolen property.
    _Shop-bouncer_, shop-lifter.
    _Get the clinch_, be locked up in gaol.
    _Lumbered_, imprisoned.
    _Fawney_, ring.
Footnote 10:

  When Mr. Mills was instructed to draw up his "Report on Prison
  Discipline," he obtained the necessary information and evidence from a
  variety of sources. One of the witnesses whom he examined was
  Inspector Titterton of the Metropolitan Police Force. This intelligent
  officer deposed as follows:—"St Giles's abounds with low
  lodging-houses. The most notorious are kept by Grout. He is a rich
  man, and has elegant private houses at Hampstead, and the lowest sort
  of lodging-houses in every part of London. He generally visits these
  dens daily;—keeps his horse and gig. Price of these houses, as all
  others, threepence or fourpence a night in a room with a score or two
  of other people. Men and women sleep together anyhow. A man and woman
  may have a place screened off, which they call a room, for eightpence
  a night; but they are seldom so delicate. These houses are brothels.
  Grout is the monopolist of low lodging-houses. The St. Giles's
  prostitutes commit many robberies upon drunken countrymen whom they
  entice to those places, and either bully or _hocus_ them. The last is
  to stupify them with opium or laudanum in their drink. Girls club, and
  keep a man between them. Inspector has known instances of girls
  robbing men even of their clothes. In one case the victim had been
  deprived absolutely of his shirt, because it was a good one: this man
  the inspector carried home in a policeman's great coat. At the census
  Grout returned that 140 persons slept in one of his houses in Laurence
  Lane. His ground landlord is Nugee, the great tailor. The
  lodging-houses in St. Giles's are like rabbit-burrows: not an inch of
  ground is lost; and there are stairs and passages, innumerable. While
  Grout is thus the landlord of hundreds and hundreds of thieves,
  vagrants, and prostitutes, he lets his beautiful Hampstead villas to
  genteel and fashionable families."

  We have already shown that Thompson was (and perhaps is still) a
  lodging-house proprietor in a considerable way of business. A person
  named Southgate is also eminent in the same line. He possesses houses
  which make up altogether 309 beds. These houses are as follow:—Nos. 2,
  3, 4, 8, and 9, Charles Street, Long Acre; seven houses on Saffron
  Hill; five in Mitre Court, St. John Street, Clerkenwell; No. 11, New
  Court, Cow Cross, Smithfield; and two in Turnmill Street, Clerkenwell.
  These last are exclusively occupied by Italian boys and their masters.
  A man named Elliott has also lodging-houses in Charles Street: namely,
  Nos. 23, 24, and 45. In Shorts' Gardens, a person called "Lucky Dick"
  has Nos. 8 and 9.

  An officer whom Mr. Mills examined, deposed thus:—"To return to
  lodging-houses, there are cheap ones in all towns; most of them have
  two sorts of kitchens. The labourers and hawkers live in a better
  room, and pay fourpence a night for their bed, halfpenny for coals,
  halfpenny for the use of plates and hot water, and a halfpenny for the
  cooking apparatus. Regular beggars, the low sort of cadger fellows,
  live in the other kitchen, and pay a halfpenny for coals, and have
  nothing found them. The beggars go on very bad at night in the
  lodging-houses. They can make 5_s._ a day in the country by begging,
  let alone what they make by thieving. They never think of work, unless
  they can contrive to carry something in hopes of an opportunity to
  slip off with it."

  And it is in such dens as these that honest poverty must seek shelter
  and a bed!

[Illustration]




                             CHAPTER XXVI.
                            THE LADY'S-MAID.


In the meantime Mr. Frank Curtis had met the buxom Charlotte, according
to appointment, in Conduit Street.

The youthful lady's-maid, who had not numbered quite nineteen years, but
who concealed a warm temperament and a disposition ripe for wanton
mischief, beneath a staid and serious demeanour, when in the presence of
her mistress or of those in whose eyes it was prudent to be looked upon
as "a very prudent and steady young woman,"—the youthful lady's-maid, we
say, walked quietly along the street, and pretended not to notice Mr.
Curtis, who was leaning against a lamp-post, smoking a cigar.

But the light of the lamp fell upon her pretty countenance; and he,
having immediately recognised her, stretched out his hand and caught her
by the shawl, saying, "Well, Miss—do you mean to pretend you didn't see
me?"

"Lor'! you there now!" exclaimed Charlotte, affecting to be quite
surprised at this encounter.

"Just as if you thought I shouldn't come!" cried Frank, laughing. "But
take my arm, my dear; and though this very arm has often supported
duchesses—and marchionesses—and even on one occasion the young and
beautiful queen of the Red-Skin Indians,—yet I don't know that it was
ever more agreeably pressed than by your pretty little fingers."

"How fine you do talk!" said Charlotte, by no means displeased with the
compliment. "But where are you going?"

"Oh! I'll show you, my dear," returned Frank, as he led her along. "And
now tell me—has anything happened in respect to you know what?"

"Yes—a great deal," answered Charlotte. "But here I am walking with a
gentleman whose very name I don't even know! Isn't it odd?"

"Very, my dear. I will, however, soon satisfy you on that head. My name
is _Mr. Curtis_ to the world—but _Frank_ to you; and some day or another
I hope to be Baron Dumplington. But what was it that you had to tell
me?"

"Something about Miss Mordaunt," replied the girl, who firmly believed
the Dumplington story and entertained a proportionate amount of respect
towards the young gentleman who was heir to so honourable and
distinguished a title.

"Come—out with it, my dear," exclaimed Frank. "Business first, and love
afterwards—as my dear lamented friend the Prince of Cochin-China used to
say when we were intimate together in Paris, before he hung himself for
love in his garters."

"Did he, though?" cried the lady's-maid. "How shocking!"

"Shocking enough, my dear. But pray tell me what you have to say about
Miss Mordaunt."

"Why, sir," resumed Charlotte, "this evening when I was dressing her for
dinner, she began to sound me about how I liked my place in Lady
Hatfield's service, and whether I should be glad to better myself. So,
keeping in mind what you had told me to do, I seemed to fall in to all
she asked me, and gave her to understand that I shouldn't object to
better myself. Then she began to simper and smile, and at last let out
plump that she was going to run away with a gentleman—but she didn't say
who—to-morrow night."

"That gentleman, my dear, is an uncle of mine," said Curtis.

"I'll be bound, then, it's the same Sir Christopher Blunt——"

"The very same, my dear. But go on: you speak almost as well as I did
when I was in Parliament—or as my uncle the Earl of Dumplington."

"Do I, though? Well," continued Charlotte, "and so Miss Mordaunt told me
how she couldn't think of travelling alone with the gentleman, and that
she must have a lady's-maid——"

"And you agreed to go with her?" cried Frank.

"I did," answered Charlotte; "and we settled and arranged every thing
quite comfortable."

"Did she tell you where she is to meet my uncle to-morrow night?"
inquired Frank.

"No: but she told me to mind and be ready to leave in the evening at
about seven o'clock," returned Charlotte.

"Well—fortunately I _do_ know where they are to meet—and that's close by
the turnpike at Islington Green," said Frank. "She's to go up in a
hackney-coach, and be there punctual at eight o'clock; and the old chap
is to have the post-chaise and four in readiness. Doesn't he already
fancy himself tearing along the great north road, as if the devil was
after him! And so nice too did he arrange his plans with his Julia, that
there's to be a supper prepared for them at St. Alban's—and off again!
Egad! he's settled it pleasant enough: but I'll be even with him!"

"What do you intend to do?" asked Charlotte.

Curtis did not immediately reply; but, after a few moments'
consideration, he abruptly exclaimed, "Can you trust any female friend
of yours in this business?"

"Well—I don't know—unless it is my own sister Alice, which is a very
nice girl, and will do any thing I tell her," was the reply.

"The very thing!" ejaculated Frank. "Is she out at service?"

"No—she's at home with mother," answered Charlotte.

"And will she just consent to take a short ride in a post-chaise and
four along with you, if I give her a five-pound note?" demanded Frank.

"To be sure she will," returned Charlotte, who, with the quickness of
female perception, began to comprehend Mr. Curtis's design.

"Then I'll tell you how we must contrive it," said Frank. "It's of the
greatest consequence to me, my dear, to prevent this marriage: and if I
can only expose my stupid old uncle, I shall fairly laugh him out of it.
Now, don't you think you could manage to pass yourself off as his Julia,
and get your sister to play the part of yourself, as far as St. Alban's?
and I would be there with three or four friends of mine—all jolly
dogs—ready to receive Sir Christopher and you girls. You might cover
your face well with a thick veil; and as he will be sure to hurry you
into the post-chaise the moment you get down from the hackney-coach just
beyond the turnpike on the Green, you needn't speak a word. Then you can
pretend to be so overcome with fear and anxiety——"

"Oh! leave all that to me!" exclaimed Charlotte, who relished the joke
amazingly. "But what shall I do about my place at Lady Hatfield's?"
"Deuce take your place, my dear!" cried Frank. "I'll secure beautiful
lodgings for you in some nice, quiet, retired street at the West End,
and you shall be as happy as the day's long. We'll have such fun
together—and I'll take you to plays and all kinds of amusements. Lord
bless you! I think no more of a cool thousand or two than I should of
blowing out a chap's brains if he was to insult you."

"Oh! dear me, don't talk so horrid!" exclaimed Charlotte, laughing. "And
you really will do all you say—if I help you in this business?"

"Yes—and much more," returned Frank. "And now the only thing to manage,
is to prevent Miss Mordaunt keeping the appointment by herself. Oh! I
have it!" he exclaimed, after a minute's reflection. "I can imitate my
uncle's handwriting to a _t_. He writes just as if he had a skewer
instead of a pen—and so do I, for that matter. So I'll just tip Miss
Julia a note to-morrow afternoon about four, as if it came from Sir
Christopher; and I'll tell her in it that the elopement must be
postponed until the next night. Egad! this is a stroke of policy that
beats hollow any thing my cousin the Duke of Dumplington ever did."

"I thought he was your uncle, sir?" remarked Charlotte.

"I meant my uncle, love," replied Frank: "but it's all the same. The
Marquis of Dumplington is my relation—and that's enough. And now, my
sweet creature, that we have settled all this business—suppose we
adjourn to a nice quiet place that I know——"

"But I must see my sister to-night and tell her all that there is to be
done," interrupted Charlotte.

The fact is that the pretty lady's-maid had kept the appointment given
her by Frank Curtis, with the full intention of abandoning her person to
him; for she was alike wanton in her passions and mercenary in her
disposition; and the five guineas which he had given her in the morning
had stimulated her with the desire of making farther inroads upon his
purse. Nay—she had even hoped that he would fulfil the sort of promise
he had given her at their previous interview, and, in plain terms,
establish her as his mistress in a comfortable manner. But the intrigue
just concocted for the purpose of defeating the matrimonial design of
Miss Mordaunt and Sir Christopher Blunt, had engendered new ideas in the
breast of the lady's-maid; and she resolved that her intimacy with Mr.
Curtis should progress no farther for the present.

The young man, who at this moment cared much more for the success of his
scheme against his uncle than for the attractions of Miss Charlotte
Styles, willingly allowed her to repair at once to the abode of her
mother for the purpose of tutoring Alice how to play the part which that
younger sister was to enact in the great drama planned by Mr. Curtis.

Charlotte accordingly separated from Frank, with a promise to write to
him if any thing should go wrong; but with an understanding, on the
other hand, that her silence was to be construed by him into a proof
that all was progressing favourably to his views.




                             CHAPTER XXVII.
                LONDON ON A RAINY EVENING.—A SCENE IN A
                              POST-CHAISE.


London has a strange appearance on those evenings—so peculiar to our
climate—when a cold, drizzling, mist-like rain is falling. The lustre of
the gaslights in the shops is seen dimly, as if through a gauze; and the
lamps in the streets have an air as though they struggled to preserve
themselves from total extinction. Clogs and pattens create a confused
rattling on the pavement; and to a bird's-eye view, such crowded
thoroughfares as Cheapside, Fleet Street, the Strand, and Holborn, must
appear to have their _trottoirs_ arched with umbrellas.

Then aristocracy seems to urge the horses of its carriage more quickly
on, as it whisks to the club, the Parliament, or the dinner-party:—the
member of the middle class buttons his taglioni or his great-coat over
his chest;—the individual of a humbler sphere tries to make his scanty
tweed cover as much of his person as it will;—and poverty wraps its rags
around its shaking limbs, apparently forgetful that in drawing them over
one place they leave another bare.

In the entrances of courts and covered alleys and in deep doorways the
"daughters of pleasure" (oh! the frightful misnomer!) collect and huddle
together in their flaunting attire, the pattering of the rain rendering
their poor thin shoes as pulpy as brown paper, and splashing over their
stockings—and thus aiding ardent spirits and nights of dissipation to
plant the seeds of consumption more deeply in their constitutions.

The drivers of cabs and omnibuses thrust their heads as far into their
hats—or else push their hats as far down on their heads—as possible;
and, shrugging up their shoulders, sit with rounded backs and faces bent
downward, on their vehicles;—while the conductors or omnibus-cads, in
their oil-skin coats, seem to find consolation for the unpleasantness of
the weather in the fact that they can speedily fill their vehicles
without the usual exercise of the lungs or gymnastic movements of the
arm.

And, on a rainy evening such as we are attempting to describe, what
business—what bustle prevail in front of the Angel Inn at Islington!
Omnibus after omnibus comes up, from every direction, discharging and
receiving their animated freight with wonderful rapidity. The red-nosed
man at the booking-office seems to have something better to do than
merely lounge at the threshold, with his right shoulder leaning against
the door-post off which it has worn the paint in one particular spot:
for inquiries now multiply thickly upon him. Indeed, we are afraid that
that last share of "a quartern and two outs" which he took with the
Elephant and Castle six o'clock cad, has somewhat obfuscated his ideas:
for he thrusts an elderly lady with a bandbox into a Chelsea, although
she particularly requested to be placed in a Bank omnibus; and he has
sent that tall lady with her three children and a baby over to
Kennington, in spite of her thrice repeated anxiety to repair to Sloane
Square.

What a paddling and stamping of feet, and pattering of clogs, and
collision of umbrellas there are in every direction,—up the New Road,
and down the City Road,—along St. John Street and Goswell Street
Road,—and also up towards the Green! The most addle-pated writer may
find some food for his pen, if he only take his stand at the Angel
door—with a cigar in his mouth, too, if he like—on a rainy evening.

Does he wish to see how a party of pleasure may be spoiled by a change
in the weather? Let him study that little procession of a family who
have passed the day at Copenhagen House, and are now returning home,
wet—cold—uncomfortable—and sulky: the husband dragging the chaise, in
which two children are squalling—a lubberly boy of eight or nine pushing
behind—and the wife, with a baby on one arm, and holding up her gown
with the left hand, paddling miserably through the rain, and venting her
ill-humour on her husband by declaring that "it was all his fault—she
knew how it would be—she had begged and prayed of him to come home an
hour before—but he _would_ stay to have that other glass of
gin-and-water!"

If our moralist, whom we station at the door of the Angel, be an admirer
of pretty feet and ankles, he may now gratify his taste in that respect;
for, of a surety, those who have good ones raise their dresses above the
swell of the leg. Ah! ladies—it is really too bad of you:—we almost
suspect that you care little for the rain, since it enables you to
display those attractions!

The policeman, with his oil-skin cape, emerges from the public-house
close by, drawing the back of his hand across his lips, just for all the
world as if he had been taking "something short" to keep the cold
out:—and very likely he has, too—for we are sure that the most rigid
disciplinarian of an inspector or serjeant would not quarrel with him
for so doing on such an unpleasant evening. The apple-stall woman puts
up an umbrella, and maintains her seat on the low basket turned bottom
upwards; for she dares not absent herself from her post, for fear of the
hungry urchins that are prowling about.

Within the door-way of the Angel a knot of young gentlemen, in
pea-coats, and with sticks in their hands, are smoking cigars. They are
not waiting for the omnibuses, but are merely collected there because
the bustle of the scene amuses them, and they like to "look at the
gals." Listen a moment to their conversation:—they are talking about
some favourite actress at an adjacent theatre—and, to hear their astute
observations, one would think that they must at least be the
dramatic-critics of the newspapers assembled there. Or else, perhaps,
their discourse turns on politics; and, then, one would be apt to
imagine that they were Under-Secretaries of State in disguise, so
profound are their remarks! They call the Minister of the day by his
surname without any titular adjunct; and one of them, no doubt wiser
than the rest, shakes his head solemnly, and very kindly prophesies the
said Minister's approaching downfall. Then the conversation flies off at
a tangent to some less important subject; and they most probably proceed
to comment upon the "excellent lark" they had the other night at
such-and-such a place. Presently one of them proposes a "go of whiskey"
each; and they accordingly adjourn to the public room of the Angel,
where, what with the goes of whiskey and the going of their tongues,
they create so much noise that the old gentleman at the next table
flings down the last Sunday's paper in despair, before he has read
through the third murder.

Well, reader, it was on such a rainy evening as this that two grand
events in our history were to take place:—we mean the affair of Sir
Christopher Blunt on the one hand, and the project of Old Death to
kidnap Charley Watts on the other.

It is our intention, however, to proceed with the former little business
in this chapter.

At a quarter to eight o'clock a post-chaise and four passed through the
turnpike at Islington, and drew up in the lower road, alongside the
enclosure of the Green.

The right-hand window was then lowered; and a head, enveloped in a fur
travelling-cap, with lappets over the ears and tying under the chin, was
protruded forth.

This head—which belonged to Sir Christopher Blunt—looked anxiously up
and down the thoroughfare, and was then withdrawn again.

But the worthy knight's patience was not tested to any great extent; for
in a few minutes after his arrival at the appointed spot, and before the
clock had struck eight, a hackney-coach rattled up to the place where
the chaise was waiting.

Sir Christopher threw open the door of the chaise, kicked down the
steps, and leaped out with the agility of a small elephant; and in a few
moments he very gallantly handed two females, well muffled up in cloaks,
boas, and veils, from the hackney-coach.

"Dearest Julia!" he murmured to the taller of the two, as he assisted
her to ascend into the post-chaise.

An expressive squeeze of the hand was the reply to this affectionate
apostrophe on the part of the knight.

The shorter female, whom Sir Christopher concluded to be his fair one's
attendant,—inasmuch as Miss Mordaunt had informed him by note in the
morning that she had secured a faithful maid to accompany her,—was also
handed into the post-chaise: the knight followed—and the vehicle hurried
away like wildfire.

Sir Christopher and the female whom he believed to be Miss Mordaunt,
sate on the back seat, and the other young lady occupied the seat facing
them.

For some time there was a dead silence inside the chaise; but at the
expiration of about ten minutes, Sir Christopher began to fidget like a
gentleman at a public dinner, who, though "unaccustomed to public
speaking," nevertheless experiences a nervous anxiety to address the
audience.

"My dear Julia—ahem!" began the knight: "I hope you—you don't feel cold,
dear?"

The female thus addressed threw her arms round Sir Christopher's neck,
and clasped him so fondly that, what with the tightness of the embrace
and the contact of the fur in which she was enveloped, he might have
been pardoned had he fancied for a moment that he was being hugged by a
bear.

"Oh! dearest Julia—how happy I am!" exclaimed Sir Christopher, nearly
suffocated by this display of fondness. "And you, Julia—are you happy,
my love?"

"Quite—too happy!" murmured his companion.

"And yet—methinks your voice sounds strange, Julia," said the knight.
"What—what _is_ the matter with you?"

"Only this, Sir Christopher—that I am not Miss Mordaunt——"

"Not Miss Mordaunt!" ejaculated the knight, preparing to throw down the
window and order the postillions to stop.

"No—not Miss Mordaunt," was the answer: "but one who loves you as
well—or better—and is, I flatter myself, six times as good-looking."

"Then who are you, in the name of heaven?" cried the knight, so
completely bewildered that he knew not how to act.

Charlotte—for it was she—threw back her veil, and, by the light of the
shops which they were just passing in the outskirts, Sir Christopher
recognised Lady Hatfield's dependant, whom he had seen on two or three
occasions when he had called on Miss Mordaunt in Piccadilly.

"And who is your companion?" he demanded hastily.

"My sister Alice—at your service," replied Charlotte. "But listen to me
for one moment, Sir Christopher!"

"Well—for one moment, then," said the knight, so strangely perplexed and
annoyed that he could take no decisive step.

"Miss Mordaunt never loved you, Sir Christopher," continued the wily
Charlotte.

"Never loved me! Then why did she tell me so?"

"Only to laugh at you. It was all planned between her and your nephew
Mr. Frank Curtis——"

"The devil!" ejaculated the knight. "Go on."

"They determined to make themselves merry at your expense, and yourself
ridiculous at the same time."

"By heaven! I will be revenged!" cried the hero of this pleasant
adventure, slapping his thigh emphatically with his open palm.

"They accordingly hired me and my sister to personate Miss Mordaunt and
a lady's-maid," proceeded Charlotte; "and we were to carry on the deceit
till we got to St. Alban's, where Mr. Frank Curtis and a party of his
friends are already waiting to receive you."

"The villain!" shouted Sir Christopher, completely deceived by this
plausible tale.

"But I always admired you, sir," continued Charlotte; "and I was
resolved not to be made a party to carry out the trick to the end. I
should have written to you—or called to explain it: but I feared you
might not believe me;—and so I thought it best to let matters go as far
as they have gone now, just to convince you that what I say is perfectly
true."

"Oh! I believe it all:—It is too clear—too apparent!" exclaimed the
knight. "That scoundrel Frank—I'll discard him—I'll stop his
allowance—I'll never speak to him again! To get a party of friends to
meet us at St. Alban's—eh? Just where I'd sent word to have a good
supper in readiness!"

"Miss Mordaunt told him all that, sir," observed Charlotte, who had kept
one of her arms round the knight's neck, and had gradually approached
her countenance so closely to his that her breath now fanned his cheek.

"Yes—I understand it all!" cried Sir Christopher. "I have been grossly
deceived—vilely treated—basely served! But I am not the man to put up
with it. At the same time, Miss," he added, in a softening tone, "you
are a very good girl to have saved me from cutting so ridiculous a
figure at St. Alban's!"

"I have only done my duty, sir," murmured Charlotte, with a profound
sigh; and—of course by accident—her cheek touched that of the knight.

"A good girl—a very good girl!" repeated Sir Christopher: "as good as
you are pretty—for you _are_ pretty—and I've often remarked it."

The arm thrown around Sir Christopher's neck pressed him gently.

"And I really do not know how to reward you sufficiently, my dear girl,"
he added, new ideas entering his mind.

Again the arm pressed him tenderly.

Sir Christopher could resist the exciting contiguity no longer; and he
fairly kissed the cheek that was so close to his lips.

Charlotte sighed again, but did not withdraw her face.

"Really this is very ridiculous!" exclaimed the knight. "Here we are,
galloping along like lightning—and without any particular object that I
know of. Upon my word, I have a great mind—a very great mind to revenge
myself on both Miss Mordaunt and Master Frank at one and the same time!"

"In what way, Sir Christopher!" asked Charlotte, in a languidly
murmuring tone.

"By marrying _you_, my dear," was the emphatic response.

"Oh! Sir Christopher—is it possible—such happiness!" sighed Charlotte,
again embracing him in the most tender manner.

"It is so possible, my dear," answered the knight, "that if you consent
to have me, the horses' heads need not be turned back again towards
London."

"How can I refuse you, dear Sir Christopher?" exclaimed Charlotte;—"I,
who always thought what a fine-looking—handsome—kind—genteel—fashionable
man you was from the first time I ever saw you!"

"I'm sure I always heard sister speak in the highest terms of you, sir,"
said Alice, now taking up her cue.

"Well, then, my dear—what is to hinder us from being happy?" cried Sir
Christopher.

With these words, he pulled down the window, ordered the postillions to
stop, and gave them directions to change their route in such a manner as
to avoid St. Alban's.

The vehicle then whisked along with renewed speed; and while Sir
Christopher felt wonderfully elated at the idea of punishing his nephew
and avenging himself on Miss Mordaunt by showing her that she was not
the only female in the world to whom he was compelled to address
himself,—Charlotte, on the other hand, rejoiced at the success of a
scheme which had been suggested by the part she was originally engaged
to play in this pleasant drama, and which, as the reader will now
perceive, was the motive that prevented her from extending her intimacy
with Mr. Frank Curtis on the previous evening.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII.
                 TOM RAIN'S LODGINGS IN LOCK'S FIELDS.


Nearly opposite to the house where Tom Rain lived, in Brandon Street,
Lock's Fields, there was a boozing-ken, well known to Old Death; and
shortly after nine o'clock on the same evening which marked the events
related in the preceding chapter, that cunning fence, accompanied by
Toby Bunce and the lad Jacob, were introduced by the landlord into a
front room on the first-floor of the said flash establishment.

Jacob was ordered to station himself at the window and watch for Tom
Rain to take his departure on the expedition devised for him by Old
Death; while Bones himself and his acolyte Toby seated themselves
opposite a cheerful fire, to discuss hot gin-and-water until the hour
should arrive for putting into execution the scheme that had brought
them thither.

Although the rain was falling with a mist-like density, and no
gas-company had been enterprising enough to lay down pipes in such a
neighbourhood as Lock's Fields,—so that there were neither stars nor
lamps to light the street,—still the eagle-eyes of Jacob could
distinguish sufficient of the scene without, to quiet any fear lest the
movements of Tom Rain should escape him. Old Death moreover stimulated
his energies by means of a sip of hot grog; and the lad remained as
motionless at the window and as earnestly intent on his object as a cat
watching near the hole into which a mouse has escaped.

"Well," said Old Death, as he sipped his liquor complacently, "I suppose
we shall have no difficulty in managing this little job by-and-by? Jacob
watched all day long in Great Ormond Street, until we joined him to come
over here; and the Jewess never stirred out once—did she, Jacob?"

"No—not once," was the answer.

"But you knew that she was at home?"

"Yes: because I saw her at the window for a moment, every now and then,"
replied the lad, speaking without averting his eyes from the street.

"Good!" exclaimed Old Death. "It is not at all likely that she has come
over to Tom's lodgings this evening, or that she will come—'specially
after the long sermon she wrote——"

Bones checked himself; for he was not in the habit of being
communicative with Toby Bunce; and Toby, on his side, never sought to
pry into the motives or designs of the old fence by whom he was made so
complete a tool.

"Who is there in the house besides Mr. Rainford and the boy?" asked
Toby, after a pause.

"Only the old widow woman that keeps it," responded Mr. Benjamin Bones.

"There!" cried Jacob, suddenly: "the door opens—and Mr. Rainford comes
out! He's gone."

"All right!" said Old Death. "I suppose he's going for his horse,
wherever he keeps it."

"I could see by the light in the passage, when the door was opened, that
he had his white coat on and his great riding-whip in his hand,"
remarked Jacob. "It was a woman that held the candle—because I could
just catch a glimpse of her shadow, and that's all."

"You don't think it was the Jewess?" asked Bones.

"I couldn't say, because the shadow wasn't plain enough," returned
Jacob. "But it's hardly probable that she could have got over here
before us, even if she was coming to Mr. Rainford's lodgings to-night."

"Well said, Jacob," observed Old Death. "You're getting a knowing
lad—you are; and now you shall have a glass of grog to yourself."

"What! a _whole_ glass?" ejaculated Toby Bunce, in astonishment at this
unwonted liberality on the part of Old Death.

"Yes—a whole glass—a sixpenny glass," responded Bones; and, having
summoned the landlord, he gave the requisite order.

The liquor was brought for Jacob's express behoof; and Old Death drew
forth the money to pay for it. But, as he did so, a paper with writing
upon it fell upon the floor, unperceived by any one save Jacob.

The lad instantly drew a chair near the fire, and as he seated himself,
placed his foot upon the paper, which, being somewhat dingy in hue, he
took to be a bank-note.

The landlord withdrew; and the conversation was resumed between Old
Death and Toby Bunce.

"I hope Betsy will have something nice for supper when we get back
again," remarked the latter.

"She's sure to do that," replied Old Death. "You ought to be very fond
of your wife, Toby—for she's very fond of you."

"D'ye think she is, Mr. Bones?" exclaimed Bunce.

"I'm sure of it. Doesn't she take great care of you?"

"Rather too much," was the reply, which came from the bottom of Toby's
heart: then, perceiving that he had uttered something which seemed to
imply that he had dared to form an opinion for himself, he hastened to
add, "Not but what it's very kind of her to keep the money—and my watch
too—and every thing else in her own care, because I know I'm an old
fool——"

"No—you're not a fool, Toby," interrupted Bones; "but you want looking
after. Ah! it was a blessed day for you when I recommended you to marry
that virtuous—well-conducted—pattern-woman, as one may say, who is now
your wife. I had no interest but your good—and hers——"

"I'm well aware of that, Mr. Bones," cried Toby: "and you've been an
excellent friend to us. I'm sure Betsy respects you as if you was her——"
Toby was about to say "father," but he remembered that Old Death did not
like to be reminded of his age, and so he substituted "brother."

"Well—well," said Bones: "I've no doubt of what you tell me; and so long
as you're happy together, that's every thing."

Toby smothered a sigh with a deep draught of gin-and-water;—Old Death
poked the fire; and Jacob availed himself of the opportunity to stoop
down and pick up the paper, which he dexterously conveyed to his pocket,
unperceived by either of his companions. But a sudden disappointment
seized upon him—for he could feel that it was too stiff for a bank-note,
and was moreover folded like a letter.

The time passed away; and at length Old Death, after consulting his
watch, declared it to be close upon eleven o'clock.

There were no lights visible in the house opposite; and it was therefore
determined to commence operations without farther delay.

"Before we leave here," said Old Death, "remember what you are to do.
Jacob and you, Toby, will put on your masks, rush in, shut the door, and
make the old widow secure. Then you, Jacob, will come out and fetch me.
It won't do for the woman to see me at all, because I'm so tall that if
she described me to Tom Rain when he comes back, he would know who it
was directly; but as there's nothing particular about either of you, he
can't make you out from description."

"We'll take care, Mr. Bunce, how the thing is managed," said Toby.

The trio then quitted the public-house; and, while Toby and Jacob
crossed to the other side of the street, Old Death walked a little way
on.

The coast was quite clear, and a profound silence reigned throughout the
neighbourhood.

Toby Bunce and the lad stopped at the door of the widow's house, slipped
on their black masks, and knocked. In a few moments the door was opened
by the widow herself. Quick as lightning, the candle was knocked from
her hand, and the scream that half-burst from her lips was arrested by a
large plaster which Toby instantaneously clapped upon her mouth. The
poor woman fainted through excess of terror, and was borne into the
nearest room, where Jacob hastened to strike a light.

Having succeeded thus far, Toby remained in charge of the landlady,
while Jacob hastened to fetch Old Death.

In a few moments the lad returned with that individual; and the
front-door was again carefully closed.

The widow continued in a swoon; and Toby did not give himself any
trouble to recover her.

"Do you remain here," said Old Death, addressing himself to his myrmidon
Bunce; "and if the woman revives and attempts to struggle or any
nonsense of that kind, give her a knock on the head just to quiet
her—but no more."

"All right," returned Toby, rejoiced to find that he had only a female
to deal with.

Old Death then took the light, and, followed by Jacob, cautiously
ascended the stairs.

They entered the front-room on the first-floor. It was a parlour, very
neatly furnished: but no one was there.

"The boy must be in the back chamber," murmured Old Death; and thither
they proceeded.

Having opened the door as noiselessly as possible, they advanced slowly
into the room; but scarcely had the candle shed its light upon the bed,
when they beheld the boy—the object of their enterprise—cradled on the
bare and beautifully modelled arm of a female also wrapped in slumber,
and whose coal-black hair spread itself over the white pillow, and
partially concealed her glowing bust.

"The Jewess!" whispered Jacob, in a rapid, concentrated tone.

Old Death instantly shaded the light with his hand, and retreated from
the room, followed by the lad.

But at that moment a loud knock at the front-door was heard; and
simultaneously a piercing shriek burst from the apartment below, where
Toby Bunce had been left in charge of the landlady.

Old Death muttered a terrible curse, extinguished the light, and
hastened down stairs as noiselessly as possible—Jacob following with
equal caution.

"The back way," murmured Old Death: "but first go and help Toby, who is
in some trouble or another with the landlady."

Jacob darted into the front-room; and as it was quite dark, he stumbled
over a chair.

The struggle between Toby and the landlady, who had succeeded in getting
off the plaster, was now renewed; and, releasing her throat from the
suffocating grasp which her assailant had upon it, she screamed for help
a second time.

The knocking at the front-door was redoubled; and in a few moments a
light gleamed from the head of the stairs.

"Perdition!" murmured old Death: "it is the Jewess!"

Then, rushing into the front room, he exclaimed, "Come off this moment!"
and he was about to beat a retreat by the back way, when the house-door
was forced in with a vigorous push.

"What the devil is doing here?" cried the well-known voice of Tom Rain,
as he banged the door behind him and drew the bolt. "Who was screaming?
What——"

"Oh! Tom—is that you?" exclaimed a melodious, though excited voice on
the stairs; "there are thieves—murderers in the house!"

And the half-naked lady, with her coal-black hair floating around her
shoulders and over her bosom, suddenly appeared at the turning of the
narrow staircase, holding a candle.

The light illumed the small passage below, and showed Tom Rain, standing
with his back against the front-door, and with a pistol in each hand.

A third scream burst from the parlour.

Rainford rushed in; and, encountering Toby and Jacob, dragged them—or
rather hurled them, as if they were two children in his grasp, into the
passage.

There the light revealed to him their countenances—for their masks had
been torn away in the struggle with the landlady; and Rainford was for a
few moments so astounded at the recognition of Old Death's agents or
confederates, that he was unable to utter a word.

"The villains!—the murderers!—the assassins!" cried the landlady,
rushing forward, with her hair all in disorder, her garments torn to
rags, and the blood streaming from her nose. "Shall I go and fetch a
constable, Mr. Rainford?"

"No, I thank'ee," returned Tom: "leave me to manage these scoundrels.
Here, my love," he continued, addressing himself to the Jewess, who had
remained half-way up the stairs, "give me that light, and do you retire
to your room. I must speak to these rascals in private. My good woman,"
he added, turning once more to the landlady, "have the kindness to go up
stairs and keep my wife company; and fear nothing—now that I am here."

The two women hastened to obey these injunctions; and Rainford, provided
with the candle, made an imperative sign for Toby Bunce and Jacob to
precede him into the room from which he had dragged them a few minutes
previously.

"Answer me directly," said Tom, in a stern—resolute manner, as he closed
the door behind him, and deliberately drew forth the pistols which he
had thrust into the pockets of his white great-coat when he first
entered the parlour to rescue the landlady,—"answer me directly—either
one of you, I care not which:—what brought you here?"

"Jacob knows best, Mr. Rainford," replied Bunce, eyeing the pistols
askance.

"No—I don't," said the lad, in a sulky tone.

"You are game to your employer, I have no doubt, Jacob," ejaculated
Rainford. "And now, Toby Bunce, answer for yourself—or, by God! I'll
shoot you through the head! In short, what brought you here?"

At this moment there was a low knock at the room-door, against which Tom
Rain was leaning.

"Who's there?" demanded the highwayman.

"Me," replied the sepulchral, hollow voice of Old Death.

"Ah! the plot thickens," said Tom; and, opening the door, he gave
admittance to Mr. Benjamin Bones.

"It's all a mistake, Tom—it's the wrong house!" exclaimed Old Death.
"You don't know how annoyed I am—you don't indeed!"

"Well—I confess I do not," said the highwayman coolly; "and it will take
you a long time to persuade me that you are speaking the truth. If it
was the wrong house, why didn't these people of yours tell me so when I
first questioned them?"

"Because I saw you would not believe me," cried Jacob hastily.

"And I was so flurried by them barkers," added Toby, pointing to the
pistols.

"I'm not such a fool as you take me to be," observed Tom Rain. "Without
being able to fathom your intentions, I can smell treachery as easy as I
could gunpowder. How did you find out that I lived here? You must have
had me dogged and watched, Old Death. And perhaps the very job you sent
me after to-night, was a mere subterfuge to get me out of the way?
Fortunately I did not wait for the yellow chaise, because I picked up
something better the moment I reached Blackheath; and I thought I had
done quite enough for one evening's work—so I returned without delay.
Lucky it was that I did so. But am I to have an explanation of this
affair?—or do you mean us to break with each other for good and all?"

"What can I say—what can I do to prove to you that this is all a
mistake?" cried Old Death, sadly perplexed between the fear of complete
detection and the dread of losing the valuable services of the
highwayman.

"I will tell you," answered Tom, after a few moments' consideration.
"Let these two followers of yours go their ways—and you and me will have
a little discourse in private."

A sudden misgiving—a horrible suspicion flashed to the mind of Old
Death. Could Rainford mean to murder him?

"Why do you hesitate?" demanded the highwayman, penetrating his
thoughts. "Do you suppose for an instant that I intend you any harm?
Why, you miserable old wretch," he added, with a proud contempt which
rendered him strikingly handsome for the moment, "I would sooner blow
out my own brains than defile my hands by laying them violently on such
a piece of withered carrion as you are—unless you give me ample cause."

Old Death's lips quivered with rage; but, subduing his emotions as well
as he was able, he made a sign for Toby Bunce and Jacob to depart.

This hint was obeyed; and in a few moments Bones was alone in the room
with the highwayman.

"What is it you require of me?" asked the old man, in a tremulous
voice—for there was something in Rainford's tone and gesture which
alarmed him.

"I will explain myself to you," said Tom. "When we first knew each
other, you boasted that all your transactions were conducted with so
much caution, that none with whom you had dealings even knew where you
lived. Was it not so?"

"Very likely—very likely," returned Old Death. "But what of that?"

"Simply that as it suited you to keep your place of abode secret
from me, so did I wish that my residence should remain unknown to
you," answered Rainford, "Now, mark me, Mr. Bones—or whatever the
devil your name may be:—you shall have no advantage over me.
Hitherto our compact has been fairly kept; but at length I find you
practising falsely towards me. You need not interrupt me with vows
and protestations—because I shall not believe you. But I tell you
what you will do—and this night, too."

"What?" groaned Old Death.

"You will place us on even ground—you will give me the same advantage
that you have gained over me: in a word, you will take me straight to
the place where you live, and you will show me your stores where you
keep all the property you receive or purchase from those who are in
league with you."

"I—I have no stores," said Old Death; "and, as for my lodging—I—I have
no settled place. I sleep sometimes in one crib—sometimes in another——"

"All lies!" ejaculated Tom, in a determined tone. "You have enormous
dealings with all the housebreakers and thieves in London; you have said
as much to me—and you have boasted that they are ignorant of your
residence. Now then, you _have_ a residence—and I swear that before I am
six hours older, I will know so much about _you_, that you shall never
dare to practise any treachery towards _me_."

"What treachery could I practise against you, Tom?" asked Old Death in a
conciliatory tone.

"I will tell you," replied Rainford. "You boast that for thirty years
you have monopolised the business of fence to all the people worth
dealing with in London; and, during that time, you have never got into a
scrape. But how could you have enjoyed so wonderful a safety—so
uninterrupted a security, unless you now and then sacrificed—yes,
_sacrificed_—an accomplice or two?"

"I!" ejaculated Old Death, starting in spite of himself.

"Yes—_you_," rejoined Rainford, fixing his eyes sternly and searchingly
on the ancient villain's hideous countenance. "Do you think that I am
unacquainted with your real character? do you suppose that I was at a
loss to understand you, even the very first moment we ever met? That
flippancy of manner—that off-handedness—that reckless indifference,
which characterise me, are a species of mask from behind which I can
penetrate into the deepest recesses of the hearts of others. I know you
as well as you know yourself—or nearly so. At all events, I know enough
to render me cautious and wary; and, by the living God! you shall never
have an opportunity of selling me to save yourself!"

"Tom—my dear Tom!" exclaimed Old Death, now actually frightened by the
other's manner, and astonished at his words; "you cannot think of such a
thing seriously!"

"So seriously do I think of it," replied Rainford, "that I will drag you
into the pit, if I am destined to fall. So now, without another word,
prepare to reveal to me all the mysteries in which you have for thirty
years enveloped yourself."

"And if I refuse?" said Old Death, doggedly.

Rainford deliberately cocked his pistol.

"You have inveigled me into a snare—you have sent away those who might
protect me—and now you seek an excuse to murder me!" exclaimed Old
Death, his voice sounding like ringing metal.

"Did I not say ere now that I would not harm you, unless you gave me
just cause?" demanded Rainford. "And think you that your refusal to
comply with my present wish does not constitute such just cause? You
have discovered my lodging, which it does not suit me to leave on that
account:—you may also have found out that I am not _alone_ here——"

"I know that a certain Jewess is your mistress," said Old Death, with a
savage leer—for all the vindictive passions of his nature were aroused
by the conduct of the individual who dared to coerce him—_him_, who had
never been coerced before!

"A certain Jewess!" repeated Rainford, surveying Old Death with a
singular expression of countenance.

"Yes—Esther de Medina," added Bones.

"Esther de Medina is as pure and innocent as the babe that is unborn!"
cried the highwayman, with impassioned emphasis.

"Then she must be your wife," said Old Death.

"Liar!" thundered Tom Rain, rushing forward and seizing the ancient
villain by the throat: then, as if ashamed of the sudden transport of
rage into which he had suffered himself to be betrayed, he withdrew his
hand, and said in a more quiet but still determined manner, "Mention not
the name of Esther de Medina with disrespect—or I warn you that my
vengeance—yes, _my_ vengeance—will be terrible! And now prepare to lead
me to your place of abode—for I am wearied of this long parley."

He again drew forth one of his pistols, which he had consigned to his
pocket when he rushed on the old man in the way just described.

"You'll repent this, Mr. Rainford," said Old Death, endeavouring to
impress the highwayman with vague and undefined alarms.

[Illustration]

"You see how evil your nature is, since you can threaten me thus," cried
Tom. "But I care little for your menaces. I have but two alternatives to
choose between:—one is to blow your brains out at once—the other is to
get you as much into my power as you have got me into yours. Either way
will answer my purpose. So now make up your mind which it shall be. The
people in Lock's Fields wouldn't take much notice if they heard a pistol
fired; and there's a pretty deep ditch at the bottom of the yard behind
the house."

Old Death shuddered; for there was something awfully determined in the
highwayman's manner.

"Well—and if I take you to a certain place," he said, "how do I know
that you will not split upon me?"

"Trust to me as I shall _then_ trust to you," ejaculated Rainford.
"Shall we not continue to be necessary to each other? And on my part, I
shall at least experience more confidence, since I shall know that you
cannot ruin me without bringing destruction on yourself!"

"Be it as you say," growled Old Death; and, fixing his greasy cap upon
his head, he prepared to depart.

"One moment—while I say a word up stairs," said Rainford; and, hastily
quitting the room, he locked the door behind him.

Scarcely a minute elapsed ere he returned—to the great relief of the old
man, who had begun to entertain serious misgivings at being made a
prisoner.

"There are marks of dirty boots upon the carpet in the bed-room above,"
said Tom, confronting Bones, and fixing upon him a searching look. "What
were you doing there?"

"I was not there——" began Old Death, quailing beneath that glance.

"Damnable liar!" cried Rainford. "I have half a mind——But, no," he
added, checking himself: "time will show what your purpose was in
invading this house; and I shall know how to punish any treachery on
your part. And now mark me! You will lead the way—and I shall follow
you. Avoid great thoroughfares——"

"Had we not better take a coach?" asked Old Death.

"No—we will walk, be it to the other end of London," replied the
highwayman resolutely. "I shall follow close behind you:—beware how you
attempt to address yourself to a soul whom you may meet—beware also how
you trifle with me. But stay—I will have a guarantee for your good
faith. Give me your pocket-book!"

"My pocket-book!" ejaculated Old Death, with something approaching a
shudder.

"Yes—your pocket-book," replied Rain. "I know that it contains
Bank-notes, and memoranda of value or utility to you; and I will retain
it in this house, until we return from the expedition on which we are
about to set forth. Come—quick! I have no time for idle delays!"

"My pocket-book!" repeated Old Death, with increasing dismay.

"Do I not speak plain enough?" demanded the highwayman. "If I cannot
make myself intelligible by words, I may by deeds: so permit me to help
myself to the article I require. It will not be the first time I shall
have rifled a pocket," he added, with a merry laugh.

"Do you know that you are treating me in a manner that I never
experienced before?" said Old Death, his hideous countenance convulsed
with rage.

"I can very well believe what you state," returned Tom Rain coolly.
"Hitherto you have had to deal with men whom you got completely into
your power—whose lives hung on a thread which you could snap without
endangering yourself—who were mere puppets in your hands, and did not
dare say their names were their own. Oh! I am well aware how you have
played the tyrant—the griping, avaricious, grinding miser—the cruel,
relentless despot! But now,—_now_, Mr. Bones, you have another sort of
person to deal with,—a man who will be even with you anywhere and
everywhere,—and who will never let you gain an advantage over him
without acquiring one in return."

"Who are you," demanded Old Death, in strange bewilderment, "that talk
to me thus?"

"Why—Thomas Rainford, to be sure!" cried the highwayman, laughing—yet
with a certain chuckling irony that sounded ominously on the old fence's
ears. "And I need not tell you," he continued after a few moments'
pause, "that I am rather a desperate character, who would as soon shoot
you in the open street—aye, or in the midst of a crowd, too—if you
attempted any treachery towards me, as I would ease a gentleman of his
purse upon the lonely road. But we are wasting time: give me your
pocket-book."

Old Death's courage had gradually oozed away during this strange
colloquy; and he now mechanically obeyed the command so imperiously
addressed to him.

But suddenly recollecting himself, as he was about to hand the
pocket-book to the highwayman, he said, "There is one letter here—just
one letter—which I should like to keep about my own person."

"Well—take that one letter," returned Tom; "and beware how you endeavour
to secrete any thing else."

Old Death's hand trembled as he unfastened the clasp of the greasy old
pocket-book; and, when he had opened it, he sighed deeply, as his eyes
alighted first on a roll of Bank-notes. Then he turned the papers
over—one after another; and clouds gathered thickly and more thickly
upon his countenance.

"This is strange—very strange!" he muttered, as he fumbled about with
the letters and memoranda.

"What is strange?" demanded Rainford.

"That I cannot find the letter I want," returned Old Death, with
increasing agitation. "Surely I cannot have lost it? And yet—I remember
now—I was referring to it this afternoon—and——Oh! yes—I recollect—I put
it into my pocket——"

But the search in his pockets was vain: the letter was nowhere to be
found.

"Come—there's enough of delay and such-like nonsense," exclaimed the
highwayman, snatching the pocket-book from his hand.

Again Rainford quitted the room, locking the door behind him; and in a
couple of minutes he returned, saying, "Your pocket-book is safe where
no one will meddle with it till we come back. It is now past eleven: let
us set off. Come—you go first!"

Old Death led the way, and Tom Rain followed, the latter conveying some
pleasant intimation, as he closed the front-door behind him, about an
ounce of lead in the other's back if he showed the slightest sign of
treachery.




                             CHAPTER XXIX.
              THE MYSTERIES OF OLD DEATH'S ESTABLISHMENT.


From the back of the Sessions House on Clerkenwell Green, towards
Smithfield Market, runs a thoroughfare the upper portion of which is
known by the name of Turnmill Street, and the lower part as Cow-Cross
Street.

Numerous rag-shops and marine-stores here meet the eye,—establishments
where the thief in a small way may obtain a ready sale for the proceeds
of his roguery. It is really curious to stand for a few moments and
observe the miscellaneous assortment of articles crammed together in the
dingy windows of these places,—as if they were receptacles for all the
rags that misery could spare, and all the rubbish which domestic
neatness throws into the street.

Some of the old clothes-shops in the thoroughfare which we are
describing, are strikingly characteristic of the neighbourhood; for you
cannot gaze a minute upon the silk handkerchiefs, the bonnets, the
shirts, the gowns, the coats, the trousers, and the waistcoats, and
other articles hanging outside the windows, or suspended to nails stuck
into the walls, without being able to form a pretty accurate computation
of the proportion which has been stolen, and that which has been
obtained by legitimate purchase.

The women lounging at the doors in Turnmill and Cow-Cross Streets are of
dissipated, dirty, and loathsome appearance: nor have the men any
advantage over them in these respects.

Take a duchess from the saloons of fashion,—a duchess in her satin or
velvet, with her feathers and her diamonds, her refined manners, her
elegant demeanour, her polished discourse, and her civilising
influence,—and place her by the side of one of those degraded women in
Turnmill Street,—a woman with hoarse voice, revolting manners, incrusted
with dirt, clothed in the meanest apparel, if not in absolute rags, and
interlarding her conversation with oaths and obscenities,—place those
two specimens of the female sex together,—and how astounding is the
contrast!

But the duchess has no more claim to praise for the polish—the
fascinations—the exquisite refinement which characterise her, than the
poor woman of Turnmill Street deserves to be blamed for the degradation
and repulsiveness in which she is steeped to the very crown of her head.

Had the two been changed at their birth, she who is now the duchess
would have become the dissipated, loathsome, ragged wretch of Turnmill
Street; and the babe who has grown to be this ragged wretch, would have
sprung up into the splendid lady with the ducal coronet on her brow.

The rich and the high-born do not reflect upon this fact:—they fancy
that their very aristocracy is innate as it is hereditary, and that the
poor are naturally degraded, vicious, and immoral. Oh! the terrible
error—the fearful mistake! For, after all, many a proud peer is in
reality the son of his reputed father's groom or footman; and many a
dazzling beauty owes her being to her mother's illicit amours with a
butler or a page!

The young Prince of Wales, if he live, will doubtless become one of the
most polished gentlemen in the universe:—but had he been stolen at his
birth, and brought up by poor people, he would even now be running
bare-footed in the streets—groping in the gutters for halfpence—gnawing
cabbage-stalks and turnip-parings—thieving pudding from cooks'-shops and
bacon from cheesemongers' windows—easing old gentlemen of their
handkerchiefs—and familiar with all the horrible vocabulary of the slang
language!

No credit, then, to the aristocracy—no blame to the poor! Neither can
help being what they are. The influences of the sphere of refinement
must have a tendency to refine: the miseries of the poor must produce
degradation, immorality, and recklessness.

Ah! my Lord Duke—how ineffable is your contempt for yon poor trembling
wretch who now stands in the dock at the Old Bailey, before his judge!
Your Grace never did a dishonourable action—your Grace has never
committed even a crime so genteel as forgery! But has your Grace ever
known what starvation is? has your Grace wandered for hours, like a
madman, through the streets of a city teeming with all the luxuries of
the earth, while a wife and children were weeping for bread in a
cheerless garret up some filthy court? No—your Grace has never been
placed in such a position; or, believe me, you would probably have
purloined a loaf of bread or filched a handkerchief or a purse—even as
did that poor trembling wretch in the dock, whose guilt has filled your
Grace with so much disgust!

And you, too, my Lady Duchess—how closely your Grace wraps that elegant,
warm shawl around your form, lest its mere hem should happen to touch
the garments of that poor unfortunate girl who is passing just at the
moment when your Grace is stepping from the Opera-door into the splendid
equipage which is to whirl your Grace to your palace-home! Oh! I well
understand the loathing—the disgust which the menaced contact with that
wretched creature excites in the bosom of your Grace. But—ah! does she
deserve no pity—no sympathy, as well as such sovereign contempt—such
boundless aversion? The entire sex is not outraged by her fall;—and
consider, my lady Duchess—had you been a poor man's daughter and so
hemmed in by miseries of all kinds from your very birth until the age of
womanhood, that emancipation from such incessant privations were a very
paradise, even though purchased by a crime,—thinkest thou, my lady, that
thy virtue would have been stronger than that of the poor wretch who
seems to insult you by even breathing the same air that surrounds your
aristocracy?

Merciful heavens! how unjust the upper classes are to the lower! The
great lord and the haughty lady blame where they should pity—turn away
with loathing where they should commiserate—proclaim as innate
wickedness that social aspect which is the inevitable result of poverty
and oppression—denounce as inveterately depraved those unhappy beings
who never were taught nor had a chance to be good!

The infamy of the upper class towards the lower in this country, is
immense. A landowner gives his labourer eight shillings a-week, and
says, "Go and live comfortably—be neat and clean—attend divine worship
on the Sabbath—educate your children—let them read good books—keep them
tidy in their appearance—and avoid debt!" Then when this landowner finds
the family naked and starving—the man frequenting the public-house in
despair, instead of the church in holy gratitude—the wife a slattern and
a gin-drinker—the children incipient prostitutes and thieves,—when he
sees all this, he raises his hands, exclaiming, "Oh! the inveterate,
innate wickedness of the working classes!"

The aristocracy and the landowners of this country are, as a whole,
the most cruel and heartless set of legalised robbers that ever preyed
upon the vitals of suffering millions:—they are now what the French
aristocrats and landlords were previously to the Revolution of
1796;—and solemnly—solemnly do we declare our belief that the
despotic—tyrannical—remorseless oligarchy which usurps the right of
domination, is hurrying the United Kingdom to a similar catastrophe!

But to continue our narrative.

The mist-like rain was still falling, and midnight had struck some time,
when Old Death, closely followed by Tom Rain, merged from Cow-Cross
Street, and stopped at the entrance to a narrow court in Turnmill
Street.

Casting a glance around, to assure himself that Rainford was at his
heels, Old Death plunged into the court; and Tom, fancying that the
ancient fence meant to elude him, sprang after him and caught him by the
skirt of his grey coat.

"No noise," whispered Bones. "Here we are."

Thus speaking, he opened a side-door in the court with a key which he
took from his pocket, and, hurrying Tom Rain with him, closed the door
carefully again behind them.

The place into which the highwayman was introduced, was as dark as
pitch; and, not choosing to be led into an ambuscade, Rainford said,
"One moment, my worthy friend! If you have no means of obtaining a
light, I will very soon get those means from some public-house——"

While he was yet speaking Old Death procured a light from a tinder-box;
and a candle, which stood ready on a low shelf near the door, soon
diffused sufficient lustre around to enable the highwayman to observe
what kind of place he had been introduced into. It was a small,
dingy-looking room, without a vestige of furniture in it, and having the
entrance to a narrow staircase on one side, and a second door, facing
that by which he and Old Death had entered, on the other.

When a thief arrived at this place with any stolen property, he pulled a
wire the handle of which hung against the wall in the court: a bell rang
within—the outer door opened by unseen means, and the thief closed it
behind him on entering the little room. He then tapped at the inner or
second door which we have noticed, and which had a hatch in it that
immediately drew up: no one appeared—but the thief threw in his bundle
or parcel. The hatch then closed. In a few moments—or according to the
time required for the inspection of the goods—the hatch was raised
again, but merely high enough to admit the passage of a small piece of
paper, whereon was marked the highest price that would be given for the
articles offered for sale. If the paper were immediately returned by the
thief, the money was thrust forth; the door in the court opened again by
invisible means, the thief departed, and the door was closed behind him:
if, however, he did not return the paper, it was considered that he
would not accept the amount proffered, and the bundle was restored to
him through the hatch.

"Thus, you perceive," said Old Death, whom Rainford compelled to reveal
the mysterious use of the hatch in the inner door, "no one is seen by
those who come here to dispose of their property."

"And who manages this business for you?" demanded the highwayman; "for
it is clear that you cannot be here—there—and every where at one and the
same time."

"I have a faithful and trustworthy man who has been in my service for
many—many years," answered Old Death.

"But the people who have dealings at this place must know that it is
your establishment?" said Rainford.

"Quite the contrary!" exclaimed Bones, with a grim smile. "This
fencing-crib is called _Tidmarsh's_—and none of the flash men in London
know that I have the least connexion with it. It takes its name from my
managing man. When I have business to do that I must transact in person,
I meet my friends at public-houses and patter-cribs—and my very intimate
ones, such as you, at Bunce's. But come up stairs."

Old Death led the way to an indifferently furnished room, where a man as
well stricken in years and as repulsively ugly as himself, though
apparently not near so tall, was in bed.

"It's only me, Tidmarsh," said Old Death.

"Only you!" growled the man, sitting up in bed, and staring suspiciously
at Rainford.

"Me and a friend—a very particular friend, Tiddy," added Bones. "Indeed,
it's Mr. Rainford."

"Oh! that's different!" said Tidmarsh, in a more conciliatory tone.
"Your fame, sir, has reached me even in this crib. Take some rum, sir."

And he pointed to a bottle and glasses standing on a table.

"Well—I don't mind if I do—just to keep out the damp, and drink your
health, Mr. Tidmarsh," cried Rainford, in his usual merry, off-hand
strain; and, suiting the action to his words, he took a small dram.

Old Death followed his example; and Mr. Tidmarsh suffered himself to be
prevailed upon to imbibe a like quantum.

"Now, go to sleep, Tiddy," said Bones, in a patronising manner. "We
shan't disturb you any more."

Mr. Tidmarsh gave a species of grunt by way of assent to the
recommendation offered, and threw himself back upon his pillow.

Old Death conducted Rainford into the adjoining rooms on the same
storey, and then to the upper chambers; but they were all quite empty!
Their walls were black with dirt—the ceilings seemed as if they had
originally been painted of a sombre hue—the window-panes were so grimed
that it was evident they could admit but a feeble light even in the
broad day—the floors sent up clouds of dust as the feet trod upon
them—and dense masses of cob-webs actually rounded off all the corners.
There was, moreover, an earthy, infected smell in those rooms, which
would have made a weak stomach heave with nausea.

Tom Rain was quite surprised to find all the chambers empty. He had
expected to be introduced into warehouses teeming with the produce of
three-parts of all the roguery committed in the great metropolis: but
not even so much as an old rag met his eyes. Indeed, the rooms appeared
as if they had not been tenanted, or even scarcely entered, for
many—many years.

"This may be your reception-house," he said, in a jocular manner; "but
it certainly does not contain your stores."

"All the goods are sent away as soon as they are received," replied Old
Death.

"And where are they sent to?" demanded Rain.

"To the small dealers—and some to the continent," answered Bones, eyeing
him askance.

"Well and good," observed the highwayman coolly. "But you have not a
hundred errand-boys to distribute the bundles and parcels about: neither
are there vessels sailing for Holland and France every hour in the day."

"What—what do you mean, Tom?" asked Old Death.

"I mean that you are trying to deceive me," exclaimed the highwayman,
sternly. "But, look you! we are alone in this house—for I consider your
old man down stairs as nobody; and, by God! if you attempt any of your
nonsense with me, I'll fell you with the butt-end of this pistol."

"What would you have me do?" said Old Death, trembling at the determined
manner in which his companion spoke.

"I would have you show me where you keep your stores," was the resolute
answer. "And now—delay not—or it will be the worse for you."

Old Death still hesitated for a moment; but, seeing that Rainford
stamped his foot impatiently and raised his pistol in a menacing manner,
he disposed himself to do with a good grace what he could not avoid.

Raising the candle high up so as to light the way thoroughly, he
retraced his steps down the narrow, precipitous, and broken staircase,
Tom Rain following close behind.

Having reached the little room on the ground-floor, and which we have
already described as the place where stolen property was purchased, Old
Death opened the door containing the hatch, and led Rainford into a
small back chamber, having the air of an office. Its furniture consisted
of a desk, a high stool, and one of those large, old-fashioned eight-day
clocks, which used to be seen in the kitchens of genteel houses, and the
wall-nut cases of which were as big as coffins. On the desk were writing
materials, and a huge ledger, especially dirty, as if it had been well
thumbed by hands not too intimately acquainted with soap.

"This is Tidmarsh's crib, I suppose?" said Rainford inquiringly.

Old Death nodded an affirmative.

The highwayman opened the book, in which the entries of each day's
transactions were regularly made. We shall quote a specimen of these
accounts, prefacing the extract with the necessary explanation that the
numbers prefixed to some of the memoranda were those which tallied with
the names of the thieves, burglars, or prostitutes entered in Old
Death's books, as was stated on a previous occasion:—

  _No._ 31. Two belchers, a cream-fancy, a randlesman, and a blue
    billy; three wedge-feeders, a yack, and a dee. £1 15_s._

  _A Stranger—looked like a shallow cove._ Roll of snow, six snooze
    cases, three narps, and a blood-red fancy. 8_s._

  _A Stranger—looked like a spunk fencer._ Green king's-man,
    water's-man, yellow-fancy, and yellow-man; pair of kicksters, a
    fan, and a dummie. 13_s._ 6_d._

  _No._ 4. A cat, six pair of shakester's crabs, and a cule. 12_s._

  _No._ 53. Yack and onions. £1 12_s._ 6_d._

  _A Stranger—looked like a snow-dropper._ Twelve mill-togs. 6_s._

  _A Stranger—looked like a peterman._ Busy-sack, redge-yack, six
    wedge-feeders, and togs in busy-sack. £2 15_s._

  _A Stranger—looked like a mushroom-faker._ Lily benjamin. 3_s._
    6_d._

  _A Stranger—looked like a crocus._ To smash three double finnips.
    £12 10_s._ 6_d._

  _A stranger—looked like a high-fly._ Redge-fawney. 8_s._ 6_d._

  _Lunan._ To smash a single finnip. £2 2_s._ 6_d._[11]

"Quite a secret police-book, this," observed Tom Rain, after he had
gained an insight into its contents.

Old Death smiled grimly.

"But do you mean to say," continued Rainford, "that these persons who
are noted by means of numbers—for I can understand the meaning of all
that—do not know that this is your crib?"

"Not they!" replied Bones. "I tell you that they call it _Tidmarsh's_:
and I may add that not one out of one hundred who come here, even know
old Tidmarsh by sight."

"And how does he recognise these fellows who are denoted by the
numbers?" asked Tom Rain.

Old Death pointed to a small hole, not larger than a pea, in the
wood-work which separated the two rooms; and this hole was covered with
a little moveable piece of wood on the inner side—that is, in the office
where Tidmarsh was accustomed to sit.

"Things begin to grow a little plainer," said Rainford. "And now, my
worthy old fence, to the store-rooms and to your own special residence."

This command was significantly backed by the motion of Rainford's right
hand towards the pocket where he had deposited the pistol with which he
had ere now menaced his companion.

Mr. Benjamin Bones swallowed a profound sigh—for it went to his heart to
think that he was compelled to yield to the coercion of one whom he had
marked out for a slave, but who had become a master.

But as he took up the candle from the desk whereon he had placed it to
enable the highwayman to examine his memorandum-book, a gleam of
horrible satisfaction shot athwart his countenance—as if some idea of a
consolatory nature had suddenly struck him.

Tom Rain whistled a tune with an air of the most perfect indifference:
but that abrupt change in Old Death's features—that scintillation of
delight, momentary as its expression was, had not escaped the notice of
the highwayman.

The ancient fence now approached the clock, which was ticking in a
gloomy, monotonous manner; and, as he laid his hand upon the key which
opened the door of the case, he turned sharply towards Rainford, saying,
"You persist in going farther to-night?"

"Yes—such is my determination," answered Tom.

Old Death opened the clock, and touched some secret spring inside. This
was immediately followed by the noise of wheels, accompanied by a
peculiar sound as of a windlass turning rapidly; and in a few moments
Rainford perceived that the entire clock itself was moving slowly along
the wall, revealing by degrees an aperture in the floor.

In about a minute the working of the machinery ceased—the clock-case was
once more stationary—and in the place where it first stood was an
opening cut in the boards, large enough to admit the passage of even a
moderately stout man.

"Shall I go first?" asked Old Death, with a sardonic smile, which seemed
to indicate his opinion that Rainford would not venture to follow him.

But if such were really his idea, he was disappointed; for the
highwayman said in the coolest manner possible, "By all means, old chap.
And make haste about it—for the night is passing away, and as yet I have
seen scarcely anything."

Old Death made no answer, but began to descend an iron ladder, to which
the aperture led; and as he gradually went down the steps, he held up
the candle in one hand, and with the other supported himself by means of
a rope hung for the purpose.

Tom Rain unhesitatingly followed him; and when he reached the bottom of
the ladder, he found himself in a long, narrow, vaulted passage,
apparently stretching far underground, but to the end of which it was
impossible for the eye to penetrate, so feeble and flickering was the
light afforded by the candle.

"Wait an instant while I close the entrance," said Old Death: "it is a
precaution I never neglect."

"Quite right," observed Tom coolly; and while he affected to be
leisurely whistling a tune, he was in reality keeping a most careful
watch upon his companion's movements.

Old Death pulled a thick wire which hung down from the top of the vault,
and the mechanism of the clock was again set in motion, until the
clock-case itself had resumed its usual station over the entrance to the
vaulted subterranean.

-----

Footnote 11:

  The ensuing glossary will explain these otherwise enigmatical
  entries:—

    _Belcher_—close striped handkerchief.
    _Cream fancy_—any pattern of handkerchief on a white ground.
    _Randlesman_—green handkerchief, with white spots.
    _Blue billy_—blue ground handkerchief, with white spots.
    _Wedge-feeders_—silver spoons.
    _Yack_—watch.
    _Dee_—pocket-book of small size.
    _Shallow cove_—a fellow dressed in a Guernsey jacket, and looking
      like a sailor.
    _Roll of snow_—piece of Irish linen.
    _Snooze-cases_—pillow-cases.
    _Narps_—calico shirts.
    _Blood-red fancy_—handkerchief all red.
    _Spunk fencer_—match-seller.
    _Green King's-man_—handkerchief of any pattern on a green ground.
    _Watersman_—sky-coloured handkerchief.
    _Yellow fancy_—yellow handkerchief, with white spots.
    _Yellow-man_—handkerchief all yellow.
    _Kicksters_—trousers.
    _Fan_—waistcoat.
    _Dummie_—pocket-book of large size.
    _Cat_—muff.
    _Shakesters' crabs_—ladies' shoes.
    _Cule_—reticule.
    _Yack and onions_—watch and seals.
    _Snow-dropper_—one who steals linen from hedges or drying grounds.
    _Mill togs_—linen shirts.
    _Peterman_—a robber who cuts trunks from the back of carriages.
    _Busy-sack_—carpet bag.
    _Redge yack_—gold watch.
    _Togs_—clothes.
    _Mushroom faker_—a man who goes about ostensibly to buy old
      umbrellas, but really to thieve.
    _Lily benjamin_—white upper coat.
    _Crocus_—an itinerant quack doctor.
    _Smash_—change.
    _Double finnips_—ten-pound notes.
    _Highfly_—genteel begging-letter impostor.
    _Redge fawney_—gold ring.
    _Lunan_—common woman.
    _Single finnip_—five-pound note.




                              CHAPTER XXX.
                            THE STORE-ROOMS.


The reader has already seen and heard enough to be fully aware that
Thomas Rainford was a man of undaunted courage: nor did he now tremble
when he found himself immured, as it were, in that subterranean, along
with a character so full of cunning and malignity as Old Death.

Although completely ignorant of the dark and gloomy locality to which he
had been brought, and well aware that his companion was quite capable of
the foulest treachery, the highwayman followed the old fence with so
firm a step, and whistled away in a manner indicative of such utter
recklessness of danger, that his guide was himself astonished at so much
daring.

But Rainford was keenly observant of all the movements of his companion;
and, resolutely as he walked, he was nevertheless careful in following
as precisely as possible in the steps of Old Death, so that he might not
be entrapped by any pitfall in that gloomy place.

On his part, Old Death proceeded at a somewhat rapid pace, shading the
light with his hand so as to protect it from the strong current of air
which rushed through the passage.

This passage, or long subterranean vault, was about ten feet wide and
six high. It was walled and arched with rough stone, and paved with huge
flags. The masonry at the sides and overhead was green with the damp;
and, even by the fitful light of the candle, Rainford could perceive
that this strange place must have been in existence for many—many years.

Here and there he observed little niches in the wall; and in one there
was the remnant of an image of the Saviour on the cross. It instantly
flashed to the mind of the highwayman that this sinister-looking
subterranean had once been connected with some monastic establishment;
and his imagination suggested that he was probably treading on the very
place where the victims of ancient Popish tyranny had been confined and
left to perish through famine.

Old Death and Tom Rain had proceeded about sixty yards, as well as the
latter could guess, along the vaulted passage, when the former suddenly
stopped, and the highwayman perceived that their farther progress was
barred by a huge door, studded with iron knobs.

"You are now about to enter my sanctuary—as I may call it," said Old
Death, turning abruptly round on Rainford; "and again I ask you what
guarantee I have that you will not betray me?"

"The same security which I have that you will not prove treacherous to
me," answered Tom.

Old Death hesitated for a few moments, as if he were about to make
another observation: but, yielding to a second thought, which most
probably showed him the inutility of farther remonstrance, he proceeded
to unbar the massive door.

It opened inwards, and led to a spiral flight of stone steps, up which
the two men mounted, Rainford having previously secured the door, which
had huge bolts on each side.

Having ascended some forty steps, Old Death, who went first, placed the
candle in a niche, and pushed up a trap-door, which immediately admitted
a strong current of air: but the precaution observed in respect to the
light, prevented it from being extinguished.

"I ought to have brought a lantern with me, by rights," murmured Old
Death. "But come along."

"You go on first," said Rainford; "and I'll take care of the candle."

"No—give it to me," replied Bones hastily; and he extended his hand to
grasp it.

But Rainford hit him a hard blow on the wrist with the butt-end of his
pistol, and then seized the candle.

"What did you do that for?" demanded Old Death savagely.

"Because I suspect you of treachery," returned the highwayman, in a
severe tone. "But, remember—I am well armed—and, at the least appearance
of evil intent on your part, I fire!"

"You are wrong, Tom—my dear fellow," said Old Death, coaxingly, as he
still lingered at the top of the steps.

"Well—I may be; and I shall be glad to find that I am," exclaimed Tom:
"and now lead on."

Old Death ascended the few remaining steps; and Rainford followed with
his pistol in one hand and the candle in the other.

They were now in a small room furnished as a bed-chamber; and when Old
Death had let down the trap-door again, he unrolled and spread a small
carpet over it.

"This is your residence?" said Rainford inquiringly.

The old man nodded a grim assent.

"And your store-rooms are in this house?—for I can perfectly well
understand that _we have come into another house_—and, by the direction
of the subterranean, I should say it must be in Red Lion Street."

"You know London well," said Old Death.

"I do," replied Rainford.

"Although you lived so long in the country," added Bones.

"Right again, old fellow!" exclaimed Tom, "And now for a farther insight
into the mysteries of your abode."

With these words the highwayman approached a door on one side of the
room; but Old Death, hastily advancing towards another door, said, "This
way, Tom—this way: there is nothing in that quarter—worth seeing."

But the ancient fence seemed agitated; and this was not lost upon his
companion.

"Well, as you choose," observed the latter, resuming his careless,
off-hand manner. "Lead on."

Bones had already opened the door; and he now conducted the highwayman
into a spacious apartment, surrounded by shelves, whereon were ranged an
assortment of articles of the most miscellaneous description.

Clothes and china-ware—candlesticks, plated and silver, all carefully
wrapped up in paper—piles of silk pocket-handkerchiefs, and heaps of
linen garments—carpet-bags and portmanteaus—every species of
haberdashery—silk dresses and cotton gowns—velvet pelisses and shawls of
all gradations of value—muffs, tippets, and boas—ladies' shoes and
gentlemen's boots—looking-glasses and candelabra—lamps and
pictures—tea-urns and costly vases—meerschaum-pipes and
dressing-cases—immense quantities of cutlery—piles of printing
paper—saddles and bridles,—in short, an infinite variety of articles, to
detail which would occupy whole pages.

"Your magazine is crowded, old fellow," said Rainford, who, even while
surveying the curious place in which he found himself, did not the less
keep a strict watch upon his companion.

"Are you satisfied now?" demanded Old Death.

"Not quite," answered Rainford. "You must have another room where you
keep your jewellery and all those kinds of things?"

"What kind of things?" asked Bones sharply.

"Oh! things that require to be packed away with caution, to be sure,"
replied Tom Rain.

For an instant the old man cast upon him a glance of searching inquiry,
as if to penetrate into the most secret profundities of his soul; but
the highwayman affected to be very intent in his contemplation of a
picture, and the countenance of the fence grew more composed.

"Well," said Rainford, after a few moments' pause, "there's no use in
delaying the matter. I _must_ and _will_ make myself acquainted with
every nook of this place."

Old Death moved towards a door facing the one by which they entered the
apartment; and Rainford was conducted into a smaller room, but fitted up
with shelves like the first.

On those shelves were several boxes, of various dimensions, and numerous
jewel-cases wrapped up in paper.

"Watches and plate, I suppose?" said Rainford, pointing to the boxes.

"Something in that way, Tom," replied Old Death. "Would you like to see
any of them?"

"No, thank'ee," was the answer. "I am not particularly curious in that
respect."

Then, as he appeared to glance casually round the room, his eyes dwelt
for an instant upon an iron safe let into the wall.

"Well—have you seen enough?" asked Old Death. "It's getting very late."

"It must be early, you mean," replied the highwayman, with a smile. "But
still there is time for the business that I have in hand," he added, his
manner suddenly changing to seriousness.

Old Death glanced towards him uneasily. Indeed, for some time the fence
had been suspecting that Rainford had an ulterior object in view,
independent of the mere wish to become acquainted with his abode; and
vague alarms now filled his mind. What could the highwayman mean? Was he
other than he seemed? Did he intend to betray him?

All these ideas rushed rapidly through the imagination of the horrible
old man; and, though _he_ had formed a plan whereby to avenge himself on
_the only individual who had ever yet dared to coerce him_, he trembled
lest he should be unable to put it into execution. He knew that Rainford
was a man of dauntless bravery, and believed him to be a desperate one;
and now he found himself completely in this formidable person's power.
Not that Old Death lacked courage himself: and he certainly was not
deficient in treachery. But he wanted the strength—the physical strength
to maintain a deadly struggle with the highwayman, if it should come to
_that_!

Thus was it that for the first time, perhaps, the hardened miscreant
trembled for his life.

To throw open the window and call for assistance, in case of danger, was
to invite the entrance of persons who would discover all the mysteries
of his abode; and death were an alternative scarcely more frightful!

"Yes—there is time enough for the business that I have on hand!"
repeated Rainford, his countenance assuming so stern—so determined an
expression, that Old Death trembled with a colder shudder than before.

"What do you mean?—what is that—that——" stammered Old Death.

"Sit down—there—on that seat!" thundered the highwayman, pointing
imperiously to a chair. "Sit down, I say—or, by heaven! this pistol——"

"Well—I will—I will, Tom," said Bones, perceiving the deadly weapon
levelled point-blank at his heart: and he sank into the chair
accordingly. "But do tell me—if I have offended you—if——"

"Hold your tongue!" ejaculated Rainford, in so authoritative a manner
that the ancient villain's powers of utterance were suddenly paralysed.
"And now mark me," continued the highwayman: "I have a certain task to
perform, which nothing save a superior physical strength on your part
can prevent. But, in the first place it is necessary that I should bind
you—that I should render you incapable of molesting me."

Old Death was unable to reply: but he stared with vacant terror on the
individual whose proceedings were alike so mysterious and so alarming.

Rainford took a coil of rope from a bale of goods that stood upon the
table, and with extraordinary rapidity proceeded to fasten Old Death's
arms and legs to the chair, uttering terrible menaces the whole time
that this operation lasted; while the appalling state of the aged
fence's mind was indicated only by low moans and convulsive movements of
uneasiness.

Having made fast the end of the rope to the iron bars of the fire-place,
in such a manner that Old Death could not shift the chair beyond the
length of the tether thus formed, Rainford leant himself against the
table and proceeded to address his prisoner.




                             CHAPTER XXXI.
                ANOTHER DEED OF INFAMY BROUGHT TO LIGHT.


The scene was now a striking one.

In that small chamber—the shutters of which were securely closed,—by the
light of a dimly-burning candle, two men of criminal avocations but of
entirely discrepant characters, were seated opposite to each other,—one
fastened, pinioned to a large arm-chair—the other placed in a determined
attitude against the heavy oaken table.

Fear and vague alarms rendered the always repulsive countenance of Old
Death now truly hideous; while excitement and a certain air of bold
triumph invested the features of the highwayman with an expression which
made him appear perfectly, though sternly handsome.

The gleaming eyes of Old Death flickered in sparkles beneath his shaggy,
overhanging brows—for fierce, ferocious malignity mingled with the
terrors that oppressed him;—while Rainford surveyed him with combined
abhorrence and contempt.

"Thirty years and ten months have elapsed," said the highwayman sternly,
"since one Benjamin Bones sold his half-sister Octavia to a nobleman who
purchased the prize of her virtue for gold!"

For a few moments a dead silence ensued, after these words had fallen
from the lips of Rainford: but, when that interval was past, a wild—a
savage—a, hyena-like howl, expressive of mingled rage and astonishment,
burst from the lips of Old Death.

"Silence, miscreant!" exclaimed the highwayman, in a tone and with a
manner of terrible earnestness. "Ah! I have doubtless surprised you by
this announcement—this denunciation of a secret that you little deemed
to be known to me!"

"My God! who are you?—how came you to learn that secret?" demanded the
old fence, writhing in the agony of suspense and wild excitement.

"I will tell you who I am presently," was the answer: "and you will also
see wherefore I have compelled you to conduct me hither this night."

"Then you _had_ another motive, besides the mere wish to become
acquainted with my abode?" said Old Death, perceiving that he had been
over-reached in this respect—as indeed he had for the last half-hour
suspected.

"Fool!" ejaculated Rainford, contemptuously: "of what use was it to me
to know where you lived, or to visit your secret repositories of
plunder, unless I had some essentially important motive? The fact of
your having discovered my abode gave me in truth but little
uneasiness—for I could have moved elsewhere in a few hours. That fact,
however, furnished me with an apparent excuse to force you to conduct me
to _your_ den; for I knew that were I to acquaint you with my real
object in coming here, you would have risked every thing to prevent it!"

"Again I say, who _are_ you?" demanded Old Death, a kind of
superstitious awe now taking possession of him.

"Listen to me," said Rainford. "Nearly thirty-one years have elapsed
since you sold your half-sister Octavia Manners for the gold which laid
the foundation of the immense fortune you have amassed. Yes—this
atrocious deed was perpetrated; and one of England's proudest peers was
the purchaser of that young creature's virtue—for she was but sixteen,
old man, when her ruin was effected through your vile agency! She was
sold to the embrace of a man old enough to be her father—aye, even her
grandfather;—and the affection which she entertained for a deserving
youth in her own sphere of life, was blighted—crushed! She died of a
broken heart—leaving behind her a male child whom _you_ swore to
protect!"

Old Death seemed to recoil from this averment as from a hideous spectre
suddenly starting up before him; for, in spite of his confirmed
wickedness, the present topic had awakened painful reminiscences and
compunctious feelings within him.

"Yes," continued Rainford, fixing his eyes reproachfully upon the old
fence; "she forgave you on her death-bed—forgave you the wrong that you
did her,—forgave you, because you promised to make amends for your
conduct towards her by your behaviour to the babe whom she left to your
charge."

"And who can say that I did not fulfil my promise?" demanded Old Death,
trembling in suspense at what might be the nature of the reply which
Rainford would give.

"Who can say that you did not fulfil your promise?" repeated the
highwayman, in a slow—deliberate—bitter tone, while his eyes appeared to
send daggers to the heart of the old man bound helplessly in the chair.
"There is damning evidence against you in that respect!"

"Where?—how?" ejaculated Old Death.

"You shall soon learn," replied Rainford. "The nobleman who had
_purchased_ your half-sister, provided liberally for the support of her
child—_their_ child—and gave a large sum to be used for the offspring of
that sad connexion. But you——"

"I—I did my duty—towards the child," stammered Old Death, "till—it
died——"

"Liar!" thundered Rainford, advancing in an appallingly menacing manner
towards the helpless, captive wretch. "You sold the child to a tribe of
gipsies——"

"Mercy! mercy!" groaned Old Death. "Do not kill me, Tom—do not hurt me!
I am in your power—spare me!"

Rainford had raised his pistol as if to dash the butt-end against the
forehead of the old man: but, mastering his passion, he consigned the
weapon to his pocket—for he was afraid to trust his hand with it while
his excitement was so terrible.

"Mercy, indeed!" exclaimed Rainford in a tone of bitter hatred, not
unmingled with contempt: "what mercy did you show towards that hapless
child? When Octavia Manners was on her death-bed, that nobleman to whom
you sold her virtue, visited her—implored her forgiveness—and placed in
your hands a thousand guineas to ensure a provision for the boy."

[Illustration]

"My God!" ejaculated Old Death, a terrible suspicion now flashing like
lightning to his mind: "how can you know all this?—even if——you,
yourself——"

"Yes—_I_ am the son of that nobleman and your half-sister Octavia!"
cried Rainford, placing himself in front of Old Death, on whom he gazed
with eyes flashing fire from beneath sternly contracted brows.

"Spare me—spare me!" murmured the wretched man, hanging down his
head—for the glances of his injured nephew seemed to scorch and sear his
very heart's core.

"Look up—look up!" thundered the highwayman; "and meet the gaze of him
whom, when a child, you sold to gipsies—sold, that you might grasp all
the gold which was supplied to you for my benefit! Yes—you sold me to
strangers—even making a profit of me by the very way in which you rid
yourself of my presence in your dwelling! Had it not been for your
treachery—your vile avarice in this respect, I might have grown up to be
an honest man. But, no—no," added Rainford bitterly—and a tear trembled
on his eye-lash,—"had you kept me with you, I should have been
worse—aye, a myriad, myriad times worse than I even now am!"

At the imperious command of the highwayman, Old Death had raised his
head; and Rainford then beheld a countenance so fearfully distorted with
varied emotions, that he felt he was already partially avenged in having
been able to produce such a powerful effect on that aged—that inveterate
sinner.

"What do you mean to do to me, Tom?" asked the hideous old fence, now
more than ever trembling for his life.

"Not to harm your person," replied the highwayman scornfully:
"especially," he added, in a tone of bitter sarcasm, "as you and I can
boast of kinship. But I am wearied of the life I am leading—and my aim
is to settle in some foreign clime, where the evil reputation of my
deeds in this may not follow me. There are times when I abhor
myself—happy, reckless, and indifferent as I usually seem;—for my career
has been marked with many a deed at which I blush—all robber, plunderer
that I am! And this discourse, which has turned upon the foul crime
perpetrated against the honour and happiness of my mother—Oh! it has
reminded me of _one_ act in _my_ life that presses sorely—God knows how
heavily upon my conscience!"

Rainford walked thrice up and down the room, apparently oblivious of the
presence of Old Death, who had never before seen him exhibit so much
painful emotion.

"But regrets are useless—save as they prepare our minds for a better
course of life," exclaimed Rainford, abruptly starting from his reverie:
then, again confronting Old Death, he said, "And now comes the moment of
punishment for all your misdeeds towards me!"

The fence groaned audibly.

"Fear not for your life," continued the highwayman: "I am no
murderer:—my hands were never stained with blood—neither shall they be
now! But, in regaining that which is my own—and with interest—aye,
compound interest, too—I shall teach a heartless, grasping wretch a
lesson that may render him more cautious in future how he sacrifices
every human tie at the shrine of avarice! For even amongst such as
you—such as I—such as the veriest wretches whose villany has helped to
fill these stores,—the claims of kinship—the bonds of relationship have
a recognition and a name. Many and many a man who is noted for his
misdeeds—or who has even shed the blood of a fellow-creature—would
respect the vow which he pledged to rear his dead sister's child. But
you—_you_ ruthlessly thrust away the helpless infant,—you cast off the
offspring of that connexion which your own fearful thirst for gold had
brought about! Now, then, shall I punish you through the medium of that
passion which prompted you to sell my mother to the nobleman, and myself
to the gipsy!"

With these words Rainford advanced close up to his prisoner, and said in
a short, commanding manner, "The key of that safe—where is it?"

"The key?" repeated Old Death, his countenance becoming ghastly white.

"Yes—the key!" cried the highwayman; and he thrust his hands into the
pockets of his captive's grey coat.

"No—no: you shall not have my gold!" howled the fence, agitating
convulsively on his chair.

"Keep quiet!" thundered Rain; "or I shall do you a mischief yet! Keep
quiet, I say.—Ah! here is the key! And now roll about, and rave, and
foam as you will—I care not!"

"Villain! what are you doing?" exclaimed Old Death, his eyes glaring
with ferocious hate—with infernal spite—with blood-thirsty
malignity,—glaring, indeed, like those of a famished tiger caught in the
snare of the hunter, and beholding a stately deer at a little distance:
"what are you doing? You are going to rob me—to plunder me—after all I
have done for you—all the good things I have put in your way! But I will
be revenged yet—I will send you to the scaffold—I will wreak a terrific
vengeance on your head. Keep off, I say—touch not that safe! Damnation
light upon you!—perdition seize you! Oh! Tom—dear Tom—don't rob
me—don't! You'll drive me to despair—I shall die of grief—and you will
be my murderer Tom—do listen to me! Ah! he opens the safe—the wretch—the
villain!"

Thus did Old Death menace and pray—coax and moan by turns; but at last
his voice swelled into a howl of fiend-like rage, which rose like the
wailing of a damned soul upon the silence of that early morning-hour.

But Rainford seemed indifferent alike to his earnest beseechings and his
paroxysms of fury.

That last, ferocious outburst of rage had completely exhausted the old
man; and gasping as if under the influence of strangulation, he fell
back in the seat to which he was fastened by the strong cords. But his
convulsive motions—his hollow, flashing eyes—his parched lips—and the
quivering of his hands, denoted how acutely—how keenly he felt the work
of depredation that was in progress.

For Rainford had opened the safe, and was now busily engaged in
examining the various drawers, and also sundry pocket-books which he
found therein. The former contained hoards of gold coins, and the latter
were filled with Bank-notes, making an aggregate of immense value.

The highwayman secured about his person a sum of five thousand pounds,
murmuring to himself, "This is sufficient to enable me to become an
honest man: I will not leave the old villain penniless."

He then searched the safe for any private papers that might be deposited
there; and in a drawer which he had well-nigh overlooked, he found a
small leather case containing a roll of letters, tied round with a piece
of riband so faded that it was impossible to determine what its colour
might have originally been. A single glance at these documents awakened
such emotions of mingled pleasure and pain within his breast, that he
determined to possess himself of them; and replacing them in the leather
case, he secured them about his person with even more care than he had
bestowed on the Bank-notes.

Having thus rifled the safe of as much as he chose to take away, he
closed the iron door, locked it, and placing the key on the table, said
to Old Death, "I am now about to take my departure from this house. Is
there any one living here besides yourself?"

The fence only stared at him in a fierce and sombre manner; for the
brain of the old man had become a chaos of wild and terrible thoughts at
the contemplation of the daring robbery which was thus practised on
_him_—the patron of robbers!

Indeed, the incidents of this eventful night were sufficient to level
the powers of a mind stronger even than that of Old Death,—for those
incidents had followed each other in such rapid, whirlwind-like
succession, and were all so hostile to his interests, that he felt as if
he were the victim of a hideous nightmare composed of all the most
frightful images that the terrors of a guilty conscience can possibly
conjure up during the long dark nights of winter.

The failure of his expedition to Lock's Fields—the exposure of his
treachery to Tom Rain—the discomfiture he had undergone in the presence
of Toby Bunce and the lad Jacob—the coercion exercised to force him to
discover the secrets of his receiving-house and the mysteries of his
store-rooms and dwelling-house—the discovery of his deeply injured
nephew in the highwayman, and the revival of the history of his villany
in reference to one long since dead,—and, lastly, the robbery of his
money and papers,—all these events, occurring with such consecutive
rapidity that they appeared to form but one single dreadful blow, were
sufficient to paralyse the energies of the old villain.

"Is there any one living in _this_ house besides yourself?" repeated
Rainford. "It is for your own good that I ask; for I shall leave you
bound in this chair—but, if you are really alone here, I will hasten to
drop your friend Tidmarsh a hint, that he may come presently and release
you, by which arrangement I shall get as long a start of you as I
require."

"There is no one here but myself," at length replied Old Death, aroused
from his torpor by the words thus addressed to him.

"Then good bye," said Tom; and, taking up the candle, he quitted the
room, heedless of the prisoner's intercession to be released from his
captivity.

On gaining the bed-chamber situate above the spiral staircase leading to
the subterranean passage, the highwayman remembered two circumstances
which made him pause ere he raised the trap-door.

In the first place he recalled to mind the anxiety of Old Death to
prevent him from securing the candle at the moment when they were about
to emerge from the secret avenue; and it struck Rainford that the old
man had intended to have extinguished the light as if by accident—but
whether for motives of treachery, or merely to avoid the discovery of
something that the fence wished to be concealed, Tom was at a loss to
conjecture.

Secondly, Rainford remembered that Old Death had manifested considerable
uneasiness when he had approached the first of the two doors opening
from that bed-chamber; and he now thought it probable that the fence had
been desirous of extinguishing the light in order to prevent Rainford
from observing that there were two doors in that room.

"At all events," said Tom to himself, "let us see where this other door
leads to."

It was unlocked—as he had expected to find it; because, had it been
otherwise, Old Death would not have manifested so much anxiety when he
had approached it on their entrance into the bed-chamber.

Proceeding with caution—so as not to incur the risk of having his light
extinguished, and equally to avoid any sudden surprise in case the house
might really have other occupants besides Old Death—Rainford entered a
spacious room which seemed to be fitted up as a chemical laboratory. On
a large oaken table were galvanic batteries, and an infinite variety of
electrical apparatus as well as the articles on which experiments are
usually made with the subtle fluid,—such as pieces of glass, amber,
sulphur, wax, silk, cotton, loaf sugar, phials containing a variety of
oils, metallic oxides, several common stones, metallic ores, the metals
and semi-metals, &c. Leyden jars, batteries, electrophori,
electrometers, discharging rods, &c., were also crowded together on the
table. In a large earthen pan under the table were the flayed carcasses
of several rabbits, frogs, and such vermin as rats and mice, all of
which appeared to have been only very recently stripped of their
skins—for they emitted no putrid smell, and the blood was still oozing
from them.

On a shelf were plaster of Paris casts of upwards of fifty heads of men
and monkeys. On the base of some of the heads there were inscriptions in
black letters, stating the originals from which the casts were made;
and, with a rapid glance, the highwayman read the principal ones, which
were these:—

                          ARTHUR THISTLEWOOD.
                   _Executed for High Treason, 1820._

                             DAVID HOGGART.
                      _Executed for Murder, 1821._

                           GEORGE BARRINGTON.
                 _The Notorious Pickpocket—died 1811._

                           HENRY FAUNTLEROY.
                  _Executed for Forgery, Nov., 1824._

                             JOHN THURTELL.
                      _Executed for Murder, 1824._

                            WILLIAM PROBERT.
                  _Executed for Horse-stealing, 1825._

There were casts from the heads of several other celebrated criminals;
but we need enumerate no more.

Intrepid—dauntless—bold as Tom Rain was, he nevertheless experienced a
cold shuddering as he surveyed the objects ranged upon that long shelf;
for this thought forced itself upon him—"_I wonder whether a cast of_ MY
_head will ever be there!_"

In order to chase these gloomy reflections from his mind, Rainford
turned away from the contemplation of the shelf and its sinister
contents. A cupboard-door stood partially open in one corner of the
room; and he hastened to inspect the recess.

But what pen can depict his horror—what language can describe his
astonishment, when upon a shelf within that cupboard he beheld four
human heads staring out at him with eyes wide open but perfectly
motionless, and on the pupils of which the rays of the candle flashed
with extraordinary brilliancy!

For an instant the highwayman felt afraid:—in what description of place
was he? what meant that ghastly spectacle?

But, conquering his terrors, of which indeed in another moment he was
ashamed, he approached nearer: and the idea struck him that he beheld
admirable models in wax. Still the flesh was so closely resembling that
of the dead—the appearance of the countenances and of the crown of the
heads, which were all closely shaven, was so natural, that he extended
his hand and touched the cheek of one of those appalling objects.

Great God! it was indeed human flesh,—icy cold, and producing a
sensation which the touch of naught beside _can_ produce!

In spite of himself, Rainford cast a shuddering glance around him: then,
once more ashamed of his weakness, he resumed his inspection of the
heads.

They were evidently prepared for preservation; for an odour of strong
spices emanated from them, and the eyes, fitted into the sockets, were
of glass. Hence the strange brilliancy produced by the reflection of the
candle.

The highwayman was still absorbed in the contemplation of these
frightful objects, when a door at the farther end of the room slowly
opened; and a man, enveloped in a loose dressing-gown, and holding a
lamp in his hand, appeared on the threshold.

But the instant he beheld Rainford, he uttered an ejaculation of
surprise and alarm—hastily retreated—and barred and bolted the door
behind him.

He had, however, been long enough in the room for Rainford to obtain a
full view of his countenance; and it was with profound astonishment that
the highwayman had recognised Dr. Lascelles!

"What!" he thought: "that respectable physician in league with Old
Death?"

And he stood for some moments gazing vacantly at the door by which the
doctor had entered and also so abruptly disappeared again.

Then it suddenly struck him that the physician might discover the state
of bondage in which Benjamin Bones had been left; and not only would the
immediate release of the old fence follow, but an active pursuit be
probably instituted by both individuals after himself.

He accordingly determined to beat a retreat as speedily as possible. Not
that he was afraid of encountering Old Death and the doctor; but he knew
not what principles of danger the establishment possessed, and which
might be turned against himself. He had seen quite enough of the house
in Turnmill Street and of that where he now was (in Red Lion Street) to
be well aware that they were no ordinary places of abode; and he was
also sufficiently well acquainted with the character of Old Death to
feel conscious that no mercy was to be expected at his hands, should he
fall completely into his power.

It is, therefore, no disparagement to the heroism of the highwayman to
state that he was now anxious to effect his exit from the strange place
wherein he found himself; and it naturally struck him that there must be
a more speedy and convenient avenue of egress than the subterranean. He
readily comprehended that the underground passage was used as a medium
of transferring goods from the house in Turnmill Street to the
store-rooms of the establishment in Red Lion Street; and that it might
also serve, at a pinch of need, as an avenue of escape for Old Death
from his own bed-room.

But that the subterranean was the only means of ingress and egress in
respect to the house in Red Lion Street, Tom could not for an instant
suppose; as a dwelling without a door, or with a door that was never
opened, would soon become an object of suspicion in the neighbourhood.

Judging by the direction of the subterranean passage, the highwayman was
enabled to conclude that the room in which he now found himself was at
the back of the house, and that the one where he had left Old Death was
in the front, as was also that into which Dr. Lascelles had retreated;
and he was moreover convinced that these apartments were all on a first
or upper storey, but decidedly not on the ground-floor.

Now as the laboratory, Old Death's bed-chamber and the larger store-room
formed the suite at the back of the house, and there was no flight of
stairs connecting them with the ground-floor, it was clear to Rainford
that the means of communication with that ground-floor must be from the
front part of the house; and into the rooms looking on the street he did
not choose to penetrate, because he might there encounter the doctor and
Old Death. He therefore came to the conclusion that he must escape by
the back part of the house, or else dare the subterranean.

All these calculations, which have occupied us some time to record, were
made and summed up in a few moments by Tom Rain.

Nor did he now hesitate what course to adopt.

Placing the candle upon the table, he hastened to throw up a window;
but, to his annoyance, he found it securely barred:—and his hand assured
him that the bars could not be removed by mere physical strength.

He had not time nor implements to attempt to force a way through this
difficulty; and the only alternative appeared to be the subterranean.

Resuming possession of the candle, he returned into Old Death's
bed-room—drew away the carpet—raised the trap-door—and commenced the
descent of the spiral staircase, closing the trap after him and bolting
it inside.

But scarcely had he proceeded ten steps downwards, when his foot
suddenly slipped; and, in the attempt which he made to recover himself,
the light went out.

At the same instant he heard heavy steps treading upon the trap-door
overhead, and then the hum of voices—but whose he could not
distinguish—in the room which he had just left.

"Now, Tom Rain, look alive, old fellow!" he murmured in self-encouraging
apostrophe; and, with a resolute step, he hastened rapidly down the
spiral staircase, amidst a darkness so intense that it was all but
_felt_!




                             CHAPTER XXXII.
                     RAINFORD IN THE SUBTERRANEAN.


Tom Rain reached the bottom of the stairs in perfect safety; and, as he
had carefully noted the geography of the subterranean when he traversed
it an hour previously with Old Death, he experienced but little
difficulty in threading his path along it, even amidst the black
darkness through which he literally seemed to be pushing his way.

In a few minutes his progress was stopped by a wall, which his extended
arms encountered; and he now knew that he had reached the extremity
communicating with the house in Turnmill Street.

Having succeeded in grasping the wire which, passing through the top of
the vault, was connected with the mechanism of the clock overhead, he
pulled it vigorously.

But the machinery moved not!

Then, for the first time during this eventful night, the highwayman
became appalled at the dangers on which he had entered.

Again he tugged at the wire; it snapped short close by the roof, and the
long piece thus broken off, fell at his feet.

"Damnation!" cried Rainford; and he stamped impatiently on the cold,
damp stones.

Suddenly it struck him that there might be one wire to move the clock
over the opening at the head of the iron ladder, and another wire to
move it away from that opening.

He accordingly began to feel with his hands for this second wire the
existence of which was suggested by his imagination; but at the end of a
minute he was compelled to admit to himself that it did indeed exist
only in imagination.

No such second wire was to be found!

He then hastily ascended the ladder, and endeavoured to hurl the clock
from off the opening which it covered: but the huge machine was as
solidly fixed there as if it had formed a portion of the vaulted roof
itself.

Escape seemed to grow every moment more hopeless; and now came the
appalling thought that Old Death and the Doctor would soon have had
sufficient time to repair from the house in Red Lion Street to that in
Turnmill Street, and thus secure against him the avenue covered by the
clock—even if it were not sufficiently secure already!

What was he to do?

Again and again he tried to force away the heavy clock: but there it
stood, immoveable—and when he paused to reflect, its steady, monotonous
ticking fell ominously upon his ears.

At length it struck him that he would retrace his way to the other
extremity—force up the trap-door leading to Old Death's bed-chamber—and,
with a pistol in each hand, dare every thing.

But what if that trap-door were secured on the other side?

No:—he remembered to have observed that there was not a bolt nor a bar
to break the level of its upper surface as it fitted in flush with the
floor.

Encouraged by the scintillation of hope that thus gleamed in upon him,
Rainford hurried back to the other end of the subterranean—ascended the
spiral staircase—grasped his pistols—and listened attentively.

All was still in the room above:—not the murmur of a voice—nor the
creaking of a footstep!

He then slowly and carefully drew back the bolt of the trap-door, and
tried to raise it.

But it moved not!

He applied additional force, under the impression that some heavy piece
of furniture might have been dragged over the trap: but still it was as
motionless as the thick, solid, substantial flooring in which it was
set.

Rainford returned the pistols to his pockets, so that nothing might
impede the application of all his strength to the task on which his
liberty depended: but no—the door moved not!

The highwayman bit his under lip almost till the blood started forth—for
he felt that his calmness was abandoning him.

Then how bitterly did he repent the course which he had adopted after
his interruption in the laboratory by the appearance of Doctor
Lascelles. Instead of trusting himself to that hideous subterranean, he
should have essayed an escape by means of the front rooms of the house.

Regrets were, however, useless:—he must act—and not waste time in
self-reproach!

Yes: he must act—if he would not die in that dreadful place, where the
vindictiveness of Old Death would be sure to leave him!

To act!—oh! how easy to think of acting!—But how _was_ he to put his
thought into execution?

A stone pavement beneath—stone walls on either side—a stone ceiling
overhead—at one end an avenue closed by a huge clock—at the other a
trap-door evidently secured on the outside,—these were the
obstacles—these were the barriers against which he had to contend.

And what were the implements within his power?

His two hands—a clasp-knife—and a pair of pistols!

Quick as lightning the idea flashed across him that the iron ladder at
the other extremity of the subterranean was moveable, and that it would
serve him as a battering-ram.

Rejoiced at this thought, he once more retraced his way along the
vaulted passage, and eagerly grasped the ladder.

His conjecture was right: it merely hooked on to two iron rings fixed
into the masonry just below the aperture covered by the clock; and,
heavy though it was, yet Rainford now bore it as easily as if it were of
wood—for renewed hope had rendered him strong and bold as a lion.

It was, however, somewhat difficult to drag the iron ladder up the
spiral staircase; but in a few minutes this portion of the task was
accomplished; and Rainford now prepared to assault the secret entrance
to Old Death's dwelling.

Placing himself in such a position that he might deal a vigorous blow
upwards with his ponderous engine, and then be able to seize his pistols
the instant they might be required, he went to work with a stout arm and
a still stouter heart.

Once—twice—thrice—and up swung the ladder:—that single blow was
sufficient—and the trap-door burst from its setting.

Quick as thought, Rainford seized his pistols, and thrusting up the
trap, ascended the last few steps of the spiral staircase.

Throwing back the carpet which had been replaced over the trap-door, he
found, to his infinite surprise, that there was no resistance to his
egress from that subterranean where, at one time, it seemed probable
that he was destined to find a tomb; and, gazing rapidly around the
room, he neither perceived Old Death nor the Doctor—nor indeed a single
living soul.

Recovering all his wonted calmness, he proceeded to examine the
trap-door, for the purpose of ascertaining how it had been secured
against him: and, on a close inspection, he observed a spring-bolt let
into the side of the trap-door in such a way that, when the trap was
closed, it neither appeared above nor below it. This bolt was either
held back within the wood, or made to fly into a hole made to receive it
in the beam against which the trap-door closed, by means of two screws
that could easily be pressed inwards. But the force of Rainford's
battering-ram had unsettled this artfully-contrived piece of mechanism.

It was clear that some one had secured the trap-door; because even if
the spring-bolt had flown into its socket by accident, still the carpet
could not have spread out of its own accord. Moreover, when Rainford had
retreated to the subterranean, he had heard footsteps and voices in Old
Death's room. It therefore struck him that those who had so secured the
trap-door, had departed to protect the avenue of escape in Turnmill
Street, in the confidence that the said trap-door was too strong to be
forced.

Nevertheless, it was necessary to guard against the possibility of an
ambuscade; and Tom held his pistols in a manner calculated to render
them instantaneously available.

He determined to proceed by way of the laboratory; but, on trying the
door, he found it locked.

Without an instant's hesitation he forced it open with one vigorously
applied blow of his foot: but here again he encountered no resistance.

Passing through the laboratory, he tried the door by which he had seen
Dr. Lascelles appear and disappear again so abruptly; and this time he
was spared the necessity of violent exertion,—for the door was not
locked.

He now entered a passage leading to a flight of stairs; down which he
hastened, and reached a kind of hall, from whence the street-door
opened.

But he did not immediately issue forth. He experienced an invincible
curiosity to ascertain if Old Death had in reality been released from
the state of bondage in which he had left him; and, forgetting the
terrible dangers whence he had escaped with so much difficulty, he
re-ascended the staircase.

The appearance of this part of the house was dirty and neglected.
Indeed, it afforded no evidence that the tenement was inhabited at all;
but conveyed quite the contrary impression. The fan-light above the
front-door was boarded over; and thus the hall itself was nearly dark,
the only light it enjoyed being admitted through the ill-closed joints
of the boarding just mentioned. The paper was falling away from the
walls of the staircase; and dust and dirt had accumulated wherever the
hand touched or the eye could penetrate.

On regaining the landing on the first-floor, Tom Rain tried a door
opposite to that by which he had issued from the laboratory; but it was
locked. He forced it open, and found himself, as he suspected he should,
in the very room where he had left Old Death; for that apartment had two
doors.

And, to his ineffable surprise, Old Death was still there,—still sitting
in the chair to which he had been fastened with a strong cord;—and that
cord had not been removed.

The head of the fence was bent forward, and hung—or rather drooped, upon
his breast.

The highwayman was alarmed, and hastened towards him.

But the moment he caught a glimpse of his features, he started back
horror-stricken,—and stupefied as it were by the hideous spectacle that
presented itself to his view.

For the old man's countenance was fearfully distorted, and nearly
black—the eyes protruded from their sockets, and seemed staring on
vacancy—and the under jaw had fallen.

"Holy God! he is dead!" ejaculated Rainford at length: "and I—I have
killed him!"

At that instant the door leading from the inner apartment was slowly and
cautiously opened; and the highwayman, yielding to a natural impulse,
turned and fled abruptly by the one communicating with the passage, and
which he had forced open a few moments previously.

This movement on his part was so sudden and so quickly executed, that he
did not perceive the person who was entering the room; but whether that
person observed him, or not, he was unaware.

Descending the stairs three or four at a time, the highwayman quitted
the house by the front door, and did not breathe freely until he had
closed it behind him and found himself at length in the open street.

Dauntless—daring as he was, the idea that he had caused, though
unintentionally, the death of the old fence, prostrated for a time the
powers of a naturally vigorous mind; and horror threw all his thoughts
into chaotic confusion.

He did not even pause a moment to examine, as well as the darkness of
the hour would have permitted him, the outward appearance of the house
which he had just left; but hurried away as quickly as he could go from
the vicinity of a place where he had seen and undergone so much in such
an incredibly short space of time.

For it was about one o'clock when he and Old Death had entered the house
in Turnmill Street; and Saint Paul's proclaimed the hour of three as
Rainford crossed Smithfield Market.




                            CHAPTER XXXIII.
                         MRS. MARTHA SLINGSBY.


The reader who is acquainted with the West End of the great metropolis
of the British Empire, cannot have failed to notice the air of gloomy
grandeur which characterises the aristocratic mansions of Old Burlington
Street.

The dingy brick-fronts—the massive doors, all of a sombre colour—the
windows, darkened by heavy hangings—and the dead silence which seems to
prevail within, produce upon the passer-by a strange and almost
melancholy effect.

There is nothing bustling—nothing cheerful in that street: on the
brightest day of summer its aspect is cold—mournful—prison-like.

It seems to be the last refuge of the aristocracy of the old
school,—that aristocracy which still clings to all its ancient
prejudices, its haughty notions, its exclusive pride,—an aristocracy
which finds its influence each day narrowing into a smaller compass, in
proportion as that of the masses expands around it.

And God grant that every thing in the shape of hereditary aristocracy
may shortly expire altogether—crushed by the weight of new interests and
modern civilisation!

In one of those gloomy-looking houses of Old Burlington Street dwelt
Mrs. Slingsby—a lady of about forty-two, but who, enhancing by art a
natural conservation of beauty truly miraculous in a female of her age,
seemed at least five or six years younger.

Her hair was very dark; and as she wore the sweetest French caps that
Parisian fashion could suggest, she was invested with that air which
bewilders the common observer between its admirable coquettishness and
its matronly sedateness.

Her complexion was clear and delicate; and a careful but regular use of
cosmetics concealed those incipient wrinkles which appeared at the
corners of the eye-lids. Her teeth were perfect, white, and even; and
her figure, though upon a large scale, was maintained in fine symmetry
by the skill of her dress-maker. She had naturally a splendid bust; and
as she usually wore very high dresses, she was the better enabled to
maintain its appearance of youthful firmness in spite of the prominent
expansion it had experienced as the lady herself increased in years.

Mrs. Martha Slingsby was the aunt of Mr. Clarence Villiers, the lover of
Adelais Torrens. When very young, she was sacrificed by her parents to a
gentleman double her age, and who had acquired a fortune while he lost
his health in India. Shortly after this union, circumstances compelled
Mr. Slingsby to return to Calcutta; and his youthful wife accompanied
him. There they remained about eight years, at the expiration of which
period Mr. Slingsby died of a broken heart, his immense wealth having
been suddenly and entirely swept away by the failure of a great
mercantile and banking establishment in the Anglo-Indian capital. Mrs.
Slingsby, however, found a friend in the person of Sir Henry Courtenay—a
baronet who had long held a high office in the Council of India, and who
was about to return to England, having relinquished the cares of
employment in the public service. He was upwards of fifty at that
period—a widower—but having a family of young children. The moment that
the misfortunes of Mrs. Slingsby were reported to him by a mutual
friend, Sir Henry proposed to her that she should enter his family to
supply, as far as possible, the attentions of the mother whom the
children had lost. This offer was gratefully accepted; and Mrs.
Slingsby, who had no offspring of her own, returned to England with the
baronet.

For some years after her arrival in London, she remained in the family
of Sir Henry Courtenay,—where she appeared to be treated as a near
relation, and not as a dependant. But when the boys and girls were old
enough to be placed at school, she removed to the house in Old
Burlington Street, in which we now find her. Rumour declared that she
was enabled to take so handsome an establishment, in consequence of the
sudden and unexpected recovery of a portion of that fortune which was
supposed to have been irretrievably swallowed up in the failure of the
bank at Calcutta, and the loss of which had broken her husband's heart.
At all events, she paid her way regularly—and was famed for her numerous
charities. Calumny had never assailed her; for she was so regular in her
religious duties—so retired in her mode of life—so ready to assist the
deserving poor—so constant in her donations to all humane and
philanthropic institutions—and so zealous a patroness of Missionary and
Bible Societies, that her neighbours looked upon her as a very pattern
of Christian virtue.

Between herself and the Courtenay family the most sincere attachment
appeared to exist. Whenever the young gentlemen and the young ladies
returned home for the holidays, they invariably passed a week with her
whom they almost looked upon as a mother; and Sir Henry himself, in
speaking of her to his friends, seemed to take a delight in eulogising
the manner in which she had performed her duty towards his children. The
consequence was that his relations and acquaintances echoed these
praises elsewhere; and Mrs. Martha Slingsby was quoted at the West End
as the perfect model of a good and excellent woman.

Thus, at the age of forty-two, Mrs. Slingsby had escaped that ordeal
through which so many beautiful widows are doomed to pass: we mean, the
whisperings of calumny. Not a breath had ever sullied her fame;—not a
hint had ever been dropped to her disparagement. Scandal seemed to avoid
her threshold as an evil spirit is supposed to recoil from the vicinity
of the temple of worship.

We must observe that Sir Henry Courtenay was now close upon
sixty-three—thirteen years having elapsed since Mrs. Slingsby had
entered his family in India. He was nevertheless a fine man, on whose
brow time seemed to sit lightly, considering how great a portion of his
mortal career was already run. It is true that he wore false teeth and
false hair; but art had rendered those substitutes so natural in
appearance, that few suspected they were really false. Elegant in his
manners—endowed with a mind which had treasured up the richest stores of
intellectual wealth—fascinating in his conversation—and evincing in his
attire the taste of a polished gentleman, Sir Henry Courtenay was one of
the brightest stars of the fashionable world—a favourite at Court—and
welcome in every gay circle.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon of that day which followed
the events related in the few preceding chapters, that Mrs. Martha
Slingsby was seated in her elegantly furnished drawing-room, revising
the list of her usual Christmas donations to the humane, philanthropic,
and religious Societies.

Adelais and Rosamond Torrens were seated one on each side of her, and
aiding their kind friend in her pious task.

Rosamond held in her hand a memorandum-book from which she read the
names of the various associations alluded to;—Mrs. Slingsby had a
cash-box open before her;—and Adelais made entries, according to this
lady's dictation, in another memorandum-book.

The two beautiful girls appeared to be the daughters of the elegant and
handsome woman who sate between them; and there was so much sweetness in
the countenances of all three—so much animation, and so much
modesty—that a painter would have been rejoiced to depict the group as
Charity dictating to Benevolence and Mercy.

"Proceed, dear Rosamond," said Mrs. Slingsby, when Adelais had finished
a note in her memorandum-book.

"_The Orphan Children's Free-School Association_, madam," read the young
maiden thus addressed; "and last year you gave ten guineas."

"This Christmas I shall subscribe fifteen, my loves," observed Mrs.
Slingsby, in a mild and silvery tone of voice. "There is no duty so
sweet—so holy as to contribute to the religious instruction of those
poor creatures who are deprived of their natural protectors. Besides,
the committee have manifested the most praiseworthy readiness to attend
to any suggestions which I may deem it right to offer. For instance, it
was the custom until lately to have three multiplication-table lessons
to only one Bible-reading; and this, you must admit, my loves, was very
indiscreet—I will not use a harsher term. But, in consequence of my
recommendation, the dear children have now _three_ Bible-readings to
_one_ multiplication-table lesson. Have you written down _fifteen
guineas_, my dear?" she inquired, turning towards Adelais.

A reply was given in the affirmative; and Mrs. Slingsby wrapped the
amount up in an elegant sheet of rose-coloured paper, and, having noted
in pencil the contents of the little packet, added it to several others
which were ranged before her on the table.

Rosamond then read the next item.

"_The Poor Authors' Assistance Fund_; and last year you gave five
guineas, madam."

"And this year I shall only send two, my loves," said Mrs. Slingsby.
"Authors and journalists are ruining the country, both politically and
morally, as fast as they can. They are writing _for_ the people, and
_against_ the aristocracy; and this, my loves, is a crying abomination.
Heaven forgive me for speaking in such harsh terms—so inconsistent with
pious meekness and Christian forbearance; but it would disturb the
patience of a saint to behold the attacks made by these men upon our
blessed Constitution—our holy Church, and its most necessary union with
the State—the prerogatives of our monarch—the rights of the upper
classes—the privileges of wealth—and all those institutions which were
perfected by the wisdom of our ancestors. Do you understand me, my
loves?"

"Oh! quite, madam," answered Adelais, who already began to look upon
liberal-minded authors and journalists as a set of incarnate fiends
banded against every thing worth preserving in society.

"Besides, my dear girls," added Mrs. Slingsby, "the _Poor Authors'
Assistance Fund_ does not publish a Report of its proceedings nor a list
of those who subscribe to it; and, under all circumstances, I think that
I should be acting more consistently with my duties as a Christian and
as an Englishwoman devoted to the blessed institutions of her happy
country, to decline any donation whatever to a Society encouraging
infidels and republicans. So you may draw a pen through the name,
Rosamond, love. There!—now my conscience is at rest. Which is the next
item?"

"_The Distressed Milliners' Friends Society_, madam," was the answer.

"That is another Association from which I must withdraw my patronage,"
observed Mrs. Slingsby, her countenance losing its serene placidity in
an air of severity. "You are too young and too pure-minded to understand
my motives, dear girls; but when I tell you that most of these
distressed milliners are very naughty women, you will perceive the
justice of my conduct. And then they endeavour to make their penury an
excuse for their turpitude! Oh! how wicked—how sinful is human nature,
my loves! Erase that name also, dear Rosamond. And now what is the
next?"

"_The South-Sea Island Bible-Circulating Society_, madam; and last year
you gave twenty guineas."

"That is indeed a blessed institution!" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby, turning
her eyes piously upward; "and it is to this Society's rooms that we are
going in the evening to hear that estimable man, Mr. Joshua Sheepshanks,
give an account of the mission from which he has just returned. I shall
increase my donation by five guineas in this instance."

Adelais accordingly wrote down thirty-five guineas, which sum was duly
wrapped up in rose-coloured paper and added to the other packets.

Rosamond then read the next item in her memorandum-book.

"_The Naked Savages General Clothing Association_; and last year——"

"Pardon me, dearest girl," said Mrs. Slingsby, "I cannot support that
Society any longer. There is in its title a word most offensive to the
ears of decency; and I do not know how I could have ever been prevailed
upon to lend it the countenance of my name and the aid of my purse.
Besides, I do not think the object of the institution is useful; for in
India one sees the natives of the lower orders in the country districts,
going about in a state bordering on nudity, and one gets so accustomed
to it that it produces no disagreeable effect whatever. The name of the
Association is decidedly indelicate; but there is nothing repulsive in
the fact of savages going about in a state of nudity. You may strike out
the item, Rosamond love."

"I have done so, madam. The next is, _The_——"

Rosamond was interrupted by a loud knock at the front-door, which
resounded through the house.

In a few moments Sir Henry Courtenay was announced.




                             CHAPTER XXXIV.
                            THE PIOUS LADY.


The baronet entered the room with a smiling countenance and a graceful
salutation.

"Pray be seated, ladies," he exclaimed, addressing himself to Adelais
and Rosamond, who had risen from their chairs. "My dear Mrs. Slingsby, I
need not inquire concerning your health—for you look quite charming this
morning."

"You know, Sir Henry, that I am not pleased by flattery," said the lady
in a reproachful tone.

"A thousand pardons, my dear madam," returned the baronet. "But you must
remember that we have now been acquainted for some years—that our
friendship is not only of yesterday's date—and that if I venture on a
little freedom with you, it is as a brother might address himself to a
sister for whom he has the highest esteem. Yes, ladies," he added,
turning towards Adelais and Rosamond, "this excellent woman—this almost
angel, as I may denominate her—was a mother to my children; and _that_
is a circumstance which I can never forget."

"You attach more importance than is necessary, Sir Henry, to the mere
performance of a duty," observed Mrs. Slingsby, in a calm and modest
manner.

Adelais and Rosamond exchanged glances, which seemed to say, "Admirable
woman! we already love her as much as if she were our maternal parent!"

"But I am afraid that I am interrupting an occupation of more value than
my idle chit-chat can possibly prove to be?" exclaimed Sir Henry, who
surveyed Rosamond with an ill-concealed admiration. "Some useful or
pious labour was engaging you, young ladies, no doubt;—for, in the
society of Mrs. Slingsby, not a moment is likely to be passed without
producing a benefit to at least some section of the great human family."

"The anniversary of that holy day on which the Saviour of Mankind
suffered on the cross, is approaching, Sir Henry," observed Mrs.
Slingsby, in a tone and manner suiting the solemnity of her remark; "and
you know that I am in the habit of forwarding my mite at this season of
the year to those humane, religious, or philanthropic institutions which
deserve support."

"I never forget any of those pious duties which you have taken upon
yourself, my dear madam," said the baronet. "And, indeed, the object of
my present visit is——But the act of charity of which I am desirous to
make you the instrument," he added, glancing towards the young ladies,
"involves details of so painful a nature, that——"

"I understand you, Sir Henry," interrupted Mrs. Slingsby; "and this
consideration for the feelings of those who are not accustomed to look
upon the dark side of the world's picture, is worthy of your generous
disposition. Adelais, my love—Rosamond, dearest—pray retire for a short
period."

[Illustration]

This request was conveyed in a manner so affectionate and with such
witching softness, that the maidens to whom it was addressed, could not
help embracing their kind friend ere they left the room.

The moment the door had closed behind them, Sir Henry drew his chair
close to that of Mrs. Slingsby, and, placing his arm round her waist,
imprinted a kiss of burning desire upon her lips.

"Martha, you are really surprisingly beautiful to-day," he whispered in
her ear.

"Do you think so, Henry?" she murmured, her eyes lighting up with the
excitement of that contiguity. "And yet I have fancied that your
behaviour has been somewhat cold towards me of late."

"Do not entertain such a suspicion, my dearest creature!" exclaimed the
baronet, plunging his hand into the bosom of this pious lady's dress.
"Had either of us a right to complain, I think it would be myself;
for——"

"Oh! do not reproach me, Henry!" she murmured, abandoning herself to his
lustful toyings. "But ever since the difficulty I experienced in
producing that last miscarriage, I have been so frightened lest——"

"Nonsense, Martha! do not alarm yourself without a cause," interrupted
the baronet. "Even if it did come to _that_, the matter could be easily
arranged. A few weeks' retirement into the country, on some charitable
mission—ha! ha!"

"True!" said the frail fair one. "But the chances of detection—oh! I
shudder when I think of it! Consider how admirably we have hitherto
managed——"

"And how completely the world is deceived in regard to us," added the
baronet, laughing. "There is nothing like a religious demeanour to throw
dust in people's eyes. Were a syllable of scandal breathed against you,
you have the patrons of all those humbugging Societies to defend you.
But what are you going to do with yourself this evening? Can you not
devote a few hours to me?"

"I wish I could, Henry," returned the lady; "but it is impossible! A
dreadful bore named Sheepshanks is going to entertain the devout with
his nonsense; and it would seem so odd—so very odd if I were not
present."

"It is now upwards of three weeks since we slept together," said the
baronet, in a tone of reproach.

"Yes—but you know that I cannot pretend too often to pass the entire
night by the sick-bed of some poor woman," returned Mrs. Slingsby. "And
now, dearest Henry, I have a favour to ask of you."

"Name it," said the baronet, in a low murmur—for his passions were
furiously excited by his voluptuous toyings with his mistress.

"You must write me a check for a thousand pounds," replied the lady,
winding her arms round his neck, and then literally glueing her lips to
his.

"Oh! you are becoming very extravagant, Martha," said the baronet. "But
I suppose I must yield——"

"You are a dear, generous fellow," murmured the lady, as she suffered
herself to be led to the sofa.

                  *       *       *       *       *

A quarter of an hour afterwards, Mrs. Slingsby rang the bell; and a
sleek, comfortable-looking footman answered the summons.

The lady was then sitting, in her usual quiet, placid manner, in a chair
near the table; and the baronet was placed at a respectful distance from
her.

"Bring up luncheon, James," said Mrs. Slingsby. "Sir Henry, you will
take a glass of champagne? I know you are somewhat partial to it. But a
decanter of water for me, James."

"Yes, madam;"—and the domestic withdrew.

In a short time he returned, bearing a tray, which he placed on the
table, and then retired again.

Having paid their respects to the cold viands placed before them, the
lady and gentleman did honour to the champagne, both drinking out of the
same glass, the servant having only brought up one of the description
suited to that particular wine.

When the collation was ended, Mrs. Slingsby drank a tumbler of water to
take away the smell of the champagne from her mouth; but she did not
appear to relish the limpid beverage quite so well as the rich juice of
Epernay.

The baronet then wrote the lady a cheque on his banker for a thousand
pounds; and, having made a certain little appointment with her for a
particular evening in the ensuing week, and at a place of _rendezvous_
as convenient as it was safe, he took his departure.

Immediately after Sir Henry had left the abode of Mrs. Slingsby, that
lady's housekeeper sought the presence of her mistress, and was
forthwith admitted to the private interview which she desired.

"What is it, Magdalen?" inquired Mrs. Slingsby, when the housekeeper
stood in her presence.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, to have any thing unpleasant for such ears as yours,"
was the answer; "but I am convinced that scullion-girl is in the
family-way."

"Magdalen!" ejaculated the pious lady, horrified at the mere idea. "Oh!
do not utter any thing so uncharitable!"

"I am sure of it, ma'am, I repeat," persisted the housekeeper. "In fact
I've had my suspicions about it for a long—long time; and now I'm
certain."

"Magdalen," said Mrs. Slingsby, in a tone of profound solemnity, "this
is a dreadful occurrence to take place in a house which, I may safely
assert, has never yet been tainted with the breath of scandal—at least
so long as I have occupied it. Are you sure that your conjecture is
right?"

"I would take my salvation oath that it is, ma'am," responded the
housekeeper.

"That expression on your part is incorrect, Magdalen," observed Mrs.
Slingsby, in a tone of mild reproach. "But I of course believe all you
tell me relative to that miserable—degraded girl. Let her be sent from
the house this minute, Magdalen—this very minute! Pay her any wages that
may be due to her, and inform her that her box shall be sent after her
to her parents, with a note acquainting them of the reason for her
abrupt discharge."

"She has no parents, ma'am—she is an orphan."

"But she has friends, no doubt?" said Mrs. Slingsby, inquiringly.

"No, ma'am: I took her from the workhouse, on the recommendation of
lady—a friend of yours, ma'am—who visits them kind of places on a
Sunday, distributing hymn-books."

"Disagreeable as the duty is, it must nevertheless be performed,
Magdalen. And that duty, so incumbent upon us, is to turn the lost girl
into the street. Pay her the wages——"

"She has nothing to receive, ma'am. I advanced her money to buy herself
decent clothes——"

"Then let her go away without any money—since she has none to receive,"
interrupted Mrs. Slingsby. "To give her a single shilling, were to
encourage her in that shameless career of profligacy whereon she has
already so far entered."

"Your orders shall be obeyed, ma'am," replied Magdalen; and she withdrew
to execute them—for she had a spite against the poor scullery-girl, who
had been intriguing with one of this over-particular housekeeper's own
lovers.

Shortly after this little occurrence which we have just related, Mr.
Clarence Villiers made his appearance in Old Burlington Street.

He found his aunt alone in the drawing-room; and, the moment he had paid
his respects to her, he inquired for his much-beloved Adelais and her
sister.

"They are safe and well, Clarence," answered Mrs. Slingsby. "But before
I summon them, it will be necessary that we should have a little
conversation relative to the proper and prudent course now to be
adopted. Sit down, Clarence, and grant me your attention."

The young man obeyed, and prepared to listen with all the patience he
could call to his aid; for much as he respected and really loved his
aunt—whom he looked upon as a pattern of moral excellence and virtue—he
nevertheless experienced the anxiety of a lover to find himself in the
presence of Adelais.

"I shall not detain you long, Clarence," resumed Mrs. Slingsby: "and it
is for your good that I am about to speak. In the first place, I feel it
due to myself to explain to you that, in receiving those young ladies
into my house the other evening—and at so late an hour—I was influenced
solely by that affection which I entertain towards you, and by my
conviction of your thorough integrity of purpose."

"The mere fact of my bringing those almost friendless girls to seek an
asylum with you, dear aunt," said Clarence, "must prove to you how
careful I was of their reputation."

"And it was to assist your upright views that I received them without a
moment's hesitation," added Mrs. Slingsby. "You know that if I had the
means, you should long ago have been put in possession of a sufficient
fortune to have enabled you to compete with Mr. Francis Curtis in
bidding with the mercenary Mr. Torrens for his daughter. But—although my
income is sufficient for my wants, and, thank heaven! for a few little
purposes of charity——"

"My dear aunt!" interrupted Villiers; "wherefore renew an explanation so
unnecessary?"

"Because I would not have you suppose, Clarence, that I would for an
instant sanction any underhand proceedings in respect to your union with
Miss Torrens, had it been possible to have ensured that aim by means of
her father's consent. But," continued Mrs. Slingsby, "I conceive that
there are so many extenuating features in the case, that I cannot regret
having granted an asylum to that dear girl and her sister, and in thus
securing them alike from the perils of London, and from the pursuit of
their father."

"Your kindness towards them will render their hearts as grateful as mine
is," exclaimed the young man warmly.

"During the few days that my house has become their home," continued
Mrs. Slingsby, "they have endeared themselves to me by their
affectionate dispositions—their tranquil habits—their readiness to
please—and a thousand amiable qualities; and therefore—for their own
sakes, as well as yours—I am ready to do all in my power to serve them.
But should Mr. Torrens happen to discover their abode, conceive the
scandal that would be created—the observations that would be excited!"

"My dear aunt, I would not for worlds compromise you in any way!"
ejaculated Clarence. "But still——"

"Do not fear that I am anxious to rid myself of their charming company,"
added Mrs. Slingsby. "I am only desirous that you yourself should adopt
due caution, so as to avoid being followed hither by any one who might
be employed by Mr. Torrens to watch you."

"No imprudence on my part shall mar the success of my plans," returned
Clarence. "The banns have been published at St. George's once
already—and next Sunday will be the second time! It is scarcely probable
that Mr. Torrens will become aware of this circumstance; and he
certainly would not, without any previous hint, conjecture that the
preliminaries for our union had been adopted in so fashionable a church
as that in Hanover Square," added Clarence, with a smile. "Let two more
Sundays pass without the abode of my Adelais being discovered, and she
will then become indissolubly mine!"

"Have you seen any more of your kind friend, who so generously took your
part the other evening?" inquired Mrs. Slingsby, after a pause.

"Captain Sparks!" exclaimed Clarence. "Not since I met him, as I before
informed you, at a tavern in the Strand——"

"Avoid taverns, my dear nephew!" interrupted Mrs. Slingsby, a cloud
overspreading her countenance; "for—by all I have ever heard or read
concerning them—they are fearful sinks of iniquity."

"Oh! not the respectable taverns, aunt," replied Villiers. "I had
purchased a very handsome pair of pistols to present to the Captain as a
token of my esteem; and then I recollected that I was totally
unacquainted with his address. I flew to the great army-agents at
Charing Cross; but there was no such name as Captain Sparks in the List.
Well—I thought he might be in the Navy, and off I went to the Admiralty;
but no Captain Sparks! I therefore considered it fortunate when I
accidentally met him in a tavern which I entered to procure some
refreshment. He positively refused to accept the pistols—declaring that
he had done nothing more than I should have done for him under similar
circumstances. But I thought there was something singular in the merry
laugh which burst from his lips, when I proffered the case containing
the pistols. However, he is an excellent-hearted fellow—and I shall
always hold myself his debtor. We walked together, on that occasion, as
far as my own lodgings in Bridge Street, and he entertained me with a
perfect fund of anecdote all the time. Indeed, I am as much pleased with
him, as I feel myself under an obligation to him."

"Gratitude is a rare virtue in this world," remarked Mrs. Slingsby, who
seldom lost an opportunity of letting drop a moral maxim. "And now," she
continued, with a smile, "having taxed your patience to such an extent,
I must give you the well-merited reward. My kind and generous friend,
Sir Henry Courtenay, has advanced me a certain sum of money, one half of
which I require for charitable purposes of my own; but the other I place
at your disposal, to enable you to hire and furnish a suitable dwelling
to receive your bride. Take this cheque, and to-morrow you can bring me
my moiety."

"Oh! my dear aunt, have you borrowed of your friends to assist me?"
exclaimed Clarence, overwhelmed by so much apparent generosity.

"Not entirely to assist you, my dear nephew," was the calm reply; "but
partly, as you perceive, for myself. However,—say no more about the
trifle which I present to you; and reward me by making a good use of
it."

Clarence embraced his relative: Adelais and Rosamond were then summoned;
and the lovers were soon happy in each other's society.

We must now afford the reader some explanation relative to Mrs.
Slingsby's behaviour towards her nephew: and, in so doing, we shall
throw additional light upon the character of this lady.

She was of a crafty—calculating disposition, and seldom performed any
act, however trivial, without a selfish motive. The fact was that she
had a very difficult part to play. Devoured with raging desires, she was
compelled to adopt a calm, modest, and reserved exterior, and to conceal
her debauchery beneath the cloak of religion. Sir Henry Courtenay was
necessary to her in more ways than one: necessary as a lover—and
necessary as a treasurer, for she was totally dependent upon him in a
pecuniary sense. The report relative to the recovery of a portion of her
late husband's fortune, was a mere fabrication to account for her
comfortable mode of life. Still she considered her position to be so
dangerous, that she was compelled to fortify it by all possible means.
She really loved her nephew—for it often occurs that women of her
description are capable of a strong attachment of this nature:—but even
had she entertained no regard for him at all, she would have pretended
to do so—because he was necessary to her. He was a means by which she
could constantly trumpet forth her "charitable deeds," while she herself
appeared unconscious that they ever transpired. Taking good care that he
should know all she did in the cause of religion or humanity, she led
him to believe in a great many things which she did not do; and the
consequence was that Clarence was never wearied of repeating, wherever
he went, those praises which he conscientiously considered to be his
aunt's due.

Now, when a near _relation_ corroborates the statements made by
_friends_, those statements receive a weight which places them beyond
the pale of disbelief. Thus the world read Mrs. Slingsby's character as
Clarence himself read it and reported it; and with such an amount of
testimony in her favour, she could defy scandal. Even the most
maliciously-inclined dared not venture a shake of the head, nor a shrug
of the shoulder; for "surely her own nephew must know whether she were
as good as she was represented? Relations seldom praise each other
behind their backs; and when a dashing young fellow, like Clarence, was
so enthusiastic in praise of his aunt, it was that he was thoroughly
convinced of the sterling merit of her character?" Such would have been
the arguments opposed to any detractive observations that scandal might
dare to let drop concerning Mrs. Slingsby.

The lady, finding her nephew so necessary to her interests, naturally
sought not only to maintain the most complete deception relative to
herself in his mind, but also to attach him towards her by substantial
acts of kindness. Thus she had readily consented to receive Adelais and
Rosamond into her house, to oblige Clarence; and she now, with the same
interested motive, made him a handsome pecuniary present. She let him
know that she had been compelled to borrow the money (in advance of her
imaginary income), to enhance the value of the gift, and also that the
natural impression should arise in his mind—"Excellent aunt! she
embarrasses herself to benefit me!"

The reader now fully understands how complete a mistress of
duplicity—hypocrisy—and deceit was the widow of Old Burlington Street.
Beneath that calm and placid demeanour—under that veil of sanctity—raged
the most ardent lusts, and agitated the most selfish feelings. She was a
living—walking—breathing lie. Her existence was one immense falsehood;
and yet so well did she maintain the semblance of even the sternest
virtue, that her real character was known only to two persons—Sir Henry
Courtenay, and another whom it is not at present necessary to name.




                             CHAPTER XXXV.
                            MR. SHEEPSHANKS.


In a large room, on a first-floor in St. Martin's Lane, some three or
four hundred persons, male and female, were assembled.

At one end of the apartment was a raised platform, in the middle of
which stood a capacious arm-chair behind a desk; and on the said
platform several sleek, oily, comfortable-looking gentlemen, all dressed
in black, and wearing white cravats with no shirt-collars, were grouped
together in conversation.

The body of the room was occupied by chairs for the accommodation of
those who had "front-seat tickets," and forms for those who possessed
"back-seat tickets."

It is a remarkable fact that the votaries of the Established Church
invariably create social distinctions in the very places instituted to
propagate or maintain their creed. Thus every church belonging to the
"Establishment" has its pews for the rich and its pauper-seats; and in
the assembly-rooms of the religious associations the same distinction is
drawn between aristocracy and democracy. And these lines of demarcation
are traced by men practising—or rather pretending to practise—a religion
which proclaims that all are equal in the eyes of God!

Oh! the vile hypocrisy of these canting psalm-singers!

The room to which we have introduced our readers, was well lighted with
wax-candles, and had two cheerful fires blazing away in the grates.

The atmosphere was warm—there were no unpleasant draughts—and the floor
was covered with a thick drugget;—for your religious people are mightily
fond of comfort; and comfort was certainly studied at the offices of the
_South Sea Islands Bible-Circulating Society_.

In the second row of the "front-seat ticket" department, sate Mrs.
Slingsby and the Misses Torrens. The two latter had their veils
carefully drawn over their faces; for Mrs. Slingsby had insisted upon
their accompanying her to this "pious and soul-refreshing
entertainment," as they had not previously stirred out of doors from the
moment they had taken up their abode with her.

At a quarter-past six o'clock, two ushers, bearing white wands, passed
up the room, preceding a short, stout, brandy-faced gentleman, who tried
to look as demure and humble as he could, but who could not, however,
subdue that consciousness of importance which seems to say, "Ah! now I
am causing a sensation!"

And a sensation, too, he produced, sure enough; for the gentlemen began
clapping their hands and stamping on the floor, while the ladies waved
their handkerchiefs as if he were some victorious general who had just
defeated a French army of a hundred thousand men.

Upon reaching the platform, the brandy-faced gentleman shook hands with
the sleek and oily individuals before alluded to; and the "sensation"
became more exciting on the part of the spectators, as if it were a very
clever thing indeed to shake hands in public.

Then the brandy-faced man stepped a few paces back, and pretended to
enter into very earnest conversation with some leading member of the
Committee, while another member moved, in a drawling sing-song tone,
"that their respected President, Mr. Jonathan Pugwash, do take the
chair."

This proposal was received with renewed applause; and the brandy-faced
gentleman (for he it was who delighted in the euphonious name of
Pugwash) started as if quite astonished that such an honour should have
been destined for him. He then proceeded to establish himself in the
large arm-chair before mentioned; and in a voice which sounded as if he
were talking inside a barrel, called upon "their respected friend, the
Reverend Malachi Sawkins, to open the meeting with prayer."

Mr. Sawkins—a very demure-looking man indeed—proceeded to drawl out a
long extempore prayer, in the course of which he led his audience to
infer that heaven favoured that particular Society more than all others;
and when he had concluded, the chairman rose to explain the object of
the extraordinary assembly that evening, although the said object was
already well known to every individual present—aye, and to every soul
who, passing up or down St. Martin's Lane, might choose to stop and
peruse the enormous bills placarded at the entrance.

Mr. Jonathan Pugwash commenced by expressing his thanks for the high
honour done him by selecting him to preside over that meeting—an honour
the more distinguished, inasmuch as it had been perfectly unexpected on
his part. [_This was completely false, it having been settled in
Committee three days previously that he was to preside on this occasion;
but your zealots do not mind a white lie at times._] He was well aware
of his own unworthiness (_Cries of "No! no!"_): yes—he _was_ an unworthy
vessel—but he hoped the Lord would sustain him in the onerous duty
thrust upon him. (_"Amen!" in a hollow, sepulchral tone from the Rev.
Malachi Sawkins._) He thanked the ladies and gentlemen—or he should
rather say his Christian sisters and brethren present, for the kind—the
handsome—the feeling manner in which they had contradicted his expressed
belief of his own unworthiness. (_Cheers, and "Go it, Pugwash!" from a
drunken gentleman in a remote corner of the room._) He need scarcely
inform the highly respectable and influential meeting then and there
assembled, that the object of such assembly on that occasion was to hear
certain accounts of the progress of the good cause, from the lips of a
revered brother (_cheers_) who had just returned (_renewed
cheers_) from a long (_more cheering_)—arduous (_prolonged
cheering_)—and most perilous (_vociferous cheering_)—mission
to the islands of the South Seas (_tremendous cheering,
mingled with "Bravo!" from the drunken gentleman in the remote
corner._) He need scarcely say that he alluded to their
dear—venerated—respected—highly-prized—gifted—talented—persevering
friend, Mr. Sheepshanks! (_Cheers._) With these few observations, he
would introduce Mr. Sheepshanks to the meeting. (_Prolonged cheering._)

The chairman sate down in an awful state of perspiration; but, in
another moment he rose again; for a little door at the back of the
platform had just been opened by one of the ushers—and behold! Joshua
Sheepshanks appeared before the enraptured spectators.

It would be impossible to describe the enthusiasm which now prevailed in
the room. The cheering was tremendous—the waving of the ladies'
handkerchiefs created a perfect gale of chill air—and the drunken
gentleman in the corner shouted so vociferously that one old lady who
sate near him would certainly have fainted (as she subsequently
observed) if another old lady next to her had not happened, "by the
merest accident in the whole world," to have a small flask of cognac in
her muff, and most charitably to place the said flask at her disposal.

Mr. Sheepshanks was a tall, thin, sallow-faced man, with black hair
combed sleekly over his forehead, and sharp, piercing grey eyes, which
seldom settled anywhere—but when they did, it happened (singularly
enough!) that they were sure to fix themselves on the prettiest faces in
the room.

Order being restored, Mr. Sheepshanks rose to address the audience.
Having expressed his gratitude for the truly Christian reception he had
received, he entered upon the subject so dear to all who had the good
cause at heart. He stated that in the year 1823 the Committee of the
Society had determined to send a missionary to some of the South Sea
Islands to pave the way for the effectual carrying out of the objects of
the Association. A sum of five hundred pounds was voted for the purpose;
and he (Mr. Sheepshanks) had offered himself as a willing sacrifice to
the good cause, although, as he perfectly well knew, at the risk of
being roasted and eaten by the savages amongst whom he was to venture.
Understanding that a French ship was to sail for the South Seas, from
Cherbourg, on an exploring expedition, he had repaired to that port, and
had taken a passage in the vessel alluded to. In due time, and after
experiencing tremendous weather, the ship touched at the Cape of Good
Hope, and thence proceeded towards the southern islands. "It was on the
14th of March, 1824," continued Mr. Sheepshanks, "that we anchored off
the beautiful island of Squizzle-o-Koo; and I fell on my knees on the
deck, to return thanks to that Providence which had at length brought me
within sight of the scene of my labours. A refreshing influence came
over me; and my heart leapt, like a porpoise on the wide waters, at the
cheering thought that I was about to render myself useful amongst the
benighted savages so near at hand. A boat was lowered; and the captain,
the third mate, the purser, and myself were rowed ashore. I was provided
with my Bible; the captain and the mate took with them quantities of
looking-glasses, buttons, and toys; and the ungodly purser armed himself
with a bottle of rum."

An awful groan burst from the Rev. Mr. Sawkins, whereat Mr. Pugwash, who
had fallen asleep, woke up.

"Yes—dear Christian friends," exclaimed Mr. Sheepshanks; "a bottle of
rum!"

"And no fool he!" cried the drunken gentleman in the corner.

"Order! order!" vociferated Mr. Pugwash, rubbing his eyes.

At this crisis, a gentleman of foreign appearance, well-dressed, and
adorned with a pair of very fierce moustachios, advanced from the body
of the room towards the platform; but at every three steps he took, he
paused for a few moments to examine Mr. Sheepshanks with strict scrutiny
by the aid of an eye-glass. At first he seemed uncertain relative to
some idea which had entered his head; but the nearer he approached the
platform, and the more closely he examined Mr. Sheepshanks, the fainter
became his doubts and the stronger his suspicions.

At last—just as the missionary was about to resume the history of his
adventures in respect to the island of Squizzle-o-Koo—the foreign
stranger leaped upon the platform, confronted the pious gentleman, and
said in an ironical tone, "How you do, Monsieur Shipshang? me vare much
delight to see you dis vonce again."

Mr. Sheepshanks seemed confounded at the sudden apparition of the
foreign gentleman: but, speedily recovering his self-possession, he
said, "Really, sir, you have the advantage of me. But if you will step
into the private office—behind there—for a short time, I——"

"Oh! yes—you really have de advantage on me, Monsieur Shipshang,"
interrupted the foreigner; "but you no get it again, do you see? How do
Madame Shipshang, and de little Shipshang as was born at my house?"

"This gentleman, sir," said the Reverend Mr. Sawkins, addressing the
foreigner in a tone of awful solemnity, and pointing towards Mr.
Sheepshanks, "is not married and has no children. His life is devoted to
celibacy and good works."

"Good works!" ejaculated the Frenchman: "den vot for he come and swindle
me——"

"Oh!" groaned the Reverend Mr. Sawkins, holding up his hands in horror
at the supposed baseness of the imputation against the most savoury
vessel of the whole Society.

"Oh!" reverberated in a long echoing groan throughout the room; for, as
the reader may suppose, this strange scene had excited a powerful
sensation amongst all present.

"Ah! it all vare well," exclaimed the Frenchman, indignant at the awful
groaning with which his words were received; "but let dis fellow
Shipshang look me in de face, and——"

"Call in a constable!" roared Mr. Pugwash, the chairman.

"Give the Frenchman fair play!" cried several voices.

"Dat is all me do ask of de British public," said the Frenchman.

But while he turned to address those words to the audience, Mr.
Sheepshanks disappeared with remarkable abruptness by the private door
at the back of the platform.

"Where's our reverend brother?" demanded Mr. Pugwash, looking anxiously
around.

"I am afraid he must be taken ill," returned Mr. Sawkins. "I will go and
see."

And this reverend gentleman followed the pious missionary.

The Frenchman then proceeded to acquaint the audience that he kept an
hotel at Cherbourg, where Mr. Sheepshanks arrived at the beginning of
the year 1823; that the reverend gentleman continued to reside with him
for upwards of ten months, spending money as profusely as if he
possessed the purse of Fortunatus; that at the expiration of that period
Mr. Sheepshanks departed, but returned at the end of a month,
accompanied by a lady whom he represented to be his wife, and who
presented him with a pledge of her affection some eleven months
afterwards; that Mr. Sheepshanks and the lady, with the child, continued
to honour the hotel with their presence until the middle of the year
1826, when they suddenly evaporated, leaving behind them a heavy bill
unpaid and a portmanteau full of stones and straw; that business had
brought the Frenchman to London, and curiosity had induced him to enter
that assembly upon reading the placard, wherein the euphonious name of
Sheepshanks prominently figured, at the door.

This narrative produced, as may be supposed, an extraordinary sensation
amongst the saints gathered together on this occasion.

And no wonder! Was it, then, all a fabrication relative to Mr.
Sheepshanks' visit to the South Sea Islands? Had he never proceeded
farther than Cherbourg? were the funds of the Society lavished in
riotous living and on a mistress? was it the better to carry out the
deception that he had pretended to sail in a French ship, instead of an
English one? was he, in a word, an unmitigated impostor? and were all
the members of the Society his dupes?

These opinions seemed to be confirmed, when the Reverend Mr. Sawkins
came back with the astounding intelligence that Mr. Sheepshanks was
nowhere to be found in any part of the Society's offices.

Mrs. Slingsby was overwhelmed with grief, and her two fair companions
with astonishment; and as they rode home in a hackney-coach, the pious
widow never ceased from dilating on the tremendous injury which the
"good cause" would receive from the exposure of the flagrant turpitude
of Mr. Sheepshanks.




                             CHAPTER XXXVI.
                     THE BARONET AND HIS MISTRESS.


On the following day—at about twelve o'clock, and somewhat to the
surprise of Mrs. Slingsby, who did not expect to see him so soon
again—Sir Henry Courtenay paid the lady a visit.

She happened to be alone when he was announced; and there was a
constraint—amounting almost to an embarrassment—in his manner which she
immediately perceived, and which alarmed her.

"Has any thing happened, Henry?" she inquired anxiously, as he took a
seat at some distance from her.

"Nothing, Martha—nothing," answered the baronet. "But I wish to have
some very particular conversation with you."

"I am all attention," she said, her suspense increasing.

"Now do not be frightened," exclaimed Sir Henry. "Nothing has happened
to annoy either you or me; but what I am about to propose to you, is
rather of an embarrassing nature—and——"

"Then pray be quick and let me know what brings you hither this
morning," said the lady, somewhat impatiently.

"Have patience!" cried the baronet. "The fact is I have taken a fancy in
a certain quarter—and, though I have striven hard to wrestle against it,
it is every hour growing more powerful than my opposition."

"What _do_ you mean? what _can_ you mean?" asked the widow, completely
bewildered.

"Why do you receive into your house two young ladies of a beauty so
ravishing——"

"Henry! is it possible?" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby, a light suddenly
breaking in upon her mind.

"It is very possible that I should feel an unconquerable—an invincible
passion for Rosamond Torrens," added the baronet, growing bolder now
that the ice was fairly broken.

"And you tell me this to my face!" murmured the widow, in a hollow tone,
while her countenance became purple with a rage which she dared not
suffer to explode.

"It is expressly to you that I am compelled to make the avowal," was the
deliberate reply; "since it is at your hands that I expect assistance."

"At my hands!" almost shrieked the widow.

"Beware how you alarm the house!" said the baronet. "You will do much
better to listen to me attentively."

"Proceed," gasped Mrs. Slingsby.

"You are well aware that there are certain natures which cannot master
their inclinations, however strenuously they may endeavour to do so,"
resumed Sir Henry Courtenay, drawing his chair closer to that on which
his mistress was seated. "You yourself are of such a disposition—and I
am not less so. It would have been impossible for you to remain chaste:
your passions are of that ardour which must be gratified—or they would
consume you."

"Wherefore this strange expatiation upon my failings?" inquired the
widow bitterly.

"Simply to prove an extenuation for myself," was the response. "I have
seen Rosamond but three times, and have not spoken a dozen words to her;
and yet I am maddened with desire—devoured with cravings which the
possession of her can alone assuage. I again assure you that I have
essayed to conquer these feelings, for my sake—for hers—but principally
for _yours_,—and all in vain! I do not love you the less—I shall not
neglect you on her account. And, as a woman of the world," he added,
fixing his eyes in a penetrating manner upon her countenance, as if to
read the impression his words made on her mind,—"as a woman of the
world, I repeat, you cannot imagine that it is possible for me always to
remain faithful to you!"

"At least you are candid with me," observed the widow, her tone
expressing bitter irony.

"That is the great merit of my present avowal," said the baronet calmly.
"But how foolish you are to manifest so much annoyance. You are well
aware that I cannot subdue my feelings, nor control my passions more
than yourself; and it will be better for you to assist me——"

"Assist you in debauching that young girl—the sister of her whom my
nephew is to marry!" ejaculated Mrs. Slingsby.

"Listen, Martha," exclaimed Sir Henry. "I have formed this sudden
caprice—or whim—or whatever you may choose to term it; and I will spare
no money and no trouble to accomplish my purpose. A man with twenty
thousand a-year can afford a trifle to gratify his wishes in this or any
other respect."

"But the idea is perfectly insane!" cried the widow. "Even if I were to
consent to aid you in your purpose, the result must inevitably involve a
fearful exposure."

"Not at all," replied the baronet. "The means are easy, and can be
rendered perfectly secure. I gave you a thousand pounds yesterday—the
largest sum you have ever yet had from me at one time; and I will
present you with a cheque for _two_ thousand more the day that Rosamond
becomes mine."

"You would not marry her?" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby, in a tone of
unconcealed alarm.

"Yes—rather than not possess her," replied the baronet.

"Oh! this is truly absurd!" said the widow. "What! so powerful an
attachment towards a young girl whom you have only seen three times!"

"Strange as it may appear, it is nevertheless a fact!" cried Sir Henry.
"But there is a wide difference between the feelings I entertain towards
you and her. You are necessary to me, to a certain extent—because you
are an agreeable companion as well as a desirable woman. She is a mere
child—but a very beautiful one; and, moreover, the sudden fancy I have
taken for her is so strong that I cannot resist it. You see that my
resolution is fixed. With or without your aid, I prosecute my purpose."

"If you are really so determined——"

"I am," said the baronet.

"Then I must assist you in this dangerous—difficult proceeding," added
Mrs. Slingsby, somewhat consoled by the idea of the two thousand pounds
that were to find their way into her purse as the price of her services.
"But when I reflect on the matter, I behold a thousand perils from which
I recoil. Were an exposure to take place, the entire fabric of—of——"

"Hypocrisy," suggested the baronet. "You and I need not mince words
together."

"Well—hypocrisy," continued the lady, "would be thrown down—and I should
stand revealed to the world in the most dreadful colours. Then, the real
nature of _our_ connexion would be instantly perceived——"

"But all these terrible evils are to be avoided by prudence,"
interrupted the baronet. "I am not more anxious for exposure than
yourself; nor should I wish to compromise you. Our amour has existed for
years—and the world suspects it not, even in the most distant manner:—we
will contrive to retain the veil over it until the end."

"Then how do you wish me to proceed?" inquired the widow, with a cold
shudder, as she thought of the perils attending the undertaking.

"By operating on the mind—by modelling the imagination of that young
girl to suit my purpose," answered Sir Henry. "With a woman of the world
like you, this is an easy task. Insinuate certain notions into her
bosom—inflame her—excite her——"

"This is more difficult than you imagine," interrupted Mrs. Slingsby:
"because she and her sister are constantly together."

"Devise a means to employ Adelais in one room for two or three hours at
a time, while you have Rosamond with you in another," said Sir Henry.
"If you enter on the task with a good will, you will find it easy
enough."

"But in ten days Adelais will become the wife of Clarence; and the
sisters, accompanied by him, will repair to Torrens Cottage to throw
themselves at the feet of the incensed father. Rosamond will then quit
my house altogether."

"Ten days are sufficient to imbue her now innocent mind with such new
sensations—such voluptuous thoughts—such eager desires, that her
surrender will be easy and certain," persisted the atrocious villain,
who thus calmly reasoned on the means of undermining so much virtue.

"I do not think so," observed Mrs. Slingsby. "If I proceed too rapidly,
I shall alarm her, instead of inflaming her imagination. Besides, you
judge the world by what you yourself are, and by what you know of me.
But, frail and guilty as I am, Henry," she added in an impressive tone,
"believe me when I declare my conviction that more virtue is to be found
in woman than you would be inclined to suspect."

Sir Henry laughed heartily at this observation; then, rising from his
seat, he took up his hat, saying, "At all events, dearest Martha, act so
that I may present you with the cheque as soon as possible."

He kissed her, and departed from the house, chuckling at the success of
his endeavour to make his mistress the instrument of his diabolical
design against the pure—the beautiful—the unsuspecting Rosamond.




                            CHAPTER XXXVII.
                          TOM RAIN AND JACOB.


It was Saturday evening; and Rainford was proceeding up Gray's Inn Lane,
wrapped in his white great coat, and with a woollen "comforter" reaching
up almost to his nose, when he suddenly felt some one pull him by the
sleeve.

He turned round, and, by the light of a lamp, beheld the lad Jacob.

"Well, you young rascal!" exclaimed Tom—but with an anger more affected
than real, for he was not a man to cherish vindictive feelings towards
an enemy so utterly unworthy his resentment as that pale, weak, and
sickly boy: "I wonder you have the face to accost me, after joining in
that abominable scheme to intrude upon the privacy of my dwelling three
or four nights ago."

"I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Rainford," said the lad: "for you
_must_ know," added he emphatically, "it wasn't altogether my fault. I
was bound to obey the man who gave me food. But do you know, sir, what
has become of _him_? Oh! Mr. Rainford—I am well aware that he _did_
deserve punishment at your hands; but—pray forgive me—I hope——"

"You hope that I did not kill him?" said the highwayman in a deep,
hollow-toned voice. "Why—do you suppose that I am a likely person to
commit murder—intentionally?"

"Oh! no—no," replied the boy. "And yet——"

"And yet what?" asked Rainford.

"And yet it is so strange that he should never have been seen at any of
his usual haunts," added Jacob.

"Come along with me," said Rainford abruptly. "We cannot stand talking
in the street—and I want to have some conversation with you. But do you
know any place close at hand—any public-house, I mean—where we could
have a private room for an hour or so?"

"Yes, sir," replied Jacob, after a moment's reflection. "This way."

He turned abruptly down into a narrow, dark, dirty thoroughfare, called
Baldwin's Gardens, and conducted the highwayman into a low public-house,
where, upon inquiry, they were immediately accommodated, with a private
room on the second floor.

Rainford ordered the fire to be lighted and a bottle of wine to be
brought up; and when these instructions were complied with, he renewed
the conversation with Jacob.

"And so nothing has been heard of Old Death?" he said, in as tranquil a
manner as he could assume.

"Nothing," replied Jacob. "A man named Josh Pedler called at Bunce's
this morning early, and wanted to see Mr. Bones, on account of a thief,
known as Tim the Snammer, who was to go up before the magistrate to-day;
and it appears that Mr. Bones had promised to get him off. Pedler was in
a dreadful way when he heard that we hadn't seen any thing of the old
man for two or three days; and he swore that it was all a hoax, and that
Bones wanted to stick to the money that had been paid him, and shirk the
job. Then comes a girl about an hour afterwards; and she said she was
Tim the Snammer's wife—Mutton-faced Sal they call her;—and a deuce of a
rumpus she made also."

"Do you know a person called Tidmarsh?" demanded Rainford, after a few
moments' reflection—for he was anxious to learn if the boy were
acquainted with the establishments in Turnmill and Red Lion Streets.

"I know him by name very well—and that's all," replied Jacob. "He is a
fence, and lives somewhere in Clerkenwell. But pray tell me, Mr.
Rainford, if you know what has become of the old man."

"I can tell you nothing about him, my boy," said the highwayman. "Surely
he was not so very kind to you——"

"He kind! Oh! no—far from that!" cried Jacob, in a tone of evident
sincerity. "But I was so dependant on him, that—unless I turn thief
again—as I once was——"

He stopped short, and burst into tears.

"My poor lad," said Tom Rain, affected by this ebullition of grief on
the part of the wretched boy, "if you are afraid of wanting bread, you
may banish those alarms—at least for the present."

And he threw a handful of sovereigns upon the table.

"Are these for me?" cried Jacob, scarcely able to believe his eyes.

"Yes—every one of them," answered the highwayman. "But on this
condition—that you tell me how Old Death discovered my _late_ abode in
Lock's Fields, and what was his object in entering it along with you and
that sneaking fellow, Toby Bunce."

"I will tell you all—everything I know, Mr. Rainford," exclaimed Jacob.
"But," he added slowly, "you will find that I do not deserve this
kindness at your hands."

"I can scarcely blame you for obeying the person on whom you were
dependant," said the highwayman. "Come—gather up the money, and make
haste with your information."

As Jacob secured the gold about his person, his dark eyes were lighted
up, and his cheeks were flushed with a glow of animation.

"I can tell you much more than you suppose, Mr. Rainford," he resumed in
a few moments; "and if I begin at the proper place, what I have to say
will go farther back than the affair the other night in Lock's Fields."

"Then begin with the beginning, Jacob," said Tom, lighting a cigar.
"There—drink another glass of wine; and now fire away. But mind and tell
me nothing save the truth; for I shall soon see if you are deceiving
me."

"I won't deceive you, Mr. Rainford," cried the boy; "and will soon
convince you that I am in earnest. Besides, it is my interest to make a
friend of you—even if it wasn't my inclination. And now to begin. You
remember the morning you was had up at Bow Street? Well—Old Death had
told me to watch you when you came out of Tullock's—to dog you about—to
find out where you lived and any thing else I could glean concerning
you."

"What was that for?" demanded Tom.

"He did not tell me _then_," answered Jacob; "but I have ascertained
since—and you will be able to guess by and bye. Well, I _did_ follow you
that morning—I saw you nabbed by Dykes, the runner—and I went up to
Bunce's to tell Old Death what had happened. Then he cut off to Watkins
and Bertinshaw, who came and bailed you. I was ordered to watch about
the police-court, and see where you went to; and I followed you to Pall
Mall—then I dogged you back again—and when the Jewess's case was over, I
lost sight of you somehow or another."

[Illustration]

"And you duly made your report to Old Death?" said Tom inquiringly.

"Of course," replied Jacob. "Two or three days afterwards I was set to
watch you again, when you left Bunce's one afternoon; and I followed you
down to an eating-house in the Strand. You stayed there about two hours;
and at length you came out with a tall, handsome young gentleman——"

"Ah! I recollect!" cried the highwayman: "it was Clarence Villiers. But
go on, my boy."

"I only mention all these little things to convince you that I am
telling the exact truth," said Jacob. "Well—from the Strand I followed
you and the gentleman as far as Bridge Street, Blackfriars, where you
parted. I dogged you, Mr. Rainford, over to the Elephant and Castle
Tavern, where you met a lady and the little boy——"

"Yes—Charley Watts!" ejaculated the highwayman, gradually becoming more
interested in Jacob Smith's narrative, because each successive step
thereof afforded fresh evidence of its truth.

"You joined the lady and the little boy," continued Jacob; "and when you
all stopped for a short time at the window of a jeweller's shop, the
lady lifted up her veil—and I knew her again."

"Ah!" cried Tom, with a sudden start.

"Yes, sir,—I recognised Miss Esther de Medina——But are you angry, sir?
have I said anything to offend you?"

"No—no, Jacob," returned the highwayman, the cloud which had gathered
upon his countenance suddenly disappearing. "Go on, my boy."

"Then I saw you take the lady and the little boy into the shop, and you
bought a pair of ear-rings, which you gave to the lady; and as you came
out again, I heard you say to her, '_This present is a kind of
recompense for the diamonds which I made you give up_,'—or something to
the same meaning."

"Yes—I remember that I did make use of those or similar words!" cried
Rainford. "But how the deuce did it happen that I never once caught a
glimpse of you?"

"Oh! sir—I acted with so much caution," replied the lad; "and then you
did not suspect that you was watched."

"True!" said Tom thoughtfully. "And of course you reported all this to
Old Death?"

"I followed you on to Lock's Fields, and then returned to Seven Dials,
where I told Mr. Bones and Mrs. Bunce all I had seen and heard."

"And what did they say? Tell me every thing, Jacob," exclaimed the
highwayman.

"They seemed very much surprised to think that you and Miss Esther were
intimate together——"

Jacob suddenly paused—for again did a dark cloud overspread Tom Rain's
countenance.

"Go on, Jacob," he said, observing that the lad was alarmed. "I am
subject to a sudden pain——but it is nothing at all. Go on, I say. You
were telling me that Old Death and that disgusting woman, Mrs. Bunce,
were very much astonished at a certain circumstance. Well—and what did
they say?"

"They asked me whether either you, sir, or the lady took any little
thing—when the jeweller's back was turned," replied Jacob, timidly; "but
I assured them that you did not."

A scornful smile curled the highwayman's lips and then he puffed away
violently at his cigar—apparently wrapped in deep reflection.

"Shall I tell you any more, sir?" asked Jacob, when a few minutes of
profound silence had elapsed.

"Yes, my boy: go on!" cried Tom, turning towards him again.

"The very next night," resumed Jacob, "Mr. Bones and me were walking
down Southampton Row, Russell Square, you know—when I observed Miss
Esther de Medina in a shop——"

"Where there was a post-office?" ejaculated the highwayman, hastily.

"Just so, sir. And she was reading a letter," continued Jacob. "Then me
and Old Death followed her down to another post-office—it was in
Holborn—where she posted a letter which she had with her. I crept close
up to her and saw the address on it just before she dropped it into the
box."

"And what was that address?" demanded Rainford.

"_T. R., No. 5, Brandon Street, Lock's Fields_," was the answer.

"And you of course told _that_ to Old Death?"

"Yes—and he desired me to follow the lady to see where she lived; which
I did, and traced her to Great Ormond Street. Then I went back to
Bunce's, and acquainted Mr. Bones with this fact also. He was very much
pleased; and soon afterwards you came in. He then told you about going
to Shooter's Hill to stop a tradesman and his wife; but I afterwards
found out that it was only a gag to get you out of the way next night."

"Ah! I thought as much!" cried Rainford. "And now, I suppose, we come to
the visit which Mr. Bones, Toby Bunce, and yourself paid to my
lodgings?"

"Exactly so," said Jacob. "Early the next morning I was ordered by Old
Death to post myself all day long in Great Ormond Street, and see that
Miss Esther didn't go out. I kept watch, and saw her several times at
the window just for a moment: so I knew she was at home. In the evening
Old Death and Mr. Bunce came and fetched me, and we went over to a
public-house opposite your lodgings in Brandon Street. On the way I
learnt what they meant to do; for it was to carry off the boy——"

"Poor little Charley Watts!" ejaculated Rainford, totally unprepared for
this announcement. "But what harm had he done to them? or what could
they want with him?"

"I don't exactly know, sir," replied Jacob. "Indeed, I don't think Toby
Bunce knew himself. But I can't help thinking that it was somehow or
another connected with a certain letter which Old Death let fall, and
which I picked up and kept. It bears the signature of _Sarah Watts_——"

"The poor woman who died at Bunce's house!" cried the highwayman. "Where
is that letter?"

"Here, sir," answered Jacob; and with these words he produced the
document from his pocket, and handed it to Tom Rain.

The highwayman hastened to peruse it with the greatest interest and
attention; but he was evidently disappointed when he perceived that it
afforded no clue to the person to whom it was originally intended to be
sent.

"I shall keep this letter, Jacob," he said, after some minutes of
profound reflection.

"Do so, Mr. Rainford," returned the lad. "And now you see that I am
acting sincerely with you."

"Quite," remarked the highwayman, in an absent manner; for he suddenly
remembered the circumstance of Old Death declaring that he had lost a
particular letter on the memorable night which was marked with so many
strange occurrences. "Yes, Jacob," he continued, after a long pause,
"you are right. It must have been in connexion with this letter that the
old man wanted to carry off the boy. Perhaps he had discovered some clue
to unravel the mystery of Charley's birth, and meant to turn the secret
to his own advantage? But, if so, he must have had some better trace
than this letter, which certainly says a great deal, and yet leaves the
one grand point—_who Charley's mother really is_—in complete darkness!
However," added Tom, who had been musing aloud, rather than addressing
his remarks to Jacob, "time will perhaps clear up all."

"You see, sir," continued Jacob, "I was set to watch in Great Ormond
Street to find out whether Miss Esther went over to you——"

"To _me_!" ejaculated Rainford, as if taken by surprise. "But—go on, my
boy—go on!"

And as I knew that she was at home when Old Death and Toby Bunce came to
join me there," pursued the lad, "we of course thought it was all right.
You may, therefore, judge how Old Death and me were surprised, when we
went up into the bed-room at your lodgings——"

"Enough of that, Jacob!" cried Rainford, starting uneasily. "And now
tell me why Old Death seemed so anxious all along to find out every
thing he could about me?"

"Lord! sir, can't you guess?" exclaimed the boy. "He knew that you could
be useful to him, and he wanted to get you completely into his power. By
knowing all that concerned you, he——"

"I understand, Jacob," again interrupted the highwayman; "and it is just
as I suspected. You are a good lad for telling me all this—and I will
not leave you to want—in case," he added hastily, "your old master
should not happen to turn up again. But I do not think I shall stay many
days in London, Jacob. However, I will see you again shortly—and we will
have a talk together about what is best to be done for you. One word, by
the bye—do you know how this letter which you gave me, happened to fall
into Old Death's hands?"

"Not all, sir—unless Mrs. Bunce found it about the poor woman who died
the other night at her house."

"That is what I suspect," observed Rainford. "Indeed, it must have been
so. The deceitful woman!—after my paying her so handsomely, to keep back
the document! But it has found its way to my pocket at last, in spite of
her and Old Death. And now, Jacob, tell me about yourself. How long have
you been in the service of Mr. Benjamin Bones?"

"I wish you had time sir," said the boy, "to listen to my story: it
would be a relief to me to tell it—for I already feel towards you as I
never felt to any one before. Indeed, I was sorry to be employed against
you in any way: but I couldn't help myself. I remember the evening that
I watched you over to Lock's Fields:—I was so moved—I hardly can
describe how—at seeing that little boy Charley with you; for I thought
how good you were towards him, and what an excellent heart you must
have,—and when I got back to Bunce's, I couldn't pluck up courage to
tell Old Death any thing about you, for fear he might mean you some
injury. However," added Jacob, wiping his eyes, "he _did_ get it all out
of me at last——"

"Never mind, my lad," interrupted Rainford, moved by Jacob's contrition:
"all you have told me this evening has fully atoned for the mischief you
previously did me. Besides, as I before said, you were forced to obey
your master. And now," he added, after referring to his handsome gold
repeater, "I don't mind if I sit another hour with you here; and while I
smoke my cigar, you shall tell me the history of your life."

"I will, sir," exclaimed the boy, eagerly. "But I warn you beforehand it
is a long one—that is, if I tell it as I should like to do."

"Tell it in your own way, my boy," cried Rainford; "and never mind the
length."

The highwayman settled himself in a comfortable manner in his chair; and
Jacob proceeded to relate the history of his life.




                            CHAPTER XXXVIII.
                      THE HISTORY OF JACOB SMITH.


"My earliest recollections are associated with the occupation of playing
all day long in the streets, in company with other infants. This was in
Upper Whitecross Street, St. Luke's; where I and those other children
lived with a woman, who pretended to keep a boarding-school at which she
received children to live with her altogether for one shilling and
eightpence a-week each: but she used to turn us all out early in the
morning with a piece of hard mouldy bread to nibble for our breakfast,
and fetch us home again when it grew dusk in the evening. She would then
give us each another piece of bread for supper, and we went to bed. But
what a bed! A few old sacks thrown over a heap of straw in a little room
about six feet long by four and a half in width, served upwards of a
dozen children as a sleeping-room. There we used to cry ourselves to
rest, famished with insufficiency of food—and awake again in the morning
to undergo fresh privations.

"I said there were about twelve of us under the care of this Mother
Maggs—as she was called. They chiefly belonged to very poor parents, who
were engaged all day long at work, and were therefore glad to get rid of
their children, who would otherwise only be an encumbrance to them. Some
few were, however, the illegitimate offspring of poor servant-girls in
place; but nearly all had parents who came to see them from time to time
and perhaps gave them a few pence. I was not, however, so fortunate as
the rest; for no one ever came to see me—at least that I was aware
of—until I was about nine years old; and I heard that the twenty-pence
a-week allowed for my board and lodging, was left regularly for Mother
Maggs at the neighbouring chandler's shop every Saturday morning. Mother
Maggs seemed to think that I had really no friends—for, though she
bullied us all pretty well, she bullied _me_ ten thousand times more
than the rest.

"The habit of turning a dozen little children, some of whom were only
just able to walk, into the street in the way I have described, was not
likely to be always unattended with disagreeable consequences. Sometimes
a child was run over, and either severely wounded or killed. In the
latter case, no Coroner's Inquest ever sate on the body: the exposure of
Mother Maggs's neglect towards us, would have drawn the attention of the
parochial authorities towards her. But when a death happened in that
way, the old woman used to put the body into a sack and carry it some
distance into the country, where she would sink it in a pond or ditch.
Often, however, the corpse of a dead child has been allowed to remain in
our room till it was quite putrid, Mother Maggs not having time or
inclination to remove it before. And, on those occasions, we _who were
alive in that room_ were so frightened to be with the dead body in the
dark, that we shrieked and screamed till the noise reached the old
woman's ears in the public-house next door; and so savage was she at
being disturbed in her gin and her gossip, that she has half murdered us
by way of making us hold our tongues!

"Sometimes a child was lost; and if the parents, on being informed of
it, expressed regret or anger, Mother Maggs would take some trouble to
find it again: if not, she did not put herself out of the way respecting
the matter. In addition to her boarding-house for children, she let out
lodgings to persons of either sex; and, as she was not particular so
long as she got paid, her house was nothing more or less than a common
brothel. She was always saying she had no time to do any thing which
ought to be done: and if being all day in the public-house was a
necessary duty, she certainly had no time for other purposes. Though not
often tipsy, she was never actually sober—but in a constant state of
muzziness. Liquor did not improve her temper: on the contrary it made
her irritable—sometimes ferocious; and I have seen her fight with other
women until her face was covered with long seams made by the
finger-nails, and pouring with blood.

"You cannot suppose that _all_ these things which I have just told you
or that I am going to tell you directly, in connexion with Mother
Maggs's establishment, were noticed or understood by me when I was quite
a child there: but you must remember that I stayed at that den until I
was nine, and in the course of those years all I saw made a deep
impression on my mind; and what was then dark and unintelligible to me,
has since been made clear and plain by experience and by reflection on
those scenes and circumstances.

"You will wonder how my wretched companions and myself managed to live,
since we only had a piece of bread each, night and morning. We kept body
and soul together in a variety of ways, chiefly feeding, like swine,
upon all the offal and remnants of vegetables, cooked or raw, that we
found in the street. There was a dust-bin in the court where Mother
Maggs's house was in Whitecross Street; and every day, just upon one
o'clock, we used to crowd round it, waiting till the neighbours came to
empty their potato-peelings or the refuse of their meals into that
general receptacle. Then we would greedily appropriate to our use the
scraps which not even the very poorest of the poor chose to eat. The
potato-peelings (most poor families skin their potatoes after they are
boiled) were quite a dainty to us: the heads and bones of fish and
such-like refuse were also welcome to our empty stomachs. Then we were
accustomed to go prowling about the street to snatch a slice of raw
bacon or a bit of cheese from the board in front of a butter-shop; or
steal a turnip or a carrot from an old woman's stall; or else lay
unlawful hands upon the horses' flesh in the cats'-meat shops. This last
article of food was much fancied by us. It was comparatively easy to
steal; and when we did get such a prize as a large lump of carrion, with
a stick thrust through it, we felt as happy for the time being as if we
had found a treasure. Then we used to conceal ourselves in some dark
court, and take a bite round—each in his turn—until it was all gone. I
am afraid I disgust you with these details; but you desired me to tell
my story in my own way—and I want you to understand the dreadful mode of
life which thousands of poor children lead in the wealthiest city in the
world. I am sure, when I have thought of it all since, and when I see
little boys and girls paddling in that neglected manner about the
streets, my blood runs cold at the idea that while some human beings are
riding in their carriages and living in palaces, others are prowling in
the low neighbourhoods, happy if they can steal a lump of putrid
carrion!

"You may next ask what we did for clothes—it being very clear that
Mother Maggs could not supply us with wearing apparel out of
twenty-pence a-week. Well—the fact is we scarcely had any clothes on at
all. As for a cap or shoes and stockings, I declare solemnly I never
wore any one of those articles from the earliest period of my
recollection until I was nine years old. A little ragged frock, and that
was all: yes, that was all—summer or winter! But where did even the
ragged frock come from? I really hardly know: I am at a loss to say
exactly how we did get even that one garment each. Sometimes a child
would be taken away by its parents, who might, perhaps, bring it some
decent clothing: then the cast-off rags in this case would fall to the
lot of the most ragged of those who were left behind. Now and then a
slop-seller in the neighbourhood would give one of us some old frock
which was useless to himself: and occasionally we would steal one, when
we could. You may ask me why we did not steal shoes also? So we did, if
an opportunity served: but then we could do without shoes, and the
eldest of the lot of us was on those occasions commissioned to sell the
plunder at a rag-shop, to afford means to buy a little better food than
usually fell in our way. These occurrences were, however, rare—so rare,
that they constituted perfect holidays in the hideous monotony of our
famished lives;—for the shopkeepers in poor neighbourhoods are
constantly on the alert to watch the movements of the juvenile prowlers.

"The ages of the children under the care of Mother Maggs averaged from
three to ten; and the eldest of course bullied the youngest, while Mrs.
Maggs bullied us all. Misery did not make us little ones friendly
together. On the contrary, we fought, quarrelled, and ill-treated each
other as much as we could. I must relate to you one anecdote—although I
now shudder when I think of it, and have often since shed tears of
repentance. There was one boy, named Tib Tucker, about eight years old,
who used to behave in a more merciless manner towards me than the rest
did. He would take away my bread from me whenever he caught me eating it
apart and alone; and he laid to me many thefts on Mother Maggs's
cupboard which he himself committed. These false reports got me many and
many a good beating from the enraged hag; and, in a word, this boy's
tyranny became so insufferable, that I was resolved to adopt some
desperate measure to put an end to it. I was then but little more than
six years old: a fiendish instinct of revenge, however, urged me to act.
I secreted a pin about my rags; and one day when Tib Tucker was trying
to take away the morsel of mouldy bread which Mother Maggs had just
given me, I suddenly thrust the pin into his right eye. He screamed in
dreadful agony, and brought down Mother Maggs into the court. I had not
run away—terror, or rather horror at what I had done, nailed me to the
spot. The bully's tale was soon told. I expected to be half murdered by
the dreadful woman: but, to my surprise, she suddenly took my
part—declared that I had shown a proper spirit—and consoled Tib Tucker
with the assurance that if he would only permit me to operate on the
other eye in the same manner, he would prove a perfect fortune to his
parents. 'There's nothing like a blind child to draw alms,' she said:
'but one eye's no good—you should be blind of both.'—I remember her
words as well as if they had only been uttered yesterday; and, the more
so, as they seemed to be prophetic—as I shall explain presently.

"The terrible vengeance which I had taken upon my persecutor, who lost
his eye in consequence, not only awed him in future, but made me feared
by all the rest; and my existence grew somewhat less wretched—at least
in reference to the treatment I experienced from my companions. Mother
Maggs also seemed to change towards me—whether through fear, or
admiration at what she termed '_my spirit_,' I cannot say. I was less
bullied by her—but not a whit better fed.

"About six weeks after the incident which I have related, the parents of
Tib Tucker returned to London from the country where they had been
harvesting. They passed the evening with Mother Maggs, and great
quantities of gin were sent for from the public-house. This I afterwards
learnt from my companions; for, as to myself, I kept out of the way
through fear of being punished by the boy's parents for the vengeance
which I had wreaked upon him. When it was quite dark, I returned to the
house, and stole up to the miserable garret where my companions were
already huddled together on the straw and old sacks. Tib Tucker was
amongst them; for I heard him talking about a promise his parents had
made to take him with them into the country, where they were going again
in a few days. One of the eldest girls—for, I forgot to say, Mother
Maggs's juvenile boarders were of both sexes—asked him what his parents
had said about the accident. He replied that they had laughed at it, and
had declared that they would turn it to some good account. Scarcely had
he thus spoken, when the door opened, and Mother Maggs appeared, with a
candle in her hand. Ordering Tib Tucker to get up and follow her, she
added that his father and mother had a little treat in store for him,
and had meant him all along to sit up to supper. Tib was overjoyed at
these news, and made haste to accompany Mother Maggs to a lower room
where she had left his parents; and we, in our miserable dark garret,
envied the boy who had a good supper in view.

"I remember—Oh! well do I remember, how I cried that night, to think
that no friends ever came to see me, and that indeed I was ignorant
whether my parents were alive or not. I had often asked Mother Maggs
whether she knew my father and mother; but I invariably received a cuff
by way of reply—and therefore at length grew tired of putting the
question. There were, however, times when my wretched—forlorn—abandoned
condition almost broke my heart; for, young as I was, I knew that there
were boys and girls in the world much better off than myself!

"While Tib Tucker was absent, the other children began to discourse
amongst themselves, saying how lucky he was to come in for a good
supper: and then they set to work to guess what the meal was likely to
consist of. But all on a sudden a dreadful shriek echoed through the
house, and startled us in our miserable garret. There we lay—crouching
and huddling nearer to each other, holding our breath, not daring to
utter a word, and filled with vague alarms, as if some dreadful danger
hung over us. At length sleep came to my relief. When I awoke in the
morning and ran down into the court, the first object that met my view
was the wretched boy Tib Tucker, being led away by his parents—_for he
was now blind of both eyes!_

"I was so frightened, that I ran into the street, where I wandered about
all day—forgetting even the pangs of hunger. I had suddenly conceived
such a dreadful terror of Mother Maggs, that I had not dared to present
myself at her room-door to obtain my usual morsel of bread, along with
the rest. It was a very rainy day, and yet I remember that I roved and
roved about the whole neighbourhood, at one time crying bitterly—at
another stupified, though still moving about like a sleep-walker. When
the evening came on, I was so tired and hungry that I was forced to
retrace my way to the horrible den, which I only discovered again with
the greatest difficulty. Mother Maggs did not take any notice of my
absence from the morning distribution of bread, but gave me my evening
ration along with the rest; and once more did I return to the straw and
filth of the close garret.

"Months and years passed—and I reached the age of nine. The last few
months opened my eyes to more wickedness than I had as yet known or
dreamt of. I just now told you that Mrs. Maggs's juvenile boarders
consisted of boys and girls; and I believe you understood that we all
huddled together in the same garret. It was a regular pig-sty, in which
we wallowed like swine: and like that of brutes also was the conduct of
the eldest boys and girls. If the other rooms in the house were used as
a brothel by grown-up persons, no stew could be more atrocious than our
garret. The girls were more precocious than the boys, and the latter
were corrupted by the former. Mere children of nine and ten practised
the vices of their elders. But, my God! let me draw a veil over this
dreadful scene. Oh! sir—I have seen much—gone through much; but the mere
thought of the horrible licentiousness—the beastliness—the monstrous
depravity that took place there, even now makes my blood run cold in my
veins!

"And can you wonder that such should be the case? Not one of all us
children had ever been taught what virtue was; and all that we knew of
crime was that it was something which a constable took you up for. We
had not the least notion of the Saviour—none of us had ever heard that
the Son of God died for the sins of the world. I had once seen a Bible,
because I stole one from a book-stall; and the eldest girl, who went to
sell it, gathered from what was said by the person who bought it, that
it _was_ a Bible. But even if I had previously known that the book was
called a Bible, I should not the less have stolen it; because I could
not read, and no one had ever told me at that time what the Bible really
was. We had all heard of the name of God, and used it pretty often
too—for oaths were familiar to us even when we could only lisp them: but
we knew not who God was, and had no one to tell us—even if we had wished
to learn. You may think it strange that there should be children of even
ten years old in London who are completely ignorant of every thing
concerning religion; but I can assure you that I have met with youths
and girls of fifteen or sixteen who were equally in the dark in that
respect.

"I was nine years old when Mother Maggs one day fetched me out of the
street where I was playing in the gutter with my companions, and took me
into her own room, where I saw Mr. Bones for the first time—I mean the
first time as far as my recollection is concerned. He looked at me a
long time; and then turning to the old woman, said, 'I don't think you
have taken the very best care of him.'—'Yes, I have,' she answered, 'He
has had his bellyfull every day of his life: bread-and-butter for
breakfast and supper; potatoes for dinner on week days, with may-be a
bit of pudding or so now and then; and always a good dinner on a Sunday.
Haven't you, Jacob, dear?'—and, as she asked me this question, she gave
a terrific frown, unseen by Old Death, and the meaning of which I well
understood. So I muttered a 'yes;' and she seemed satisfied.—'But I am
going to take him away all the same, Mrs. Maggs,' said Mr. Bones;
'because he is of an age now to be useful to me.'—'I hope you will
recommend me where you can,' cried Mother Maggs. 'I do all I can to make
the poor little dears happy; and if Jacob is so shabby just the very day
you drop down upon us, like, it's only because his new frock is in the
suds; and as for shoes and stockings, it makes boys hardy to go without
them.'—I do not remember that Old Death made any answer to these
observations; because the portion of the dialogue which I have just
detailed, produced so deep an impression on my mind—young as I was—that
had it been continued, I should most probably have recollected the rest.
But _this_ I cannot forget—that when Old Death told me to follow him,
and Mother Maggs took me in her arms to embrace me at parting, I
screamed with affright—for the spectacle of the blind boy instantly
recurred to my memory!

"Old Death took me to a shop in Whitecross Street, and bought me a
complete suit of clothes—shabby and mean, it is true; but royal robes
compared to the rags I now threw off. And how great was my
astonishment—how wild was my delight, when I was actually supplied with
a pair of stockings and shoes! Never before—never since, have I known
such perfect joy as I felt at that minute. Sight restored to the blind
could not be more welcome than were those articles. Not that I required
them—for my feet were inured to nakedness, and to walk even on the
pointed flints:—but I experienced an indescribable sensation of mingled
pride and satisfaction which made me supremely happy. My joy was,
however, somewhat rudely interrupted by a hard blow on the head which
Old Death bestowed upon me, because I dared to laugh in the fulness of
my poor heart; and then I burst into tears. He cursed me for a
'snivelling fool,' and ordered me to put on the cap which he had also
bought me, and make haste to accompany him. The cap was another article
of clothing till then quite strange to me; and once more my tears were
succeeded by smiles!

"At length the purchases were complete; and I followed Old Death from
the shop. But I walked as if I was tipsy. The cap seemed to be quite a
weight on my head; and the shoes threatened every moment to trip me up.
I have never worn skates,—but I can fancy how a person must feel when he
puts them on for the first time; and I imagine that my awkwardness in
stockings and shoes was something of the same kind. Near the point where
Upper Whitecross Street joins Old Street Road, I beheld my late
companions huddled together at the mouth of a passage belonging to a
pawnbroker's shop. They did not know me, till I called some of them by
name; and then they could not believe their eyes. I must have seemed a
kind of prince to them. They instantly overwhelmed me with questions—but
Old Death looked back and called me in a cross tone, and I hurried away.
I declare solemnly that the tears started from my eyes as I thus
separated from the companions of all my infant misery; and though I knew
not whether my own fate was about to be improved, still my heart was
smitten with the idea that I was leaving them behind to their
wretchedness—their rags—their starvation—and their fœtid den at Mother
Maggs's house. Never until that instant had I experienced the least
sympathy in their behalf: but then—at that moment—I felt as if I could
have remained with them, and loved them!

"Mr. Bones conducted me to some public-house—I can't recollect where it
was, but I think it must have been in Brick Lane, St. Luke's,—and there
he ordered bread and cheese and ale. What a glorious dinner did I make
that day! Never had I tasted any thing so delicious before! The cheese
was so nice—the bread so white and new,—and the ale—it was good beyond
all description. At least, so the food and drink then appeared to me:
and what was better still, was that I was allowed to eat as much as I
chose! When we had ended our meal, Old Death began to talk very
seriously to me—for we were alone in the room together. He gave me to
understand that he had found me, when quite a baby, lying on the steps
of a workhouse—that he had taken me to some good, kind woman whom he
knew, and who had treated me well—that afterwards he had been obliged to
place me, when I was three years old, with Mother Maggs—_and that I
therefore owed every thing to him_. I naturally believed at the time
that I was under the deepest obligations to him; and then he proceeded
to inform me that I might be useful to him in certain ways, and that if
I did all he told me and was a good boy, he would never desert me. I of
course listened with as much respect as it was in my power or nature to
show; and, though I did not quite understand all he said to me, I was
nevertheless impressed with the conviction that he had a right to do
what he chose with me, and that I was bound to obey him.

"We remained some time at the public-house—indeed, if I remember right,
until it was dusk; because Old Death had a great deal to say to me, and
as I was so very young and so miserably ignorant, it was not an easy
matter for him to make me understand his meaning. But there can be no
doubt that he laboured to convince me of the right which certain
privileged persons had to prey upon others who were not so
privileged;—or, in plainer terms, that whenever I could obtain a
handkerchief, a purse, or any thing else worth taking, and in such a
manner that there was no chance of my being detected, I was perfectly
justified in availing myself of the opportunity. My morals had not been
so carefully attended to, as to excite any repulsive feelings at this
species of reasoning: on the contrary, having from my infancy practised
the art of pilfering pudding from cooks'-shops, bits of bacon from
cheesemongers' windows, carrots and turnips from old women's stalls, and
lumps of tripe or carrion from the boards of cats'-meat establishments,
I was well prepared to go a step farther. There can be no doubt that Old
Death was all along aware of the real nature of Mother Maggs's house and
of the manner in which she reared the children entrusted to her. A man
of his experience could not help knowing all this; and it was not
probable that he was deceived by the lying statements she made to him
relative to the manner in which I had been treated—although he took, as
far as I recollect, no notice of her words. In fact, he had
intentionally placed me in a position to learn everything that was
bad—to fulfil an apprenticeship of petty vice, that I might enter on a
career of crime, whereof the profits were to be his own!

"Taking me now in a somewhat kind manner by the hand, he led me down to
St. Paul's Churchyard. Although having hitherto lived within a mile of
that place, I had never been there before. It is true that from the
garret windows of Mother Maggs's dwelling, I had sometimes seen the huge
dark dome surmounted by the cross which shone like gold on a bright,
sunny day; but I had never thought of asking what it was—nor had I any
notion that it was so near. Often, too, in the silence of the night,
when cold and hunger kept me awake in that hideous den, had the deep but
glorious sound of the mighty bell, booming through the air, and
proclaiming the hour, fallen on my ears: but still I had never thought
of inquiring which clock it was that struck so loud and was so tediously
long in striking. Thus, when I entered Saint Paul's Churchyard for the
first time, in company with Old Death, I was struck with amazement to
find myself at the foot, as it were, of that tremendous giant of
architecture. Just at that moment, too, the mighty bell began to strike
six; and I started—for, young as I was, that well-known sound, though
never heard so near before, re-awakened a thousand conflicting thoughts
within me. All the misery and wretchedness I had endured at Mother
Maggs's house rushed to my mind; and again I shed tears as I reflected
on the poor children whom I had left behind me _there_!

"Oh! Mr. Rainford—if any kind and benevolent person had taken me then
under his protection and care, and taught me to do good and practise
virtue, as Old Death was teaching me to do evil and practise vice, I
feel—yes, I feel that I should not have been unworthy such humane
attention!

"But let me not interrupt the thread of my narrative more than I can
help. Mr. Bones kept me by the hand, and walked slowly—very slowly
through the churchyard, pointing out to me the beautiful shops, and
telling me that if I was a good boy and only did what he told me, I
should soon be rich enough to be able to walk into those shops and treat
myself to jewellery, or fine clothes, or anything else I might fancy.
This assurance gave me the most heart-felt joy; and I already began to
determine in my mind what I should buy when the happy period of such
affluence might arrive. All on a sudden my gay reverie was interrupted
by Old Death, who, dragging me hastily to the entrance of a passage
leading into Paternoster Row, pointed to an elderly gentleman standing
at a shop-window at the corner where this passage joined St. Paul's
Churchyard. 'Do you see his handkerchief peeping out of his
coat-pocket?' demanded Old Death hastily.—'Yes,' I replied.—'Then go and
get it, and I will give you sixpence, if you bring it to me, without the
old fellow perceiving that you have taken it.'—Sixpence! It was an
inexhaustible treasure, such as I had often heard of, seldom seen, and
never touched. Without a moment's hesitation I proceeded to execute the
task. It was winter-time; and though the evening was dark, yet the
shop-windows were brilliantly lighted. This was against me—but on the
other hand, the place was crowded with people passing both ways, and
this circumstance was in my favour. Old Death stood watching me at the
entrance of the passage—no doubt ready to glide away in case of me being
detected. But my skill in cribbing victuals and other little articles in
Upper Whitecross Street had been so well practised, that it only
required to apply the same art to another and rather more difficult
branch of thieving, to be completely successful. And this success far
exceeded Old Death's expectations; for when I returned to him in the
passage, I was enabled to place in his hands not only the old
gentleman's pocket-handkerchief, but also his gold snuff-box.

"You may suppose that Mr. Bones was well-pleased with me; and he
testified his approval of my conduct by placing a shilling in my hand. I
could scarcely believe that I was indeed the possessor of such a sum;
and I immediately made up my mind to ease as many old gentlemen as
possible of their handkerchiefs and snuff-boxes, as long as a deed so
simple was so generously rewarded.

"Old Death now conducted me to Drury Lane, and showing me a
public-house, said, 'Jacob, though a young boy, you are a very good and
clever boy, and I think I can trust you. If you assure me that you will
do just as I tell you, I will give you a treat.'—I gave him the
assurance he required.—'Well, then, walk boldly into that public-house;
run up stairs, just as if you had been there a hundred times before; and
go straight into the large concert-room that you will come to. You will
have to pay a penny for going in. Then sit down at a table, call for
bread and cheese and a glass of ale—of the nice ale that you like so
much, you know; and enjoy yourself. You will find several other young
lads there, who will no doubt speak to you; and you may talk to them as
much as you like. I shall come into the room presently; but don't come
near me; and don't tell any one there that you know me. I have my
reasons; and if you do all I tell you, you shall often have a treat to a
concert and such like places. When you see me going away, you can follow
me at a little distance. Now do you understand?'—I assured him that I
did; and I then walked into the public-house as bold as if I had been a
grown-up person and a constant customer. I had money in my pocket, and
for the first time in my life felt that confidence which the possession
of coin produces.

"The concert-room was speedily reached: my shilling was changed to pay
the entrance fee; and I entered the place of amusement. It was—or had I
not better say, it _is_ a very large room; for it was at the _Mogul_, in
Drury Lane, to which I had now introduced myself. The place was crowded;
and the music and singing were going on. I was quite delighted, and,
seating myself at a table near some other boys, all older than I was
then, I told the waiter to bring me bread and cheese and a glass of ale.
'Better say a pint, old feller,' observed one of the boys to me: 'and
I'll help you to drink it.'—I threw down the eleven-pence, saying,
'Bring bread and cheese and ale for all this.'—I remember that the
waiter looked at me for a moment in a strange way, before he gathered up
the money; but he said nothing, and hurried off. In a few minutes he
returned with a pot of ale, bread and cheese, and several glasses. I was
already on friendly terms with the boys at the same table; and we now
got quite intimate over the ale. They soon let me know that they were
all _prigs_; and I answered 'Yes' to every question they put to me about
my own pursuits. Presently I saw Old Death walk slowly up the room: but
I pretended to be looking quite another way.

"The conversation which I had on this occasion with the boys at the
penny-concert, completed what was no doubt Old Death's design in sending
me there: namely, to render me as familiar as possible with that class
of lads at whose hands I was to receive my initiation into the career of
roguery to which I was destined. The ale excited me to such a degree
that I was even then ready to obey any one who would suggest a deed by
which money could be obtained; for I saw that money was the key to all
kinds of enjoyment. Presently Old Death walked slowly out of the room;
and two or three minutes afterwards I followed him, having told my new
companions that I should be sure to meet them again there next night. In
the street I joined Old Death, who asked me how I liked all I had seen?
You can guess what my answer was. 'Well,' said he, 'it is for you to get
a handkerchief and a snuff-box, or any thing of that kind, every day;
and then you shall have money to go to concerts, and to buy nice ale,
and to enjoy yourself along with those pleasant boys that you met
there.'—I was delighted with this prospect; and I thought Old Death the
kindest gentleman in the world, in spite of the box on the ears he had
given me at the slopseller's shop in the morning. But all this time,
remember, I did not know either his real or his nick-name; nor did I
trouble myself about such matters.

"He now conducted me to Castle Street, Long Acre, and putting sixpence
into my hand, pointed to a particular house. 'Go and knock at that
door,' he said, 'and ask for a bed. You will have to pay two-pence for
it. The fourpence left is to buy your breakfast in the morning, which
the woman of the house will give you for that money. If the people you
meet there ask you any questions, say as little as possible, and don't
speak a word about me. If you do, I shall be sure to know it, and I will
never see you again. Be a good boy; and at nine o'clock to-morrow
morning, meet me at the corner of this street.'—I promised to mind all
he told me; and he hurried away, while I gained admittance into one of
those filthy lodging-houses that swarm in Castle Street.[12]

"At this place, where I procured the half of a bed, my companion being a
young girl of thirteen, who had already been a prostitute eighteen
months, I received further lessons in the school of vice. In the morning
I obtained a cup of coffee and a couple of rounds of thick
bread-and-butter for my fourpence: having disposed of which, I hastened
to my appointment with Old Death. He was waiting for me at the corner of
the street, and asked me a great many questions about the people I had
seen at the lodging-house. I satisfied him as far as I could; but,
through some lingering feeling of shame, I did not tell him that a
prostitute had been my bed-fellow. He desired me to follow him at a
considerable distance, but to mind and not lose sight of him. He then
led me for a long walk all about the West-end of London,—proceeding
slowly, so that I might have an opportunity of looking at the shops and
obtaining some knowledge of the position of the different streets: in a
word, that I might be able to find my way about by myself another time.
At about one o'clock we went into a public-house, where we had something
to eat and drink, and rested for two or three hours. Then we set out on
our wanderings again, and at about seven o'clock in the evening, we came
to a halt in St. Giles's, where Old Death gave me money to enter a
penny-theatre. I had not practised my hand at stealing any thing all day
long; because he had not instructed me to do so. Neither, from that
moment, did he ever put my abilities in that way to the test in his
presence: so I suppose that the little affair in St. Paul's Churchyard
was merely an experiment made to enable him to judge whether I had any
_talent_ in the art of _conveyancing_, or not. In fact, he had tried me
to ascertain whether I could be made useful; and, finding that I could,
his object was now to introduce me to scenes and places where my morals
might become confirmed in iniquity, or where there was a sphere for the
exercise of my abilities.

[Illustration]

"I need not therefore dwell on this part of my story; for in a few days
the use which Old Death calculated to make of me was fully explained. I
was to thieve where I could and when I could, and every evening I was to
meet my employer at some place that he would appoint, and hand him over
the articles so stolen; when he was to give me enough money for the
following day's expenses. I was, moreover, charged to enlist in the same
service as many boys as I could; and now for the first time I learnt
that my hitherto unknown protector was named Mr. Benjamin Bones, and my
companions soon informed me that he was a famous _fence_, usually
bearing the denomination of 'Old Death.' I must not forget to state that
my employer counselled me never to allude to him in any manner, unless
it was in the way of enlistment, as just now mentioned. He said, 'It
will perhaps happen, Jacob, that a constable or a Bow Street runner may
catch hold of you sometimes; but do not breathe a word about me, and I
will always get you out of the scrape. If, on the other hand, you
confess that you are employed by me, or that you are in my service, it
will do you no good, and I should cast you off for ever. Indeed, I
should leave you to rot in prison; whereas, hold your tongue, whatever
may happen, and you will find me your best friend.'

"I promised to obey him; and now, behold me at the tender age of nine,
the companion of the worst juvenile pickpockets, and a pickpocket
myself! No link had we to bind us to society: the world was our
harvest-field, in which we considered that we had a right to glean; and
whenever a member of our fraternity got 'into trouble,' we clubbed
together to maintain him well in prison. If he was condemned to
punishment, he and ourselves looked upon it as a piece of _bad luck_—and
that was all. I found that my companions were as reckless and
improvident as could be,—ever fulfilling the old adage, '_Light come,
light go_.' They used to play at 'pitch and toss,' or skittles, the
stakes varying, according to their means at the moment, from a halfpenny
to a sovereign. I was not often enabled to join in these sports; because
Old Death kept me rather short, and he had obtained such an astonishing
influence over me that I dared not attempt to deceive him. Sometimes I
thought of appropriating a portion of a '_day's work_' to my own private
use; but his image haunted me like a ghost—and I could not do it. He
constantly told me that he had the means of ascertaining every robbery
that was committed, and who perpetrated it, and that if I attempted to
play him any tricks, I should be sure to be found out. I believed
him—for he occasionally gave me proofs of the most extraordinary
knowledge of all that was passing. He would say, for instance, 'Your
friend Such-a-one filched a snuff-box and a pocket-book yesterday in
Regent Street: he gave _his_ employer the book, and pawned the box on
his own account. Now, mark me,' Old Death would add, 'that boy will get
into trouble soon, and no one will help him out of it again.'—And this
prophecy would come true. I was therefore alarmed at the mere idea of
deceiving Old Death—or rather, attempting to deceive him; and, though my
companions often jeered me and urged me to '_set up on my own account_,'
I lacked the moral courage to break with Mr. Benjamin Bones.

"I was very expert in the art of pickpocketing, and seldom had to
disappoint Old Death when I met him in the evening. If I did, he gave me
my money all the same: I suppose I was too useful to him to be lost; and
perhaps he knew that I always did my best. He allowed me three shillings
and sixpence for each day's expenses; and this money was usually laid
out in the way I will now explain:—

 _Breakfast._—Pint of coffee, 2_d._; loaf of bread, 2_d._;   0_s._ 5_d._
   butter, 1_d._

 _Dinner._—Beef, 3_d._; potatoes, 1_d._; bread, 1_d._; beer,     0     7
   2_d._

 _Tea._—Half-pint tea, 1½_d._; toast, 3_d._                      0    4½

 _Supper._—Leg of beef, 3_d._; bread, 1_d._; potatoes,           0     7
   1_d._; beer, 2_d._

 Gin and water, 1_s._; bed, 4_d._                                1     4

                                                                ——    ——

                                                                 3    3½

—leaving me 2½_d._ a day for any casual expense. This allowance of 3_s._
6_d._ may perhaps seem rather liberal; but it was seldom that my
_earnings_ during the day were not of sufficient value to produce Old
Death at least fifteen or twenty shillings—and often a great deal more.

"There are various grades, or classes, of juvenile thieves.[13] The most
aristocratic amongst them are those who have been admitted into the
fraternity of swell-moabites, or who have taken a hand in housebreaking.
The next class, on the descending scale, is the pickpocket who dives
only for purses, watches, pocket-books, or snuff-boxes, but who would
scorn to touch a handkerchief. The third section consists of those who
dive for any thing they can get, and whose chief game _does_ consist of
handkerchiefs. The fourth division comprises shop-sneaks and
area-sneaks: the former enter a shop slily, or crawl in on their hands
and knees, to rob the tills; the latter get down area-steps and enter
kitchens, whence they walk off with any thing they can lay their hands
on. This same section also includes the shop-bouncer, who boldly enters
a shop, and, while affecting to bargain for goods, purloins some article
easily abstracted. The fifth division is made up of thieves who prowl
about shop-doors; or who break the glass in shop-windows, to abstract
the goods; or who rob mercers by introducing a bent wire through the
holes of the shutter-bolts, and draw out lace, silk, or ribands. The
sixth, and last division or grade, consists of the very lowest
description of thieves—such as pudding-snammers, who loiter about
cooks'-shops, and when customers are issuing forth with plates of meat
and pudding, or pudding alone (as is often the case), pounce on the
eatables and run away with them before the persons robbed have even time
to recover from their astonishment. These miserable thieves sell all
they cannot eat, to other boys, and thus manage to get a few halfpence
to pay for a lodging. I mention all these circumstances to you, sir,
because I do not believe that you can have ever found yourself in a
position to have seen what I am now relating.[14]

"On one occasion a certain robbery in which I was concerned, made some
noise; and the Bow Street runners got a pretty accurate description of
me. This I learnt from Old Death, who advised me to go up into the Holy
Land—which I need scarcely tell you is St. Giles's—and remain quiet
there for a few days until the thing was pretty well blown over. I
followed this advice, which was very welcome to me; because Mr. Bones
gave me plenty of money to make myself comfortable, and I was not
expected to do any '_work_' for at least a week. I happened to take up
my quarters at a lodging-house in Lawrence Lane, and found it chiefly
used by the very lowest Irish. Never did I see such a set as they were!
Filth, misery, and drunkenness were familiar enough to me, heaven
knows!—but there I saw such filth, so much misery, and yet such constant
and such horrible drunkenness, that I was perfectly shocked—and it
required something strong to shock _me_, Mr. Rainford! The house was a
brothel; and the daughters of the man who kept it were their own
father's best customers. The most dreadful debauchery prevailed there.
Old women used to bring young boys, and old men young girls—mere
children,—to that beastly stew. I have seen a dozen men and women all
dancing together stark naked in the largest room in that house; and some
of them brothers and sisters![15] On another occasion I saw an Irish
wake in the same place: the corpse, which was that of a prostitute, was
laid upon the floor, with candles placed round it: and the friends and
relatives of the deceased woman all got so awfully drunk that they
commenced a dreadful battle, tumbling about in all directions over the
dead body!

"I stayed at this lodging-house in St. Giles's about a week, and never
went out except of an evening for about an hour, when I looked in at
Milberry's—the flash public-house in Lawrence Lane. Were you ever there,
sir? No. Well—it is worth your while just to give a look in any time you
are passing. The public room is fitted up with fine tables and high-back
partitions. Fronting the door is a large black board, whereon the
following inscription may be read:—

                 My pipe I can't afford to give,
                 If by my trade I wish to live;
                 My liquor's proof, my measure's just:
                 Excuse me, sir, I _cannot_ trust.

     'To prevent MISTAKES all liquors to be paid for on delivery!'

"As soon as the little affair, which had driven me up into St. Giles's,
was blown over, I returned to my old haunts, and fell in again with my
old companions. I was now ten years old, and was considered so cunning
and clever that Old Death began to employ me in other ways besides
thieving. If he required to know any thing concerning a particular
party, he would set me to dog and watch him, or to make inquiries about
him. Sometimes I was sent to the flash public-houses frequented by
gentlemen's servants who were accustomed to arrange with the cracksmen
for burglaries in their master's houses—or '_put up cracks_,' as they
are called. These public-houses are principally at the West End:—the
most famous are in Duke Street (Manchester Square), and Portland Street.
There I got into conversation with the servants, or merely acted the
part of a listener; and all the information I could glean was of course
conveyed to Mr. Bones, who no doubt knew how to turn it to his greatest
advantage.

"I was also a visitor to every flash-house in London, at different
times, and on various errands for Old Death. The more his business
increased, the more necessary did I become to him; and at that period he
was not so near and stingy as he since became. Whenever I succeeded in
any difficult undertaking, he would reward me with something like
liberality; and I don't know whether I actually liked him—but it is
certain that he exercised an immense power over my mind. I was, in my
turn, much looked up to by my companions: they considered me Old Death's
lieutenant; and moreover I was so skilful as a pickpocket, that no one
could excel, and few equal me. I had all the qualifications necessary
for the art—a light tread, a delicate sense of touch, and firm nerves.
For I was then strong and healthy: now I am sickly—wasted—and have
within me the seeds of an incurable malady! I used at that time to wear
shoes of a very light make—as indeed do nearly all professional
pickpockets. It is very easy for one who is any thing of an acute
observer, to recognise juvenile pickpockets in the street. Their
countenances wear an affected determination of purpose, and they always
seem to be walking forward, as if bent on some urgent object of
business. They never stop in the street, save to '_work_.' If they wish
to confer with their pals, or if they meet a friend, they dive into some
low public-house, or court, or alley. A knowing pickpocket never loiters
about in the street; because that is the very first thing that draws
suspicions glances towards lads. I have read—(and how I came to be able
to read, I shall presently tell you)—in the newspapers that many people
have a notion that pickpockets use instruments in easing gentlemen or
ladies of their purses or other articles of value: but the only
instrument I ever knew a pickpocket to use, or used myself, is a good
pair of small scissors, which will either rip a pocket up or cut it off
in a twinkling.

"I do believe that London thieves[16] are the very worst in the whole
world. Their profligacy commences so early; and there is every thing to
harden them. Imprisonment raises them into heroes amongst their
companions. Only fancy a boy of twelve or thirteen, perhaps,—or even
younger,—placed behind huge massive bars which ten elephants could not
pull down! He of course thinks that he must be a very clever fellow, or
at least a very important one, that the law is compelled to adopt such
wonderful precautions to restrain him. He believes that society must
entertain a marvellous dread of his abilities. That boy, too, is the
superior in the eyes of the whole fraternity of thieves, whose
punishment is the heaviest. A lad who has been tried at the Old Bailey,
thinks much more of himself than one who has only passed through the
ordeal of the sessions. The very pomp of justice,—the idea that all
those judges and barristers in their gowns and wigs should be assembled
for the sake of a boy,—that the Old Bailey street should be crowded with
policemen,—that newspaper reporters should be anxious to take
notes,—that spectators should pay shillings to obtain sittings in the
court,—in a word, the whole ceremony and circumstance of the criminal
tribunals actually tend to imbue juvenile thieves with a feeling of
self-importance. Now, might not this very feeling be acted upon to a
good and beneficial purpose,—to the advancement of industry and honest
emulation? I think so; but society never seems to adopt really useful
measures to _reform_—it contents itself with _punishing_. You may be
surprised to hear such reflections come from my lips: but who is better
able to judge than one who has passed through the entire ordeal?"

Here Jacob paused, and then inquired if he were wearying Tom Rain with
his narrative.

"So far from your doing so, my good fellow," replied the highwayman,
"that although I have several things to attend to, I mean to stop and
hear you to the end. Come, drink a glass of wine. There! now you will be
the better able to proceed. I will light another cigar—for I fancy that
I can attend more earnestly while smoking."

Rainford once more settled himself in a comfortable posture; and the lad
pursued his narrative in the following manner.

-----

Footnote 12:

  Although our aim is to render the "History of Jacob Smith" a regular
  and connected narrative of the initiation of a neglected child in the
  ways of vice and the career of crime, there are necessarily many
  phases in the history of juvenile iniquity which cannot be introduced
  into the text, as it would be impossible that the boy who is telling
  his story could have gone through all the scenes alluded to. We must,
  therefore, farther illustrate our aim by means of a few notes, derived
  from authentic sources: and this course we are the more inclined to
  pursue, inasmuch as we hope that the episode formed by the "History of
  Jacob Smith" may have the effect of directing public attention more
  seriously than ever to the awful nature and extent of juvenile
  depravity in this metropolis. Mr. Miles, in his "Report to the House
  of Lords on Poverty, Mendicity, and Crime," places on record the
  following observations:—

  "The women and the girls in these districts live with their men as
  long as they can agree together, or until one or the other be
  imprisoned or transported. The very children are prostitutes, living
  with their "fancy lads;" and it is difficult to say which are the most
  degraded, the men or the women, the girls or the boys. It is thus that
  I suppose crime is more engendered in low neighbourhoods, where the
  poorest and the most idle congregate: and I now beg to continue my
  remarks upon the second head, namely, the neglect of parents. The
  various pursuits of these parents call them from home during the
  greater portion of the day, and their children are left to play and
  idle in the streets, associating with other lads of more experience
  than themselves, until, seeing and hearing how easy it is to steal,
  they commence their career of crime, unchecked on the one hand and
  applauded on the other. There are some parents who turn their children
  out every morning to provide for themselves, not caring by what means
  they procure a subsistence, so that the expense of feeding them does
  not abstract from their means of procuring gin or beer. Other parents
  require their children to bring home a specified sum every night, to
  obtain which they must beg or thieve. Others hire out their children
  to beggars, for 3_d._ a day (a cripple is considered worth 6_d._); and
  many women hire children in arms about the same age, to pass them off
  in the public thoroughfares as twins. Groups of these young neglected
  vagabonds herd together, and theft becomes their study; even if a
  child was well disposed, it is not probable that he could escape the
  contagion of such bad example. There is a _community of children_, who
  live and are separated from persons more advanced in years. Moreover,
  there is so rapid and so certain a communication among them all over
  the metropolis, that if they discover any of their slang or flash
  words to be known out of their circle, they will substitute another,
  which in the course of a day or two will be adopted by the fraternity.
  There are lodging-houses exclusively for their accommodation,
  public-houses which are chiefly supported by their custom, and the
  landlords of both sorts of establishments are ever ready to purchase
  any plunder they may bring. With this neglect of parents on the one
  hand, and the faculties to crime on the other hand, can it be expected
  that these children can resist temptation? The wonder would be if a
  boy was honest. My conclusion, therefore, is, that the neglect of
  parents in these low neighbourhoods renders them _nurseries_ of crime.
  The number of boys in London who live by plunder is very—very
  considerable: and thus society is maintaining them at a great expense,
  either in the shape of prison expenses, or by the value of the
  property they steal, especially when it is considered that the
  receivers never give one quarter the value: and there is not a boy
  thief who, on the average, does not expend 5_s._ per diem."

Footnote 13:

  In the First Series of the "MYSTERIES OF LONDON," Vol. II. ch. CXCII.,
  there is a detailed account of an association denominated "The Forty
  Thieves." Soon after the Weekly Number containing that chapter
  appeared, we were inundated with letters, chiefly expressing
  unqualified disbelief of the astonishing particulars recorded in
  respect to the Forty Thieves. We answered all those which contained
  the real names and addresses of the writers, assuring them that the
  details related were strictly true, and that we actually possessed a
  printed copy of the regulations by which the Forty Thieves were
  governed. Still, most of our correspondents were sceptical. It was
  therefore with a feeling almost bordering on satisfaction that we saw
  in the _Morning Chronicle_, a few weeks ago, a report of a police-case
  in which the prisoner who figured before the magistrate was described
  as "belonging to an association denominated the 'Forty Thieves,' and
  whose head-quarters were in the Mint, Southwark." We take this
  opportunity of assuring our readers that of what they find recorded in
  the "MYSTERIES OF LONDON," far—far more is based on fact than they
  might at first suspect.

Footnote 14:

  Mr. Miles, in his Report (from which we have previously quoted) says,
  "In considering the subject of juvenile delinquency, it is requisite
  to take into account the various causes which compel them to be
  vicious; and though we must condemn, still we must regret that no
  efficient means have been adopted to prevent this lamentable evil.
  Young thieves have often confessed to me, that their first attempts at
  stealing commenced at apple stalls, and that having acquired
  confidence by a few successful adventures, they have gradually
  progressed in crime, allured by others, and in their turn alluring.
  They find companions to cheer them and instruct them, girls to share
  their booty and applaud them, and every facility to sell their daily
  booty. There is, moreover, a kind of lottery adventure in each day's
  life; and as these excitements are attainable at so easy a rate, is it
  strange that these children are fascinated with and abandon themselves
  to crime? Imprisonment to a young urchin who steals and has no other
  means of subsistence is no punishment; for it is indifferent to him
  where he exists, so long as he has food and raiment. It is in prison
  that boys form acquaintances, more mischievous than themselves. Many
  lads have owned to me that they had learned more in a gaol than out of
  one. I once asked a lad if there was any school where boys were taught
  to pick pockets? Upon which he significantly observed, 'No occasion
  for one, sir: the best school for that sort of thing is HERE!'
  alluding to the prison in which I saw him."

Footnote 15:

  We cannot allow the readers to attribute to _our_ imagination a fact
  so disgusting as this. We received the information from a
  police-officer who was an eye-witness of such a scene, and from whom
  (as stated in a previous note in this Series) we have gleaned many
  remarkable facts relative to the lowest orders.

Footnote 16:

  Mr. Miles's Report says, "London thieves have no sense of moral
  degradation; they are corrupt to the core; they are strangers to
  virtue and character, even by name; for many of them are the children
  of thieves or of exceedingly dissolute people, consequently they can
  have no contrition; they are in a state of predatory existence,
  without any knowledge of social duty; they may lament detection,
  because it is an inconvenience, but they will not repent their crime;
  in gaol they will ponder on the past, curse their 'evil stars,' and
  look forward with anxiety to the moment of their release; but their
  minds and habits are not constituted for repentance. Mr. Chesterton,
  of the House of Correction, informed me that he considers reformation
  among juvenile offenders to be utterly hopeless; he observed, that
  'boys brought up in a low neighbourhood have no chance of being
  honest, because on leaving a gaol they return to their old haunts, and
  follow the example of their parents or associates.' Lieutenant Tracy,
  of the Westminster Bridewell, has pointed out to me lads who live
  constantly in gaols.

  "Captain Kincaid, of the City Bridewell, informed me that one-half of
  the number under his lock on the day that I inspected the prison (June
  the 9th) had been more than once committed, many of them several
  times, especially the boys. Mr. Teague, of the Giltspur-street
  Compter, is of opinion that young thieves are mostly incorrigible—that
  nothing will reform them; an opinion which, he says, he has formed
  from the experience of many years. Mr. Capper, of the Home Office,
  stated, in his evidence, that out of 300 juvenile convicts, on board
  the hulk _Euryalus_, the eldest of whom was not 17, 133 had been
  committed more than once; and an experienced burglar told me that
  young thieves cannot and will not reform. 'The only thing, sir,' he
  remarked, 'that may save them is transportation, as it removes them
  from evil companions.'

  "The young thief is a nucleus of mischief. A young pickpocket, named
  Stuart, aged 13, informed me that his parents daily sent him into the
  streets to 'look about,' that is, to plunder whatever he could lay his
  hands upon; that his principal associates were three young thieves
  with whom he 'worked,' or robbed; that when he was 10 years old he
  stood at a horse's head while his companion stole a great coat from
  the gig; that he got sixpence for his share of the plunder; that he
  had committed many robberies because he was made to do it; and that he
  lived entirely by plunder. Mr. Chesterton states, in his evidence
  before the select committee of the House of Commons in answer to query
  474, 'Some of the parents lead their children into evil courses. It is
  no uncommon thing, when we are listening to the conversation between
  the prisoners and their parents, to hear a conversation that shows at
  once the boy's situation; but the old thieves are in the habit of
  bringing in with them young inexperienced lads. Whenever the elder
  thieves are recommitted, they are frequently recommitted with
  another.' He also observes (522) that 'the elder thieves are
  continually corrupting young lads, and bringing them into prison.'

  "I am informed that Captain Brenton considers the total number of
  juvenile offenders within the bills of mortality to be 12,000. Dr.
  Lushington, I believe, computed the number still higher; and from the
  evidence above quoted it is evident that each elder offender is daily
  spreading the mischief far and wide.

  "There is a youthful population in the metropolis devoted to crime,
  trained to it from infancy, adhering to it from education and
  circumstances, whose connections prevent the possibility of
  reformation, and whom no punishment can deter; a race '_sui generis_,'
  different from the rest of society, not only in thoughts, habits, and
  manners, but even in appearance; possessing, moreover, a language
  exclusively their own. There are lodging-houses kept by old thieves
  where juvenile offenders herd together, and their constant intercourse
  tends to complete corruption. It is in these hotbeds of vice that they
  revel in the fruits of their plunder; and though extremely young, they
  live with girls, indulging in every kind of debauchery."




                             CHAPTER XXXIX.
                  CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF JACOB
                                 SMITH.


"I now come to an important event in my life—in fact, that portion of it
which will account for this sickly condition of health in which you see
me. Old Death one evening took me with him to supper at a place where he
had never introduced me before. This was Bunce's in Earl Street, Seven
Dials. Mrs. Bunce immediately seemed to take a great fancy to me—made me
sit next to her—and, in spite of her meanness, helped me to the best of
every thing on table. It was a very good supper; for Old Death, who
provided it, had declared that he meant to launch out for once. But I
suppose it was only to put me into such a good humour that I was the
more likely to fall into the scheme which he had in view. This was not,
however, the reason of Mrs. Bunce's kindness; because since then she has
often treated me in a manner that has made me forget many a sorrow. It
is true that these likings only take her by fits and starts—and she has
not unfrequently used me cruelly enough. I can scarcely make that woman
out, as far as I am concerned; and there are moments when I think a
great deal of any kind words she has ever uttered to me, or any kind
treatment she has ever shown me.

"But I am wandering from the subject which I had entered upon. You
remember that I was telling you about the supper at Bunce's house. Well,
after the things were cleared away, and the grog was going round pretty
fast,—I used to drink then as much as a man, although little more than
ten years old;—Old Death began to talk a great deal about the money that
might be made by a clever lad like me being able to get admittance into
the houses of rich people. He went on to say that I should begin to
think of doing business that would leave me more time to amuse myself,
and be also less dangerous than going about the streets picking pockets.
I assured him that I was heartily sick and tired of the life I was
leading, and that I wished I was old enough to be a housebreaker. 'For,'
said I, 'a cracksman does have some time which he can call his own. If
he does only one job a week, he is satisfied: but I am obliged to gad
about all day to get the means of living on the next. Besides,' said I,
'I am of course running a thousand times more risks by doing so many
jobs each day, than I should if I only did one or two a
week.'[17]—'Everybody must have his apprenticeship,' returned Old Death,
'and you have now served yours. I agree with you that it is high time
for you to be doing something better; and I have a plan ready chalked
out for you.'—Mrs. Bunce mixed me another glass of grog: I produced my
short pipe, and blew a cloud while Old Death explained his scheme. At
first I did not much relish it: but he backed it with so many arguments,
that I agreed to try it.

"And, sure enough, at six o'clock one morning—a few days afterwards—a
boy, black as a devil, with soot-bag over his shoulder, and brush and
scraper in his hand, was making the round of Bloomsbury Square, bawling,
'_Sweep!_' as lustily as he could. That boy was myself. Presently a
garret-window opened, and a female voice called me to stop. I obeyed. In
a few minutes down came the cook to the front door, and I was desired to
walk in and operate on the kitchen-chimney. The cook was a fat,
middle-aged, good-natured body, and asked me a great many questions
about myself,—how long I had been a sweep—how it happened that I became
one—whether I had any father or mother—and a host of such queries; to
all of which I replied in the most sorrowful manner possible. I assured
her that I had been a sweep from infancy—that I had swept a chimney when
I was only five years old—that I had no parents—that my master beat me
cruelly—and that I had had nothing to eat since the morning before. The
good creature shed tears at my narrative; and, when I had swept the
chimney—which I did in a manner that scarcely bore out the assertion of
my long experience—she gave me a quantity of broken victuals in addition
to the money earned. I then took my departure, having very quietly
deposited half-a-dozen silver forks and spoons in my soot-bag, while her
back was turned.

"This business I carried on successfully enough for some months; till at
last Old Death told me that he had seen several paragraphs in the
papers, warning people against thefts committed by sweeps. I therefore
gave up the employment, and once more took refuge in St. Giles's. But my
health was seriously injured by the occupation I had just renounced; and
from that time I have always been ailing and sickly. Although I had
seldom turned sweep more than twice a week, and an hour after each
robbery that I thus committed was as clean again as if I had never been
near a chimney in my life,—yet the seeds of disease were planted in me,
and I feel the effects here—here—in my chest!

"The life that I led when I gave up the chimney-sweep business, did not
certainly tend to improve my health. I hired a room in St. Giles's, and
took a girl into keeping—I being then eleven, and she thirteen. Of all
profligate creatures, Peggy Wilkins was the worst. The moment she awoke
in the morning, she must have her half-quartern of gin; and then she
would go on drinking at short intervals all day long. If I attempted to
stop the supplies, she would fly into the most dreadful passions, break
every thing she could lay her hands on, or else throw the domestic
articles at my head. When tipsy, she would loll half naked out of the
window, and chaff the people passing in the street. In the evening she
went to the penny concerts or penny theatres,[18] and generally came
home so gloriously drunk that the entire house, much less our little
room, would scarcely hold her. You may wonder why I continued to live
with her: but the fact is, I liked her in spite of her outrageous
conduct, and as I was sometimes very dull and low, her noisy, rackety
disposition positively helped to put me into good spirits. She knew
nothing of my connexion with Old Death; but she was aware that I was
laying hid in St. Giles's in consequence of having robbed houses
disguised as a sweep; and she used to laugh heartily when I told her
several amusing anecdotes relative to that portion of my career.

"One night—after having lived about a month in idleness in the Holy
Land—I was compelled by the falling short of supplies, to call at
Bunce's in Seven Dials, for the purpose of seeing Old Death. After
waiting there a short time, he came in; and I immediately noticed that
his face was more serious than usual,—a certain sign that he had
something new on hand. I did not, however, venture to ask any questions;
for I still stood in the greatest awe of him, and knew that his
disposition was irritable and easy to be provoked. At length he said to
Mrs. Bunce, 'Give that lad a good strong glass of grog: he's shivering
with cold.'—I was not, but I took the grog, because I never refused
spirits at that time. When Old Death thought I was primed enough to
embrace any new plan with eagerness, he said, 'Jacob, I have something
for you to do that I am convinced will yield a good harvest.'—I
instantly became all attention.—'There's a widow lady,' he continued,
'living at the West End, in a swell street; and, by all I can learn, she
is very well off. She is also very charitable, and belongs to a number
of what's called Religious Societies; and I am sure you could get into
her house as easy as possible. The chimney-sweep business has well-nigh
blown over, if not quite; and it's high time to begin a new dodge.'—He
then explained his plan; and I agreed to adopt it.

"When I got back to my lodging in St Giles's, I found Peggy sitting in
company with a young fellow of about fifteen, drinking raw spirits. She
had not expected me home so early, and was for a moment quite taken
aback. But soon recovering herself, she put a good face on the matter,
and introduced the young chap as her brother; saying that she had not
seen him for many years before that evening, when she had met him by
accident. I pretended to believe her; but the moment he was gone, I gave
her a good beating and overwhelmed her with reproaches. She showed less
spirit than I had expected, and did not attempt to return the blows;
neither did she treat me with sulkiness or ill-humour.

"On the following evening, at about nine o'clock, I very quietly laid
myself down on the door-steps of a house in Old Burlington Street. I was
in such rags and tatters as to be almost naked; and having pricked my
feet, with a pointed bit of wood, in several places, they were almost
covered with blood, as if chapped with the cold and cut by the sharp
stones. This was in the depth of winter; and my appearance was most
miserable. Presently a carriage drove up to the house, and a fine, tall,
elderly gentleman got out. I was crouched up close by the threshold of
the door, and I purposely let him tread on one of my naked feet. Then I
began to sob as if with pain; and he now observed me for the first time.
He muttered an oath; but at that instant the front-door opened, and his
manner changed directly. He spoke kindly to me, and put half-a-crown
into my hand. A lady was crossing the hall while the door stood open and
this gentleman was still speaking to me; and she immediately turned to
ascertain what was the matter. 'Here's a poor, wretched creature,' said
the gentleman, 'who was so huddled up against the door, that I did not
observe him; and I am afraid I trod on his leg somewhat heavily.'—The
lady instantly spoke in the most compassionate terms, and desired that I
might be brought into the house. The man-servant raised me, for I
affected to be unable to walk; and the lady said, 'Poor boy, he is
paralysed with the cold!'—When I was moved into the hall, and placed in
a chair, the state of my feet was observed; and this increased the
compassion I had already excited. She ordered the servant to take me
into the kitchen, and give me a good supper, while I warmed myself by
the fire.

"All these commands were immediately executed; shoes and stockings were
also supplied me; and in the course of an hour the lady herself came
down to speak to me. She asked me who I was. I told her a long and
piteous tale, already prepared for the occasion,—how I had been
apprenticed to a tradesman at Liverpool, and had undergone the most
dreadful treatment because I refused to work on the Lord's Day and
insisted on my right to go to church; how the cruelty of my master had
increased to such an extent, that I was obliged to run away; how I had
wandered about the country for the last two months, subsisting on
charity, but often half-starved; how I had that morning found my way to
London, and had been obliged to sell my shoes for a penny to buy a roll,
which was all I had eaten during thirty-six hours: but that I had an
aunt who was housekeeper to a certain Bishop, and that I knew she would
do all she could for me. The lady seemed to eye me suspiciously until I
spoke of the aunt and the Bishop; and then her countenance instantly
changed in my favour. 'Well, my poor lad,' she said, 'you shall remain
here to-night; and the first thing to-morrow morning, one of my servants
shall take a message from you to your aunt.'—I of course expressed my
gratitude for this kindness; but the lady assured me that she required
no thanks, as heaven rewarded her for what she did towards her suffering
fellow-creatures. I really thought that there was something very much
like what I and my usual associates were accustomed to call '_gammon_'
in all this; and then I actually reproached myself for the idea, and
began to repent of imposing on so much virtue and goodness.

"When I was well warmed with the cheerful fire and plentiful supper, the
housekeeper of this lady conducted me to a little room on the top
storey, and having wished me a 'good night,' retired, locking the door
behind her. But this did not give me much uneasiness; for beneath my
rags I had concealed the necessary means to counteract such a
precaution. Accordingly, about an hour after I had heard the servants
withdraw to their bed-rooms, which were on the same floor as the one
where I was placed,—and when I thought the house was all quiet,—I took
off the lock of the door by means of a little turn-screw, and crept
carefully down stairs. Just at that minute the clock struck eleven. My
intention was to visit the drawing-room first; but when I reached the
door, I perceived there were lights within. I listened, and heard the
gentleman and lady talking together. 'Oh! ho,' thought I, 'I shall have
time to inspect the lady's bed-room first, and perhaps secure her
jewels.'—So, naturally conceiving that this chamber must be the one
immediately over the drawing-room, I retraced my way up stairs, and
entered the front apartment on the second floor. A rush-light was
burning in the room; but no one was there. I lost no time in commencing
my search in all the cupboards; but I found nothing except clothes.
There was, however, a mahogany press which was fast locked. I drew forth
a small skeleton key, and was about to use it, when I was alarmed by
footsteps in the passage. In another moment I was safely concealed under
the bed.

"Some one almost immediately afterwards entered the room, and only
closed the door without shutting it. I dared not move even to peep from
beneath the drapery that hung round the bed to the floor: but I could
tell by the rustling of silk and the unlacing of stays, that the person
in the room was undressing herself—and I felt satisfied it was the lady
of the house. I was now seriously alarmed. She was evidently going to
bed; and my only chance of escaping from the chamber was when she should
be asleep. But might I not disturb her? My situation was very
unpleasant—and a prison seemed to open before my eyes.

"In about a quarter of an hour the lady stepped into bed. How I longed
to catch the first sound that should convince me she was asleep! But she
was not dreaming of closing her eyes yet awhile; for scarcely had she
laid herself down, when the door was gently opened—then carefully closed
again—and _another person_, evidently without shoes or boots on, came
into the room. They said a few words to each other; and to my
astonishment I found that the gentleman who had arrived in his carriage
(which of course had been sent away) was going to pass an hour in
company with the charitable lady. 'Well,' thought I, 'this is the way in
which heaven rewards her for all she does towards her suffering
fellow-creatures!'

"The gentleman undressed himself, and got into bed. Nearly two hours,
instead of an hour, passed away—very pleasantly, it seemed, for the lady
and gentleman, and very much to my amusement. I was now no longer under
any alarm on account of myself—for I had learnt a secret which placed
the lady in my power. Well, the gentleman got up at last and dressed
himself; and the lady went down stairs with him to bolt the street-door
after him. Their movements were so cautious, that I could plainly
perceive the servants must have fancied that the gentleman had gone away
long before, and that this care was taken to avoid disturbing them with
any noise likely to excite suspicion.

"The moment the lady had left the room with her lover, I thought of
beating a retreat. But should I go empty-handed? No: and yet I had not
time to force open the mahogany press, which I believed must contain her
jewels, before she would come back, as she had gone down in her
night-clothes. I therefore resolved to stay where I was, and accomplish
my purpose when she was asleep; because if matters did come to the worst
and she should awake, she dared not expose me. So I laid quiet; and she
came back in a few minutes, shivering with the cold—for I could hear her
teeth actually chatter. Half an hour afterwards she was fast asleep—as I
could tell by her deep and regular breathing. The rush-light still burnt
in the room; and I crept carefully from beneath the bed. Yes—she was
sleeping; and, though not a young woman, she appeared very beautiful.
But I had not a minute to lose: my skeleton key was again at work—the
bolt of the lock flew back—and the door of the press moved on its
hinges. Move! yes—and creak, too, most awfully; so that the lady started
up in bed, and uttered a faint scream. I instantly rushed up to her,
saying in a low but determined tone, 'Madam, not a word—or I betray you
and your lover!'—By the feeble light of the candle, I saw that she
became as red as crimson.—'Yes, madam,' I continued, 'your tricks are
known to me; and I have been all the while concealed under this
bed.'—'You!' she exclaimed: 'why, surely you are the poor boy that I
received into the house this evening?'—'To be sure I am, ma'am,' was my
answer; 'and, being troubled with a habit of sleep-walking, I found my
way to this room.'—'But what were you doing at the bureau?'—'Merely
examining it in my sleep, ma'am.'—'This is ridiculous,' she said
impatiently. 'I understand what you are; but I will treat you well on
condition that you do not mention to a soul what you have been a witness
of this night.'—'I have no interest in gossiping, ma'am.'—'And were you
to do so, I can deny all you may state,' added the lady, who was
dreadfully excited and nervous, as you may suppose. 'But if you follow
my directions, I will reward you well.'—I readily gave a promise to that
effect. She then took a reticule from a chair by the side of the bed,
and drawing out her purse, emptied its contents into my hands. At a
rapid glance I saw there could not be less than fifteen or sixteen
sovereigns, besides a little silver. She then took from her bag a
Bank-note for twenty pounds, which she also gave me.

"I secured the money about my person, and she asked me whether I was
satisfied? I said, 'Perfectly.'——'Then stand aside for a few moments,
and I will show you how to act.'——I stepped behind the curtain, while
she rose and put on a dressing-gown; having done which, she took the
rush-light in her hand and desired me to follow her as noiseless as
possible. We went down into the kitchen, where she told me to take all
the cold victuals there were in the larder; and she gave me a napkin to
wrap them up in. There happened to be a silver spoon in one of the
dishes—left there most probably by accident. This she also desired me to
take; and you may be sure I did not refuse. These arrangements being
made, she led me to the front door, and having reminded me of my promise
not to talk about a certain affair, let me out of the house. I have no
doubt that there was a great deal said next morning in Old Burlington
Street, about the ungrateful lad who was taken in as an object of
charity, and who decamped in the middle of the night with the contents
of the larder and a silver spoon into the bargain."

"But you have not mentioned the name of this lady, Jacob?" interrupted
Tom Rain.

"I did not think it was worth while, sir—as she used me very well——"

"Still I have a very particular reason for wishing to be informed on
that head," said the highwayman.

"Oh! if that's the case, I shall not hesitate," replied Jacob. "The name
of that lady was Mrs. Slingsby."

"I thought so from the very first moment you began to speak of her!"
cried Tom. "And the name of the gentleman—did you learn _that_?"

"Yes, sir," answered the lad: "I heard the servants talking about him,
when I was in the kitchen. His name was—let me see?—Oh! yes—I
remember—Sir Henry Courtenay."

"Thank you, Jacob," exclaimed Tom: then, in a low, musing tone, he said,
"Poor Clarence! you are woefully deceived in your saint of an aunt!"

"Shall I continue my story, Mr. Rainford?" asked Jacob. "It will not
last much longer now."

"By all means go on, my boy. I would sit here till day-light, sooner
than miss the end."

Thus encouraged, Jacob continued in the following manner.

-----

Footnote 17:

  Every juvenile delinquent is as anxious to rise in his "profession" as
  the military or naval officer, or the member of any other hierarchy.
  But with the votaries of crime the apex of promotion is—the gibbet!
  Mr. Miles says, "I have questioned many boys of shrewd understanding
  concerning their opinions, and the opinions of their associates, as to
  their ultimate fate (for all thieves are fatalists). They look upon
  their inevitable doom to be either sooner or later transportation or
  the drop! It is difficult to imagine a state of more gloomy
  wretchedness and more despairingly horrible than the self-conviction
  of condign punishment, without one gleam of hope to clear the
  melancholy perspective. Punishments and whippings are therefore
  useless, for the mind is prepared to endure more, and every
  imprisonment is only looked upon as another step in the ladder of
  their sad destiny. The lad is hopeless, consequently reckless in his
  conduct,—hardened to the present, and irreclaimable as to the future.
  It is not by prison discipline that reformation can be effected: the
  temptations, the facilities, and the love of idleness are too
  alluring. Crowds of young thieves will wait round a prison-gate, to
  hail a companion on the morning of his liberation, and to carry him
  off to treat him and regale him for the day. I have asked boys under
  sentence of transportation if they thought they _could_ reform, if
  returned again upon society, and the general reply has been, 'No.'
  Their reasons for that conclusion I give in their own words:—'If we
  were to be free to-morrow, we must go to our old haunts and our old
  companions, for where else _can_ we go? If we try to be honest we
  cannot, for our 'pals' (associates) would torment us to return; in
  short, we should only have to come back here at last, but we are now
  going to another country, where we hope to be honest men.'

  "I have, moreover, questioned many lads as to what method they would
  adopt to prevent other boys from falling into crime, and their remarks
  have been, 'Stop playing in the streets, for a pocket is soon picked,
  and there are many who show others how to do it;—and the next thing is
  to stop those cursed receivers; for if a receiver knows a boy to have
  dealt with him, (that is, to have sold him property,) he will make him
  go out to thieve; he will never let him rest; and even should we get
  into employment, he will teaze us till he makes us rob the master, or
  will tell of us to the police.' These remarks prove the boys to be
  good judges of their own cases; so, like a skilful physician, they
  know where to apply the remedy; and as I feel convinced that many of
  these urchins possess every requisite to be good and useful members of
  society, so am I certain that their reformation, in a majority of
  cases, is as practicable, under proper means, as their ultimate ruin
  is now certain, under the present system."

Footnote 18:

  Mr. Brandon, in his Preface to Mr. Miles's Report, makes the following
  observations, which are too important to need any apology for their
  quotation:—

  "If a religious fanatic brings a Bill into the House for the 'better
  observance of the Sabbath,' whose comforts are to be abridged? Why,
  the poor man's and those of the middling classes; for it is the
  stage-coaches and omnibuses that are to be prohibited from making
  their appearance, while the streets may be thronged with carriages;
  and though the labourer is not permitted to purchase his necessary
  food on that sacred day, unable to have accomplished it before from
  not having received his wages till too late the preceding night, yet
  the fishmonger may keep the turbot cool that is to grace his
  lordship's Sunday table, and send it home on the very day, just in
  time to be prepared for dinner.

  "Penny theatres, too, are decried and suppressed, while the larger
  ones are permitted—the reason assigned being that the company who
  frequent the former render the step necessary, but the delinquency
  does not arise from cheap exhibitions—it is from the inefficiency of
  the law to restrain the audience; for in the plays themselves there is
  no improper language used. Holland, a notorious thief, in his
  examination, said he had heard bad language at those places before the
  curtain drew up, _but never any thing indecent on the stage_. This is
  a damning proof where the fault lies; if the laws were such as to
  restrain vice, and those properly administered, it would effectually
  prevent the improper conduct of the loose individuals, and preclude
  the necessity of reducing the pleasures of the poor; pockets are
  picked every night at the royal theatres, and scenes of the worst
  description carried on in the lobbies; yet it never entered into the
  cranium of the wiseacres that if the theatres were shut up, these
  abominations would be effectually eradicated. It is highly gratifying
  to witness the order and pleasure with which cheap diversions are
  conducted on the continent, even so close to us as Boulogne and
  Calais, where may be seen the lowest classes enjoying themselves in
  dancing and visiting the various public gardens, the entrance to which
  is a fee equivalent to our penny. Another proof of the difference with
  which our laws are administered according to the parties affected, is
  manifest in the proceedings against the various houses for play in the
  metropolis, the clubs of the aristocracy and the 'little goes,' little
  hells, &c. of the poor."




                              CHAPTER XL.
               CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF JACOB SMITH.


"On my return to Earl Street, Seven Dials, which was at about three
o'clock in the morning, I found Old Death and Mrs. Bunce sitting up for
me, Toby having gone to bed. I related the adventures which I had met
with, but said not a word about the intrigue of the lady and the
baronet; for I could not help thinking that the kind treatment I had in
the first instance received from Mrs. Slingsby, deserved the reward of
secresy on that head. Old Death _very kindly_ permitted me to retain
five pounds out of the money which I myself had obtained; and I hurried
back to my lodging in St. Giles's. Peggy was in bed and fast asleep; and
I lay down by her side without awaking her.

"When I again opened my eyes, the sun was shining in the brightness of a
frosty air even through the dingy panes of my window; and I started up.
Peggy had already risen; and I supposed she had gone out to get things
for breakfast. But something like a suspicion arose in my mind—and I
felt uneasy. I searched the pockets of the ragged pair of trousers I had
purposely worn on the previous night, and the five sovereigns were gone.
Now I was really alarmed: Peggy had certainly decamped. A farther search
showed me that she had even carried off the few little articles of
decent wearing apparel that I had, leaving me only the miserable rags in
which I had appeared at Mrs. Slingsby's house. Yes—Peggy had run away
with all I possessed that was worth the taking; and now the question
naturally rose in my mind—'_Will she betray me?_' I thought her conduct
was so suspicious, that I determined not to give her a chance if I could
help it; particularly as I remembered the manner in which she took the
beating I gave her, and which now made me think that she had resolved on
being revenged. So I dressed myself in my tatters as quick as I could,
and got away from the house. But at the end of the street I met a
certain Mr. Dykes—the Bow Street runner, whom you happen to know, Mr.
Rainford—and though I endeavoured to dive into a narrow court, he
pounced upon me in a twinkling.

"In less than an hour I stood in the felons' dock at the police-court,
Bow Street, charged with a robbery committed by me in Bloomsbury Square,
in the disguise of a sweep. I was remanded for a week, and sent in the
meantime to Clerkenwell Prison. There I was placed in No. 12, Reception
Yard, where Mrs. Bunce, who pretended to be my aunt in order to get
admittance to me, visited me in the afternoon. She told me that Mr.
Bones could not possibly come to see me, but that he would do all he
could for me if I remained staunch and did not mention his name in any
way—not even to my fellow-prisoners. 'We are afraid that you will be
committed for trial,' said Mrs. Bunce; 'but all shall be done that can
be done to buy off the witnesses. If that won't succeed, such evidence
of former good character shall be given, that your sentence will be a
light one; and in the meantime you shall have as much money as you want
to live gloriously in prison. Mr. Bones has sent you up a sovereign for
the present, and I will bring you a good suit of clothes to-morrow, so
that you may go up swell before the beak next time. Be staunch, Jacob;
and Mr. Bones will never desert you. But if you only mention his name to
a soul in an improper way, he'll leave you to your fate, and you'll be
transported.'—Mrs. Bunce impressed all this on my mind; but I assured
her it was unnecessary, as I knew that I should not better my own plight
in any very considerable degree by nosing against Bones, whereas he
might be useful to me if I behaved well in the matter. She went away
satisfied; and I spent the rest of the day in jollification with my
fellow-prisoners, amongst whom my money raised me to the rank of a
hero.[19]

"That night I slept in the Receiving Ward; and next morning I was taken
to the bathing-room, a new suit of clothes having been already sent in
to me by Mrs. Bunce. But I found that I was to bathe in the same water
which had already served to wash the filthy bodies of several trampers
who had also been sent to prison the day before on a charge of robbery;
and I knew that when they entered they were covered with vermin. I
therefore gave the turnkey half-a-crown to allow me to dispense with the
bath, put on my new clothes, and was turned into the Felons' Yard. There
I found persons, who had committed all degrees of crime, huddled
together as if there was no difference in the charges against them. A
boy who had stolen a pound of potatoes, value _one penny_—myself, who
had stolen plate in a dwelling-house—a _gentleman_, who had wounded
another in a duel and could not get bail, but who was a very superior
person—a burglar—a coiner—and a man charged with _murder_, were all in
one room together! It did not strike me then—but it has often struck me
since—how wrong it was to put that boy who had stolen potatoes, along
with a burglar, a coiner, and a practised thief as I was,—how unjust it
was to put the gentleman with any of us,—and how shocking it was to put
a murderer along with prisoners whose hands were not at least stained
with blood. And what were the consequences? The boy, who had merely
stolen the potatoes because his mother was ill and starving, and who had
never done any thing wrong before, was entirely corrupted by the coiner,
and made up his mind to turn prig the moment he got out;—the gentleman
was worked up to such a pitch of excitement, by being in such society,
that he was removed to the infirmary, and died of brain fever, as I
afterwards heard;—the burglar helped the murderer to escape, and got
safely away with him!

[Illustration]

"Our amusements in gaol were chiefly gambling and drinking. Money
procured as much liquor as we could consume; and with such I was well
supplied. Cards and dice were not allowed, it is true; but we used to
play with bits of wood cut and marked like dominoes, or by chalking the
table into a draught-board, or by tossing halfpence. Then there was such
fighting, quarrelling, and bad language, that nothing could equal the
place! In the upper, or sleeping ward, things were much worse: the
prisoners robbed each other. The very first night the duellist-gentleman
was there, he lost his purse containing several sovereigns; and when he
threatened to complain, he was quietly informed by the burglar and the
murderer that if he did, he would be hung up to the bars of the window
with his own handkerchief the very next night, and his end would be
attributed to suicide.[20]

"At the end of the week I was had up to Bow Street once more; and the
evidence was so conclusive against me, that I was committed to Newgate
for trial. This I had expected, and cared but little for, as Mrs. Bunce
at each visit which she paid me at Clerkenwell Prison, assured me that
Mr. Bones would do all he could for me. And he kept his word—but more, I
suppose, for his own sake than mine. What a dreadful place I found
Newgate to be! Hardened as I was—acquainted with all degrees of
debauchery—and familiar with vice, I declare solemnly that I shrank from
the scenes I there witnessed. Fighting, quarrelling, gambling, thieving,
drinking, obscene talking, bullying, and corrupting each other,—all
those took place to a great degree in the Clerkenwell Prison; but in
Newgate they were carried out to an extent dreadful to think of, and
associated with other crimes impossible to mention.[21]

"I now seemed to awake, for the first time, from a long dream of
wickedness, and to become aware of the frightful precipice on which I
stood. My eyes were suddenly opened—and I shuddered. A man was hanged at
the debtors' door, while I was in Newgate: and I saw him pass from the
condemned cell to the kitchen, which is just within the debtors' door. I
experienced a sudden revulsion of feeling, and took a solemn oath within
my own breast that I would never thieve again. But as I knew nothing of
religion, and could not read or write, I was not likely to reform very
rapidly nor very completely. I still laughed and joked with my
fellow-prisoners, and appeared to enter into most of their fun, though I
really began to loathe them. But when the chaplain visited us, and the
other boys jeered and mocked him, I stood by and dwelt on every word of
gentle remonstrance that fell from his lips. Next Sunday I paid great
attention to his sermon, while pretending to be asleep: for if I had
been caught actually lending a patient ear to his discourse, my
fellow-prisoners would have led me no peace afterwards. I understood but
little—very little of that sermon: still I gleaned some notion of the
existence of a Saviour a belief in whom was the stepping-stone to
virtue. I also heard the happiness of heaven explained for the first
time: but I must confess that I was greatly puzzled when the chaplain
declared that the man who was hanged for a dreadful murder on the
preceding Monday, had gone to that place of joy, because he had repented
in his last moments—for I thought to myself, 'Well, then, a human being
is quite safe in leading as terrible a life as he chooses, as long as he
repents at the end.' And, again, I was bewildered when I heard the
clergyman say these words, which made so great an impression on me that
I have never forgotten them, and never shall:—'_As I stood with that
penitent man on the drop, last Monday morning_, I ENVIED HIM HIS FATE,
_because I knew that his soul was about to ascend to heaven_!'[22]

"The day of my trial came; and I was placed in the dock before the
Common Serjeant of London. The clerk of the Court asked me, '_How will
you be tried—by God and your country?_'—I knew not what reply to make,
and was actually on the point of saying 'that I would rather not be
tried at all this time, since it seemed to be left to my own choice; and
that I would faithfully promise never to thieve again,'—when the turnkey
who had charge of me, whispered in my ear, 'You damned young fool, why
don't you speak? Say '_By God and my country_,' damn you.'—I did as I
was directed; and the trial commenced. The charge against me was fully
proved; and a verdict of _Guilty_ was recorded. The Common-Serjeant
asked if I had ever been convicted before. The keeper of Newgate, who
was present, said I had not. The counsel who had been retained for me by
Old Death, then requested to be allowed to call witnesses to character.
This was permitted; and three or four tradesmen, who I well knew were
Old Death's friends, got up one after the other, and swore that I had
been in their service (each one of course giving different periods of
time), and that I was an honest, hard-working, and industrious lad,
until I fell into bad company and got into trouble. Dykes, the runner,
was then questioned about me; and he said that I was not known as a
thief—although he knew the contrary perfectly well. But Old Death had
kept his word, and had not spared his gold. My offence was, however, a
grave one—robbing in a dwelling-house; and there were two or three other
indictments of the same kind against me, though the prosecutors did not
come forward. Old Death had made it right with _them_ too. I was
accordingly condemned to seven years' transportation, with a hint that
this sentence would be commuted to two years' imprisonment at the hulks.

"I was but little more than eleven when my career of crime was thus
interrupted; and I was glad that it _was_ so interrupted—for I resolved
that it should not be renewed when I regained my liberty. This was
scarcely a resolution produced by moral considerations, but by fear; and
it therefore required strengthening. Whether it was, or not, I shall
soon inform you.

"A few days after the sessions terminated, I was removed with several
other boys to the _Euryalus_ Convict-Hulk at Woolwich. This vessel has
three decks: the upper is appropriated to lads convicted the first time,
the second to the next grade of juvenile criminals, and the third, or
lowest, to the worst kind of offenders. I was assigned to the upper
deck, where there were about sixty of us. On being received on board we
were first sent to the wash-house, where we were bathed and well
cleansed; and we then received the suit of dark grey that denotes the
felon. Our employment was to make clothes for the entire establishment:
that is, shirts, jackets, waistcoats, and trousers. The person who
taught us was a convict-boy, who had been a tailor: the cutters-out
belonged to the second deck, and visited our department as often as
their services were required.

"We were divided into sections, each having at its head a boy selected
as the chief on account of his good conduct when in prison. I will
describe the routine of the day—taking the period when the summer
regulations are in force. At five o'clock in the morning all hands were
called, the ports were opened, the hammocks were lowered and lashed up,
and we washed ourselves for chapel. At half-past five the signal was
given for prayers; and we went to the chapel in sections, or divisions,
taking our seats in profound silence. The morning hymn was sung: the
schoolmaster read the prayers; and we returned to our wards on the upper
deck. There we stood in ranks till six o'clock, when breakfast was
served. The steward of the ship superintended the giving out of the
provisions, and saw that each boy had his fair allowance of bread and
gruel. This being done, the steward ordered each rank, one after the
other, to approach the tables, hold up the bread, say grace, and then
sit down and eat. At half-past six, we were marshalled on the
quarter-deck, in divisions; and the officers of the hulk were then
prepared to hear any complaints or receive any reports that might have
to be submitted to them. Such complaints were noted down for after
investigation. Some of the boys were kept above to wash the
quarter-deck, and the remainder were sent down to cleanse their own
deck. At eight o'clock we were all set to work at tailoring, a strict
silence being preserved. At nine o'clock the report upon the complaints
was received from the commander of the hulk, and the punishments awarded
were made known:—such as a good thrashing with a cane, stopping the
dinner, or solitary confinement on bread and water. At twelve o'clock
the dinners were served out, the steward superintending. The
quartermasters and guards were also present, to see that one boy's
allowance was not taken from him by another. From half-past twelve to
half-past one we were allowed to take air and exercise on the
quarter-deck, but without making any noise. At half-past one we were
marched down again to our work. At two, a section of one-third of us was
sent into the chapel, where we were taught reading and writing by the
schoolmaster. At five we left off work or schooling, cleaned the wards,
and then washed ourselves. This being done, supper was served out; and
we went on the quarter-deck again for air and exercise till seven, when
we were once more marched to the chapel for evening prayers and the
catechism. At eight o'clock we returned to our own deck, where the
signal was given for getting out the hammocks and slinging them up. At
nine profound silence was ordered; and the whole ship was then as quiet
as if there was not a soul on board,—this deep tranquillity being only
broken by the striking of the bell and the cry of '_All's well!_' every
half-hour.

"Such was the life led on board the _Euryalus_ convict-hulk. But I was
happier—much happier there than I had ever been before. The schoolmaster
was an excellent man, and took a delight in teaching those who were
anxious to learn. I was of this number, and my improvement was rapid. I
quite won his regard, and he devoted unusual pains to instruct me; so
that at the end of a year he obtained leave for me to give up the making
of clothes and assist him as an usher. This was an employment that
pleased me greatly, and allowed me plenty of time to read the books lent
me by the worthy schoolmaster. So fond was I of reading, that I used to
take a book with me on the quarter-deck at those times devoted to air
and exercise; and sitting apart from the others, I would remain buried
in study until it was time to go below again. I examined how books were
written and how I was accustomed to speak: that is—I compared the
language of those books with my own; and I was shocked to find how
wretchedly ignorant I had hitherto been in respect to grammar. This
ignorance I strove hard—oh! very hard to surmount; and the good
schoolmaster assisted me to the utmost of his power. I read and studied
the Bible with avidity; and the more I became acquainted with it, the
more fixed grow my determination to avoid a relapse into the ways of
crime when I should be released.

"During the two years that I passed at the hulk, Mrs. Bunce came very
often to see me, passing herself off as my aunt; but relations were not
allowed to speak to us except in the presence of a guard, and so the
name of Old Death was never mentioned by either of us. But Mrs. Bunce
used to tell me that 'my _uncle_ would give me a home when my time was
up;' and I supposed by this, that she meant her husband Toby. I knew
that Old Death was the person who had directed these assurances to be
given me; and often and often did I lay awake of a night, deliberating
within myself what I should do when I was set free, to earn an honest
livelihood and avoid the hateful necessity of returning to the service
of Mr. Benjamin Bones.

"At length the day of liberation came—and I had no plan of proceedings
settled. My clothes were given to me, and a shilling was put into my
hand by the steward. The old schoolmaster was absent at the time; and I
was sorry that I had not an opportunity of thanking him for all his
kindness and imploring his advice how to proceed. It struck me that I
would appeal to the commander of the hulk. I did so, and solicited him
to counsel me how to get an honest livelihood. He burst out laughing in
my face, exclaiming, 'I suppose you think I am to be deceived by your
humbug, and that I shall put my hand into my pocket and give you
half-a-guinea to see your way with. No such thing, my lad! I used to do
so when I was first here; but those I assisted in that way were always
the first to come back again.'—And he turned on his heel, leaving me
quite astounded at the reception my sincerity of behaviour had
experienced. But a few moments' reflection showed me that I could
scarcely blame him for his conduct; and I quitted the ship in tears.

"The moment I stepped from the boat that landed me in Woolwich, I met
Mrs. Bunce. She threw her arms round my neck, and called me her '_dear
Jacob_,' in such a loving manner that one would really have believed her
to be my aunt, or even my mother if she had chosen to represent herself
so. Then, pointing to a public-house at a little distance, she said,
'Your good and kind friend Mr. Bones is there; and he will be so
delighted to see you. He has ordered a nice steak and some good ale, and
we mean to let you enjoy yourself.'—The idea of having such a glorious
repast after being kept on short commons on board the _Euryalus_, made
my mouth water; but then I remembered all the influence Old Death had
been accustomed to exercise over me—and I knew that if I once again
entered within its range, I should never have the moral courage to
withdraw from it. So my mind was made up; and suddenly darting down a
bye-street, I was beyond Mrs. Bunce's view in a twinkling. I heard her
shrill, screaming voice call after me; but I heeded it not—and hurried
onward, as if escaping from a wild beast.

"Presently I relaxed my speed, and at length entered a public-house,
where I called for a pint of beer. Two or three soldiers and as many
young women were sitting at another table, drinking, and indulging at
the same time in the most filthy discourse. Suddenly one of the females
started up, advanced towards me, and, after considering me for a few
moments, exclaimed with a terrible oath, 'Well, I thought it must be my
old fancy cove Jacob:'—and she offered to embrace me. I however repulsed
her with loathing; for in the miserable, tattered, sickly wretch before
me, I had already recognised Peggy Wilkins. She seemed ashamed of
herself for a minute; then, recovering her impudence, she said, 'Damn
and blast you for a sulky, snivelling hound! Who the devil are you that
you can't treat me civilly? Do you think I don't know all that's
happened to you? Why, you've only this moment left the hulks—and you
can't deny it.'—The soldiers, hearing this, demanded if it was true;
and, without waiting for my answer, thrust me out of the place. I had
reached the end of the street, when I recollected that I had not
received the change for my shilling, which I had tendered in payment of
the beer. I therefore went back to ask for it; but the pot-boy who had
served me, swore that I never gave him a shilling at all; and the
landlord evidently believed that I was a vagabond endeavouring to
swindle his servant. So I was kicked out—penniless!

"I was for some time before I could muster up courage to adopt any plan
for my support. Indeed, I sate down in a retired nook and cried
bitterly. I even regretted having left the hulk, so miserable did I
feel. At last hunger compelled me to act; and I entered a shop to
inquire if a boy was wanted. The man behind the counter said he did not
require the assistance of a lad, but that a neighbour of his would
probably hire me. I went to the place pointed out to me, and, having
explained my business, was asked for testimonials of good character. I
candidly confessed that I had just been discharged from the _Euryalus_,
but that I thought the schoolmaster on board would recommend me. The man
flew into a dreadful passion, and rushing round from behind the counter,
would have kicked me out of the shop, if I had not run away of my own
accord.

"I am sure that I tried twenty different shops that day in Woolwich. At
some I explained my position—at others I carefully concealed the fact of
my late ignominious punishment. But character—character—character! where
was it? Even for a starving lad who only asked a fair trial—who promised
to work from sunrise to sunset, and to be content with a morsel of bread
to eat and a cellar to sleep in, as a recompense for his toils,—even to
one who offered so much and required so little in return, _character_
was necessary! Night came—I was famishing and in despair. At length a
charitable baker gave me a roll; and my hunger was appeased. It struck
me that the tradesmen at Woolwich were perhaps more cautious than people
elsewhere how they engaged the services of young lads, in consequence of
that place being a station for the convict-hulks; and I therefore
resolved to try my luck in another quarter. I set out for Greenwich,
which I reached at midnight, and slept till morning in a shed near some
houses that were being built. Cold, famished, and dispirited did I
awake; and with a sinking heart I commenced my rounds. Before noon I had
called at a hundred shops, public-houses, or taverns, without success.
Few required the service of boys; and those people who did, demanded
references. I begged a piece of bread of a baker, and then set off for
London.

"So slow did I walk, and so often was I compelled to rest, that it was
evening before I reached the Blackfriars Road. There, again, did I
endeavour to procure honest employment—but in vain! I remember that when
one shopkeeper—an old man—listened to me with more attention than the
rest, I burst into tears and implored—besought—prayed him to receive me
into his service, if it was only _to save me from becoming a thief_! I
did not tell him I had already been one. But he shook his head, saying
sorrowfully, 'If you have already thought of turning thief, your morals
must be more than half corrupted.'—He gave me a few halfpence, and I
went away.

"I balanced for some minutes between the cravings of my stomach and the
fatigue of my limbs—that is, whether I should spend those halfpence in
food or on a bed. I decided in favour of the food, and having satisfied
my hunger, crept into a timber-yard on the bank of the Thames, and slept
there till morning. I awoke at sunrise, and crossed Blackfriars Bridge.
My limbs shivered with ague, and my clothes were damp with the dews of
night. I knew not what to do—which way to turn. Hope had deserted me.
There was I, a poor—wretched—houseless—friendless—starving being,
anxious to remain honest, yet impelled by circumstances towards a
relapse into the career of vice. I prayed as I went along the
streets,—yes, I prayed to God to save me from that dreadful—that last
resource. But no succour came. All day long did I rove about: night
arrived again—and for twenty-four hours I had eaten nothing. I dragged
myself back to the timber yard; but there was a great dog prowling
about—and I dared not enter. I sought shelter elsewhere, for the rain
began to descend in torrents; but I was wet through before I could even
find the entrance of a court to screen me. I never slept a wink that
night: I was afraid to lie down on the cold stones—they were so chill.
Morning came again—and I was now so weak that I could hardly put one
foot before another. I was moreover starving—yes, _starving_! I passed a
baker's shop and saw the nice hot bread smoking in the windows, and I
went in to implore a stale crust. But I was ordered out; and then the
idea struck me that in a few minutes I might obtain money to buy a good
breakfast—not only bread, but meat and tea! That was by picking a
pocket! The idea, however, assumed a horrible aspect a moment
afterwards—and I recoiled from it. No: I would sooner plunge into the
river and end my woes there—than steal again!

"To the river's brink I hurried—dragging myself slowly no more—but
running, yes—absolutely running fast to terminate my wretchedness by
suicide. It was near Westminster Bridge that I was on the point of
throwing myself into the Thames, when my collar was suddenly grasped
from behind, and I was drawn back. I turned—and saw Old Death!

"Then I uttered a scream, and struggled dreadfully to get away, that I
might still accomplish my purpose; but he held me tight, saying, 'Silly
boy! why do you fly from life, since it may yet have many pleasures for
you?'—'No!' I cried: 'I will never become a thief again!'—'And I will
never ask you to do so,' he replied. 'But come with me, and let us talk
over your prospects.'—'Prospects!' I repeated in a hysterical manner;
and then I followed him mechanically to an early breakfast-house close
by. He ordered a plentiful meal; and I ate ravenously. The food and hot
coffee cheered me; and I began to feel grateful to Bones for having
supplied the means to appease the hunger that was devouring me.
Moreover, one looks with quite a different eye upon suicide after a good
meal; and I could not do otherwise than regard him as the saviour of my
life. I was therefore already prepared to listen to him with attention;
and when he proposed that we should repair to Bunce's, where we could
converse without fear of being overheard, I willingly agreed to
accompany him. But during our walk to Seven Dials, I constantly repeated
within my own breast the most solemn vows not to yield to any threats or
representations—menaces or coaxings—to induce me to become a thief
again!

"When we reached the house in Earl Street, Mrs. Bunce received me with
more kindness than I had expected to meet at her hands, after the trick
I had played her a few days before at Woolwich. But she did not treat me
thus without a motive; for when once she and Old Death got me between
them, they endeavoured to the utmost of their power to persuade me to
resume my old avocations. I was faithful to my vow, and assured them
that they might kill me sooner than I would again do any thing to risk
imprisonment in that horrible Newgate. It was not the hulk I so much
dreaded—nor yet transportation, because I knew nothing of it; but I
shrunk from the mere idea of going through the ordeal of Newgate a
second time. Old Death saw that I was not to be moved—at least then; and
he gave up the point. 'But,' said he, 'you must do something to get a
living: you can't starve; and _we_ won't maintain you in idleness. If
you like, I'll take you into my service to run on errands, look after
people that I want to learn any thing about and make yourself useful in
that way; and I'll give you a shilling a-day.'—I agreed—for I could not
starve.

"Now, of course it is as plain to you as it was even then to me, that
Old Death was playing a deep game with me. I was the cleverest thief
that ever served him; and he had received ample—ample proofs that he
could trust me. He knew that he was safe with me. I was therefore too
useful a person to lose; and he thought that by throwing me again
amongst my old companions, and keeping me on very short allowance, the
disagreeable impressions of gaol would soon wear away, and I should
relapse into my old habits. He was quite mistaken. I don't pretend that
any particular idea of virtue made a great change in me; but I had been
in Newgate—_and there I had seen a man going out to be hanged_; and I
thought that if I got into that dreadful gaol _a second time_, I should
become hardened, _and that I also should go out some day to be hanged_!
So I resisted all temptation—and lived as well as I could on the
shilling a day, without increasing my means by theft or villany.

"This mode of life on my part did not suit Old Death. A few weeks
passed, and when he found that I was resolved not to return to my former
ways, he stopped my allowance altogether. I was now steeped to the very
lips in wretchedness and misery: but somehow or another I managed to get
a crust here and there just to keep body and soul together—although I
oftener slept in the open air than in a bed. Mrs. Bunce showed me a
little kindness now and then, but quite unknown to Old Death; and, to my
surprise, she did not urge the necessity of my returning to the career
of theft. For several weeks I saw nothing of Mr. Bones; but at last he
fished me out in some low place, and told me I might return into his
service if I liked, and that he should pay me according to the use I
proved myself to be to him. To glean information for him—run on
errands—dog and watch persons—or even loiter about in police-courts to
hear what cases came up before the magistrates,—these were my chief
duties; and badly enough they were paid. But I was now permitted to get
my breakfast and tea regularly at the Bunces'; and that was something.
As for my lodging, if I got together a few pence to enable me to hire a
bed, or a part of a bed, in one of those low houses that I have already
described to you, I was contented,—for I always had this consolation,
that I could walk about the streets without being afraid of meeting a
Bow-Street runner."

Jacob paused—for his tale was told.

"Well, my boy," said Tom Rain, "you have gone through much, and seen
enough to form a good stock of experience. I commend your resolution
never to put yourself within reach of the law again; for that's just my
determination also. You have got money in your pocket now; and I will do
something more for you before I leave England."

"Ah! Mr. Rainford," exclaimed Jacob, much affected, "how I wish that I
had met with such a friend as you earlier in life! And how I wish, too,
that I could go with you—wherever you are going—and be your servant—your
slave!"

"Well—well, Jacob, we will talk of that another time," said Tom. "Rest
assured I will not desert you. Call at Tullock's on Monday evening, and
you will either see me there or find a note from me."

Jacob was overjoyed at the species of promise thus held out to him; and,
as it was now midnight, Rainford intimated his intention of taking his
departure from the public-house where he had passed the evening with the
poor lad.

When they had issued from the door, the highwayman bade Jacob "Good
night;" and they separated—pursuing different roads.

In fact, Jacob went towards Leather Lane, while Tom Rainford repaired in
the direction of the lodgings which he at present occupied in Gray's Inn
Lane—he having removed to that locality from his former abode in Lock's
Fields.

-----

Footnote 19:

  The discipline of criminal prisons was particularly lax at the time of
  which Jacob Smith is supposed to be speaking.

Footnote 20:

  This dreadful state of things continued in the New Prison,
  Clerkenwell, up to the year 1838.

Footnote 21:

  The Report of the Prison Inspectors of the Home District contains
  these observations upon the state of Newgate:—"The association of
  prisoners of all ages, and every shade of guilt, in one indiscriminate
  mass, is a frightful feature in the system which prevails here; the
  first in magnitude, and the most pernicious in effect. In this prison
  we find that the young and the old—the inexperienced and the practical
  offender—the criminal who is smitten with a conviction of his guilt,
  and the hardened villain whom scarcely any penal discipline can
  subdue, are congregated together, with an utter disregard to all moral
  distinctions, the interest of the prisoners, or the welfare of the
  community. In such a state of things, can it be a matter of wonder
  that the effects should be such as have been described? Every other
  evil is aggravated by this; and it would be worse than idle to attempt
  a remedy for the rest, while this demoralising intermixture of
  criminals of all ages and degrees of guilt is suffered to frustrate
  the very ends of Prison discipline, and to give tenfold violence to
  all their mischievous inclinations, and passions, upon which it is
  incessantly operating, and which is the design of justice to
  discourage and repress. Apart from higher considerations, sound policy
  demands that such a system should be instantly rectified, for so long
  as it continues, society is nursing a moral pestilence in its bosom,
  and maintaining an institution in which are forged those weapons that
  are destined to be wielded with fatal dexterity against the community
  itself. Every device by which the fences of property may be overcome
  is here framed, and divulged to ready agents. Every fraudulent
  artifice, every successful trick, every ingenious mode of
  over-reaching the cautious, or of plundering the unguarded, is
  perfected here, and communicated to those who had not hitherto been
  initiated in the mysteries of crime.

  "But the most distressing circumstance connected with this system, is
  the cruel indifference with which it regards the condition and
  necessities of those on whom the extreme penalty of the law is doomed
  to fall. Prisoners actually awaiting the execution of the awful
  sentence of death are placed, by the evil influence of companionship,
  in the most unfavourable circumstances for self-reflection. Religion
  and humanity combine to point out the imperative necessity of
  providing men, brought by the sentence of the law to the verge of
  eternity, with the means of spiritual improvement and consolation; but
  the system of Prison Discipline in Newgate practically defeats every
  such merciful design. No human authority has a right thus to trifle
  with the eternal interests of a dying criminal. Against this serious
  evil the chaplain has repeatedly and loudly protested; and it is in
  evidence that the unhappy victims themselves have earnestly implored
  the officers to deliver them from a situation in which it was
  impossible for them to devote the few remaining hours that the law
  allowed them to reflection and prayer. The companions in guilt of
  these wretched men become further hardened by the influence of this
  association. The indulgence of thoughtless apathy, unfeeling mirth, or
  revolting ribaldry, are productive of incalculable mischief to the
  minds of those who are subjected to their influence. The prisoner who
  witnesses with levity or indifference the last moments of a culprit in
  Newgate, comes forth a greater villain than when he went in. In him
  the evil principle has done its work, and the very exhibition of
  terror which justice designed for the reclaiming of the survivors, by
  a perversion of moral influence, irremediably hardens the heart which
  it was intended to soften and amend. If human ingenuity were tasked to
  devise means by which the most profligate of men might be rendered
  abandoned to the last degree of moral infamy, nothing more effectual
  could be invented than the system now actually in operation within the
  walls of the first metropolitan prison in England!"

Footnote 22:

  Fact.




                              CHAPTER XLI.
                             FRESH ALARMS.


Rainford was within twenty yards of the house in which he dwelt, when a
woman jostled him somewhat violently as she endeavoured to pass him
while pursuing the same direction.

There was no excuse for this rudeness on her part, inasmuch as the
pavement was wide in that particular spot, and no other person was on
the footway.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said the female; "I'm sure——But, bless me!"
she cried, in a shrill, unmistakeable voice,—"if it isn't Mr. Rainford!"

"Ah! Mrs. Bunce," returned the highwayman; "what are you doing in this
neighbourhood so late?"

"I'm going to pass the night with a relation of mine that's ill, and
which lives at the top of the Lane," answered Mrs. Bunce. "But, Oh! Mr.
Rainford, what a shocking thing this is about poor dear Mr. Bones!"

"What?" ejaculated Tom, with a kind of guilty start.

"Why, sir—he's dead, poor man!" sobbed Mrs. Bunce: "dead and buried,
sir!"

"Dead—and buried!" repeated the highwayman mechanically. "And how came
you to know this?"

"His friend Mr. Tidmarsh came and told me and Toby about it this blessed
morning; and in the afternoon we all followed the poor old gentleman to
the grave in Clerkenwell churchyard."

"His death was sudden, then?" said Tom, anxious to glean how far the
woman might be informed relative to the particulars of the event which
she was deploring.

"Mr. Tidmarsh isn't given to gossiping, sir," replied Mrs. Bunce; "and
he said very little about it. It was quite enough for us to know that
the poor dear old gentleman is gone—and without having made any Will
either: so me and Toby are thrown as you may say on the wide world,
without a friend to help us."

"But Mr. Bones was rich—very rich—was he not?" demanded Tom, who felt
particularly uncomfortable at this confirmation of his worst fears—for
he to some extent looked upon himself as the cause of the old fence's
sudden death.

"Rich, God bless ye! Ah! as rich as a King!" exclaimed Mrs. Bunce. "But
no one knows where he kept his money—unless it is that Tidmarsh."

"And where did he die?" asked Rainford.

"At Tidmarsh's own place in Turnmill Street, Clerkenwell," was the
answer. "Poor old man! But you must have seen him only a short time
before he went off, Mr. Rainford," she added, as if recollecting the
fact: "for it was on that very night when he took Toby and Jacob over
with him to a house in Lock's Fields, and which turned out to be where
you lived. You know he stayed with you while Jacob and Toby went away.
Poor old man! he's a great loss—a very great loss!"

"Were you so dependent on him, then?" asked Rainford.

"Yes, almost entirely, as I may say," was the reply. "And then there's
poor Jacob, too: what in the world he'll do, I'm sure I can't say—for me
and Toby can't afford to keep him now that our best friend's gone. But
good night, Mr. Rainford: I must go on to my cousin's—for it's very
late, and _she_, may be, will pop off the hooks before I get to her."

"Good night," returned Tom, slackening his pace so as to allow the woman
to proceed as far a-head of him as possible ere he entered his own
dwelling, which was now close at hand.

In a few moments the form of Mrs. Bunce was lost in the darkness of the
night.

Rainford was now convinced that Old Death was indeed no more—that no
prompt assistance had resuscitated him, even if the vital spark were not
extinct at the moment when he saw him for the last time, bound to the
chair, at the house in Red Lion Street. Yes—it was clear enough—too
clear: Benjamin Bones was dead—and Tidmarsh had pounced upon all his
property.

"Well—let him enjoy it," thought Rainford within himself. "I have enough
for my purposes, and do not wish to dispute the inheritance with
him—even if I had the right or the power. And yet—and yet," he mused,
with a feeling like a contraction of the heart, "I would give ten years
of my own life so that I had not been the instrument of abridging his!
But it's too late to repent or regret. Repent, did I say? I have nothing
to repent of. I did not do this deed wilfully: it was not murder. And as
for any share that I had in the matter at all, _that_ does not seem to
be suspected. Oh! I can understand Master Tidmarsh's proceedings! It was
no doubt he who entered the room just at the moment when I discovered
that Old Death was dead. Of course he would say nothing about finding
him tied in a chair, or of me having been with him that night: a word on
these heads would have excited suspicions—led to inquiries—Coroner's
inquest—and all that sort of thing. Then some relation might have turned
up, claimed the property, and cut Tidmarsh out. Yes—yes; it is plain
enough—and Tidmarsh is a prudent as well as a lucky fellow! But what
_could_ the laboratory in that house mean? what were those pickled human
heads kept in the cupboard for? and why was Dr. Lascelles familiar with
that den?"

Even in the midst of his musings, Rainford did not hazard a conjecture
to account for the mysteries just enumerated. They indeed appeared
unaccountable.

The highwayman walked some distance past the door of his lodgings, to
convince himself that he was not watched by Mrs. Bunce; and having
assured himself on that head,—at least so far as he could judge in the
darkness of the night,—he turned back and entered his dwelling.

The next day was the Sabbath; and Rainford was sitting, after breakfast,
reading a Sunday paper in the neat parlour of his lodgings.

On the other side of the fire sate a young—beautiful—and dark-eyed
woman—in all the rich flush of Jewish beauty,—the softly sweeping
outline and symmetrical undulations of her form being developed, rather
than concealed, by the loose morning wrapper which she wore; while the
ray of the frosty morning's sun glanced on the glossy surface of her
raven hair.

Little Charley Watts, nicely dressed, and with his rosy countenance
wearing the smiles of happy innocence, was seated on a footstool near
Tom Rain, looking at a picture-book, but every now and then glancing
affectionately towards those whom he had already learnt to love as if
they were his parents.

"Do the advertisements tell you when the next ship will sail from
Liverpool for New York, Tom?" inquired the lady.

"Next Friday, my love," answered Rainford. "We will therefore leave
London on Thursday."

"Four more days," remarked his female companion. "Oh! how glad I shall
be when we are out of sight of England! And yet," she added, with a
profound sigh, "I can scarcely bear the thought of parting—perhaps for
ever——"

"You must not give way to those mournful reflections," interrupted Tom,
in a kind tone. "Remember that we are going to a country where my
personal safety will not be endangered,—where we shall not be obliged to
shift our lodgings half-a-dozen times in a fortnight,—and where, too, we
need not start at every knock that comes to the door. We shall be as
happy as the day is long; and, with the money which I now have at my
disposal, I may embark in some honest pursuit and earn myself a good
name."

"The money will be at the New York banker's before we reach America, I
suppose?" said the lady, inquiringly.

"To be sure," replied Tom; "since I paid it all into the hands of the
London agent two days ago. Have you taken care of the receipt, or
acknowledgment?"

"I locked it up in the little iron box, together with all your other
papers," was the answer.

"And those documents that I brought home with me the other night—or
rather morning——"

"All safe, dear Tom. But really when you allude to that dreadful night,
you make me shudder. Oh! how long—how long did those weary hours seem,
until you returned! When you came up into the bed-room and told me that
you were going away with that dreadful man Bones—that the time had at
length come—that opportunity had at last served your purposes——"

"Well, my dear girl—I recollect all that took place," interrupted Tom,
laughing. "You begged me not to go with him—you said you had your
misgivings: but I was resolved—for such an occasion might not have
occurred again. Did I not tell you beforehand, when we were down in the
country, that if I came up to London and purposely threw myself in the
way of Old Death, accident would be sure sooner or later to enable me to
wrench from his grasp that gold of which he had plundered me? And have
not my words come true? You must not reproach me now, dear girl, at all
events—for the danger is over."

"Yes—and the dreadful man is dead!" exclaimed the Jewess, in a tone
which expressed a thanksgiving so unequivocally that a cloud for a
moment gathered on Rainford's brow.

"He is dead—and can molest us no more," he observed, in a serious tone.
"But I could have wished——However," he added, abruptly, "let us avoid
that subject: it is not altogether an agreeable one. And now, to return
to our intended departure for America, I am somewhat at a loss how to
act in respect to that letter, which I obtained last night from Jacob
Smith, and which so deeply regards——"

He paused, and glanced significantly towards Charley.

"What can you do in the matter, Tom?" said his beautiful companion. "The
letter is too ambiguous——"

"Scarcely ambiguous—but deficient in certain points of information,"
interrupted Rainford.

"Which is equally mortifying," added the Jewess. "You cannot risk your
safety by remaining in England to investigate the affair—even if we had
not gone so far in our arrangements for departure——"

"Certainly not," replied Tom: "but I was thinking that I would entrust
the letter to my friend Clarence Villiers; and who knows but that some
accident may sooner or later throw him into the way of sifting the
mystery to the very bottom?"

"Your project is an excellent one," answered the Jewess. "But are you
sure that he does not suspect——"

"Suspect what I really am!" ejaculated the highwayman, with that blithe,
merry laugh of his which showed his fine white teeth to such advantage.
"Not he! He does not know Sir Christopher Blunt—nor the lawyer Howard;
and his acquaintance with that consummate fool Frank Curtis was always
slight, and not likely to be improved by all that has occurred: for
Frank _must_ suspect that Clarence had something to do with the
elopement of Old Torrens's daughters. So, all things considered,
Clarence cannot have heard of the little affair by which Sir Christopher
lost his two thousand pounds."

"Then you will entrust Mr. Villiers with the letter?" said the lady,
inquiringly.

"Yes: I will call upon him this evening," responded Tom; "for I have a
little hint to give him relative to a certain aunt of his——"

At this moment there was a knock at the front-door of the house; and the
servant presently made her appearance to inform Rainford that a young
man named Jacob Smith wished to speak to him.

Tom's brow darkened—as the thought flashed across him that the lad had
dogged him on the preceding night. But instantly recovering his
self-possession, he desired the Jewess and Charley to retire to another
room, while he received the visitor.

When Jacob entered the parlour, Rainford looked sternly at him, but said
nothing.

"I know what _is_—what _must be_ passing in your mind, sir," said Jacob
hastily; "but you wrong me—that is, if you think I found out your
address by any underhand means of my own."

"Sit down, my boy," cried Tom frankly: "I am sorry if I suspected you
even for an instant. But what has brought you here this morning? and
how——"

"I will explain all in a few moments, Mr. Rainford," said Jacob. "Two
hours ago—at about eight o'clock—I went up to Bunce's, just to see if
they had heard any thing of Old Death; and, to my surprise, I learnt
that he was buried yesterday."

"So I have already heard. But go on."

"You know I told you last night that yesterday morning two or three
people called in Earl Street to inquire about Old Death, as he had
promised to get a thief off at the police-court? Well—at that time, it
seems, neither Mrs. Bunce or Toby knew what had become of Mr. Bones: but
just afterwards, as I'm told, and when I had gone away from the house,
up goes old Tidmarsh, the fence, with the news that Mr. Bones was dead,
and that the funeral was going to take place in a couple of hours. Quick
work, wasn't it, sir? So Toby Bunce and his wife went to the funeral;
and now it's certain what has really become of Old Death. Tidmarsh told
them he died suddenly three or four days ago at _his_ house—of apoplexy.
I'm sure he didn't look much like an apoplectic man."

"The best part of all this I learnt last night, soon after I left you,"
said Rainford.

"And I only heard it when I went up to Bunce's this morning," remarked
Jacob. "Well, sir—when Mrs. Bunce had told me this, she said, '_Jacob, I
want you to do a particular favour for me, and I will give you a
sovereign_.'—I asked her what it was. '_I'm pretty sure_,' she says,
'_that Mr. Rainford lives somewhere in Gray's Inn Lane, between
Liquorpond Street and Calthorpe Street, on the same side of the way as
those streets; and you must find out where it is, became I want
particularly to know_.'—So I promised her I would; and I of course took
good care not to say that I had seen you last night. But I was
determined to give you notice of Mrs. Bunce's desire to have you
watched; and I have been knocking at every door in the neighbourhood,
asking if such a gentleman as yourself lived there. In describing you,
however, I did not mention any name."

"That was right, Jacob," said Tom; "because I am not known as Rainford
here. But what the devil can that old wretch want with me? Has she
inherited Old Death's scheming disposition? or does his vengeance pursue
me, even from the tomb?"

These last words were totally unintelligible to Jacob, who knew not that
the highwayman had had any share in the death of Mr. Benjamin Bones.

"Of course, sir," remarked the lad, after a pause, "I shall go to Mrs.
Bunce this evening and assure her that no such person as yourself lives
in this neighbourhood. I hope you are not offended with me for hunting
after you?"

"Far from it, Jacob," returned Tom: "for I am sure I can trust _you_. At
the same time, you must be cautious how you act, so as not to let Mrs.
Bunce imagine that you are playing _her_ false. Try and find out what
she wants with me, and meet me at Tullock's to-morrow evening, between
seven and eight. No—not at Tullock's either—because that woman knows I
am in the habit of going there: but come to me at the public-house in
Baldwin's Buildings where we were last night. Remember—to-morrow
evening, at about half-past seven."

"I shall not fail, sir," responded Jacob: and he then took his
departure.

The moment he was gone, Rainford hastened up stairs to the bed-room,
whither the Jewess and little Charley had retired; and closing the door,
he said, "My dear girl, we must be off directly. That horrid woman Mrs.
Bunce, of whom I have spoken to you, is after me—and I am afraid for no
good."

"Off!" exclaimed the lady: "what—to Liverpool at once?"

"No: but to another lodging—or to a tavern rather—for it will be
difficult to obtain apartments on a Sunday. I must stay in town for a
day or two longer—or at least till I have seen Villiers. Come—pack up
your things, my love—and let us be gone."

"Are you afraid of that lad who has just been?" demanded the Jewess.

"Not a whit! He is staunch to the backbone—I will swear to it! But _he_
might be followed—or he might commit himself somehow or another, and
betray me involuntarily. By-the-bye," ejaculated Tom, after an instant's
pause, "I tell you what we will do! We will return to Lock's Fields. It
is clear that Mrs. Bunce has found out that we are _not_ living there
now—otherwise she would not have set this Jacob to watch me, which she
has done; and she would never suspect that we have gone back to our old
quarters. So look alive, my love; and pack up the things, while I settle
with our landlady here and send for a coach."

Tom Rain's directions were speedily obeyed; and by mid-day the Jewess,
Charley, and himself were once more located in Lock's Fields.




                             CHAPTER XLII.
                    THE PARAGRAPH IN THE NEWSPAPER.


Having partaken of a good dinner and imbibed a glass or two of wine, Tom
Rain returned to the perusal of the Sunday newspaper, which he had
brought with him to his old lodgings; for the highwayman loved a
newspaper dearly—especially the police reports and Old Bailey trials.

But as his eye glanced down a column principally devoted to "Fashionable
Intelligence," he was struck with mingled horror and astonishment by the
ensuing announcement:—

  "It is rumoured that the young and wealthy Earl of Ellingham will
  shortly lead to the hymeneal altar, the beautiful and accomplished
  Lady Hatfield. Her ladyship is a peeress in her own right, that
  distinction having been conferred upon her in consequence of the
  eminent services of her ladyship's deceased father."

Tom Rain was absolutely stupefied by this paragraph:—so stupefied,
indeed, that he sate gazing upon it in a species of vacant
wonderment,—not starting, nor uttering any ejaculation—so that neither
the Jewess nor Charley Watts, who were both in the room, noticed his
emotion.

At length he recovered himself, and read and reread the paragraph until
he could have repeated it by heart.

The shades of evening were gathering fast over this hemisphere; and he
had therefore now a good excuse for going out—for that announcement in
the Sunday paper had produced such an effect upon him that he felt he
could not rest until he had performed a duty—an imperious but most
painful duty!

[Illustration]

Having hastily arranged his toilette in the bed-room up stairs, and put
on a dark upper coat and a large woollen "comforter," he sallied
forth—but not without having previously kissed both the Jewess and
little Charley.

At the nearest coach-stand he entered a hack-vehicle, and ordered the
driver to take him to the residence of Lady Hatfield, in Piccadilly.

But ere the coach arrived quite opposite the front door of the fair
patrician's abode, Rainford alighted, and dismissed the vehicle.

Then he advanced to the house:—but it was with the step of a man who
would rather—oh! a thousand times rather—have fled in any other
direction.

His hand was on the knocker, and he hesitated,—yes, he hesitated; and
that hand trembled.

It must have been some powerful cause that could have made the
gallant—dauntless—almost hair-brained Tom Rain manifest so much emotion.

But at length the summons was given; and a livery-servant opened the
door.

To Rainford's inquiry whether Lady Hatfield were at home, an affirmative
answer was given.

"Say to your mistress," returned the highwayman, "that a person wishes
to speak to her upon very particular business—and do me the favour to
show me to a room where I can see her ladyship alone."

The servant hesitated a moment—for the excited tone in which the request
was made somewhat surprised him. But remembering that it was not his
business to question his lady's visitors, he conducted Rainford into a
parlour where a fire was burning in the grate; and, having lighted the
candles, the domestic retired to deliver to Lady Hatfield the message
which he had received.

The few minutes which elapsed ere the door of that room again opened,
seemed like an age to Tom Rain. He first sate down: then he rose again
and stood before the fire in a state of extraordinary nervousness. In
fact, he appeared perfectly unmanned.

We can conceive the feelings of appalling doubt—hope mingled with
terrific fear—and agonising suspense, that must be experienced by an
individual accused of a capital crime, and awaiting in the dock the
return of the jury in whose hands are his life and death.

Such was the state of Tom Rain during the five mortal minutes that
elapsed ere the door again opened.

At length it _did_ open—and, though he had his back turned towards it,
yet the rustling of silk and a light, airy tread convinced him that the
lady of the house was now in that room.

He turned: the light streamed full upon his countenance—for he had laid
aside his hat and woollen comforter; and Lady Hatfield—for it was
she—uttered a faint scream as her eyes met his.

"Pardon this intrusion—fear me not _now_, my lady!" exclaimed Rainford
hastily: "but grant me five minutes' attention, I implore you—not for
_my_ sake—for _yours_!"

Georgiana had started back, and had become pale as death when she
recognised the highwayman: but even while he was yet speaking, she
recovered herself sufficiently to approach the spot where he was
standing.

Then, without sitting down—but leaning her arm upon the mantelpiece, as
if for support—she said in a hoarse and hollow tone, "My God! what would
you with me?"

"Lady Hatfield," returned Rainford, in a mournful and even solemn tone,
"forget the _past_—if you can—for a few minutes——"

"Forget the past!" repealed Georgiana hysterically, her whole frame
convulsed with horror. "Oh! terrible man, wherefore have you come
hither? have you not injured me enough? what do you now seek?—_my
life?_"

And, as she uttered these last words, the syllables seemed to hiss
between her set teeth—and her bosom heaved and fell rapidly with
spasmodic palpitation.

"Listen to me, madam—I implore you!" exclaimed Rainford, cruelly
perplexed and deeply touched by the agonising emotions which his
presence occasioned. "I know that the sight of me must be
abhorrent—loathsome to you; but it will be your fault if our interview
is protracted beyond the few minutes which I ask you to grant me."

"Speak, sir—speak quickly!" cried Georgiana hysterically. "But mark me,
sir," she added in a firmer and more resolute tone, while her usually
placid glances seemed to glare with deadly hatred against the
highwayman,—"mark me," she repeated—"if your intention be to coerce me
again to commit a crime for your sake, you will not succeed. But a few
days have elapsed since the stain of perjury—rank, abhorrent perjury—was
fastened on my soul—and to save _you_! Oh! that I could have been so
weak as to yield to your insolent command to swear to that which was
false—atrociously, vilely false, at the bar of justice! And now proceed,
sir, with the business which has brought you hither!"

"Lady Hatfield—I cannot, I dare not explain myself, while you labour
under this dreadful excitement!" said Rainford, himself painfully
excited. "Calm yourself, I implore you—for what I have to say most
nearly concerns your interests."

"_My_ interests!" repeated Georgiana in a sorrowful voice. "But
proceed—go on, sir:—I _will_ be calm."

"I observed in a newspaper of this day's date," continued Rainford,
"that your ladyship is about to become the wife of the Earl of
Ellingham."

Lady Hatfield gazed upon the highwayman in that vacant manner which left
it doubtful whether she were the prey to feelings of surprise—terror—or
despair.

"And if that rumour be true, my lady," added Rainford, after a moment's
pause, "I would have you reflect on the propriety of this matrimonial
connexion."

"My God! he assumes a right to dictate to me!" almost shrieked
Georgiana, as she sank back upon a sofa, clasping her hands together in
the excess of her mental anguish.

"No—my lady—not to dictate!" said Rainford. "I have not a shadow of a
right to do that: it were the height of madness—the height of
presumption—an insolence beyond all parallel on my part—in fact a deed
so monstrously inconsistent with even common sense——"

"That you are surprised I should have entertained the idea?" added
Georgiana, with an irony and bitterness which seemed lent her by
despair.

"My God! I foresaw all the terrors of this interview!" exclaimed
Rainford with feverish impatience.

"Then wherefore did you come?" demanded Georgiana. "Is it to expose
me—to persecute _me_ who have never offended _you_, but who have
suffered so deeply—deeply——"

"Madam, I came to perform a painful duty," interrupted the highwayman;
"and the sooner I accomplish it the better. Oh! you know not—you will
not give me credit for the ineffable pity—the profound commiseration
which I feel for you,—as well as the loathing—the abhorrence—the
shame—the disgust in which I hold myself:—but I cannot recall the past.
Would to God that I could!"

"Then you mean me no harm?" exclaimed Georgiana eagerly.

"Mean you harm, madam!" repeated Rainford enthusiastically: "merciful
heavens! if to mitigate one single pang of the many—many with which your
breast must throb, poor innocent sufferer that you are—a sufferer
through my detestable crime,—if to relieve you of any portion of the
load that weighs upon your mind—were that portion no heavier than a
hair,—if to do this my life would suffice, I would lay it down, madam,
at your feet! Think you that I glory in what I have done? No—no: bad as
I am—criminal as I am—robber, plunderer as I am, and as you know me to
be,—yet I have feelings—aye, and a conscience too! And, often—often, my
lady, when the smile is upon my lip, that conscience is gnawing my
heart's core—for I think of _you_! And all this is true as God's own
justice is true,—true as that you are an innocent and a noble lady, and
that I am a despicable villain!"

And Tom Rain—the gallant, dashing, almost hair-brained Tom Rain—burst
into tears.

Georgiana gazed upon him in astonishment—in profound astonishment; and
she was softened towards that bold and desperate man who wept on her
account!

"But wherefore have you sought me this evening?" she said, in a milder
and more gentle tone than she had yet used during this remarkable—this
solemnly interesting meeting.

"It is not to demand your pardon, madam," returned Rainford, dashing
away the tears from his manly countenance; "because _that_ you can never
give! It is not to assert any presumed right to dictate to you in
respect to your marriage, because _that_ were adding the most flagrant
cruelty to the most atrocious wrong. But it is to inform your ladyship
that if you contract this marriage with the Earl of Ellingham, you wed
one who is——"

"Who is what?" gasped Georgiana, almost suffocating.

Rainford paused for a few moments: it required these few moments to
enable him to conquer emotions of so terrible a nature that they almost
choked his powers of utterance:—then, bending down until his very lips
touched Georgiana's ear, and his hair mingled with hers, he whispered a
few words in a faint and scarcely audible tone.

But she heard them plainly—oh! far too plainly: and when he withdrew his
face from its proximity to her head, and glanced upon her countenance,
he saw, with feelings awfully shocked, that she sate mute—motionless—the
image of despair.

Alas! she spoke not—she looked neither to the right nor to the left: her
eyes seemed to be fixed upon the face of the highwayman;—and yet she saw
him not—she was gazing on vacancy.

This dreadful state of stupefaction—the paralysis of despair—lasted for
upwards of three minutes,—a perfect age alike to her who endured, and to
him who beheld it.

Then suddenly burst from Lady Hatfield's lips a long—loud—piercing
scream,—a scream so appalling that the very house appeared to shake with
the vibration of the air which was cut by that shriek as by a keen-edged
sword.

"Merciful God! the whole place will be alarmed!" ejaculated the
highwayman. "Compose yourself, madam——"

But vainly did he thus address himself to the unhappy Georgiana: she had
fallen back insensible upon the sofa.

The door opened abruptly; but Tom Rain was rooted to the spot where he
stood gazing on the motionless form of that wretched lady,—stood gazing
too in horrified amazement at the effect which his whispered words had
produced.

The scream to which Lady Hatfield had given vent in the paroxysm of her
ineffable anguish, had reached the ears not only of the domestics in the
kitchen but also of the company in the drawing-room—for there were
guests that evening at Georgiana's residence.

Thus, when the door burst open, a crowd of persons poured in,—Lord
Ellingham, Dr. Lascelles, Sir Ralph Walsingham, three or four ladies,
and all the servants.

Miss Mordaunt, we should observe, was no longer an inmate of Lady
Hatfield's abode—for reasons that will be explained hereafter.

Lord Ellingham was the foremost of the crowd; and the first object that
met his eyes, as he rushed into the room, was his Georgiana stretched
senseless on the sofa. He saw a man standing near, but did not pause to
cast a second glance upon him: the state in which he found his beloved
engrossed all his thoughts.

He raised her in his arms—the ladies produced their smelling-bottles—the
female servants hastened to fetch water, vinegar, and anything else that
struck them as useful under the circumstances—and Dr. Lascelles, who
_had_ recognised Tom Rain, though without appearing to do so,
professionally superintended all the means resorted to for the purpose
of restoring suspended animation,—while the highwayman still looked on
with a kind of mechanical attention.

At length Georgiana opened her eyes slowly; but the moment they caught a
glimpse of Lord Ellingham's countenance, a faint cry escaped her
lips—and she covered her face with her hands as if to shut out some
terrible object from her view.

"Georgiana, dearest—'tis I," murmured Arthur in her ear.

But a dreadful shudder seemed to convulse her entire frame.

"Some one has terrified her—alarmed her!" exclaimed the Earl, colouring
with anger; and as he glanced rapidly around, his eyes met those of the
highwayman.

At that moment Dr. Lascelles desired that Lady Hatfield should be
supported to her own chamber; and this suggestion was immediately
followed by the female friends and servants, the physician accompanying
them.




                             CHAPTER XLIII.
                    LORD ELLINGHAM AND TOM RAINFORD.


Lord Ellingham and Sir Ralph Walsingham remained behind in the
apartment, where Rainford also still was.

"Sir," said the nobleman, advancing towards the highwayman, "you will
perhaps be kind enough to explain the cause of her ladyship's
emotion?—for the scream which reached our ears, and the condition in
which we found her, denote something more serious than sudden
indisposition. This gentleman, sir," added the Earl, indicating Sir
Ralph Walsingham with a glance, "is Lady Hatfield's uncle: you therefore
need not hesitate to address yourself to _him_—even should you decline
to vouchsafe an explanation to me, who am a total stranger to you."

"Yes, my lord—for I know you well by sight—we _are_ total strangers to
each other," replied Rainford in a singularly mournful tone. "And yet——"

But he stopped short, seized his hat, and was about to hasten from the
room, when the Earl caught him somewhat rudely by the arm, saying,—"Mr.
Rainford—for such I believe to be your name—we cannot part with you
thus! A lady—dear, very dear to me, and who indeed will shortly be my
wife,—dear also to Sir Ralph Walsingham, who is now present,—that lady
has been alarmed—terrified in some manner, by you; and we must insist
upon an explanation."

"My lord," returned Tom Rain in a tone of deep emotion, as he gazed with
peculiar—almost scrutinising attention upon the Earl's countenance,—"no
other man on earth would thus have dared to stop me with impunity. As
for explanations," he continued, his voice suddenly assuming a little of
its usual reckless indifference, "I have none to give."

And again he moved towards the door.

But Lord Ellingham hastened to place his back against it in a determined
manner: while Rainford, as if discouraged and daunted, fell back a few
paces.

"Mr. Rainford," exclaimed the Earl, "this matter cannot pass off thus. I
insist upon an explanation; or I shall consider it to be my duty to
detain you until Lady Hatfield be sufficiently recovered to declare the
nature of the treatment she has experienced at your hands. Moreover,
sir," added the nobleman, observing that Rainford's lip blanched and
quivered nervously, "you are to a certain degree an object of suspicion
in my eyes. A variety of circumstances have combined to prove to me that
you were implicated, to some degree, in the theft of diamonds which
lately caused so much embarrassment at the police-court."

"My lord, that business does not regard you," replied the highwayman.
"The diamonds were restored to their lawful owner; and—more than
_that_—I even ascertained from Mr. Gordon's own lips that they were paid
for, before their restoration, by one who——But let me depart, my lord, I
say!" ejaculated Tom, his manner suddenly changing from nervous
trepidation to the excitement of impatience.

"You must remain here, sir," said Arthur coldly, "until we ascertain
whether it be Lady Hatfield's pleasure that your detention should assume
a more serious aspect."

"Allow me to pass, my dear Earl," exclaimed Sir Ralph; "and I will
hasten to ascertain how my niece is now, and what her intentions are
with respect to this person."

Rainford paced the room in an agitated manner, while Lord Ellingham
afforded egress to the baronet, and then resumed his position of
sentinel with his back placed against the door.

"My lord," at length said the highwayman, advancing close up to the
Earl, and speaking in a low, oppressed tone, "you will find that her
ladyship has no complaint to make against me. Permit me to take my
departure; and again I tell you that of no other living soul would I
solicit as a favour what I would command by force."

"I cannot allow you to leave this room—at least until the return of Sir
Ralph Walsingham," answered the Earl. "Lady Hatfield must have been
insulted or menaced by you in some way——"

"I take God to witness that I neither insulted nor menaced her!"
interrupted Rainford, warmly.

"If your liberty be endangered," said the nobleman, "it is well worth a
falsehood to attempt to avert the peril."

"My God! this from _him_!" muttered Rainford bitterly to himself, as he
once more turned round to pace the room: then, at the expiration of a
minute, he said in a calmer tone, "Well, my lord—I am content to wait
until the decision of her ladyship is made known in respect to me. And
since it appears that we shall have a few moments more of each other's
society, permit me to ask,—your lordship having just now alluded to a
certain transaction at a police-court,—permit me to ask, I say, whether
you really believe that Miss Esther de Medina was innocent or guilty of
the charge imputed to her?"

"This is rather a singular question—coming from _you_, Mr. Rainford!"
exclaimed the Earl; "and before I answer it, allow me to ask whether it
was not you who left a certain letter at my house, desiring me to repair
to the police-office on that occasion?"

"I will not deny the fact, my lord," replied Rainford. "Indeed, I did
not particularly study concealment respecting it—else would I not have
afforded your lordship's servants an opportunity of describing to you
the personal appearance of the individual who left that letter. But if
your lordship entertains even the shadow of a suspicion injurious to the
character of Miss de Medina, you are wrong—you are in error!—yes—as
grievously in error as ever mistaken man could be. Besides, my lord,"
added Rainford hastily, "you are well aware that the _alibi_ which your
lordship proved was correct."

"And how knew you that Miss de Medina was with her father and myself at
Finchley on the very day, and at the very hour, when the diamonds were
alleged to have been taken?" demanded the Earl.

"It would be useless to pretend that accident gave me the information,"
answered Tom Rain. "But think not that _she_ employed _me_ as an agent
or as a messenger to obtain the intervention of your lordship——"

"Mr. Rainford," said the Earl haughtily, "I dislike the present
conversation. I have the highest opinion of Mr. de Medina, and should be
sorry to think ill of any one connected with him. But I must candidly
confess that there is so much mystery respecting the character of his
daughter—a mystery, too, existing on account of yourself, for which
reason alone do I condescend to discuss with _you_ any affair relating
to Mr. de Medina or his family——"

"Lord Ellingham," interrupted Rainford in a hasty and impetuous tone,
"Esther de Medina is the very personification of innocence and virtue!
As God is my judge, she was ignorant of my interference in her behalf on
that day when she was accused of a deed from which her pure soul would
recoil with horror:—she knew not even that I was in the court——"

"And yet you were there, Mr. Rainford," exclaimed the Earl: "for I
noticed you—although at the time I knew not who you were."

"But Miss de Medina was _not_ aware of my presence," rejoined Rainford
emphatically; "_for she does not know me by sight_!"

A smile of incredulity curled the nobleman's lip—for the oath which Mr.
de Medina had administered to his daughter, and in which her connexion
with Rainford was so emphatically mentioned, was uppermost in his mind.
But he dared not allude to that circumstance; although he would have
been truly rejoiced to receive the conviction that Esther was indeed far
different from what he was at present compelled to believe her to be.

"Your lordship said ere now," resumed Tom Rain, "that you noticed me in
the court, although at the time you knew not who I was. Those were your
words. Does your lordship now know who I am?"

"I cannot boast of a very intimate acquaintance with you or your
affairs, Mr. Rainford," returned the nobleman with a hauteur bordering
on contempt; "and what I do know of you is so little in your favour that
you see I am detaining you here on the suspicion that your visit to Lady
Hatfield was for no good purpose. In fact, the first I ever heard of you
was in reference to the charge on account of which you yourself figured
at Bow Street some short time since,—a charge of which, I am bound to
say, you were honourably acquitted, Lady Hatfield having satisfactorily
proved that you were not the person who robbed her on the highway."

"Thus far, my lord," said Rainford, "you have no just ground to speak
disparagingly of my character."

"Certainly not. But then comes the affair of the diamonds; and I do not
hesitate to inform you that Mr. Gordon related to me all the particulars
of your interview with him, when you called to restore the jewels, and
when he made you aware of the fact that Miss de Medina had already been
to pay him the full value thereof."

"Ah! Mr. Gordon was thus communicative?" observed Rainford.

"Yes—and not sparing of his aspersions against the character of Miss de
Medina," returned the Earl. "But I defended her, Mr. Rainford—I defended
her _then_——"

"And wherefore should you not defend her now, my lord?" demanded the
highwayman. "Oh! were I to reveal to you by what wondrous combination of
circumstances——But, no! I dare not. And yet, my lord," he added in an
earnest, solemn tone, "you are an upright—a generous-hearted man; and I
appeal to your good feelings—I implore you not to trust to outward
appearances. As there is a God above, Esther de Medina is innocent of
every thing—any thing that scandal or misconception may have imputed to
her. Again you smile incredulously—and yet mournfully, my lord! Ah! I
can assure you, that Esther is innocent—oh! believe her to be innocent!"

At this moment footsteps were heard approaching the door, which Lord
Ellingham accordingly opened; and Sir Ralph Walsingham re-appeared.

"How is Georgiana now?" inquired the nobleman hastily.

"My niece is ill—very ill," returned the baronet.

"Ill!" ejaculated Arthur. "Ah! villain—this is your work!" he cried,
rushing towards the highwayman.

"Keep off!" thundered Rainford: "you know not whom you would strike!"

"No—touch him not!" cried Sir Ralph, catching the Earl by the arm, and
holding him back. "I have seen my niece—Dr. Lascelles is now alone with
her: she is more composed—though very far from well;—and she begs that
this person may be allowed to depart without the slightest molestation."

"Her ladyship shall be obeyed, Sir Ralph," returned the nobleman. "Mr.
Rainford, you have heard the message that has been sent relative to
yourself."

Having thus spoken, Arthur turned aside;—for a strange misgiving—a vague
suspicion—no, not a suspicion either,—but a feeling of dissatisfaction
had stolen into his mind. If Rainford had alarmed or insulted Lady
Hatfield, wherefore should she allow him to go unpunished? Was it not
more probable that he had brought her some evil tidings? But how could
there exist any connexion, however remote or slight, between that man of
equivocal character and Georgiana Hatfield? What business could possibly
bring them together, and produce so strange—so powerful an impression
upon _her_?

All these ideas rushed to the Earl's mind in rapid and bewildering
succession; and the reader need not be astonished if we repeat that a
sentiment of dissatisfaction—almost amounting to a vague suspicion, but
of what he knew not—had suddenly taken a firm hold of his imagination.

Who was this Rainford, after all? Was he other than he seemed? Could he
be in any way connected with that narrative of the Black Mask which the
Earl supposed to have partially affected his Georgiana's mind, and which
he looked upon as the cause of that apparent fickleness or caprice which
had first led her to refuse his proffered hand? The more he involved
himself in conjecture, the deeper did he plunge into a labyrinth which
grew darker and more bewildering at every step.

When he turned round again towards the place where he had left Rainford
standing, that individual was gone; and the noblemen was alone with Sir
Ralph Walsingham.

"You have seen Georgiana?" said Arthur, advancing towards the baronet
and grasping his hand with the convulsive violence of deep emotion.

"I have, my dear Earl; and she appears as if she had received some
severe shock," was the reply.

"What, in the name of God! does all this mean?" exclaimed the nobleman,
with wildness in his tone.

"I know not—I cannot comprehend it," answered the uncle, as much
bewildered as the lover.

"But did you not question your niece? did she offer no explanation? did
she not state the cause of her emotion—that piercing scream—that
fainting—that movement of horror when she recovered?" demanded the Earl,
impatiently.

"I questioned her; but, perceiving that it only augmented her agitation,
I did not press a painful interrogatory," replied Sir Ralph. "When I
informed her that you had detained that man, whom I heard you address by
the name of Rainford, and whom I therefore supposed to have been the
person suspected of robbing my niece,—when I informed her that you had
detained him, I say, she was greatly excited, and desired me to hasten
and request you to allow him to depart immediately, as she had no cause
of complaint against him."

"Strange!—most strange!" murmured the Earl.

"Have patience, my dear Arthur," said Sir Ralph. "To-morrow Georgiana
will be better; and then she will doubtless explain——"

"To-morrow—to-morrow!" repeated the nobleman impatiently. "Oh! what
suspense—what terrible suspense! Ah! Sir Ralph, you know not how
wretchedly will pass the weary hours of this night! If I could but see
her—only for a moment! Would it be indiscreet? Dear Sir Ralph, have pity
upon me, and ask Lascelles to come and speak to me."

The baronet, who was a kind-hearted man, instantly departed to execute
this commission; and in a few minutes he returned, accompanied by the
physician.

To the latter the Earl repeated the same question which he had already
addressed to Sir Ralph Walsingham:—"What, in the name of God! does all
this mean?"

And the Doctor gave almost a similar reply:—"I know not—I cannot
understand it."

But there was less sincerity in this answer as given by Lascelles than
there was in the same response as uttered from the heart by the frank
and honest baronet:—for the physician _had_ his suspicions relative to
the mysterious connexion which now appeared to subsist between Lady
Hatfield and the individual whose visit had caused so much painful
excitement.

"That villain Rainford! I am sorry even now that I suffered him to
escape!" ejaculated the Earl, scarcely knowing how to act or speak.

"Rainford!" cried the physician. "Why, that is the name of the man who
was taken up on suspicion of having robbed her ladyship near Hounslow!"

"And that was Thomas Rainford who was here ere now!" returned Arthur,
with bitter emphasis, as if he hated the name.

"Rainford!" repeated the physician, in astonishment. "I thought that
man's name was Jameson?"

The reader will remember that such was the denomination under which the
highwayman passed when residing in South Moulton Street.

"What! do you know him?" demanded the Earl, gazing upon the doctor with
unfeigned surprise.

"I once attended a patient at his abode," was the laconic reply: for
Lascelles remembered the solemn promise which he had made to Tom Rain on
that occasion.

"And where did he live?" inquired Arthur, eagerly. "I may wish to see
that man again."

"Where he lived then, he does not live now," returned the physician;
"for he moved away the very next day after I was called in; and whither
he went to, the people of the house knew not."

"I believe him to be a man of bad character," observed Arthur hastily.
"But enough of him—at least for the present. Doctor, can I be permitted
to see Lady Hatfield for a few minutes?"

"Impossible for to-night, my dear Earl," replied the physician. "Her
ladyship is in a state of nervous agitation—feverish excitement,
indeed,—and must not be disturbed. Her maids are now with her, and she
is about to retire to rest. To-morrow, my dear Ellingham, you shall see
her—that is, provided she is more composed."

"Then must I submit to this weary night of suspense!" exclaimed the
young nobleman. "But to-morrow, Doctor, I may see her. You have promised
that I shall see her to-morrow! My visit will be somewhat early. Will it
be indiscreet if I call at eleven?"

"Call at eleven, then," returned the physician, smiling at his friend's
impatience. "But I think I ought to administer a composing draught to
you."

The Earl and Sir Ralph Walsingham shook hands with Dr. Lascelles, and
took their departure. The other guests had already gone; but the
physician remained behind to see his fair patient once more ere he
returned home.

When Lascelles found himself alone in the apartment which the young
nobleman and the baronet had just left, he fell into a train of
reflection which, like the Earl's state of mind, was strangely
characterised by perplexity. Were the Doctor's thoughts put into words,
they would assume as nearly as possible the ensuing shape:—

"Well, this is an evening of unpleasant adventure! That Jameson, or
Rainford, or whatever his name is, has brought confusion and dismay into
the house. Perplexities increase rapidly. I remember all that Ellingham
said to me the day that he called to inform me that he was the happiest
of men, and that her ladyship had accepted him. He declared then that he
knew all—that he would never allow what must be considered a misfortune
to stand in the way of his happiness—and so on. I also remember
complimenting him on his moral courage in rising superior to a common
prejudice; and then we dropped the conversation because we agreed that
it was a delicate subject. And so it was, too: a devilish delicate
subject! And I had found out the grand secret by stealth! Ah! the
effects of that opiate were powerful, and she has never suspected that I
_did_ find out the secret. But Ellingham scarcely seems to have his wits
about him; or else he _must_ suspect the object of this Rainford's
visit. It's as clear as day-light! Rainford is the man—and now he wants
to extort money from her ladyship. But Ellingham cannot put two and two
together as I can:"—and the physician rubbed his hands complacently,
little suspecting that his sapient conjecture relative to the object of
the highwayman's visit was totally wrong, as the reader is aware.—"This
Rainford is an extraordinary character; and I do believe that he really
robbed her ladyship, but that she did not dare say so in the
police-court. He has the cut of a dashing fellow who would as soon rifle
a pocket as drink a bumper of wine. Curse him, for having intruded on
the mysteries of my laboratory! Oh! if Ellingham only knew what I know
about the beautiful Esther de Medina—the charming Jewess! What deceivers
some women are! To look on Esther, one would think she was purity
itself? And yet——"

The physician's reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a female
servant, who came to inform him that Lady Hatfield had retired to her
bed, and that the Doctor might now visit her again. He accordingly
repaired to her chamber, and having prescribed some composing medicine,
took his departure, without once alluding to the incidents of the
evening; for he was anxious that Georgiana's mind should remain as free
from causes of excitement and agitation as possible.




                             CHAPTER XLIV.
                        MR. FRANK CURTIS AGAIN.


In the meantime, Thomas Rainford had quitted the abode of Lady Hatfield
with a heavy heart: for the duty which he had felt himself called upon
to perform, in making a particular statement to Georgiana, had
pained—acutely pained his generous soul.

He had not proceeded many yards from that lady's dwelling, when he
suddenly encountered Mr. Frank Curtis; and as at that precise moment the
glare of a lamp streamed full upon Rainford's countenance, he was
immediately recognised by that impertinent young gentleman.

"Ah! Captain Sparks!" ejaculated Frank: "so we meet again, do we? Well,
it's very fortunate that I did _not_ accept my friend the Duke's
invitation to his select dinner-party; or else I should have missed this
pleasure. Now what is to prevent me from collaring you, my fine fellow,
and raising a hue and cry?"

"_Fear_, Mr. Curtis—_fear_ will prevent you," returned Tom Rain,
recovering all his wonted presence of mind: and, taking the young man's
arm, he said, "Walk a little way with me. I want to have a few minutes'
chat with you. Here—put your hand on my great coat pocket: that's right!
Now you can feel a pistol inside—eh? Well its companion is in the other
pocket; and you must know enough of me already, to be fully aware that
any treachery on your part would meet with its reward; for I would shoot
you in the open street, if you attempted to place my liberty in danger."

"I'm sure I—I don't want to injure you, Captain Sparks," stammered
Frank, trembling from head to foot as he walked along, arm-in-arm with
the highwayman. "I always took you for a capital fellow—and I should
very much like to drink a bottle of wine with you. What do you say?
Shall we go into the _Gloucester_, or _Hatchett's_——"

"Neither one nor the other, Mr. Curtis," interrupted Rainford. "I thank
you for your civility all the same."

"Oh! it's nothing, Captain. I learnt politeness in France, where, to be
sure, I had excellent—I may say peculiar advantages. The King was very
much attached to me—and as for the ladies of the Court—Oh! don't ask me
to speak about them, Captain Sparks!"

"Indeed I will not," returned Tom drily. "I want you to let me know how
your uncle gets on. Does he still remember that pleasant little
adventure—ha! ha!"—and the highwayman's merry laugh denoted that his
spirits were reviving once more.

"Sir Christopher! Oh! the old fool—don't talk to me about him!"
ejaculated Frank Curtis. "I have done with my uncle—I shall cut him—I
can never speak to him again, Captain Sparks. He has disgraced
himself—disgraced his family, which was a very ancient one——"

"I always thought Sir Christopher made a boast of having risen from
nothing?" said Tom ironically.

"Ah! so he did. But that was only a part of his system of gammoning
people," continued Frank. "His family was originally the celebrated
Blondevilles of France: about three thousand years ago they settled in
Scotland, and their name was corrupted to _Blundevil_;—then a branch
came to England about fifteen hundred years ago, and in process of time
they spelt their name with a _t_—_Bluntevil_. At last the _e_ was left
out, and it became _Bluntvil_; and God only knows why, but three hundred
and seventy-seven years ago, come next Michaelmas, the _vil_ was
dropped, and the name settled down into simple _Blunt_. So you see,
Captain, that Sir Christopher is of a good family after all."

"Why don't you try and get a situation in the Herald's College?"
demanded Rainford. "You would be able to find pedigrees for all the
Browns, Jones's, Thompsons, and Smiths in the country."

"Come—come, Captain Sparks," exclaimed Frank: "this observation isn't
fair on your part. I may have my faults—I know I have; but I don't shoot
with the long bow. I hate that kind of thing!"

"But let us return to the subject of your uncle Sir Christopher," said
Tom. "What has he been doing?"

"Run away with a lady's-maid—gone to Gretna with Lady Hatfield's female
servant Charlotte!" cried Frank, with great bitterness of tone. "The
damned old fool!—but I'll cut him—cut him dead—and that's some
consolation."

"Gone to Gretna with Lady Hatfield's maid!" exclaimed Rainford.

"Maid, indeed! I hope he'll find her so!" said Curtis. "The hussey! But
I'll be even with her yet!"

"And when did this happen?" inquired Tom.

"Oh! only a few days ago. They are not come back yet. I dare say Sir
Christopher already repents his bargain. But I'll cut him!"

"I'm afraid if you cut his acquaintance, he'll cut off your supplies,"
observed Rainford jocosely.

"And what does that matter?" ejaculated Frank. "Do you think there are
no rich women in London that would be glad to have a decent-looking
fellow like myself. Egad! I've already got introduced to a widow as
wealthy as if her late husband had been a Nabob. It's true that she's
blest with five pledges of the said late husband's affection; but then
she's got five thousand a-year—and one five is a good set-off against
the other, Captain Sparks. Rather so—eh? old fellow?"

"Well, I think it is," returned the highwayman. "But how did all this
happen about Sir Christopher and the lady's-maid?"

"I'll tell you," answered Curtis. "You see, Sir Christopher was going to
run away with Miss Mordaunt, Lady Hatfield's friend, and I found it out
in one of my clever ways. So I resolved to baulk Sir Christopher; and I
bribed this lady's-maid Charlotte—in fact, I gave her five hundred
pounds and a gold watch, the hussey!—to go to the appointment, get into
the carriage, personate Miss Julia Mordaunt, and keep up the farce until
they got to St. Alban's, where me and a parcel of my friends were to be
at the inn to receive them. That was to be the joke."

"And how did the joke turn so completely against yourself?" asked Tom.

"Why, me and my friends waited—and waited—and waited at the infernal
hotel at St. Alban's; and no Sir Christopher—no Charlotte came. We had a
glorious supper, and made a regular night of it. All next day we
waited—and waited again; but no Sir Christopher—no Charlotte. '_What the
devil can this mean?_' thought I to myself. So I came up to London,
leaving my friends at the inn at St. Alban's in pawn for the bill—for
somehow or another none of us had money enough about us to settle it.
Well, when I came back to town, I went home: that is, you know, to my
uncle's house in Jermyn Street; and there I found a letter that had just
come for me by the post. It was written from some town a good way north,
and was from Sir Christopher. I began to think something was wrong; and
sure enough there was! For, when I opened the letter, I found that my
silly old uncle had written to thank me for throwing in his way a
delightful and most amiable woman, who had consented to take his name
and share his fortune. The letter went on to say that they were then
pretty far on their road to Gretna, and that as they should stop at St.
Alban's _as they came back_, I might be there, if I chose, to have the
pleasure of handing my _aunt_ out of the carriage. That was all said to
irritate me, you know, Captain Sparks; and most likely that vixen
Charlotte made Sir Christopher write the letter just to annoy me. But
I'll cut them both dead; and we shall see what my precious _aunt_—for
such she is by this time, I suppose—will say _then_!"

"This is really a very pleasant little adventure," cried Tom Rain. "But
I think you carried your joke too far, Mr. Curtis; and so it has
recoiled on yourself. Have you seen Mr. Torrens lately?"

"Not I!" exclaimed Curtis. "But don't you confess, Captain, that you
carried matters a trifle too far that night? Never mind the two thousand
pounds: I'm glad my old hunks of an uncle has lost _that_! But I allude
to the affair of helping the gals to run away. I suppose you were in
league with Villiers all the time?"

"What makes you think that Villiers had any thing to do with the
matter?" inquired Rainford.

"Simply because I don't imagine you carried off the gals for your own
sake. However," continued Frank, "I care but little about the matter
now. I certainly liked Adelais very much at the time; but there are
plenty of others in the world quite as handsome. Besides, I now see
through all Sir Christopher's trickery in wanting me to marry Miss
Torrens in such a deuce of a hurry, and in giving me a separate
establishment. The old bird wanted to commit matrimony himself; and I
should have been poked off with a few paltry hundreds a-year."

"And so you will now," said Tom. "Or matters may be even worse, after
the trick you endeavoured to play upon your uncle."

"Not a bit of it!" cried Frank. "Had old Blunt's scheme succeeded, I
should have been married to a portionless gal, and forced to live on
whatever he chose to give me. Now that his project has failed, I am free
and unshackled, and can secure myself a position by marriage. I might
even look as high as my friend the Duke's niece; but she is horribly
ill-tempered, and so I think of making an offer of my heart and hand—I
_can_ do the thing well if I like, you know, Captain—to Mrs. Goldberry,
the widow I spoke of just now."

"The name sounds well, I confess," observed Tom. "But did your uncle
never—I mean, did he not instruct his lawyer to adopt any proceedings
about that little affair of the two thousand pounds?"

"Not he, Captain!" exclaimed Frank Curtis. "As far as my uncle is
concerned, you may rest quite satisfied that he will never take any
notice of the business: and Howard wouldn't act without his
instructions."

They had now reached Charing Cross; and Tom Rain, having had quite
enough of Mr. Curtis's company, signified his desire that they should
separate.

"You won't pass an hour with me over a bottle of wine?" said the young
man. "I really should like to have a chat with such a gallant, dashing
fellow as you are, Captain; for you're quite after my own heart—barring
the——"

"The highway business—eh?" cried Tom, laughing. "Why, you cannot for a
minute suppose that it is my regular profession, Mr. Curtis? No such a
thing! I merely eased you of the two thousand pounds for the joke of
it—just as you played off your tricks on Sir Christopher."

"You talk about easing me, Captain," returned Frank; "but I can assure
you that you're the first man that ever got the better of me. Don't
fancy for a moment that I—I'm a coward, Captain Sparks——"

"Far from it, my dear sir," exclaimed Tom. "I know you to be as brave as
you are straight-forward in your conversation. So good night—and pray
take care not to follow me; for I've an awkward habit of turning round
and knocking on the head any one that I imagine to be watching me."

With these words the highwayman hurried off up the Strand: and Frank
Curtis entered a cigar shop, muttering to himself, "Damn the fellow! I
almost think he meant that for insolence. Egad! if he _did_, the next
time I meet him——"

But the valiant young gentleman did not precisely make up his mind what
he should do, in the case supposed: and any resentment which he
experienced, speedily evaporated with the soothing influence of a
cheroot.

Meantime Tom Rain pursued his way along the Strand and Fleet Street, and
repaired to the lodgings of Mr. Clarence Villiers in Bridge Street.

That gentleman was at home, and received his visitor in a very friendly
manner.

"You are most welcome, Captain Sparks," he said; "and the more so if you
intend to pass an hour or two with me; for my aunt is so very particular
that she _would_ take the girls to church with her this evening; but of
course I did not offer to accompany them, as I could not wear a veil
over my face, you know," he added, laughing; "and were I recognised by
Mr. Torrens or any of his friends, attention would be immediately
directed to any ladies who might happen to be in my company. So I shall
not visit Old Burlington Street this evening; and if you will bear me
company over a bottle of wine——"

"I cannot possibly remain many minutes," interrupted Rainford. "In fact
I am going to leave England very shortly——"

"Leave England!" ejaculated Clarence. "I am truly sorry to hear that
announcement—just as we begin to get friendly together."

"Circumstances compel me to take this step," answered Rainford; "and my
time for preparation is short. I have called to-night upon business—for,
in a word, you can do me a service, perhaps, if you will."

"As if there were any doubt relative to my inclination, provided I have
the power," exclaimed Clarence, who was busily employed in decanting a
bottle of port-wine: then, having placed upon the table two glasses,
which he filled, he said, "You know, Captain Sparks, that I am under the
greatest obligation to you. Through your kind—your generous
intervention, Adelais will be mine. The banns were published at St.
George's, Hanover Square, a second time to-day; and to-morrow week we
shall be united. The bridal breakfast will take place at my aunt's:
shall we not have the pleasure of your company? Pray, do not refuse me."

"It is impossible—much as I should rejoice at being the witness of that
union which no severe or mercenary father will be able to subvert," said
Rainford in a feeling tone. "My affairs compel me to leave this
country—at least for a time; and for that reason I am anxious to place
in your hands a certain document, the mystery of which some accident
might probably lead you to clear up."

Rainford then produced the letter which had been found about the person
of the deceased Sarah Watts, and which he now requested Villiers to
peruse.

"You observe that there is no address to indicate the name of the lady
to whom that letter was written," continued the highwayman, when
Clarence had read it with attention. "The child to whom it refers is now
in my care: accident threw him in my way—and his adopted mother, who was
the writer of that letter, is no more."

[Illustration]

"Will the child accompany you?" asked Villiers.

"He will. But I will write to you the moment I reach America—to which
country I am going—and let you know my address, or at all events through
what channel a letter will come direct to me. Then, should you have made
any discovery—which is however scarcely to be expected—still, as a wise
precaution, I have adopted this step——"

"You are right, Captain," said Villiers; "and I shall not forget the
trust you have now confided to me. Should anything transpire respecting
this matter, I will not fail to communicate with you. But will you not
pass one evening with me in the society of my aunt and the two young
ladies, who will all be delighted to receive you? Mrs. Slingsby is a
most amiable and excellent woman——"

"A little of a saint—is she not?" exclaimed the highwayman drily.

"She is certainly of a religious turn of mind—indeed, I may say,
enthusiastically so," answered Villiers. "But she is extremely
charitable—and her benevolence embraces a very wide circle."

"I believe she is a handsome woman, too!" observed Tom Rain.

"She is possessed of personal as well as mental attractions, Captain
Sparks," responded Villiers seriously. "But, when in her society, you
would think of her only as the pious—benevolent—and compassionate woman,
whose heart is ever ready to sympathise with the woes of her fellow
creatures."

"To speak candidly, Mr. Villiers," said Rainford, "I am no friend to the
_saints_. It may be a prejudice on my part—but I can't help it. Excuse
me for my frankness—I beg of you to take it in good part: still I always
think that the stillest water runs deepest; and I would not——"

"Remember, Captain Sparks," interrupted Villiers, somewhat warmly, "that
you are speaking of my aunt, who is a most worthy and estimable woman.
Deeply as I am indebted to you—much as I am inclined to esteem
you—yet——"

"I understand you, my dear Mr. Villiers," cried Tom: "you cannot permit
me to breathe even a suspicion against Mrs. Slingsby in your presence.
Well—I know that it is most ungracious on my part: still, as I was more
or less instrumental in inducing those too artless, confiding young
ladies to quit their father's home—to abandon the paternal dwelling——"

"Good heavens! what do you mean?" ejaculated Clarence, now seriously
alarmed. "I see that there is something at the bottom of all this!
Captain Sparks, I implore you to explain yourself. You are evidently
well-intentioned—you have shown the greatest friendship for me—I
reciprocate the feeling most cordially: fear not, then, to speak."

"My dear Villiers," answered the highwayman, "how can I enter upon
particulars the narration of which would be most painful for you to
hear? And yet I should not be acting consistently with my duty towards
those young ladies—no, nor towards yourself who are about to make one of
them your wife——"

"Hesitate not: speak freely!" exclaimed Clarence, seeing that his
companion paused. "Should the breath of scandal have wafted to your ear
anything prejudicial to the character of my aunt, I cannot blame your
motive in confiding the fact to me. And I the more earnestly solicit you
to be frank and candid—that is, to act consistently with your nature,
which is all frankness and candour,—and reveal to me the cause of this
distrust—this want of confidence relative to Mrs. Slingsby,—because I
have no doubt of being able to convince you that you have been misled."

"And should I succeed in convincing _you_ to the contrary?" asked
Rainford.

"Then I should say that you had indeed performed the part of a friend,"
replied Villiers emphatically. "Although I know beforehand that such a
result is impossible—yet, for your complete satisfaction, do I declare
that should you prove my aunt to be in any way an unsuitable guardian
for that dear girl Adelais, and her sister, I shall conceive it to be my
duty immediately to seek for them another home—yes, another home—even
for the few days that remain to be passed ere I shall acquire a right to
protect Adelais as her husband and Rosamond as her brother."

"You have spoken well and wisely, Villiers," said Rainford; "but I do
not recommend any extreme measure, which might only irritate your aunt,
and perhaps lead to the forced restoration of the young ladies to their
father before you can have obtained the right you speak of. I merely
wish you to be on your guard——"

"But the grounds of your suspicion, Captain?" cried Clarence
impatiently. "Pardon my interruption—and pity my suspense."

"I do both," returned the highwayman. "And now remember that I am no
mischief-maker between relations or friends; and were it not for the
peculiar circumstances of this case, in which two innocent young ladies
are concerned, I should never have thought it worth while to utter a
word of any thing I know injurious to Mrs. Slingsby's character—no, not
even to unmask the most disgusting hypocrisy," added Rainford warmly.

"Do you still allude to my aunt?" demanded Clarence, colouring with
indignation.

"I do. But start not—I am not seeking a quarrel with you, Villiers—and
you promised to listen patiently."

"To no other living being should I have listened so patiently as I have
already done to you," said Clarence. "But pray let us hasten to dispose
of so disagreeable a topic in one way or the other."

"I am most anxious to do so," continued the highwayman. "Do you know Sir
Henry Courtenay?"

"Certainly: he is my aunt's best friend."

"And her lover," added Rainford coolly.

Villiers started from his seat, exclaiming, "Captain Sparks! you presume
upon the obligation which I owe you, to calumniate——"

"Then good evening, Mr. Villiers," interrupted the highwayman. "If this
is the fair and impartial hearing which you promised to give me,—if this
is the manner in which you treat one who has not—cannot have an improper
motive in offering you wise counsel——"

"Stay, my dear friend—stay!" exclaimed Clarence, actually thrusting
Rainford back into his seat; "and pray forgive my impetuosity. But this
accusation—so sudden—so unexpected—so very strange——"

"And yet it is substantially true," added Rainford emphatically: "and it
is proper that you should know it. For my part, I am not the man to blame
Mrs. Slingsby for having a lover—nor yet the lover for having her as his
mistress: it's human nature both ways. But when I know that she has been
entrusted by you with the guardianship of two young ladies of tender age
and spotless innocence, and one of whom is so very, very dear to you, I
consider it necessary for you to be enlightened as to her true
character. I've no doubt that you must feel deeply this communication:
but it is better for you to learn that your aunt is something that she
ought not to be, than to find out when it is too late that your wife or
her sister have been corrupted by bad example."

Clarence paced the room in an agitated manner: then, at the expiration
of a few minutes, he turned suddenly, exclaiming, "Not for a moment,
Captain Sparks, do I suspect you of any sinister object: but you will
pardon me for soliciting the proof of this charge which, if
substantiated, must so completely and so painfully change my opinion of
a relative whom I have until now vaunted as the pattern of virtue and
propriety."

"The mode of proving the charge may be left to yourself," replied the
highwayman. "Did you ever hear the circumstance of your aunt's house
being robbed by a boy to whom she gave a night's lodging, some four or
five years ago?"

"Certainly," exclaimed Villiers. "I recollect the incident well. Mrs.
Slingsby herself communicated it to me. The ungrateful young villain——"

"I know that boy," interrupted Tom Rain drily; "and I am convinced that
he told me the truth when he declared that, during the night—or rather
the portion of the night, which he passed in Mrs. Slingsby's house,
accident made him a witness to a scene which leaves no doubt as to the
fact that Sir Henry Courtenay and Mrs. Slingsby are as intimate as man
and wife together."

"And would you receive the testimony of a thief——"

"When well corroborated," added the highwayman.

"But how happened it that you should have any connexion with this lad,
Captain Sparks!" demanded Clarence, in a cold and suspicions tone.

"Suppose that the boy has repented of his errors—that he has merited my
interest by a service which accident enabled him to render me—that he
related to me his entire history, in which this incident is
comprised—and that, on questioning him closely, I learnt that the
occurrence took place at the residence of your aunt?"

"I am bewildered—amazed—grieved—profoundly grieved!" ejaculated
Villiers. "To suppose for an instant that this kind and affectionate
relative—who has always been so good to me, and through whose bounty I
am enabled to prepare and fit up a suitable dwelling for the reception
of my beloved Adelais,—to think that this much-respected and
long-revered woman should conceal the greatest profligacy beneath the
mask of charity and religion—oh! it is a cruel blow!"

"Again I say that the mode of proving the charge may be left to
yourself," observed Rainford. "Seek an opportunity to be alone with Mrs.
Slingsby—make some pointed allusion to the incident—and mark how she
receives it."

"I will call at my aunt's residence to-morrow morning early—the very
first thing," exclaimed Villiers. "The whole affair is most serious;
and, now that I can at length contemplate it with something bordering on
calmness, I am bound to confess——But let us quit the topic," he added,
in a tone of deep vexation, in spite of his asserted self-possession.

"And you bear me no ill-will for the course I have pursued?" said
Rainford.

"Far from it. You have acted in a most friendly manner—whatever the
result may be!" cried Villiers, grasping the highwayman's hand most
cordially.

"I have performed a very painful duty," rejoined Tom: "and now I must
take my leave of you—perhaps for a long, long time—if not for ever."

"Farewell," said Clarence; "and may prosperity attend you in another
clime."

"Farewell," replied Rainford; "and may you be happy with your Adelais."

The highwayman then hurried from the room, considerably affected by this
parting from one for whom he already experienced a most sincere regard.

Nor was Villiers unmoved by this farewell scene; for, on his side, he
was particularly attached to the individual who had not only rendered
him so essential a service on that memorable night which first made them
acquainted with each other, but whose apparent frankness of disposition
and manliness of character were well calculated to engage the good
opinion of the confiding, warm-hearted, and unsuspecting Clarence.




                              CHAPTER XLV.
                      MR. DYKES AND HIS MYRMIDONS.


It was midnight; and profound silence reigned throughout the region of
Lock's Fields.

But suddenly that silence was broken by the tread of several persons,
who emerged from a bye-alley in the immediate vicinity of Brandon
Street.

At the corner of this street they paused to hold a hasty conference.

They were six in number—five men and a woman.

"This is the street," said the woman.

"Oh! this is it, Mrs. Bunce—eh?" returned Mr. Dykes, the Bow Street
officer, rubbing his nose with the knob of his stout ash-stick, while
his countenance, on which the bright moon-beams played, showed an
expression of calm determination.

"Yes: and that's the house—there: the ninth on t'other side of the way,"
added Mrs. Bunce.

"Well—now we don't want you no more, ma'am," said Dykes; "'cos women is
all very well in their place; and darling creatur's they are too. But
when a grab is to be made, they're best at home, a-bed and asleep. So
good night to you, ma'am."

"Good night, gentlemen all," responded Mrs. Bunce; and she hurried away.

"Now, Bingham and you fellers," said Mr. Dykes, "we must mind what we're
up to; for we shan't catch a weasel asleep. You, Bingham, take one of
the runners and get round to the back of the house. Me and t'other chaps
will make the entry in front. But we shan't stir a peg for one quarter
of an hour; and by that time you'll be at your post."

"All right," returned Mr. Bingham; and this individual accordingly moved
off, followed by one of the subordinate runners.

In the meantime, Tom Rainford was sleeping, not dreaming of danger, in
the arms of the beautiful Jewess.

Charley Watts was cradled in a little bed made up for him in the warmest
corner of the room.

A light burnt in the apartment, where naught was heard save the slow,
regular breathing of the sleepers.

The clear, transparent olive complexion of the beautiful Jewess
contrasted strongly with the florid countenance of the highwayman; and
the commingling of the raven hair of the one with the light, almost
yellow locks of the other, produced a strange effect, as the marked
discrepancy of hues was set off by the snowy whiteness of the pillow. By
the feeble light of the candle, it appeared as if ebony and gold were
blending on a white ground.

But, hark! what is that sound which breaks on the silence of the
chamber?—and wherefore does the highwayman start from his sleep?

He awakes—and listens.

The Jewess also awakes—and also listens,—one of her beautifully modelled
arms thrown around the neck of him whom she loved so fondly.

"Some one is trying the back-door," whispered Rainford at length; and he
leapt from the bed.

In less than a minute he had thrown on his clothes; and grasping his
pistols, he hastened to the window.

But at the same instant the back-door was forced in;—more violently, no
doubt, than Bingham and his co-operator had intended; and the sound was
too unequivocal to permit Tom Rain to doubt the meaning of the
disturbance.

Returning to the bed, he said in a hurried but solemn and deeply
impressive tone, "Dearest, I am betrayed. If I escape, you shall soon
hear from me: if I am captured, I charge you—by all the love I bear for
you—by all the love you bear for me—not to attempt to visit me in
prison! Farewell—dearest, dearest girl!"

He embraced her fondly—affectionately,—oh! most lovingly; while she
sobbed as if her heart would break.

Then in a moment he tore himself away:—footsteps—many footsteps were
already ascending—nay, rushing up—the stairs.

He darted from the room, sprang up a ladder which stood on the
landing—pushed up a trap-door—and in another moment was on the roof of
the house.

The officers were close upon him. Dykes and his two men had effected an
entry by the front-door of the house almost at the same moment that
Bingham and his follower had broken in at the back; and the entire
_posse_ reached the landing just at the moment that the trap-door fell
down heavily into its place.

"He has escaped by the roof!" cried Dykes. "Bingham, my boy, take a
couple of chaps, and watch the backs of the houses: he can't get away by
the front—it's too high for him to leap into the street. Me and t'other
chap will after him to the tilings."

Thus saying, Dykes ascended the ladder as quickly as his unwieldly form
would permit. The trap-door was easily raised, as it only fastened
inside; and the portly body of the Bow Street officer, who possessed
more courage than alacrity, was forced through the small aperture. The
operation was slow and difficult; but at last Mr. Dykes stood on a
narrow ledge which ran along the whole row of houses, and from which the
roof rose obliquely behind. This ledge was only protected by a parapet
about two feet high; and the officer felt his position to be any thing
but a safe one.

But he was not the man to shrink from danger.

"Come along, you feller," he cried out to his follower, who speedily
emerged from the opening. "You cut along that way, and I'll go this."

And they proceeded in different directions on the roof of the house.

The moon shone brightly, but Thomas Rainford was not to be seen.

Suddenly an exclamation of triumph burst from the yard at the back of
one of the adjacent houses.

"Holloa?" vociferated Dykes, from the eminence on which he stood.

"We've got him, fast enough," returned Bingham.

A piercing shriek from a window that had been thrown open, denoted the
anguish of the Jewess, whose ears had caught these words.

Mr. Dykes and his attendant subordinate now retraced their way to the
trap-door, through the aperture of which they once more forced
themselves; and when they had regained the landing Dykes said, "Now you
go and join my partner Bingham, 'cos this Rainford is a desperate
feller, and the more there is to guard him the better."

The man accordingly took his departure, and Mr. Dykes knocked gently at
the door of the bed-room.

"Who is there?" asked a voice within,—a voice soft and melodious, but
now expressive of the most intense anguish.

"Beg pardon, ma'am," said Dykes; "but I must do my duty; and if so be
you'll have the kindness to dress yourself, I should like to examine the
boxes and cupboards, and such like—just for form's sake, and that's
all."

"Must you thus add to the grief which is already——"

The plaintive voice was interrupted by a violent fit of sobbing, with
the mournful sounds of which the crying of the little boy now
commingled.

"I don't want to annoy you, ma'am," returned Dykes.

"I should hope not, indeed!" exclaimed the landlady, who, having been
alarmed by the disturbance, had got up and dressed herself, and was now
ascending the stairs. "But what is it all about? and why do you break
into a respectable house in this way? I don't suppose you're thieves—or
else——"

"I am an officer, ma'am," exclaimed Dykes, drawing himself up with
offended dignity, as the candle which the landlady carried in her hand
lighted the landing-place:—"I am an officer, ma'am—and my partners have
just taken one Thomas Rainford, a highwayman——"

"A highwayman!" ejaculated the widow, who had never suspected the
character of her lodger, and who was a prudent woman that never troubled
herself about other people's business so long as her rent was regularly
paid.

"Yes—a highwayman," added Dykes. "But I've no time to stand palavering.
I b'lieve there's a lady in this room here; and as I must overhaul the
place—as the case is a serious one—you'll do well to step in and let me
do the job quietly. I don't want to annoy her: the law isn't at
loggerheads with her—and so she's nothing to fear. As for me, I'm as
gentle as a lamb when a lady's concerned."

The widow urged the afflicted girl within the room to open the door; and
as the latter had by this time dressed herself, the request was complied
with.

But the Jewess wore a deep black veil over her head, when the officer
and the landlady entered the bed-chamber; and, taking Charley in her
arms, she seated herself in a chair near the bed, whispering a few words
of consolation to the little boy even amidst the terrible violence of
her own grief.

As for Charles, he knew that something wrong was occurring; but he was
too young to comprehend the real nature of the appearances which
terrified him.

Dykes just opened a cupboard, plunged his hands into a trunk, and turned
out the contents of a carpet-bag: but he did not prosecute his search
any farther; for he was too much experienced in the ways of robbers and
rogues to suppose for a moment that he should find on the premises any
portion of the money stolen from Sir Christopher Blunt,—this being the
charge on which Rainford was arrested.

The search, such as it was, was merely for form's sake; because the
magistrate was sure to inquire whether the prisoner's lodgings had been
carefully examined; and this superficial glance at the contents of the
boxes would enable Mr. Dykes to give an affirmative answer without any
very great deviation from the actual truth.

He accordingly quitted the room within a minute after entering it; but
he turned on the landing just to beg "the dear young lady not to take on
too much," and also to assure the mistress of the house that she should
be recompensed for the injury done to her abode by the violent entry
effected by himself and his companions.[23]

We must leave the landlady to console—or endeavour to console the
unhappy Jewess,—and accompany Mr. Dykes, who passed out of the house by
the back way, and stepped over two or three low fences which separated
the yards of the respective dwellings, until he reached that one where
Tom Rain was in the custody of Bingham and the subordinate runners.

It appeared that the gallant highwayman, finding how hotly he was
pursued when he was escaping by means of the trap-door, and dreading
lest the whole neighbourhood should be alarmed ere he could possibly get
away, had resolved on the dangerous expedient of sliding down from the
roof to the back of the buildings, by means of the perpendicular leaden
water-pipe. But when he was half-way down in his perilous descent, he
missed his hold, and fell upon the stone pavement of the yard beneath.
He endeavoured to get up and escape—but could not: his right ankle was
sprained, almost to dislocation; and in a few minutes he was discovered
and captured by the detachment under the orders of Bingham.

He heard the piercing scream which followed the announcement of his
arrest by this officer; and that scream—oh! it went to thy generous
heart, Tom Rain!

But he uttered not a word: he offered no resistance, although he had his
pistols about him. He not only shrank from the idea of shedding human
blood: but he was also well aware that his case was now too desperate to
be benefited by even desperate means. For, even if he slew all the
officers, he could not drag himself away ere the neighbours would
collect and capture him.

And by this time, the whole line of houses was awake with bustle and
excitement. Light after light appeared at the different casements:
windows were thrown up; and the rumour spread like wildfire, that a
famous highwayman had just been arrested.

The reader may well conceive the nature of the sensation which now
prevailed all along the back of Brandon Street;—but in one room there
was a beauteous woman convulsed with torturing—maddening anguish,—for
deep was her love for thee, Tom Rain!

"Now, then," cried Dykes, as he made his appearance in the yard, where
the highwayman was sitting on an inverted wash-tub, surrounded by the
runners, to whom he had surrendered his pistols;—"now, then lads—let's
off with him to quod. How d'ye do, Mr. Rainford! Don't want to crow over
a gentleman in trouble—but thought I should have you some day or
another." Then, stooping down, he whispered in Tom's ear, "I was
obleeged to give a look in at the crib up there just now; but I only
stayed a moment, and shan't trouble the poor lady any more. She had a
veil over her face—and so I don't know who she is: that is, you see, I
_shan't_ know, if I'm asked any questions by the beak:—but of course I'm
aware it's the handsome Jewess that did the diamond business."

"You are mistaken—you are mistaken," said Rainford, emphatically. "But,
if you showed her any civility, I sincerely thank you——"

"Lord bless you! Mr. Rainford—I wouldn't do any thing to annoy you for
the world. I can't help admiring a brave man—and you're one. The poor
dear lady will be troubled no more by us; and it's nothing to me who she
is, or who she is not. The law don't want _her_, at all events."

"One word more," said Tom. "Who has done this business for me?"

"A lawyer named Howard," was the answer. "But I can't say no more——"

"Then what is the charge against me?" asked Tom, a considerable load
already removed from his mind.

"Sir Christopher Blunt's little business—that's all," replied Dykes.
"But come along: we must be off to Horsemonger."

Mr. Dykes and Mr. Bingham politely offered Rainford their arms; and the
procession passed through the house, in the yard belonging to which the
capture had been made. The occupants of that dwelling—men, women, and
children, all in their night-dresses—crowded on the stairs to catch a
glimpse of the "terrible highwayman," whose good looking appearance
excited the sympathy of the female portion of the spectators.

Half an hour afterwards Tom Rain was lodged in a cell in the criminal
department of Horsemonger Lane Gaol;—but his heart was lighter than the
reader might possibly suppose—for he was relieved of the first and most
natural fear that had assailed him: namely, that it was on account of
Benjamin Bones's death that he was pursued!

"If I must be hanged," he thought within himself, "I would rather it
should be for highway robbery than aught else!—But, O Tamar! Tamar! what
is to become of _thee_?"

And, as he sate on the humble pallet in the darkness of his solitary
cell, he buried his face in his manacled hands.

In another moment a moonbeam penetrated through the barred window; and
in that silver ray glistened the tears which trickled between his
fingers.

And yet it was not for himself he wept:—thou wast no coward—but thou
hadst a generous heart, Tom Rain!

-----

Footnote 23:

  We should observe that at the time of which we are writing, it was by
  no means unusual for Bow Street officers to be employed in the pursuit
  or capture of desperate characters in Surrey, although this county was
  not strictly within their district.




                             CHAPTER XLVI.
                             EXPLANATIONS.


At eleven o'clock on the following day, Lord Ellingham, who had passed a
sleepless and wretched night, called at the house of Lady Hatfield, and
was immediately conducted to the drawing-room, where Georgiana was alone
in readiness to receive him.

She was dressed in a morning garb, and, though very—very pale, looked
surpassingly lovely.

"My dear friend," she said, extending her hand, which, as he offered to
press it with rapture to his lips, she gently but still resolutely
withdrew,—"my dear friend—for such henceforth must I call you——"

"Georgiana!" he exclaimed, starting back: "what means this coolness?"

"Be seated, Arthur—and listen to me attentively," she said in a
plaintive and sweetly touching tone. "I am not very well—my nerves are
not strong to-day—and you must not manifest any impatience towards me.
Indeed, I ought to have postponed this interview: but I considered it to
be my duty—a paramount duty owing alike to yourself and to me—to enter
into as early an explanation as possible."

"This preface forebodes nothing favourable to my happiness," murmured
the Earl, as he sank into a seat to which Georgiana pointed—but which
was not by her side!

"Arthur," she continued, with difficulty maintaining sufficient control
over her emotions to enable her to speak calmly and collectedly, "you
know not how much I love you—how dearly I am devoted to you. For your
sake, and to bear the name of your wife, I could consent to become a
mendicant—a wanderer on the face of the earth,—renounce
fortune—rank—society—all, in fine, that we women are generally deemed to
hold so dear,—yes, all this could I do for your sake, so that you were
my companion! Then, conceive how hard it is for me—oh! how very hard, my
well-beloved Arthur, to be compelled to say that henceforth we must know
each other only as friends!"

"Merciful heavens!" ejaculated the Earl, uncertain whether the imagined
capriciousness of his Georgiana was about to assert its tantalizing
influence again, or whether any thing of a more serious nature, and
connected with the incidents of the preceding evening, was about to
present an insuperable bar to his happiness.

"Yes—Arthur," continued Georgiana, in an impressive tone, "henceforth we
must be but as brother and sister to each other. And as a dear, fond,
affectionate sister will I ever be to you; for your generosity would
have made me your wife in spite of——But you cannot wish me to refer to
_that_! And yet it _is_ that one sad episode in my life which now
asserts an inexorable influence over the conduct which we must _both_
pursue. It is that event, which you—in the noble candour, in the warm
liberality of your admirable disposition——"

"You praise me too highly, Georgiana," exclaimed the Earl. "I loved
you—I love you dearly; and in spite of all that you now say, hope is not
quenched within me. But, my God! when will this painful suspense pass?
When shall I behold you no longer a prey to an influence——"

"Alas! that influence must endure for ever!" murmured Lady Hatfield,
tears now trembling upon her eye-lashes.

"No—no!" cried the Earl with impassioned energy. "When, but a few days
ago, we entered into explanations with each other—when I informed you
that I was aware of the nature of that secret influence which tyrannised
over you,—did I not assure you that, as a loving husband, I would so
completely study your happiness——"

"Oh! yes," interrupted Georgiana; "and did I not declare that you had
given me a proof of affection such as man seldom gave unto woman?
Believe me—believe me," she added earnestly, "I felt all that there was
great—generous—and noble in your conduct: for, knowing that secret—that
sad, that fatal secret—you banished all prejudice—discarded even those
scruples which the most high-minded of men so often entertain under such
circumstances——"

"Dearest Georgiana!" exclaimed the Earl; "you attach far too much
importance to the secret of which you speak. What man that truly loves a
virtuous—beautiful—accomplished—and amiable woman, would allow himself
to be swayed——"

"Ah! every heart is not so generous as yours!" interrupted Georgiana.
"You recognise the complete innocence of my soul——"

"I cannot believe that you would be guilty of the wanton cruelty of
inflicting these tortures upon me, Georgiana," said the Earl, "were it
not for that strange—that almost morbid state of mind which is at times
produced by the recollection of a serious fright which you experienced
some years ago, and from the effects of which you have not completely
recovered. But, after all, wherefore do you praise me so
highly—wherefore do you thank me so much for the simple fact of not
allowing the knowledge of this occasional access of morbid feeling to
weigh with me——"

"Arthur!" almost shrieked Georgiana, losing all control over herself;
"then, you know not the secret—the dreadful secret——"

"Yes: have I not proved to you that I know it?" exclaimed the Earl,
surprised and grieved at the strange manner of Lady Hatfield. "Your
uncle put me in possession of the facts: and what is there in them,
after all? It is a mere adventure which one would now tell only as a
Christmas tale—or to amuse children,—had it not produced so serious an
influence upon your nerves, and——"

"Arthur! Arthur! is this a cruel pleasantry?" demanded Georgiana
hysterically; "or have we misunderstood each other all along?"

"You know that I am incapable of turning to ridicule or making a jest of
any thing that regards you, Georgiana," returned the Earl. "And as for
any misunderstanding between us, there is none. Our explanation the
other day was full—complete—satisfactory——"

"No—no," cried Lady Hatfield, painfully excited. "I see that I am
mistaken—that you have learnt a bare fact——"

"Yes: and since we are now conversing on the topic," said the Earl, "let
us enter fully into it and then abandon it for ever. I see that you
attach much importance to this subject—and that, when we are united,
there may be no necessity ever to recur——"

"If ever we are united!" repeated Georgiana, clasping her hands in
anguish of heart.

"Yes, my well-beloved," continued the Earl. "And now listen to me. About
seven years ago you were staying alone at Mauleverer Lodge in
Hampshire——"

"Oh! the fatal time—the fatal place!" cried Georgiana hysterically; and
though she would have given worlds to cut short the conversation, she
had not the power—for her mind was agitated like the ocean in a storm.

"You were staying alone at Mauleverer Lodge," proceeded Arthur, not
observing the extent of her emotion; "you were alone, save in respect to
the servants: but you had no relation—no friend there at the moment. And
one night—a man broke in——"

"A man—with a black mask——" murmured Georgiana, almost wringing her
hands.

"And bearing the denomination, too, of the _Black Mask_," continued Lord
Ellingham;—"this man broke into the house—and——"

"And—merciful heavens! Spare me the recital of the rest!" shrieked Lady
Hatfield, covering her face with her hands.

"Good God! do not thus give way to a reminiscence which, though painful,
should no longer exercise any influence over a strong mind!" said the
Earl, in a kind and soothing tone, as he approached and seated himself
next to Georgiana. "Consider, my dearly beloved—my angel—my intended
wife!—reflect, I implore you, upon the childishness of this behavior!"

"Childishness!" repeated Georgiana, with a convulsive shudder.

"Pardon the expression," said the Earl; "but I would reason with you—I
would endeavour to persuade you that an occurrence which is past and
gone, and which happens frequently in other houses, should not thus
paralyse all the naturally fine energies of your soul. What, in the name
of heaven! can it matter now, if a robber broke into a dwelling some six
or seven years ago? Your uncle told me that for some months fears were
entertained for your reason: but——Oh! my Georgiana, I do implore you
now—now that we are once again touching on this painful—most painful
theme—to exercise more command over yourself. You praise me—you thank
me, because I am willing to espouse one whose reason was shocked long
years ago;—for that is your secret, after all, Georgiana—dearest
Georgiana;—and you perceive that I know it!"

"My God! how have we misunderstood each other!" murmured the unhappy
lady:—"my secret—he knows it _not_!"

But the Earl could not catch the sense of the words which she thus
whispered to herself; and, with the fond hope of consoling her—for the
events of the preceding evening were for the time banished from his
memory—he took her hand, pressed it to his lips, and began to utter
syllables of tenderness and love.

Then, how terrible was his surprise—how acute the anguish which filled
his soul, when Georgiana, suddenly starting from the half-embrace in
which he was already enfolding her, exclaimed in a tone indicative of
the most exquisite mental agony, "No—Arthur—no: you are not acquainted
with my secret—and _now_, never, never will you learn it! We have
misunderstood each other—and I consented the other day to become your
wife, while labouring under a dreadful—oh! a dreadful error! But heaven
has interposed to prevent the consummation of _your_ misery—and _mine_!
And now," she added, with the calmness of despair, "let us separate,
Arthur—and henceforth be unto each other but brother and sister;—for
your wife I cannot become!"

"Georgiana, this is cruelty the most refined—the most wanton!" exclaimed
the Earl. "Am I again to pass through all the phases of
suspense—uncertainty—mystery—and doubt?—and will you in a few days
repent of all you have said, and recall this stern decision? But—much as
I love you—deeply as I am attached to you—I cannot—cannot endure a
treatment——"

"Pardon me—forgive me!" cried Georgiana; "but you do not comprehend me!
My reason is not unhinged,—I am subject to no whims—no caprice, Arthur!
A fatal mistake on my part alone induced me the other day to consent to
become your wife. That error has now been cleared up—our conversation of
this morning has convinced me of the tremendous misunderstanding that
had nearly wrecked all _your_ happiness! But, even had it not, there was
_another_ reason which would imperatively command us to think no more of
each other in the same light as we so lately did!"

"Ah! you allude, perchance, to the incident of last evening!" exclaimed
Lord Ellingham. "Permit me, then, to ask the object of that Rainford's
visit? Did he insult you? did he attempt to extort money from you? If
so——"

"No—no!" cried Georgiana, in whose bosom the mere mention of the
highwayman's name appeared to excite the most agonising feelings. "I
sent down a message to that effect last night. He did not insult me—he
did not come to injure me——"

"But his presence excited you most painfully, Georgiana!" interrupted
the Earl; "and it has also revived in your imagination——Oh! I understand
it all!" he cried, suddenly interrupting himself: "this Rainford is the
Black Mask—the noted highwayman of Hampshire!"

Lady Hatfield cast upon the young nobleman a look expressive of so much
mental suffering, that he was deeply touched—profoundly affected: and
yet he knew not how to administer consolation.

"Georgiana," he at length said, in as calm and collected a tone as he
could assume, though his heart was in reality rent by the most painful
emotions, "there is some terrible mystery in all this! I begin to
believe—as you yourself ere now endeavoured to persuade me—that your
reason is in no way affected—that you are not subject to mere whims and
caprices. No—the cause of your grief—your anguish—your horror at the
reminiscence of that event in Hampshire,—an anguish and a horror cruelly
revived last night by the presence of that Rainford, who is doubtless
identical with the Black Mask,—an anguish and a horror perpetuated, too,
until now," continued Arthur, more emphatically,—"the cause of all this
is far—far more serious than I had at first imagined. You say that you
cannot become my wife—and that you have laboured under a
misapprehension: you wish us to look upon each other as brother and
sister. And yet you do love me well enough to become my wife—did not
some terrible and fearfully mysterious obstacle stand in the way. Oh! if
you really love me—then pity me, and tell me this dreadful secret which
weighs upon your mind! Unless, indeed——"

And he paused abruptly, as an awful suspicion rushed into his brain.

Georgiana only turned her head aside, and sobbed convulsively.

"Unless, indeed," continued the Earl, after a few moments' silence, "it
would bring a blush to your cheek to enlighten me; and I cannot—cannot
ask you to humiliate yourself in my presence!"

"Arthur, I _dare_ not become your wife!" exclaimed Georgiana, suddenly
falling upon her knees before him; "and if you demand the reason—as,
after all that has passed between us, you have a right—I will confess——"

"Georgiana, no more!" cried the Earl, hastening to raise her. "Not for
worlds would I bring a blush to your cheek." Then, in a different—more
serious—and very mournful tone, he added, "Henceforth we will be to each
other as sister and brother."

With these words he touched her hand lightly with his lips, and was
about to hurry from the room; when, animated by a sudden thought,
Georgiana held him back, saying in a hollow, thick tone of voice,
"Whatever suspicion you now entertain—you do not believe that I—_was
guilty_?" she added, as if the very words were choking her.

"No, much injured woman!" cried the young nobleman warmly. "A light has
broken in upon my mind—and I understand it all."

"Yes—for a pure soul dwells in a tainted body," murmured Lady Hatfield;
"and if I have said this much—and you can well believe how painful to my
feelings the mere necessity of making such an assertion must be,—but in
making it, I am influenced only by the hope—the earnest hope of removing
from your mind—the mind of one whom I so much respect—so highly
esteem——"

"Say no more, my dearest _sister_!" interrupted the Earl emphatically;
"for as a sister do I now look upon you—and as a _brother_," he added
sternly, "will I avenge you. For _that_ was I ere now hurrying away so
abruptly!"

"Avenge me!" repeated Georgiana, looking wildly on the young nobleman's
countenance, which wore a calm but determined expression.

"Yes, Georgiana," replied the Earl: "wrongs so deep as yours demand a
deadly vengeance. And who so fit to become the instrument of that
vengeance, than he whom those wrongs which _you_ have sustained so
cruelly redound upon? But for that incarnate fiend Rainford, would you
not already—yes, already have been my loved and loving wife? Am I not,
then, also wronged by him? Have I not something to avenge?" he demanded
bitterly. "And to consummate this vengeance, Georgiana, I—your _brother_
henceforth—will forget my proud title—cast aside the remembrance of my
elevated rank;—and, dressed in mean attire, I will visit the noisome
dens—the foul courts—the low neighbourhoods of London, until I discover
that miscreant Rainford. Then will I—still forgetting the proud title
and the elevated rank—dare him to meet me in a duel, from which at least
but one shall depart alive, and wherein both may haply fall! I will not
yield him up to the hangman, Georgiana," continued the Earl, fearfully
excited; "because in his last moments he might confess his crimes, and
include amongst them the foul wrong he has inflicted on thee, my sister!
But I will descend to make myself his equal—I will place myself on a
level with that black-hearted ruffian——"

"Hold! hold!" screamed Georgiana, suddenly recovering the powers of
utterance which had been paralyzed by this tremendous explosion of
generous indignation on the part of that proudly-born noble who
proclaimed himself her champion. "Hold! hold! Arthur—you know not whom
you calumniate—whom you would provoke to the duel of death!"

"Yes—too well I know the miscreant!" cried the Earl furiously.

"No—no—you know him not!" screamed Georgiana wildly.

"This is childish—silly!" said the Earl impatiently. "Was it not
Rainford who——"

"Yes—yes: but this Rainford——"

"Is a fiend, with a heart so black——"

"Hold! hold! again I say," ejaculated Lady Hatfield, clasping her hands
in despair. "That Thomas Rainford whom you would make the victim of your
vengeance, is——"

"Is what?" demanded the Earl hastily.

"Is—is——"

"Who? in the name of heaven!"

"YOUR BROTHER!" was the hysterical reply.




                             CHAPTER XLVII.
                         FARTHER EXPLANATIONS.


"My brother!" repeated the Earl of Ellingham, with a wild glance and a
sudden start, indicative of the most painful surprise. "My brother!
Georgiana!—oh! no—impossible! 'Tis true that my father——but no——that
child died——"

"I can give you no particulars—offer you no evidence in this most
strange and mysterious matter," said Lady Hatfield, endeavouring to
subdue the excitement produced in her much-agitated mind by the
preceding scene. "All that I know is—all that _he_ told me was that
secret which I have now revealed to you! Thus, Arthur, you perceive
that—independent of the _other_ reason which would prevent _me_ from
becoming yours, and _you_ from receiving me as your wife——"

"But wherefore did you not mention this at first—at the commencement of
our conversation this morning?" demanded the nobleman, utterly
bewildered by the revelation that had been made to him, and scarcely
knowing whether to regard it as a substantial fact or a miserable
fiction.

"Because Rainford himself appeared to tell it to me as a profound
secret," observed Georgiana. "Not that he desired me to consider it as
such: but his manner—and then the nature of the revelation itself, which
could not be gratifying to your feelings—oh! I scarcely know what I am
saying, Arthur—but I would have spared your feelings, had you not
compelled me to make that revelation, to prevent the mad—the insane
designs of vengeance which you had formed——"

"I understand you, Georgiana," interrupted the Earl: "and deeply—oh!
deeply do I feel your generous consideration on that point. But there is
one question that I wish to ask you—a question——"

"Speak, Arthur! This is the day of mutual outpourings of confidence,"
said Lady Hatfield: "and, remember—we are henceforth to stand in the
light of brother and sister to each other!"

"The question I would ask is relative to the robbery that was
perpetrated on you and Miss Mordaunt a short time back near Hounslow,"
continued the Earl. "Was that highwayman——"

"He was—he was!" exclaimed Georgiana, once more painfully excited. "But
do not look coldly on me, Arthur—do not despise me for that dreadful
crime of perjury which I committed to save him. He wrote me an imperious
note, commanding me to stop all proceedings instituted in reference to
that matter. What did such a note imply? It was a menace—a dreadful
menace,—a threat to expose me, if I did not obey his mandate! Consider,
Arthur—oh! consider how I was placed—my reputation at stake—my fame in
the hands of one who——But can you wonder that I preferred the dread
alternative of perjury to the danger of disgrace and infamy which seemed
to impend over my head?"

"Alas! I cannot blame you, poor, suffering woman?" ejaculated the Earl
in a tone of deep commiseration. "We never know how we should act until
we find ourselves placed in circumstances of difficulty and
embarrassment; and then—then even the most rigid integrity often yields!
But let us sit down quietly, Georgiana, for a short half-hour—compose
ourselves, if we can—collect our scattered thoughts—and converse
together as sister and brother. For I will now communicate to you the
little I know concerning the birth of Thomas Rainford—if he indeed be
the offspring of that amour——"

[Illustration]

Arthur ceased, and passed his hand over his brow as if to calm the
warfare of thoughts and conjectures which agitated his brain.

Georgiana seated herself on the sofa, and the Earl at length took a
chair near her.

He then continued in the following manner:—

"My father, the late Earl, was married twice: his first matrimonial
connexion was formed when he was thirty; and this union was unproductive
of issue. Lady Ellingham, as I have heard, was a woman devotedly
attached to the dissipation of a fashionable life. She seemed to exist
only to shine in the gay assemblies of the West End; and, as she had no
children, and her husband was immersed in politics, she possessed no
ties to bind her to her own fireside. She played deeply—for play was
very fashionable then amongst ladies, and is even now to a considerable
extent. Her extravagances were great, and she made rapid inroads upon my
father's fortune. By the time he was forty he found himself involved in
debts; and moreover, rumour began to be so busy with the name of his
wife, imputing to her the most shameless infidelity, that he determined
to separate from her. I should not allude to this circumstance—I would
not for a moment revive statements prejudicial to the memory of a woman
who has long ago gone to render an account of her deeds to her
Maker—were it not that respect for the name of my lamented father
renders me anxious to discover any extenuation which offers itself for
his subsequent conduct. Well, a separation was resolved upon: a certain
income was settled upon Lady Ellingham; the estate was put 'to nurse,'
as the law-phrase has it; and my father, who was a proud man, retired to
a small property which he possessed in Ireland, ostensibly for the
purpose of giving up the cares of public life, but in reality to conceal
the necessity of retrenching his expenditure. Ten years passed away: and
when my father was upwards of fifty, he returned to London, his estates
having in the meantime been relieved of all their incumbrances. Lady
Ellingham was still living: but the smallness of her income and the
impaired condition of her health, forced her to dwell in the strictest
retirement. She had moreover become a devotee, and manifested no desire
to return into the dazzling scenes of fashionable life.

"I am now speaking of about thirty-one years ago; when I was not born.
It was at that period that my father encountered a young and very
beautiful girl, named Octavia Manners. She was the half-sister of a
marine-store dealer, who bore the disagreeable appellation of Benjamin
Bones. By all I have heard, Octavia must have been a charming creature;
and her manners, acquirements, and conversation were far superior to her
humble condition in life. I cannot give you any details respecting the
way in which my father became acquainted with her: suffice it to say
that he grew deeply attached to her, and his visits were encouraged by
her brother. But, alas! from all that I have heard, I have grounds—oh!
too strong grounds to believe that those visits were most unwelcome to
Octavia; for she was beloved by a young man in her own sphere of life,
and whom she loved in return. And it is now that I would palliate—as far
as possible—the conduct of my sire, while I am bound to admit that his
proceedings in respect to that unhappy girl were most unworthy the noble
and the man. My heart aches, too, as I utter these words: but I am
telling you a history, the truth of which must not be disguised nor in
any way misrepresented. But some allowance—some little excuse may be
found for a man who was separated from a wife whom he had not seen for
many years, and to whom there were positively no moral ties, although
the legal ones still existed, to bind his fidelity. He was devotedly
attached to a young and beautiful girl who unfortunately could not
return his love, and who did not even seem flattered by his visits, as
so many maidens in her sphere would have been. No—she shrank from his
addresses, and implored him not to persecute her!

"But he persisted in his visits; and the first sad result was that the
young man to whom Octavia's faith was plighted, would not believe that
she discouraged the attentions of the nobleman who condescended to
appear at that humble dwelling. I cannot of course inform you, although
we may both imagine, how the young man reproached Octavia, and how she
defended herself: but it is certain that he suddenly quitted the
neighbourhood, leaving behind him a note declaring that he should never
see the unhappy girl again. Alas! that I should now be compelled to
recite the tale of my father's guilt—my father's crime! His love for
Octavia knew no bounds—he was determined to risk all—every thing——"

"Spare your feelings, Arthur—dear Arthur!" exclaimed Lady Hatfield; "for
I can fully appreciate the grief which this revival of such a subject
must cause you!"

"Octavia, then, was purchased—purchased with gold—my father's gold,
Georgiana;—and the deed of—dare I call it aught save _infamy_?—was
consummated!" said the Earl, in a low and subdued tone, as if he were
overcome by the enormity of his sire's guilt—that guilt which, with a
venial filial affection, he had vainly endeavoured to palliate.
"Yes—'twas done," he continued sadly; "and the vile half-brother sold
the honour of that young and already too deeply afflicted girl. Too
deeply afflicted, I say, because she had lost him on whom the
affections of her youthful heart were set. The very day after her
disgrace—her ruin, she fled from her brother's house; and for several
months no trace was discovered of her. It was feared she had committed
suicide; and my father was almost distracted. At that precise period
his wife died, having ended as a devotee that life of which so much of
the early portion was passed in dissipation and illicit amours. She
had not been laid many weeks in the family vault, when my father, by
some means unknown to me—perhaps, by accident—discovered that Octavia
was living, and that she was in the 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. A girl of the gipsy tribe, and whose name was
Miranda, was the friend and companion of poor Octavia. How they grew
acquainted—how they came to live together, I am not aware: but Miranda
was much attached to poor Octavia, and was nearly her own age. Indeed
Octavia was not seventeen even at that time; and this Miranda of whom
I speak, was about fifteen. Much mystery envelopes this portion of the
sad tale: it is, however, certain that my father visited Octavia for
several days—that he passed hours with her—that she even appeared to
be reconciled to his presence—and that they went out together, and
remained absent for hours, on two or three occasions. Again she
disappeared—suddenly—abruptly—without having intimated her intention
to my father, and without even having confided her design to her
friend Miranda. For Miranda remained behind at the lodging, and when
my father called and found Octavia not, he was seized with a paroxysm
of the deepest grief.

"Another year passed away; and behold, poverty and distress drove the
unfortunate Octavia to seek an asylum at the house of her half-brother.
She would not, doubtless, have gone near that fatal dwelling where her
ruin was accomplished, had it not been for the child which she held in
her arms. That child—a boy—was the fruit of her connexion with my
father,—or rather of the dreadful deed which gave her, when under the
influence of an opiate, into his arms. But she was dying—yes, she was
dying, when she knocked at her brother's door; and on her death-bed she
implored that my father might be sent for. He flew to her: he knelt by
her side—he took the child in his arms, and embraced both the dying
mother and the innocent babe. By a strange—a wondrous coincidence,
Miranda entered the house at that moment: she had come to make inquiries
concerning Octavia—and found her dying. The poor mother forgave those
who had wronged her,—forgave her half-brother—blessed my father—yes,
blessed him—and recommended her infant to his care—that infant being
also his own! Then my father requested to be left alone with her; but
scarcely had the villain Bones and the faithful Miranda quitted the
room, when they were recalled by a dreadful cry which burst from my
father's lips;—and they hurried back to find that Octavia was no more."

Arthur paused to wipe away the tears which were trickling down his
cheeks; nor were Georgiana's eyes unmoistened by the sweet dews of
sympathy.

"When my father had sufficiently recovered himself to attend to more
worldly matters," continued the young Earl, "he gave directions for the
funeral of his victim; and to Miranda did he entrust the child. Then he
placed in the hands of Benjamin Bones, in the presence of Miranda, a
thousand guineas to be placed out at interest, in order to provide the
means of supporting the infant and his nurse. I should also inform you
that a small roll of papers, carefully wrapped up in a piece of thick
brown paper, was found upon the person of Octavia, shortly after her
death; and these were taken possession of by Benjamin Bones, my father
having previously quitted the house. Of the nature of those documents I
know nothing; but I have been informed that when the half-brother read
them, he was greatly excited, and secured them under lock and key.

"A year elapsed, during which my father called several times to see the
little boy, who throve well in Miranda's care. But at the expiration of
that period his visits ceased altogether;—for he was about to marry
again. Twenty-nine years ago the Honourable Miss Stamford became his
second wife; and twenty-six years ago I was born. But before the date of
_my_ birth—and within six months after the marriage of my father
appeared in the newspapers—Bones discharged Miranda on some pretence;
and she returned to her tribe. Some few months afterwards she fell in
with another tribe; and to her profound surprise, she discovered the
child Thomas in the possession of a woman named Egyptia. Of the child's
identity Miranda had no doubt, because it had a peculiar mark near the
shoulder of the right arm. She and her sister-gipsy then compared notes,
and Egyptia told her that she had received the child from a man named
Benjamin Bones—a marine-store dealer in Greville Street, Hatton Garden;
that Bones had given her twenty guineas to take the child; that the
money was all gone; and that she already repented of the bargain.
Miranda, who was attached to the child, offered to take it; and her
proposal was accepted. For seven years did the faithful Miranda rear
that boy as if he were her own; but at last she fell dangerously ill—was
long delirious—and when she awoke to consciousness again, she learnt
from her companions that the boy had died of the same epidemic malady
beneath which she herself had nearly succumbed."

Again the Earl paused for a few moments; and when he again broke
silence, it was to conclude his narrative.

"My father, as you are aware, Georgiana, died when I was only a year
old; and I was brought up by my mother. At the age of nineteen I went to
Oxford; and it was in the neighbourhood of that city I one day fell in
with a party of gipsies. They offered to tell my fortune; and I
consented for the amusement of the farce. The young female who undertook
the task commenced by giving me my real name; for I had doubtless been
pointed out to her in the city, as the gipsies had been there and in the
vicinity for several days.[24] But the moment my name was mentioned,
another gipsy-woman, who had probably seen forty summers, uttered an
ejaculation of surprise—looked hard at me—and then inquired abruptly
whether I was the son of the late Earl of Ellingham. I answered in the
affirmative; and she let drop some observations which excited my
curiosity. I took her aside, thrust a guinea into her hand, and demanded
of her the meaning of her words. She returned me the money, and, after
much persuasion, narrated to me the whole history of Octavia
Manners—that is to say, as much of it as I have now told to you. You now
understand, Georgiana, how it is possible that this Thomas Rainford may
be my half-brother: but, if he be, the account of his death, received by
Miranda from her companions, must have been false;—for I need hardly
tell you that the elderly gipsy who unfolded to me the details of my
father's fatal conduct towards poor Octavia, was none other than Miranda
herself. Shortly afterwards my mother died; but I never revealed to her
the story of her late husband's guilt and Octavia's wrongs."

Scarcely was this strange narrative concluded, when the door of the
apartment opened, and Sir Ralph Walsingham entered the room.

"Well," he exclaimed, "Mr. Rainford, who honoured this house with a
visit last night, and frightened you, Georgiana, so sadly, has got
himself into a pleasant scrape at last——"

"Indeed!" exclaimed Lord Ellingham hastily; "what——"

"He is arrested on a charge of highway robbery—a robbery, in fact,
committed on no less a person than our acquaintance Sir Christopher
Blunt," returned the baronet.

"Arrested!" ejaculated the Earl, exchanging a rapid glance with
Georgiana, as much as to enjoin her not to allow the subject of their
previous conversation to transpire in the presence of Sir Ralph
Walsingham.

"Yes—arrested last night—lodged in Horsemonger Lane Gaol, as a character
too desperate to put into the usual lock-up—and examined before the
Magistrates at the office in the Borough this morning," continued Sir
Ralph. "I happened to be in the neighbourhood an hour ago, and heard all
about it. But he is remanded for a week, at the solicitation of Mr.
Howard, the attorney for the prosecution, Sir Christopher not being in
London. Well, poor fellow! I am really sorry for him—for he seems to be
a dashing, daring, gallant blade, by all accounts. Pardon me, however,
my dear Georgiana," he added, seeing that his niece was deadly pale; "I
ought not to have spoken a word in favour of a man who terrified you so:
but——"

Lord Ellingham interrupted Sir Ralph by taking his leave of him and
Georgiana; and as the nobleman took the latter by the hand, he said in a
hasty whisper, "I will go and see him at once!"

He then left the house, entered a hackney-coach at the nearest stand,
and ordered the driver to take him to Horsemonger Lane Gaol.

-----

Footnote 24:

  For the mode adopted by Gipsies to glean information relative to
  persons in the various neighbourhoods they visit, see "The History of
  Skilligalee" in the First Series of "THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON."




                            CHAPTER XLVIII.
                      LORD ELLINGHAM AND TOM RAIN.


The interview between Lady Hatfield and the Earl of Ellingham had lasted
a considerable time; and it was close upon three o'clock in the
afternoon when his lordship reached Horsemonger Lane Gaol.

He communicated to the governor his desire to see Thomas Rainford; and
although visitors were usually compelled to speak to prisoners through
an iron grating, yet the rank of the nobleman and the fact of his being
in the commission of the peace for another county (Middlesex), procured
him immediate access to the highwayman's cell.

Rainford was sitting in a pensive attitude at a table on which his
dinner remained untouched. We have before said—and we now repeat—that he
cared but little for the peril of his own predicament: there were,
however, ties which bound him to the existence that was now in jeopardy,
and to the freedom that was lost.

He started from his seat with unfeigned surprise, when the Earl of
Ellingham entered the cell.

"You are astonished to see _me_ here, Mr. Rainford?" said the nobleman,
in a mild and mournful tone.

"It is a visit, my lord," was the answer, "that I certainly did not
expect."

"And yet—if the statement you made to Lady Hatfield be true—I am but
performing a duty——"

"Ah! then she has told you _that_!" exclaimed the prisoner.

"She has told me that you claim a near—a very near relationship to me,"
rejoined the nobleman, his voice trembling with emotion—for the reader
has seen enough of him to be aware that he possessed a generous heart.

"Yes—my lord," replied Rainford: "the same father was the author of our
being—although our mothers were different."

"Is this true?—is it really true?" demanded the Earl hastily.

"As true as there is an Almighty God who now beholds the great peer and
the prisoned highwayman face to face!" replied Rainford solemnly; and
divesting himself of his coat, he bared his right arm and exhibited a
particular mark.

"I cannot doubt it—I cannot disbelieve you!" exclaimed the nobleman,
tears starting from his eyes.

And then the great peer and the prisoned highwayman were folded in each
other's arms.

"But, my God!" exclaimed Arthur, when the excitement of this fraternal
recognition had somewhat passed away; "in what a condition do I find
you, my poor brother!"

"Grieve not for me, Arthur," said Rainford: "my fate will soon be
decided now; and whatever it may be, I shall be prepared to meet it as
becomes a brave man."

"Talk not thus, Thomas!" cried the nobleman, pressing his hand warmly.
"I have money to buy off your prosecutors—interest to use in your
behalf——"

"If I say to you, '_Yes, use both_,' Arthur," replied the highwayman,
"it is only because there is _one_ who loves me well, and for whose sake
I could wish to live."

"I understand you—you allude to Miss Esther de Medina," said the Earl.
"But there is _another_ for whose sake you must hope to live and enjoy
freedom again: and that is the brother who now stands before you, and
who, for our father's sake, will never—never desert you!"

"My dear Arthur, your kindness unmans me," said Rainford; "and yet—if
you knew all—you would perhaps think that I am not altogether unworthy
of your sympathy! But, sit down, and let me show you that, though of
lost and ruined reputation, I am not without some feeling!"

The Earl took one of the two chairs that there were in the cell; and
Rainford seated himself near his half-brother on the other.

"That you are acquainted with a considerable portion of my history, I
know," resumed the highwayman; "for some seven or eight years ago you
encountered a gipsy-woman near Oxford, who revealed to you——"

"The faithful Miranda indeed told me all she knew!" interrupted the
Earl. "But at that period she believed you to have been long dead."

"Yes—and it was only a short time ago that I met her in Hampshire,"
answered Rainford; "and accident led us to converse together. A word or
two which I dropped without anticipating the result, induced her to make
certain inquiries: then she requested me, in a hurried and excited
manner, to bare my right arm—and it was only on the occasion of which I
am speaking, and which occurred a few months since, that I learnt the
real narrative of my birth. It appears that when Miranda had fallen so
dangerously ill, and had become delirious, the gipsies considered me to
be a burthen to them, as I was not born of their race; and one of them
took me to Winchester, in the neighbourhood of which city the tents were
pitched at the time; and there he purposely abandoned me. What
subsequently became of me I have not time now to relate; my history has
been most eventful, and could not be compressed into a short narrative.
But should the laws of my country demand that my misdeeds be expiated on
the scaffold, I will leave that history, written out in all its
remarkable details, for your contemplation."

"Talk not thus, Thomas—oh! talk not thus!" cried Arthur. "I will save
you yet—even if I throw myself at the feet of my sovereign, and proclaim
that you are my brother!"

"God grant that you may prove successful, for the sake of _one_ who
loves me well!" said Rainford, solemnly. "But let me pursue the thread
of that much of my story which I have now to relate to you. It appears
that when Miranda _did_ recover from her serious illness, the gipsies
did not like to tell her the truth relative to myself; and they
therefore invented the tale of my death to account for my disappearance.
Thus was it that, until a few months ago, she remained in ignorance of
the deceit that had been practised upon her; and the same day which
revealed to her the fact that I was still alive, made me acquainted with
the history of my birth. Miranda also told me that Benjamin Bones was
still in existence and was reputed to be a rich man. She had recently
been in London; and curiosity had prompted her to make inquiries
concerning him. All that she had gleaned, she communicated to me. It
then struck me that I would come to London—that I would throw myself in
the way of that man who had plundered me of my inheritance—and that I
would watch for some favourable opportunity to wring from him the amount
with interest and compound interest, that was fairly mine. I learnt from
Miranda that certain papers had been found about the person of my poor
mother, after she was dead, and that the perusal of them had excited the
interest of this Bones. It therefore struck me that I might recover
those documents, as well as the money of which I had been plundered. If
the documents should prove in any way interesting or valuable, I
thought, so much the better: if not, no harm would be done in obtaining
possession of them. I came to London; and accident enabled me, through
the intervention of a mutual acquaintance named Tullock, to meet with
Benjamin Bones. I offered him my services in a particular way—and he
accepted them. To be candid, he was to plan deeds of villany—and I was
to execute them. His terms were so ridiculously exorbitant that I should
have laughed at them, had I not a particular object to serve in
connecting myself with him. And the opportunity which I sought presented
itself sooner than I had anticipated. In a word, I had succeeded in all
I had undertaken: I was enabled to help myself to as much as I chose of
his hoarded treasures—and I discovered the papers that I have alluded
to."

"And were they of any interest?" asked the Earl.

"Of such interest and of such value, Arthur," returned Tom Rain, "that
perhaps there is no other man in England who would have failed to avail
himself of the brilliant prospects that they opened to my view. But I
was not to be dazzled by them—not to be led away by the temptation. No:
I knew that my character was gone—that my reputation was tarnished—that
my misdeeds were numerous and great;—and I felt also for _you_,
Arthur—as well as for the haughty name of Ellingham!"

"What do you mean, my dear brother?" cried the noble, struck by the
impressive tone in which Rainford uttered these words.

"I mean," answered the debased highwayman to the great peer, "that
within the last few days there has been within my reach a jewel which I
might have had, and might still have, for the mere trouble of extending
my hand to reach it: a jewel such as men toil all their lives to gain!
This jewel is a proud title and a princely fortune——"

"Thomas!—my brother!" ejaculated the Earl, a strange and exciting
suspicion flashing through his brain.

"Yes—a proud title and a princely fortune, Arthur," repeated Rainford:
"but I desire neither! Yet—solemnly and seriously do I declare that,
amongst those papers which I discovered in the den of Benjamin Bones,
there was one which would make me rich at the expense of another—ennoble
me to the prejudice of one whom the proud title better becomes,—and that
individual who would thus suffer is _yourself_! For Octavia Manners was
the Countess of Ellingham—and I—the debased highwayman, am thine elder
brother, legitimately born!"

"Oh! what do I hear?" exclaimed Arthur: "and how much generosity does
your conduct display! But think not, dearest brother, that I grieve at
the announcement which you have just made! No—far from that! To know
that my father did justice to your poor mother—to be able to entertain
the conviction that the author of our being was less guilty than I
imagined—is a source of satisfaction so pure—so sincere—so heart-felt,
that I would gladly purchase it even with the loss of title and of
fortune!"

"It is you who are generous, Arthur," said Rainford—for so we shall
continue to call him, at all events for the present. "But that coronet
which sits so gracefully on your noble brow, and that fortune which
enables you to do so much good, shall never be lost to you. No—never,
Arthur! Titles I care not for—great wealth I do not crave;—and even if I
yearned for the one or aspired to the other, of what avail would be that
idle—ineffectual ambition? Here am I in a vile dungeon—accused of a
serious offence—my life endangered! And, even if your interest should
save me, must I not for ever become an exile from the land of my birth?
Yes: for whether you deter the prosecutors from farther proceedings in
my case,—or, should they push the matter to the extreme verge, and my
life be saved only at your intercession,—can I remain in England? If
released from custody, how can I hope to gain an honest name in this
clime?—if condemned to death, and then reprieved, will not this leniency
on the part of the Crown be conceded on the condition of banishment for
the remainder of my days? Thus, Arthur, even did I desire to possess the
proud name of Ellingham—did I aspire to that coronet which adorns thy
brow—I could not be mad enough to yield to the temptation. But, I
repeat—I care not for rank—I need not much wealth; and thus neither my
position nor my inclination will for an instant permit me to disturb you
in the enjoyment of the family honours and the hereditary estates."

"Alas! how much—how deeply do I regret that we had not met before to
embrace as brothers!" exclaimed the Earl. "Though crimes are imputed to
you, Thomas,—yet do you possess a heart endowed with the loftiest—the
most generous feelings! Ah! well do I now understand wherefore you were
agitated last night at Lady Hatfield's house—and why you told me that
from no other man in England would you ask as a favour that right of
egress from the mansion which you could command by force! And I, who was
once on the point of striking you! But wherefore did you not then reveal
to me what you have told me now?"

"The secret of my birth you should never have learnt from _my_ lips,"
answered Rainford. "No—I would not have allowed you to know that you
possessed a relative for whom you would have to blush. But I was
compelled to make that revelation to Lady Hatfield—because——"

"Ah! let us not talk of her, brother!" said Lord Ellingham mournfully.
"I would not for worlds reproach you—and yet you know not how profoundly
I have loved that woman—how tenderly I love her still! But my hopes
there——Let us change the topic, I say!" he added, hastily interrupting
himself. "And now tell me if there be any thing I can do in order to
soften the grief which must be experienced by that _one_ to whom you
alluded ere now—any message that I can take to her——"

"Yes: you must see _her_," said Rainford, after a moment's reflection;
"and you must tell her that she is to give up to you all those papers
which relate to the marriage of our father and my mother and to my
birth. She is acquainted with every thing that concerns me and my
affairs. It was my original intention to keep those papers—not to serve
any purpose—never to use them,—but to gratify one of those unaccountable
whims which sometimes influence the most strong-minded amongst us. I
thought that, perhaps, when in a foreign land,—for it was my intention
to have quitted this country in a few days,—I might sometimes feel a
pleasure in contemplating documents so closely connected with my
parentage and my birth. Perhaps, too, I might have been swayed by some
little sentiment of pride in being able to say to myself, '_A title and
a princely fortune are within my grasp; and I will not take them,
because I feel myself so utterly unworthy of the first, and because I
require not the other_.'—But now, let my fate be whatever it may, it is
prudent that those papers should be destroyed. She, who has them in her
keeping, loves me—adores me: but she has one foible—one weakness which
has already produced serious embarrassment. She is fond of gay
apparel—of costly jewels—of those trinkets and that outward show which
dazzle the minds of so many women; and this passion on her part is
stronger than herself. In a word, then, I would rather that the papers
should not remain in her hands—I would sooner that they should be burnt
at once than become the source of a temptation which circumstances might
perhaps some day render irresistible to _her_. If you really wish to
ease my mind of any portion of that weight of anxiety which now hangs
upon it, you will at once visit her; and when you tell her all that has
passed between you and me ere now, she will give you up those documents,
which I enjoin you to commit to the flames, when you have perused them."

"I will do your bidding, Thomas, in all respects save one," returned
Lord Ellingham: "and that is with regard to the destruction of the
papers. No—if you are generous to a degree, I must at least be just; and
I will keep those documents for you—safely, religiously keep them—to be
at your disposal at any time, however remote, should altered
circumstances induce you to claim them."

"Then you imagine," said Rainford, with something of bitterness in his
tone, "that should the future smile upon me, I might be tempted to pluck
the coronet from your brow to place it on mine own? You wrong me—yes,
you wrong me, Arthur!"

"Heaven knows that I would not willingly—wantonly do so!" cried the
nobleman enthusiastically. "But, justice——"

"Well—be it as you say," interrupted Rainford, with a view to terminate
the discussion on this topic. "Obtain the papers—they will be safer with
you than with her, much as she is devoted to me. And now must I reveal
to you another secret—a secret of a strange and romantic nature,
connected with _her_ whom you are about to visit——"

"With Esther?" said the Earl hastily.

"Ah! ever harping upon that name!" exclaimed Rainford. "Did I not assure
you last night that Esther is as pure and innocent as woman can be, and
that she does not even know me by sight? See, then, if I have deceived
you:—but I will not keep you in suspense——"

At this moment, the turnkey entered with an intimation that it was
impossible to allow the interview to be protracted any longer on the
present occasion, as the hour for locking up had already passed some
time.

"To-morrow, then, you will come again," said Rainford, in a low whisper
to his brother. "And now go to No. 5, Brandon Street, Lock's Fields-—it
is not very far from here—and inquire for Mrs. Rainford."

The Earl pressed his hand in assurance of obeying the directions thus
given; and, as the turnkey appeared impatient, the young nobleman
hurried away from his brother's cell.

But the mystery relative to Esther de Medina—whatever it might be—was
not so soon to be cleared up as the Earl of Ellingham expected.

Upon leaving the prison, he observed an ill-looking fellow lounging
about at the gate, and on whose forbidding countenance the light of the
lamp streamed fully when the wicket was opened to afford the nobleman
egress:—for our readers will remember that all the incidents yet related
in this narrative occurred in the winter time, when it is dark at four
o'clock.

But it was now nearly six o'clock; and the atmosphere was heavy with
mist.

The Earl walked rapidly away from the prison-gate; but when he had
proceeded about thirty yards, he inquired of a passer-by the way to
Lock's Fields.

The man was a stranger in the neighbourhood, and could not tell him.

"Please, sir, I'll show you the way," exclaimed another individual,
stepping officiously forward.

Lord Ellingham immediately recognised, by the light that glimmered from
a window in Horsemonger Lane, the ill-looking fellow whom he had noticed
at the door of the prison; and for an instant he hesitated to accept his
services. But at the next moment he felt ashamed of this vague alarm,
and directed the man to lead on.

The fellow turned abruptly round, saying, "You are going out of your
way, sir. We must get down to the Fields by the back of the prison."

And he led the way, the Earl following him, down Horsemonger Lane
towards Harper Street. But as they passed along the prison-wall, Arthur
observed two or three men loitering about at short intervals from each
other; and it struck him that his guide coughed in a peculiar fashion as
he passed them.

A misgiving, which he vainly endeavoured to resist, was now excited in
the Earl's mind; but still he would not turn back nor question his
guide.

Suddenly he was seized from behind, and pulled violently backward, while
a strong hand fastened itself as it were over his mouth. He struggled
desperately: but his guide turned on him, and he was now in the grasp of
four powerful men, whose united strength it was impossible to resist.

Still he endeavoured to release himself: and once he managed to get the
hand away from his mouth, an advantage of which he instantly availed
himself to cry out for help.

But in another instant he was stunned by the blow of a pistol on the
head.

When he awoke, he was in total darkness, and lying on a hard bed.

He instinctively stretched out his arms: his right hand encountered a
rough and damp stone wall.

He rose and groped cautiously about him;—but it required not many
moments to convince him of the terrible though mysterious truth—that he
was the inmate of a narrow dungeon!

But where was he thus imprisoned?

Who were the authors of this outrage?

And for what purpose was he made a captive?

These three queries defied all conjecture; and the young nobleman was
left to the darkness of his dungeon and the gloom of his meditations.




                             CHAPTER XLIX.
                          A PAINFUL INTERVIEW.


We must now go back a few hours—only to the morning of this eventful
day—in order to describe the interview which Mr. Clarence Villiers had
with his respectable aunt Mrs. Slingsby, at her residence in Old
Burlington Street.

He called at her abode as early as nine o'clock,—for he had passed a
sleepless night, in consequence of the communication made to him by the
individual whom he as yet knew only as Captain Sparks, and of whose
arrest on the preceding night he was as yet ignorant.

Mrs. Slingsby, Adelais, and Rosamond were seated at breakfast in a
comfortable little parlour, when Clarence was announced.

At first his appearance at so unusual an hour and when he was supposed
to be on his way to his office in Somerset House, excited some alarm,
lest he had bad news to communicate; and the sisters already trembled
for fear their father had discovered their abode. But he speedily
reassured them by declaring that he intended to give himself a holiday
that morning, and had therefore come to join them at the
breakfast-table.

"You are welcome, Clarence," said Mrs. Slingsby, while Adelais appeared
so pleased at this unexpected visit that the enhanced carnation tinge of
her cheeks and the joy that flashed in her fine eyes rendered her
transcendently beautiful.

But Rosamond seemed pensive and even melancholy—although she endeavoured
to smile and appear gay.

"I had a visit from Captain Sparks last evening," observed Clarence. "He
is going to America, and he called to take leave of me, as well as to
entrust me with some little commission, which I of course undertook."

"And we heard a most wholesome and beneficial discourse from the
Reverend Mr. Sawkins," observed Mrs. Slingsby.

"Was Mr. Sheepshanks present?" inquired Villiers, without looking at his
aunt, and apparently intent only on carving the ham.

"My dear Clarence," said Mrs. Slingsby in a serious, reproachful tone,
"your question is light and inconsiderate. You doubtless intended it as
a jest, but the object to which it refers is one painfully calculated to
wound those who have the good cause at heart. Mr. Sheepshanks has
conducted himself in a manner that has produced the most lively grief as
well as the greatest astonishment in what may be strictly termed the
religious world. Sir Henry Courtenay was shocked when I narrated the
incident to him."

"Oh! Sir Henry was shocked, was he?" exclaimed Clarence. "Well, for my
part, I should have conceived that a man of fashion would have cared
very little for all the Sheepshanks' and Sawkins' in the universe."

"Clarence!" said Mrs. Slingsby, "what _is_ the matter with you this
morning? There seems to be an unusual flippancy in your observations——"

"Not at all, my dear aunt. Only, I conceive that a man who is fond of
gaiety—who goes to parties—mixes with the _élite_ of the West End, and
so on, can have but little time to devote to the interests of
Cannibal-Clothing Associations."

"My dear nephew, you astonish me!" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby. "Is it to
affix a vulgar nick-name to an admirable institution, that you call it a
Cannibal-Clothing Association? I once thought you had some degree of
respect for the philanthropic and religious establishments which are the
boast and ornament of your native land. But——"

"My dear aunt, pardon me if I have offended you," said Clarence—but in a
cool and indifferent tone. "I really forgot at the moment the name of
the institution to which that arrant hypocrite and scoundrel Sheepshanks
belonged."

"Use not such harsh words, Clarence," enjoined Mrs. Slingsby, who knew
not what to think of her nephew's unusual manner and discourse. "Mr.
Sheepshanks has lost himself in the estimation of all persons of rightly
constituted minds; but the Christian spirit of forgiveness commands us
to be lenient in our comments on the actions even of the wicked."

"That may be," said Clarence. "But as I read the account in the
newspapers, it certainly looked so black against this Sheepshanks, that
had he been sent to Newgate, he would have had no more than his due.
Now, my opinion is this:—robbery is always a heinous crime; but he who
robs his fellow-creatures under the cloak of religion, is an atrocious
sinner indeed. Hypocrisy, my dear aunt, is a detestable vice; and you,
as a woman of sound sense and discerning judgment, must admit the truth
of my observation. But we were talking of Sir Henry Courtenay."

"You must not utter a word against him," said Adelais, in the most
artless manner possible; "for Rosamond has conceived so high an opinion
of him——"

"Because dear Mrs. Slingsby has represented his virtues—his mental
qualifications—his admirable character to me in terms which make me as
enthusiastic as herself in extolling so good and amiable a man,"
exclaimed Rosamond, speaking with an ardour which was the more striking,
because the natural purity of her soul prevented her from seeing the
necessity of checking it.

Mrs. Slingsby coloured and glanced uneasily towards her nephew, who did
not, however, appear to notice that the conversation had taken a turn
which was disagreeable to her.

In fact, the suspicions originally excited in his mind by the
communications of the preceding evening, were now materially
strengthened; and the more he contemplated the character of his aunt,
the more transparent became the film that had so long blinded him as to
its real nature.

"And so you are a great admirer of Sir Henry Courtenay, Rosamond?" he
said, endeavouring to maintain as calm and placid an exterior as
possible.

"Rosamond is fully aware that virtue deserves respect, wherever it
exists," returned Mrs. Slingsby hastily.

"And Sir Henry Courtenay is the pattern of all virtue, dear madam—is he
not?" exclaimed Rosamond.

"He is a very good man, my dear, as I have frequently assured you," said
the pious widow. "But let us change a conversation which does not appear
agreeable to Clarence?"

"I would not for the world manifest so much selfishness," observed
Villiers, coolly, "as to quit a topic which gives so much gratification
to Rosamond. At the same time—as the future husband of Adelais, and
therefore soon to be your brother-in-law, dear Rosamond—I must warn you
against conceiving extravagant notions of the integrity and immaculate
virtue of any man who belongs to what is called the Fashionable World."

"But dear Mrs. Slingsby has assured me, Clarence," ejaculated Rosamond,
warmly, "that Sir Henry Courtenay is an exception to the general
rule—that he is the very pattern of every thing generous and good—and
that no one could err in following his advice, whatever it might be. Oh!
I can assure you——"

Rosamond stopped short; for Mrs. Slingsby, seeing that her nephew's
countenance was becoming purple with indignation as the artless girl
thus gave vent to the enthusiasm excited in her soul by the most
insidious representations,—Mrs. Slingsby, we say, had touched her with
her foot beneath the table—a movement naturally construed by Rosamond
into a hint to cut short her observations.

"You can retire, dear girls," said Mrs. Slingsby. "I wish to have a
little conversation with Clarence."

"Do not keep us away long, dear madam," exclaimed Adelais, in a playful
manner, as she rose to quit the room with her sister.

Clarence and Mrs. Slingsby were now alone together; and the position of
each was a most painful one.

The aunt saw that something was wrong; and her guilty conscience excited
a thousand vague fears within her bosom; while the nephew felt convinced
that the relative, whom he had hitherto loved and respected, was worthy
only of his abhorrence and contempt.

There was a long pause in the conversation after the sisters had left
the room; but at length the silence, so irksome to both nephew and aunt,
was broken by the latter.

"Clarence—something appears to have vexed—to have annoyed you this
morning," she observed, in a tremulous tone.

"Do you know," he said, turning abruptly round towards her, and fixing a
searching glance upon her countenance, "that you act most unwisely—most
indiscreetly—nay, most incorrectly, to expatiate so much upon the
virtues of Sir Henry Courtenay? When I first entered the room this
morning, I found Rosamond pensive and thoughtful; and she said not a
word until that man's name was mentioned, when she became as it were
enthusiastic in his defence, although no actual attack was made by me
upon his character. What is the meaning of this strange conduct?"

"Clarence—if, in my respect for Sir Henry Courtenay—I have been too warm
in my praises of his character,—if——"

"Aunt, there is no supposition in the case," interrupted Villiers,
almost sternly. "You _have_ been too warm—and heaven only knows with
what object! God forbid that I should impute the worst motives to your
conduct in this respect: but a dreadful suspicion has been excited in my
mind——"

"A suspicion!" murmured Mrs. Slingsby faintly, while the glance which
she threw upon her nephew was full of uneasiness.

"Yes—a suspicion!" he repeated; "and most painful—oh! most painful is it
to me to be compelled to address you in this manner. But the case is too
serious to allow me to remain silent. In one word, have you not made an
impression on the mind of that artless girl which may endanger her
peace?—have you not been encouraging in her breast an admiration for a
man old enough to be her grandfather—an admiration which is not natural,
and which is calculated to inspire her with feelings towards a
sexagenarian dandy——"

"Clarence!" exclaimed the pious lady, in a hysterical manner; "how dare
you address me in this dictatorial tone? Would you seek to invest my
conduct in bestowing well-merited praise on a good man, with an aspect
so black——"

"Your indignation is well feigned!" cried Villiers, his lips quivering
with rage. "But the day of deception has passed—hypocrisy shall no
longer impose upon me. If I accuse you unjustly, I will grovel as an
abject wretch at your feet to manifest my contrition. Before I thus
debase myself, however, you must prove to me that you are indeed the
noble-minded—the open-hearted—the immaculate woman I have so long loved
and revered! Tell me, then, the real—the true history of that night when
a boy was received into this house through charity—a few years ago——"

Mrs. Slingsby became as pale as death, and sate gazing with haggard eyes
upon her nephew—unable to avert _her_ glance, and yet shrinking from
_his_.

"Then you are guilty, madam," he said, after a few moments' pause; "and
the excellent—the virtuous—the upright Sir Henry Courtenay is your
lover! My God! did the world ever know hypocrisy so abominable—so black
as this?"

These words were uttered with extreme bitterness—and Mrs. Slingsby burst
into a flood of tears, while she covered her face with her hands.

Clarence possessed a generous heart; and this sight moved him.

"My dear aunt," he said, "I do not wish to mortify you—much less to
humiliate you in my presence. In your own estimation you must
necessarily be humiliated enough. Neither will I dwell at any length
upon the pain—the intense grief which I experience in finding you so
different from what I have ever believed you to be—until _now_!" he
added, in a mournful tone. "Were you my sister, or did you stand with
reference to me in a degree of relationship that would permit me to
remonstrate and advise, I should perhaps both reproach and counsel you.
But it would ill become a nephew to address his aunt in such a manner."

"Clarence, will you expose me? will you ruin me?" demanded Mrs.
Slingsby, in a hysterical tone.

"Not for worlds would I injure you!" ejaculated the young man. "But I
must receive no more favours at your hands! Here—take back the money
which you gave me a few days ago. Thank God! I have not yet expended any
of it—and the arrangements I had made to furnish a house for the
reception of my Adelais, can be countermanded. _She_ will not object to
share a lodging with me—until, by my own honest exertions," he added
proudly, "I may be able to give her a suitable home."

And, as he spoke, he cast a roll of Bank-notes upon the table.

"Oh! Clarence—if I have been weak—frail—culpable," cried the widow, "you
are at least severe and cruel; for I have ever done all I could to serve
your interests."

[Illustration]

"Were I to express my real opinion on that head," answered Villiers, "I
might grieve you still more than I have already done. A bandage has
fallen from my eyes—and I can now understand how necessary an instrument
of publicity I have been for your assumed virtues. But, in the name of
God! let us argue the point no further; for sincerely—sincerely do I
assert my unwillingness to give you additional pain. Pardon me, however,
if I declare how impossible it is—how inconsistent it would be—to leave
those innocent girls in a dwelling which is visited by such a man as
that Sir Henry Courtenay."

"How could you remove them elsewhere, without exposing me, Clarence?"
demanded his aunt in an imploring tone. "What explanation can you or I
give them, to account in a reasonable manner for the suddenness of such
a step?"

Villiers paced the room in an agitated manner.

He knew not how to act.

To leave Adelais and Rosamond in the society of his aunt was repugnant
to his high sense of honour and his correct notions of propriety; and
whither to remove them he knew not.

He had seen and heard enough at the breakfast-table, to convince him
that Mrs. Slingsby had some sinister motive in creating in the mind of
Rosamond,—that innocent, artless mind, which was so susceptible of any
impressions which a designing woman might choose to make upon it,—a
feeling of admiration in favour of the baronet; and although he had to a
considerable extent curbed the resentment and the indignation which his
aunt's conduct in this respect had aroused within him, still to leave
that young maiden any longer within an atmosphere of infection, was
impossible! No: he would sooner restore the sisters to their father, and
leave to circumstances the realization of his hopes in regard to
Adelais!

While he was still deliberating within himself what course to pursue,
and while Mrs. Slingsby was anxiously watching him as he paced the room
with agitated steps, the servant entered with the morning's newspaper.

Clarence took it from the table in a mechanical manner and glanced his
eye over the first page: but his thoughts were too painfully
pre-occupied to permit him to entertain, even for an instant, any idea
of reading the journal.

No:—it was one of those unwitting actions which we often perform when
sorely embarrassed or bewildered,—an action without positive motive and
without aim.

But how often do the most trivial deeds exercise a paramount influence
over our destinies!

And this simple action of glancing at the newspaper proved to be an
instance of the kind.

For at the moment when Clarence was about to throw the journal back
again upon the table and resume his agitated walk, his eyes encountered
an advertisement which instantaneously arrested his attention.

Then, with beating heart and with an expression of joy rapidly spreading
itself over his countenance, he read the following lines:—

  "TO A. AND R.—Your distressed and almost heart-broken father
  implores you to return to him. The past shall be forgotten on his
  side; and no obstacle shall be opposed to the happiness of A. Your
  father is lying on a sick bed, and again implores that this prayer
  may not be made in vain."

"God be thanked!" cried Villiers, no longer able to restrain his joy;
and handing the newspaper to his aunt, he directed her attention to the
advertisement.

"Here is an apology at once for the removal of the young ladies from
this house, Clarence," observed Mrs. Slingsby. "And now that you are
saved from the embarrassment in which you were plunged but a few minutes
back, will you promise never—never to reveal—and, if possible, to
forget——"

"You allude to your conduct towards Rosamond?" said Villiers. "Tell me
its motive—and I swear solemnly——"

"In one word, then," interrupted his aunt, "let Rosamond beware of Sir
Henry Courtenay! And now answer me a single question—for I see you are
impatient to be gone:—How came you to discover——what meant your
allusion—to—to the boy who was received into this house——"

"I cannot stay to explain all _that_," cried Villiers. "But rest assured
that your character stands no chance of being made the subject of
scandalous talk—unless, indeed, your future actions——"

"Enough, Clarence!" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby. "I know that you must
despise me: but spare me any farther humiliation!"

She then rang the bell, and desired the servant to summon Adelais and
Rosamond.

We need not pause to describe the joy which those fair beings
experienced when Clarence showed them the advertisement inviting them to
return home; although tears immediately afterwards started into their
eyes, when they read that their father was upon a bed of sickness.

They once more retired to their bed-chamber to prepare their toilette
for departure; and, when a hackney-coach drove round to the door, they
took leave of Mrs. Slingsby with demonstrations of gratitude which
struck to her heart like a remorse.

Clarence accompanied them back to the cottage; and his heart palpitated
violently—he scarcely knew wherefore—when he assisted them to alight.

The front door was opened by the female servant, who uttered a cry of
joy on beholding the young ladies once more; and with trembling steps
Adelais and Rosamond entered the parlour, followed by Clarence.

To their surprise—and, at first, to their great delight—the sisters
found themselves, on crossing the threshold of the room, in the presence
of their father, who was looking pale, it was true—but with concentrated
anger, and not with illness.

Adelais and Rosamond fell on their knees before him, exclaiming,
"Forgive us, dear father—forgive us!"

"How am I to receive you, Adelais?" he asked in a cold voice: "as Miss
Torrens—or as——"

"As Miss Torrens at present, sir," answered Clarence stepping forward,
and speaking in a firm though respectful tone. "But, in accordance with
the promise held out in that advertisement which appears in to-day's
journal, I hope that your elder daughter will soon be mine—and with your
permission and blessing also."

"Where have my daughters been residing during their absence, sir?"
inquired Mr. Torrens, without appearing to notice the latter portion of
Villiers' observations.

"Under the protection of a female relative of mine, sir," answered
Clarence, with increasing misgivings at the cold demeanour of the father
of his beloved.

"Thank you for the information, sir," said Mr. Torrens, with a smile of
triumph. "At least you have so far disarmed my resentment, that you have
brought me back my daughter pure and innocent as when you enticed her
away, with the aid of a villanous robber."

"A robber!" ejaculated Clarence indignantly.

"Yes, sir," continued Mr. Torrens, in a sneering tone; "your worthy
colleague, Captain Sparks, is a common highwayman—a thief—properly named
Thomas Rainford; and at this moment he is a prisoner in Horsemonger Lane
Gaol. Scarcely ten minutes have elapsed since I received a note from Mr.
Howard, a solicitor, informing me of the fact."

Clarence was so astounded by this announcement, that for a few moments
he could make no reply; and the young ladies, who had in the meantime
slowly risen from their suppliant posture and were now standing timidly
by their father's side, exchanged glances of painful surprise.

"Yes," resumed Mr. Torrens in a stern and severe tone, "that man, who
aided you to effect the abduction of these disobedient girls, is a
common highwayman—and you could not be ignorant of that fact!"

"As I live, sir," ejaculated Clarence, at length recovering the power of
speech. "I _was_ ignorant of the fact; and even now——But," he added,
correcting himself, "I cannot doubt your word! At the same time, permit
me to assure you that I had never seen him until that night——"

"I require no farther explanation, sir," interrupted Mr. Torrens. "My
daughters are now once more under the paternal roof—inveigled back
again, it is true, by a stratagem on my part——"

"A stratagem!" repeated Clarence, while Adelais uttered a faint shriek,
and sank weeping into her sister's arms.

"Yes—a stratagem, sir!" ejaculated Mr. Torrens. "And now learn my
decision, Mr. Villiers! Sooner than she shall become your wife," he
continued, pointing towards the unhappy girl, "I would give her to the
meanest hind who toils for his daily bread. Depart, sir:—this house is
at least a place where my authority can alone prevail!"

"Mr. Torrens—I beseech—I implore you——" began the wretched young man,
whose hopes were thus suddenly menaced so cruelly.

"Depart, sir!" thundered the angry father; "or I shall use violence—and
we will then see whether you will strike in return the parent of her
whom you affect to love!"

And he advanced towards Villiers in a menacing manner.

"I will not stay to irritate you, sir," said Clarence, feeling as if his
heart were ready to burst. "Adelais—remember one who will never cease to
remember you! Rosamond, farewell!"

Mr. Torrens became more and more impatient; and Villiers quitted the
house with feelings as different from those which had animated him when
he entered it, as the deepest despair is different from the most joyous
hope.

But the anguish of his heart was not greater than that which now filled
the bosom of her from whom he was so unexpectedly and cruelly separated.




                               CHAPTER L.
                          THE LAWYER'S OFFICE.


A few days after the events just related, the following scene took place
at Mr. Howard's office in Golden Square.

It was about four in the afternoon, and the lawyer was seated in his
private room, at a table covered with papers, when a clerk entered and
announced that Sir Christopher Blunt and his lady had just arrived.

"His lady with him—eh!" exclaimed the solicitor. "Well—show them in at
once."

And, accordingly, in a few minutes the worthy knight, with Charlotte—or,
we beg her pardon, Lady Blunt—hanging upon his arm, entered the office.

The old gentleman was all smiles—but the quick eye of Mr. Howard
immediately perceived that they were to some extent forced and feigned;
and that beneath his jaunty aspect there was not altogether the inward
contentment, much less the lightsome glee, of a happy bridegroom.

As for Lady Blunt—she was attired in the richest manner, and in all the
colours of the rainbow,—looking far too gaudy to be either genteel or
fashionable.

"My dear Sir Christopher, I am quite charmed to see you" exclaimed Mr.
Howard, rising to welcome his client and the bride. "Your ladyship——"

"Yes—this is my loving and beloved Lady Blunt, Howard," said the knight
pompously: "a delightful creature, I can assure you—and who has vowed to
devote herself to my happiness."

"Come now, you great stupid!" said the lady; "finish your business here,
and let us see about the new carriage. Of all places in the world, I
hate a lawyer's office—ever since I was once summoned to a Court of
Conscience for seventeen shillings and ninepence-halfpenny, and had to
call on the thief of an attorney to get him to take it by instalments of
sixpence a-week. So, you see, I can't a-bear the lawyers. No offence,
sir," she added, turning towards Mr. Howard; "but I always speak my
mind; and I think it's best."

"My dear creature—my sweet love!" ejaculated Sir Christopher, astounded
at this outbreak of petulance on the part of his loving and beloved
wife.

"Pray do not distress yourself, my dear Sir Christopher," said the
lawyer. "We are accustomed to receive sharp rebukes from the ladies
sometimes," he added, with as courteous a smile as he could possibly
manage under the circumstances. "But pray be seated. Will your ladyship
take this chair?"—and he indicated the one nearest to the fire.

Lady Blunt quitted her husband's arm, but made an imperious sign for him
to bring his chair close to hers; and he obeyed her with a submission
which left no doubt in the lawyer's mind as to the empire already
asserted by the bride.

"I am very glad you have called to-day, Sir Christopher," said the
lawyer; "for——"

"He couldn't very well come before, sir," interrupted Lady Blunt;
"because we only came back from the matrimonial trip last night."

Mr. Howard bowed, and was preparing to continue, when the knight
exclaimed, "My dear sir, what _is_ all this to-do about the highwayman
who robbed me of the two thousand pounds? I thought I told you so
particularly that I would rather no steps should be taken in the matter;
and now—the moment I come back to town——"

"Instead of having all our time to ourselves, to gad about cozie
together," again interrupted Lady Blunt, "we are forced to come
bothering here at a lawyer's office."

"The ends of justice must be met, Lady Blunt," said Mr. Howard drily.
"In consequence of particular information which I received, I caused
this Thomas Rainford to be apprehended; and I appeal to Sir Christopher
himself—who has served the high office of Sheriff——"

"And once stood as a candidate for the aldermanic gown of Portsoken,
until I was obliged to cut those City people," added the knight, drawing
himself up.

"And why should you cut the City people?" demanded his wife. "For my
part, I'd sooner see the Lord Mayor's show than Punch and Judy any day;
and that's saying a great deal—for no one _can_ be more fonder of Punch
and Judy than me."

"My dear Charlotte," exclaimed the knight, who now seemed to be sitting
on thorns, "you——"

"Charlotte at home—Lady Blunt in public, Sir Christopher—if _you_
please," interrupted the bride. "But pray let Mr. Howard get to the end
of this business."

"Well, my dear," exclaimed Sir Christopher, "if it annoys you, why
_would_ you come? I assured you how unusual it was for ladies to
accompany their husbands to the office of their solicitors——"

"Oh! I dare say, Sir Christopher!" cried Charlotte. "You don't think
that I'm going to trust you out of my sight, do you now? I'm not quite
such a fool as you take me for. Why, even when we are walking along the
street together, I can see your wicked old eye fixed on the gals——"

"Lady Blunt!" exclaimed the knight, becoming literally purple;
"you—you—you do me an injustice!"

"So much the better. I hope I am wrong—for both of our sakes," returned
her ladyship. "Depend upon it——But, no matter now: let Mr. Howard get on
with his story."

"With your permission, madam, I shall be delighted to do so," said the
lawyer. "I was observing just now that having received particular
information, I caused this scoundrel Thomas Rainford, _alias_ Captain
Sparks, to be apprehended; and on Monday morning, Sir Christopher, you
must attend before the magistrate to give your evidence."

"But who authorised you to proceed in this affair, Mr. Howard?" demanded
the knight.

"What a strange question?" exclaimed the lawyer, evidently unwilling to
give a direct answer to it. "Only reflect for a moment, my dear Sir
Christopher. A robbery is committed—you, your nephew, and myself are
outwitted—laughed at—set at defiance,—and when an opportunity comes in
my way, I very naturally adopt the best measures to punish the rogue."

"Quite proper too, sir," said Lady Blunt. "The idea of any one daring to
laugh at Sir Christopher! I'd scratch the villain's eyes out, if I had
him here. To laugh at Sir Christopher, indeed! Does he look like a man
who is meant to be laughed at?"

Lady Blunt could not have chosen a more unfortunate opportunity to ask
this question; for her husband at that moment presented so ludicrous an
appearance, between his attempts to look pleasant and his fears lest he
already seemed a henpecked old fool in the eyes of his solicitor, that a
man possessing less command over himself than Mr. Howard would have
laughed outright.

But with the utmost gravity in the world, the lawyer assured her
ladyship that nothing could be more preposterous than to laugh at a
gentleman of Sir Christopher Blunt's rank and importance; and he also
declared that in arresting Thomas Rainford, he had merely felt a proper
anxiety to punish one who had dared to ridicule the knight, after having
robbed him.

Lady Blunt was one of those capricious women who will laugh at their
husbands either as a matter of pastime or for the purpose of manifesting
their own independence and predominant sway, but who cannot bear the
idea of any other person taking a similar liberty. She therefore
expressed her joy that Mr. Howard had caused Rainford to be apprehended,
and declared, of her own accord, that Sir Christopher should attend to
give his evidence on the ensuing Monday—"for she would go with him!"

"Well, my dear, since such is your pleasure," observed the knight,
"there is no more to be said upon the subject. I _will_ go, my love; and
I think that when the magistrate hears my evidence, he will feel
convinced that I know pretty well how to aid the operation of the laws,
and that I have not been a Sheriff for nothing. Although sprung from a
humble origin——"

"Oh! pray don't begin that nonsense, Sir Christopher!" exclaimed the
lady; "or I shall faint. It is really quite sickening."

At that moment the door opened somewhat violently; and Mr. Frank Curtis
entered the room.

"Ah! Sir Christopher, my jolly old cock—how are you?" exclaimed that
highly respectable young gentleman, whose face was dreadfully flushed
with drinking, and who smelt so strong of cigars and rum-punch that his
presence instantly produced the most overpowering effect.

"Mr. Curtis!" began the knight, rising from his chair, and drawing
himself up to his full height, "I——"

"Come—it's no use to be grumpy over it, uncle," interrupted Frank.
"Matrimony doesn't seem to agree with you very well, since you're so
soon put out of humour. Ah! my dear Char——my dear aunt, I mean—beg your
pardon—quite a mistake, you know;—but really you look charming this
afternoon."

"Get out with you, do!" cried Lady Blunt, who was somewhat undecided how
to treat Mr. Curtis.

"What! doesn't matrimony agree with you, either, my dear and much
respected aunt?" ejaculated Frank. "Why, I once knew a lady who was in a
galloping consumption—given up, in fact, and the undertaker who lived
over the way had already begun to make her coffin—for he knew he should
have the order for the funeral; when all of a sudden a young chap fell
in love with her, married her, and took her to the south of France—where
I've been, by the bye—and brought her home in six months quite
recovered, and in a fair way to present him with a little one—a pledge
of affection, as it's called."

"Mr. Curtis, I am surprised at you," exclaimed Sir Christopher, in a
pompous and commanding tone;—"to talk in this way before a lady who has
only recently passed through that trying ordeal."

"I'll be bound to say it wasn't so recent as you suppose, old buck,"
cried Frank, staggering against the lawyer's table.

"Sir, Lady Blunt has only been recently—very recently married, as you
are well aware," said the knight sternly. "And now let me tell you, sir,
that the detestable devices schemed by Miss Mordaunt and you have
recoiled upon yourselves——"

"Miss Mordaunt and me!" exclaimed Frank, now unfeignedly surprised:
"why—I never spoke to Miss Mordaunt in my life!"

"The monster!" half screamed Lady Blunt.

"The audacious liar!" vociferated the knight.

"Pretty names—very pretty," said Frank coolly; "but I'm rather tough,
thank God! and so they won't kill me this time. But I can assure you,
uncle, you've got hold of the wrong end of the stick when you say that
me and Miss Mordaunt planned any thing against you. As I once observed
to my friend the Count of St. Omers,—'My lord,' says I.—'What?' asks the
Marquis.—'My Lord Duke,' I repeated, in a firmer tone——"

"Cease this nonsense, Mr. Curtis," interrupted Sir Christopher Blunt
sternly.

"Yes—and let us come along, my dear," said Lady Blunt, rising and taking
her husband's arm. "Your nev-vy does smell so horrid of rum and
cigars——"

"And very good things too," cried Frank; "ain't they, Howard? Me and a
party of young fashionables have been keeping it up a bit to-day at my
lodgings—on the strength of my intended marriage with Mrs. Goldberry,
the rich widow——"

"Your marriage, Frank!" exclaimed Sir Christopher. "What—how—when——"

"Lord bless you, my dear uncle," said Mr. Curtis, swaying himself to and
fro in a very extraordinary manner, "you don't half know what kind of a
fellow I am. While you was away honeymooning and nonsense——"

"Nonsense, indeed!" exclaimed Lady Blunt, indignantly. "Come, Sir
Christopher—it's no good staying here talking to Mr. Imperance."

"Going to Conduit Street—eh, aunt?" said Frank, with a drunken leer.
"But, by-the-bye, you regularly choused me out of five guineas, you
know, aunt—and something else, too——"

"Eh?—what?" said Sir Christopher, turning back. "Mr. Curtis, do you dare
to accuse Lady Blunt——"

"Of having made a very great fool of me, but a much bigger one of you,
old fellow," added Frank; and, snapping his fingers in his uncle's face,
he exclaimed, "I don't care a penny for you, Sir Christopher! In a few
days I shall marry Mrs. Goldberry—you are very welcome to be as happy as
you can with your Abigail there. So remember, we're cuts in future, Sir
Christopher—since you want to come the bumptious over me."

The knight was about to reply; but his better-half drew him hastily away
from the lawyer's office, saying, "Come along, you great stupid! What's
the use of staying to dispute with that feller?"

The door closed behind the "happy couple;" and Mr. Frank Curtis,
throwing himself into the chair which Lady Blunt had just quitted, burst
out into a tremendous fit of laughter.

"You have gone too far, Frank—a great deal too far," said the lawyer,
shaking his head disapprovingly. "Sir Christopher has been a good friend
to you; and although he has committed an egregious error in running off
with that filly, still——"

"What do I care?" interrupted Frank. "I proposed to Mrs. Goldberry
yesterday—and she accepted me, after a good deal of simpering and
blushing, and so on. She's got five thousand a year, and lives in
splendid style in Baker Street. I made her believe that I wasn't quite a
beggar myself: but all's fair in love and war, as my friend the late
Prince of St. Omers used to say in his cups. But what about this fellow
Rainford? and how the deuce did he come to be arrested?"

"I received information of his residence," answered Howard coolly; "and
I gave him into custody accordingly."

"It's very odd," continued Frank, "but I met him last Sunday night; and
I don't mind telling you that we went into the middle of Hyde Park and
had an hour's wrestling together, to see who was the better man. I threw
him nineteen times running, and he threw me seven; then I threw him
three times—and he gave in. So we cried 'quits' for old scores, and I
gave him my word and honour that nothing would ever be done against him
in respect to the little affair of the two thousand pounds. You may
therefore suppose that I'm rather vexed——"

"The officers had already received instructions to apprehend him at the
time your _alleged_ wrestling match came off," said the lawyer; "and
your evidence will be required next Monday morning."

"And I suppose the whole affair of the robbery will come out?" observed
Curtis interrogatively.

"Decidedly so. You must state the exact _truth_—if you can," added Mr.
Howard.

"If I can! Damn it, old fellow, that observation is not quite the
thing—coming from you; and if any body else had uttered it, egad! I'd
send him a hostile message to-morrow morning—as I did to my most valued
friend, the Marquis of Boulogne, when I was in Paris. I'll just tell you
how that was——"

"Not now Frank," interrupted the lawyer; "because I'm very busy. It's
getting on for post time—and I have not a minute to spare. But mind and
be punctual at the Borough police-office on Monday morning at ten."

"Well—if I must, I must," said Curtis. "But, after all, I think it's
rather too bad—for this Sparks, or Rainford, or whatever his name is,
seems a good kind of fellow, after all."

"The law must take its course, Frank," observed the attorney in an
abrupt, dry manner.

Curtis accordingly took his leave, and returned to his lodgings, where
by dint of cold water applied outwardly and soda-water taken inwardly,
he endeavoured to sober himself sufficiently to pay a visit to Mrs.
Goldberry.

For it was literally true that there _was_ such a lady—that she lived in
splendid style in Baker Street—that Frank had proposed to her—and that
he had been accepted;—but we have deemed it necessary to give the reader
these corroborative assurances on our part, inasmuch as the whole tale
would otherwise have appeared nothing more nor less than one of the
innumerable children of Mr. Curtis's fertile imagination.




                              CHAPTER LI.
                     LORD ELLINGHAM IN THE DUNGEON.


Four weeks had elapsed since the arrest of Tom Rain and the
extraordinary adventure which had snatched the Earl of Ellingham from
the great world and plunged him into a narrow—noisome cell.

Yes—four weeks had the nobleman languished in the terrible
dungeon,—ignorant of where his prison-house was situated—why his freedom
was thus outraged—and who were his persecutors.

Every morning, at about eight o'clock, a small trap in the door of his
cell was opened, and food was passed through to him. A lamp had been
given him the day after he became an inmate of the place; and oil was
regularly supplied for the maintenance of the light. His food was good,
and wine accompanied it;—it was therefore evident that no petty spite
nor mean malignity had led to his captivity.

Indeed, the man who brought him his food assured him that no harm would
befall him,—that his imprisonment was necessary to suit certain weighty
and important interests, but that it would not be protracted beyond a
few weeks,—and that the only reason for placing him in such a dungeon
was because it was requisite to guard against the possibility of an
escape.

Often and often had Lord Ellingham endeavoured to render his gaoler more
communicative; but the man was not to be coaxed into garrulity. Neither
did he ever allow the nobleman to catch a glimpse of his features, when
he brought the food to the trap-door. He invariably stood on one side,
and spoke in a feigned tone when replying to any question to which he
did vouchsafe an answer.

The day after his strange and mysterious arrest, Arthur received from
this man the assurances above mentioned; and a considerable weight was
thereby removed from his mind. His imprisonment was not to be eternal: a
few weeks would see the term of the necessity that had caused it. But
still he grieved—nay, felt shocked to think of the state of suspense in
which those who cared for him would remain during his long absence. This
source of affliction he mentioned to the man who attended upon him; and
the reply was to some extent satisfactory.

"I will supply you with writing materials, and you can address letters
to your friends, stating that sudden business has called you abroad—to
France, for instance; and that you may probably be absent six weeks.
Write in this manner—the excuse will at least allay any serious fears
that may be entertained concerning you; and those letters shall be sent
through the post to the persons to whom they are addressed. But you must
deliver them unsealed into my hands, that I may satisfy myself as to the
real nature of their contents."

Small as the satisfaction resulting from this proceeding could be to
Lord Ellingham, it was still far preferable to the maintenance of a
rigid silence in respect to his friends. He accordingly wrote a laconic
letter in the sense suggested by his gaoler; and addressed copies to
Lady Hatfield, Thomas Rainford, and Mr. de Medina. The next time his
gaoler visited him—or rather, came to the door of the dungeon, the
prisoner was informed that the three letters had been duly forwarded
through the twopenny post.

The reader will scarcely require to be informed of the mental anxiety
which the nobleman suffered during his incarceration. This was naturally
great—very great. He was also frequently plunged in the most bewildering
conjectures relative to the authors, the motives, and the locality of
his imprisonment. Nor less did he grieve—Oh! deeply grieve, when he
thought of the surprise—the alarm—and the sorrow with which Lady
Hatfield on one side and Rainford on the other must view his mysterious
absence. He had left the former with the intention of seeing the latter,
and she would naturally expect him to return if for no other reason than
to give her an account of their interview; and he had quitted Rainford
with the promise to perform a certain task, and also having pledged
himself to use his influence and his wealth in his behalf.

The idea of the feelings that must be entertained by Rainford relative
to his absence, afflicted him more than any other. That generous-hearted
man had told him to keep his coronet and his fortune to the prejudice of
_him_—_the elder brother, legitimately born_; and yet that interview in
Horsemonger Lane Gaol seemed destined to be the last which they were to
have together! What would the poor prisoner think when the Earl returned
not, and when a letter containing a cold and wretched excuse was put
into his hands? Oh! this was the maddening—maddening thought; and the
Earl shrank from it far more appalled than from the stern reality of his
dungeon! Because Rainford might be judged, and, alas! the law might take
its course—its fatal course—ere _he_, the Earl, could stretch out a hand
to save that generous-hearted half-brother.

But amidst all the bitter and bewildering reflections which tormented
him during his imprisonment of four weeks in that dungeon of unknown
neighbourhood, there was still a predominant idea—a gleam of hope,
which, apart from the assurance that his captivity would soon have a
term, cheered and animated him often.

For whither will not the rays of Hope penetrate? Even when Hope is
really gone, her work is often done by Despair; and the latter feeling,
in its extreme, is thus often akin to Hope herself.

The hope, then, that cheered and animated the Earl at times, was—ESCAPE!

Yes: he yearned to quit that dungeon, not so much for his own sake—oh!
not nearly so much, as for that of his half-brother, who was involved in
such peril, and who needed influence and interest to save him! For the
Earl well knew that the law in criminal cases is not so tardy as in
civil matters; and that to take away a man's life, all its machinery is
set into rapid motion—although to settle his claims to a fortune or to
give him justice against his neighbour, it is, heaven knows!
heart-breakingly slow and wearisome!

To send a man to the scaffold, takes but a few weeks at the Old
Bailey:—to decide the right of this man or that man to a particular
estate, or legacy, occupies years and years in the Court of Chancery.
Oh! how thirsty do our legislators appear to drink human blood. How
rapidly all technicalities and causes of delay are cleared away when the
capital offender stands before his judge! A day—perhaps an hour is
sufficient to decide the death of a human being; but half a century may
elapse ere the conflicting claims to an acre of land or a few thousand
pounds can be settled elsewhere.

And, strange—ah! and monstrous, too, is it, that the man who loses a
case in which he sues his neighbour for twenty pounds, may appeal to
another tribunal—have a new trial granted—and, losing that also, perhaps
obtain a _third_ investigation of the point at issue, and thus three
verdicts in that beggarly business! But the man who is doomed to die—who
loses his case against the criminal prosecutor—cannot appeal to another
tribunal. No judges sit solemnly _in banco_ for him: _one verdict_ is
sufficient to take away a life. Away with him to the scaffold! In this
great commercial country, twenty pounds—consisting of pieces of paper
printed upon and stamped with particular figures—are of more consequence
than a being of flesh and blood! What though this being of flesh and
blood may have others—a wife and children—dependent on him? No matter!
Give him not the chance of a new trial: let one judge and one jury
suffice to consign him to the hangman! There can be no appeal—no
re-investigation for his case, _although it be a case of life and
death_: but away with him to the scaffold!

What blood-thirsty and atrocious monsters have our law-givers been: what
cruel, inhuman beings are they still, to perpetuate so abominable—so
flagrant—so infamous a state of jurisprudence! For how many have been
hanged, though innocent,—their guiltlessness transpiring when it is too
late! But there is no court of appeal for the man accused of a capital
crime: he is a dog who has got a bad name—and public opinion dooms him
to be hanged, days and weeks before the jury is sworn or the judge takes
his seat to try him!

And wherefore is not this infamous state of the law, which allows
appeals to the case of money-claims, but none to the case of capital
accusations,—wherefore is not this state of the law altered? Because our
legislators are too much occupied with their own party contentions and
strifes;—because they are ever engaged in battling for the Ministerial
benches—the "loaves and fishes" of power: because it seems to them of
more consequence to decide whether Sir Robert Peel or Lord John Russell
shall be Prime Minister—whether the Conservatives or the Whigs shall
hold the reins of power. Or else, gentle reader, the condition of
Greece—or Spain—or Turkey,—or even perhaps of Otaheite,—is a matter of
far greater importance than the lives of a few miserable wretches in the
condemned cells of criminal gaols!

But, in _our_ estimation—and we have the misfortune to differ from the
legislators of the country—the _life of one of those wretches_ is of far
greater consequence than the state of tyrant-ridden Greece—the Spanish
marriages—the quarrels of the Sultan and his Pachas—or the miserable
squabbles of hypocritical English missionaries and a French governor in
Tahiti. Yes—in _our_ estimation, the life of _one_ man outweighs all
such considerations; and we would rather see half a session of
Parliament devoted to the discussion of the grand question of the
PUNISHMENT OF DEATH, than one single day of that session given to all
the foreign affairs that ever agitated in a Minister's brain.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was the twenty-eighth day of Lord Ellingham's imprisonment; and it
was about six o'clock on the evening of this day.

The nobleman was at work upon the masonry of his dungeon,—his efforts
being directed to remove the stones from the immediate vicinity of a
small square aperture, or sink in the corner of the cell.

His implements were a knife and fork, and one of the screws of the
frame-work of his bed.

But with these he worked arduously.

Nor was this the first day of his labours. No! for twenty-six days had
he been toiling—toiling—toiling on, to make an opening into what he
believed to be the common sewer,—even at the risk of inundating his
dungeon, and thus perishing miserably!

But all those toils, and all that risk, were sustained and encountered
for thee, Tom Rain!

Slowly—slowly—slowly had the work progressed; but now—on the
twenty-eighth day—Arthur found himself so far advanced that escape from
the dungeon was at least open to him.

But escape into what region?

Into those drains and sewers which run beneath the streets of London,
and form a maze to which the only clue is a knowledge of the point
whence he, who enters the labyrinth, originally starts! And this clue
was not possessed by Arthur; for in what part of London his dungeon was
situate, he had not the least idea. It could hardly be said that he was
confident of this dungeon being in the metropolis at all;—and yet he had
many reasons to believe that it was. For, in the first place, his gaoler
had mentioned the fact of his letters having been sent by the _twopenny
post_; secondly, he had ascertained that his cell was situate in the
very vicinity of a common sewer, and sewers were not at that time formed
in the villages surrounding the metropolis; and thirdly, he could
scarcely believe that those who had arrested him _in_ London, would have
run the risk of removing him out of its precincts—for he was well aware
that atrocious outrages and diabolical crimes may be perpetrated with
greater chances of impunity in the metropolis than elsewhere.

But, although he was thus tolerably well convinced that his prison-house
was within the boundaries of London, he had not the least notion of the
precise locality. And when he had removed sufficient of the massive
masonry to form an aperture large enough to permit a full-grown man to
pass into the sewer,—and when he heard the muddy, slimy waters gurgling
languidly in the depths below, he shuddered, and his blood ran cold—for
he thought within himself, "I have heard of men who venture into these
places in search of treasures, and who, having wandered for miles and
miles beneath the streets of London, have issued safely forth again. But
_they_ knew whence they started; and thus that starting-post was a clue
to guide them in the maze. But _I_ know not whether, on entering that
slimy shallow, I should turn to the right or to the left,—nor which
channels to pursue in that terrible labyrinth!"

Then, ashamed of his fears—reproaching himself for his hesitation, he
drank a deep draught of the wine that had been supplied him in the
morning; and holding the lamp in one hand, and in the other a stout
stick cut from one of the cross-beams that supported the mattress of his
bed, he entered the common sewer.

His feet sank down into the thick slime, and the muddy water reached to
his knees. There was a nauseous odour in the dreary passage, and the
filthy fluid was very thick. These circumstances convinced him that it
was low water in the river Thames; and by examining the masonry forming
the sides of the sewers, he saw that the tide was running out. He
therefore resolved to follow the course of the muddy stream, with the
hope that he might at length reach one of the mouths by which the sewers
discharge their contents into the river.

Armed with his stick to protect himself against the rats as well as to
sound his way so as to escape any hole or abrupt depth that there might
chance to be in the bottom of the sewer,—and holding the lamp in his
left hand, the great peer of England pursued his appalling path in a
channel seven feet wide and beneath a vaulting twelve feet high.

From time to time the sudden rush of a number of vermin along a ledge by
the side of the channel, and then the sound of their plunge into the
slimy water, startled him to such a degree that he almost dropped his
lamp: and then the conviction which flashed to his mind _that if he lost
his light, he should be inevitably devoured by those vermin_, caused
such a chill to pass through him—as if ice were unexpectedly placed upon
his heart—that his courage was oftentimes nearly subdued altogether.

But he thought of his half-brother who had manifested so much generosity
towards him,—he thought of her whom he had promised to love as a
_sister_,—and he also remembered that were he to retrace his steps,
_even if he could find the way back_, he should be returning to a
dungeon:—of all this he thought—and he went on—on, in that revolting and
perilous maze!

Yes: with lamp held high up, and stick groping in the filthy
mud—stirring up nauseating odours,—on—on went the daring, enterprising,
chivalrous nobleman—breathing an infected and almost stifling air,—an
air formed of such noxious gases, that it might explode at any moment,
ignited by the lamp!

But, hark! what is that rumbling sound—like thunder at a vast distance?

Arthur pauses—and listens.

The truth in a few moments flashed to his mind: he was beneath a street
in which vehicles were moving. Oh! now he felt convinced—even if he had
entertained any doubts before—that he was in London.

Watching the progress of the slimy stream, he turned first to the left,
up a channel that branched off from the one which he had originally
entered;—then he turned to the right into another—the hollow rumbling
sounds overhead gradually increasing in volume and power.

Suddenly he beholds a light glancing upon the putrescent surface of the
slimy stream through which he is wading knee-deep. That light is
half-a-dozen yards in front of him—flickering playfully.

He advances: sounds of footsteps—human footsteps—come down from
overhead. He looks up—and, behold! there is a grating in the street
above; and through that grating the light of the lamp streams and the
sound of the footsteps comes.

He hears voices, too—as the people pass,—the voices of that world from
all communication with which he is for the time cut off!

Shall he cry out for assistance? No: a sense of shame prevents him. He
would not like to be dragged forth from those filthy depths, in the
presence of a curious—gaping—staring crowd. He prefers the uncertainty
and the peril of his subterranean path, in the fond hope that it may
speedily lead to some safe issue.

The Earl accordingly passed on—disturbing the water on which the light
from the street-lamp played,—disturbing, too, the vermin on either side
with the splash of the fetid fluid as he waded through it.

But when he had proceeded a dozen yards, he looked back—as if unwilling
to quit the vicinity of that grating which opened into the street.

In another moment, however, he conquered his hesitation, and pursued his
way in a straight line, without again turning off either to the right or
to the left.

Upwards of an hour had elapsed since he had quitted the dungeon—and as
yet he had found no issue from that labyrinth of subterranean passages.

Grim terrors already began to assume palpable forms to his imagination,
when suddenly he beheld a dim twinkling light, like a faint star, at a
great distance a-head.

That light seemed a beacon of hope; and as he drew nearer and nearer,
its power increased. At last he saw another twinkling light, struggling
as it were betwixt glimmer and gloom;—and then a third—and then a
fourth. The air appeared to grow fresher too; and the Earl at length
believed that an opening from the maze must be near.

Yes: he was not mistaken! The lights increased in number and intensity;
and he was soon convinced that they shone upon the opposite bank of the
Thames.

A few minutes more—and all doubt was past!

The fresh breeze from the river fanned his cheek—and, as he reached the
mouth of the sewer, and hurled away his lamp, he saw the mighty flood
stretched out before him—a bridge spanning its width at a little
distance on his left hand.

He knew that bridge;—he recognised it by the pale lustre of the moon—for
the evening was clear and fine.

It was Blackfriars Bridge!

Then, from which direction had he come?

Remembering the turnings he had taken, he could fix upon the district of
Clerkenwell as the scene of his late imprisonment. But he did not pause
to reflect on a matter now so trivial,—trivial, _because he had escaped,
and was once more free_!

It was low water—and a bed of mud received him knee-deep, as he leapt
from the mouth of the sewer.

But what cared he for his uncouth and filthy appearance?—_since he had
escaped, and was once more free_?

For four weeks his beard had not been shaved, nor his toilette carefully
performed; and his hair, too, was long and matted. It was therefore
necessary to cleanse himself and change his attire as soon as possible.

Hastening along the muddy margin of the river's bed, he ascended the
steps of a wharf, and plunged into the district of Whitefriars. There,
selecting the humblest-looking public house he could find, he entered;
and, as he had his purse about him (for those who had imprisoned, did
not rob him), he was enabled to command the necessaries and attentions
which he required. Indeed, the landlord willingly supplied a complete
change of linen and a suit of his own clothes to a guest who spared not
his gold; and as "mine host" and the Earl happened to be of the same
height and equally slender in figure, the garments of the former suited
well enough the temporary need of the latter.

A hundred times, while performing his hasty toilette, was the Earl on
the point of summoning the landlord, and making inquiries concerning Tom
Rain; but the extraordinary appearance which he himself had worn on
entering the public-house, must, he felt convinced, have already
engendered strange suspicions concerning him; and prudence suggested to
him the necessity of avoiding any conversation which might strengthen
these suspicions, and thereby lead him into some embarrassment from
which the revelation of his name and rank might alone extricate him.

But, oh! how painful—how acutely painful was the suspense which he
endured while passing through the details of ablution and change of
attire; and, although never were the duties of the toilette more
necessary, yet never had the Earl hurried them over with such feverish
excitement.

At length, as St. Paul's Cathedral proclaimed the hour of eight, on that
eventful evening, Arthur sallied forth from the public-house—leaving the
landlord and landlady a prey to the wildest and most unsatisfactory
conjectures as to what he was, and how he had happened to be in the
condition in which he at first presented himself at their establishment.
They, however, both agreed that it was a very good evening's work for
them; inasmuch as their strange guest had paid them with a liberality
which would have rendered a similar visit every night of their lives a
most welcome God-send.

In the meantime the Earl of Ellingham had gained Fleet Street, with the
intention of entering some tavern or hotel where a file of newspapers
was kept. But he was struck by the deserted appearance of the great
thoroughfare—for the shops were all shut, and the vehicles, instead of
pouring in two dense streams running different ways, were few and far
between.

It then struck him that it was Sunday evening:—for though, in his
dungeon, he had been enabled to count the lapse of each day through the
date afforded by the morning visits of his gaoler, yet he had not kept
so accurate a calculation as to mark each day by its distinctive name.

[Illustration]

As he stood in Fleet Street, uncertain how to proceed, it suddenly
struck him that he would purchase a newspaper. The office of the _Weekly
Dispatch_ was facing him: he entered, and bought that day's number.

Such was his intense curiosity—nay more, his acute and agonising
suspense,—and so awful were the misgivings which crowded upon his
soul,—that he lingered in the office to glance over the newspaper.

And, my God! How he started—how his brain reeled—how crushed and
overwhelmed did he feel, when his eyes encountered the dreadful words at
the head of a column—

                         THE CONVICT RAINFORD.

He staggered against the wainscot of the office, and the journal nearly
dropped from his hands. He endeavoured to master his emotions, and refer
to the fatal column for farther particulars: but his brain swam—his eyes
were dim—his glances could not settle themselves upon the point which he
vainly endeavoured to make the focus of his attention.

The clerk in the office fancied that he was suddenly attacked with
indisposition, and made a polite inquiry to that effect. But the Earl,
without giving a direct reply, put hasty and impatient questions to him;
and, though his ideas were strangely confused, he nevertheless
understood the appalling announcement—_that Rainford had been condemned
to death and that the sentence was to be carried into execution on the
following morning at Horsemonger Lane Gaol_!

The Earl threw down the paper—and darted from the office,—recovered from
his state of stupefaction, but only to become the prey to the most
maddening feelings of despair.

An empty hackney-coach was passing at the moment: he stopped it, and
leapt in—exclaiming to the driver, "To Horsemonger Lane Gaol."

The coachman saw that his fare was impatient to reach that place; and he
whipped his horses into a decent pace. Over Blackfriars Bridge—down the
wide road went the vehicle: then it turned to the left at the
Obelisk—and, in a short time, it stopped in front of the gaol.

The Earl sprang forth, and was rushing up to the entrance of the
governor's house; when an ominous hammering noise fell upon his ears.

He instinctively glanced upwards:—and there—on the top of the
gaol—standing out in bold relief against the moon-lit sky, _were the
black spars of the gibbet which the carpenters had already erected for
the ensuing morning's work_!




                              CHAPTER LII.
                      LORD ELLINGHAM'S EXERTIONS.


Not a cry—not a word—not even a moan betrayed the feelings of the Earl
of Ellingham, as this frightful spectacle met his eyes.

He was paralysed—stunned—stupified.

Despair was in his heart;—and he could not lower his glances, which were
fascinated—rivetted by that awful engine of death on the summit of the
gaol.

This state of complete prostration of all the intellectual energies was
suddenly interrupted by a gentle pull at his sleeve; and turning
abruptly round, he beheld, by the pale light of the moon, a young lad of
sickly appearance standing at his elbow.

"Do you know me? what would you with me?" demanded the Earl sharply.

"Yes—my lord, I know you," was the answer, delivered in a
mournful—melancholy tone; "and I also know that good—generous, man
who——"

The lad burst into an agony of tears, and pointed wildly towards the
gibbet.

"Oh! you know Rainford!" exclaimed the Earl eagerly. "Tell me, my
boy—speak—have you seen him lately?"

"This day—this evening," replied Jacob Smith—for it was he: "and I have
taken leave of him—for ever! He begged me not to visit him—to-morrow——"

"For ever!" echoed the Earl, in a low and hollow voice. "But," he
continued, again speaking eagerly and rapidly, "how does he support his
doom?"

"With a courage such as the world has seldom seen," replied Jacob: "and
he frequently speaks of you, my lord!"

"He speaks of me, my boy——"

"Yes: my lord—he fears that some tidings—some evil reports which you
have probably heard, have set you against him—for he received a letter
from you a day or two after his arrest——"

"My God! he suspects me of coldness!" exclaimed the Earl, in an
impassioned tone. "Oh! I must see him—I must see him this moment——"

And he was rushing towards the governor's door, when Jacob again caught
him by the sleeve, saying, "It is useless, my lord! you cannot be
admitted to-night."

"The keeper of the prison dare not refuse me," cried the Earl; and he
hastened to the door.

"Would it not be better, my lord," asked Jacob, who had followed him,
"to use the valuable time now remaining, for the purpose of saving him?"

"True!" exclaimed the Earl, struck by the observation. "An interview
with him at this moment would effect no good, and would only unman me
altogether. Come with me, my lad: you take an interest in Rainford—and
you shall be the first to learn the result of the application which I
will now make in the proper quarter."

Thus speaking, Arthur hurried back to the hackney-coach, and as the door
closed upon himself and Jacob, he said to the driver in a firm tone, "TO
THE HOME-OFFICE!"

During the ride, the Earl put a thousand questions to Jacob Smith
relative to the convict.

From the answers he received it appeared that Rainford was well
convinced that neither Sir Christopher Blunt nor Mr. Curtis had directed
Mr. Howard to prosecute him for the robbery for which he was doomed to
suffer: indeed, they had declared as much when giving their evidence at
the police-court and at the Old Bailey. Neither did he believe that
Howard had instituted the proceedings through any personal motive of
spite; but he entertained the conviction that some secret and mysterious
springs had been set in motion to destroy him, and that Howard had been
made the instrument of the fatal design.

It seemed that Jacob had visited him as often as the prison regulations
would permit; and that he had been the bearer of frequent letters
between Rainford and the beautiful Jewess, who had removed from Brandon
Street a few days after his arrest—this change of residence being
effected by the express wishes of Tom Rain, who was afraid lest the
malignity of his unknown enemies might extend to herself. Jacob also
casually mentioned that the very first time he had been sent to see the
Jewess (which appeared to have been the morning after Lord Ellingham's
laconic letter was received by Rainford) she enclosed a number of papers
in a packet, which she carefully sealed and which Jacob conveyed to the
prisoner.

"When I was with him this evening," added the lad, "he gave me that
packet, which he re-directed to your lordship, and desired me to leave
it at your lordship's residence to-morrow—when all should be over; but
since I have thus unexpectedly met you——"

Sobs choked the youth's utterance, as he passed the sealed packet to the
Earl, who received it in profound silence—for well did he divine the
nature of its contents, and his heart was rent with anguish as he felt
all the generosity of that deed on thy part, Tom Rain!

But, in a few moments, the spark of hope that already scintillated
within him, was fanned into a bright and glowing flame: for he now
possessed proofs to convince the Secretary of State that in allowing the
law to take its course, an individual rightly entitled to an Earldom
would suffer death; and Arthur was well aware of the influence which
such an argument would have in supporting his appeal for a commutation
of the sentence.

"Thy generous act in giving up the papers which _thou_ mightest have
used to save thy life," he thought within himself, apostrophising his
doomed half-brother, "shall not be thrown away on me! Ingratitude to
thee were impossible!"—Then, turning to Jacob, he said aloud, "I am much
mistaken, my boy, if these papers which you have placed in my hands will
not effect the great object that we have in view."

"Oh! my lord," exclaimed Jacob, with the most sincere joyfulness of
manner, "is there really so much hope? Ah! if not for him—at least for
that poor lady who loves him so deeply——"

"Has she seen him?" hastily inquired the Earl.

"Once—once only," answered Jacob: "and that was this afternoon. I was
not present at the farewell scene: but I was in the neighbourhood when
_she_ came out again—and I do not wish ever to witness a beautiful
woman's grief again. My lord, I have passed through much—seen much,—and
distress and misery in all their worst forms are known to me. But as
long as I live will the image of that poor creature, as the wind blew
aside her veil for few moments——Oh! I cannot bear to think of it!"

"He shall be restored to her, my lad!" exclaimed the Earl emphatically.
"The more I ponder upon the case, the more firmly do I become convinced
that it is one in which the Home Secretary may exercise the prerogative
of mercy. It is not as if blood had been shed——"

At this moment the hackney-coach stopped at the door of the Home Office;
and the Earl alighted, bidding Jacob await his return.

But what language can describe the violence of that sudden revulsion of
feeling which Arthur experienced, when, on inquiry, he learnt that the
Home Secretary was neither at his official nor his private residence in
London, as he had set out on the preceding evening for his country-seat
in the north of England!

With the rapidity of lightning did the Earl calculate the chances of
overtaking him by means of fleet horses: but a few moments' reflection
showed him the impossibility of accomplishing that undertaking in time
to make its result, supposing it were successful, available to the
doomed victim. The reprieve might be granted—but it would arrive in
London too late!

The Earl was well aware that it was useless to seek the Prime Minister;
as that functionary would have no alternative save to reply that he
could not possibly interfere in a case so essentially regarding the
department of the Home Secretary.

Arthur's mind was accordingly made up in a very few moments:—he would
repair at once to the King, who, as he learnt at the Home Office, was,
fortunately for his purpose, at Buckingham Palace!

It was now ten o'clock at night: there were but ten hours before him—but
in that interval much might be done.

Returning to the coach, he desired to be driven to his own house; and,
while proceeding thither, he acquainted Jacob with the cruel
disappointment he had sustained by the absence of the Secretary of
State, and stated his resolution to repair at once to the dwelling of
the King.

Thus the poor, wretched lad became, by his generous sympathy for Tom
Rain, the companion and confidant of the great noble!

Great was the joy which prevailed amongst the Earl's household, when he
made his appearance once more at his own abode. The servants had indeed
heard from Dr. Lascelles as much as the physician himself had learnt
through the medium of the vague and laconic letter which the Earl was
permitted to write to him from his dungeon: but still the protracted
absence of their master had occasioned them the most lively uneasiness;
and they were therefore heartily glad to behold his return.

But he was compelled to cut short the congratulations proffered him; and
the orders that he issued were given with an unwonted degree of
impatience.

"Let the carriage be ordered round directly. Let some one hasten to
acquaint Lady Hatfield with my return; and also send up to Grafton
Street to request Dr. Lascelles to come hither as soon as possible, and
to wait for me—never mind how late. Let this lad be taken care of," he
added, indicating Jacob: "and see that he wants for nothing."

Then, hastening up stairs to his own chamber, he locked himself in,
having declined the attendance of his valet.

He tore open the packet which Jacob had given him, and beheld a small
leathern case. This 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_.
There was also, accompanying this roll, a brief note addressed to
himself.

With trembling hand he opened the note, and, with beating heart and
tearful eyes, read the following words:—

  "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 hours 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."

The Earl wept—Oh! he wept plenteously, as he read those lines.

"He thinks that I have abandoned him—and he expresses the most generous
wishes for my prosperity!" he cried aloud. "Oh! my God—I must save him—I
must save him!"

He waited not to examine the roll of papers: his half-brother intimated
that the necessary proofs were _there_—and, though no human eye watched
the Earl's motions at that instant, still he would not imply a doubt of
Rainford's word by examining the documents.

But he hastened to dress himself in attire suitable to his contemplated
visit to the King; and his toilette was completed just as the carriage
drove round to the door.

A few minutes afterwards he was rolling rapidly along in the vehicle
towards Buckingham Palace, the papers carefully secured about his
person, and his heart palpitating violently with the cruel suspense of
mingled hope and fear.

Alas! he was doomed to another disappointment.

Though it was but little past eleven o'clock, King George the Fourth had
already retired to rest,—or rather had been borne away in a senseless
state from one of those beastly orgies in which the filthy voluptuary so
often indulged.

This much was intimated to the Earl by a nobleman attached to the royal
person, and with whom Arthur was well acquainted.

Quitting the palace in disgust combined with despair, Lord Ellingham
returned home.

But, no—we were wrong: he did not entirely despair. One hope of saving
Rainford's life—one faint hope remained,—a hope so wild—so
extravagant—and involving a chance with such fearful odds against it,
that it could only have been conceived by one who was determined to
leave no means, however difficult, unadopted, in order to attain a
particular end.

On crossing the threshold of his door, Arthur's first inquiry was
whether Doctor Lascelles had arrived.

The reply was an affirmative; and the Earl hastened to the apartment to
which the physician had been shown.

It is not however necessary to relate the particulars of their
interview; inasmuch as the nature of the conversation which passed
between them will be developed hereafter.




                             CHAPTER LIII.
                             THE EXECUTION.


The fatal Monday morning broke, yellow—heavily—and gloomily; and the
light stole—or rather struggled by degrees into the convict's cell.

Shortly before seven o'clock Tom Rain awoke; and casting his eyes
rapidly around, they successively fell upon the turnkey who had sate up
with him—the still flickering lamp upon the common deal table—the damp
stone walls—and the massive bars at the windows.

For an instant a cold shudder convulsed his frame, as the conviction—the
appalling truth burst upon him, that the horrors of his dreams were not
to cease with the slumber that had given them birth.

But, with knitting brow and compressed lip—like a strong-minded man who
endeavours to conceal the pain inflicted on him by a surgical operation
of a dreadful nature—he struggled with his emotions; and, when the
governor and clergyman entered the dungeon, they found him firm and
resolute, though not insolent nor reckless.

The chaplain offered to pray with him; and he consented to join in
devotion.

There was profound sincerity—but no affectation, no hypocrisy, no
passionate exclamation—in the prayer which Tom Rain uttered
extemporaneously.

As the clock chimed half-past seven, he arose from his knees, saying, "I
am now prepared to die."

But there was yet another half hour before him.

Scarcely had the clock finished chiming, when the door was opened, and
the Earl of Ellingham entered the cell.

Heedless of the impression which his conduct might produce upon the
prison authorities present, Arthur rushed forward and threw himself into
Rainford's arms, exclaiming, "No—I had not willfully abandoned you,
Thomas!"

"Just now I said that I was prepared to die," answered the convict,
returning the embrace with congenial warmth; "and now I may even add
that I shall die contented!"

"The time is too precious to waste in mere details," returned Arthur;
"or I would tell you how I have been kept away from you by force—by a
vile outrage. But you do not now believe that I was willingly
absent—that I wantonly neglected you?"

"No—no," exclaimed Rainford. "I seek not an explanation—I require none.
It is enough that you are here now—at the last hour!"

The Earl then related, in a few hurried words, the vain exertions he had
made on the preceding evening on behalf of Rainford, who expressed his
lively gratitude.

Arthur next requested the governor to permit him to have a few minutes'
private conversation with the prisoner: but this favour could not be
granted—and the Earl dared not persist in his demand, as the chaplain
hinted that the convict had bidden adieu to the affairs of this life,
and had but little time left for devotion.

Thus was it that Arthur and Rainford had no opportunity of speaking
together in private,—although the former had something important to
communicate, and the latter perceived that such was the fact.

"Arthur," said Tom, approaching close to his half-brother, and speaking
in a low solemn tone, "is there any hope?"

"None—_on this side of the scaffold_," returned the Earl, with a
significant glance as he dwelt on his words: and, as he spoke, he took
the prisoner's hand as if to wring it fervently.

But Rainford felt something in the Earl's palm, and instantly
comprehended that it was an object which he was to take unnoticed by the
gaol authorities. Then, rapid as the lightning flash, he perceived a
double meaning in the words—"_on this side of the scaffold_;" because he
knew that Arthur would not use those awful words, "_the scaffold_"—but
would have said "_the tomb_," had he not had some special, profound
motive.

And Rainford _did_ comprehend the hint—the hope conveyed; and though he
thanked his half-brother with a rapid, expressive glance, yet a sickly
smile played upon his lip—indicative of the faintness of that hope so
created.

At the same instant heavy footsteps were heard approaching the cell; and
the chaplain said in a solemn tone, "The hour is almost come!"

Then Arthur once more threw himself into the prisoner's arms, and
whispered rapidly in his ear, "Keep the tube in your throat—and you will
be saved!"

Rainford murmured an assent; and the brothers embraced with a fervour
which astonished those present, to whom their relationship was totally
unknown.

Arthur then tore himself from the cell:—not for worlds could he behold
that horrible process termed _the toilette_.

He had also another motive for quitting the dungeon before the last
moment:—this was to meet the Sheriff of the County in the passage.

And, behold! in the corridor, he encountered that functionary, the
javelin-men, and the under-sheriff, behind whom came the executioner and
his assistant.

The Earl accosted the Sheriff, with whom he was acquainted, and who was
naturally surprised to meet the nobleman there.

Drawing him aside, Arthur said in a hasty tone, "I have a favour—a great
favour to ask of you. The convict is well connected, and his friends
demand the body to bury it decently. The earnest prayer that I have to
offer you on their behalf, is that you will not prolong the feelings of
shame and ignominy which they will experience during the time the corpse
remains suspended."

"My lord," replied the Sheriff, "the body shall be cut down at twenty
minutes past eight, and delivered over to the unhappy man's friends."

"A thousand thanks!" said the Earl, pressing the Sheriff's hand.

He then hurried away; and the procession moved on to the cell.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Immense was the crowd gathered around the gaol to witness the execution
of the celebrated highwayman who had been proved on his trial to be none
other than the notorious Black Mask who some years previously had
performed the most extraordinary deeds of daring and audacity in the
county of Hants.

Yes: immense was the crowd;—and not only did the living ocean inundate
all the open spaces about the gaol and all the thoroughfares leading
thither,—but it seemed to force its off-shooting streams and channels
_up_ the very walls of the surrounding dwellings, so densely filled with
faces were the open windows—even to the house-tops.

Near the front gate of the gaol stood a black coach and a hearse;—and
concealed between the vehicles and the prison wall, were the Earl of
Ellingham, Dr. Lascelles, and three of the nobleman's own men-servants,
all muffled in black mourning cloaks, and holding white handkerchiefs to
their faces so as to hide their features as much as possible.

Lord Ellingham was convulsed with grief. Far—far more than the convict
himself did the generous-hearted nobleman suffer on this terrible
morning. He was benumbed with cold—his body felt like a dead weight
which his legs could scarcely sustain—his tongue clave to the roof of
his mouth—a suffocating sensation oppressed him—and he felt as if all
the most frightful misfortunes had suddenly combined to fall with
crushing burden on his own head!

The clock of St. George's in the Borough began to strike eight—the clock
of the prison echoed those iron notes, which sent upon the wing of the
air the signal for death.

Suddenly the hum of the multitudes ceased; and an awful silence
prevailed.

The Earl and the physician knew by those signs that the convict had just
appeared on the roof of the gaol.

But from where they were stationed they could not command a view of the
dreadful scene above: and even if they had been differently placed, Lord
Ellingham at least would not have raised his eyes towards the fatal
tree!

And now, amidst that solemn silence, a voice was heard,—the solemn,
deep-toned, monotonous voice of the chaplain, saying, "_I am the
resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me,
though he were dead, yet shall he live. And though after my skin worms
destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God._"

The voice ceased: a sudden sensation ran through the crowd like an
electric shock;—and the Earl of Ellingham groaned deeply—groaned in the
bitterness of his spirit,—_for he knew that the drop had just fallen_!

"Compose yourself, my dear friend," whispered the physician: "for now is
the time to arm yourself with all your energies!"

"Thanks, doctor—a thousand thanks for reminding me of my duty," said the
Earl. "But this is most trying—most horribly trying! I have lived a
hundred years of agony in the last few minutes!"

"Hope for the best, my dear Earl," rejoined the physician. "Do you think
that he fully understood you——"

"He did—I am convinced of it!" replied Arthur, anxious to argue himself
out of all doubts as well as to convince his companion. "He received the
silver tube, and I saw him conceal it in his sleeve. But, alas! we had
no opportunity to speak alone—though I had so much to say to him—so many
explanations to give—such numerous questions to ask——My God! if after
all, _this_ plan should fail!"

"If that boy Jacob will only follow my instructions to the very letter,"
answered Lascelles, "I do not despair of success!"

"Oh! he will—he will!" returned the young nobleman, as he glanced
towards the hearse. "He is as intelligent as he is attached to my dear
brother!"

The railings in front of the gaol kept the crowd at a considerable
distance from the mourning vehicles; and thus the observations which
passed between the Earl and the physician were not heard by any save
themselves.

And now how languidly—how slowly passed the interval of twenty minutes
during which the Sheriff had stated that the body must remain suspended.

To the Earl it seemed as if each minute were a year—as if he were living
twenty years in those twenty minutes!

And the crowds had broken the silence which had fallen upon them like a
spell;—and ribald jests—obscene remarks—terrible execrations—and vile
practical jokes now proclaimed how efficacious is the example of public
strangulation!

At last the prison-clock chimed the quarter past eight; and more
acute—more agonising grew the suspense of the Earl of Ellingham.

A thousand fears assailed him.

Rainford might not have been able to use the silver tube,—or its
imagined effect might have failed,—or the knot of the rope might have
broken his neck? Again—the Sheriff might forget his promise, and allow
the convict to hang an hour according to the usual custom? And even if
all these fears were without foundation, the physician might not be able
to fulfil his expectations?

Cruel—cruel was the suspense,—appalling were the apprehensions endured
by the young nobleman.

He looked at his watch: it was seventeen minutes and a half past eight.

Two minutes and a half more—if the Sheriff had not forgotten his
promise!

But, no: he was even better than his word;—for scarcely had Arthur
returned the watch to his pocket, when a sudden sensation again pervaded
the multitude—and several voices cried, "_They are going to cut him
down!_"

Then came a dead silence.

An intense heat ran, like molten lead, through the Earl's veins; and, at
the next moment, he turned death-like cold, as if plunged into an
ice-bath.

If he had hitherto lived years in minutes—he now seemed to exist whole
centuries in moments!

All the fears which had previously struck him one by one, now rushed in
an aggregate crowd to his soul.

The next two minutes were all of fury and horror—fury in his brain,
horror in his heart!

But at last the gate of the gaol opened; and a gruff voice exclaimed,
"Now then!"

The Earl's three men-servants hastened to range themselves near the door
of the hearse, which one of them opened: and when the gaol-officials
appeared, bearing the coffin, these servants advanced a few paces to
relieve them of their burthen, and thrust it into the hearse, while Dr.
Lascelles diverted the attention of the officials by distributing money
amongst them.

This proceeding, which had been pre-arranged by the Earl and the
physician with the three servants, was absolutely necessary: _because
Jacob Smith was concealed within the hearse_!

The affair having proceeded successfully thus far, the hearse moved
away; and the five persons who acted as mourners entered the black
coach, which also drove off.

For the sake of appearances it was necessary that the vehicles should
move slowly along, until the outskirts of the multitude were entirely
passed: and then—when Blackman Street was reached—the hearse and the
black coach were driven along at a rate which is adopted by funeral
processions only when the obsequies are over.




                              CHAPTER LIV.
                               GALVANISM.


By the time St. George's Church was passed, the drivers had whipped
their horses into a furious gallop;—and on—on went the mourning vehicles
like the wind.

The sleek and pampered black horses panted and foamed; but the coachmen
cared not—they were well paid for what they were doing.

Down Union Street rolled the chariot and the hearse—into the Blackfriars
Road—up the wide thoroughfare to the river—over the bridge—along
Farringdon Street—and through Smithfield to Clerkenwell Green.

In an incredibly short space of time, the two vehicles stopped at the
door of a house in Red Lion Street.

Dr. Lascelles was the first to leap from the mourning coach, and, taking
a key from his pocket, he opened the door of the house, into which,
quickly as active men could move or work, the coffin was borne from the
hearse.

Jacob Smith was helped out immediately afterwards, and he followed the
Earl, the physician, and the three servants into the house, while the
mourning coach and the hearse still waited at the door.

A quarter of an hour afterwards, the coffin, _with the lid now screwed
down_, was borne back to the hearse;—the three servants returned to the
mourning coach, and the funeral procession was set in motion again—but
with slow and suitable solemnity.

In another half hour, the coffin, with the name of "THOMAS RAINFORD"
upon the plate, was interred in St. Luke's churchyard; and thus ended
this ceremony.

But did that coffin really contain the cold corse of the once gallant
highwayman?

No: it had been hastily filled with stones and straw at the house in Red
Lion Street.

And the body——

                  *       *       *       *       *

The moment the coffin was borne into the house in Red Lion Street, in
the manner already described, Jacob Smith closed the door behind him,
and exclaimed in a triumphant tone, as he produced the silver tube from
his pocket, "It was in his throat! I took it out—and I rubbed his
temples with hartshorn and applied it to his nostrils the whole way from
the goal to this place! Oh! he will be saved—he will be saved!"

The lid of the coffin, which had not been screwed down, was removed; and
in the shell lay the highwayman—with eyes closed—and pale as death!

The Earl of Ellingham shuddered convulsively, and uttered a groan of
anguish; but Dr. Lascelles gave his instructions with so much presence
of mind and yet such rapidity, that the intensity of the nobleman's
grief was soon partially absorbed in the excitement of the scene that
now followed.

The body was removed as hastily as possible up stairs, and carried into
a spacious laboratory, where it was immediately stretched upon the
table.

The three servants then retraced their way down stairs, filled the
coffin with stones and straw, screwed the lid tight, and departed with
it, as already stated, to St. Luke's churchyard.

In the meantime, the physician, the Earl, and Jacob Smith remained in
the laboratory; and now was the profound scientific knowledge of Dr.
Lascelles about to be applied to the most wonderful act of human
aims—_the resuscitation of a convict who had been hanged_!

The poles of a powerful galvanic pile were applied to the body, from
which the animal heat had not altogether departed when it was taken from
the coffin; and the force of the electric fluid almost immediately
displayed its wondrous influence.

An universal tremor passed over the frame of Rainford; and ejaculations
of ineffable joy burst from the lips of Lord Ellingham and Jacob Smith.

Dr. Lascelles continued to let fall upon the body a full quantum of the
electric fluid; and in less than a minute the right arm of the
highwayman moved,—moved with a kind of spasmodic quivering: then, in a
few seconds, it was suddenly raised with eagerness and impatience, and
the hand sought the throat.

With convulsive motion that hand kept grasping the throat as if to tear
away something that oppressed it—as if the horrible rope still encircled
it.

Then Rainford's chest began to swell and work with the violence of
returning respiration—as if a mighty current of air were rushing back to
the lungs.

"He breathes! he breathes!" cried Ellingham and Jacob Smith, as it were
in one voice.

"He will be saved," said the physician calmly, as he again applied the
poles of the battery;—"provided congestion of the brain does not take
place—for that is to be dreaded!"

But the nobleman and the poor lad heard not this alternative of sinister
and dubious import: they had no ears for anything save those blessed
words—"He will be saved!"

And they were literally wild with joy.

Lascelles, without desisting from his occupation of applying the
electric fluid, and apparently without noticing the excitement—the
delirium of happiness and hope which had seized upon his two companions,
began leisurely to explain how it was necessary to adopt means to
equalise the reviving circulation; and though he called for hartshorn,
he was not heard. At length he stamped his foot violently on the floor,
exclaiming, "Will neither of you give me the hartshorn? Do you wish him
to die through _your_ neglect?"

The Earl instantly checked the exuberance of his joyous emotions, and
hastened to obey all the instructions which the physician gave him.

The hartshorn was applied to Rainford's nostrils; and in a few moments
his lips began to quiver:—then, on a sudden, as Lascelles let fall upon
him a stronger current of the electric fluid, a terrific cry burst from
the object of all this intensely concentrated interest!

But never was cry of human agony more welcome to mortal ears than now;
for it told those who heard it that life was in him who gave vent to it!

The physician felt the highwayman's pulse: it beat feebly—very
feebly—but still it beat!

And now his limbs moved with incessant trembling,—and he waved his right
hand backwards and forwards, his breast heaving with repeated sighs, and
gasps, and painful moans.

The doctor applied a small mirror to Rainford's mouth and nostrils; and
it was instantly covered with a cloud.

He now opened his eyes slowly; they were much blood-shot—but the pupils
indicated the reviving fires of vitality.

His breathing rapidly grew more regular; and though he retained his eyes
open, yet he seemed unconscious of all that was passing around him, and
gazed upwards with the most death-like indifference.

Lord Ellingham cast a glance of frightful apprehension towards the
physician; but the countenance of Dr. Lascelles wore an expression of
calm and complacent satisfaction—and the Earl was reassured.

Twenty minutes had now passed since the galvanic operation had
commenced; and at last Dr. Lascelles said emphatically, "_He is saved!_"

The Earl embraced him as if he were a father who had just manifested
some extraordinary proof of paternal love, or who had forgiven some deep
offence on the part of a son.

"We must put him to bed immediately," said the physician, with
difficulty extricating himself from the nobleman's embrace, and fearing
lest he should be compelled to undergo a similarly affectionate process
at the hands of Jacob Smith, who was equally enthusiastic in his
joy:—"we must put him to bed immediately," repeated Dr. Lascelles; "and
fortunately for us, there is a bed-chamber in the house."

The three then carefully lifted Tom Rain into a small room furnished as
a bed-chamber, and where they undressed him and deposited him in the
bed.

"And now," said Jacob Smith, "we should remember that there is one, who
will feel as much joy as ourselves——"

"True!" cried the Earl. "But where does she live?"

"I am acquainted with her abode," returned the lad. "If your lordship
will allow me——"

"Yes, my good boy," interrupted Arthur. "It is for you to convey these
joyous tidings. But perhaps she may have returned home to her
father—for, after all that has occurred, and considering Mr. de Medina's
affection for his daughter——But all this while we are talking
enigmatically in the presence of my excellent friend the doctor, from
whom there must be no secrets——"

"Never mind me," said Lascelles laconically, who perfectly well
comprehended the nature of their allusions. "I care little for your
secrets; and, even if it were otherwise, I am too much occupied with my
patient here——"

"Then we will not trouble you with explanations at present," interrupted
the Earl. "Jacob, my lad, hasten to the lady of whom we speak—break the
happy tidings to her gently—and bring her hither."

"Yes, my lord," answered the lad, delighted at being chosen as the
messenger of good tidings in such a case. "Fortunately, Miss de Medina
moved from Brandon Street into the heart of the City, by Mr. Rainford's
positive directions: and I shall not be long before I come back with
her."

The Earl put gold into his hand; but Jacob returned it, declaring that
he was not without money; and in another minute the front door of the
house closed behind him.




                              CHAPTER LV.
                   THE LABORATORY.—ESTHER DE MEDINA.


When Jacob had taken his departure, Dr. Lascelles returned to his
laboratory, mixed some liquid ingredients in a glass, and returning to
the bed-chamber, poured the medicine down Rainford's throat.

He then felt his pulse, applied his ear to his chest to listen to the
pulsation of his heart, and carefully examined his eyes, which were far
less blood-shot than when they opened first.

"He is getting on admirably," said the physician, "his pulsation is
regular, and neither too quick nor too slow—but just as I could wish it.
He seems inclined to sleep—yes—he closes his eyes; and he will awake to
perfect consciousness.—But do you know, my dear friend, that in order to
oblige you, I have incurred an awful risk?" continued the doctor. "The
law would not believe me, were I to declare that it was in the interest
of science I made these galvanic experiments, and that having succeeded
in recalling the man to life, I was not capable of delivering him up to
justice."

"Let us hope that there will be no necessity to make such an excuse at
all," said the Earl. "You have rendered me an immense service, doctor——"

"Then I am satisfied," interrupted Lascelles; "for, after all you told
me last night, I cannot help liking your half-brother here. He is a
generous-hearted fellow; and one would risk much to save such a man from
death."

"You had frequently mentioned to me your galvanic experiments," said the
Earl: "and last night, when nearly driven to desperation by the absence
of the Home Secretary, the reminiscence of all the wonders you had at
different times related to me in respect to galvanism, flashed to my
mind—and I sent for you as a drowning man clings to a straw."

"In the adjoining room," observed the physician, "I have tried the
influence of galvanism upon thousands of animals and on several men. I
have paid high prices to obtain the bodies of convicts as soon as they
were cut down;—but never until this day did I succeed in restoring the
vital spark. Neither would this experiment have been successful, had we
not adopted all the precautions I suggested. The tube in the throat to
allow respiration—and Jacob Smith in the hearse to remove the
suffocating night-cap from Rainford's head, and the tube from his
throat, and then to apply the hartshorn to his nostrils and his temples.
Step with me again into the laboratory: you have not yet had time to
examine its curiosities," added the physician with a smile. "Rainford
sleeps," he continued, glancing towards the bed; "and we shall have a
little leisure to inspect the laboratory."

They accordingly proceeded into the adjacent room, where Lascelles
directed his companion's attention to the various galvanic and
electrical apparatus.

"I am also a devoted disciple of Gall and Spurzheim," observed the
physician, when he had expatiated upon the discoveries of Galvani.[25]
"Behold that row of plaster of Paris casts of heads," he continued,
pointing to a shelf whereon upwards of fifty of the objects mentioned
were ranged: "they have afforded me much scope for curious speculation
and profound study."

"I observe that you have casts of the heads of several celebrated
criminals amongst them," said the Earl: "Arthur Thistlewood—Daniel
Hoggart—George Barrington—Henry Fauntleroy—John Thurtell—William
Probert——"

"And many others, as you perceive, my dear Earl," interrupted Lascelles.
"The prejudice is as yet so strong amongst people, in respect to
phrenology and craniology, that it is difficult to obtain the casts of
living heads: I am therefore forced to make friends with the turnkeys in
gaols and with the relations of criminals who are hung or who die in
prison, to get casts. Moreover, the heads of men who have led remarkable
lives, or who have suffered for their crimes, afford such interesting
subjects for study and comparison——"

[Illustration]

"Comparison between the head of the man and the monkey!" said the Earl
with a smile.

"Decidedly," exclaimed the physician. "But I will not bore you with my
theories and speculations on this subject. You may, however, suppose
that I am not a little enthusiastic in the matter, since I have taken
the trouble to have human heads prepared and articulated to facilitate
my studies."

Thus speaking, he opened the door of a cupboard.

The Earl started back—for four human countenances met his astonished and
horrified gaze, and four pairs of human eyes seemed to glare ominously
upon him. At the same time his nostrils were assailed with a strong
odour of spices.

"You need not be afraid of them!" ejaculated the physician, laughing:
"they will not speak to you."

"But how—whence did you obtain——"

"I suppose you think I murdered four men for the sake of their heads?"
cried Lascelles, laughing more heartily still. "Why, my dear Earl, you
would be surprised, perhaps, to learn that I often pass whole nights in
this laboratory, making galvanic experiments, or pursuing my
phrenological and craniological researches. But these heads were
obtained from the hospitals, and I myself embalmed and prepared, as you
now see them."

"I was not aware that you possessed this laboratory," observed the Earl,
"until you stated the fact last night."

"Nor would you ever have known it, had it not been for the desire which
you expressed that science should exert itself to rescue your
half-brother from the grasp of death," answered the physician. "The
truth is, I have had this laboratory upwards of seventeen or eighteen
years. I was always devoted to science, especially that on which my own
profession is based; and the spirit of anatomical inquiry made me
anxious to obtain as many _subjects_—or in plain terms, dead bodies—as
possible. I was therefore thrown into perpetual intercourse with
resurrection-men, who, of course, are not the best of characters. But I
was afraid of having corpses brought to my own house in Grafton Street;
and I was also desirous to fit up for myself a laboratory in some
retired neighbourhood, where I could pursue my studies without the least
fear of interruption, on such occasions when the humour might seize me.
I hinted as much to one of the rascals who sold me _subjects_; and he
put me in communication with a man of the name of Tidmarsh. After some
haggling and hesitation on the part of Tidmarsh—and when he had
consulted, or pretended to consult, his principal—he introduced me to
this house, and I hired this room at an enormous rental. I did not,
however, care about the high rate demanded of me for the use of the
place, because it is not only in a most retired neighbourhood, but there
is also a private and subterranean means of egress and ingress from
another street, which is useful, you know, for one who has to deal with
resurrectionists."

"And are you the only tenant of this house?" inquired the Earl; "for I
presume that the bed-chamber in which poor Thomas lies is not your own."

"No: some old man occasionally visits the house, and now and then sleeps
in that room," returned the physician. "But I have only seen him once or
twice and do not even know his name. I have my own key for the
front-door, and I am acquainted with the secret of the subterranean
passage; but I never hold any communication with Tidmarsh, beyond paying
him the rent when it is due;—and when I happen to meet the old man I
have alluded to, we merely exchange a word and pass on. He has his rooms
in the house, and I have mine; and as he does not interfere with me, I
never trouble myself about him nor his concerns."

"Then, for aught you know, doctor," said the Earl, "you may occupy an
apartment in the house of bad characters?"

"What do I care?" exclaimed Lascelles. "I could not well have such a
laboratory as this at my own residence—my servants would talk about
these human heads, and those plaster casts, and the galvanic
experiments, and I should be looked upon as a sorcerer, or at all events
with so much suspicion and aversion as to lose all my practice. And, by
the bye, my dear Earl, you should be the very last," added the doctor,
with a smile, "to hint at the possibility of this house being connected
with bad characters; for had I not a laboratory in so quiet a street—a
street, too, where no questions are ever asked nor observations
made—your poor brother might have waited long enough for the chance of
resuscitation by galvanic means."

"True, my dear doctor—I was unjust," said the Earl. "But you will
forgive me?"

"Say no more about it, Arthur. Were men of scientific research to be
over particular, they might as well abandon their studies at once. The
experiments I have made on corpses in this room, could scarcely have
been performed at my own residence; and, to tell you very candidly, I
believe that the old man who has the other apartments on this floor, is
either a miser or a rogue;—but I care nothing about him or his affairs.
And now I will mention to you one very extraordinary circumstance. It
must have been, as near as I can guess, five weeks ago that I was one
night pursuing my galvanic experiments in this room—I had been operating
on divers rabbits, frogs, and rats—and, may be, for anything I
recollect, a few cats,—when I was compelled to go down stairs for a
particular purpose. On my return, as I came back by that door," he
continued, pointing to one at the farther end of the room, "and which
leads to the staircase, I was startled—nay, positively astounded at
seeing a man standing near this cupboard, and gazing fixedly on the
human heads. I confess I was alarmed at the moment, because I had heard
voices in the house during the half-hour previously; and I remember that
I rushed back and instinctively barred and bolted the door. But the man
turned round before I had time to close the door—and I caught a glimpse
of his face. That man—now who do you think he was?"

"It is impossible to guess, doctor," said the Earl.

"He was your half-brother, who now lies in the adjoining room!" added
Lascelles.

"Thomas!—here!" cried Arthur, profoundly surprised.

"I could not possibly make a mistake, because I had seen him before—no
matter how or where—and knew him immediately," continued the physician.
"Well, I must confess that I was uncertain how to act. I did not wish
him to recognise me—although perhaps he had already done so; and I could
not very well leave the house and return to Grafton-street at once,
because I had on a dressing-gown, and had left my coat in this room. I
was half-way down the stairs leading to the hall, when I heard some one
opening the front door with a key. Knowing that it must be either the
old man I have before mentioned, or Tidmarsh, as they alone besides
myself had keys of the front door, I waited till the person came in; and
it _was_ Tidmarsh. I immediately told him what I had seen.—'_Ah!_' said
he, '_I suspected there was something wrong, and that made me get up,
dress, and come round_.'—His words astonished me; and I requested an
explanation; but he seemed sorry that he had uttered them inadvertently,
and gave some evasive reply. He however accompanied me up stairs: we
entered the laboratory, and no one was there. We went into the next
room—the one where Rainford is now sleeping—and there we found the
carpet moved away from the trap-door——"

"The trap-door!" exclaimed the Earl.

"Yes—a trap-door that leads to the subterranean passage which I have
mentioned to you," added Lascelles; "but you must remember that all I
have told you about this house is in the strictest confidence. Well, we
found the carpet moved away from the trap-door, though the trap itself
was closed. Old Tidmarsh instantly fastened the trap with a secret
spring which there is to it, and spread the carpet over the floor
again.—'_But does he know the means of getting out at the other end?_' I
inquired, shocked at the thought of Rainford being immured in the
subterranean.—'_Do you think he would venture down there if he were not
acquainted with the secrets of the place?_' demanded Tidmarsh. This
struck me as being consistent with common sense; and moreover I began to
fancy that Tidmarsh and Rainford must be connected together—pardon me,
my dear Earl, for saying so: and that suspicion was encouraged in my
mind by the singular and mysteriously significant observation that
Tidmarsh had dropped when I met him on the stairs. So I felt no farther
uneasiness; but took my departure for Grafton Street. Tidmarsh quitted
the house with me, and left me at the corner of Turnmill Street close
by—as he lives there."

"Do you know," said the Earl of Ellingham, who now appeared to be
occupied with an idea which had just struck him,—"do you know that all
this conversation about subterraneans, and secret passages, and
trap-doors, has created a strange suspicion in my mind?"

"Relative to what?" demanded the physician.

"I briefly explained to you last night the cause of my disappearance for
four long weeks," continued the Earl; "I also acquainted you with the
manner of my escape. Now, I am convinced, by the direction I took, in
threading those dreadful sewers, that I was a prisoner somewhere in
Clerkenwell; and perhaps—who knows—indeed, it is highly probable, that
the very subterranean, of which you have spoken, may contain dungeon——"

"You shall soon satisfy yourself on that head," interrupted the
physician. "I confess that I have never been there more than three or
four times—and then only to help old Tidmarsh convey to my laboratory a
_subject_ for my galvanic or anatomical experiments, and which the
resurrectionists had deposited at his house in Turnmill Street. So you
may believe that I know but little of the precise features of the
subterranean. But we will visit it at once; and if there be a dungeon or
cell there, such as you describe, we shall discover it."

The physician and the Earl proceeded into the bed-chamber, where
Rainford still slept. Lascelles felt his pulse, examined his countenance
attentively, and turned with a smile of satisfaction to the young
nobleman, to whom he whispered, "He is beyond all danger."

Arthur pressed the doctor's hand with fervent gratitude, while tears of
happiness trembled upon his long lashes.

The physician then proceeded to raise the trap-door; and, having
procured a lamp from his laboratory, led the way down the spiral
staircase of stone.

But the huge door at the bottom was bolted on the other side; and thus
further investigation was rendered impossible on that occasion.

They accordingly retraced their steps to the bed-room, closed the
trap-door, and spread the carpet over it again.

The Earl nevertheless made up his mind to institute farther search in
those mysterious premises at some future day.

"My dear young friend," said the physician suddenly, as they stood by
the side of the bed, watching the countenance of the sleeper, "I had
almost forgotten that when _he_ awakes presently, it will be necessary
to administer a little stimulant—either port-wine, or good brandy, if
such a thing can be got in this neighbourhood."

"I will hasten and procure both immediately," returned the Earl. "Give
me the key of the front-door that I may let myself in without troubling
you to descend to open it."

Lascelles handed the key to the nobleman, who immediately sallied forth
to purchase the spirits required.

Having procured a pint-bottle of brandy at the most respectable tavern
which he perceived in St. John Street, whither he repaired for the
purpose, he was retracing his way, when his eyes were suddenly attracted
by a lovely female form crossing the street just mentioned, and
proceeding in the direction of Northampton Square.

But the lady was not dressed in mourning; and therefore he conceived
that he must be mistaken relative to the idea which had struck him.

And yet that symmetry of form, set off rather than concealed by the
ample shawl which she wore,—that dignified elegance of gait,—that
gracefulness of carriage, were well-known characteristics of Esther de
Medina.

The Earl hastened after her, and pronounced that name.

The lady turned—raised her veil—and extended her hand to the nobleman.

Yes—it was Esther;—but how pale—how profoundly mournful her countenance!

"I am rejoiced to meet you," said the Earl in a rapid and excited tone;
"for I have news to communicate which will give you joy! But—come with
me—I implore you—I know all—look upon me as a friend—and in my presence
you need not blush. Delay not—I beseech you—come with me at once!"

And drawing her arm in his, he hurried her away towards Red Lion Street.

"My lord," she said, "I am at a loss to understand——"

"Oh! you know not how nearly that which I have to communicate—to give
you evidence of—affects your happiness!" interrupted Arthur. "But I must
not tell you all in a breath—it would be too much for you to hear:—and I
am glad—Oh! I am rejoiced that I have thus met you—for I had dispatched
a messenger to seek you—and he might have broken the happy tidings too
abruptly——"

Esther gazed upon his countenance in astonishment mingled with an
expression of surprise and even alarm: but the Earl perceived not the
strange impression that his words had produced, as he hurried her along
at a rate which in a more refined neighbourhood would have attracted
disagreeable attention.

The house in Red Lion Street was reached; and the nobleman opened the
door with extraordinary impatience.

For an instant Esther hesitated to follow him; but, confident of the
honourable intentions of the Earl, and anxious to relieve herself from
the state of wonder and suspense into which his words had thrown her,
she entered the gloomy-looking tenement.

He led her up the dirty, decayed staircase into the laboratory, where he
begged her to wait for a moment. He then softly opened the door
communicating with the bed-chamber, in order to acquaint Dr. Lascelles
with her presence there, and in a few hurried words explain the motives
which had induced him to bring her thither; for he supposed that all
those circumstances which had led him to believe that the Jewess was the
mistress of his half-brother, were unknown to the doctor.

But the moment he opened the door, he started—and an ejaculation of the
wildest surprise burst from his lips.

For there—standing by the bed, with hands clasped and eyes upraised in
thankfulness to heaven—was the living counterpart of Esther de Medina!

Arthur turned hastily round to convince himself that Esther had not
passed in before him: but Esther was indeed a few paces behind
him—alarmed by the exclamation which had burst from his lips.

The truth flashed like lightning to the Earl's brain:—Esther de Medina
had a sister—so like herself that, when apart, they might well be taken
for each other:—yes—that must be the solution of the enigma which had
bewildered him so often!

"Miss de Medina!" he said, hastily taking her hand, "I have been
labouring under a strange mistake. But you will perhaps understand how
it arose, when——"

He led her into the room:—she started back, exclaiming, "Oh! heavens—my
oath!"—but in the next moment the sisters—for such indeed they
were—rushed into each other's arms!

-----

Footnote 25:

  Mr. Peck, B. A., in his interesting papers on Electricity in
  _Reynolds's Miscellany_, gives the ensuing particulars:—"The discovery
  of galvanic electricity was the result of accident. Madame Galvani,
  the wife of a distinguished Italian philosopher, being recommended by
  her medical adviser to partake of broth prepared from frogs, several
  of these little animals were procured, and were placed prior to their
  being cooked, in the laboratory of her husband. Some of Monsieur
  Galvani's friends happened to be amusing themselves with an electrical
  machine, which was standing in the room, and, by chance, one of the
  frogs was touched with a scalpel. To Madame Galvani's surprise, she
  observed the limbs of the frogs exhibit a convulsive motion. Upon
  examining them closely, she perceived that the muscles were affected
  at the very time when sparks were received from the machine. When her
  husband returned, she acquainted him with the circumstance. For some
  time previously M. Galvani had entertained a belief that muscular
  action was affected by electricity, and had been experimenting for the
  purpose, if possible, of verifying this hypothesis. Delighted by the
  discovery, he lost no time in trying a variety of experiments. At
  first he tested the effect of sparks alone, on dissected frogs,
  gradually varying the intensity of the spark. In every case, however,
  even when the electric action was feeble, he noticed that the muscles
  of the frogs gave evidence of susceptibility to its influence. He next
  made experiments with atmospheric electricity. The same result ensued
  as when the electric action had been elicited by artificial means."

  In another paper of the same interesting series, the following account
  is given:—"On the evening of January the 28th, during a somewhat
  extraordinary display of northern lights, a lady became so highly
  charged with electricity, as to give out vivid electrical sparks at
  the end of each finger, to the face of each of the company present.
  This did not cease with the heavenly phenomenon, but continued for
  several months, during which time she was constantly charged; and
  giving off electrical sparks to every conductor she approached; so
  that she could not touch the stove, nor any metallic utensils, without
  first giving off an electrical spark, with the consequent twinge. The
  state most favourable to this phenomenon was an atmosphere of about 80
  deg. Fahrenheit, moderate exercise, and social enjoyment. It
  disappeared in any atmosphere approaching zero, and under the
  debilitating effects of fear. When seated by the stove, reading, with
  her feet upon the fender, she gave out sparks, at the rate of three or
  four each minute; and, under the most favourable circumstances, a
  spark that could be seen, heard, or felt, passed every second! She
  could charge others in the same way, when insulated, who could then
  give sparks to others. To make it satisfactory that her dress did not
  produce it, it was changed to cotton and woollen, without altering the
  phenomenon. The lady is about thirty, of sedentary pursuits, and
  delicate state of health."

  We avail ourselves of the digressive facility afforded us by this note
  to the text, to relate _a true history_ of the resuscitation of a man
  who had been hanged—a history which is perhaps one of the most
  extraordinary "romances of real life" upon record. It is as
  follows:—Ambrose Gwinett was hanged at Deal for the murder of a man
  who merely disappeared, and whose body was not found. Circumstantial
  evidence certainly pointed strongly to Gwinett as a murderer; but
  still it was not proved in the first instance that a murder had been
  really committed. Gwinett and another man, of the name of Collins,
  arrived together at an inn in Deal. Gwinett borrowed Collins's
  clasp-knife during supper-time, in the presence of the waiter. On the
  following morning Collins was missing; and Gwinett had been met on the
  stairs, in the middle of the night, coming up from the garden. Blood
  was found in the garden, and in the midst of the blood was the
  clasp-knife, open. The traces of blood were continued down to the
  sea-side, and there they ceased. Gwinett was moreover found to have in
  his pocket Collins's purse, which the waiter had seen over night in
  Collins's possession. Gwinett's defence was that he had received the
  purse, after the waiter left the room on the preceding evening, in
  consequence of an arrangement that he (Gwinett) should be paymaster
  for them both; that he had gone down stairs in the night, for a
  certain purpose, to the garden; that his nose had bled dreadfully;
  that he had used the clasp-knife to raise the latch of the door, and
  had dropped it in the dark; and that he had walked down to the
  sea-side close by to wash his face and hands, and stop the bleeding at
  the nose with the cold salt-water. This tale was not believed; Gwinett
  was found guilty of _Murder_, and hanged on Sandown Common. But a
  shepherd, passing by the gibbet a few hours after the execution, and
  while the victim was hanging in chains, perceived signs of life in
  him, and cut him down. Gwinett was recovered: and the kind-hearted
  shepherd sent him abroad. In a distant colony, Gwinett met Mr.
  Collins, _the very man for whose alleged murder he had been hanged_!
  An explanation immediately ensued. On the night in question, Collins
  had also gone down stairs to the garden, and had been carried off by a
  press-gang who passed along the sea-shore at the time. He was conveyed
  to a boat, and in that transported to the tender-vessel lying in the
  Downs: the vessel sailed next morning, and Collins had heard nothing
  of the dilemma of his friend until they met as just described.




                              CHAPTER LVI.
                         A HISTORY OF THE PAST.


Mr. de Medina was the son of a Spanish merchant, who died, leaving a
considerable fortune behind him, and of which this son was the sole
inheritor. But, by the villainy of his relations and the corrupt
decision of a Spanish judge, Mr. de Medina found himself despoiled of
the riches which were rightfully his own; and at the age of
two-and-twenty he quitted his native land in disgust, to return to
England, where indeed he had been educated, and the language of which
country he spoke as fluently as his own.

It is hardly necessary to state that Mr. de Medina was of the Jewish
persuasion; and on his arrival in London, he naturally applied to the
eminent merchants of his own creed for employment. It is the fashion in
this country to decry the Jews—to represent them as invariably sordid,
mercenary, avaricious, and griping—indeed, to carry the charges laid
against them to such a length, as to associate with their names a spirit
of usury amounting to the most flagrant and dishonourable extortion. And
these charges have been repeated so often, and echoed seriously by so
many persons deemed a respectable authority, that the prejudice against
the Jews has become interwoven with the Englishman's creed. But the
exceptions have been mistaken for the rule; and—strange as the assertion
may sound to many ears—we boldly proclaim that there is not a more
honest, intelligent, humane, and hospitable class of persons on the face
of the earth than the Jews.

The fact is, when an Englishman is broken down in fortune, and can no
longer raise funds by mortgage on his estate, nor by the credit of his
name, he flies to the money-lender. Now Jews are essentially a financial
nation; and money-broking, in all its details, is their special
avocation. The class of Israelite money-lenders is, therefore, numerous;
and it is ten to one that the broken-down individual, who requires a
loan, addresses himself to a Jew—even if he take the money-lender living
nearest to him, or to whom he is first recommended. Well—he transacts
his business with this Jew; and as he can give no security beyond his
bond or his bill, and his spendthrift habits are notorious, he cannot of
course obtain the loan he seeks save on terms proportionate to the risk
incurred by the lender. Yet he goes away, and curses the Jew as an
usurer; and thus another voice is raised to denounce the entire nation
as avaricious and griping. But does this person, however, reflect that
had he applied to a Christian money-broker, the terms would have been
equally high, seeing that he had no real security to offer, and that his
name was already tarnished? Talk of the usury of the Jews—look at the
usury practised by Christians! Look at the rapacity of Christian
attorneys!—look at the greediness of Christian bill-discounters!—look,
in a word, at the money-making spirit of the Christian, and then call
the Jew the usurer _par excellence_! It is a detestable calumny—a vile
prejudice, as dishonourable to the English character an it is unjust
towards a generous-hearted race!

We deem it right to state that these observations are recorded as
disinterestedly and as impartially—as honestly and as conscientiously,
as any other comments upon prejudices or abuses which have ever appeared
in "THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON." Not a drop of Jewish blood flows in our
veins; but we have the honour to enjoy the friendship of several
estimable families of the Jewish persuasion. We have, therefore, had
opportunities of judging of the Israelite character; and the reader must
be well aware that the writer who wields his pen _against_ a popular
prejudice is more likely to be instigated by upright motives than he who
labours to maintain it. In following the current of general opinion, one
is sure to gain friends: in adventurously undertaking to stem it, he is
equally certain to create enemies. But, thank God! this work is
addressed to an intelligent and enlightened people—to the industrious
classes of the United Kingdom—to those who are the true pillars of
England's prosperity, glory, and greatness!

When Mr. de Medina arrived, friendless and almost penniless, on the
British soil, he addressed himself to the heads of several eminent
commercial firms in the City of London,—firms, the constituents of which
were of his own persuasion. The Jews always assist each other to the
extent of their means:—do the Christians? Answer, ye cavillers against
the persecuted race of Israel! Mr. de Medina, accordingly, found
occupation; and so admirably did he conduct himself—so well did he
promote the interests of his employers, that by the time he reached the
age of thirty, he found himself a partner in the concern whose
prosperity his talents and his industry had so much enhanced. He then
repaired to Liverpool, to establish a branch-house of trade, and of
which he became the sole manager. His partners dying soon afterwards, he
effected an arrangement with their heirs, by which he abandoned all
share in the London business, and retained the Liverpool house as his
own.

His success was now extraordinary; and his dealings were proverbially
honourable and fair. He went upon the principle of doing a large
business with small gains, and paying good wages to those who were in
his employment. Thus, though naturally of a stern and severe
disposition, his name was respected and his character admired. At the
age of thirty-five—twenty years before the opening of our tale—he
married a lady of his own nation—beautiful, accomplished, and rich.
Within twelve months their union was blessed with a daughter, on whom
the name of Tamar was bestowed; and at the expiration of another year, a
second girl was born, and who was called Esther. But in giving birth to
the latter, Mrs. de Medina lost her life; and for a considerable time
the bereaved husband was inconsolable.

The kindness of his friends and a conviction of the necessity of
subduing his grief as much as possible, for the sake of the motherless
babes who were left to him, aroused Mr. de Medina from the torpor of
profound woe; and he became so passionately attached to his children,
that he would fondle them as if he himself were a child. As they grew
up, a remarkable resemblance was observed between them; and as Esther
was somewhat precocious in a physical point of view, she was as tall
when ten years old as her sister. Strangers then took them for twins,
although there was really twelve months' difference between their ages.
But they actually appeared to be counterparts of each other. Their hair
was of precisely the same intensely black and glossy shade: their eyes
were of the same dark hue and liquid lustre;—their countenances
presented each the same blending of the white and rich carnation beneath
the transparent tinge of delicate olive or bistre which marked their
origin; their very teeth were of the same shape, and shone, too, between
pairs of lips which Nature had made in the same mould, and dyed with the
same vermillion. Twin-roses did the lovely sisters seem,—roses on the
same stalk; and by the time Tamar was sixteen and Esther fifteen, the
ripe beauty of the former and the somewhat precocious loveliness of the
latter, appeared to have attained the same glorious degree of female
perfection.

But their minds were not equally similar. Tamar was vain of her personal
attractions, while Esther was reserved and bashful: the former was never
so happy as when she was the centre of attraction in a ball-room, while
the latter preferred the serene tranquillity of home. In their style of
dress they were equally different from each other. Tamar delighted in
the richest attire, and loved to deck herself with costly jewels; and,
well aware that she possessed a splendid bust, she wore her gowns so low
as to leave no room for conjecture relative to the charming fullness of
her bosom. Esther, on the contrary, selected good, but not showy
materials for her dress, and never appeared with a profusion of
jewellery. Though of proportions as rich and symmetrical as her sister,
yet she rather sought to conceal their swelling contours than display
them. Tamar was of warm and impassioned temperament, and her breast was
easily excited by fierce desires; but Esther was the embodiment of
chaste and pure notions—her soul the abode of maiden innocence!

Mr. de Medina often remonstrated with Tamar upon her love of splendid
attire, and her anxiety to shine in the circles of gaiety. But her ways
were so winning, that when she threw her arms around his neck, and
besought him not to be angry with her, or to allow her to accompany some
female friends to a ball or concert to which she had been invited, he
invariably yielded to her soft persuasion.

Tamar was a few weeks past the age of sixteen, and Esther had
accomplished her fifteenth year, when an incident occurred which was
fated to wield a material influence over the career of the elder sister.
One night Mr. de Medina, while returning home on horseback from a
neighbouring village where he had dined with a friend, was stopped and
plundered of his purse and pocket-book. He was by no means a man who was
likely to yield without resistance to the audacious demands of a
highwayman; but he was unarmed at the time—and by some accident he was
unattended by his groom. The robber, who wore a black crape over his
countenance, was armed to the teeth, and seemed resolute as well as
desperate: Mr. de Medina, therefore, risked not an useless contest with
him, but surrendered his property as above mentioned. On his return
home, and while conversing on the incident with his daughters, he
suddenly recollected that the pocket-book contained a paper of great
value and importance to himself, but of no use to any other person. He
accordingly inserted advertisements in the local newspapers, offering a
reward for the restoration of that document, and promising impunity to
the robber, if he would give it up. But for several days these
notifications remained unanswered.

A week elapsed, and one morning an individual, dressed in a
semi-sporting style, called at the house and inquired for Mr. de Medina.
But Mr. de Medina had just left home for the purpose of conducting
Esther to the dwelling of some friends who resided in the neighbourhood
of Liverpool, and with whom she was to pass a few days. Tamar was,
however, at home; and as the servant informed her that "the gentleman
said his business was important," she desired that he might be shown up
into the drawing-room. He was evidently struck by the dazzling beauty of
the Jewess who had thus accorded him an audience; and there was
something so dashing—so rakish—so off-hand, without vulgarity, in his
manner,—a something between the frankness of an open-hearted man and the
easy politeness of one who knows the world well,—that Tamar did not
treat him with that degree of cold courtesy which seems to say, "Have
the kindness to explain your business, and then you may depart." But she
requested him to be seated; and when he made a few observations which
led to a connected discourse on the gaiety and "doings" of the Liverpool
folks, she suffered herself to be drawn into the conversation without
pausing to ask the motive of his visit. Thus nearly half-an-hour passed
away: and while Tamar thought to herself that she had never met a more
agreeable gentleman in her life—and certainly never one who possessed
such a brilliant set of teeth, or who looked so well in tops and
cords,—the stranger came to a conclusion equally favourable concerning
herself. Indeed, he was quite charmed with the personal attractions and
the conversation of the beautiful Jewess; and when he took his leave,
she forgot that he had not communicated his business, nor even his name.

When her father returned home in the afternoon, she mentioned to him the
visit of the stranger; but added that he only remained a few moments,
and would not explain his business to her. Mr. de Medina immediately
expressed his belief that the call had some reference to his
advertisement concerning the lost paper. But Tamar enthusiastically
repelled the suspicion; declaring that, though he had not stayed a
minute, yet his manners, appearance, and address, were of too superior a
nature to be associated with a dishonourable avocation. Mr. de Medina
asked if he had intimated when he should call again; to which question
Tamar, fearful that it would appear strange to give a negative reply,
answered—"In a few days." Thus terminated a conversation in which Tamar
had been guilty of much duplicity, and which was marked by the first
deliberate falsehood which she ever unblushingly told her father.

On the following day the stranger returned; and Mr. de Medina, not
having expected him so soon, was not at home to receive him. But Tamar
was in the drawing-room, to which he was conducted as on the previous
day. It was summer-time, and she was engaged in tying up the drooping
heads of some flowers in the large balcony. The stranger begged her not
to desist from her occupation; but, on the contrary, offered, in his gay
manner of frank politeness, to assist her. She could not refuse his
aid—she did not wish to refuse it; and they were soon engaged in a very
interesting conversation. He held the stalks of the flowers, too, while
she tied the thread; and her beautiful hand passed over that of the
stranger's—_not_ without touching it; while her breath, sweeter than the
perfume of the flowers themselves, fanned his cheek. Once, when he
stooped a little lower, under pretence of examining a particular
rose-bud more closely, his hair mingled with hers, and he could see that
the rich glow of excitement flooded her countenance—her neck—and even
extended to the bosom, of which he was enabled, by her stooping posture,
to catch more than partial glimpses.

When next their eyes met, there seemed to be already a tacit kind of
intelligence established between them,—an intelligence which appeared to
say she knew he had allowed his hair to mingle with hers on purpose, and
that she had not withdrawn her head because the contact pleased her. The
interesting conversation was continued; and an hour had passed before
either the stranger showed the slightest sign of an intention to take
his leave, or Tamar remembered how long they had been alone together.
When he did at length take up his hat and his riding-whip, he also
picked up a flower which Tamar had accidentally broken off from its stem
in the balcony; and placing it in his buttonhole without making the
slightest allusion to the little incident, he bowed and quitted the
room.

He had been gone at least ten minutes ere Tamar again recollected that
he had not mentioned his business nor told his name. She had been
thinking of the incident of the flower;—yes—and also of the commingling
of her raven locks with his fine, manly light hair. When her father
returned home on this occasion, she did not mention the fact of the
stranger's visit at all. Throughout the remainder of that day she
wondered whether he would return on the following one; and she made up
her mind, if he did, not to suffer him to depart before she had elicited
his business and his name. In the evening she went out to make a few
purchases at a shop in a neighbouring street; and she was retracing her
way, when two young men, walking arm-in-arm, and smoking cigars,—having
withal something most offensively obtrusive in their entire
appearance,—stopped short in front of Tamar, literally barred her way,
and began to address her in that flippant, coarse style which, without
being absolutely obscene, is nevertheless particularly insulting.
"Gentlemen—if such you be," said Tamar, in a dignified manner, "I
request you to let me pass."—"Well, won't you let us escort you home,
wherever it is?" demanded one; "for you're a devilish sweet girl, upon
my honour."—Scarcely were these words uttered when the long lash of a
riding-whip began to belabour the backs of the two young swells in a
fashion that made them almost scream with agony; and Tamar, who
instantly stepped aside, recognised in the champion that had thus come
to her assistance, the very individual who was uppermost in her thoughts
at the moment when she was stopped in the insulting manner described.

The two swells were for an instant so taken by surprise that they
dropped each other's arm and their cigars simultaneously, and began to
caper about in the most extraordinary manner, the stranger continuing to
lash them with so good a will, and yet in such an easy, unexcited
manner, that Tamar could scarcely forbear from laughing heartily. But
when they perceived that there was only one assailant, they rushed in
upon the stranger, and endeavoured to close with him. He did not retreat
a single step, but hitting one of them a heavy blow on the wrist with
the butt-end of his whip, he sent _him_ off roaring, while with his left
hand he caught the _other_ by the collar of the coat and swinging him
round—apparently without any extraordinary effort—laid him on his back
in the dust. He then offered his arm to Tamar, and led her away as
quietly as if nothing had happened, at the same time commencing a
discourse upon some totally different topic, as if he would not even
give her an opportunity of thanking him for the manner in which he had
chastised the insulting youngsters.

But Tamar _did_ thank him—and very warmly too; for this feat was just
one of the very nature calculated to improve the hold which the stranger
already had upon the heart of the beautiful Jewess. She now looked upon
him with admiration; for all women love bravery in a man;—and his
bravery was so real—so natural—so totally devoid of impetuous excitement
when called into action, and so free from any subsequent desire to
elicit flattery,—that she beheld in him a character at once generous and
noble. She could have thrown her arms round his neck, and said,
"Stranger! whoever you may be, I admire—I love you!" And when he _did_
take her hand, as she leant upon his arm, and when he pressed it
gently—then let it fall without uttering a word, but fixed his deep
blue, laughing, and expressive eyes upon her countenance with a
steadiness that meant much though his tongue was silent, a soft—a
delicious languor came over her, congenial with the moonlight hour.

He conducted her to within a few doors of her father's house, and then
took leave of her, saying, "I shall see you again to-morrow." She
entered her dwelling, and retired immediately to her chamber; for her
heart was filled with a happiness which she knew that her countenance
would betray. When she met her father at supper, she was more composed;
and she said not a word to him concerning the occurrence of the evening.

On the following day the stranger called again; and again did he find
Tamar alone in the drawing-room. On this occasion she extended to him
her hand, which he took and pressed to his lips. The maiden did not
withdraw it; and her cheeks—her neck—her bosom were flushed with the
thrilling glow of excitement, while her eyes expressed a voluptuous
languor. The stranger drew her towards him—their lips met: they embraced
tenderly. Then he declared his love for her—and she murmured words in
reply which convinced him that he was loved in return. Thus, on the
fourth occasion of their meeting, did they pour fourth the secrets of
their hearts; and Tamar plighted her affection to one whose name she as
yet knew not!

Their happy interview was suddenly disturbed by a loud knock at the
street-door; and Tamar exclaimed, "My father!" The stranger implored her
to compose herself; and she had succeeded in assuming a collected and
tranquil demeanour, when Mr. de Medina entered the room. Her lover was
standing at a respectful distance from Tamar, with whom he appeared to
be exchanging the mere courteous observations which usually pass between
perfect strangers. Mr. de Medina requested him to be seated, and
inquired his business. "I have called relative to the advertisements
which you inserted in the newspapers," was the reply.—"I thought as
much!" ejaculated Mr. de Medina: then, turning towards his daughter, he
said, "Tamar, my love, you can leave us."—The maiden dared not disobey
the hint thus conveyed; but as she passed behind her father to quit the
room, she darted upon her lover a look so full of meaning—so expressive
of ardent affection, that it seemed to say, "Be you who and what you
may, I shall never cease to adore you!" And he returned that look with a
glance more rapid but equally significant of tenderness.

When she had left the room, Mr. de Medina continued by observing, "May I
have the pleasure of learning your name?"—"Certainly," was the off-hand
answer. "I am called Thomas Rainford."—"And your business with me, sir,"
added Mr. de Medina, in a cold tone and with suspicious manner, "is
relative to the paper of which I was robbed?"—"Precisely so," exclaimed
Tom Rain. "A more suitable person than myself could not possibly have
called respecting the affair."—"How so, sir?" demanded Mr. de Medina,
his manner growing still more suspicious.—"Simply, because it was I who
robbed you," was the cool answer; and Tom Rain's merry laugh rang
through the room.—"You!" ejaculated Mr. de Medina, starting from his
seat. "Then how dare you show your face here?"—"Oh! very easily,"
replied Rainford, without moving from his chair. "In the first place
your advertisements promise impunity to the robber, on condition that he
restores the document; in the second place, if you contemplated any
treachery, it would only be the worse for you and would not injure me;
and thirdly, it struck me that I had better come in person to give you
up the paper, because it might have miscarried through the post, or a
messenger might have lost it. However, here it is, Mr. de Medina; and
had you not advertised for it, I should have restored it to you. I am no
rascally extortioner: I never hold men's private papers as a means of
drawing money from them. What I do, I do boldly and in true John Bull
fashion. A jolly highwayman, Mr. de Medina, is as different from a
sneaking pickpocket or a low swindler, as an attorney in grand practice
is different from the paltry pettifogger who hangs about the doors of
criminal courts or police-offices. It is not often I boast in this way,
Mr. de Medina; but I thought you might as well understand that a
principle of honour alone, and neither fear nor hope of reward, has
induced me to restore you that document. As for fear, I never knew it;
and as for reward, I should not think of taking it, were you to offer
any."—Mr. de Medina gazed upon Rainford in astonishment, as much as to
say, "You are really a very extraordinary person!" But his lips uttered
not what the countenance expressed.

The highwayman rose, bowed with easy politeness to Mr. de Medina, and
quitted the room. As he was crossing the landing towards the stairs, the
door of an apartment adjoining that where he had just left Mr. de
Medina, was cautiously opened, and Tamar thrust a note into his hand. He
caught a glimpse of her countenance as he received it; and he saw that
she had been weeping. When he reached the street, he tore open the note,
and read as follows:—"_I have overheard all! But I do not love thee the
less, my brave—my gallant Rainford! This evening, I shall have occasion
to call at two or three shops in the same street where you rescued me
from insult yesterday._"—Need we inform our readers that Tom Rain kept
the appointment thus given him? Or need we say how the lovers
subsequently met as often as Tamar could leave the house without
exciting suspicion? Yes—they met frequently; and each interview only
tended to strengthen the profound attachment which they had formed for
each other.

And no wonder that Tom Rain loved his beautiful Tamar; for
beautiful—ravishingly beautiful she indeed was! To behold her
countenance, was passion;—to gaze on her admirable shape, was
rapture;—to meet the glances of her fine black eyes was fascination!
And, oh! how devotedly she loved Rainford in return! To her he was a
hero; for, although she knew him to be a highwayman, yet well was she
aware that he never stooped to a petty meanness, and that his soul was
endowed with many noble—many generous qualities. One daring feat which
he performed a few weeks after she first became acquainted with him,
converted her admiration into a positive enthusiasm; so that the Empress
Josephine could not have more ardently worshipped Napoleon than did
Tamar her Tom Rain!

Thus it happened:—One night the Liverpool and Manchester coach was
stopped on its way to the former town, by a single highwayman, who wore
a crape over his face, was well mounted, and equally well armed.
Although the coach was crowded with passengers, most of whom were men,
yet so terrible was the robber even in his very coolness—so formidable
with his easy air of unconcern, that all were paralysed with fear. No
resistance was offered him; and he reaped an excellent harvest from the
purses of the passengers. One gentleman, who happened to be the Mayor of
Liverpool, was so bewildered by terror, that though only asked for his
money, he handed to the highwayman both purse and watch. The latter was
returned, the robber declaring that he scorned any thing save the
current coin of the realm or good Bank-notes. From the female passengers
he took nothing; and, perceiving by the moonlight a poor shivering girl
of about fifteen seated outside at the back of the coach, he asked her a
few questions. The brief and timid replies which she gave were ample
enough to render intelligible a tale of suffering and woe; and the
highwayman, drawing forth five guineas, said, "Here, my dear, you need
not be afraid to accept this trifle. It comes from a pocket into which
none of these gentlemen's gold has gone."—And before the poor girl could
utter a word in reply, the highwayman put spurs to his horse, and
disappeared in a few moments.

But this action on his part did not disarm the male passengers, who had
been robbed, of their rage and their rancour. The Mayor was particularly
indignant: the entire town of Liverpool had been insulted—grossly
insulted in his worshipful person! Such wrath required a vent; and it
found an issue by means of advertising the daring robbery. The Mayor
announced, in all the local papers and by means of placards, "_that any
one who should be instrumental in bringing the highwayman before him,
would receive the sum of two hundred pounds as a reward_." But a week
elapsed before these proclamations received any answer. At the
expiration of that time the following incident occurred. One evening,
the Mayor entertained a select party of friends at a splendid banquet.
The cloth had been removed some time—the ladies had retired to the
drawing-room—and the gentlemen, about a dozen in number, were passing
the wine rapidly round, when a servant entered to inform his master that
a person wished to speak to him in the hall. The servant's manner was
somewhat embarrassed; and, upon being questioned, he said that the
stranger seemed to wear a mask, as his face was too hideous to be
possibly a human one. The Mayor trembled; and his guests caught the
infection of his terror. His worship hazarded an opinion that the
visitor was perhaps in some way connected with the highwayman who had
robbed the Manchester and Liverpool coach; and he directed the servant
to show the stranger into the study and then run and fetch a constable.
But scarcely were these commands issued, when the door opened; and in
walked the object of interest and fear. The Mayor and his guests uttered
simultaneous ejaculations of terror; for never did mortal man possess so
frightful a face; and as it was partially shaded by a huge quantity of
hair and a large slouched hat, it was impossible to decide whether it
were really a mask or a natural physiognomy. The nose was enormous, and
studded with carbuncles and warts: the cheeks were fiery red; and the
chin was of dimensions proportionate with the nasal promontory. This
terrible being was enveloped in a long cloak; but through the holes cut
for the purpose appeared his arms, the hands holding each a tremendous
horse-pistol as big as a blunderbuss.

Placing his back against the door, the intruder said, in a voice which
he rendered as hollow and fierce as possible, "Most worshipful Mayor!
you have advertised that any one who is instrumental in bringing a
certain highwayman before you, shall receive the sum of two hundred
pounds as a reward. _I am_ the highwayman alluded to: I have brought
myself before you; and I appeal to the wisdom and justice of the
intelligent gentlemen seated round your board, whether I have not fairly
earned the recompense promised?"—"But," stammered the Mayor, "I meant
that any one who would bring the robber a prisoner before me, should be
entitled to the reward."—"I don't care what you meant," returned the
highwayman: "I only know what your advertisements and placards say. You
should get the corporation to vote funds to enable you to attach a
grammarian to your establishment. He would be more useful than the
sword-bearer, I think," added the audacious robber, with a merry laugh
in his natural tone. "But I have no leisure to bandy words with you.
Tell out the two hundred pounds; or I shall be under the disagreeable
necessity of allowing one of these little instruments to empty its
contents in the direction of your head."—And, with these words, he
raised a pistol. The Mayor uttered an exclamation of terror, and cast an
imploring glance rapidly around. But all his guests were sitting like
statues—in blank dismay. The Mayor saw that he must not look to them for
assistance; and yet he was very loath to part with two hundred pounds in
such an unsatisfactory manner.—"But how do I know that you really are
the person who robbed the coach?" he asked, the words evidently costing
him a most painful effort to enunciate them.—"Because I can tell you
every incident that occurred on the occasion," was the answer.—"That
information you may have received from hearsay or gleaned from the
papers," returned the Mayor, gathering courage as he found the robber
willing to argue the point with him.—"I will give you another proof,"
said the robber. "There was a bad guinea in the purse I took from you.
Are you satisfied now?"—"Not quite," rejoined the Mayor, hoping that by
gaining time, some chance might place the daring visitor in his
power.—"Then I have one more proof to offer you," said the robber. "In a
corner of the purse there was a scrap of paper containing the receipt of
an overseer of some parish in Manchester for the quarter's money due for
the maintenance of your worship's bastard; and so I suppose you had been
to that town to pay it."—The Mayor was aghast as this announcement burst
upon him; for, though he had lost the receipt in question, it had never
struck him that he had placed it in his purse when he paid the money at
Manchester. The guests surveyed their worshipful host in astonishment;
and the servant giggled behind his chair.—"_Now_ are you satisfied?"
demanded the highwayman. "Remember, you brought it on yourself."—The
Mayor, partially recovering his presence of mind, affected to laugh off
the matter as a capital joke on the part of the robber; but he made no
farther objection to pay the two hundred pounds. This he was enabled to
do, by borrowing all the money that his guests had about them, and
adding it to the contents of his own pocket; for the highwayman would
neither take a cheque nor allow him to quit the room to procure the
requisite sum from his strong-box. The robber would not even leave his
post at the door, but compelled the Mayor to rise from the table and
bring the cash and notes to him—a proceeding which his worship liked as
little as might be, seeing that it brought him into awful vicinity with
the nose, the chin, and the pistols. At length the business was settled;
and the highwayman withdrew, locking the door behind him,—but not before
he had assured the company that if they attempted to open the windows
and raise an alarm in the street after him, he would instantly return
and put them all to death.

This incident was in every body's mouth next day, throughout the good
town of Liverpool and its environs; and the Mayor was most heartily
laughed at. But Tamar alone knew the name of the daring individual who
had perpetrated so audacious a feat.

The beautiful Jewess carefully concealed her amour from her sister and
her father. Indeed, Esther never saw Tom Rain during the whole time that
he remained in Liverpool. But one day Tamar disappeared, leaving a note
behind her, addressed to her sister, whom she begged to break to their
father her flight and its cause. She stated that her happiness—her life
were wrapped up in Thomas Rainford: and that as she was well aware her
sire would never consent to her union with him, even if the usages of
the Jewish nation sanctioned an alliance with a Christian, she had taken
a step which she should regret only on account of the distress it might
create in the minds of her father and sister. Esther could scarcely
believe her eyes when she read the appalling contents of this note. She
fancied that she was in a dream: then, when the full conviction of the
truth burst upon her, and she comprehended that her sister had really
fled with Rainford, she gave way to all the wildness of her grief—for
she was deeply, deeply attached to Tamar!

But how did Mr. de Medina bear this cruel blow? He wept not—he gave
vent to no passionate exclamation—he manifested no excitement. But,
after remaining wrapt up in profound meditation for upwards of an
hour, while Esther sate near, watching him with the deepest—most
acutely painful suspense,—a long, long hour of utter silence, broken
only by the frequent sobs that told the maiden's anguish,—Mr. de
Medina spoke in a calm, deliberate, but stern and relentless
tone:—"Henceforth, Esther, I have but one daughter—_thyself_! Let the
name of Tamar never more be uttered in my presence. Destroy every
thing in the house which may tend to remind me that there once dwelt
such a being here—the music whereon her name is written, the drawings
which she executed, the very window-hangings which she embroidered.
Destroy them all, Esther—keep them not—I command you, as you value my
blessing! And henceforth—whatever may occur, never speak of your
sister. In the presence of those who are aware that you _had_ a
sister, cut short any allusion that the thoughtless might make
respecting her, by observing emphatically—'_I have no sister
now!_'—for should such allusion be made before me, my reproof and my
response would be, '_I have but one daughter—and her name is Esther_!'
It is my intention to wind up my affairs as speedily as possible and
retire from business. Had not _this_ occurred, I should have toiled a
few years longer to amass an immense fortune to be divided between
_two_: now the fortune which I possess will be immense enough for
_one_. And that _one_, Esther, is thyself! But two or three years may
elapse before I shall be enabled so to condense the vast details of my
undertakings into such a narrow compass that I may terminate them all
prosperously. During these two or three years we must remain in
Liverpool: but our sojourn here shall not last a day—no, nor an hour
longer than my affairs render imperatively necessary. We will then
repair to London; for it is in the giant metropolis alone that we may
hope to conceal from the world this disgrace—this infamy—this blight
which has fallen upon a family whose name, I had fondly hoped, would
have gone down untainted from generation to generation—even as it had
descended to me from a long line of honourable and honoured ancestors!
These, Esther, are my resolves: seek not to move me.—I am now
inflexible! Nay—implore me not to change my determination, stern
though it may appear: it is immutable as those Median and Persian laws
whereof mention is made in the Book of Books. _Henceforth I have but
one daughter!_"

[Illustration]

And having thus announced the inexorable resolves on which his mind had
settled itself during that long, long hour of deep and silent
meditation, the Jew bent down and kissed the brow of his kneeling
daughter with an affection which in its tenderness contrasted strangely
with the stern severity of the conduct that he had determined to pursue
in respect to the lost—the guilty—the disowned Tamar! He then hurried
from the room; and Esther—poor Esther! was left alone to shed torrents
of unavailing tears, and give vent to fruitless sobs and sighs.

But, oh! what pen can describe the acuteness of her affliction—the
anguish of her gentle heart, when, not daring altogether to disobey the
will of her sire, she removed from their frames the charming landscapes
which Tamar had painted in water-colours, and placed out of sight the
music copies whereon the name of Tamar was penned in her own sweet,
fluent handwriting! And blame not Esther, gentle reader—no, blame her
not, if, disobedient as to the literal meaning of her father's commands,
she retained those paintings and that music,—retained them as memorials
of the lost sister whom she so fondly loved! But she secured them in her
own chamber; and, alas—poor girl! as she placed the pictures one by one
in a drawer, their best tints and their brightest colours were marred by
the scalding tears that fell upon them! For, oh! acute as the pain
inflicted by the merciless knife which the surgeon wields to amputate a
limb, was this task to the sensitive heart of Esther,—a task involving a
deed wearing in her eyes the semblance of profanity,—for little short of
_that_ appeared the removal from their wonted places of those memorials
of the disowned and cast-off Tamar. 'Twas like crushing all the
reminiscences of a sweet sisterhood,—'twas like cutting away from her
heart the brightest thoughts that had hitherto clung around it—tearing
rudely off the flowers that encircled Hope's youthful brow, and
entombing the choice memories of a happy girlhood!

Then, when the music-books and the pictures were thus removed from the
places where she had so long been accustomed to see them, how mournful
to her was the sight of the tuneful, but now silent piano on which the
former had been piled up—how naked appeared the walls to which the
latter had hung! And next she was compelled to take down the very
hangings which Tamar had embroidered for the drawing-room windows; and
there was fresh cause for tears—fresh motive for the renewal, or rather
for the continuation of her grief! But the task was nevertheless
completed; and the drapery was also retained by Esther as a memorial of
her sister. Not for worlds could she have brought herself to that frame
of mind which would have been necessary to enable her to achieve the
_destruction_ of all those objects,—no—not even were her father to
menace her with his direst curse! When Mr. de Medina again appeared in
the suite of rooms which had been subject to the changes just detailed,
he cast a rapid glance around him, and perceiving that his orders had
been obeyed so far as _removal_ went, asked not a question relative to
the manner in which the various objects had been disposed of: but,
settling his looks upon Esther's countenance, after that hasty survey,
he said emphatically, "_Thank God! I possess an obedient—a dutiful—an
affectionate child!_"

In the meantime Tom Rain and the beautiful Tamar were far away from
Liverpool, on their road to London; and when they reached the great
metropolis, they hired a neat lodging in a secluded neighbourhood—for
they entertained apprehensions that Mr. de Medina might endeavour to
trace his fugitive daughter. Tamar did not, in this respect, know her
father's disposition well. Judging by his past kindness, she argued
accordingly—little imagining that he had strength of mind sufficient to
adopt the fearful alternative of casting her off for ever! Rainford had
so well stocked himself with coin during his sojourn in Liverpool and
its neighbourhood, that there was no immediate necessity of exercising
his _professional skill_, or rather _valour_, to supply resources; and
several weeks glided away happily—the happiest of his life! He loved
Tamar most tenderly and devotedly; and she not only loved him in
return—but absolutely adored him. Oh! how she worshipped her gallant
highwayman, who was so brave—so generous—and withal so kind to her.
Never was there a better temper than that of Tom Rain: it was impossible
for him to be put out of humour. He would have scorned the idea of
raising a quarrel for the mere sake of making it up again. He saw no
amusement in such maudlin proceedings: dissensions, bickerings, and
domestic feuds were his abhorrence. He looked upon woman as the weaker
vessel, whom man was bound to protect. He thought it beneath him to
dispute with a female; because with him it could be a mere warfare of
words, to which none but a coward would put an end by means of a blow.
Besides, he hated that strife which is waged with the tongue: if a man
offended him, he did not wait to argue the point, but quietly knocked
him down. That was his first and last reason when irritated: but he
could not adopt the same course with a woman, and he therefore most
rationally concluded that it was perfectly useless to quarrel with her.

Tamar, like all young and beautiful women—especially being placed as it
were in an equivocal position—was jealous. Tom Rain loved to visit all
the strange places in which London abounds, that he might make himself
acquainted with the "lights and shades" of metropolitan life; and
sometimes Tamar complained that he was too long absent. "Now, my dear
girl," he would say, "I give you as much of my time as possible; and
when I tell you that I shall be home at a certain hour, I never
disappoint you. But do not show ill-humour because I take a couple of
hours to myself. So now kiss me, and do not teach that pretty face to
frown." His good temper invariably proved irresistible; and in the
course of time his mistress never thought of manifesting any opposite
feeling. Indeed, he was so kind—so good—so attentive towards her, that,
had it not been for the frequent intrusion of a painful reminiscence
concerning her father and sister, Tamar would have been completely
happy.

After remaining for some months in London, Rainford and his beautiful
mistress set off for the northern counties, where the highwayman reaped
a rich harvest. His midnight expeditions were frequent, because his mode
of living was by no means economical: he delighted in good cheer—denied
himself nothing that he fancied—and yet was neither a drunkard nor a
glutton. He was moreover generous and liberal to an extreme, and,
emulative of the character of Robin Hood, gave to the poor no
inconsiderable portion of what he took from the rich. Tamar was,
moreover, fond of handsome apparel and resplendent jewellery; and
Rainford took a delight in gratifying all her whims and fancies. Thus
money was lavishly expended by them; but the highway was an
inexhaustible treasury to which Rainford never had recourse in vain. The
perils he incurred, in these predatory expeditions, were of course
numerous and great; but his dauntless valour—his wonderful presence of
mind—and the determined resolution with which he as it were met danger
face to face, invariably saved him from capture. At first Tamar was
dreadfully frightened when Rainford took leave of her to "get a draught
on his treasury cashed," as he laughingly termed his nocturnal
expeditions; but as he invariably returned home about the hour he had
promised, those apprehensions wore off, and she at length became
comparatively easy in her mind during his absence.

Thus did time pass away, until nearly three years had elapsed since
Tamar first met Rainford at Liverpool. During the whole of this period
she had heard nothing of her father and sister; and no allusion was ever
made to them by her lover or herself when together. But she did not the
less devote frequent thoughts to the author of her being and the
much-loved Esther, both of whom she longed—oh! ardently longed to
embrace once more.

The reader has already learnt the motives which induced Tom Rain to
visit the metropolis towards the close of the year 1826. The important
information which, during his travels about England in company with
Tamar, he gleaned from the gipsy Miranda, led him to betake himself once
more to London. It happened that Mr. de Medina and Esther arrived in the
capital almost at the same time; for the merchant had not been able to
wind up his affairs until that period. Retiring from business with a
large fortune, he had resolved to quit Liverpool—a place which
constantly brought back the most painful reminiscences to his mind, in
spite of his stern resolve to disown his elder daughter for ever. But
Esther—had she forgotten Tamar? Oh! no—the memory of the fond sister was
immortal; and she would have given whole years of her life to clasp
Tamar in her arms again!

This tender aspiration was speedily destined to be gratified. One
afternoon, towards the close of October, 1826, Esther de Medina was
returning home to Great Ormond Street, after having been to make a few
purchases in Holborn, when she encountered her sister Tamar, who was
also alone at the time. Fortunately the street where they thus met was
in a quiet neighbourhood and at that moment almost deserted: otherwise,
the ejaculations of surprise and delight which the sisters uttered, and
the eagerness with which they flew into each other's arms, might have
drawn upon them an attention by no means agreeable. As it was, they
escaped any particular notice; and hastening to the least frequented
side of Queen Square, they entered into long and serious conversation
together. Tamar implored Esther to tell her how their father had
received the tidings of her flight; and the younger sister was so
overcome by her emotions, that she allowed the entire truth to be
extracted from her by the questioning and cross-questioning of the
impatient Tamar. Thus was it that the latter learnt how she had been
disowned—cast off for ever! Terrible were the efforts which it cost her
to subdue a violent outburst of grief; and her heart seemed as if it
would break, when in a low tone she addressed her sister thus:—"Esther
dearest, my father has no cause to apprehend that I shall proclaim
myself his daughter. No—let him boldly declare that he has but _one_
child—_thyself_! I know not how long I may remain in London; but this I
faithfully promise you, that I will appear abroad as little as possible,
and then only with my countenance concealed by a dark veil, so long as
the interests of him whom I love may compel him to dwell in this city.
That we shall be long here, I do not believe. Tell our father, Esther,
that we have thus met; and communicate to him those assurances that I
have now given thee."—Esther clung to her sister for support: that
language was distressing to the young maiden to hear.—"And are you
happy, Tamar?" she asked, weeping bitterly.—"As happy as woman can be,
whose father has disowned her and who is separated from her sister,"
replied Tamar, now weeping also. "Yes, dearest Esther, I am happy with
_him_ whom I love so well, and who is so kind, so fond towards
me!"—"This assurance diminishes my grief," murmured Esther. "Oh! how
glad I am that we have thus met: this interview has suddenly relieved me
of a tremendous weight of cruel uncertainty regarding thee! But, alas!
Tamar, why did you desert your happy home? why did you abandon a father
and a sister who loved you so tenderly?"—"Esther, hast thou not yet
known _that love_ which is so different from the affection existing even
between parents and their children, or between those who are so closely
linked in the bonds of kinship as yourself and I?"—"No!"—"Well, then,
Esther, I can scarcely make you comprehend how much more deserving of
pity than blame I am! He whom I love so well came to the house—I did not
seek him; and my heart soon—oh! full soon became his. Could I help it?
It were vain and idle to say that we can control those feelings which
constitute the passion of Love! No earthly power could have restrained
the current of that attachment which hurried me along to the
accomplishment of what became my destiny. And when one loves as I loved
and still love, Esther,—and as I am loved in return,—father, sister,
home, kindred, friends—all are forgotten! Oh! this is true—so true, that
you would not blame me, did you know what it is to love as I
love!"—"Blame you, dearest sister!" exclaimed Esther. "Never! never!"
And she clasped Tamar fervently in her arms; but it was now dark, and
that part of the square to which they had retired for the purpose of
unrestrained discourse, echoed to no voices save their own.

When the sisters were a little more composed, Esther informed Tamar of
all that had occurred since they had last seen each other,—how their
father had renounced the cares and fatigues of business, and had
resolved to settle altogether in London; and how he was then negotiating
with the Earl of Ellingham for the tenancy of a small but compact estate
near Finchley. The sisters then agreed to correspond together; for
Esther secretly hoped that her father would not deny her the pleasure of
receiving letters from her sister. Tamar was accordingly to address her
correspondence to Great Ormond Street; and Esther was to direct her
letters to "_T. J., South Moulton Street_," where Rainford and his
mistress were then passing under the name of Jameson. The sisters were
now about to part, when, Esther, drawing a diamond ring from her finger
placed it in Tamar's hand: then taking a small pair of scissors from her
reticule, she cut off the end of one of her own ringlets, which, having
folded in a piece of paper, she also presented to her sister, saying in
her softest, sweetest tones,—"Tamar, the love which subsists between us,
no circumstances can destroy—no length of absence impair. We are about
to separate: and, though with the hope of meeting again, still that
meeting might be deferred by accidents at present unforeseen. I would
that you should possess some memorial of your sister——"—"Oh! is it
necessary?" exclaimed Tamar, in an impassioned tone of profound
sincerity.—"If not necessary, it would be at least soothing to my
feelings," said Esther; "for I possess memorials of you, in your
drawings and your music. Grant me, then, the favour which I am about to
ask you."—"Name it, sister," replied Tamar, now deeply affected in her
turn.—"It is, dearest," continued the amiable Esther, "that you dispose
of the ring which I have now presented to you, and that with the
proceeds you will have made a locket in which my hair may be set, and on
the inner side of which my name may be engraved. This I implore you to
do, my sister; and I know that you will not refuse me."—"The next time
we meet, Esther," said Tamar, in a tone tremulous with emotion, "I will
show you the locket."—The sisters then separated with aching hearts.

On her return home, Esther frankly and candidly confessed to her father
all that had occurred. For some minutes Mr. de Medina remained silent;
and Esther observed that a tear trembled upon his lash. But the hope
thereby excited within her, died away, when her father turned abruptly
round, and said, "Esther, you have not acted well. That you should speak
to her who was once my daughter, is natural. But that you should arrange
with her the means of correspondence, was wrong. I desire that the first
letter which she may address to this house, shall also be the last."—The
Jew then quitted the room, leaving his daughter in tears.

On the very next day Tamar wrote a long and most affectionate letter to
her sister; and Esther was compelled to inform her, in the reply, of the
harsh command issued by their father. But that very severity on the part
of Mr. de Medina to some extent—at least in this particular
instance—destroyed that frank and open-hearted confidence which Esther
had hitherto manifested towards him, and which was inherent in her
nature. She could not make up her mind to break off all correspondence
with her sister; and yet she dared not receive any future letters at the
house in Great Ormond Street. The idea of having Tamar's letters
addressed elsewhere, naturally suggested itself, therefore, to her
imagination; and she accordingly made an arrangement at the post-office
in Southampton Row, by which the woman who kept the shop consented to
receive and keep for Esther any missives that might be thus
addressed:—"_A. B. C., Post Office, Southampton Row. To be left till
called for._" That same evening Esther wrote another letter to her
sister, acquainting her with this arrangement; and we should observe
that Tamar duly communicated all these circumstances to Tom Rain, who
was delighted to find that she whom he so fondly loved had experienced
so much happiness by thus meeting and corresponding with her sister. The
highwayman was not, however, a little astonished when he had learnt from
Tamar that Mr. de Medina was about to become the tenant of the Earl of
Ellingham; and it was then for the first time that he communicated to
his mistress the full particulars of all that the gipsy Miranda had told
him, and which had made him acquainted with his parentage,—particulars
already so well known to the reader.

The seventh day after these events was the 31st of October—a date
rendered memorable, so far as this narrative is concerned, by the affair
of the diamonds. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon of the day
named, that Tamar called on Mr. Gordon, the diamond-merchant in Arundel
Street, to dispose of her ring. Rainford would have transacted the
business for her, but he was occupied at the time in effecting his
negotiations with Old Death; and, moreover, Tamar considered it to be a
matter exclusively regarding herself. We must confess that the idea of
possessing the means of procuring a beautiful locket shared in her mind
the place that ought to have been entirely occupied by the proofs she
had received of her sister's devoted attachment. But Tamar was
passionately enamoured of resplendent jewellery; and when, in Mr.
Gordon's apartments, she beheld a beautiful set of diamonds lying in an
open case upon the table, the temptation became irresistible. It cannot
be supposed that she had been very nearly three years the companion of a
highwayman without having her notions of _mine_ and _thine_ considerably
shaken; and through her brain instantly flashed the thought——"Wherefore
should not I make myself the mistress of those charming jewels, as well
as Tom render himself the possessor of a purse on the main road?"
Scarcely was the idea conceived, when she resolved to execute it; and
she haggled with the diamond-merchant relative to the price which he was
to pay for the ring, merely to gain an opportunity to self-appropriate
the diamonds. That opportunity served; and she departed alike with the
produce of the ring and of the theft!

But scarcely had she reached the street, when her sentiments underwent a
complete revulsion; and she would have given worlds to be able to recall
the last ten minutes. For an instant she paused, hesitating whether she
should not return into the presence of Mr. Gordon and restore him the
diamonds. Fear, however, prevented her,—a fear lest he might consider
her deserving of punishment for having abstracted them at all. She
accordingly hurried away towards South Moulton Street. But during her
walk thither, she reflected that Rainford might be much annoyed with her
for the deed she had committed; and the more she pondered thereon, the
more powerful became her conviction that he would be more than
annoyed—in fact, deeply incensed. She accordingly made up her mind to
conceal the circumstance from him, and seek the earliest possible
opportunity of sending back the diamonds, by some safe means, to Mr.
Gordon.

On her arrival in South Moulton Street, she found a letter from Esther.
It contained assurances of ardent affection, but apologised for its
brevity, on the ground that it was then already one o'clock in the day,
and that at two Lord Ellingham's carriage was to be at the door to
convey his lordship, her father, and herself to view the mansion and
estate near Finchley. She added that they were to dine at the mansion,
and were not to return until late in the evening. Tom Rain was present
in the room when Tamar read this note; and she communicated its contents
to him. Two nights afterwards he departed on a little expedition; and on
this occasion Lady Hatfield was robbed by the highwayman near Bedfont.

On the ensuing morning Rainford was arrested, and conveyed to Bow
Street; but he escaped with impunity, in the manner already described.
But how great was his astonishment when he heard the name of Esther de
Medina pronounced in the court; and with what interest—with what
respectful admiration, did he survey the sister of his Tamar—that sister
who loved her whom the father had disowned! When Mr. Gordon was called
forward, and stated his name and calling, Rainford began to grow uneasy;
for he knew that Tamar had sold him the ring three evenings previously.
But as the diamond-merchant gradually explained the details of the
robbery of the diamonds, the highwayman's heart sank within him—for he
had no difficulty in penetrating the mystery. He was still meditating
upon the course that should be adopted to prove Esther's innocence, when
it suddenly struck him that she must have been at the estate near
Finchley, at the very moment when the theft of the diamonds occurred.
The reader knows the rest: Lord Ellingham's attendance at the court was
ensured by the intervention of Rainford, and Esther was discharged. Her
father, it will be remembered, appeared at the police-office just as the
case was about to terminate; and the expression which he made use of to
his daughter,—"_Oh! Esther—Esther, I can understand it all! You have
brought this upon yourself!_"—is now accounted for. When Esther turned
_an appealing glance towards her father, as if to remind him of some
duty which he ought to perform, or to convey some silent prayer which he
could well understand_,—it was to beseech him to satisfy the
diamond-merchant for the loss of his jewels, and thus save Tamar from
any unpleasant consequences which might ensue were the theft traced to
her. But, as we have seen, _he affected not to notice that rapid but
profoundly significant glance_.

During the few minutes that Mr. de Medina remained in the court,
Rainford was concealed as it were—or at least shrouded from
observation—amongst the crowd; and thus he escaped the notice of the
Jew. We should also state that it was on this occasion Rainford first
beheld his half-brother, the Earl of Ellingham, _whose fine blue eyes
indicated a frank, and generous disposition_, and in whose favour the
highwayman was immediately prepossessed; for it must be remembered that
_his eyes were also of a deep blue, and indicated not only good humour,
but a certain generosity of disposition_. Indeed, it was only in respect
to the eyes and the brilliant teeth, that the Earl and Rainford
possessed the slightest family resemblance to each other. Yes:—it was on
this occasion that Rainford first saw him whom he knew to be his
half-brother; and the Earl noticed him also,—noticed him amongst the
crowd of spectators who thronged the court;—but he knew not then how
nearly that good-looking man, with the florid complexion and light hair,
was related to him!

When Rainford returned home to South Moulton Street, he upbraided Tamar
for the deed which she had perpetrated, and which had involved her
sister in such a cruel embarrassment. But he did not reproach her in
harsh nor brutal terms: of such conduct he was incapable. He spoke
severely and coldly—manifesting his displeasure in a way which touched
her to the quick, but provoked no recriminations. She was almost wild
with grief when she heard the narrative of her sister being dragged to a
police-office upon so degrading a charge; and, producing the diamonds,
she implored Rainford to hasten and send them back to their owner. He
intimated his intention of performing that duty in person; and ere he
went away, Tamar implored his forgiveness. "I have no right to assume to
myself the power of pardon," he answered; "seeing that my example has
done this. But, oh! Tamar—if not for _my_ sake—if not for _your_ sake—at
least for that of your estimable sister who is so devoted to you,
abstain from such deeds in future!"—He then embraced her, and issued
from the house.

In the meantime Esther de Medina had succeeded in persuading her father
to advance the money,—advance to _her_ the means wherewith to liquidate
the amount of the value at which the jewels were estimated. But in
giving the sum required, Mr. de Medina said sternly, "Esther, it is to
_you_ only that I concede this favour—and not for the sake of her who
was once my daughter, and whom the infamy this day brought to light has
estranged more remotely than ever from my heart!"—He then retired to
another room, as was his wont when he wished to avoid an unpleasant
topic: moreover, he thought that his daughter had suffered enough that
day to render any further reproach on his part unnecessary—indeed cruel;
and he knew that were the subject of conversation persisted in, he
should not be able to restrain his ire.

The reader has already seen how Esther de Medina called upon the
diamond-merchant, and paid him the sum of six hundred pounds—the amount
at which he valued his jewels. He offered her a receipt; but she
declined to take it—for she thought that as she was settling the affair
from motives purely honourable and through regard towards _another_, it
would appear as if she were really interested _personally_ in the
transaction were she to reduce it to a mere matter of business. Not that
she meditated a revelation of the fact that she had a sister so like
herself that, when seen apart, they might well be taken for each other,
and that this sister was the real culprit:—oh! no—she would not, even if
she had dared, admit that her father had _another_ daughter! And if she
_lingered—as if anxious to say something more_—'twas merely because her
feelings of natural pride prompted her to exclaim, "Oh! sir, believe
that I am innocent of this dreadful charge!"—but a second thought
convinced her that such a declaration would not be credited, unless
supported by a feasible explanation; and she _abruptly quitted the
house_—bearing the stigma, in Mr. Gordon's eyes, of having committed a
deed of which she was utterly guiltless!

Scarcely had Esther quitted the diamond-merchant's dwelling, when Tom
Rain called to restore the diamonds; and great was his surprise upon
learning _that Miss de Medina herself had called and paid the six
hundred pounds at which they were valued_. He, however, left the
diamonds, with the certainty that Esther would hear of their restoration
either from Mr. Gordon himself or direct from Tamar. Rainford then
returned to South Moulton Street, where he found Tamar in a very excited
state. The occurrences of the day had made a profound and most painful
impression upon her mind: the indignity offered to her sister—the
certain indignation of her father—the upbraidings of Rainford, who had
never spoken to her so severely before—and the bitter regrets which she
experienced when she contemplated her conduct,—all these circumstances
had combined to madden her. Thinking that Rainford was absent longer
than the business on which he had set out seemed to warrant, she was
filled with the most fearful misgivings. At one moment she fancied that,
in disgust at her behaviour, he had abandoned her for ever: then she
imagined that he must have been arrested as the possessor of the stolen
diamonds. Her mind was agitated like the ocean in a storm. She went out
in a fit of desperation, and purchased some arsenic at a chemist's shop.
She returned;—Rainford had not yet arrived. She sate down, and tried to
wrestle with her maddening thoughts: but an invincible idea of suicide
dominated them all. She struggled—Oh! she struggled bravely against that
terrible sentiment; and at length Rainford came back. He exerted himself
to calm her—said all he could to tranquillise her mind. He declared that
he forgave her from the bottom of his heart, and lavished every token of
tenderness upon her. She endeavoured to triumph over the fearful
excitement under which she was labouring; but all she could do was to
_appear_ calm. Two or three hours passed away, and Rainford hoped she
was recovering her equanimity. But a species of delirium suddenly seized
upon her: she rushed to the bed-room, and, before Rainford even knew her
intention, she swallowed the poison. By the time he had followed her
into the room—alarmed at the precipitate speed with which she had
hurried thither—the deed was accomplished; and the paper which he picked
up, as she threw herself frantically at his feet, explained to him the
whole truth.

Not a moment was to be lost. Entrusting Tamar to the care of the
servant-girl, Rainford rushed from the house; and, as a hackney-coach
was fortunately passing at the moment, he leapt into it, desiring the
driver to take him to the nearest physician of eminence. The name of Dr.
Lascelles was best known to the honest jarvey, and to Grafton Street did
the vehicle accordingly proceed. The physician accompanied Rainford to
South Moulton Street, and Tamar was saved. But ere Lascelles took his
departure, the highwayman had resolved on adopting some plan to prevent
any disagreeable consequences occurring in respect to Esther de Medina
on account of this attempted suicide on the part of Tamar. For Rainford
naturally reflected, that as the physician was constantly moving in
society, and must necessarily have an immense circle of acquaintance, it
was more than probable that he might, sooner or later, encounter Esther,
whom he would mistake for the sister—his real patient. Hence the solemn
promise which Rainford exacted from Lascelles—_that when once his
professional visits had ceased in South Moulton Street, he would forget
that he had ever beholden Tamar; and that, should he ever meet her,
alone or in company, he would not even appear to recognise her—much less
attempt to speak to her—unless formally introduced, when he would
consider his acquaintance with her to be commenced only from the moment
of such introduction_. On the ensuing morning, at seven o'clock,
Rainford and Tamar took their departure from South Moulton Street, and
repaired to Lock's Fields, where the highwayman had already engaged
lodgings previously to the affair of the diamonds, as he was anxious,
for many obvious reasons, to dwell in a spot as secluded and retired as
possible. Tamar then wrote a long and pathetic letter to her sister,
imploring her forgiveness for the indignity which she had undergone on
account of one so worthless as herself; and requesting her to address
all future letters to her (until further notice) in this manner:—"_T.
R., No. 5, Brandon Street, Lock's Fields_."

On the same day that Rainford and Tamar thus removed to the vicinity of
the Elephant and Castle Tavern, Mr. Gordon called upon Esther de Medina
in Great Ormond Street. Esther was much embarrassed when the
diamond-merchant was announced; for she feared that if her father were
at home, he would naturally hasten to the drawing-room to learn the
object of this call, and a renewal of many painful reflections, as well
as of much unpleasant observation, would follow. It was therefore with a
feeling of pleasure that Esther found, upon inquiry of the servants,
that Mr. de Medina had gone out a few minutes previous to Mr. Gordon's
arrival. When the diamond-merchant mentioned _the particulars of the
visit which he had received from the light-haired gentleman_, Esther
instantly comprehended that the individual alluded to must be Rainford;
for though she had never seen him to her knowledge, yet she had heard a
few details relative to his personal appearance, three years previously,
at Liverpool. Mr. Gordon acquainted her with the restoration of the
diamonds, and _her countenance suddenly assumed an expression of joy_,
because she could not help recognising a certain evidence of good
principle, and of kind feeling towards herself, in the fact of such
restoration.

Two days afterwards Tamar and Esther again met; and the younger sister
breathed the most tender expressions of forgiveness in the ear of her
whom, though so guilty, she loved so tenderly. On the following evening
they met for the third time; and then Esther used all her powers of
persuasion to induce Tamar to accompany her home—to throw herself at the
feet of their father, and implore his forgiveness. But Tamar answered in
a firm tone, while tears nevertheless streamed down her countenance,—"It
is impossible, Esther! Rainford loves me so devotedly, that I should
esteem myself the veriest wretch upon the face of the earth to desert
him; and on this condition alone could I hope to obtain my father's
pardon. No: my destiny is fixed; to him I am linked until death shall
separate us! Think not, dearest Esther, that I love thee the less
because I cannot, dare not, take a step that would probably unite us
again at the blessed domestic hearth, and beneath the sacred roof of our
father's dwelling. Oh! God knows how sincerely, how earnestly, I wish
that such happiness was in store for me! But it is impossible,
Esther,—impossible!" And the sisters parted again, each weeping
bitterly. Mr. de Medina had noticed that Esther was absent from home a
long time on those two occasions; and he taxed her with having seen
Tamar again. She did not deny the charge; but falling at her father's
feet, she implored him to leave her that source of consolation. Her
grief was so excessive, that Mr. de Medina, who in his heart admired
these evidences of sisterly affection, gave no reply on that occasion: a
negative trembled upon his tongue—but he dared not utter it. He
recognised all that was generous and noble in the disposition of Esther;
and he felt proud of her as his daughter—the _only_ daughter whom he
considered himself to possess. But, when in the solitude of his study,
he reflected maturely upon these interviews which were taking place
between the sisters, and which, if not at once checked, would naturally
become more frequent, his mind was impressed with an idea that Tamar was
utterly and irredeemably profligate—abandoned in character beyond all
hope: and he feared lest Esther should be corrupted by her conversation.
He therefore resolved, painful as the duty was, to put an end to those
meetings, and yet mitigate the severity of this blow by winking, as it
were, at the continuation of their epistolary correspondence—but still
with the firm intention of crushing that indulgence also at a very early
period. He knew that oral communication is far more dangerous than
written interchange of thought; the former therefore was to be suspended
first. He accordingly chose the anniversary of the day on which Tamar
fled with Rainford to administer to Esther a solemn oath, binding her
never to see her sister again. And to this vow was the unhappy girl
compelled to pledge herself. It was the conversation which passed
between the father and daughter on this occasion, that Lord Ellingham
overheard—or rather, detached portions of which met his ears, producing
such strange misgivings in his mind relative to the purity of Esther de
Medina.

When the weeping Esther retired to her chamber, after having taken that
oath, it struck her that her father had not prohibited her from
_writing_ to Tamar: and Esther was too glad to avail herself of this
circumstance, to unburthen her grief to her sister through the medium of
that epistle which Old Death intercepted and perused, but which he
afterwards returned to the letter-box in Holborn. And if the reader will
refer to that letter, he will perceive that it was specially addressed
to Tamar, although when first glanced at, and while the impression
remained unfavourable to Esther's character, it might have seemed to
appeal to Rainford himself.

We have now cleared up all the mysteries relating to the family of Mr.
de Medina; and we doubt not our readers will be pleased to find that
Esther is indeed a model of purity—innocence—and sisterly affection. Oh!
despise not, then, the Jewess—for Christians might be proud to emulate
her virtues! And Rainford was a man who readily recognised and
appreciated all the excellence of her disposition—all the glorious
traits of her character, though he knew her not. But he
admired—enthusiastically admired the soul that could cling so devotedly
to its love for a sister; and from the first moment that the sisters met
in London, he vowed that Esther should never again be compromised by any
act or deed on the part of Tamar, if he were able to prevent it. Thus
was it that, on the night when Mr. Dykes and his myrmidons invaded the
house in Lock's Fields, Tom Rain gave such positive injunctions to Tamar
not to visit him in prison, should he be captured; for he feared lest
any one acquainted with Esther might meet Tamar under such
circumstances, the inevitable result being that the one would be
mistaken for the other. But on the day previous to his execution, he
yielded to the imploring—beseeching letters which Tamar sent to him by
means of Jacob Smith; and consented that she should take a last farewell
of him, on condition that she concealed her face as much as possible
with a veil.

When Esther read in the newspapers of Rainford's arrest, she felt
deeply—deeply for her poor sister, whom she knew to be so devotedly
attached to the highwayman. And, oh! Esther herself had begun to
comprehend the feeling of love; for she had not beheld with indifference
the handsome—the elegant—and the generous hearted Earl of Ellingham;—and
all that Tamar had said relative to the wondrous influence of that
passion, would at times recur strangely to her memory. Yes—Esther loved
the good young nobleman; but her soul was too pure—her manners to deeply
fraught with maidenly reserve, to betray the slightest evidence of her
attachment. Nor had she yet so far admitted, even in the secret depths
of her own mind, the existence of this inclination towards him, as to
ponder upon it seriously, or to invest it with the aspect of reality.
She knew that he was attached, and believed him engaged to be married to
Lady Hatfield and she sighed involuntarily—scarcely comprehending
wherefore—when she thought thereon. Still she loved him—while she
believed, in the innocence of her own heart, that she merely felt
interested in him as a friend. Nor did her imagination define the true
distinction between the feeling which she actually experienced, and that
which she only conceived to animate her,—no, not even when the glowing
description of love which her sister had drawn on one occasion of their
meeting, presented itself to her mind. But she could yet the more easily
understand how it was possible for Tamar to love Rainford so devotedly
as she did. Hence the acute anguish that Esther experienced, on account
of her sister, when she read the arrest of the highwayman. Mr. de Medina
did not of course remain ignorant of the occurrence; but he made not the
slightest allusion to it in the presence of Esther. Nor did he put into
force his previously contemplated plan of forbidding any future
epistolary correspondence between the sisters. He felt deeply for Tamar,
in spite of his stern silence respecting her; and he would not deprive
her, under the weight of such dire afflictions, of the consolation which
he naturally conceived the letters of Esther must prove to her. He even
gave Esther, though unasked, a considerable sum of money, casually
observing "that she might wish to purchase herself a new piano, or any
thing else she might fancy;"—and the young maiden pressed her father's
hand, for it struck her that he meant her to be the medium of conveying
assistance, in case it should be needed, to Tamar. But Tamar, in reply
to the letter which Esther wrote proffering pecuniary aid, gave her the
assurance that, though bowed down by the weight of affliction, poverty
was not amongst the sources of her deep sorrow.

Day after day did Esther fondly hope that her father would speak to her
relative to the now unfriended position of her sister; but Mr. de Medina
preserved a profound silence. There were, however, moments when Esther
fancied that his countenance looked anxious and care-worn, as if a
struggle were taking place in his mind. Still time wore on, and he said
nothing respecting Tamar:—he mentioned not her name! But one night, when
Esther could not sleep, she thought that she heard a moaning sound in
her father's room, which was on the opposite side of the passage
communicating with her own; and, alarmed lest he might have been seized
with sudden indisposition, she stole silently from her chamber and
listened at his door. He was pacing the room with agitated steps, and
speaking aloud in a manner indicative of acute mental anguish. "O Tamar!
Tamar—my daughter Tamar! wherefore didst thou ever abandon me? God of my
fathers! that such misery—such disgrace—such infamy should have fallen
upon my race! And yet—though I have disowned thee—though I have cast
thee off for ever—though, obedient to a stern duty, I have interdicted
thy meetings with Esther, the darling of my heart,—nevertheless, my
heart yearns towards thee, my Tamar! Oh! to reclaim thee—to bring thee
back to the paths of virtue—to see thee happy and gay as thou once
wast,—Oh! to do all this, I would consent to become the veriest beggar
who crawls upon the face of the earth!" There was a long pause; and Mr.
de Medina continued to pace his room with steps still more agitated than
hitherto—while Esther stood in breathless suspense at the door, not
daring to make her father aware that she had overheard him, and yet
unable to retrace her steps to her own chamber. "But it may not be!"
suddenly exclaimed the Jew, in an impassioned—rending tone; for the
triumph which he had achieved over his softer feelings, cost him pangs
as acute as if his heart-strings were being torn asunder. "No—it may not
be! I have pronounced the fatal words, Tamar—I have disowned thee; and I
may not recall the _fiat_! But if that man——who led thee astray——should
be cut off by the hand of justice——" and the Jew's voice grew tremulous
as in broken sentences he uttered these words——"then thou will be alone
in the world——friendless——perhaps in want——starving——Oh! my God! my
God!"

And Esther knew that her father was overcome with the bitterness of
grief. For a moment her hand was raised to knock at the door; but in the
next the thought struck her that she would be doing wrong to wound, and
even humiliate him, by suffering him to know that she had become aware
of the sorrow which he devoured in secret! And it also flashed to her
mind that beneath the cold, stern, and severe demeanour which he had
maintained ever since the flight of Tamar from the paternal
roof,—beneath, also, that unbroken—profound silence which he had
maintained towards her in respect to the misfortune that had fallen upon
Tamar by the arrest of Rainford,—beneath all this, there agitated within
his breast feelings and emotions keenly sensitive, but which were seldom
if ever allowed to reflect themselves in the mirror of the countenance.
Deeming, therefore, her father's grief too sacred for intrusion—too
solemn to be broken in upon, Miss de Medina stole back to her chamber,
and moistened a sleepless pillow with her tears. Nevertheless, a gleam
of light penetrated the dark clouds of grief which hung upon her mind;
for she had ascertained, beyond all possibility of doubt, that Tamar was
not entirely unloved by her father—that his heart was not a tomb in
which her memory was interred!

For, oh! that heart yearned towards thee, Tamar—lost, fallen though thou
wast! and this conviction was an anodyne to the lacerated feelings of
thy sister Esther! Time passed on—and still Mr. de Medina remained
silent respecting the matter to which the charming maiden daily and
hourly hoped to hear him allude. At length the trial took place—and the
gallant highwayman was condemned to death. Oh! had it not been for that
terrible oath—an oath from which her sire only could release her—Esther
would have flown to console her sister at that season of her bitter
grief. But, alas! all she could do was to impart solace by means of
letters; and how cold is even the most fervent language of the pen when
compared with that which the heart feels it should utter through the
medium of the tongue! Tamar replied to those letters; and Esther was
astonished to perceive that the afflicted woman wrote with a certain
degree of calmness:—but she feared that it was indeed the calmness of
despair! A second time did Mr. de Medina place in Esther's hands a
considerable sum of money, telling her to use it as she thought fit; and
the beauteous maiden, while her heart fluttered with hope and anxious
expectation, exclaimed in an appealing tone, "Oh! my dear father—God
grant that I do not misunderstand thy motives! Thou knowest that I have
no need for all this gold; and _she_ requireth a sire's pardon, but not
the aid of his purse."—"I do not—I dare not understand you, Esther,"
returned Mr. de Medina, with difficulty assuming a cold tone, but with
tears starting into his eyes:—and then he hastily quitted the room.
Esther saw how deeply he was moved: and hope increased—not
diminished—within her gentle breast. Then, when she pondered on all her
father had uttered aloud, on that night when she had listened at his
chamber door,—and when she reflected on all his proceedings since the
day of Rainford's arrest,—she fancied that she could fathom his motives
and intentions. "Should my dear—dear sister," she thought within
herself, "be left friendless and alone in the world, by the hand of
justice striking at the existence of him whom she loves—_then_, and only
_then_, will the door of the paternal dwelling be opened, and a father's
arms be extended, to receive the exile once more."

At length the fatal morning came—the morning on which Rainford was to
suffer, and to which date we have now brought up our history. On the
preceding Saturday Tamar had written to Esther to say that the hours of
her bitterest—most crushing trials were now at hand; and that if she
survived the soul-harrowing anguish then in store for her, it would be
only with the hope of yet finding herself restored, sooner or later, to
the sweet companionship of her sister, and also for the sake of the
little boy whom Rainford's kindness had adopted, and who was so
completely dependent upon her. "The moment all shall be over on Monday
morning," added Tamar in her letter, "my preparations to leave London
will commence. It is my intention—my firm intention to proceed to
America, and there remain—burying my woes in a strange land, and
devoting myself to the care of this boy—until it may please God to move
my father's heart to recall me home! Let me receive a letter from thee,
then, my beloved sister, on Monday morning—a letter that may console me
by the assurances of thy continued love—if consolation there be for me
in this life! Let your much-coveted communication reach me, sweetest
Esther, at about ten o'clock on Monday. May God bless you,
dearest—dearest Esther!"

Accordingly, on Monday morning, at about half-past nine, Esther
despatched a letter, by a messenger, to Tamar's lodgings in the City.
Need we say that this epistle contained all the tender assurances of
love and unvarying affection which the affectionate disposition of the
Jewish maiden could suggest, or which were calculated to console where
consolation was so difficult? When the messenger, whom she had gone out
to hire, had departed with the letter, Esther de Medina felt too
restless—too nervous—too unsettled, to return home again immediately.
The idea that one whom her sister loved had suffered an ignominious
death that morning, and that Tamar was at that very moment crushed down
to the earth by the weight of her afflictions,—this idea was more than
Esther could contend against. She wandered listlessly about—unmindful
whither she was going; and it was in this frame of mind that she
suddenly heard her name pronounced. She knew the voice, which somewhat
recalled her to herself; for it was the voice of Lord Ellingham, whose
absence from home had been made known to her by means of the laconic
letter which he had addressed to her father from his dungeon.

[Illustration]

The reader knows the rest:—with strange rapidity was she hurried away by
the Earl towards Red Lion Street; and in the house to which she was
conducted, she found her sister, who had arrived there only a few
minutes previously, guided by Jacob Smith.




                             CHAPTER LVII.
                               A FATHER.


While the scenes related in the fifty-fifth chapter were taking place at
the house in Red Lion Street, Mr. de Medina was pacing in an agitated
manner his private apartment at his own residence.

Esther had rightly divined his thoughts and intentions: he had indeed
been debating in his own mind, for some time past, whether his duty, as
a father and as a man, did not command him to forgive a daughter whom
the hand of the Lord had so severely stricken.

The Jew thought of his wife long dead, and murmured to himself—"Were she
alive still, she would be kneeling at my feet, imploring me to pardon
the erring Tamar! And does she not now look down upon me from those
empyrean heights where her sainted spirit is numbered with the blest?
Nay, more; do I not see her image now kneeling before me? Oh! can this
be imagination? Yes—it is,—it is,—and yet how like the reality!"

Mr. de Medina was so painfully excited that his fancy for a moment
conjured up the semblance of his deceased wife, as she had appeared in
the pride of her loveliness, long years before.

But when the evanescent illusion had passed away, he again paced the
room, a prey to the most painful indecision and doubt.

He longed to recall Tamar to his favour; and yet he feared to compromise
his character for firmness and decision;—so strange and yet so sure it
is, that, even in those moments when our best feelings are agitating
within us to the purest and holiest ends, a miserable sentiment of
worldly vanity intervenes, and if it do not altogether mar good deeds,
at least impairs the merit of their excellence, by engendering
hesitation, wavering, and delay.

Mr. de Medina's conflicting—battling meditations were suddenly
interrupted by a loud knock at the street-door; and a servant shortly
after announced to his master that the Earl of Ellingham was waiting in
the drawing-room.

The Jew remained in his chamber a few minutes to compose his
countenance, and collect his scattered ideas, ere he descended to meet
the nobleman.

When he entered the drawing-room, he immediately saw by Arthur's face
that it was no visit of mere ceremonious courtesy which was now paid to
that house.

"My dear Earl," said Mr. de Medina, "you have been lost to the world for
some weeks; and I must confess that when I received the letter which you
did me the honour to address to me nearly a month ago, I entertained
fears lest business of an unpleasant nature called you thus abruptly
away from England."

"That letter, my dear sir," answered the Earl, "was not precisely such
an one as I should have written to you had I been free from restraint."

The nobleman then related, in as few words as possible, the outrage that
had been perpetrated upon him—the imprisonment he had endured for four
mortal weeks—and the manner in which he had escaped.

Mr. de Medina expressed his indignation and surprise at the treatment
which the young nobleman had undergone, and inquired if the motive could
be accounted for.

"I am totally at a loss to conjecture who were my enemies, and the cause
of their abominable proceedings," answered the Earl. "But let us waive
that subject for the present, my dear sir," he continued; "as it is my
duty to engage your attention with other and more important matters."

Mr. de Medina pointed to a seat near the fire, and then drew a chair for
himself to within a short distance of that taken by the Earl.

"I am about to mention a name to you, my dear Mr. de Medina," continued
the nobleman, "which may perhaps—nay, will certainly sound unpleasantly
upon your ears; but you know me too well to imagine for an instant that
I should thoughtlessly or wantonly give you pain. I allude to Thomas
Rainford."

The Jew started, and his countenance fell.

"This Thomas Rainford, Mr. de Medina," resumed Arthur, "has wronged
you—wronged you deeply; and not for a moment do I attempt to defend his
conduct."

"But how know you, my lord, that the wretched man, who is now no more,
and against whose memory common humanity orders me not to nourish
animosity——"

"Mr. de Medina," interrupted the Earl in a low and solemn tone, as he
bent towards the Jew, "Thomas Rainford lives!"

"Lives!" ejaculated Mr. de Medina, in a voice loud with excitement and
surprise.

"Hush! speak low—in a whisper—the walls have ears!" said Arthur
impatiently. "In the name of heaven! compose yourself—calm your mind,
Mr. de Medina—for I have much to communicate to you—and that much of the
first importance."

"Proceed, my lord," said the Jew coldly: "I am all attention."

"It is, then, true that Rainford lives——"

"And yet scarce an hour has passed since men were crying the account of
his execution for sale in the street—beneath this very window," observed
Mr. de Medina, in an incredulous tone.

"It is as true that he is now alive as that he underwent the ordeal of
the terrible rope, even as the pamphlet-venders proclaimed beneath your
window," continued the Earl. "In a word, he has been resuscitated by the
wondrous agency of galvanism."

"Good God! my lord—is this possible?" cried Mr. de Medina: "or do my
ears deceive me?"

"Again I implore you to master your feelings," said the Earl; "for I
have another circumstance, almost equally strange, to reveal to you.
Thomas Rainford is nearly related to me——"

"To you—to your lordship!" exclaimed Mr. de Medina.

"Yes: the same father was the author of our being—though different
mothers bore us. He is my half-brother—and all the proofs thereof are in
my possession. Nay, more—and _this_ I reveal to you to prove the
confidence I place in _you_—he is my elder brother, legitimately born,
and is the rightful Earl of Ellingham!"

Mr. de Medina gazed on the young nobleman in speechless
astonishment,—with an amazement, indeed, so profound, that it seemed as
if he were suddenly paralysed by the announcement which had just met his
ears.

The Earl then rapidly sketched the outline of Rainford's birth; and,
without in any way alluding to Lady Hatfield, stated that accident had
brought them together, and had led to the revelation of all those
wondrous circumstances. Arthur did not however forget to mention the
generous conduct of Rainford in refusing to avail himself of papers
which would have placed a coronet on his brow and vast estates at his
disposal, and also in consigning those papers to the possession of
Arthur himself.

Mr. de Medina was perfectly astounded at all he heard; and he listened
in silent wonderment—no longer interrupting the narrator with comment or
question.

The Earl proceeded to inform him how the whole scheme for the
resuscitation of the doomed man had been arranged between himself and
Dr. Lascelles, and how it had perfectly succeeded.

"Indeed," added Arthur, "I left my half-brother just awakened from a
profound sleep, and, though much enfeebled, still beyond the reach of
danger. But spare me the necessity of describing to you the first
moments of horror—boundless, appalling horror—which he experienced,
when, slowly opening his eyes, he awoke to the recollection of all he
had this morning gone through, and to the wildest doubts as to where he
was and what had actually become of him! Oh! Mr. de Medina, it was a
scene which the memories of those who beheld it, never—never could fail
to retain—even though madness were to destroy the discriminating powers
of the intellect! But all that is passed—gone by; and my brother
lives—conscious, too, of resuscitated existence!"

"My dear Earl," said Mr. de Medina, at length breaking the long silence
which had been maintained on his part, "I have read and heard many
wildly wonderful narratives in my time,—truths also far stranger than
fictions,—genuine occurrences which outvie all the marvels of romance.
But never—never, do I firmly believe, has mortal tongue related, nor
mortal ear listened to, a history more amazing—more solemnly
interesting, than this. Should these facts ever transpire to the world,
and be seized upon by the novelist as the basis of a tale, those who may
read, having been previously unacquainted with those facts, would
exclaim, '_'Tis impossible!_' Oh! what a work might be written, under
the title of THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON! But pardon me for wasting your
valuable time with these comments:—I say, pardon me—because I perceive
that you have more yet to relate."

"I have indeed," said the Earl, trembling for the success of the mission
which had taken him to Mr. de Medina's house; "and I am now compelled to
touch upon a subject which cannot be otherwise than painful to you——"

"I understand you, my lord," interrupted the Jew: "proceed—for I know
that you would not refer to that topic without a well-intentioned
motive."

"Such is indeed the case," said the Earl. "But not to use more words
than are necessary—as time is precious—I shall at once inform you that I
am acquainted with the sad episode in my half-brother's life, which
relates to—to—your elder daughter."

"Go on, my lord," said the Jew, mastering his emotions.

"But not until this morning—till within an hour ago," continued the
Earl, "was I aware that you possessed _two_ daughters. The moment that
Rainford was pronounced to be out of danger, I despatched a faithful
messenger to break the tidings to her who loves him, and whom he loves
so well; but while this messenger was absent, I had occasion to leave,
for a short time, the house where Thomas Rainford now lies; and accident
led me to encounter Miss Esther. Pardon me, when I state that a variety
of circumstances, which I will some day explain, had for several weeks
past induced me to believe that she—whom I now know to be an angel of
purity and goodness—was the being so dear to my brother; and, anxious to
relieve her mind, as I thought, from the agony of grief into which the
supposed fate of Rainford must have plunged her,—anxious also that her
presence should greet _his_ eyes upon awaking from the deep sleep that
followed the galvanic resuscitation,—I led her—dragged her, with me to
the house I ere now spoke of—saying heaven only knows what incoherent
things to her as we sped along, and to which, I remember now, she
listened and replied with an amazement since explained. But, in the
meantime, Jacob Smith—the messenger whom I had sent to your elder
daughter—had arrived with _her_; and thus—you perceive how innocently on
my part,—the sisters were brought together by the bed-side of my
brother!"

"Esther and Tamar together!" ejaculated Mr. de Medina, starting from his
seat, in mingled anger and surprise: then, suddenly changing to an
aspect of profound sorrow, he murmured, "Oh! Esther! thine oath—thine
oath!"

"She did not violate it, Mr. de Medina," said the Earl emphatically. "As
well might it be asserted that, had you sworn never to enter my house,
and were you carried thither by force, your vow would be
wilfully—wickedly broken. No:—Miss de Medina knew not whither she was
going—knew not whom she was to see—knew not that her sister would be
there! If any one has erred in all this, 'tis I; and yet I, Mr. de
Medina," added the Earl proudly, "am incapable of doing a bad deed.
There lives not the man who, with truth, could impute to me aught that I
should be ashamed to have published before all the world. And it is not
to boast of untarnished rectitude—of a bright fame—of an unsullied
reputation, that I now speak;—but it is to convince you—you, Mr. de
Medina, a man of the world—yourself upright beyond all doubt—honourable
beyond all possibility of impeachment,—it is to convince you, that if I
have incurred your displeasure, I did not the act wantonly—and that I
deserve forgiveness."

"Excellent young man!" exclaimed the Jew, grasping the Earl's hand, and
wringing it with even paternal warmth: "who shall dare to impute
sinister motives to one like you? No,—Oh! no:—were all the scions of the
aristocracy as noble-hearted as yourself—endowed with such feelings as
you possess, they would be a blessing instead of a curse and a shame to
this country. I was unjust," added Mr. de Medina, more slowly,—"unjust
towards my beloved and amiable Esther—and unjust also in respect to you.
But, oh! my lord," continued the Jew, while tears rolled down his
cheeks, "it is hard—it is hard to have the honour of one's name
tarnished by a disobedient daughter:—and such is the lost—the unhappy
Tamar!"

"The best of us in this world are but poor, erring, sinful mortals in
the eyes of Him who is all-perfect but who is likewise all-merciful,"
said the Earl in a solemn and impressive tone. "Alas! but a few minutes
have passed since I proclaimed my rectitude, vain boaster that I was—and
lauded your integrity, miserable flatterer that I was! But I then spoke
as men speak—as we mortals are accustomed to estimate our characters for
honour and probity. Nevertheless, in the sight of heaven, we are
sinners—wretched sinners; and our only hopes are in God's illimitable
mercy! Then, Mr. de Medina,—as you hope for salvation in another
world,—as you expect forgiveness at the hands of the Almighty for those
failings wherewith the very best of us are characterised,—I implore—I
beseech you, to pardon your daughter Tamar!"

Glorious—almost god-like, was the enthusiasm with which the fine young
nobleman urged his strong appeal—the stronger for all the sincerity of
the argument which prefaced it.

Mr. de Medina gazed upon him with mingled wonder and admiration: but
when the Earl had done speaking, the Jew turned aside and paced the room
in a manner betraying the most painful agitation.

"Think not," resumed Arthur, also rising from his seat, "that I am one
of those wretched hypocrites, who, in their sickly cant, make use of the
holiest names and the most sacred arguments to win a cause in which they
are interested only through selfish and worldly motives. No!—I should
scorn to reduce myself to such a level—I should hate myself were I
capable of such contemptible duplicity. It is not he who prays longest
and loudest, that is the most sincere. But I appeal to you by all things
sacred—I, the Christian, appeal to you, the Jew—by those doctrines which
form the basis of the creed in which we both put faith,—doctrines which
teach us the goodness of the Almighty, as manifested towards the
Israelites,—by all HE did for your forefathers—thereby do I appeal to
you to receive an erring daughter back to your arms, and assure her of
your pardon!"

Still Mr. de Medina replied not—but continued to pace the room.

"Were your daughter Esther—the amiable, the excellent Esther here,"
continued Lord Ellingham, "she would not perhaps intercede so vainly as
I. During the rapid explanations which were ere now vouchsafed to me by
the repentant Tamar herself,—explanations which have shown me how
ineffably beyond all human praise is the conduct of the younger towards
her elder sister,—I learnt more of the heart of woman than ever I knew
before. My ideas—my sentiments, concerning woman and her mission here,
have always been of the loftiest kind: but now I am led to recognise
something angelic—something heavenly in her disposition. Oh! Mr. de
Medina, had I such a sister as Esther, never—never, would I permit a
tear to dim the brightness of her eye, if it were in my power to wipe it
away!—never—never, would I allow a pang to steal into her gentle breast,
if deed or word of mine could avert it. For I declare your younger
daughter to be a very angel of excellence and moral worth; and your
entire nation should be proud of the name of Esther de Medina!"

"My lord—my dear Earl," faltered the father, approaching the young
nobleman, and taking his hand, "if the Jews should be proud of Esther,
the Christians may with good cause glory in their Arthur of Ellingham!
But if this _must_ be—if Tamar should once more receive from me the name
of DAUGHTER—how——"

"I understand you, my dear friend," interrupted the nobleman: "you would
ask—you would know what course is to be pursued in respect to my
half-brother."

The Jew made a hasty sign for his companion to proceed.

"I must confess that this difficulty struck me forcibly ere I came
hither just now," continued Arthur. "My half-brother is devotedly
attached to your daughter; and Tamar is equally wrapped up in him. To
separate them, in my opinion, would be the height of cruelty: for you to
forgive your daughter and consent to allow her to dwell in concubinage
with Rainford, are things I know to be incompatible. But is there no
course open to them? Listen to the plan which I suggested before I left
those who are no doubt so anxiously waiting my return. It is this:
To-morrow night, if Dr. Lascelles accord his permission, I shall
accompany my half-brother to France, whence he will proceed as soon as
possible to the United States of America. For in the hasty explanations
which ere now took place between us all, I learnt that he had already
expedited thither a considerable sum of money, his intention having been
to proceed with Tamar to the New World when his project was suddenly
marred by his arrest. While he is away, and in safety, I shall exert
myself to obtain his full pardon; for I shall privately represent to the
Minister all the circumstances of this most extraordinary case.
To-morrow night, then, we proceed to Dover, whence we shall embark for
France. 'Tis for you and your daughters to follow us to Paris; and there
the hands of Tamar and Thomas Rainford may be united in the chapel of
the British Embassy. I am well aware that it will be a Protestant
marriage only;—that in your eyes it may be insufficient, so far as it
regards the creed of your daughter;—but it is the least of two evils.
For, believe me, Tamar and my brother are so devoted to each other that
they would never consent to separate:—no—Tamar would not quit him even
to receive her father's pardon! Thus they would continue to live in that
state which is repugnant to the feelings of society—a state unhallowed
by the rites of the Church. But where two hearts are thus closely
connected and are wedded to all intents and purposes, by the mere fact
of their binding affections,—tell me—tell me, does it matter much at
which of God's altars the blessing of heaven shall be invoked? You will
pardon your daughter—you will receive her back into your arms,—you will
give her to one who loves her most tenderly and who has ever treated her
as if she were his wife—and, after the ceremony shall have been
performed, albeit a Protestant one, you may say proudly and unblushingly
to those who learn that you have another daughter, and who inquire
concerning her,—you may say fearlessly, 'She is married!'"

Mr. de Medina walked towards the window for a few moments to conceal his
tears.

But he could not conceal them; and with the holy dew trickling down his
cheeks, he turned again to the nobleman, saying in a tremulous and
broken voice,—"My friend—my dearest friend, I yield!—you have subdued
me! It shall all be as you have designed it!"

The Earl pressed Mr. de Medina's hand with fervent warmth—with the
ardour of gratitude.

"Come with me at once—delay not a moment!" exclaimed Arthur, his own
eyes also dimmed with tears.

And he hurried Mr. de Medina to the hackney-coach, which was waiting at
the door.




                             CHAPTER LVIII.
                           THE RESUSCITATED.


Touching was the scene in the bed-chamber at the house in Red Lion
Street,—that scene which the return of the Earl of Ellingham,
accompanied by Mr. de Medina, was to render more touching still.

But previously to their arrival, the group was interesting and must be
specially noticed.

Rainford was seated in the bed, propped up with the pillows; for he
still felt very weak, though all danger had completely passed.

Standing by his side, with one hand locked in his, was Tamar, clad in
deep mourning—a mourning now no longer necessary, and which covered a
heart beating with ineffable joy.

Dr. Lascelles and Esther de Medina were also standing close by the bed;
and Jacob Smith was leaning over the foot-board, surveying Rainford with
eyes dimmed by tears, and in a kind of wonderment as if he were scarcely
able to convince himself of the miracle the _living evidence_ of which
was before him.

The hearts of all were too full for connected discourse; for even the
doctor himself was more moved by the incidents in which he had that day
performed so prominent a part, than ever he had felt before.

At length Tamar turned towards her sister, and said in a low, tremulous
tune, "Do you think, dear Esther, that Lord Ellingham will succeed—can
you hope it?"

"I have every hope," replied Esther, firmly. "His lordship suggested a
plan by which all our father's scruples may be overcome."

"And by which we shall not be separated, save for a few days, Tamar,"
observed Rainford.

"I would not quit you even for an hour," answered the elder sister,
emphatically; "were it not that I was previously assured of being
speedily re-united to you."

Rainford pressed her hand tenderly.

"If my friend Arthur does not succeed with Mr. de Medina," said Dr.
Lascelles, "I must go myself, and see what I can do. But I confess that
I should despair of producing any effect, were Arthur's eloquence to
fail."

"Hark!" cried Jacob Smith: "the front door opens!"

The physician hastened to assure himself that no unwelcome step was
approaching; and the sisters exchanged looks indicative of the most
acute suspense.

"Bravo!" cried the good doctor, returning in a few moments, and clapping
his hands together.

But before he had time to give any explanation as to the cause of a joy
so unusual in one of his calm and unexcitable disposition, footsteps
approached the room.

The eyes of Rainford, the sisters, and Jacob Smith were anxiously cast
towards the door.

Lord Ellingham entered first—his countenance radiant with joy. Another
moment—and Tamar bounded forward to meet her sire, in whose arms she was
immediately received.

"Oh! my dear—dear father!" exclaimed Tamar; "is it possible that you can
forgive me—that this happiness is not a dream?"

"Let the past be forgotten, my child!" said Mr. de Medina, pressing her
again and again to his breast: for now that she _was_ forgiven, all the
long-smothered generosity and tenderness of his heart in respect to her
revived with fresh vigour. "And you, Esther, my well-beloved," he added,
"come also and share your father's joy that the day of pardon has at
length arrived!"

Most affecting was the scene. The physician pretended to be busily
occupied in wiping his eye-glass; but the tears fell fast upon
it:—Rainford and Lord Ellingham both wept aloud; and Jacob Smith
whimpered like a little child.

At last the party grew somewhat composed; and Mr. de Medina advanced
towards the bed.

"Mr. Rainford," he said, extending his hand, which the resuscitated
highwayman grasped with grateful warmth, "to you also do I say, '_Let
the past be forgotten_.' From the very bottom of my heart do I forgive
you; and this forgiveness I the more readily accord, because I learn
that your conduct has been uniformly kind and tender towards my
daughter,—because you are prepared to make her your wife according to
the ritual of your creed,—and also because I have heard from your noble
relative—far more noble in nature even than in name—that you have
manifested so many proofs of an excellent heart and a generous
disposition towards _him_, that it is impossible not to admire your
behaviour in this respect. I have now said all that I intend to utter
upon these subjects; for if I be stern and severe in my displeasure, I
am equally sincere and profound in my forgiveness."

"My dear Earl," whispered Dr. Lascelles, in the most solemn manner
possible, and in a tone audible only to himself and the young nobleman,
"I did not think of asking you for any reward for all I have this day
done to serve you and yours. But I am so charmed with this Jew, who
positively shows more good feeling than many Christians whom I know,
that I would give any thing to possess a cast of his head. Do you
think——"

"Depend upon it, my dear Doctor, I will not forget your wish," said the
Earl, smiling: "but you must admit that this is not precisely the time
to ask a favour of so delicate a nature."

"True!" observed Lascelles. "And yet the interests of science——"

"Hush!" said Lord Ellingham: "you will be overheard."

As soon as the party were sufficiently composed to deliberate upon the
course now to be adopted, considering the position of Rainford, a solemn
conclave was held.

The results of the council may be thus summed up:—Dr. Lascelles, feeling
convinced that Rainford was totally out of danger, proposed to return
without delay to the West End, to visit his patients who would be
otherwise astonished and vexed at his absence. Mr. de Medina was to
repair home with his two daughters: and while the young ladies made all
the necessary arrangements for the trip to France, their father
undertook to proceed to Dover, and secure a sailing-vessel to be in
readiness by the time that Lord Ellingham and Rainford should reach that
port. Mr. de Medina would then return to London to fetch his daughters;
and the family would follow the half-brothers as speedily as possible to
Paris. On his side, Lord Ellingham expressed his intention of remaining
with Rainford until the moment for their departure together should
arrive. Jacob Smith was to stay also in the house in Red Lion Street,
and to accompany Tom Rain not only to France, but also to America; for
the poor lad was devotedly attached to him, and Rainford felt it almost
a duty to remove the youth from the scene of his former temptations and
miseries.

Dr. Lascelles accordingly quitted the house, first having promised to
see Rainford again next day. Mr. de Medina and his daughters next took
their departure, Tamar having taken a tender farewell of him whom she
loved, and whom, according to present arrangements, she was not to meet
again until they arrived in Paris. As for Esther, ere she turned to quit
the room, she gave her hand to Rainford, who respectfully touched it
with his lips.

At length the Earl and Jacob were left together with the resuscitated
highwayman, who now lost no time in narrating to them the particulars of
his visit to that very house a few weeks previously. For when, on
awaking from his deep sleep, he was sufficiently recovered to collect
his scattered ideas,—and when the first emotions attendant upon his
meeting with Tamar had passed,—he had recognised the chamber in which he
was lying. But finding himself under the care and protection of Dr.
Lascelles, whom he had seen, it will be remembered, in the house on the
night of his memorable adventures beneath that roof, he had so far
mastered his surprise and momentary alarm, as to maintain a profound
silence relative to his recognition of the place.

But now that there was leisure to converse on matters of secondary
importance, and that she in whose breast he was fearful of exciting
fears for his safety was no longer present, he detailed at full length
all the particulars with which the reader is acquainted, not even
omitting the impression existing in his mind that Old Death was no more.
Then Lord Ellingham learnt how Rainford had happened to visit the
laboratory when he was disturbed by the entrance of Lascelles; and he
also heard for the first time how his half-brother had recovered his
money, with compound interest, and had obtained all the private papers
proving the history of his birth and the marriage of the late Earl of
Ellingham with Octavia Manners. Jacob, likewise for the first time,
learnt that the very house in which he then was, contained the
store-rooms of Old Death; and he now also ascertained the cause of that
individual's sudden and mysterious disappearance.

Arthur, in his turn, related the entire particulars of the outrage
perpetrated upon him—his imprisonment in a dungeon for four long
weeks—the reason of his writing the laconic letter which Rainford had
received in prison—his escape by means of the sewers—and his suspicion,
in consequence of all he had heard that morning from Dr. Lascelles, that
the scene of his late incarceration was not altogether unconnected with
the mysterious subterranean of that very house.

But conjecture was useless in respect to all these circumstances; and
the only point to which any positive decision could be arrived at, was
the absolute necessity that existed for defending the house from all
intruders so long as Rainford should remain in it.

Jacob Smith went out to purchase refreshments; and Rainford felt himself
so well that he was enabled to make a hearty meal.

Hour after hour passed; and at length evening came.

"Arthur," said Tom Rain, breaking a silence during which he had
partially dozed, and now aroused by a sudden idea that had struck
him,—"Arthur, I have a strange fancy—a whim, which I much desire you
would gratify——"

"Name it, Thomas," returned the nobleman.

"I should like to see the evening paper," continued Tom Rain. "I need
scarcely tell you that never again will the highways of this nor any
other country be rendered dangerous by me—never shall this right hand of
mine perpetrate a crime. My career as a desperate plunderer terminated
this morning—on the roof of the gaol: from the instant of my
resuscitation I date a new term of existence—new in a moral as well as
in a physical sense. But I _should_ like to see what is said of me _in
my last moments_."

For an instant the Earl hesitated—but only for an instant; and Jacob
Smith was sent to purchase the evening newspaper.

In due time he returned; and Rainford sate up in bed _to read the
account of his own execution_!

"I am glad of that!" he exclaimed, as his eyes ran down the column
headed with the awful words—EXECUTION OF THOMAS RAINFORD; and his
countenance became flushed with excitement, as he read aloud, in a tone
that trembled not in the least degree, a few of the sentences which
seemed to give him pleasure:—"_He underwent the dreadful process of
pinioning with extraordinary courage_"—"_his footsteps were as firm as
if anything save a scaffold were his destination_"—"_he ascended the
stairs leading to the roof of the prison with steps that faltered
not_"—"_the same dauntless courage sustained him as he mounted the fatal
ladder which conducted him to the drop_"—"_nor did he once exhibit signs
of fear; no, not even when the executioner descended beneath the
platform to draw the bolt that was to launch him into eternity._"—"_Thus
died a man who possessed a courage that would have rendered him
distinguished had his destinies cast him in the profession of arms._"

"For heaven's sake, no more of this, my dear brother," exclaimed the
Earl, painfully excited.

"Burn the paper, Arthur," said Tom Rain, handing it to the nobleman, and
then throwing himself back on his pillow. "I have seen enough—and never
wish to read that narrative again. But pardon me for having given you
pain; and think not it was any frivolous sentiment of vanity that made
me desirous to peruse the account, or that excited me as I read it. I
merely wished to convince myself that no injustice was done me, Arthur,"
he added, very seriously; "for, of all things, I abominate a coward; and
I confess—it may be a weakness on my part—that I should not like _my
last moments_ to have been misrepresented. But let us talk no more on
this topic—since it gives you pain. And now, by way of changing the
conversation, I will tell you some of the plans I have shadowed out in
my mind. Perhaps they may never be realized:—I hope they may."

Arthur had set fire to the newspaper by means of a lamp which was
burning upon the table; and, having crushed out the expiring flames with
his foot, he drew his chair towards the bed, to listen with attention to
his half-brother.

Jacob Smith leant over the foot-board, anxious to drink in the words
which Rainford was about to utter.

"I have been thinking," resumed this individual, "that my past life
requires a great atonement through the medium of my new existence. I am
not, however, one of those men who turn saints, and who hope to win the
good opinion of the world and the favour of heaven by means of incessant
prayer. No—my ideas are quite at variance with such proceedings. I
believe that one good _deed_ is worth ten thousand _psalms_. It
certainly is more beneficial to our fellow-creatures, and must therefore
be more acceptable to the Almighty. I have been thinking, then, how
pleasant it would be for one who possesses an independence, to employ
his leisure time in seeking out those poor, unhappy beings whom adverse
circumstances, or even their own faults, have plunged into misery. If
they be cast down through misfortunes unconnected with errors, it would
be delightful to aid them: but doubly pleasing must it be to reclaim
those who have erred, and to afford even the felon a chance of quitting
his evil ways and acquiring an honest livelihood."

"Oh! it would—it would, indeed!" ejaculated Jacob Smith, all the
adventures and incidents of his own chequered life rushing to his
memory.

"I have been reflecting, moreover—not merely within the last few
moments," continued Rainford, "but ever since I heard the narrative of
one who became an ill-doer in spite of himself,"—looking significantly
for an instant towards the lad,—"but who struggled successfully at last
against temptation, cruel attempts at coercion, and almost unheard-of
wretchedness,—I have been reflecting, I say, that society is wrong in
refraining from the adoption of strenuous means to reform those whom it
considers to be the most abandoned. The reformist does not enter the
criminal gaol: he considers it to be useless. But whither should he go,
if not _there_? He should reason with himself that it is impossible for
men willingly to cling to the unnatural—the feverish excitement of a
life of incessant crime, if they had any chance of adopting pursuits
unattended with constant peril. Setting aside the morality of the case,
nine-tenths of those very persons who sing the loudest, swear the
hardest, and appear the most depraved, would gladly quit a course that
makes their conscience see a constable in every shadow. I think I can
give you a parallel case, which will fully illustrate my meaning. It is
the custom to vilify the Irish—to declare that they cling with a species
of natural tenacity to their rags, their dirt, and their penury—to
assert that they themselves are the foes to any civilizing principles
which may be applied to them. But look at Irish labourers in
England—look at the Irishman when in _this_ country, supplied with
plenty of work, earning adequate wages, and removed from scenes of
political excitement. Does he not work hard? is he indolent? does he
adhere lovingly to rags and misery? No such thing! Well, then, it is
equally absurd to suppose that criminals cling with affection to crime,
prisons, and an existence harassed by constant apprehensions. Remove the
thief or the housebreaker from the sphere into which circumstances have
cast him, and from which he cannot extricate himself,—give him a chance
of earning an honest livelihood, and of redeeming his character,—and in
nine cases out of ten, he may be reclaimed. There are, of course,
exceptions to all rules; but I am convinced, from all I have seen and
heard, that I am now speaking of a rule, and not of the exceptions.
Well, then, these considerations lead me back to the starting point
which I chose; and I repeat my former words,—that were some man to
devote himself to the visitation not only of the dwellings of the honest
poor, but also the haunts of crime, and the abodes of vice, the deep
sinks of impurity, and even the felons' gaols themselves, he would be
able to effect an immense amount of good. You may be surprised to hear
such sentiments come from my lips——"

"I am delighted—ineffably delighted!" exclaimed Lord Ellingham, speaking
with the enthusiasm of unfeigned joy; "and I agree with every opinion
you have put forth. I see that our laws are miserably deficient, while
they seek only to punish and not to reform—that our legislators are
short-sighted if not actually wicked, in neglecting to adopt means to
prevent crime by reforming the criminal, rather than encourage turpitude
by rendering the criminal a desperate outcast."

"Oh! my dear brother," cried Tom Rain joyfully, "how happy I am to hear
you thus express your adhesion to those theories which I have so rapidly
glanced at. And are not you a legislator of England—an hereditary
legislator? and do you owe nothing to your country? Believe me, when I
declare that were you to apply your intellect—your talents—your
energies, to this great question, you would render your name so
illustrious that the latest posterity would mention it with veneration
and gratitude!"

"Rest well assured, Thomas, that these words of your's shall not be
thrown away upon me," returned Arthur solemnly.

"And, on my side—humble individual that I am, _and that I intend ever to
remain_," added Rainford, with a significant glance towards the Earl,
"my resolution is fixed to make some atonement in another part of the
world for all the bad deeds I have committed in this. Should I reach
America in safety, it will be my task to reduce to practice some of
these theories which I have just now broached; and I believe that the
results will fulfil all my expectations."[26]

"There is no doubt of it—oh! there is no doubt!" exclaimed Jacob Smith,
catching the enthusiasm which now animated him who was _once_—and so
lately—a lawless highwayman, but whom circumstances, and the never
altogether crushed sentiments of a rightly constituted mind, had
suddenly imbued with the hope of atoning for the past by means of the
good which he meditated towards his fellow-creatures.

"Poverty is a fertile source of crime," observed Lord Ellingham; "but
then it is declared that many are poor only through their own idleness.
How are such persons to be reformed? I am prepared to answer the
question. Education will teach them the value of industry, and the
necessity of rendering themselves independent of parochial relief and
eleemosynary assistance. If a child offend, we say, '_He knows no
better_.' The uneducated individual is as ignorant of the real
principles of right and wrong as the lisping child; and therefore must
instruction—not merely religious, but an enlightened species of
education—be provided for the millions."[27]

"It is for you to urge those great and glorious points in the proper
place—in the Parliament of England!" said Rainford: "and, I repeat,
posterity will honour your name!"

"I am not such a hypocrite as to deny the existence of those charms
which a laudable ambition possesses," returned Arthur; "no selfish
considerations will, however, influence me in the public course which I
am now determined to adopt. But I am forgetting, dear Thomas, that this
prolonged discourse on an exciting topic may be prejudicial to you, weak
and enfeebled as you are. Let us not, therefore, pursue the theme at
present: it is now growing late—and you stand in need of repose. Jacob
and myself will watch by your bed-side."

Rainford pressed his brother's hand, and composed himself to woo the
advance of slumber.

In about ten minutes he was fast asleep!

The Earl of Ellingham was seated close by the head of the bed: Jacob
drew a stool near the foot, and the two observed a profound silence.

The Earl looked at his watch: it was half-past ten o'clock.

The lamp burnt upon the table.

Suddenly, slow and heavy steps were heard _beneath_—as if some one were
ascending the flight of stairs under the floor.

Lord Ellingham placed his finger upon his lips to enjoin Jacob to
maintain the strictest silence, and then instantly extinguished the
light.

In another moment some one was heard preparing to raise the trap-door—a
proceeding which Arthur did not attempt to thwart. He knew that if the
person or persons now approaching were debarred the ingress which was
sought, the front door would be the alternative next essayed; and he
therefore resolved that, come what might, he would endeavour to capture
and secure any intruders whose presence threatened in any way to
interfere with his plans.

These calculations were all weighed in a single moment by the energetic
and brave young nobleman.

The trap-door was raised slowly—the carpet was thrust aside from the
aperture by the arm of him who was ascending; and a light suddenly
gleamed from beneath.

[Illustration]

The intruder carried a lamp in his hand.

Arthur and Jacob Smith maintained the most death-like silence—the former
nerved for the trying scene, the latter ready to sink with apprehension
on account of Rainford, who still slept soundly.

Having removed the carpet from the aperture,—a task which occupied
nearly a minute, as the intruder held the lamp in his left hand and was
compelled to support the trap-door in a half-open position with his head
or back, while he worked with the right hand,—the individual—for Lord
Ellingham was by this time pretty well satisfied that only one person
was approaching—prepared to ascend into the room.

But the moment he had removed the carpet, and advanced another step or
two upwards, the lamp was dashed from his hand, and he was violently
seized by the collar, in the powerful grasp of Lord Ellingham, who
exclaimed at the same instant, "Be silent—or you are a dead man!"

The individual thus captured, uttered a low growl, but said nothing.

Then, quick as thought, and with a degree of strength which astonished
even him who exercised it, the Earl dragged the man up the steps into
the room, but fortunately without awaking the soundly-sleeping Rainford.

All this took place amidst the most profound darkness, be it remembered;
but, acting with wonderful energy and presence of mind, Arthur dragged
the man along the floor of the bed-chamber into the laboratory; and
then, without relaxing his hold, he exclaimed, "Jacob, light the lamp
and bring it hither!"

"Jacob!" muttered the prostrate intruder, "Jacob!"

"Silence!" cried the Earl. "You are in the grasp of a desperate man," he
added in a menacing tone; "but if you mean no harm, you will receive no
injury."

Scarcely were these words uttered, when Jacob Smith, having hastily
relighted the lamp, entered the laboratory, closing the door behind
him—for he fully comprehended the Earl's motive in dragging the man,
whoever he might be, away in the dark from the chamber where Rainford
was lying.

But hardly had the light of the lamp fallen upon the countenance of the
individual who was now half-lying—half-sitting on the floor, restrained
by the vigorous grasp of Lord Ellingham, who bent over him,—when Jacob
uttered a cry of mingled horror and alarm, exclaiming, as he staggered
back, "_'Tis Old Death!_"

The lamp fell from his hand, and was instantly extinguished.

-----

Footnote 26:

  Mr. Brandon, in his admirable preface to Mr. Miles's work on _Poverty,
  Mendicity, and Crime_, places on record the ensuing observations:—

  "It is a generally-admitted axiom that among the uneducated, the human
  mind is more prone to evil than virtue; how greatly, then, must vice
  be disseminated, and the evil propensities encouraged, by persons of
  all descriptions, from the hardened murderer to the truant-playing
  apprentice, mingling and without one admonitory antidote to check
  them, all unemployed, all uneducated in the proper school of morality.
  The idlers, tyros in crime, or petty misdemeanants, be they boys or
  adults, will listen with eager curiosity to the gossiping of the old
  and hardened offenders, while relating to each other the exploits they
  had achieved, or when giving instruction how to escape detection in
  certain situations, which from their own experience they have been led
  to conceive the best, and to hear them plot fresh depredations to be
  committed as soon as they shall have finished the term of their
  captivity, or be set at large upon a verdict of 'not guilty;' what but
  evil can arise from such a state of congregating? the mind cannot fail
  to become contaminated in some degree, even in the best disposed among
  them; whilst others, incited by the picture of pleasure they have
  described in the event of a successful enterprise, and from the
  encouragement given to the growing desires by the hardened wretches,
  enter recklessly into the path of vice as soon as they have turned
  their backs on the prison door; future accomplices and companions of
  the 'gaol bird,' who had been their tutor; commencing their career
  perhaps by a robbery planned whilst in prison. Minds, not over strong
  nor sufficiently guarded by moral education, are easily led astray,
  and the very punishment they are enduring as a requital for faults
  committed, will be used as the rudder by which they are steered to
  crime, in persuading them that they are aggrieved victims instead of
  criminals paying the penalty due to offended justice. This is the
  certain effect of the present system, and to expect any thing like
  repentance or thorough reform in a criminal, would be ridiculous.

  "In a work published some time since, which is generally considered
  authentic, 'The Autobiography of James Hardy Vaux,' a notorious thief,
  is the following anecdote, which, as it corroborates and is
  illustrative of the facts above stated, namely, that vice is taught in
  prison, is here inserted:—

  "He (Vaux) had in a most systematic manner robbed jewellers' shops,
  and, as he conceived, every one of note had fallen under his lash. He
  was at length taken up for stealing a gold snuff-box, and committed to
  Newgate, where he made acquaintance with two brothers, both of the
  same profession as his own, and committed for a similar offence; they
  were very communicative to each other, and Vaux discovered that there
  were some of his favourite shops which had escaped his notice. 'They
  pointed out,' says the text, 'about half a dozen shops which it
  appeared I had omitted to visit, arising either from their making no
  display of their goods, or from their being situated in private
  streets where I had no idea of finding such trades. Although I had
  little hopes of acquittal, it was agreed that in the event of my being
  so fortunate that I should visit these tradesmen I had overlooked, and
  I promised, in case I was successful, to make them a pecuniary
  acknowledgment in return for their information.' He was further
  instructed in what manner to proceed, and what sort of goods to order,
  and a Mr. Belger, a first-rate jeweller in Piccadilly, was
  particularly recommended to his notice as a _good fiat_. He succeeded
  in getting acquitted, and in robbing the shops pointed out to his
  notice, when, like a 'man of honour,' he did not fail to perform his
  promise to the two brothers—his associates in Newgate. The _good fiat_
  he robbed more than once, and once too often, for Vaux was discovered
  by him at last, and through his instrumentality convicted."

Footnote 27:

  Mr. Brandon has these remarks in his Preface, just quoted
  from:—"Poverty is one of the great causes, and proceeds from both
  public and private abuse. It is the originator of minor crime, when it
  arises from want of employment commensurate to earn sufficient to
  maintain a large and growing family so often to be found in the hovels
  of the poor; of the greater offences, when it is owing to idleness,
  and a total dislike to labour, of which there are but too many
  instances, the individuals never attempting to work more days than
  will procure food, and of that a scant portion for the family, while
  for their particular self they make up the deficiency by a quantity of
  those pernicious spirits so destructive to health, and become besotted
  the rest of their time, until they are compelled to labour for a
  supply of provision; at length work fails altogether, either from a
  slackness in trade, or the party having become too enfeebled or
  besotted to use proper care and exertion. Then, with poverty staring
  him in the face, his favourite liquor refused, and he turned out of
  the same house in which he had squandered so much, when flushed with
  cash, he becomes half mad, the inflamed state of his mind from drink
  adding to it, and the wretches he had associated with in his boozing
  hours, being of the worst description, giving bad advice, he is
  tempted and fails.—But there are others who struggle in vain, and can
  only get a partial employ at most; who find, strive to their utmost,
  they cannot gain sufficient to drive 'the gaunt wolf, famine' from the
  door, and are doomed to behold the wife and children of their love,
  dearer to them than life, in a state of starvation—what wonder that
  they should be induced to steal food to soften the cravings of hunger,
  and alleviate the bitter cries of the young and helpless infants?
  Parental affection is strong, and what for himself a man would scorn
  to do, for the sake of his poor and suffering child he rushes to, and
  rather than behold his family dying in the agony of starvation, he
  begins by robbing victuals; for this he is placed in prison with a set
  of reckless vagabonds, by whom he is taught to become as degraded as
  themselves, and crime following crime, he stops not till he rises to
  the acme of his profession. Whereas, if this description of prisoners
  had been kept apart, he would have returned to society nothing the
  worse for his incarceration.—Early marriages are one of the great
  causes of poverty, a folly to which the labouring classes are greatly
  addicted, getting large families before they are enabled by their
  strength or abilities to maintain them. Dr. Granville made a very
  curious table, showing the ages at which they marry, and as his
  calculation is made upon his Lying-in Hospital Practice, which is
  confined to the lower classes, none else taking the benefit of such
  institutions, it is confirmatory of the fact, and of the extent of
  this evil."




                              CHAPTER LIX.
                           THE JEW'S FAMILY.


In the meantime Mr. de Medina had passed a happy afternoon in company
with his two daughters and little Charley Watts.

Tamar acquainted her father and sister with the generous conduct of
Rainford towards the boy, who was accordingly fetched by a servant from
the lodging which he and his adopted mother had recently occupied in the
City.

Tom Rain's kindness in respect to Charley made a deep impression upon
Mr. de Medina, who had already heard and seen enough to convince him
that the seducer of his daughter possessed many good qualities;
especially a generosity of disposition which might have made the envy of
a monarch.

Charley had been fortunately retained in complete ignorance of the real
cause of the protracted absence of him whom he called by the endearing
name of "father." He was too young to entertain suspicions or misgivings
on the subject; and the excuses which Tamar had constantly made to
account for that absence, had so far satisfied his mind, that he
entirely believed them, although he pined for the return of Rainford.
When he beheld Tamar weep, which was often—very often—he exerted himself
to console her, throwing his little arms round her neck, and yet weeping
also! Even when Tamar, with the bitterest anguish, arrayed herself in
deep black on the awful morning the results of which she could not have
possibly anticipated, she had not the heart to exchange Charley's
coloured garments for the mourning ones which had been prepared for him.
No—she threw them aside: she had not strength sufficient to place before
her own eyes an evidence of the dreadful loss which she deemed herself
that hour to sustain!

The dinner-table at Mr. de Medina's house that day, was gayer—oh! far
more gay than usual; for a forgiven daughter sate at the board—and
Charley Watts was so happy to see his "dear mamma" smile once more, and
to receive the positive assurance that he would meet his "papa" in a few
days, that it was delightful to behold his sweet countenance animated
with such heart-felt, innocent joy.

The attendance of the servants was dispensed with, in order that the
conversation might flow unreservedly; and Mr. de Medina felt the full
amount of that pleasure which consists in pardoning, as Tamar
experienced the ineffable happiness of being by a father pardoned.

And, Esther—beauteous, amiable, generous-hearted Esther,—oh! she was as
gay and smiling as she was ever wont to be in her girlhood, ere Tamar's
disgrace had carried sorrow into the heart of the family!

In the evening Mr. de Medina bade adieu to his daughters and little
Charley, and departed in a post-chaise for Dover, according to the
arrangements already made.

That night, when the sisters retired to rest, a touching scene occurred
in Esther's chamber; for this amiable girl led Tamar to her drawers, in
which she showed her all the music-books and the pictures that had been
so religiously preserved.

Then Tamar threw herself, weeping with gratitude and joy, into Esther's
arms; and delicious was the embrace of purest affection in which the
sisters clasped each other.

"Oh! how can I ever repay thee for so much love, dearest Esther?"
murmured Tamar in a tone expressive of her unfeigned sincerity.

"By thinking of me frequently when you are far away," replied Esther,
the tears streaming from her eyes as she reflected that they were no
sooner re-united than they were about to separate again—for a long, long
period—perhaps for ever!

"I shall never cease to think of thee, my Esther," answered the elder
sister, as she now began to set at liberty the shining masses of her
rich black hair, preparatory to retiring to rest; for she was to share
Esther's bed, little Charley being already asleep in an adjoining
chamber, the door of communication being left open in case he might
awake:—"no, never shall I cease, to think of thee, Esther!" repeated
Tamar; "for thou hast always manifested so much devoted affection
towards me—and then, too," she added, casting down her blushing
countenance, "thou hast endured so much for my sake!"

"Oh! have we not agreed that the past is to be forgotten?" hastily
exclaimed Esther, for a moment desisting from the occupation of laying
aside her garments. "The deeds that are gone should only engage our
thoughts when no hope survives for the future. And how much hope is
there yet for _you_!" she added, with an emphasis upon the pronoun.

Tamar started, and gazed steadfastly upon her sister's countenance; for,
apart from that emphasis which was not unnoticed, there seemed something
mournful in the sweet, liquid tones of Esther's voice.

"Hope for me!" exclaimed Tamar. "Yes—there _is_ hope of happiness for me
and for him whom I love so tenderly! But you spoke, my beloved sister,
as if there were hope for me _alone_—and that there was none for you.
Ah! Esther, have no secret from me—for I will never henceforth refuse
you my fullest confidence, in the letters which I shall address to you
so often—so very often! Esther, my sweet sister—you love!"

The maiden buried her countenance in Tamar's bosom.

"I am not deceived!" continued the latter. "Yes—you love, Esther; and
perhaps you are not loved in return? But tell me all, and I may counsel
you."

Esther murmured a name; and, as she thus whisperingly pronounced it, her
face was burning in its contact with Tamar's bosom—so deeply did she
blush in the confusion and shame of that confession of virgin love.

"The Earl of Ellingham!" cried Tamar, echoing the name which her sister
had breathed.

"Alas!—yes," answered Esther, raising her beauteous countenance, still
suffused with the rich carnation hues of modesty; "I can conceal the
truth from my own heart no longer! But he loves another——"

"Whom he can never marry," added Tamar; "and therefore, my beloved
sister, there is hope for thee!"

"Can never marry Lady Hatfield!" exclaimed Esther, in a tone of profound
surprise.

"Rainford assured me that such is the case," continued Tamar. "I am not
aware of the reason, because he did not volunteer an explanation; and it
never has been my habit to question him respecting affairs on which he
has not spoken freely of his own accord. But this much I can assure
you—that Lady Hatfield and the Earl of Ellingham will never be united,
and that they no longer entertain even the idea of such union. Do not,
therefore, perplex yourself relative to the cause of their severance, my
darling Esther; but nourish hope—for, oh! it is delicious to feed love
upon the manna of hope! And, believe me, the Earl of Ellingham already
surveys you with so much admiration—already entertains so exalted an
opinion of your character—already looks upon you with such respect, that
he cannot fail to experience feelings more tender still!"

"O Tamar! talk not thus—I may not listen to thee!" exclaimed Esther,
with fluttering heart and swelling bosom; for, model of purity and
innocence as she was, the words of her sister excited pleasurable
sensations within her breast.

And thus ever is it with the most chaste, most virtuous, and most
unsophisticated maiden, who loves for the first time!

"Nay—do not compel me to keep silence on a topic which _is_—which _must
be_ dear to your soul, my Esther," said Tamar. "Were human beings to
feel shame at loving, there would not be an unblushing cheek in the
whole world, save amongst children. Sooner or later, dear sister, every
one must feel the influence of that passion, which spares no one. Oh!
cold and cheerless, indeed, would this world be, were not the hearts of
those who have grown up, and who have cast aside the frivolities of
childhood, warmed and irradiated by the beams of Love! Feel not ashamed,
then, dearest Esther, on account of this passion which has so
imperceptibly stolen upon thee."

"But, after all you have said, Tamar," returned the coy and bashful
maiden, "I shall not be able to meet the Earl again without blushing!
And then—were I mad enough to indulge in such a hope as you would have
me nourish—remember the difference of our creeds!"

"Was it not the Earl himself who suggested the means by which
matrimonial rites could be celebrated between his own half-brother and
myself?" demanded Tamar eagerly.

"Yes," replied Esther, every feature of her fine aquiline countenance
deriving additional charms from the crimson hues which mantled on that
splendid face, and spread themselves over her arching neck, her
gracefully sloping shoulders, and the rich contours of her virgin bust,
which, in the presence of her sister, no invidious drapery now
concealed:—"yes, Tamar," she replied; "but there are other—oh! and far
more important considerations. Consider how exalted is the rank of that
great nobleman—and consider, also," she added, in a mournful tone, "how
much our race is still despised even in this land, which boasts of an
almost consummate civilisation!"

"The Earl of Ellingham, I feel convinced, despises such absurd—such
pitiful prejudices," said Tamar, labouring only to render her sister
happy by means of joyous hope. "As an enlightened man, he must recognise
how deeply his country is indebted, in respect to its wondrous
prosperity, to the commercial enterprise and the financial skill of our
nation. Moreover, do we not believe in the same God? For the Almighty
whom the Christians worship, is the same who brought our forefathers out
of Egypt, and gave them the promised land. In a word, my beloved Esther,
Arthur of Ellingham is too noble-minded a being to despise you because
you cling to the creed in which you were brought up; and something tells
me that my sister is destined to become the Countess of Ellingham."

Esther sighed, but made no response.

Tamar continued to discourse in the same inconsiderate strain for
several minutes. She was actuated by the most generous motives towards
her sister; but, in the enthusiasm of her affection and gratitude, she
forgot that she might only be exciting hopes destined never to receive a
fulfilment, and encouraging a passion which, after all, was perhaps
doomed to experience the bitterness of disappointment.

At length Esther turned towards her, and exclaimed hastily, "Tamar—if
you love me, speak on this topic no more. It may be false shame on my
part,—but it seems to me that it is unmaidenly thus to discourse on a
subject in which one, who is separated from me by so wide a gulf, is
concerned. Alas! deeply do I regret that, in a moment of weakness, I
admitted aloud that which my heart had not hitherto dared to whisper
even to itself! I should have exercised more command over myself. Oh! I
have been foolish—very foolish to permit such a thought even to assume
the faintest shape in my imagination. But we will abandon the topic;—and
again I say, Tamar—if you love me, renew it not!"

There was a minute's pause, at the expiration of which Esther began to
converse gaily and rapidly on Tamar's future prospects in the clime to
which it was contemplated that herself and Rainford were to proceed; and
the amiable girl communicated to her sister all that she had read
concerning the United States of North America.

This little manœuvre on the part of Esther was to change the topic of
discourse: and Tamar did not attempt to renew a subject which offended
the maiden pride of her sister.

Oh! happy was Tamar to sleep beneath her father's roof that night—to
know, to feel that she was in the parental dwelling again! When she
awoke once, while it was yet dark, she fancied that she had been
dreaming—so strange did all the incidents of the preceding day appear to
be—so truly incredible! But, as she stretched out her arms, they
encountered the form of her sister; and then—in the silence and
obscurity of the night—Tamar joined her hands and prayed fervently,—far,
far more fervently than she had prayed for some years past!

And, Christian! darest thou believe that the prayers of the despised
Jewess were not wafted with thine own to the throne of the Eternal?




                              CHAPTER LX.
                SIR CHRISTOPHER BLUNT'S DOMESTIC HEARTH.


It was the morning following the incidents just related; and the scene
changes to the house of Sir Christopher Blunt, in Jermyn Street.

The worthy knight and his lady were seated at breakfast.

The table literally groaned beneath the weight of the cold viands placed
upon it; for the ex-lady's-maid was particularly addicted to good
things, and she moreover thought that it was "quite the rage" to see
cold fowls, ham, tongue, Perigord pie, and all kinds of marmalades
spread for the morning repast.

Lady Blunt was in her glory of premeditated negligence and studied
_deshabillée_. She was arrayed in a pea-green silk wrapper, trimmed all
down the front with scarlet bows; and the cape was braided with the same
glaring hue, so much affected by a certain Lady of Babylon. Her cap was
decorated with ribands likewise of scarlet, and she wore red slippers.
Her appearance was indeed most flaming, as she lolled, in delightful
lassitude, in a capacious easy chair, with her foot upon an ottoman.

A stranger would have thought that so fine a lady could not possibly
touch any thing more substantial than a thin slice of toast or half a
muffin for her breakfast; but she had in reality paid her respects—and
with a good will also—to every dish upon the table.

Sir Christopher was seated opposite to her, looking like a fish out of
water; for, in order to please his dear wife—or rather, to have a little
peace and quiet in the house—he had consented to adorn his person with a
light blue dressing-gown, fastened by a gold cord and huge tassels at
the waist, and a pair of bright red trowsers, large and loose like a
Dutchman's. Moreover, a scarlet silk cap, with a long gold tassel, was
perched airily over his left ear; so that altogether he seemed as if he
were dressed out to enact the part of a Turk at a masquerade.

"Shall I cut you a _leetle_ slice more ham, my love?" enquired Sir
Christopher, in a mincing tone, as if he were afraid of receiving a box
on the ears for not speaking civilly enough.

"No, Sir Christopher," answered the lady sharply: "you shan't send me a
_leetle_ ham, as you call it. I don't like the ham—and that's flat."

"And yet, my love—that is, my dear—" remonstrated the knight gently.

"And yet what?" demanded his wife.

"I _think_ I had the pleasure of helping you three times, my love,"
added Sir Christopher, astonished at his own boldness in uttering the
words, the moment they had escaped his lips.

"Three times!" ejaculated the lady, turning as red as her ribands or as
her husband's trowsers. "And if I like to be helped six times—or nine
times, Sir Christopher—what should you say _then_?"

"Well, my love—I should say——"

"What should you say?" again asked the lady, assuming a menacing
attitude.

"Why, my love—that you had a very good appetite," responded the knight,
looking as miserable as if he expected eight finger nails to fasten on
his cheeks the very next moment.

"I have no appetite, Sir Christopher!" cried the lady in a petulant
tone, as she sank back again into her lounging attitude: "three
miserable bits of ham, and a trifle of cold pie, with may be a taste of
the chicken, and just one cut out of the tongue——"

"And two eggs, my love," suggested Sir Christopher meekly.

"Well—and two tiny eggs," continued the lady;—"I am sure all that
doesn't say much for one's appetite. Why, when I was at Lady Hatfield's,
I used to eat three great rounds of bread-and-butter, crustinesses and
all."

"But you are no longer at Lady Hatfield's, my angel," said Sir
Christopher, simpering; "you are with one who adores you—who has given
you his name—a name, I flatter myself, that carries weight with it, in
certain quarters; although, when I did so far forget myself as to put up
for Portsoken——"

"Now, Sir Christopher, pray let us have none of that nonsense, if _you_
please!" interrupted Lady Blunt, in a tone and with a manner which
showed that she knew full well she should be obeyed. "I can't a-bear to
hear even the word _Alderman_ mentioned, ever since a lady I lived with
once in the City talked something about the Guildhall police-court when
she missed the silver spoons——"

"My dear, my dear," said Sir Christopher; "you forget that you are now
Lady Blunt! Pray let us change the topic."

"Well, so we will," she cried sharply; "and I'll tell you what we'll
talk about."

"What, my best love?" asked the knight.

"Your best love!" almost shrieked the lady. "Then you must have other
loves, if I'm your best! Oh! Sir Christopher, was it to hear this that I
gave up every thing—all my prospects in life—to become yours?"

"My dear girl," said the knight meekly, "I most humbly submit to you
that I do not think you had so very much to give up when I asked you to
become Lady Blunt."

"What! do you call a good place and being my own mistress, nothing to
give up?" cried Charlotte. "Twenty-four guineas a-year, and the chance
of marrying a Duke or a Prince!"

"Well—well, my love, we will not dispute," said the knight, who in his
heart wished to God that she never _had_ given up the prospects she
spoke of; or that she _had_ married some Duke or Prince—in which latter
case Sir Christopher would not have envied either his Grace or his Royal
Highness, after the trifling experience he had already enjoyed relative
to the fair one's temper.

"No—I should think _you_ would _not_ dispute, either, Sir Christopher!"
cried the vixen, tossing her head. "But I was going to tell you what we
would talk about, when you interrupted me so rudely. I was going to say
that I do not approve of that ham—or yet the chicken—or yet the tongue;
and I do not mean to have my breakfast spoilt in this way. Ring the
bell, Sir Christopher."

"My dearest Charlotte——"

"Ring the bell, Sir Christopher!" repeated the lady in a still more
authoritative tone, as she looked daggers—nay, regular bayonets—at her
miserable husband.

The knight rang the bell accordingly, gulping down a sigh—a very
profound sigh—at the same time.

A footman answered the summons.

"John!" said the mistress of the house.

"Yes, my lady," was the reply.

"Tell Mrs. Bodkin to step up—_immediately_," added the wife of Sir
Christopher's rash choice.

"Yes, my lady;"—and the footman disappeared, thanking his stars that
_he_ was not "in for it,"—the bad humour of his mistress being very
evident indeed.

In due time Mrs. Bodkin made her appearance, in the shape of a stout,
matronly-looking female, "of a certain age," as a housekeeper ought to
be;—for Mrs. Bodkin was neither more nor less than that high female
functionary in the establishment.

"Mrs. Bodkin!" said Lady Blunt, endeavouring to distort her really
pretty face into as stern an expression as possible.

"Yes, my lady," returned the housekeeper.

"That ham is detestable, Mrs. Bodkin."

"Indeed, my lady."

"The cold fowl's abominable!"

"Sure now, my lady!"

"And the tongue frightful!"

"Lawk-a-daisy!—your ladyship don't say so!"

"I _do_ say so, though, Mrs. Bodkin!" cried Sir Christopher's better
half; "and I just tell you what it is—I don't mean to have my breakfast
spoilt in this way; and if you can't find tradesmen who'll supply good
things——"

"Why, please your ladyship," interrupted the housekeeper, quite
astounded at these accusations against comestibles which she knew to be
excellent: "Mr. Smuggs, who sent in the ham and tongue, is purveyor to
His Majesty; and——"

"Then if His Majesty chooses to put up with Mr. Smuggs's rubbish, Lady
Blunt will _not_!" exclaimed the mistress of the house, glancing
indignantly, first at the petrified Mrs. Bodkin and then at the
dumb-founded Sir Christopher.

There was, as romancists say, an awful pause.

Mrs. Bodkin knew not whether she were standing on her head or her heels:
Sir Christopher was in an equally strange state of bewilderment as to
whether he had heard aright or was labouring under a delusion; and Lady
Blunt was triumphant in the impression she had evidently made upon her
audience.

"But, my dear angel—my love," at length stammered the knight, "surely
you will not—that is, you cannot—I appeal to you, my sweet, as a woman
of sound judgment——"

"Sound fiddlestick, Sir Christopher!" interrupted her ladyship
contemptuously. "I know what I am saying, and I mean what I say. Mrs.
Bodkin, I order you once for all not to deal no more at Smuggs's; and if
you can't choose good things, you'd better pack up your things and go
about your business."

Now it happened that Mrs. Bodkin had managed, during long years of
servitude and by rigid economy, to scrape together a very comfortable
independence; and, feeling that she _was_ independent, she did not
choose, as she afterwards observed to a friend, "to put up with any of
missus's nonsense."

"Go about my business, eh!" she accordingly exclaimed. "Well, ma'am—the
sooner I do that the better, I think: for since I can't give
saytisfaction here, I'd much rayther resign at once."

"Resign!" echoed Lady Blunt, again turning red as her ribands.

"Yes, ma'am," continued the housekeeper; "_resign_ I said; and _you_
ought to know that's the right word—for I b'lieve you wasn't always used
to sit in the parlour."

"Oh! you wretch!" exclaimed Lady Blunt, now manifesting a violent
inclination to go off into hysterics. "Sir Christopher! can you sit
there and hear me insulted by that owdacious woman? Turn her out of the
house, Sir Christopher—let her bundle, neck and crop, this minute!"

"I rayther think there's no need for bundling in the matter," said the
indignant Mrs. Bodkin. "Sir Christopher is too much of a gentleman to
ill-treat me, after being eleven years in his service come next Aperil.
But I don't require no favours at _your_ hands, ma'am—leastways, I
wouldn't except them if they was offered."

And in a most stately manner Mrs. Bodkin walked out of the room, leaving
the door wide open behind her.

"Sir Christopher!" exclaimed Lady Blunt, bursting into tears—but tears
of rage, and not shame.

"Yes, my love," said the knight, who was rendered so nervous by this
scene that he appeared to be labouring under incipient _delirium
tremens_.

"You're a brute, Sir Christopher!" cried the angel in the pea-green
wrapper and the red bows.

"My dear!—my love!" stammered the knight. "It was not my fault—you
brought it on yourself—I really think——"

"Oh! I did, did I?" screeched Charlotte; and, unable to control the fury
of her passion, she darted upon Sir Christopher, adown whose cheeks the
marks of her nails were in another moment rendered most disagreeably
visible.

"Lady Blunt!" vociferated the miserable man, struggling to extricate
himself from the power of the fury.

"There! now I've taught you not to nag me on another time," said
Charlotte, throwing herself back into her chair, already sorry and
ashamed for what she had done, but too deeply imbued with vulgar and
mean-spirited pride to manifest the least proof of such compunction.

Sir Christopher wiped his bleeding face with his cambric
pocket-handkerchief: but his heart was too full to speak. He felt all
the indignity which he had just sustained—and yet he had not courage
enough to resent it.

The embarrassment of the newly-married pair was relieved, or rather
interrupted, by a loud and unusually long double knock, which at that
moment awoke every echo, not only in the house itself, but also half-way
up Jermyn Street.

A few minutes elapsed, and then the footman entered the
breakfast-parlour to announce to Sir Christopher that a gentleman, who
had been shown into the drawing-room, wished to speak to him immediately
upon most urgent business.

At the same time the servant placed upon the table a card, bearing the
name of CAPTAIN O'BLUNDERBUSS.

"Tell the gentleman I'll be with him in a moment, John," said Sir
Christopher.

The servant bowed and retired.

"Do you know who he is?" asked Lady Blunt.

"No, I do not," responded the knight, more sulkily than he had ever yet
dared to speak to his wife.

"Come, now, Sir Christopher," exclaimed her ladyship; "don't have any of
your ill-humours with me, because I can't a-bear them. Say you're sorry
for what you've done, and I'll not only forgive you, but also patch your
face for you with diakkulum plaster. Come, now—do what I tell you."

And as her ladyship seemed to examine her finger nails, as she spoke, in
a manner which portended her readiness to make another onslaught, the
miserable husband muttered a few words of abject apology for an offence
which he had not committed, and the amiable Charlotte vouchsafed a
pardon which she should rather have besought than bestowed.

Then there was a little fond—or rather foolish kissing and hugging; and
this farce being concluded, the lady hastened to fulfil her promise
relative to the diachylon plaster.

When this operation was likewise ended, Sir Christopher cast a rueful
glance into the looking-glass over the mantel; and never did a more
miserable wight see reflected a more woefully patched countenance. The
wretchedness depicted on that face, apart from the long slips of plaster
stuck upon the cheeks, contrasted in a most ludicrous fashion with the
absurd splendour of the knight's morning attire; and, to use a common
phrase, he wished himself at the devil, as he wended his mournful way to
the drawing-room.




                              CHAPTER LXI.
                         CAPTAIN O'BLUNDERBUSS.


Captain O'Blunderbuss was a gentleman of Irish extraction, and,
according to his own account, possessed of vast estates in the Emerald
Island; but it was evident to all his friends that the rents were very
irregularly paid, inasmuch as their gallant proprietor was frequently
under the necessity of soliciting the loan of a guinea, and when he
could not obtain that sum, his demand would suddenly drop to
half-a-crown or even eighteen-pence.

But whenever the Captain talked of his estates, no one ventured to
suggest a doubt relative to their existence; for the gallant officer was
a notorious duellist, having been engaged as principal in thirty-seven
of those pleasant little contests, and as second in ninety-two more.

He was about forty-five years of age, and of exceedingly fierce
appearance. His crown was entirely bald; but huge bushes of red hair
stuck out between his temples and his ears—enormous whiskers of the same
meteoric hue and portent covered half his face—and a formidable pair of
moustaches, red also, curled ominously over his upper lip, the ends
being twisted and greased so as to look like two small tails.

In person he was tall, thin, but not ill-made. He held himself
particularly upright; and as he wore a military undress coat, all
frogged and braided in the Polish fashion, and grey trousers with red
stripes down the legs, he really looked like what he called himself and
was called by others—namely, a CAPTAIN.

But he was not wont to be more explicit relative to his military
services than he was definite concerning the locality of his estates. No
one knew, and assuredly no one ever ventured to ask him, to what
regiment he had belonged. He stated himself to be _unattached_; and that
was sufficient.

We should, as faithful chroniclers, observe that it _had_ been
whispered—but then, scandal is so rife in this wicked world!—that
Captain O'Blunderbuss was never in the army at all, and that his
formidable name was merely an assumed one; and the newsmongers who
propagated these reports behind the gallant gentleman's back, not only
ridiculed the idea of his estates, but actually carried their malignant
spite so far as to insinuate that he was once the driver of a
jaunting-car in Dublin, and at that period bore the name of Teddy
O'Flaherty.

Be all this as it may, it is nevertheless very certain that Captain
O'Blunderbuss was a great man about town—that he was nodded to by
loungers in the Park—shaken hands with by dandies in Bond Street—and
invariably chosen as a second in every duel that took place on Wormwood
Scrubs, Wimbledon Common, or Battersea Fields.

Such was the terrible individual who was standing on the rug, in a most
ferocious attitude, when Sir Christopher Blunt entered the drawing-room.

The Captain desisted from twirling his moustaches, and indulged in a
good long stare at the knight, whose half-ludicrous, half-doleful
appearance was certainly remarkable enough to attract an unusual degree
of attention.

"You resayved my car-r-d, Sir Christopher Blunt?" said the Captain,
speaking in a strong Irish accent, and rattling the r in a truly
menacing manner.

"Yes, sir—I received the card of Captain O'Blunderbuss," replied Sir
Christopher, not knowing what to think or make of his strange visitor.

"And, sure, I'm Capthain O'Blunther-r-buss!" exclaimed the military
gentleman, twirling his moustache; "and I've come on the par-rt of my
friend Capthain Morthaunt—an honour-r-able man, Sir-r Christopher
Blunt!" added the gentleman emphatically, looking awfully fierce at the
same time, just as if the unfortunate knight entertained the idea of
questioning the honour of Captain Mordaunt.

"I—I've no doubt of it, sir," stammered the intimidated Blunt, looking
more wretched in proportion as the tone of his visitor became more
excited.

"By the power-rs, I'm glad ye don't doubt it!" cried the Captain; "or
you'd find yerself desayved in yer man. Well, Sir-r Christopher, the
shor-t and the long of the affair is just this:—My friend Capthain
Mordaunt feels himself aggraved on behalf of his sisther-r, and he's put
the little business into my hands to manage for-r him."

"I'm convinced that Captain Mordaunt could not have chosen a better
friend, Captain O'Blunderbuss," said the knight, scarcely able to utter
a word, so sorely was he oppressed by vague alarms. "But I hope—that is,
I mean, I—in a word——"

"What do ye mane?" demanded the Captain, advancing a pace or two towards
the knight.

"Oh! nothing—only——" stammered Sir Christopher, dodging round the table,
for fear that the formidable O'Blunderbuss intended an attack upon him.

"Only what, man?" vociferated the Captain. "Sure, now, ye don't think
I'm afther ayting ye up!"

"No—oh! no! I'm not afraid of any gentleman eating me, exactly,"
observed Sir Christopher. "But if you would state the object of your
visit——"

"Be Jasus! and that's soon done!" exclaimed Captain O'Blunderbuss. "The
shor-rt facts is these:—Capthain Morthaunt is mightily attached to his
sisther-r, Miss Julia, who's a most amiable lady—for I've jist been
breakfasting with her-r and her-r brother at their lodgings in Half Moon
Street. Miss Morthaunt, as per-rhaps you are aware, returned home to her
father's mansion—a sweet place, by the bye, in Connamar-r-ra—when you
desayved her in the most gross—the most infamous manner, by running away
with a lady's-maid instead of her dear self——"

"Captain O'Blunderbuss," said Sir Christopher, "she of whom you speak is
now Lady Blunt."

"And much good may she do ye, Sir Christopher!" exclaimed the Captain.
"But, as I was saying, Miss Morthaunt comes back to London again,
smar-rting under the influence of her wrongs, which her brother has
resolved to avenge. And, therefore, Sir Christopher, you'll be so good
as jist to say whether it shall be on Wor-rmwood Scr-rubs or Wimbledon
Common; and we'll be there punctual to-morrow morning at eight o'clock."

The worthy knight looked perfectly aghast. He began to understand the
real drift of Captain O'Blunderbuss's visit; and he entertained the most
unmitigated abhorrence of the mere idea of a duel.

"Well, Sir Christopher, say the wor-rd!" resumed the gallant gentleman
with as much unconcern as if he were making arrangements for a party of
pleasure. "But per-rhaps ye'd like to consult a frind—or refer-r me to
him. That's the best way! Leave it to your frind and me; and we'll
settle everything so comfortable that you'll not have the least throuble
in the wor-rld. You can get your breakfast a thrifle earlier than
usual——"

"Breakfast!" echoed Sir Christopher, in a deep sepulchral tone;
"breakfast—when one is going out to be shot at!"

"Be the power-rs! and why not?" demanded the warlike Captain. "But here
we are, wasting our precious time, while we ought to be settling the
little business and thrying the pisthols at the Gallery."

"The pistols!" groaned Sir Christopher, his visage lengthening most
awfully, and his under-jaw completely dropping through intense alarm.

"Be Jasus! and what would ye fight with, if it isn't pisthols?" cried
the Captain.

"But pistols—pistols are so apt to—to—kill people," observed the knight,
shaking from head to foot.

"Is it afraid ye are?" demanded Captain O'Blunderbuss, twirling his
moustache, as he surveyed Sir Christopher with cool contempt.

"I do not admit such an imputation," answered the knight; "but I will
not fight with this mad-cap Mordaunt. The law shall be my protection. I
am my own master—I married whom I chose—and I will not be bullied by any
man living."

The astonishment depicted on the countenance of Captain O'Blunderbuss,
as these words met his ears, was mistaken by the knight for a feeling of
apprehension; and thus he had grown bold, or at least energetic in his
language, as he had proceeded.

"Yes, sir," he added emphatically, "the law shall protect me."

"Is it shir-rking that ye mane?" asked the Captain. "Because, if it is,
I shall feel myself bound to administer a dacent drubbing to ye, Sir
Christopher. Why, sir—it's a rale insult to _me_ to refuse to fight with
my frind!"

And, as he uttered these words, the Captain advanced in a menacing
fashion towards the knight.

"Keep off, sir! don't attempt violence against me!" exclaimed Sir
Christopher Blunt, rushing towards the fire-place to seize the poker.
"I'll not stand it, Captain O'Blunderbuss—I have been a Sheriff in my
time—I once put up for Portsoken—and I'll not submit to any insult."

"Then name your frind, sir!" thundered the gallant officer; "or-r I'll
not lave a whole bone in your skin."

"Well—I will, I will!" ejaculated Sir Christopher, anxious to get rid of
his fire-eating visitor on any terms. "Go to my nephew, Mr. Frank
Curtis: he has killed his man often enough—according to his own
account——"

"Be the power-rs! that jist suits me to a tay!" exclaimed the Captain;
"for may be he and me could jist amuse ourselves with an exchange of
shots afther you and my frind Morthaunt have settled your own small
thrifle. 'T would be a perfect God-send to me; and I've no doubt your
nev-vy will be of the same mind. Where does he hang out?"

Sir Christopher hastily mentioned the address of Mr. Frank Curtis; and
Captain O'Blunderbuss stalked away, hugely delighted at the idea of
being about to form the acquaintance of a gentleman every way so worthy
of his friendship as the knight's nephew appeared to be.

Fierce indeed was the aspect of Captain O'Blunderbuss as he marched
through the streets to the address indicated by the knight; and to the
great joy of the military gentleman, he found, on his arrival, that Mr.
Frank Curtis was at home.

"But he's not up yet, sir," said the spruce-looking tiger who opened the
front door at which the Captain had given one of his tremendous double
knocks.

"Never mind, my boy," exclaimed the visitor in an awe-inspiring tone.
"Your masther will be glad to see me, or I'm mightily desayved."

"What name shall I say, sir?" inquired the tiger.

"Faith! and I'll just take my name up along with me, my lad," returned
the Captain. "Which floor may it be now?"

"First floor, sir,—and the bed-room's at the back."

"By Jasus! you're a smar-rt lad, and a credit to your masther!"
exclaimed the Captain. "The next time I come, I'll make ye a present of
sixpence."

And with these words Captain O'Blunderbuss marched up stairs.

On reaching the landing, he knocked at the back-room door with his fist,
as if he were practising how to fell an ox; and to this peremptory
summons an invitation to "come in" was returned.

The Captain accordingly stalked into the chamber, where Mr. Frank Curtis
was breakfasting in bed, a table well spread being drawn up close by the
side of his couch.

"Be Jasus! I knew you was a boy afther my own heart!" ejaculated the
Captain, as he caught sight of a bottle of whiskey which stood near the
tea-pot: then, closing the door, he advanced up to the bed, and, pulling
off his buckskin glove, said, "Misther Curtis, here's my hand. Tip us
your's, my boy—and let's know each other without any more pother."

Mr. Frank Curtis accepted the proffered hand with delight; for the
amiable deportment of the visitor now relieved his mind from the vague
fears that had been excited in it by the unceremonious entry and
ferocious appearance of the Captain.

"And how are ye, Misther Curtis?" continued this gentleman, drawing a
chair close to the bed, and depositing his gloves in his hat, and his
hat on the table.

"Quite blooming, old fellow, thank'ee!" returned Frank, to whom all this
familiarity was by no means displeasing. "But what will you take? shall
I ring for another cup and plate? or will you take a dram of the
whiskey?"

"The potheen, my boy—the potheen for me!" exclaimed the Captain,
grasping the bottle.

"You'll find it rather good, I fancy," said Curtis. "My friend the
Russian Ambassador sent it round last night, with his best respects——"

"And my respects to him and to you both!" cried the Captain: then,
having drained his glass, he drew a long breath, and said, "Be Jasus!
that's some of the right sor-rt!"

"Help yourself then, old fellow!" said Frank, in as free and easy a
manner as if he had known his visitor all his life. "I can get plenty
more where that came from. Old Brandyokouski, the Polish Ambassador's
butler, has had orders to give me the entire run of his master's cellar;
for me and his Excellency are as thick as two thieves. He is pestering
me from morning to night to dine with him——"

"No wonther, Misther Curtis!" interrupted the Captain; "for you're the
most agreeable jintleman I've the honour to be acquainted with."

"And what's your name, old boy?" asked Frank, as he proceeded with his
breakfast.

"Captain O'Blunderbuss, at your service, my dear frind," was the answer,
while the individual who gave it helped himself to another glass of the
whiskey, which was certainly the best that the _Stilton Cheese_ round
the corner could supply.

"Delighted to form your acquaintance, Captain!" exclaimed Curtis,
suddenly becoming a trifle less familiar,—for the name was well known to
him, in connexion too with the notoriety of a duellist. "And might I
inquire what business——"

"Oh! we'll talk about that presently," interrupted the Captain. "Your
uncle, Sir-r Christopher Blunt, recommended you to me in the strongest
ter-rms—the most flatter-ring ter-rms, I may say——"

"Indeed!" ejaculated Mr. Curtis, with unfeigned surprise—for he had not
seen, nor spoken to the knight for some weeks.

"Be the power-rs! he gave you a splindid char-r-acter, Misther Curtis!"
cried Captain O'Blunderbuss; "and it was quite longing to know ye, I
was. But we'll talk on business presently. I'm in no hurry—and we'll
have a cozie chat first. May be my name is not altogether strange to
ye?"

"By no means," answered Curtis, now thoroughly convinced that the object
of his new friend's visit was altogether of an amicable character. "I
have heard of your renown, and must say that I have envied it. But I've
done a little in the same line myself—chiefly in France, though. I'll be
bound the name of the Marquis of Soupe-Maigre is not unknown to you."

"Yes—I've heard spake of it," returned the Captain, helping himself to
another glass of whiskey.

"Well—the Duke and me fought with small swords for three hours one
morning," continued Frank; "and at length I managed to scratch the
little finger of his left hand. In France, you know, a duel always ends
when the first blood is drawn; and so the Count flung away his sword,
acknowledged that I'd beat him, and we've been bosom friends ever
since."

"Give me your hand, my broth of a boy!" exclaimed the Captain: "I was
not desayved in you! You're as fine spirited as your potheen. Why! be
the power-rs, you're a confir-rmed duellist."

"To be sure! and I have killed my man, too," responded Frank, delighted
to perceive that he had made a deep impression on his companion. "There
was the famous Spaniard, you know—what was his name again? Oh! ah! Don
Juan Stiletto del Guerilla! He was a dreadful fellow—the terror of all
Paris, where he was staying when I was also there. Well, one evening—it
was at the King's fancy-ball—this Portuguese fellow gave himself such
airs that there was no bearing him. He insulted all the gentlemen, and
smirked at all the ladies. At length the Archbishop of Paris, who was in
full canonicals, appealed to me to put down the insolent Italian; I
undertook the task—and picked a quarrel with him in no time. The ladies
all looked upon me as one devoted to death: and though I say it who
shouldn't, a great deal of tender sympathy was shown towards me. Well,
next morning me and the German met on the very top of Montmartre; and in
a quarter of an hour my gentleman was weltering in his blood. That
affair won for me the love of the beautiful Countess of Dunkirk:—but she
is gone down to the tomb—and I am left behind to mourn her loss!"

And Mr. Frank Curtis took a large bite of a muffin, doubtless to subdue
the sigh which rose to his lips at this sad reminiscence.

"Be the holy poker-r! it's a touching business," cried the Captain, who
had by this time fully seen through the mendacious braggadocio of Mr.
Frank Curtis, and had come to the conclusion that he was as great a
coward in reality as his uncle.

But the gallant Captain O'Blunderbuss did not choose to suffer the young
gentleman to perceive that he understood him, as the whiskey was too
much to his taste to allow him to lose the chance of emptying the bottle
by a too precipitate rupture.

Frank, firmly believing that all his fine stories were taken as gospel
by his visitor, rattled away in his usual style—heaping lie upon lie at
such a rate, that, had his falsehoods been mountains, the piling thereof
would have outdone the feats of Titan with Ossa and Pelion.

At length the Captain began to thrust in a few words edgeways, as the
contents of the bottle got lower and lower.

"Your uncle, Misther Curtis, seems a nice old jintleman. His face was
rarely plasthered this mornin', as if he'd been in the war-r-rs a
thrifle or so."

"Perhaps his wife had been giving him a taste of her claws?" said Frank,
with a coarse giggle.

"Be Saint Path-rick! and that's just what struck me!" exclaimed the
Captain.

"She's a very devil, I know," continued Frank. "But, I say, old
fellow—what little business was it that took you to old Sir
Christopher's, and made him refer you to me?"

[Illustration]

"Is it the little business?" cried the Captain. "Och? and be Jasus!
then, it's jist that affair of my friend Morthaunt, who manes to shoot
Sir Christopher-r to-mor-r-row mor-r-r-ning before breakfast."

"Shoot Sir Christopher!" ejaculated Frank, apparently more surprised
than annoyed.

"Or else jist get shot himself, be the power-rs!" added Captain
O'Blunderbuss. "And it's becase it's myself that's Morthaunt's frind,
Sir Christopher has referred me to you as his frind."

"Then it's a regular duel?" said Frank, opening his eyes wider and
wider.

"The purtiest little affair I ever had a finger in, Misther Curtis,"
responded the Captain, now looking tremendously fierce; for although he
had imbibed at least a pint of pure spirit without experiencing the
least inconvenience in respect to his brain, the effects were
nevertheless apparent in an awful rubicundity of countenance: "the
purtiest little affair, certainly," he continued; "and it now only
remains for you and me jist to settle the place—time being of cour-rse
in the mornin at eight."

"And do you mean to say that my old uncle has agreed to fight this duel
with Captain Mordaunt?" inquired Frank.

"Be Jasus! it's for you to bring him to the scratch, Misther Curtis; or
else——"

"Or else what?" demanded the young gentleman, oppressed by a vague
presentiment of evil.

"Or else, be the holy poker-r! you must fight _me_!" returned Captain
O'Blunderbuss, twirling his moustache in the coolest and calmest manner
possible.

"Fight _you_?" ejaculated Frank, turning ashy pale.

"As a matther of cour-rse!" answered the Captain. "A famous duellist
like Misther Curtis, can't be at a loss on a point of honour."

"But why the devil should I fight _you_?" demanded the young gentleman,
his heart palpitating audibly.

"Why the devil shouldn't ye?" vociferated Captain O'Blunderbuss. "Answer
me that, my frind?"

"My dear sir—it's really—I mean, you—that is to say, I think, with all
due deference——" stammered Frank, growing every moment more and more
alarmed.

"Be Jasus! I've said nothing I don't mane to stick to!" exclaimed the
martial gentleman, now assuming an expression of countenance so fierce
that Frank Curtis began to have serious misgivings that his visitor
intended to assault him then and there.

"But, my dear Captain——this proceeding——" said Frank, assuming a tone of
excruciating politeness.

"Is going on beautifully, Misther Curtis. And so, as you seem to have a
little delicacy in putting yourself too for-rward in the matther,"
continued the Captain, "we'll jist say Battersea Fields, to-morrow
mornin', at eight o'clock. Good bye, Misther Curtis."

With these words the Captain took up his hat, and stalked majestically
out of the room, banging the door violently after him.

Frank Curtis fell back in his bed, and gave vent to his feelings in a
deep groan.

The door opened again with a crash; and the Captain thrust in his
inflamed visage, exclaiming, "Ye'll remember, Misther Curtis, that I
hould ye responsible in this matther; and that if ye can't bring the
uncle to the scratch, ye must come yourself; or, be Jasus! I'll be
afther ye to the inds of the ear-rth!"

The head was withdrawn again, and the door once more slammed violently.

Frank Curtis gave a hollow moan, thrust himself down in the bed, and
drew the clothes over his face, as if to shut out some dreadful spectre
from his sight.




                             CHAPTER LXII.
                        FRANK'S EMBARRASSMENTS.


Thus remained Mr. Frank Curtis for some minutes—each moment expecting
that the bed-room door would again open, and that the voice of the
terrible Irishman would once more convey some hideous menace to his
ears.

But Captain O'Blunderbuss had fairly departed this time; and at length
the miserable young man slowly pushed down the clothes, and glanced
timidly round the room.

It was no dream—as for an instant he had endeavoured to make himself
believe that it was; for there was the chair in the very place where the
Captain had sate—there also was the bottle which the Captain had
condescended to empty.

"A duel!" groaned Frank, in a sepulchral voice—he who had fought so many
in imagination!

Then he remembered that there existed a means of averting all danger
from himself; and, elated by the sudden thought, he leapt nimbly from
his bed, with the affectionate intention of proceeding forthwith to his
uncle, and compelling the old gentleman to go forth and be shot at,
whether by Captain Mordaunt or Captain O'Blunderbuss, Frank did not care
a fig.

Having hastily dressed himself, the young gentleman hurried off to
Jermyn Street: and, on his arrival, he was surprised to find the
knight's travelling-carriage at the door, while the servants were busily
employed in piling up portmanteaus, and hat-boxes, and bandboxes, and
carpet-bags.

"Halloa!" cried Frank to Jeffreys, the groom, who was in the act of
hoisting one of the aforesaid articles of luggage to another servant who
stood upon the roof of the vehicle: "what does all this mean?"

"Means travelling, Mr. Frank," responded the domestic. "The order was
given in a violent hurry—and so I haven't a moment to spare. But here's
master and her ladyship."

And, sure enough, Sir Christopher and Lady Blunt made their appearance
at that instant, the former enveloped in his great coat and with a silk
handkerchief tied round all the lower part of his face,—and Charlotte
muffled in a splendid cloak.

"I say, Sir Christopher!" cried Frank: "this won't do at any price, you
know."

"What won't do, sir?" demanded the knight in a stern tone. "Now, then,
Jeffreys—down with the steps."

"Yes, sir:"—and the steps were lowered accordingly.

Frank stood aghast, as he saw the knight hand his better half into the
carriage: and the said better half pouted up her really pretty mouth in
a disdainful manner as she passed the forlorn youth.

Sir Christopher was about to follow her into the vehicle, when Frank
suddenly seized him by the skirts of his great coat, exclaiming, "You
shan't sneak off in this manner: you shall stay to—to——"

"To what?" growled Sir Christopher from the depths of the silk
handkerchief which came up to his nose.

"To be shot at!" returned Frank, almost driven to desperation.

The lady inside uttered a scream—Sir Christopher gave a desperate groan,
and, breaking away from his nephew, rushed into the carriage—Jeffreys
put up the steps and banged the door—and the vehicle rolled away,
leaving Curtis standing alone on the pavement, the very picture of the
most ludicrous despair.

What was to be done now? The formidable Captain O'Blunderbuss held
him—yes, _him_—Frank Curtis—answerable for the appearance of Sir
Christopher Blunt on the field of battle; otherwise——but the alternative
was too dreadful to think of!

What, then, _was_ to be done? Frank saw the impossibility of nerving
himself so as to encounter the desperate fire-eater; and yet he knew
that the Captain would find him out, even if he removed his abode from
the West-End to West Smithfield.

Yet something _must_ be done—and that speedily; for it was now two
o'clock in the afternoon—and next morning at eight the Captain would
expect him at the place of appointment.

An idea struck Frank:—he would go and consult Mr. Howard, the attorney.

To that gentleman's offices he accordingly repaired, composing himself
by the way as well as he could, so as not to express by his countenance
the alarms which agitated within his breast.

Mr. Howard was disengaged, and gave him an immediate audience.

"Well, I hope you're satisfied, now that you hanged that poor fellow
yesterday morning," said Frank, as he took the chair to which the
solicitor pointed.

"It was a duty which I owed to society," returned Howard, laconically,
as if the subject were not altogether a pleasant one.

"What an idea!" ejaculated Frank. "But, however, it is done, and can't
be undone. After all, he was a brave fellow—a man just such as I could
have admired, barring the highway part of his calling. And now, you who
are such a stickler about duties to society, and so on—suppose you
heard, for instance, that a duel was going to take place between some
friends of yours and another party—of course you'd do all you could to
stop it—you'd go to Bow Street, and you'd give private information
concerning the _where_ and the _when_;—or perhaps you'd speak openly,
and get the persons bound over to keep the peace—eh?"

"I should not do anything of the kind," answered Howard, who already
began to suspect that Mr. Frank Curtis had some special reason of his
own for speaking with so much earnestness—indeed, with such an air of
appeal, as he now displayed.

"You wouldn't—eh?" exclaimed Frank, grievously disappointed at the
ill-success of his little manœuvre. "And why not?"

"Because I should only lose my time for nothing," responded Mr. Howard.

"The devil! Then, did you get Tom Rain hanged because the prosecution
put money into your pocket?" demanded Frank.

"Did you merely come to chatter with me, or on business?" asked the
lawyer evasively. "If the former, I am busy—if the latter, make haste
and explain yourself."

"Well—the fact is," continued Frank, now feeling certain that the entire
affair of Tom Rain's prosecution was a very sore subject with the
lawyer,—"the fact is, I wanted to speak to you about a little matter—in
which my precious old uncle has placed me in a complete fix——not that I
care about a duel, you know—I'd see a duel damned first, before I'd care
for it—still——"

"Still you would rather not fight it?" observed Mr. Howard, with a
slight curl of the lip.

"You see, my dear fellow," proceeded Curtis, "that I have so many
affairs of my own to attend to, I really cannot undertake to conduct
those of other people. There's my marriage with Mrs. Goldberry coming
off in a few days——and now, bother to it! up starts this
duel-business——"

"Do explain yourself, Frank!" exclaimed Howard impatiently.

"Well, I will—and in a few words, too. It seems that Captain Mordaunt
has taken a tiff at my uncle's conduct towards his sister; and so he
sends Captain O'Blunderbuss——"

"Captain O'Blunderbuss, eh!" ejaculated the attorney, now becoming
suddenly interested in the narrative of Mr Curtis.

"Yes: a terrible-looking, wild Irishman," returned this young gentleman:
"but he didn't frighten me, though——_I_ should think not! Do you know
him?"

"Only by name," answered Mr. Howard coolly, as he glanced at a
suspicious-looking slip of parchment that lay upon his desk. "But go
on."

"Well, this O'Blunderbuss, it appears, goes to my uncle, who refers him
to me—naturally enough, seeing that I am pretty well experienced in all
matters of duelling," pursued Frank. "So the Captain calls on me a
couple of hours ago; and we discuss the business in a very friendly way.
Every thing is settled pleasantly enough; but before the Captain takes
his leave, I catch hold of him by the button, and let him know that if
he fails to produce his principal on the ground to-morrow morning, after
all the trouble entailed on me, I shall hold _him_ answerable
accordingly. The Captain looks rather glum at that, because I did tumble
down upon him a little unexpectedly with my threat. However, he agrees;
and we separate. But, lo and behold! I go to Sir Christopher to tell him
how comfortably I have settled the whole business for him—and he is
gone—fled—bolted—mizzled—cut his stick—baggage and all, including his
wife!"

"And, therefore," observed Howard coolly, "you will have to fight
Captain O'Blunderbuss, because _you_ will not be able to produce _your_
principal."

"It's just this that bothers me," exclaimed Frank. "If the man had
offended me, I shouldn't of course mind: in that case, one of us should
never quit the ground alive—for I'm a desperate fellow, when once I am
in earnest. But here's a poor devil who has never done me any injury,
but who seems to me to be a capital hand at the whiskey-bottle,—and my
fire-eating temper places us both in that position which compels _him_
almost, poor creature! to insist on our exchanging shots. I really feel
for the Captain——"

"And not at all for yourself, Frank?" said the lawyer, in his usual
quiet manner.

"Oh! not an atom!" ejaculated Mr. Curtis. "But don't you admit that
something ought to be done to prevent Captain O'Blunderbuss from
becoming the victim of a display of temper so unjust and uncalled for on
my part? I wish to heaven my friend the Duke of the Tower Hamlets was in
town—he would pretty soon put matters on a proper footing, and save me
from the chance of killing a man that has never injured me. But as his
lordship the Marquis is _not_ in town, why—I must throw myself on your
friendship."

"Well—I will undertake to prevent the duel, in this case," said Howard,
speaking as quietly as if he believed every word of Mr. Frank Curtis's
version of the affair.

"Will you, though?" cried the young man, unable to conceal his joy.

"I will indeed," returned Howard: "so make your mind perfectly easy on
that head. Where is the duel—or rather, where ought it to take place?"

"In Battersea Fields, to-morrow morning, at eight precisely," answered
Frank.

"Very good," said the lawyer. "Now, you must be with me at a quarter
before seven—here, at my office; and I will have a chaise ready to take
us there."

"But need we go at all?" asked Frank, his countenance suddenly assuming
a woeful expression again.

"We _must_ go to the field," replied the solicitor; "but trust to me to
settle the matter when we _do_ get there. Again I tell you not to make
yourself uneasy: I will guarantee the complete settlement of the
affair—and in a most peremptory manner too."

"Thank'ee kindly," returned Frank, again reassured. "You have taken a
load from my breast: not that I care about fighting, you know—but it
must be in a good cause. That was just what I said when my best friend,
the Prince of Scandinavia——"

"There's enough of it for the present, Frank," interrupted the lawyer.
"Leave the affair to me—and I shall manage it to your complete
satisfaction. Be here at a quarter to seven—not a minute later—to-morrow
morning,—and now you must permit me to attend to my own engagements."

Frank Curtis took the hint and his leave accordingly, wondering how the
lawyer would so manage matters as to subdue the terrible fire-eating
propensities of the redoubtable Captain O'Blunderbuss. Nevertheless, the
young man placed implicit reliance upon Mr. Howard's promise; and it was
with a comparatively light heart that he sped towards use dwelling of
Mrs. Goldberry, in Baker Street.




                             CHAPTER LXIII.
                    THE MEETING IN BATTERSEA FIELDS.


According to instructions given to his landlady, Mr. Frank Curtis was
called at a quarter to six on the morning following the incidents just
related; and leaping from his warm bed, he proceeded, with quivering
limbs and chattering teeth, to strike a light.

Having, after a great deal of trouble, persuaded the short wick of his
candle to catch the flame of the match which he held to it, he drew
aside the window-curtains and looked forth to ascertain the nature of
the weather.

The result of this survey was by no means reassuring; for a mizzling
rain was falling, and a cheerless mist appeared to hang against the
window.

Frank closed the curtains again, and looked wistfully at the bed, as if
he were more than half inclined to return to it, and leave Captain
O'Blunderbuss to do his worst;—but, on second thoughts, he knew that
this was a hazardous venture—and, accordingly, he began to huddle on a
portion of his garments.

Then commenced the process of shaving—always an unpleasant one, but
doubly so by candle-light, and when the hand is so nervous that the
chances are equal whether you mow off the hirsute stubble or the tip of
your nose.

"Bother to this razor!" cried Frank: "it won't cut at all this morning!"

The fault was not, however, in the razor, but with him who wielded it.

At length, by dint of reiterated scraping, and steadying the right wrist
with the left hand, Mr. Frank Curtis managed to achieve this portion of
his toilette.

When occupied with his ablutions, he thought that the water had never
appeared so icy cold before; and his teeth chattered like a box of
dominoes rattling.

The fact was, that the nearer the eventful moment approached, the more
alarmed became this heroic young gentleman, lest the lawyer should
disappoint him, or deceive himself, in the task of taming the formidable
Captain O'Blunderbuss.

It was half-past six before Mr. Curtis quitted his bed-room; and he had
just time to take a cup of coffee in his sitting apartment while the
girl of the house ran to fetch a cab. She speedily returned with, or
rather _in_ the vehicle; but when Mr. Curtis had taken her place, he
perceived to his dismay that the horse had such an unpleasant knack of
suddenly bolting round each corner he came to, and the driver was
already so drunk, even at that early hour in the morning, that the
chances were decidedly in favour of an upset.

He, however, reached the lawyer's office in safety, though not before
the clocks at the West-End were striking seven.

A hackney-coach was already waiting at the door; and the moment Frank
rang the office-bell, Mr. Howard appeared.

"Come, jump in—we have not a minute to lose," said the latter.

Frank accordingly entered the coach, in which, to his surprise, he found
two ill-looking, shabbily-dressed fellows ensconced. Mr. Howard followed
him—the door was closed hastily—and away rolled the vehicle in a
westerly direction.

Mr. Curtis was now enabled to examine at his ease—or rather at his
leisure, for easy he was not—the two individuals just mentioned.

One was a man of about forty, dressed in seedy black, and with a beard
of at least three days' growth, and a shirt that seemed as if it had
been worn and slept in too for a fortnight. His face was pale and
cadaverous, and its expression sinister in the extreme. His companion
was worse-looking and dirtier still; but _his_ countenance was red and
bloated with intemperance. He carried a stout stick in his hand, and
smelt awfully of rum.

"Got your pistols, Frank?" inquired Mr. Howard, when the coach had moved
off the pavement.

"Pistols!" repeated the young gentleman, turning dreadfully pale. "I
thought you—you—you——"

And his teeth chattered violently.

"I know what I promised; and what I promised I will perform," responded
the attorney. "But I thought you might like to make a show of an
intention to fight, before I interfered."

"Oh! you know I never bully," exclaimed Frank. "If I made a show of
fighting, as you call it, I _would_ fight—and not pretend merely."

"Well—just as you like," observed Howard. "We will settle the business
the instant we get down there."

"But is the gen'leman sartain the Cap'ain'll be there?" asked the man
with the stout stick and the red face.

"Hold your tongue, Proggs!" growled his companion in the shabby black.
"These gen'lemen know what they're up to."

Silence then prevailed in the vehicle; and Frank Curtis sate wondering
who the strange-looking twain could be. At last he came to the
conclusion that they must be constables whom Mr. Howard had called into
requisition for the laudable purpose of putting a stop to the duel.
Still, such seedy constables were seldom seen: but then, reasoned Frank
within himself, they might perhaps be in a state of insolvency—a
suspicion certainly warranted by their outward appearance.

The mist-like rain continued; and, though the morning grew a trifle
brighter, it was in a very sickly manner. Frank had seldom felt more
dispirited in his life, the weather leaguing itself with his own vague
apprehensions to render him utterly miserable.

At length the coach reached the vicinity of Battersea Fields; and Mr.
Howard pulled the check-string as a signal for the driver to stop.

He then descended; Frank Curtis followed; and the two queer-looking
gentlemen alighted also.

"You will keep at a decent distance, Mr. Mac Grab," said Howard,
addressing himself to the individual in seedy black.

"Wery good, sir. Proggs," continued Mr. Mac Grab, turning to his
companion, "you make a circumbendibus like, so as to cut off the
Captain's retreat down yonder. I'll skirt the river a short way, and
then drop down on him.".

"All right," growled Mr. Proggs; and off he set in the direction
indicated by his master, Mr. Mac Grab.

Howard then took Frank's arm; and they walked on together, the young
gentleman shivering and trembling violently.

"What _is_ the matter with you?" demanded the lawyer. "You shake just
like an aspen."

"Oh! nothing—nothing!" returned Frank, in a faltering tone. "Only it's
very cold this morning—and this cursed mist——But there's the Captain
already!" he suddenly ejaculated, making a full stop.

Howard glanced in the same direction towards which Frank's eyes were
turned, and beheld two individuals at a short distance. One, who was
wrapped in a cloak, was standing still; the other was pacing rapidly up
and down in the immediate vicinity of his companion, and tossing his
arms about as if in a perfect fury of indignation.

"Come on," said the lawyer, dragging forward the terrified Frank Curtis.
"There! the person who is walking up and down like a maniac, has caught
sight of us——"

"That's the Captain!" almost whimpered the young man. "Oh! my stars! how
fierce he does look!"

"Now, then, ye shir-rkers! is it keeping us waiting ye mane?"
vociferated the terrible Captain, sending his voice half-way across a
field in a tone of awful indignation. "Be Jasus! it's a rale insult to
me and my frind, to be seven minutes and a half behind time in this
way!"

"We are coming, sir, as fast as we can!" exclaimed Howard: "and may be a
little faster than you will find to be agreeable."

"My God! don't irritate him!" implored Frank. "He's capable
of——of——shooting us both—as we walk along."

"Don't be such a fool, Frank. You will see a rare bit of fun in a few
minutes. Come along!"—and the lawyer dragged his shrinking companion
forward.

"Be the holy poker-r!" vociferated the Captain, as Howard and Curtis now
drew near enough for him plainly to recognise their countenances: "be
the holy poker!" he repeated, his eyes glaring furiously, "Sir
Christopher is not here! Morthaunt, my dear frind, ye are
swindled—robbed—plunthered—chated of the pleasure of a duel this cold
mornin'. But I'll avenge ye, my boy—for I tould that Misther Curtis
there that I'd hould him responsible——"

"Come, come, Captain!" exclaimed Howard, as he and Frank now stopped at
the distance of a few paces from the warlike officer and his friend
Mordaunt: "don't bluster and sputter in this fine fashion——"

"Is it blusther and sputther to me ye mane!" cried Captain
O'Blunderbuss. "Be Jasus; sir-r—ye shall ate the wor-rds afore we're
done. But I'll shoot Mr. Curtis first; and 'tis yourself I'll send
headlong afther him. Morthaunt, my frind, instead of being principal
now, 'tis second ye must be. So give us the pisthol-case from under your
cloak, man."

"With all my heart, Captain!" said Mordaunt, who was a tall, awkward
gentleman, about thirty-five years of age, and as like Miss Julia as
brother could be to sister.

"Howard—my dear friend—my good fellow," gasped Frank Curtis in the ear
of his companion; "is it possible that—that—you've——"

"Be Jasus! we're watched!" suddenly exclaimed the Captain, whose quick
eye now caught sight of a man approaching from the next field.

"It's only my servant, sir, who is bringing my case of pistols,"
remarked Howard. "Not knowing whether you would be here, we kept them in
the coach at a short distance."

"Not be here!" repeated the Captain. "Do ye take us for as great cowards
as ould Sir Christopher Blunt? Be Jasus——But that man don't look like a
servant anyhow!" ejaculated the warlike gentleman, interrupting himself,
and fixing a ferocious look upon Mr. Mac Grab, who now came running up
to the spot, completely out of breath.

Howard glanced rapidly to the left, and beheld Proggs approaching from
that direction.

"Here's another fellow!" exclaimed Mordaunt, who had marked and followed
the lawyer's scrutinizing look. "Gentlemen, what _does_ this mean?"

"Yes—and be Jasus!" vociferated Captain O'Blunderbuss: "what does this
mane? Have ye had recourse to the dirthy expadient of getting constables
to come for-ar-rd to spile the purtiest little affair that was ever to
come off on a misty mornin'?"

"It don't mean nothink of the kind, Captain," said Mr. Mac Grab gruffly:
then, as with a side glance he convinced himself that his follower
Proggs was now only a few paces distant in the rear of the warlike
Irishman, he continued thus:—"The fact is, I'm a hofficer—and you're my
prisoner."

"An officer-r-r!" vociferated Captain O'Blunderbuss, his countenance
becoming actually purple with rage, while Frank Curtis, suddenly assured
that all prospects of a duel were at an end, began to enjoy the scene
amazingly.

"Yes, sir—this person is an officer," said Mr. Howard, in the calmest
manner possible; "and I am the attorney for the plaintiff—Mr.
Spriggins—at whose suit you are now captured for three hundred and
forty-seven pounds, including costs."

"Blood and thunther-r!" roared Captain O'Blunderbuss, swelling so
tremendously with passion that he seemed as if about to burst through
his military frock-coat with its frogs and braidings: "this is a rale
insult not ounly to me, but also to ould Ireland. Mor-r-thaunt, my
boy——"

"It's a very awkward business, Captain," said the gentleman thus
appealed to. "But I do not see why it should prevent the business on
which we met. Pistols first—prison afterwards."

"That won't do," said Mr. Mac Grab.

"Not a bit," growled Proggs, who was now stationed close behind the
Captain.

"Bastes of the ear-rth!" roared O'Blunderbuss: "do——"

"Come now—enough of this gammon," interrupted Mac Grab. "If you won't
walk quiet off with us, we must see what force will do."

"It is no use to resist, my boy," whispered Mordaunt to his friend, who
was literally foaming at the mouth. "But we will find another occasion
to punish these cowardly fellows," he added aloud, casting fiery glances
upon the lawyer and Frank Curtis.

"Be Jasus! and I'll have some of it out of 'em now!" ejaculated Captain
O'Blunderbuss; and springing upon the unfortunate Frank, he administered
to this young gentleman three or four hearty cuffs, before a hand could
be stretched out to withhold him.

Curtis roared and wriggled about with the pain; but he was speedily
released from the effects of this onslaught, Mac Grab, Proggs, and the
lawyer, hastening to his assistance.

The warlike Captain was then borne away to the hackney-coach, in which
he was safely deposited, Mordaunt obtaining leave from Mr. Howard to
accompany his friend in the same vehicle as far as the prison to which
he was to be consigned.

Frank Curtis declined forming one of the party; and while the coach
proceeded in as direct a line as possible for Horsemonger Lane gaol, the
young gentleman sped merrily along alone and on foot, delighted, in
spite of the drubbing which he had received, to think that the
redoubtable Captain O'Blunderbuss was on his way to a place where his
warlike propensities stood every chance of being "cribb'd, cabin'd, and
confin'd," at least for a season.

You may conceive, gentle reader, that Captain O'Blunderbuss was in a
dreadful rage at being interrupted in the midst of his favourite
pursuit—especially as the interruption was of so unpleasant a nature as
that described. But his vapouring and blustering produced little effect
upon Messrs. Mac Grab and Proggs, who never spoke a word during the
journey from Battersea Fields to Horsemonger Lane, save to answer in an
affirmative when Mr. Howard proposed that they should stop at a
public-house for a few moments to partake of some refreshment; and then
they each responded—"Yes—rum, please."

The Captain himself was accommodated with a glass of whiskey: Mordaunt
and the lawyer took nothing.

The vehicle then proceeded, without stopping, to the prison, where the
gallant Captain—oh! most ignominious fate!—was handed over to the care
of the turnkeys in the debtors' department of the establishment.




                             CHAPTER LXIV.
                   OLD DEATH AND HIS FRIEND TIDMARSH.


The incident which occupied the preceding chapter occurred, as will
probably be recollected, on the morning of the Wednesday after the
Monday on which Thomas Rainford was hanged and resuscitated.

It was on the evening of the same Wednesday, and at about eight o'clock,
that we must again introduce the reader to the laboratory in Red Lion
Street.

A cheerful fire burnt in the grate; and before it sate Dr. Lascelles and
the Earl of Ellingham, engaged in conversation and also in the
discussion of a very excellent bottle of claret conveyed thither from
the Earl's own cellar in Pall Mall.

"I wish Jacob Smith would return," said the young nobleman, looking
anxiously and nervously at his watch.

"In the same manner have you renewed the conversation after every pause
that has occurred during the last two hours," observed the physician.
"My dear Arthur, there is nothing like patience in this world. You may
depend upon it, all goes on well—or you would too soon have received the
tidings of any evil that might have occurred. Bad news fly uncommonly
fast."

"I wish that I possessed a small amount of your calm and unexcitable
temperament, doctor," returned the Earl. "But I am so fearful lest any
untoward accident should mar the success—the complete success of all our
plans."

"Do not meet evils half way," said the doctor. "Every thing has gone on
well as yet. Mr. de Medina acted with the dispatch of a regular man of
business. No one could possibly have managed better. He left on Monday
evening for Dover, where he remained but just long enough yesterday
morning to hire a cutter and arrange with the captain to have her in
readiness to leave at a moment's warning. He was back in London again
last night by seven; and fortunately your half-brother was so far
recovered as to be able to depart in company with Jacob. The disguise
you procured for him was impenetrable to even the eyes of the most
experienced Bow Street runner. He and his young companion reached Dover
early this morning; and I dare swear that long before this hour gallant
Tom is safe in Calais, where Mr. de Medina and his daughters will also
be some time to-morrow. Then off they all go to Paris, where you are to
rejoin them."

"Yes: all has been well arranged by Mr. de Medina," said the Earl; "and
I have no doubt that the results will be as you anticipate. But I
charged Jacob to return post-haste to London—I begged him not to spare
the gold with which I furnished him, so that he might be back here as
soon as possible to assure us of my brother's safe embarkation for
France. And yet the lad is not with us yet! You must admit, doctor, that
I am not to be blamed for my apprehensions: for misadventures and
obstacles, altogether unforeseen—never dreamt of, indeed—do start up so
suddenly, that I confess I shall enjoy no peace of mind until I receive
from Jacob's own lips the assurance that the object of my anxiety is
beyond the reach of all danger."

"How can it be otherwise than that he is already safe?" demanded the
physician somewhat impatiently.

"Who can tell what may happen?" asked the Earl. "On Monday night, while
Thomas was sleeping and profound tranquillity as well as perfect
security seemed to prevail in the house, was not the grand secret
suddenly menaced by the appearance of one whom only a few hours
previously I had been led to consider numbered with the dead? Yet
doubtless you thought at the moment, while at your house in Grafton
Street, that all was calm and unendangered in Red Lion Street."

"The sudden turning up of that old scoundrel whom Thomas Rainford
supposed to be dead, and of whom you have since told me so much, was
certainly very remarkable," observed the physician. "But you certainly
managed the matter most cleverly—the more so, too, inasmuch as my
patient knew nothing of the transaction until it was all over."

"Fortunately he slept, as I have already told you," said the Earl.
"That excellent lad Jacob was for a few minutes completely
overcome—stunned—stupified, indeed, when he recognized the countenance
of Benjamin Bones; and I myself was strangely excited when those
terrible words, '_'Tis Old Death!_' fell upon my ears—for I knew to
whom they applied. Moreover, Jacob let the lamp fall; and I dared not
move to obtain another light—for Bones began to struggle furiously. I
was sadly alarmed lest my half-brother should awake: but fortunately
his slumber was profound."

"And then, I believe, Jacob Smith recovered himself and procured another
light?" said the physician interrogatively.

"You see, doctor," returned the Earl, with a smile, "that you did not
listen very attentively to my narrative of the transaction, when you
came back to the house yesterday morning."

"Because, I remember, you would persist in telling me the story at a
time when I was thinking of the best restoratives for my patient,"
answered Lascelles, also with a good-natured laugh. "But pray give me
all the details now—and the occupation will while away the time until
Jacob makes his appearance."

"God grant that he may soon come!" exclaimed the Earl. "But let me
resume at the point where we interrupted ourselves."

"I asked you if Jacob did not procure another light the moment he had
recovered his presence of mind," said the physician: "but I remember now
that you availed yourself of the opportunity afforded by the darkness,
to drag the old man back to the staircase leading into the subterranean,
and that the terrible menaces you whispered in his ears reduced him to
the passiveness of a lamb. He is a hideous-looking man—for, after all
you learnt from your brother concerning him, it is clear that he is the
same whom I had seen in this house on one or two occasions, but whose
name I did not then know."

"He is clearly the same person," said the Earl.

"Well—and so you got him down the break-neck stairs," added the doctor;
"and _then_ it was you called to Jacob to procure another light,
Rainford continuing asleep the whole time. But, after all that had taken
place in the morning, his slumber would necessarily be heavy."

"I can assure you that a more dangerous task I had seldom undertaken
than that of dragging the old villain down those stairs," said the Earl;
"and how it was that we both escaped broken necks, I am at a loss to
divine. However, I did get him safely down to the bottom; and the great
door being then bolted only on the same side as the stairs, I had no
difficulty in opening it. Jacob came down with the light; and I
compelled the old man to rise, and enter the subterranean with me."

"I will be bound his hideous countenance was convulsed with rage and
alarm?" exclaimed the doctor. "But I must get a cast of his head when he
dies—which I dare say will be upon the scaffold."

"Yes: he was positively horrible with mingled wrath and fear," continued
the Earl. "But I had no pity for him—as I have none now. I made him walk
a few paces in front of me, Jacob accompanying us with the light. Once
he turned round, and fixed on the lad a look so full of infernal
spite—of demon-like malignity, that I was horrified to think that such
hateful emotions could find an abode in the breast of any human being.
Jacob Smith recoiled in affright—as if from the glare of a serpent's
eyes; but I whispered a word to reassure him—and almost at the same
moment I beheld, by the light of the lamp, a door in the side of the
subterranean. You know the suspicions which had already filled my mind:
they then returned with renewed vigour to my memory—and I felt convinced
that I touched on the threshold of a discovery. I commanded the old man
to stop—suffering him to believe that I had pistols about me, and should
not hesitate to use them in case of need. The door was speedily
opened——"

"And it led into the very dungeon where you were confined for four
weeks," said Dr. Lascelles. "The villains—the scoundrels, who
perpetrated such an outrage!"

"Yes—it was the very same dungeon," continued the Earl; "and my blood
ran cold as I glanced within. Jacob Smith understood the discovery that
I had made, and uttered an ejaculation of horror. '_I now know at least
one of the authors of_ my _imprisonment_!' I said, turning to Old Death,
whose eyes were again glaring fiercely upon the lad. '_But_,' I added,
'_this is no time for question and answer on that head._'—Then, taking
the lamp, I held it in such a manner as to be able to throw its light
upon that part of the cell where I had opened to myself the means of
escape; and I perceived that the masonry had not been replaced. I
accordingly resolved not to imprison the old man there: and yet, what
could I do with him? Turning round to examine more minutely the nature
of the place, I beheld another door, on the opposite side of the
subterranean. Old Death marked the fact of my eyes lingering thereon;
and he gave vent to something between a menace and a prayer.—'_I seek
not to harm you_,' was my reply; '_but as it once suited_ your _purposes
that I should become a captive here for a few weeks, it is now expedient
according to_ my _views that you should become a prisoner for a few
days. In with you, old man!_' I added, having in the meantime opened the
door of this second cell!"

"And there the old reprobate is now cooped up, along with his friend
Tidmarsh," exclaimed the physician, laughing at the idea of the two
cronies being caught in one of their own snares;—for that they _were_
companions in iniquity he had now but little doubt.

"You must admit that the case was a desperate and an urgent one,"
continued the Earl. "From all you had told me concerning this Tidmarsh,
I felt well persuaded that he was likely to visit the subterranean; and
I knew that, were such a casualty to ensue, Old Death had merely to
raise his voice in order to obtain his release."

"And so you quit the subterranean and run round to Turnmill Street to
tell old Tidmarsh that Dr. Lascelles wishes to see him immediately in
his laboratory?" exclaimed the doctor, again laughing heartily—for the
entire affair seemed to have touched a long slumbering chord of merry
humour in his breast.

"Precisely so," returned the young nobleman. "Tidmarsh, however, eyed me
very suspiciously, and muttered something to himself about the doctor
being very indiscreet;—but I affected not to notice his peculiarity of
manner. He came round to the house—and you know the rest."

"Yes: you took him down to join his friend Old Death, as it seems the
rascal is called," observed the doctor.

"And there they must remain until Jacob Smith shall have returned with
the tidings of my brother's safe embarkation," continued the Earl. "It
is true that they are both utterly ignorant of his escape from death—his
extraordinary resuscitation, thanks to your profound knowledge and
generous aid, doctor;—but, as we have every reason to believe at least
one of them to be Thomas's enemy, they shall neither obtain a chance of
discovering the secret of his _new existence_, as I may indeed term
it—at all events not until he shall be beyond the reach of danger. And,
do you know, it strikes me most forcibly that Tidmarsh was the gaoler
who attended upon me during my incarceration in the dungeon below?
Although the person who _was_ my gaoler, invariably spoke in a feigned
tone, and as laconically as possible, yet I am almost certain that it
was the voice of Tidmarsh. Moreover, he seemed for a moment so
astounded—so struck, when I presented myself at the door of his dwelling
in Turnmill Street, to deliver the forged message which induced him to
accompany me round to this house, that I am convinced he knew me. For,
though he never permitted me to catch a glimpse of his countenance, when
he used to visit me at the trap in the dungeon-door—still he might have
seen my face. However, when I presented myself at his abode in the way
which I have described, my manner appeared so off-hand and sincere, that
had any suspicions of treachery entered his mind, they were dispelled
almost immediately. But, doctor, I abominate the necessity of having to
use duplicity even towards villains of that stamp!"

"Your compunction is carried too far, my dear Arthur," returned
Lascelles. "It was necessary to get that scoundrel Tidmarsh into such a
snare, as to place him beyond the possibility of doing mischief; and,
though the narrative which you have now given me more in detail than you
did yesterday morning, when you hastily sketched these incidents to your
brother and myself,—though, I say, it makes me laugh—a habit not
frequent with me—I really commend your foresight in averting danger, as
well as your bravery in carrying into effect the requisite precautions."

"I deserve and require no praise, doctor," answered the Earl. "What
would I not have done to ensure the safety of him who has behaved so
generously to me? During the whole of Monday night, I sate by his
bed-side, anxiously awaiting the moment when slumber should leave his
heavy eye-lids; for I knew that I had welcome—most welcome tidings for
his ears. But he slept on until you came: and then, doctor, you were a
witness of the joy which he experienced on learning that he had not been
the cause of the death of Benjamin Bones—miscreant though the man be!"

Scarcely were these words uttered, when a low but hasty knock at the
front door caused Lord Ellingham to spring from his seat—seize the
lamp—and hasten to answer the summons.

Dr. Lascelles could hear the Earl ejaculate the words—"Jacob
Smith!"—then a hurried whisper took place in the hall;—and, in another
moment, the joyous exclamation—"Thank God! thank God!" bursting from the
young nobleman's lips, met the physician's ears.

And Dr. Lascelles thereby knew that Rainford had succeeded in quitting
the shores of England in safety!




                              CHAPTER LXV.
                            THE EXAMINATION.


The reader will remember that, according to the arrangements originally
chalked out, Lord Ellingham and Jacob Smith were to have accompanied Tom
Rain to France. But this project was disturbed by the appearance of Old
Death in the house in Red Lion Street, and the incidents to which it
gave rise, as narrated in the last chapter.

For, the Earl—having succeeded in making Old Death and Tidmarsh his
prisoners—resolved to remain in the house, not only that he might, by
means of frequent visits to the subterranean, guard against their
escape, but also to supply them with food and to liberate them when
circumstances should render their farther confinement unnecessary.

Thus was it that Tom Rain and Jacob had proceeded without the Earl to
Dover, and that the lad had returned thence to London the moment he had
seen Rainford safe on board the cutter which Mr. de Medina had hired
especially to convey him to France. Nay—Jacob was not content with
merely witnessing the embarkation of the individual to whom he had
become so deeply attached; but, in spite of the instructions he had
received alike from the Earl and Tom Rain himself to return with the
least possible delay to the metropolis, he had lingered on the pier at
Dover until the white sails of the cutter were no longer in sight.

He therefore arrived somewhat later in London than had been expected,
although he travelled post and spared not the gold placed at his
disposal to urge the postillions on: but when he frankly admitted to
Lord Ellingham and the doctor the reason of his retarded appearance in
Red Lion Street, they could not find it in their hearts to utter a word
of reproach or blame.

No:—for Lord Ellingham's joy was now as exuberant as his apprehensions
had a short time previously been strong and oppressive; and he wrung the
hand of the humble Jacob as if that lad had been his own brother!

"We will presently liberate our prisoners," said the Earl, when Jacob
had related the particulars of his journey with Rainford to Dover, and
of the latter's safe embarkation. "But, before I suffer them to go at
large, it behoves me not only to adopt the means requisite to elicit
certain explanations interesting to myself, but also to take those steps
that will effectually prevent the mysterious subterraneans and dungeons
of this establishment—or rather, of the _two_ houses—from being
accessible or available to the miscreants whom we are about to set free.
Conceiving that Jacob would be sure to come back this evening, and
intending that his return should be followed by the examination and
liberation of those two men, I have ordered the three faithful domestics
who assisted us so materially on Monday morning, and on whose fidelity I
can rely with so much confidence, to be here at half-past nine o'clock."

"For what purpose?" demanded the physician, in astonishment.

"To increase our number so as to overawe the wretches who are to appear
before us," replied the Earl. "It is not that I fear to give them an
inch of vantage-ground; but were they to find themselves in the presence
of only two men and this lad, they might attempt resistance, and use a
violence that would alarm the neighbourhood;—and I need hardly say,
doctor, how necessary it is for all our sakes that we should not be
placed in a position which would compel us to give to a magistrate any
explanation of the modes in which we severally became acquainted with
this establishment or those two vile men."

"Your precautions are most admirably forecast, my dear Earl," responded
Dr. Lascelles. "Hark! there is a single knock at the front door!"

"Run, Jacob, my boy," said the Earl: "my servants have arrived."

The lad left the room without taking a light, but the young nobleman
almost immediately rose and followed him—a second thought suggesting the
prudence of assuring himself against the coming of any unwelcome
intruder instead of his servants.

By the time the Earl reached the middle of the stairs leading down into
the hall, Jacob had opened the street-door.

"Mrs. Bunce!" exclaimed the lad, starting back half in affright, as he
recognised her wizen countenance by the feeble light that streamed from
an adjacent window.

"What! Jacob—you here!" cried the woman. "Why—how come you in this
house? and what have you been doing with yourself lately? I began to
think you was playing us false: but now that I find you here, I suppose
you know all about the trick of Mr. Bones's pretended death, and have
made every thing right with him. But is he here?"

"Yes," answered Jacob boldly—for he had by this time recovered his
presence of mind. "Walk in:—he wants very much to see you."

"And so do I want to see him," added Mrs. Bunce as she entered the hall,
while Jacob barred the door carefully. "I haven't seen him ever since
Monday night; and he was to be sure and come up to the Dials last
evening. So I got alarmed, and come down to see, I went to Turnmill
Street—but I could make no one hear there—for I suppose you know by this
time all about Tidmarsh and the other crib——"

"Yes—and the subterranean too," added Jacob: "all the secrets, so long
kept from me, are now revealed. But walk up, Mrs. Bunce—walk up."

The woman, suspecting nothing wrong, and not altogether displeased to
find (as she believed) that Jacob had risen so high in favour with Old
Death as to become one of his confidants,—the woman, we say, walked up
the staircase, which was well known to her; but, scarcely had she
reached the first turn, when she was suddenly grasped by a vigorous
hand, and a voice exclaimed, "Make no noise, Mrs. Bunce—or it will be
the worse for you."

[Illustration]

"Thank God, you are there, my lord!" cried Jacob now hastily running up
the stairs. "This woman is one of the gang which it has fallen to your
lordship's lot to disperse."

"Oh! Jacob," ejaculated Mrs. Bunce, "you don't know what you are doing!
But who is this lord—and what have I done to injure him?"

"I am the Earl of Ellingham, woman," said Arthur; "and perhaps you are
not ignorant of the long imprisonment which I endured in this place. But
proceed—I will follow you: and remember that you are in the power of
those who will not suffer you to escape."

At that instant there was another knock at the door.

"Remain here," said the nobleman to Mrs. Bunce. "Jacob, let me answer
that summons."

Arthur accordingly proceeded to the door, and gave admittance to his
three men-servants.

They then all repaired to the laboratory together, where the Earl made
Dr. Lascelles acquainted, in a hasty whisper, with the cause of Mrs.
Bunce's appearance on the stage of their present proceedings.

The moment the woman emerged from the darkness of the landing outside to
the light of the laboratory, she cast a hasty and inquiring glance
around on those present; but her eyes settled on Jacob Smith, and she
was evidently much astonished to see him dressed in a plain but most
respectable manner, and looking neat, clean, and even interesting in his
appearance. For the lad possessed good features—very bright eyes—and a
set of white, even teeth; and though his countenance was still somewhat
indicative of a sickly constitution, it nevertheless showed a state of
health considerably improved by the excitement of travelling and by the
happiness imparted to his soul by the successful escape of Thomas
Rainford.

Jacob saw that Mrs. Bunce surveyed him with interest; and at the moment
he felt pity for the woman who had on many occasions shown him some
kindness, and towards whom he had also experienced at times
unaccountable heart-yearnings;—but he could not blame himself for having
just now entrapped her into the power of Lord Ellingham, because he knew
how important it was to assemble in the presence of that nobleman as
many of Old Death's accomplices as possible. Besides, he was well aware
that no harm was intended her; and this assurance he conveyed to her in
a hasty whisper—though not in such a way as to induce her to believe
that he was any longer an accomplice also.

"You will now accompany me _below_," said the Earl, addressing himself
to his three servants.

Jacob hastened to light another lamp (of which there were several in the
laboratory); and the Earl, attended by his domestics, proceeded into the
adjoining bed-room, whence they passed down into the subterranean.

Dr. Lascelles, Mrs. Bunce, and Jacob were left together in the
laboratory.

"What does all this mean?" demanded the woman, accosting the lad in an
imploring manner—for she was afraid, in spite of the whispered assurance
she had received from him.

"I cannot give you any explanation," answered Jacob aloud. "But I may go
so far as to promise you—and this good gentleman," he added, turning
towards the doctor, "will confirm my words—that no harm is intended to
you, provided you give faithful replies to the questions that will be
put to you presently."

"The lad speaks quite properly, woman," said the physician; "and you had
better hold your tongue until _the prisoners_ make their appearance."

"The prisoners!" muttered Mrs. Bunce; and it struck her that allusion
must be made to Old Death and Tidmarsh.

Nor was she mistaken; for, in a few minutes, the Earl and his domestics
re-appeared, escorting into the laboratory those two individuals, whose
hands were fastened by strong cords.

Benjamin Bones looked more hideous than ever. A white bristling beard,
of three or four days' growth gave an additional death-like aspect to
his countenance; and his eyes glared, from beneath their shaggy brows,
with mingled rage and alarm.

Tidmarsh manifested less emotion; but, on entering the laboratory, he
cast a rapid and scrutinizing glance around, as if to ascertain who were
present.

Old Death did the same; and when his eyes caught sight of Jacob Smith,
his forehead contracted into a thousand wrinkles with the intense
ferocity of his malignant hate: then he exchanged a rapid glance with
Mrs. Bunce, who gave him to understand, by a peculiarly significant
look, that she was not there as a witness against him, but as a prisoner
herself.

Dr. Lascelles stood with his back to the fire, contemplating the various
persons assembled, in a manner which showed that he was far from being
an uninterested spectator of the proceedings: indeed, he not only
prepared to listen with attention to all that was about to be said, on
account of the friendly feelings which he experienced towards the Earl
of Ellingham,—but he likewise occupied himself in studying the
physiognomies of Old Death, Tidmarsh, and Mrs. Bunce—a survey which led
him to the comfortable conclusion that if they did not all three perish
on the scaffold sooner or later, it would not be their own fault.

Lord Ellingham ordered the three prisoners to be accommodated with
chairs; and, when they were seated, he addressed them in the following
manner:—

"You are now in the presence of one who has the power to punish you for
your numerous misdeeds, and who, should you refuse to answer the
questions to be put to you, will not hesitate to hand you all three over
into the grasp of justice. The individual who possesses that power, and
who is now about to question you, is myself. All your secrets are known
or suspected—and, even should you refuse to answer my queries, or if you
reply to them falsely, I have the means of arriving at the truth. To
you, Benjamin Bones, do I address myself first:—answer me, then—and say
wherefore your agents or accomplices waylaid me, and bore me off to that
dungeon opening from the subterranean. Speak, villain—and see that you
speak truly!"

"One word, my lord," said the arch-miscreant, his sepulchral tones
quivering and tremulous with mingled rage and alarm: "let me say one
word to you in private!"

"Not a syllable! Speak openly—and cause not idle delay," exclaimed the
young nobleman.

"Do you know," asked Old Death, "that it is in my power to publish a
secret which would not redound to your honour?"

"I can well divine to what you would allude," returned Arthur; "and I
despise your menace. Go and say, if thou wilt, that the Earl of
Ellingham is the half-brother of him——"

"Who was hanged on Monday morning!" growled Old Death; and then he
chuckled horribly in the depth of his malignity. "Ha! ha! ha! the proud
and wealthy Earl of Ellingham the brother of a highwayman who was
hanged,—and that brother, too, the elder one, and born in lawful
wedlock! Ah! this would be a pretty tale to circulate at the West End!"

"Scoundrel! you cannot provoke me to anger," said the Earl, calmly; "but
you may move me to invoke the aid of justice to punish you for daring to
imprison me during four long weeks in a noisome dungeon—a crime for
which the penalty would be transportation for the remainder of your
miserable life. Moreover, that same justice would require of you full
and ample explanations respecting those rooms filled with property of
immense value, and of such a miscellaneous nature that the various
articles could not have been honestly obtained! Ah! you shrink—you
recoil from that menace! Think you that any ridiculous punctilio has
prevented me from forcing the locks of those rooms and examining their
contents? No: the day after _you_ became _my_ prisoner here, and when I
ascertained beyond all doubt that _you_ were the tenant of those rooms,
I hesitated not to visit them, to glean evidence against you. Now, old
man, you see that you are in my power; and you will do well not to push
my patience beyond the sphere of indulgence."

"And what if I tell you all you want to know?" said Benjamin Bones,
appalled by the unveiling of the fearful precipice on which he stood.

"Give me the fullest and completest explanation of many circumstances in
the unravelling of which I feel a special interest—spare me the trouble
of adopting other means to obtain the solution of those mysteries to
which I possess a clue," exclaimed the Earl; "and I shall forthwith
liberate you and your companions, having previously taken measures to
prevent you from holding any farther interest in this house or the
tenement in Turnmill Street, with which the subterranean passage
communicates."

"And—and my property?" gasped Old Death.

"To allow you to retain it, were a sin," answered the Earl emphatically:
"to give it up to the magisterial authorities, or to dispose of it for
the benefit of the poor, would be to court an inquiry which must
inevitably lead to the mention of your name and the consequent
apprehension of your person—a result which would be an indirect
forfeiture of the promise I have given and now repeat: namely, to permit
yourself and companions to depart with impunity on condition that you
make a full and complete confession in regard to all the points wherein
I am interested. What, then, can be done with that property?" exclaimed
the nobleman: "there is but one course to pursue—and that is, _to
destroy it_!"

"Destroy it!—destroy it!" groaned Old Death, writhing with mental
anguish on his chair: "what? destroy all that hard-earned wealth—those
treasures——"

"Every article!" interrupted the nobleman emphatically; "and consider
yourself fortunate in quitting this house to breathe the air of liberty,
rather than to be consigned to a gaol."

"Oh! my God! my God!" cried Old Death, reduced to despair by the
lamentable prospect now placed before him.

"Blaspheme not, villain!—invoke not the sacred name of the Almighty!"
ejaculated Arthur. "Rather implore pardon for your manifold iniquities!"

"It would take a long life of repentance to purge _his_ soul of all the
atrocity that harbours in it," observed the physician, who had intently
watched all the variations of the old man's countenance during this
colloquy.

"My dear doctor," said the Earl, "there is hope for even those who are
most deeply stained with sin—yes, even for this miserable man, who would
sooner cling to his ill-got wealth than adopt the only means now open to
him of avoiding the grasp of justice. But it is useless to prolong this
discussion. Benjamin Bones! once for all, do you consent to make a full
confession, as the first atonement for a life of crime, and to surrender
all your treasures as the second?—or shall I send forthwith to summon
hither the officers of justice?"

"But, if you take mine all, you send me forth into the world a beggar!"
cried Old Death, in a tone which seemed to indicate that he was about to
weep for very rage.

"On that night," said the Earl solemnly, and almost sternly, "when
Thomas Rainford took from thy treasury the money which he conceived to
be his due, did he not leave ample sums behind? and wilt thou tell me
that thou hast not since disposed of those sums in other places of
security? Thou seest, villain, that I can read all thy secrets: so prate
no more about being reduced to beggary."

Old Death's eyes fell beneath the fixed gaze of the Earl of Ellingham,
who thereby perceived that the conjecture which he had just hazarded was
indeed the right one.

"And you will let us go free if I answer all your questions?" said the
arch-miscreant, after a brief pause, during which he consulted his
companions in iniquity by means of a rapid interchange of glances.

"I will," replied the nobleman emphatically.

"But what if I should tell you more than you already seem to
suspect—through ignorance of the precise extent of your real knowledge,"
said Old Death,—"and thus make you acquainted with things likely to
render you vindictive——"

"I scorn a mean and petty vengeance!" exclaimed the young nobleman. "My
word is pledged to a certain condition; and that promise shall be
redeemed, whatever the nature of your revelations may be."

"Then I consent!" exclaimed Old Death. "Bear witness, Dr. Lascelles—for
you are an honourable man——"

"The Earl of Ellingham is too lenient," interrupted the physician. "But,
as it is, I guarantee my word of honour that his lordship will
faithfully fulfil his promise."

"In spite of any thing that may transpire, and for which he may not be
prepared?" added Old Death, determined to drive as sure a bargain as
possible: "because," he continued, "it is quite impossible for me to
foresee the nature of the questions you are going to put to me, my
lord—and, in answering them, I may only commit myself. I am in your
power; but pray use that power mercifully."

"Mercifully!" cried the Earl, in a tone of mingled scorn and disgust. "I
have no sympathy with you of any kind, old man—you are loathsome to me!
I merely make a compact with you—and that bargain shall be adhered to on
my part, if it be fulfilled on yours. I however warn you, that should I
detect you in aught at variance with the truth, our compact ceases—my
promise is annulled—and you remain at my disposal as completely as if no
pledge relative to your safety had ever issued from my lips. Weigh well,
then, the position in which you stand," continued the young nobleman
sternly: "for I am not to be trifled with!"

"I will tell you all you require to know—all—all," responded Old Death,
gasping convulsively: "only let this scene end as soon as possible—for
it does me harm."

"We will proceed at once to business," said the Earl: then seating
himself in front of the prisoners, he addressed his questions to Old
Death, saying, "In the first place, why was I imprisoned in the
subterranean dungeon?"

"To prevent you from using your wealth to bribe the gaol-authorities to
let Rainford escape, or your interest to save him if he was condemned,"
answered Old Death, in a slow and measured tone.

"Then, villain that you are," cried the Earl, scarcely able to subdue
his resentment, "you had an interest in hurrying the son of your own
half-sister Octavia to the scaffold!—Oh! I understand it all! Thomas
felt assured that some profound, secret, and malign influence was at
work against him; for those who were put forward as the prosecutors—the
knight and his nephew—went as unwilling witnesses! Then it was you,"
continued the nobleman, in a tone of fearful excitement,—"it was _you_
whose gold doubtless bribed the attorney Howard to institute those fatal
proceedings!"

"It was—it was!" ejaculated Old Death, trembling from head to foot. "But
Rainford deserved it;—he outraged me—I was good and kind to him—I threw
excellent things in his way—but he made me bring him to this house—he
learnt all my secrets—he robbed me of my treasures—he carried off my
private papers——"

"Silence!" exclaimed the Earl, in a tone which made the arch-villain and
his fellow-prisoners all three start convulsively: "give not a false
colouring to that transaction! Rainford learnt, when in the country, who
you were and how nearly you were allied to his late mother;—he knew also
how you had plundered him of his inheritance—and he was justified in the
conduct he pursued towards you. The money which he took was legitimately
his own, allowing for the accumulation of interest and compound
interest; and the papers were not _yours_—but rightfully his property!"

"Then why did he not tell me who he was?—why did he entrap me, and
compel me at the muzzle of the levelled pistol to conduct him to my
secret places?" demanded Old Death impatiently.

"Your villany and your craft could only be met by stratagem and
counterplot," returned the Earl emphatically; "and in that way did
Rainford meet you. And yet—for the truth of my assertion you cannot
deny—you have sent your own nephew to the scaffold!"

"It was his own fault!" persisted Old Death doggedly. "He should not
have crossed my path—he should not have proclaimed warfare against me. I
would have been his friend——"

"His friend!" exclaimed the Earl, in a tone of bitter scorn.

"Yes—his friend, after his own fashion—in the way he wanted a friend!"
continued Old Death, becoming garrulous with nervous excitement. "But he
outraged me in a way I could not forgive nor forget—he penetrated into
all my secrets—he might have returned and helped himself again and again
from my stores—_he knew too much_ for me to be safe—and moreover he
bound me to a chair in such a way that I fell into a fit, and should
have died had it not been for this man here," added the miscreant,
indicating Tidmarsh. "All those things combined to render Rainford's
death necessary—and he has paid the penalty of his conduct towards me."

Lord Ellingham recoiled in horror from the fiend-like man who could thus
seek to palliate the foul deed of having sent his own relative to the
scaffold, through no moral motives, but merely to gratify his vengeance
and remove one who seemed to be dangerous in his path.

"Let us know more of the sham-death business on your part, Mr. Bones—or
whatever your name is," said Dr. Lascelles.

"You remember that night I came round to the house here and met you,
sir?" hastily exclaimed Tidmarsh, thinking that he should serve himself
by exhibiting a readiness to volunteer any explanation that was
required. "Well—you recollect that it was the night you saw Rainford in
your laboratory, and we knew that he had gone down into the
subterranean. Then, if you please to remember, we went away together—and
I took leave of you at the corner of Turnmill Street. But I suspected
there was something wrong—although I did not dare offer to go into Mr.
Bones's rooms while you were with me. As soon as you had left me,
however, I returned to the house—not by the subterranean, be it well
understood,—and passing through your laboratory——"

"Then you possess counterpart keys, rascal!" exclaimed the physician
angrily. "But go on."

"Well, sir—I passed through your laboratory into the bed-room there,
locking the door of communication after me. Then I entered the first
store-room; but I had scarcely put foot therein when I heard a violent
noise as if some one was trying to break through the trap-door in the
bed-chamber. I confess that I was frightened—because I knew it must be
Rainford, and I suspected him to be a desperate man who meant no good in
that house. I remained quite still—heard him break open the trap and
come forth. I also heard him, dash open the door of your laboratory,
through which he passed; but as I had neglected to lock the other door
there—leading to the landing—he was not compelled to force that also.
Well—I waited a few minutes, till I thought he had left the house; and
then, having great misgivings on account of Mr. Bones, I went into the
next store-room. But there I caught a glimpse of Rainford, standing over
Mr. Bones, who was tied in his chair. I was about to retreat, I must
confess—but Rainford bolted away like a ghost; and I ran up to my
friend, who I thought was dead. I however saw enough, at a second
glance, to convince me that he was only in a kind of trance-like fit;
and in a short time I recovered him. That's my part of the story, sir;
and, I hope——"

"Enough!" exclaimed Lord Ellingham abruptly. "_I_ have now a question to
ask _you_, Mr. Tidmarsh:—Were you not my gaoler when I was a prisoner in
the subterranean?"

"Well, my lord—it's no use denying it," answered the man; "but——"

"Spare your comments. I cannot complain of the way in which you executed
a task doubtless imposed on you by your master here. Moreover, you even
showed me some indulgence, by permitting me to write those letters to my
friends——"

"Give my friend Bones his due, my lord," interrupted Tidmarsh; "for I
showed 'em to him first before I posted them."

"And as they could do no harm, I let them go," hastily exclaimed Old
Death; "for I did not want to punish _you_ more than I could help.
Besides, I was glad you wrote them;—in the first place because they
prevented any noise amongst your friends on account of your
disappearance—and, secondly, because the one you wrote to Rainford was
enough to convince him he had nothing more to hope from you."

"Even while you seek to conciliate me, you cannot prevent the
manifestation of your fiendish hate against him who was the son of your
sister Octavia!" said the Earl, gazing upon Old Death in profound
surprise,—surprise that his heart could be so irredeemably black. "But
now answer me another question," he continued after a few moments'
pause: "how came you to know that I was likely to use my interest or my
gold on behalf of Thomas Rainford?"

"My spies were stationed about Horsemonger Lane gaol," answered Old
Death; "and I had a lodging in the immediate neighbourhood. They came
and told me that you had just gone into the prison to see Rainford; and
I concluded that you must already be aware of the relationship which
existed between you. To resolve and to act with me are the same thing;
and I sent back my men to seize you and convey you to the subterranean."

"And why had you stationed spies about the gaol?" demanded the Earl.

"Because I suspected that Rainford would send for you, or that you would
go to him of your own accord," replied Old Death; "for he had taken from
me the papers which _proved_ who he was—and I supposed that his first
act on possessing them, must have been to communicate with you; and in
that I cannot have been far wrong."

By dint of questioning and cross-questioning, the following additional
facts were elicited;—

When Tidmarsh recovered Old Death from the species of trance or fit
into which he had fallen when bound to the chair, the latter
determined to encompass at least the transportation, if not the
execution, of Tom Rain. For two or three days he remained quiet at
Tidmarsh's abode in Turnmill Street, brooding over his scheme of
vengeance, and communicating with none of his friends elsewhere—not
even with the Bunces. In planning the punishment of Tom Rain, Old
Death knew that he had a most delicate and difficult game to play; for
the highwayman was to be sacrificed to his hatred and his
interests—and yet in such a manner that the victim should not know by
whom the blow was struck nor the source whence his ruin came. The deed
must be effected with so much dark mystery that Rainford should not
even have any ground for supposing that Bones was the real prime mover
of the prosecution; and in this case the arch-villain felt convinced
that Rainford would not even mention his name nor allude to his
establishments in Clerkenwell, when placed before the magistrate or on
his trial. The affair of Sir Christopher Blunt's three thousand pounds
seemed the best point on which to set the whole of this complicated
machinery in motion; and Old Death knew sufficient of Mr. Howard's
cold, calculating, and money-making disposition to be well aware that
his aid in the business could be readily secured. He communicated all
his plans to Tidmarsh; and this latter individual suggested that
Rainford should be led to believe that Old Death was no more. "For,"
said Tidmarsh, "when I entered your store-room and saw Rainford gazing
at you in your fit, I concluded you were really dead, and I am certain
that such was the impression of the highwayman. Besides, he fled in
horror; and Rainford is not the person thus to act save under
extraordinary circumstances." This hint was adopted; and it was
resolved that Rainford should be induced to suppose that Benjamin
Bones was positively defunct—a belief that would of course preclude
the possibility of any suspicion that the said Bones was the
individual who set in motion the springs of that conspiracy which was
to carry the victim to the scaffold. These projects being all settled
between Old Death and his man Tidmarsh, the latter was despatched to
Mrs. Bunce to whom the entire scheme was communicated. She was
instructed to set spies to watch Tom Rain, and to convey to him, if
possible, the information that Benjamin Bones was dead. It was also
determined not to trust Jacob Smith with the plan of vengeance to be
carried out, but, as a precaution on the right side, to let even him
also believe that Old Death was no more. At the same time the lad was
to be used as a spy on Rainford, his devotion to whom was not of
course suspected. When Mrs. Bunce met, or rather overtook Rainford in
Gray's-Inn-Lane on the Saturday night previous to his arrest, it was
really by accident; and she availed herself of that opportunity to
inform him that Old Death had gone to his last account, according to
the instructions communicated to her in the morning of that very day.
She endeavoured to watch whither Rainford went, after she parted from
him; but he disappeared, and she concluded that he had entered some
house in that vicinity. That he had quitted Lock's Fields was known to
her; and she therefore imagined that his new domicile must be in the
Lane. Jacob was accordingly set to watch that neighbourhood; but he
misled her purposely, as will be remembered, by stating that he had
knocked at every house in the street, and had ascertained that no such
person as Rainford lived there. Tom was, however, seen by one of the
spies, in Piccadilly, on the ensuing (Sunday) evening, as he was
returning from Lady Hatfield's house; and he was dogged over to his
old abode in Lock's Fields. In the meantime, Tidmarsh had been to Mr.
Howard, whom he bribed heavily with gold supplied by Old Death for the
purpose; and the lawyer was induced to instruct Dykes, the Bow Street
runner to arrest Rainford on the charge of robbing Sir Christopher
Blunt. This arrangement with the solicitor was effected on the
Saturday afternoon: it was on the Sunday evening that Rainford was
dogged to his own abode; and that very night, as soon as the spy could
communicate with Mrs. Bunce and Dykes, the arrest of the victim was
accomplished in the manner described in a previous chapter. Throughout
all these and the subsequent proceedings, Jacob Smith's friendly
disposition towards Rainford was not suspected; nor were his visits to
Horsemonger Lane Gaol known to the conspirators—inasmuch as the spies,
who had been placed in that neighbourhood to watch for Lord Ellingham,
had no farther business there when once the Earl was captured and
secured.

Such was the substance of the confession, partly elicited fairly and
partly extorted from the three worthies—Old Death, Mrs. Bunce, and Mr.
Tidmarsh—who were now so completely in the power of the Earl of
Ellingham.

"Thus," said Arthur, who, as well as the physician and Jacob Smith, was
appalled at the dreadful discoveries now brought to light,—"thus was
this tremendous conspiracy to take away the existence of a human being,
minutely—I may almost say, scientifically planned in all its details,
and carried on with a secrecy and a success that manifested the most
infernal talent for wicked combinations! Monsters that ye are!" he
cried, unable to retain his feelings any longer; "what vengeance do ye
not merit at my hands? But, no—vengeance is for cowards and grovelling
miscreants like yourselves! Were I inclined—did I stoop to retaliate and
repay ye in your own coin for this enormous misdeed—for you, old man,"
he added, turning his indignant glances upon Benjamin Bones, who shrank
back in dismay,—"you ere now alluded to that cause which makes me
interested in all that regards—or rather regarded," he said, correcting
himself, "your unfortunate victim Thomas Rainford! But, as I was
observing—did I choose to wreak revenge on ye three, how easy were it
done! I might imprison ye for the remainder of your lives in your own
dungeons: I might gag and bind ye in such a way that no cry could escape
your lips, and no avenue of escape be possible, and then either leave ye
to starve—yes, to starve to death in this room; or I might set fire to
the house and consign ye to the torture of flames!"

Mrs. Bunce uttered a faint shriek, and Old Death gave vent to a low
moan, as these awful words fell upon their ears: but Tidmarsh remained
passive and silent.

Jacob Smith and the domestics gazed upon the Earl in anxious suspense,
not unmixed with awe; for, as he spoke, he seemed as if he were armed
with an iron eloquence to reproach, and a vicarious power to punish
fearfully.

The physician surveyed the three prisoners with ineffable disgust.

"But, no!" resumed the Earl: "I would not condescend—I would not degrade
myself so low as to snatch from your hands the weapons with which you
work, and then use them against you! I have yet another point on which I
require information: and when your answers, old man," he continued,
again addressing himself to Bones, "shall have been given, all that will
remain for me to perform is the destruction of your ill-got property,
and the adoption of a measure to deprive you of any future interest in
these houses with their dark subterranean passage and their horrible
dungeons. Benjamin Bones," exclaimed Arthur, after a few moments' pause,
"wherefore did you seek to possess yourself of that little boy whom
Thomas Rainford had so kindly—so generously—so charitably adopted?"

Old Death explained that as he hoped to be enabled to discover the
maternal parent of the lad, and as he conceived that Charley might
afford him information calculated to assist him in that pursuit, he had
endeavoured to get the child into his power.

"The letter which was found on the person of the deceased Sarah Watts,"
said the Earl, "doubtless furnished you with ideas of enacting a scheme
of extortion against the boy's mother, should you be enabled to find her
out, and believing as you do that she is high-born and perhaps wealthy.
That letter fell into the hands of Rainford—no matter how; and, though I
have not seen it, yet the nature of its contents have been communicated
to me. Now, answer me—and answer me truly, if thou canst,—have you any
farther clue beyond that which your acquaintance with the nature of that
letter furnishes?"

"I have not—I have not," replied the old villain hastily: "if I had, I
should not have wanted to get the boy into my power, that I might glean
from him as much as he could impart to me."

"I now, then, warn you to think no more of that child, old man," said
the Earl; "for he is already beyond the reach of your vile aims—and,
even were he not, _I_ would protect him. You see that all your
atrocity—all your intriguing—all your black wickedness does not
invariably conduct you to the goal of success. But moral lessons are
thrown away on such as you. We will therefore terminate this scene as
speedily as possible." Then, turning to his domestics, he added, "You
will repair into the store-rooms of this house, and you will so destroy
and ruin all the rich garments and the larger articles which are there
piled up, that they will become comparatively valueless. The jewellery
you will convey into the subterranean; and all those trinkets you will
throw into the sewer, to which there is an opening from one of the
dungeons. Jacob, you will guide my servants in this task."

"No, Jacob—Jacob!" exclaimed Mrs. Bunce hysterically: "have nothing to
do with a business which——"

"Silence—silence, I command you!" growled Old Death, turning a savage
glance upon the woman, and then fixing a look of demoniac hatred upon
the lad, who was already leading the servants into the adjoining rooms.

Mrs. Bunce remained quiet, in obedience to the order she received from
Old Death.

"And now relative to these houses—this, and the one in Turnmill Street?"
said the nobleman. "Whose property are they?"

"They are my own freehold," responded Bones,—"bought with my money,
long, long ago. But you will not——"

"I will not rob you," interrupted the Earl emphatically. "Where are the
papers proving your title to the possession of this freehold?"

"In the iron-safe, in one of the store-rooms."

The nobleman quitted the laboratory, but presently returned, saying in a
tone of authority, "The key of that safe!"

"It is here—here, in my pocket," muttered the arch-villain. "But my
hands are bound——"

The Earl took the key from the pocket of Old Death and again left the
laboratory. In a few minutes he re-appeared, holding a bundle of papers
in his hand.

"I see by the endorsement that these are the deeds which I require," he
said. "Now set a value upon your property, and I will pay you the
amount. But stay—I will release you, so that you may execute a document
which my solicitor has already prepared, and which simply requires the
necessary filling up to render it available."

The nobleman drew a parchment deed from his pocket; and, aided by the
papers which he had brought from the store-room, inserted the requisite
particulars in the blanks left for the purpose.

He then removed the cords which confined Old Death, who named a large
sum as the purchase-money of the freehold, and for which the Earl wrote
a cheque on his banker without hesitation.

Then the deed of sale and transfer was duly signed by Old Death, and
witnessed by Dr. Lascelles.

"This proceeding on my part," said the Earl, when the business was
concluded, "may appear arbitrary and even vindictive; but it is
necessary, and is not instigated by the spirit of revenge. I have paid
you more than double the value of the property; and, therefore, you
cannot complain. If you feel aggrieved, remember that it is in my power
to transport you for life, on account of the outrage you perpetrated
upon me by making me your prisoner in the subterranean which shall never
be rendered available to you again. I have now performed the whole of
the task which I had imposed upon myself; and you may all three depart!"

Thus speaking, the Earl unbound Tidmarsh; and, having compelled this
individual, as well as Old Death, to surrender their pass-keys to the
two houses, he followed those two villains and the equally vile Mrs.
Bunce to the front-door.

The three passed out into the street; but before they sped away, Old
Death raised his hand, and shaking it ominously, exclaimed, "Lord
Ellingham, I will yet be avenged!"

The young nobleman did not condescend to offer a reply, but closed the
door, and retraced his way to the laboratory.

"Well, my dear Arthur," said the physician, "I think you have had to
deal with as pretty a sample of miscreants as ever underwent
examination. None of those," he added, pointing towards the shelf on
which the casts of the felons' heads were ranged, "could possibly have
competed with them."

"Do you approve, doctor, of all the steps which I have taken?" demanded
the young nobleman.

"You have acted admirably," replied Lascelles. "Indeed, you have behaved
too well to the chief of those fiends, by paying him double the value of
his houses."

"I would not allow even so vile a wretch as he to think that I had
wronged him," returned the nobleman. "You can now remain in
uninterrupted possession of your laboratory, doctor," he added with a
smile. "But let us see how progresses the work of destruction in the
other rooms."

Thither the doctor and the Earl proceeded accordingly.

It would have broken Old Death's heart outright to contemplate the rapid
work which the nobleman's servants and Jacob Smith were making of the
task allotted to them. In the room adjoining the bed-chamber, two of the
domestics were employed in breaking the china, tearing the clothes,
burning the silk handkerchiefs and the parcels of rich lace, ripping to
pieces the muffs and boas, smashing the looking-glasses and pictures,
and committing a havoc such as only the peculiar circumstances of the
case could have justified. In the other store-room, the third servant
and Jacob Smith were unpacking boxes and cases of jewels, and crushing
the various valuables with billets of wood.

The fires were lighted in both rooms, and as much property was destroyed
as it was safe to consume by those means: the jewellery was all conveyed
to the subterranean, and thrown into the common sewer through that
aperture which the hands of the nobleman had so lately hollowed in the
wall of the dungeon.

The day dawned ere the work of destruction was completed: and then the
store-rooms exhibited an appearance forming a strange contrast with
their late wealthy aspect.

The physician returned to his house in Grafton Street; and Lord
Ellingham hastened home to Pall Mall, leaving his servants and Jacob
Smith to follow at their leisure.

In the course of the day he called upon Lady Hatfield, to whom he had
already written two or three notes, acquainting her with the outlines of
the numerous incidents which had so rapidly occurred since the moment of
his escape from the dungeon: and he now gave her a detailed and oral
account of all those exciting occurrences.

Their demeanour towards each other was that of an affectionate brother
and a fond sister; and when the Earl bade her adieu, they embraced with
feelings far different from those which once had filled their hearts.

In the evening, Arthur, accompanied by Jacob Smith, and attended by only
a single valet, departed in his travelling-carriage for Dover, whence on
the ensuing morning he embarked for France.




                             CHAPTER LXVI.
                  MRS. SLINGSBY AND THE BARONET AGAIN.


A few days had elapsed since the events related in the preceding
chapter.

We must now again introduce our readers to the abode of Mrs. Slingsby,
in Old Burlington Street.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning; the breakfast things had just
been cleared away; and the pious lady was sitting in an abstracted—nay,
positively mournful mood, holding in her hand the _Morning Herald_, on
which, however, her looks were not fixed.

There was something on her mind. She was the prey alike to a source of
disquietude and to the embarrassment caused by a projected scheme, beset
with difficulties which seemed insuperable.

At length a double knock at the door interrupted her painful reverie;
and in a few minutes Sir Henry Courtenay, whom she had been expecting,
was announced.

The baronet's countenance was lighted up with an expression of joy and
triumph; and, as soon as the servant had retired, he embraced his
mistress with more than his wonted ardour. Still that ardour seemed not
to exist on account of her, but rather to arise from feelings which
required a vent: it was an embrace that appeared to say, "Congratulate
me, for I have succeeded!"

"You are unusually gay this morning, my dear Henry," observed the lady,
somewhat piqued at his manner; for her perception was quite keen enough
to comprehend the real nature of the baronet's emotions, as we have just
described them.

"Martha, my love," responded Sir Henry, "I have just brought a well-laid
plot to a successful issue—at least, so far successful, that there can
be no doubt as to the result."

"I dare say the project has but little interest for me," exclaimed the
lady. "You have become a general _intriguant_ I am convinced, Sir Henry;
and your conduct is not fair or proper towards me."

"My dear Martha, I have before told you that it is impossible for me to
remain completely faithful to you," answered the baronet. "I would not
bind myself to any one woman, for all the world. If there be a woman to
whom I could so bind myself, it is decidedly yourself."

"Thank you, Sir Henry, for the compliment," said Mrs. Slingsby, a little
softened.

"But it is impossible, I repeat. Moreover," continued the baronet, "you
must not complain of me—for I do all I can to render you happy. My
banker's book is at your service——"

"Well, well," interrupted Mrs. Slingsby, "we will not dispute. Indeed, I
have matters of too great an importance upon my mind to permit me to
devote attention to petty jealousies and idle frivolities; and I
perceive that you have also much to occupy your thoughts. But the
revelation shall commence with you. Come, Henry, tell me all you have to
say; and when we have discoursed on your affairs, you shall listen to
mine."

"Be it so, Martha," said the baronet; then drawing his chair close to
that of his mistress, he continued thus: "You are well aware how vexed
and annoyed I was when you allowed the two girls to depart in so sudden
a manner from the house."

"And you are also aware how cruelly I was discovered and reproached by
my nephew Clarence," added Mrs. Slingsby.

"I have not forgotten all you told me on that head, Martha," returned
the baronet; "and perhaps what I am going to tell you may set your mind
at ease relative to that same nephew of yours."

"Poor Clarence!" exclaimed the lady, really touched as she thought of
him. "He has been dreadfully ill ever since that shabby trick which Mr.
Torrens played him. For three weeks he was confined to his bed, and was
delirious——"

"I know all that, Martha," interrupted the baronet somewhat impatiently.
"But do listen to me, as I am going to tell you things which I have
hitherto kept altogether to myself. Well, you must know, then, that I
was determined not to be discomfited by the abrupt return of Rosamond to
her father's house; and I was well aware that, after all which had
occurred between Villiers and yourself, you could not possibly give me
any further assistance. So I acted for myself. I ascertained every
requisite particular relative to this Mr. Torrens; I discovered that he
is overwhelmed with difficulties—trembling on the verge of
insolvency—and anxious to do any thing that may save him from so
ignominious a fate. I also learnt that he is a man who will sacrifice
his best feelings and principles for money. He has a mania for building
speculations; and he conceives that if he be only assisted with adequate
funds, he shall make a rapid and princely fortune. Love for his
daughters he has not: he merely regards them as beautiful objects, to be
sold to the highest bidder—and on what terms he scarcely cares, so that
they become the means of producing him money. Such is the person on whom
I have had to work—and I have not worked ineffectually."

"Then you have formed an acquaintance with him?" exclaimed Mrs.
Slingsby.

"An acquaintance!" cried the baronet, chuckling; "I have formed an
intimate friendship."

"What! in four or five weeks!" said Mrs. Slingsby.

"Exactly so. I obtained an introduction to him through his surveyor, who
also happens to be mine; and under pretence of bargaining with him for
the purchase of some of his houses, I wormed myself into his confidence.
He at length informed me that there were heavy mortgages on all his
buildings, and that he was anxious to sell some in order to be able to
proceed with others. When I encountered the young ladies, I affected to
be greatly surprised that they should prove to be the daughters of the
very Mr. Torrens to whom my surveyor had recommended me."

"You have worked systematically indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby, with
pouting lips. "But pray proceed."

"Sometimes I was enabled, when I called," continued the baronet, "to
obtain a few minutes' conversation with Rosamond alone; for Adelais, the
elder sister, usually remains in her own chamber, a prey to the deepest
melancholy. But Rosamond never appeared to comprehend any of the
significant though well wrapt up hints which I dropped relative to my
feelings concerning her. It is evident that you proved either a bad
tutoress, Martha, or she a dull pupil."

"I presume you are coming to a crisis, Henry," said Mrs. Slingsby; "for
your narrative is somewhat of the most tedious."

"I will endeavour to render it a little more interesting," observed the
baronet complacently. "A few days ago I called at Torrens Cottage, and
found the house in the greatest confusion. An execution had been levied
in the morning, and the broker was there, putting a value upon the
property. Mr. Torrens was in a state of dark and sombre despair; the
young ladies were in their own apartment. I had a long private
conversation with the father. He made me acquainted with the entire
position of his affairs; and I discovered that five thousand pounds
would be required to redeem him from utter ruin. It was then that I
gradually unveiled my purposes—it was then that I dropped mysterious
hints of my objects and views. At first he was astounded when the light
began to dawn upon him, and he caught a glimpse of my meaning; but as I
carelessly displayed a roll of notes before him, he grew attentive, and
appeared to reflect profoundly."

"_The man who deliberates, is lost_," said Mrs. Slingsby, quoting the
hackneyed proverb, and shuddering—bad, criminal, worthless as she was—at
the tremendous amount of guilt which she now more than half suspected to
be already perpetrated, or at all events to be approaching its
consummation.

"While we were yet far from coming to an open explanation," continued
the baronet, as calmly as if he were narrating a history of but little
moment, "an event occurred which hastened the affair to the catastrophe
that I contemplated. A sheriff's officer entered and arrested Mr.
Torrens for a considerable amount—seven hundred pounds. The execution
levied on the property in the house was for three hundred and forty; and
thus he required an immediate advance of upwards of a thousand pounds to
save himself from a prison, and his furniture from a public sale in due
course. I requested the officer to withdraw from the room for a few
minutes, stating who I was, and pledging myself that Mr. Torrens should
not attempt to escape. I will not tell you all that then took place
between me and the father of those girls: let it suffice for you to
learn, that at the expiration of nearly an hour's discourse—varied on
his part by appeals, threats, prayers, and imprecations—_he agreed to
sell his daughter Rosamond_!"

"As your wife?" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby, in a hoarse, hollow tone.

"No: as my mistress—as any thing I choose," returned Sir Henry
Courtenay, emphatically.

Mrs. Slingsby shuddered from head to foot.

"How silly of you to affect horror at such an event!" exclaimed the
baronet.

"Yes—it _is_ silly on my part!" cried Mrs. Slingsby, bitterly; "silly,
because I ought to have played a different part when first you touched
upon the subject a few weeks ago. But, my God! Henry—you cannot mean—you
will not, surely—surely——"

"Martha, this passes all endurance," said the baronet sternly. "If you
do not choose to listen to me, I can retire: if you will not assist me,
there is an end to every thing between you and me—and then, how will you
live?"

"What assistance do you require?" asked the widow, in a low and
tremulous tone—for she was shocked at all she had heard, and she was
terrified by the menace which the baronet had just uttered.

"You shall learn," answered the latter. "I advanced the sums necessary
to save Mr. Torrens from a prison and his furniture from the effects of
the levy, taking his note of hand, payable on demand, for the amount—so
that should he wish to retract from his bargain, he is completely in my
power. I have agreed to give him five thousand pounds in all—_as the
price of his daughter_. But he represented to me that the project can
never be carried into execution, until Adelais and Rosamond shall have
been separated. I was not unprepared for such an objection; and I
accordingly proposed that he should permit Clarence Villiers to marry
Adelais without delay—her drooping health serving as the plea for this
relenting disposition on his part. I moreover promised my special
protection on behalf of Clarence, for whom I can speedily obtain a
government situation of far greater emolument than the paltry clerkship
which he now holds. Then, when the wedding is over, and the young couple
have quitted London, to pass the honeymoon somewhere in the country,
_you will request Rosamond to spend a few days at your house_."

And the baronet fixed a significant look upon his mistress as he uttered
these words, so pregnant with terrible meaning.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby: "if the deed were done
here—beneath this roof—it would ruin me!"

"Ridiculous!" cried the baronet; and he proceeded to argue his hellish
project in a manner which showed how fully he had considered it in all
its details, and how artfully he had devised the means to render an
exposure improbable.

[Illustration]

But we cannot place on record all that was urged by him, or objected to
by his mistress, on this particular point; suffice it to say that,
influenced by the menaces more than by the reasoning which came from his
lips, the pious lady at last consented to become the pander to his
damnable machinations.

"Mr. Torrens shall this day write a letter to your nephew and invite him
to the Cottage," said the baronet, when the whole plan was fully agreed
upon. "Clarence will not of course be suffered to know that any
interference on my part has brought about a reconciliation between him
and the father of his beloved. The marriage will be hurried on as much
as possible, and then Rosamond will become mine! But is Clarence
sufficiently recovered from his illness to leave his dwelling?"

"He is much better than he was a few days ago," returned Mrs. Slingsby;
"but when he first awoke to consciousness, after a month's duration of
alarming illness and almost constant delirium, he received a severe
shock, which produced a partial relapse. In a word, he inquired
concerning the highwayman Thomas Rainford; and, on hearing that he had
suffered the penalty of death, he exhibited the most painful and
heart-rending emotions."

"But can he leave his room? Is he well enough to move out again?"
demanded the baronet impatiently.

"Yes: he was here yesterday," answered Mrs. Slingsby. "Moreover, a
letter conveying to him such joyful news as those which Mrs. Torrens
will have to impart, cannot fail to restore him speedily to health and
good spirits."

"Thus far all goes well," said Sir Henry Courtenay. "And now, Martha, my
love, it is your turn to speak."

"I have consented to serve you, Henry, in a most difficult and dangerous
scheme," observed the lady, after a few moments' reflection; "may I hope
for aid and support from you in a plan which _I_ have formed?"

"Certainly. Proceed—my curiosity is already excited."

"Henry," said Mrs. Slingsby, sinking her voice to a low and serious
tone; "I am again——"

The baronet started.

"Yes—again with child," added the widow; "and on this occasion I intend
to turn to a good account what would otherwise be deemed a terrible
misfortune."

"I cannot for the life of me understand you," exclaimed Sir Henry
Courtenay.

"I will explain myself," resumed Mrs. Slingsby. "You are well aware of
the readiness which even well-informed persons in this country manifest
to put faith in anything monstrous or preposterous that may be
proclaimed or established under the cloak of religion. The greater the
falsehood, the more greedily it is swallowed. There is that scoundrel
and hypocrite Sheepshanks, for instance, who was so completely exposed a
few weeks ago: he has taken a chapel somewhere in the Tottenham Court
Road, and preached for the first time last Sunday. He has now become a
dissenter; and in his initial sermon he dwelt boldly and long on the
errors of which he had been guilty. He declared that he had been sorely
beset by Satan, to whom he had for a time succumbed: hence his
disgraceful fall. But he proceeded to aver that he and Satan had since
then had a long and desperate struggle together, throughout an entire
night, in his bed-chamber; and that he eventually succeeded in sending
the Evil One howling away just as the day broke. He therefore proclaimed
that he had now emancipated himself from the thraldom of hell, and was a
chosen vessel of heaven once again. This discourse produced such an
effect, that when he descended from the pulpit, many of the congregation
pressed forward to shake him by the hand; and he is now in a more
fragrant odour of sanctity than ever."

"To what is all this to lead, Martha?" inquired Sir Henry, completely
bewildered by the long tirade relative to Mr. Sheepshanks.

"I merely mentioned the circumstances which I have related, for the
purpose of convincing you how easily the world is duped by persons
professing extreme sanctity," continued Mrs. Slingsby.

"To be sure!" ejaculated Sir Henry: "there are always plenty of fools to
assemble at the beck and word of a knave."

"And it is with these impressions," added the widow, "that I intend to
convert my present misfortune into an honour and a source of immense
profit."

"May I be hanged if I understand one word of all you are saying!" cried
the baronet, completely bewildered. "You are in the family way again, it
appears; and yet you glory in the circumstance!"

"Doubtless you have heard the story of Johanna Southcott?"[28] said the
widow, with a glance full of meaning.

"And you would imitate that imposture!" exclaimed Sir Henry: "'tis
madness—sheer madness! Your nephew, who knows how intimate you and I are
together, would expose the miserable trick."

"That is the principal difficulty which I should have to encounter,"
said Mrs. Slingsby, in a calm tone: "and even that is not
insurmountable. I require your aid, indeed, on that very point. The
change which, to suit _your_ views, has taken place—or will speedily
take place—relative to the position of Clarence and Adelais, already
smoothes down much of the difficulty alluded to. Clarence will receive
the benefit of your interest: exert that interest, then, to procure him
a situation in some distant colony—or the East Indies, if you will—and
his absence will alike render _you_ more secure in the enjoyment of your
Rosamond's person, and will remove to a distance the only individual who
could possibly interfere with _my_ project."

"Martha, this scheme of yours is utter madness, I repeat," exclaimed the
baronet. "I will have nothing to do with it. If you attempt to palm so
ridiculous a deceit on the world, all sorts of prying inquiries will be
made, and the real nature of our intimacy must in that case be
inevitably discovered. No—it shall not be done! I will give you money to
go abroad, if you choose, when your situation may render necessary a
temporary disappearance from London; but to consent to this insane
project——"

"Well, well, Henry," interrupted the lady, terrified by the vehemence of
the baronet's manner, "you shall have your own way."

"Now you are reasonable," said Sir Henry, drawing his chair closer to
that in which she was seated, and beginning to toy with her.

But we need not prolong our description of this interview. Suffice it to
say, that Mrs. Slingsby consented to abandon her atrocious scheme of
representing herself as a second Johanna Southcott, and on the other
hand promised to lend her aid to the no less infamous conspiracy formed
against the honour of the unsuspecting Rosamond Torrens—for which
concessions the pious and excellent lady received a cheque for a
considerable sum on Sir Henry Courtenay's bankers.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The plan which Mrs. Slingsby had conceived, would never for one moment
have obtained any degree of consistency in her imagination, had she not
been well aware that there were thousands and tens of thousands of
credulous gulls—superstitious dolts and idiots—miserable and
contemptible fanatics, who would have greedily swallowed the impious,
blasphemous, and atrocious lie.

In earnest belief of the Christian religion, and for profound veneration
of all the sublime truths and doctrines taught by the Bible, we yield to
no living being:—but it is not with common patience that we contemplate
that disgusting readiness which so many of our fellow-countrymen exhibit
to put faith in the false prophets and hypocrites who start up on all
sides, each with some saving system of his own.

Not many years have elapsed since the Reverend Mr. Irving electrified
all England with his "unknown tongues;" and there were impostors and
fanatics, or fools and knaves, prompt to give an impulse to that
memorable delusion by lending themselves to the cheat.

In this civilized country, too—in the nineteenth century—in a land whose
sons proclaim themselves to be farther advanced in knowledge and
enlightening principles than any other race on the surface of the
earth—in one of the counties, moreover, where the refinement of
intellect is supposed to prevail to a degree of brilliancy certainly not
excelled in other parts of the kingdom,—there—in the neighbourhood of
the cathedral city of Canterbury—did a madman, at no very remote date,
assemble a host of enthusiastic believers in his horrible assumption of
the name and attributes of the SAVIOUR OF THE WORLD! Yes—in the vicinity
of a town presumed to possess all the benefit which the knowledge and
learning of innumerable clergymen can possibly impart, did Mad Tom
successfully personate the Messiah for several days!

But, oh! how sad—how mournful is it to contemplate the course which the
Government of England is taking at the instant while we are penning
these lines! A General Fast, to propitiate the Almighty, and to induce
Him to avert his wrath from Ireland! Holy God! do thy thunders sleep
when men thus blaspheme thy sacred name—thus actually reproach Thee with
the effects of their misdeeds?

When misgovernment has brought Ireland to the verge of desperation,—when
landlords have drained the country of its resources to be expended in
the British metropolis,—when the agents and middlemen have exercised the
full amount of petty tyranny and goading oppression upon the unhappy
tenants,—when the Irish pride has been insulted by the symbols of
subjection until endurance is no longer possible,—when the ambition of
many gifted minds has been chafed and irritated at being excluded from a
career of honour they would otherwise have pursued,—when all the
humanizing effects of civilization have been restricted by a perpetual
collision between the triumphant Protestant religion on the one hand
domineering with insolence, and the defeated Catholic religion on the
other looking for the chance of regaining a lost ascendancy,—when, too,
an unprincipled system of agitation has fanned the flame of the worst
feelings and extorted the few pence from the pockets of the
half-starving peasantry,—when all these influences, forming an aggregate
powerful enough to crush the most flourishing country upon the face of
the earth, have been brought to bear upon unhappy Ireland, and have
reduced her population to a misery which with such fertile causes was
inevitable,—there are to be found men who are bold enough, in their
deplorable ignorance or their abominable impiety, to accuse the Almighty
of having purposely afflicted Ireland!

People of the British Isles! be not deceived by this blasphemous
proceeding—a proceeding that would shift an awful responsibility from
the shoulders of incompetent statesmen, and lay it to the account of
heaven! Our blood runs cold as we write these lines—we shudder as we
contemplate the wickedness of this impious subterfuge!

A General Fast to propitiate the Almighty—when the misgovernment and the
misdeeds of men have worked all the horrible results complained of!
Carlile, Hone, Richard Taylor, Tom Paine, and the whole host of avowed
infidels were never prosecuted by the Attorney-general for blasphemy
worse than that which attributes to the Almighty the effects of the
errors, ignorance, despotism, and short-sightedness of human beings!

God has given us a fair and beauteous world to dwell in,—he has endowed
us with intelligence to make the most of the produce of the soil,—and
his revealed laws and doctrines have supplied us with precepts competent
to maintain order and regularity in society. HE manifests no caprice—no
change: the seasons come in due course, each bringing its peculiar
bounties;—and it depends on ourselves to render our abiding-places here
scenes of comfort, happiness, and contentment. But if by our own
ignorance, wickedness, or tyrannical behaviour, we succeed in rendering
any one spot of this fair and beauteous world a prey to famine and its
invariable attendant—pestilence,—if we undertake to govern a country
which we have conquered, and instead of applying beneficial and suitable
measures, heap insult, wrong, error, and oppression upon its people,—how
can we be surprised that the worst results should ensue? and how can we
be so wickedly blind, or so vilely hypocritical, as to attempt to cast
upon the dispensations of Providence those lamentable evils which we
ourselves have engendered?

Again we say that a more abominable insult to the Majesty of Heaven was
never perpetrated, than that conveyed by the motives set forth as a
reason for a General Fast! The Ministers who have advised Queen Victoria
to assent to such a hideous mockery, are unworthy the confidence of the
nation. England will become the laughing-stock—the scorn—the derision of
the whole world. Oh! we feel ashamed of belonging to a country in which
such monstrous proceedings are set in motion under the solemn sanction
of the Sovereign and her Ministers!

-----

Footnote 28:

  Partington's "Dictionary of Universal Biography" contains the
  following brief but faithful account of that impious and abominable
  impostress, Johanna Southcott:

  "She was a singular fanatic, whose extravagant pretensions attracted a
  numerous band of converts in London and its vicinity, said to have, at
  one period, amounted to upwards of 100,000. She was born in the west
  of England, about the year 1750, of parents in very humble life, and,
  being carried away by a heated imagination, gave herself out as the
  woman spoken of in the book of Revelation. In this capacity she for
  awhile carried on a lucrative trade in the sale of seals, which were,
  under certain conditions, to secure the salvation of the purchasers. A
  disorder subsequently giving her the outward appearance of pregnancy,
  after she had passed her grand climacteric, she announced herself as
  the mother of the promised Shiloh, whose speedy advent she predicted.
  The faith of her followers, among whom were several clergymen of the
  established church, rose to enthusiasm. A cradle of the most expensive
  materials, and highly decorated, was prepared by her expectant
  votaries at a fashionable upholsterer's, and every preparation made
  for the reception of the miraculous babe that superstition and
  credulity could induce. About the close of the year 1814, however, the
  prophetess began to have her misgivings during some comparatively
  lucid intervals, in which she declared that, 'if she was deceived, she
  had, at all events, been the sport of some spirit, either good or
  evil;' and the 27th December in that year, death put an end to both
  her hopes and fears. With her followers, however, it was otherwise;
  and though for a time confounded by her decease, which they could
  scarcely believe to be real, her speedy resurrection was confidently
  anticipated. In this persuasion many lived and died, nor is her sect
  yet extinct: but, within a short period, several families of her
  disciples were living together in the neighbourhood of Chatham, in
  Kent, remarkable for the length of their beards and the general
  singularity of their appearance. The body of Johanna underwent an
  anatomical investigation after her death, when the extraordinary
  appearance of her shape was accounted for upon medical principles; and
  her remains were conveyed for interment, under a fictitious name, to
  the burying-ground attached to the chapel in St. John's Wood."




                             CHAPTER LXVII.
                        THE MARRIAGE.—ROSAMOND.


A fortnight had passed since the interview between Mrs. Slingsby and Sir
Henry Courtenay; and the machinations of the latter had so successfully
prevailed in accelerating the matters in which he was interested, that
on the morning, when we must request our readers to accompany us to
Torrens Cottage, the marriage of Adelais and Clarence Villiers was to
take place.

The young man was still pale from the effects of recent and severe
indisposition; but the happiness which he had experienced during the
last fourteen days had worked a greater physical improvement in him than
six months' sojourn in the south of France could possibly have done.

Firmly believing that the declining health and drooping spirits of
Adelais had alone induced Mr. Torrens to revoke a decree which was to
have separated them for ever,—and not over anxious to revive past topics
in connexion with the subject,—Clarence gave himself completely up to
the happiness which now awaited him; and his Adelais was equally ready
to bury in oblivion any disagreeable reflections relative to the late
conduct of her father.

Mr. Torrens was cold, moody, and distant: but this was his manner—and,
as the young people knew not what fierce fires raged beneath that aspect
of ice, they did not bestow any unusual attention on the subject.

The only source of grief which the sisters knew was their approaching
separation; for Mr. Torrens had arranged for the young couple to proceed
into Devonshire and pass the honeymoon with some distant relations of
his own, who were anxious to see their beautiful cousin Adelais.
Rosamond was to remain with her father, Mrs. Slingsby not having as yet
sent her an invitation to Old Burlington Street, for fear that Clarence
might throw some obstacle in the way of its being accepted.

Thus stood matters on the bridal morning,—when Adelais appeared
pre-eminently beautiful in her garb of virgin white—emblematical of the
innocence of her own heart,—and when Clarence Villiers could scarcely
persuade himself that he was actually touching on the threshold of
complete felicity. Rosamond—poor Rosamond smiled amidst the tears that
flowed fast down her pale cheeks; for she felt as if she were losing her
best—her only friend in the approaching departure of Adelais.

There was a young lady—a friend—who acted as joint bridesmaid with
Rosamond; and there were two or three other acquaintances of the
family;—and of the persons thus enumerated consisted the bridal party.
The sisters had naturally invited Mrs. Slingsby; but that lady, aware
that her presence would not be agreeable to her nephew, had sent to
plead indisposition as the excuse for her absence.

And Mr. Torrens—what was the nature of his feelings now? Forced by his
necessities—or rather by that indomitable pride which urged him to make
every sacrifice rather than boldly meet his embarrassments in the
Bankruptcy Court—he had assented to bestow his elder daughter on a young
man whom he disliked, and to sell his younger child to an atrocious
villain, who had not even manifested the delicacy of hinting at
marriage!

Reader! think not that when we record the dreadful fact of _a father
consenting to sell his own daughter for gold_, we are fabricating for a
romance an incident which never occurred in real life! Such things have
been done often—are done often—and will be done often, so long as the
human species shall exist. The immense wealth of that corrupt and
detestable monster, the late Marquis of Hertford,[29] enabled him to
purchase the favours not only of Lady S——, but also induced that
profligate woman to sell to him every one of her daughters! And those
daughters have since married titled men, and live splendidly upon the
riches bequeathed to them by the horrible voluptuary. Again, but a few
years have elapsed since a certain Lady H——sold her beautiful daughter
Priscilla to a most ignoble lord; and the atrocious deed became the
topic of numerous articles in the English and continental newspapers,
the tribunals of France having taken cognizance of the scandal!

We could make mention of innumerable instances of this kind, the greater
portion of which are, however, confined to the aristocratic circles. For
it must necessarily occur that the "upper classes," as they insolently
denominate themselves, are the most profligate, unprincipled, and
licentious of all the sections into which society is divided. Wealth and
idleness, associated, must, as a general rule, give a fearful impulse to
immorality: rich viands and generous wines must heat the blood; and
nights of dissipation—balls, routs, _soirées_, and card-parties—inflame
the imagination. The voluptuous dances which prevail in those
fashionable assemblies—the indecent manner in which the ladies of the
"upper class" display so much of the bosom that but little scope is left
for the exercise of fancy—the positive encouragement that is given in
high life to men whose reputation as vile seducers is notorious,—all
these circumstances foster licentiousness, and provide a constant
aliment to sustain immorality.

Again, the morals of the fashionable world have not recovered from the
effects of that dangerous poison which was instilled into them by the
evil examples of the family of George the Third, and the flagrant
conduct of the beastly voluptuary, George the Fourth. The licentiousness
of the Princesses of that family became the public scandal of the day;
and from the ladies of the Court emanated the fashion of wearing hoops
to their dresses, for a purpose which need not be particularly
described. But fashion subsists by the artifice of constant change; and
when hoops had enjoyed their day, those ladies who had found them so
convenient, actually devised the scheme of giving vogue to a padding in
front _to make the wearers appear in the family way_! This is no
fiction; and young, unmarried girls, as well as married ladies, actually
submitted to this disgraceful and immoral fashion through servile
obedience to the example of the Princesses. This was positively holding
out a premium to licentiousness—because the fear of a false step
indicating itself by its consequences, was annihilated.

Everyone knows that many titled ladies gloried in the reputation of
being (as they really were) the mistresses of George the Fourth. With
all these frightful examples in view, how could the entire sphere of the
fashionable world fail to become dreadfully demoralised? and how was it
possible to prevent the contaminating influence from spreading to the
inferior grades? Therefore is it that the fashionable world
especially—being the first to experience that influence and the most
likely to perpetuate it—has not yet recovered from the effects of the
evil example of the Court. True is it, thank God! that Queen Victoria
has not followed the same course which so many of her near relatives
adopted: but still even her bright example can only gradually mitigate,
and not in a moment destroy, the effects of the moral poison instilled
into fashionable society by her royal predecessors.

Previously to the first revolution in France, the aristocracy were
steeped in licentiousness and profligacy. But a glorious nation rose in
its might—hurled down a throne encrusted with the miseries of the
people—annihilated the bloated and infamous nobility—and even gave the
proud and arrogant clergy such a lesson as they have never since
forgotten. The aristocracy of France have never recovered that blow—and,
thank heaven! never will. The hereditary peerage exists no longer in
France; and titles of nobility are valueless. Thus, by virtually
destroying the aristocracy of rank and birth, France has suppressed a
sewer of filth and corruption which distilled its abominations through
every grade and phase of society. The aristocracy of talent has been
substituted; and the mechanic may now rise to be a minister—the
ploughman has his fair chance of becoming a politician—the delver of the
soil can aspire to the post of deputy. France is regenerated: England
can become so only by the destruction of its hereditary aristocracy.

From this long digression, we return to the bridal party assembled at
Torrens Cottage, and now about to repair to the adjacent church, where
the nuptial bond was to be indissolubly tied.

And to that church did the party proceed,—the father, who looked upon
his daughters as the means of filling his purse,—the daughters, who knew
not the utter selfishness of their sire,—the young man, who was so
indescribably happy in at length accompanying to the altar her whom he
loved so well,—and the guests, who thought as much of the excellent
breakfast which followed as of the solemn ceremony itself.

The banquet passed—and the time came for the departure of the newly
married couple. A post chaise drove up to the door—the trunks were
hastily conveyed to the vehicle—and Adelais was torn away from the arms
of her young sister Rosamond, who clung frantically to her.

An hour afterwards, the guests were gone—and Rosamond remained alone
with her father.

"God grant that my dearest sister may be happy!" said the maiden, her
voice almost completely lost in sobs.

"If she is not, it will be her own fault," observed Mr. Torrens harshly,
as he paced the room. "She would have the young man—she set her heart
upon him—and I have yielded. I suppose you are now sorry that she is
gone; and yet I dare swear you thought me a brutal tyrant for separating
the love-sick pair a few weeks ago."

"My dearest, dearest father!" exclaimed Rosamond, profoundly afflicted
and even annoyed at the manner in which she was addressed,—"wherefore
speak to me thus! Have I ever given you any reason to suppose that I was
so undutiful as——"

"As to run away from the house with your sister—eh?" interrupted Mr.
Torrens in a biting, satirical tone. "A young lady who could take such a
step, would not be very particular in her observations on her father's
conduct."

"Heavens! how have I deserved these reproaches—at least to-day?" asked
Rosamond, bursting into an agony of tears. "Shall not the past be
forgotten? will you ever continue, my dear father, to recall those
events which are naturally so painful——"

"Well, well—let us say no more about it, Rosamond," cried Mr. Torrens,
ashamed of having vented his ill-humour upon his daughter.

And he paced the room in a manner denoting a strange and indomitable
agitation.

The fact was that the miserable father recoiled in horror from the
atrocity he had agreed to perpetrate; and, with an idiosyncracy so
common amongst men who tremble upon the verge of committing a fearful
crime, he turned on the intended victim as if she were the wilful and
conscious cause of those black feelings that raged within his breast. He
had not moral courage sufficient to retreat while it was yet time:—he
dared not make the comparatively small sacrifice of himself to avoid the
immeasurably greater one which involved the immolation of his daughter.

Rosamond was already deeply afflicted at parting with her sister—that
sister from whom she had never been separated until now:—but she was
doomed to experience additional sources of grief in the harsh manner and
alarming agitation of her father.

At length, unable any longer to endure the state of suspense and
uncertainty in which she was suddenly plunged concerning him, she rose
from her seat—advanced timidly towards him—and, throwing one of her
snowy arms over his shoulder, murmured in a plaintive tone,
"Father—dearest father, what dreadful cause of sorrow oppresses you now?
Are you fearful that Adelais will not be happy—that Clarence will not
always be good and kind to her? Oh! yes, dearest father—I am sure he
will——"

"I am not thinking of the daughter who is gone," exclaimed Mr. Torrens,
suddenly interrupting the maiden, and speaking in a tone no longer
harsh, but positively wild with despair: "my thoughts are intent on the
daughter who is left behind!"

"Am I a source of affliction to you, father?" asked Rosamond,
contemplating her sire in so plaintive, melancholy, and yet tender a
manner that his vile heart was for a moment touched, and he felt ready
to throw himself at her feet and implore her pardon for the ill he
meditated towards her. "Tell me, my beloved parent," she said, "have I
given you offence in any way—by word or deed? Oh! if I have, bitter will
be the tears that I shall shed; and sincerely—most sincerely shall I
beseech your forgiveness."

"No, Rosamond," said Mr. Torrens, crushing the better feelings of his
soul as he thought of the ruin that would envelop him were he to retract
his engagements with the baronet: "you have not offended me—and I
believe I spoke harshly to you just now without a cause. But let us talk
no more on that subject. Compose yourself—wipe away those tears. I shall
now retire to my study—for I have letters of importance to write."

But at that moment the well-known knock of the postman resounded through
the house; and almost immediately afterwards a servant entered the room,
handed a letter to Rosamond, and then withdrew.

"A note for _me_!" exclaimed the young lady, in surprise, while Mr.
Torrens' blood ran cold and his brain whirled. "Oh! it is from dear Mrs.
Slingsby—I recognise the handwriting."

And hastily opening it, she glanced over the contents.

Mr. Torrens was about to leave the room, as if the arrival of the letter
were a matter of perfect indifference to him.

"One moment, dear father," said Rosamond, detaining him by the arm: "you
must read this beautiful letter which Mrs. Slingsby has written to me;
and though I cannot think of accepting the kind invitation which it
conveys——"

"What does Mrs. Slingsby say in her letter, then?" demanded Mr. Torrens,
all his ill-humour returning as this further step in the hideous plot
re-awakened his most poignant reflections; "what does she say, that you
speak in such enthusiastic terms of a mere letter?"

Rosamond placed the note in his hand; and Mr. Torrens, turning aside
towards the window, read the contents, as follow:—

  "It has greatly distressed me, my beloved young friend, to have been
  unable to attend at the solemnization of the holy and yet deeply
  affecting ceremony, which, by the time this reaches you, will have
  united my excellent nephew and your sweet sister. But it has pleased
  the Almighty, in his inscrutable wisdom, to afflict me with a severe
  rheumatism at this time, as I assured you in a previous note; and
  although I sincerely hope that, by the blessing of that all-wise
  Being and the aid of the lotion which Dr. Wagtail has sent me, I
  shall be well in a few days, yet I am compelled for the present to
  remain within the house. It is my most sincere and heart-felt hope
  that your dear sister and my beloved nephew may experience all that
  happiness which the Omnipotent may deign to bestow upon his elect.
  One circumstance must essentially tend to smooth down those mundane
  asperities which, alas! they will have to encounter in the rough
  path of life; and that is the religious faith with which they are
  both imbued. For myself, I can safely declare that if it were not
  for the consolations which the Holy Bible imparts to all who study
  its divine doctrines, and for the solace afforded me by a few kind
  friends (amongst whom I must include that most choice vessel of the
  Lord, Sir Henry Courtenay), I know not how I should bear up against
  the grievous pains wherewith it has pleased the Most High to afflict
  me, and which have just passed from the right foot into the left.
  Doubtless it is for my eternal welfare, in a better world, that I am
  thus chastened in this; although Dr. Wagtail, with a levity
  unbecoming a professional man of his age and standing, declares that
  if I keep my feet well swathed in flannel and take mustard baths on
  going to bed, I shall triumph over the ailment. But, oh! my dearest
  young friend, what is flannel without the blessing of heaven? what
  is mustard without the aid of the Most High? I am very lonely, sweet
  Rosamond; and I am fearful that you must miss your dear sister much.
  I know that Mr. Torrens' occupations take him much from home; and
  thus you cannot always enjoy the presence and the consolations of
  your excellent father, whom, I regret to say, I only as yet know by
  good report, but whose hand I hope to press some day in friendship.
  Will you, my love, come and pass a week or two with me? It will be a
  perfect charity on your part; and I am convinced also that change of
  scene will cheer your spirits. Come to me, my dearest Rosamond,
  early to-morrow morning (God willing)—if your good kind father can
  spare you.

                               "Ever your sincere and attached friend,
                                                   "MARTHA SLINGSBY."

The vile hypocrisy which characterised this letter enhanced, if
possible, the blackness of that crime towards the consummation of which
it was so material a step; and Mr. Torrens stood gazing upon the
document until all its characters seemed to move and agitate on the
surface of the paper like a legion of hideous reptiles swarming
together.

But at length mastering his horribly painful emotions, he turned towards
his daughter, saying, "And wherefore, Rosamond, should you not accept an
invitation as kind as it is considerate?"

"Oh! my dear father," exclaimed the maiden, "I could not think of
leaving you at a time when you have just lost the society of one of your
children. Moreover, I perceive that you are not entirely happy—I fear
that those recent embarrassments——"

"Speak not of them, Rosamond," interrupted Mr. Torrens sternly; for so
great was his pride, that he could not endure the idea of his own
daughters being acquainted with his late pecuniary difficulties. "To
return to the subject of that letter," he added, after a few moments'
pause, "I think you cannot do better than accept the invitation:—indeed,
it would appear unkind were you to refuse it. Mrs. Slingsby is suffering
from indisposition—and she is evidently anxious to have a companion.
Therefore, Rosamond, I must beg you to commence your preparations for
the visit."

The young lady urged various remonstrances against this resolution; but
her father over-ruled them all—and it was accordingly determined at
length that she should repair to Old Burlington Street on the following
morning.

But when the morning came, and the vehicle which was to convey her to
London drove up to the door, how appalling were the feelings which
agitated,—nay, absolutely raged in the breast of Mr. Torrens!

Acute—intensely acute was the pain which he endured in endeavouring to
subdue those emotions,—or rather in composing his features in such a way
that his countenance might not indicate the awful warring that disturbed
his soul.

With streaming eyes did Rosamond take leave of her father; and as she
stepped into the chaise, a presentiment of evil flashed across her
imagination.

But she was young—naturally inclined to look upon the bright side of
things—and too inexperienced to know much of the dreadful pit-falls
which the artifice of man has hollowed in the pathways of the moral
world. Her misgiving was therefore forgotten almost as soon as it was
entertained; and she was in comparatively good spirits—though still
affected by her recent separation from her sister—when she alighted at
the door of Mrs. Slingsby's residence in Old Burlington Street.

-----

Footnote 29:

  Represented as the Marquis of Holmesford in the First Series of "THE
  MYSTERIES OF LONDON."




                            CHAPTER LXVIII.
                     DR. WAGTAIL.—ROSAMOND TORRENS.


Rosamond Torrens found the pious lady reclining on a sofa, and so
profoundly absorbed—at all events, apparently so—in the perusal of a
chapter in the New Testament, that she did not immediately look up when
the drawing-room door opened to give the young maiden admission.

"Ah! my dearest girl—is it indeed you?" at length said Mrs. Slingsby in
a dolorous tone of voice, as she laid aside the sacred volume. "Come and
embrace me, sweet Rosamond."

"I hope you are better to-day, my dear madam," was the sincere
observation made by the intended victim of a damnable plot, as she
pressed her pure lips to Mrs. Slingsby's polluted brow.

"Heaven blessed me with a good night's rest, my love," returned the
pious lady; "and Dr. Wagtail would insist upon my taking a little warm
brandy-and-water—although, as you well know, I loathe alcoholic liquor,
which I do not consider to be a '_good creature of God_,' nor '_fitted
for our use_.' But, as a medicine, Rosamond—and when accompanied by
urgent prayer—it is beneficial. And now tell me, sweet girl, how passed
off the bridal ceremony? Was the conduct of my nephew becoming and
proper? I could scarcely suppose otherwise—seeing that for years he has
been benefited by the advice and example which it has been my happy lot
to afford him. And Adelais—was she much affected, my love?"

Rosamond described the particulars of the wedding; and Mrs. Slingsby was
in the midst of some very comforting remarks thereon, when the door
opened and Dr. Wagtail made his appearance.

This gentleman was a short, fat, important-looking personage—with a
powdered head and a pig-tail—delighting, too, in small-clothes and black
gaiters, and carrying a thick bamboo cane, the gold head of which he
invariably applied to his nose when he wanted to appear more than
usually solemn. He enjoyed a large practice, and was yet miserably
ignorant of the medical art. What, then, was the secret of his success?
We will explain the mystery.

His father was a very wealthy man, and paid a premium of £800 to
apprentice the subject of this sketch to the house-surgeon of one of the
great metropolitan hospitals. But young Wagtail, though cunning and
crafty enough, was a wretched dolt, and only succeeded in passing his
examination by dint of the most extraordinary cramming. By these means,
however, he became a Member of the Royal College of Surgeons, and set up
in business for himself. The house-surgeon of the hospital soon after
hinted to him that he intended to resign; and Mr. Wagtail senior, on
hearing this private communication made to his son, immediately sent the
house-surgeon a five-hundred pound note in a gold snuff-box, "as a token
of esteem for his high character and of admiration for his splendid
talents." This was intelligible enough. The house-surgeon immediately
began to canvass his friends on behalf of young Wagtail as his
successor; and when the resignation of the said house-surgeon was
publicly announced, the majority of the persons who had a right to vote
were already enlisted in the cause of Mr. Wagtail. Several of the most
eminent surgeons became candidates for the vacancy; but their abilities
stood no chance when weighed against Mr. Wagtail's interest—and Mr.
Wagtail was accordingly elected. He thus jumped into renown and handsome
emolument almost as soon as he entered the profession; and things went
on smoothly enough for three or four years, until he one morning took it
into his head to cut off a man's leg, when amputation was positively
unnecessary. A disturbance ensued—the thing got into the newspapers—and
Mr. Wagtail employed three poor authors constantly, for six months, at
half-a-crown a day each, to get up the pamphlets which he issued in his
defence. He so inundated the British public with his printed statements
that he literally bullied or persuaded the majority into a belief that
he was right after all; and then, with becoming indignation, he threw up
his berth at the hospital—took a magnificent house at the West End—got
his doctor's diploma at the same time—and announced through the medium
of the _Morning Post_, _Morning Herald_, and _St. James's Chronicle_,
that "Dr. Wagtail might be consulted daily, at his residence, from 2
till 7." His father died soon afterwards, leaving him a handsome
fortune; and as the doctor, when the time of mourning (which he cut as
short as possible) had expired, began to give splendid entertainments,
his dinners procured him friends, and his friends procured him patients.
In fact, he eventually rose so high in public estimation at the West
End, that he was quoted as the rival of the celebrated Dr.
Lascelles;—but wise men shook their heads, as much as to intimate that
Dr. Lascelles had more medical knowledge in his little finger than Dr.
Wagtail possessed in his entire form. But then Dr. Wagtail was so
important-looking, and had such a knowing and mysterious way with
him;—and he never insulted his patients, as Dr. Lascelles sometimes did,
by telling them that they had nothing the matter with them, but were
mere hypochondriacs. On the contrary, he would gratify their fancies by
prescribing pills and draughts till he made them ill in reality; and
then he had some little trouble in curing them again. But as he
administered plenty of medicine—shook his head a great many times even
when ordering a foot-bath or a bread poultice—and dropped mysterious
hints about its being very fortunate that he was called in just at that
precise moment, or else there would have been no answering for the
consequences,—as he did all this, and was particularly liberal to
nurses, valets, and ladies-maids, he had worked his way up to a degree
of eminence which real talent, legitimately exercised, struggled
fruitlessly in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred to arrive at.

Such was the physician who now entered the drawing-room where Mrs.
Slingsby was reclining on the sofa with Rosamond seated near her.

Bowing with important condescension to Miss Torrens, the doctor quietly
took the chair which she vacated, because it was close to his patient.

Rosamond was about to quit the room, when Mrs. Slingsby desired her to
remain, adding, "Dr. Wagtail does not require your absence, my love:
there is nothing so very important in my case—is there, doctor?"

"Important, my dear madam, is not precisely the word," returned the
physician, with his gold-headed cane to his nose; "inasmuch as your
ailment _is_ important—as all ailments are, when, though trivial in
themselves, they _may_ lead to dangerous consequences. But how are we
to-day, my dear madam? how is the pain in our legs? did we suffer much
last night? or did we feel a _leetle_ easier?"

"Yes, doctor—thank you," replied the sufferer, who had nothing at all
the matter with her, but who had merely simulated indisposition as an
excuse for absenting herself from the bridal: "I passed a better
night—by the blessing of heaven!"

"Well—come—and so we are getting on nicely, eh?" observed the doctor.
"And what did we take for supper last evening?"

"A little gruel, doctor—as you ordered," answered Mrs. Slingsby, in a
lachrymose tone—which was really natural enough, seeing that she could
have eaten a roast fowl instead of the farinaceous slop.

"And did we take a very _leetle_ brandy-and-water hot?" asked Dr.
Wagtail, in a most insinuating voice, as much as to say that he knew
very well how revolting such a beverage must have been to Mrs. Slingsby;
although, in his heart, he had recommended it simply because experience
had taught him that ladies of a certain age did _not_ object to a small
dose of cognac:—"did we take a _leetle_ brandy-and-water?"

"I did so far follow your advice, doctor," replied Mrs. Slingsby; "but I
hope I am not to continue it?"

"Indeed but we must though, my dear madam," exclaimed the physician,
shaking his head most solemnly and with all the air of a man enforcing
the necessity of swallowing a nauseous draught:—"indeed but we must
though,—and a trifle stronger, too—a mere trifle;—but stronger it must
be, or I really cannot answer for the consequences."

And here he looked at Miss Torrens, as much as to imply that Mrs.
Slingsby's life would perhaps be endangered if his advice were not
punctually and accurately followed.

"Well, doctor," said the suffering lady, in a more doleful tone than
ever, "if it must be stronger, it shall be: but pray make a cure of me
(God willing) as soon as possible, so that I may renounce that vile
alcoholic beverage."

"We must have patience, my dear madam—great patience," said Dr. Wagtail
with increasing solemnity, as he rubbed his nose against the gold-headed
cane. "Indeed, so long as this nasty rheumatism hangs about us, we must
keep to the brandy-and-water."

The physician knew very well that his words would cause the rheumatism
to hang about the excellent lady for a considerable time,—indeed that
she would be in no hurry to get rid of it, so long as he proscribed "the
vile alcoholic beverage";—and he foresaw a goodly number of fees
resulting from the judicious mode which he thus adopted of treating an
ailment that did not exist.

"And now, my dear madam," he continued, "how is our tongue! Ah—not quite
right yet! And how are our pulse?"

Then, as the case was pronounced to be important, the doctor lugged out
an enormous gold stop-watch, and bent over it with a mysterious and even
ominous expression of countenance as he felt the patient's pulse.

"Well, doctor—what do you think?" asked Mrs. Slingsby, looking as
anxious and miserable as if she had been in the dock at the Old Bailey,
about to hear the verdict of the jury.

"We must take care of ourselves, my dear madam—we must take care of
ourselves," said the physician, shaking his head: "our pulse is not
quite as it ought to be. How is our appetite? do we think we could
manage a little slice of boiled fowl to-day? But we _must_ try, my dear
madam—we _must_ try; and we must take a glass or two of wine—Port wine,
of a good body. We must not reduce ourselves too low. And this evening,
for supper, we must take gruel again—and the brandy-and-water as an
indispensable medicine, afterwards."

"I will endeavour to follow your advice, my dear sir," said Mrs.
Slingsby; "though heaven knows that the idea of the old Port wine at
dinner——"

"Well, my dear madam—I know it is repugnant to you—very repugnant,"
interrupted the physician in a calmly remonstrative tone: "but the world
cannot afford to lose so excellent a member of society as yourself.
Consider your friends, my dear madam—exert yourself on their account.
Triumph over these little aversions to wine and brandy—and take them as
medicines, in which sense do I offer them. And now, my dear madam, I
will write you out a _leetle_ prescription. You had better get it made
up as usual at Timmins and Jakes, in Bond Street. I have no interest in
recommending them, you know—not the slightest;—but I am sure their drugs
_are_ good, my dear madam."

Which was as much as to imply that the drugs of other chemists were
_not_ good; and we may here observe that the disinterested physician
merely received a thousand a-year from Messrs. Timmins and Jakes for
recommending all his patients to send his prescriptions to their shop.

The doctor wrote some professional hieroglyphics upon a slip of paper,
and scrawled at the bottom something which would have represented the
name of Snooks, or Brown, or Thompson, quite as well as it did Wagtail.

He then rose, received from Mrs. Slingsby his fee neatly wrapped up in a
piece of tissue paper, and took his departure, holding his stick to his
nose all the way down stairs.

The afternoon passed away somewhat tediously for Rosamond; and when
dinner was placed on the table, Mrs. Slingsby contrived to do honour to
the boiled fowls; and though she held forth at considerable length upon
her abhorrence for Port wine, she managed to swallow four glasses of the
generous juice in a manner which Rosamond considered highly creditable
to her moral courage, seeing how much she detested it.

Shortly after dinner, which was served in the drawing-room, Sir Henry
Courtenay made his appearance.

The baronet's eyes sparkled with delight when he beheld his intended
victim at the pious lady's abode, and looking more sweetly
beautiful—more divinely interesting than she had ever yet appeared to
him. The blood boiled in his veins, as his glances rapidly swept her
slight but symmetrical form, and as he thought within the recesses of
his own iniquitous heart, "This night thou shall become mine!"

It will be remembered that, during the last few days of her previous
sojourn at Mrs. Slingsby's abode, Rosamond had been taught to form a
very high opinion of the baronet; but the pious lady had not gone so far
as to instil any voluptuous sentiment into the mind of the young maiden.
Thus, when the baronet, on the occasion of his visits to Torrens
Cottage, had addressed her in a somewhat equivocal manner, she did not
comprehend him; and hence Sir Henry's reproach against Mrs. Slingsby,
"that she was but an indifferent tutoress."

Still Rosamond was predisposed to admire the baronet's character, as it
had been represented to her by Mrs. Slingsby; and she was by no means
sorry that he had arrived to vary the monotony of the evening.

He exerted all his conversational powers to please her; and she could
not conceal from herself the delight which she experienced in listening
to those outpourings of a well-informed mind and a richly cultivated
intellect.

The supper-hour arrived while she thought the evening was still young—so
rapidly had the time passed away. Mrs. Slingsby partook of her gruel
with as good a grace as she could possibly assume; but she ever and anon
cast a longing glance towards the more substantial and succulent viands
spread upon the board. The brandy-and-water was, however, a consolation;
and this the baronet, who mixed for her, made as strong as she could
wish, and much stronger than Dr. Wagtail, were he really sincere in his
advice, could have possibly intended her to take it.

[Illustration]

Shortly before eleven the baronet rose and took his departure, Mrs.
Slingsby ringing the drawing-room bell for the servant, to open the
front door for him, with a ceremony the object of which was to let every
one in the house know that he had departed, and the hour at which he
went—_in case of any exposure following the dread plot now in progress_!

Mrs. Slingsby and Rosamond then remained in conversation for a few
minutes, the topic being the excellent qualities of Sir Henry Courtenay.

"Rosamond, my love," at length said Mrs. Slingsby, "before you retire to
your own chamber, have the kindness to lock the side-board in the
drawing-room and bring me the keys. For really servants are so
neglectful——"

The beautiful girl departed with the alacrity of an obliging disposition
to execute this little commission:—but the moment she had quitted the
drawing-room, Mrs. Slingsby emptied the dark contents of a very small
phial into the only half-finished glass of Port wine which Rosamond had
left.

The infamous woman then resumed her recumbent position upon the sofa;
and—oh! the abominable mockery!—appeared to be occupied with her Bible,
when the artless, innocent, and unsuspecting maiden returned to the
room.

"Here are the keys, my dear madam," said Rosamond; "and every thing is
safe down stairs. I shall now wish you a good night's rest."

"Finish your wine, my love, before you retire," observed Mrs. Slingsby,
in a softly persuasive tone: "I am not mean, but you know that I am
averse to waste in any shape."

Rosamond blushed at having merited the species of reproach thus
conveyed, and drank the contents of her wine-glass: then, as it struck
her that the flavour of the _wine_ was somewhat less pleasant than it
should be—but without attaching the least importance to the idea, and
forgetting it altogether a moment afterwards—she ate a small piece of
bread to take away the disagreeable taste.

"Good night, my dear madam," said the maiden, bending over the pious
lady and kissing her cheek.

"Good night, Rosamond my love," returned Mrs. Slingsby. "I shall remain
here for a quarter of an hour to perform my usual devotional exercises;
and then I shall retire to my own chamber."

Rosamond withdrew, and sped to the room prepared for her.

She felt wearied, and made haste to lay aside her garments and arrange
her hair. But in the midst of her occupation a sensation of deep
drowsiness came over her; and she was glad to step into bed as speedily
as possible—omitting, for perhaps the first time since her childhood, to
kneel down first in prayer.

A minute afterwards—and she was sound asleep.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Three persons at that precise period had their minds filled with the
image of Rosamond!

                  *       *       *       *       *

In the solitude of his chamber, at his lonely cottage, Mr. Torrens
endured the torments of the damned,—mental torments, indescribably more
severe than the most agonising of physical pain could possibly be.

Mercenary—selfish—cold—callous as he was, he could not stifle the still
small voice of conscience, which told him he had done a flagrant—a
vile—an awful deed, which would fill his cup with a bitterness, that no
earthly pleasure, no mundane reward, could possibly counteract or
change.

He felt that he was a monster in human shape: he was afraid to catch a
glimpse of his own countenance in the glass—for when he once surveyed it
rapidly, its workings were horrible to behold!

To sell his daughter for the filthy lucre which had tempted him!—It was
horrible—atrocious!

And then,—then, at that very moment while he was pacing his chamber, the
fell deed might be in consummation!

He walked to the window:—how black was the night—how menacing were those
clouds that seemed laden with storm!

He started back with a look of horrified amazement: was there not some
dreadful shape in the air?—assumed not those clouds the form of a
tremendous being, with a countenance of lowering vengeance and awful
threatenings?

No: it was fancy—and yet the temporary creation of that fancy was
dreadful to behold,—as cloud piled on cloud, for an instant wore the
semblance of a supernal, moving phantom, black and menacing with
impending storm!

The guilty, wretched father clenched his fists—gnashed his teeth—knit
his brows—and compressed his lips together to prevent his voice from
suddenly shrieking forth in accents of heart-felt agony.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Having remained for about twenty minutes in the drawing-room, Mrs.
Slingsby summoned her maid, by whose assistance she gained her own
chamber—although she in reality no more required such aid than did the
servant who afforded it.

The maid helped her mistress to divest herself of her clothing, and then
retired.

And now Mrs. Slingsby, instead of seeking her couch—that couch which had
been the scene of guilty pleasure, when Jacob Smith had lain concealed
beneath it—seated herself in a large arm-chair, to wait until the house
was quiet.

"I could wish that any thing rather than _this_ was to take place!" she
murmured two or three times. "Heaven only knows what will be the end of
it! But Henry appears so confident of being able to appease her—so
certain of reducing her even to the position of one who beseeches
instead of menacing—that I am inclined to suppose he has well weighed
all the difficulties of his task. At all events he has promised to spare
me—to make me appear innocent! But will Rosamond be so deceived? No—no:
she will view me with suspicion—her eyes will gradually open——And yet,"
thought Mrs. Slingsby, suddenly interrupting the current of her
reflections, "she will be so completely in my power—at my mercy,—her
honour will be in my hands—her reputation will depend on my secresy——Oh!
how I wish this night was past!" she cried passionately: "for the deed
which is to mark it, is horrible to contemplate!"

                  *       *       *       *       *

And the third person whose mind was so full of the image of Rosamond
Torrens, at the time when she lay down—beauteous and chaste virgin as
she was—to rest beneath the roof of one whom, in her ingenuous
confidence, she believed to be a pattern of female excellence and
virtue,—that third person was Sir Henry Courtenay.

The baronet, on quitting Mrs. Slingsby's house, had returned home in his
carriage, which was at the door ready to convey him thither; and, on
entering his abode, he had immediately repaired to his own chamber.

Dispensing with the services of his valet, he sate down to pass away in
voluptuous reflections the hour that must elapse before he could set
forth again, to return to the dwelling of his mistress in Old Burlington
Street.

He was of that age when the physical powers somewhat require the
stimulus of an ardent and excited imagination; and he now began to gloat
in anticipation of the joys which he promised himself to experience in
the ruin of the hapless Rosamond.

Remorse and compunction touched him not:—if he thought of the grief that
was to ensue, it was merely because he re-arranged in his head all the
details of the eloquent representations he must make to soothe that woe!
Besides, his licentious imagination represented to him the beauteous
Rosamond, more beauteous in her tears; and he had worked himself up to a
pitch of such maddening desire, by the time it was necessary for him to
sally forth, that he would not have resigned his expected prize—no, not
if the ruin and disgrace of ten thousand families were to ensue.

Leaving his house stealthily, by a means of egress at the back, Sir
Henry Courtenay hastened back to Old Burlington Street.

A few moments after he had reached the immediate vicinity of Mrs.
Slingsby's residence, the clocks of the West-end churches proclaimed the
hour of one.

That was the appointed time for his admission into the house.

Nor had he long to wait—for the front-door was soon opened noiselessly
and cautiously, and by a person bearing no light: but the voice which
whispered, "Is it you, Henry?" was that of Mrs. Slingsby.

And noiselessly and cautiously, too, she led the way up stairs, he
having previously put off his shoes, which he carried in his hand.

At the door of her own bed-room, Mrs. Slingsby made the baronet pause
for an instant while she procured a taper; and as she handed it to him,
and the light revealed their countenances to each other, they shrank
from each other's gaze,—for human nature at that instant asserted its
rightful empire, and while the woman recoiled with horror from the man
who was about to commit an awful outrage on a member of her own sex, the
man felt a momentary loathing for the woman who was aiding and abetting
in the work of this foul night.

Mrs. Slingsby hurriedly pointed towards a door at the bottom of the
passage, in the most retired part of the house; and she then retreated
into her own room, a prey to feelings which a convict in Newgate need
not have envied.

Meantime Sir Henry Courtenay had passed on to the extremity of the
passage: and now his hand is upon the door.

He opens that door—he enters—he closes and fastens it behind him.

Advancing towards the bed, he holds the taper so that its light falls
upon the pillow; and the soft, mellow lustre of the wax-candle reveals a
charming countenance, with flushed cheeks and with rosy lips apart.

For Rosamond's slumber is uneasy, though profound,—doubtless the effect
of laudanum upon the nerves of one so entirely unaccustomed to its use,
and who has imbibed so large a dose!

And one of those flushed cheeks reposed on a round, full, and naked arm,
like a red rose-leaf upon Parian marble;—and the other arm was thrown
over the bed-clothes, which had been somewhat disturbed by the
uneasiness of the maiden's sleep, and left exposed the polished
shoulders of dazzling whiteness and the bosom of virgin rotundity and
plumpness.

Oh! what a charming picture was thus revealed to the eyes of the lustful
miscreant, whose desires were increased to almost raging madness by the
spectacle!

He placed the taper on the mantel, and hastened to lay aside—nay, almost
to tear off his garments; and in less than three minutes he was lying by
the side of the young virgin.

But scarcely had his rude hand invaded the treasures of her bosom, when
she awoke with a faint scream and a sudden start—the result of some
disagreeable dream; and then the baronet clasped her with all the fury
of licentiousness in his arms.

A few moments elapsed ere she was aroused sufficiently to comprehend the
dreadful—the horrible truth; but when the torpor produced by the
laudanum had somewhat subsided, she became a prey to the most frightful
alarms, produced by the conviction that some one had invaded the
sanctity of her couch—and a glance showed her the features of Sir Henry
Courtenay.

She would have given vent to her anguish and her horror in appalling
screams; but he placed his hand over her mouth—he muttered fearful
menaces in her ears—he called God to witness his resolution to possess
her; and, though she became bewildered and dismayed—though her brain
whirled, and her reason seemed to be deserting her—yet she battled with
the ravisher—she maintained a desperate, an awful struggle,—and so
unrelenting was the violence which he used to restrain and overpower
her, that murder would have perhaps been done, had not the poor victim
become insensible in his arms!

And then her ruin was accomplished.

Oh! ye clouds, laden with storm, why gave ye not forth your forked
lightnings—why sent ye not abroad your thunders—to smite the hero of
that foul night?

For, oh! while the father was still pacing his chamber in his own
dwelling, the hell that raged in his breast defying all hope of
slumber,—while, too, the no less infamous woman who had pandered to this
work of ruin, was trembling rather for what might be the consequences
than for the deed itself,—there, in that room to which Rosamond had
retired in the pride of innocence and chastity—there was she
despoiled—there became she the victim of the miscreant ravisher!

                  *       *       *       *       *

"Release me—let me depart—let me fly!" implored the wretched Rosamond,
in a tone so subdued with anguish and with weakness, that there was no
fear of its alarming the house.

"Rosamond, hear me—I beseech you!" exclaimed the baronet, as he held her
by the arms in such a manner that she could not escape from the bed.
"Hear reason, if you can! What would you do? Whither can you fly? The
past cannot be recalled; but there is much to think of for the future.
The occurrence of this night is a secret known only to yourself and to
me: your dishonour need never transpire to the world?"

"Oh! my God! my God!" murmured Rosamond, in a tone of ineffable anguish:
"my dishonour!—my dishonour!"

And she repeated the word—the terrible word, in so thrilling,
penetrating, and yet subdued a voice, that even the remorseless baronet
was for a moment touched.

"O Rosamond!" he said, in a hurried and excited manner; "do not repine
so bitterly for what cannot be recalled! Think how I love you, dearest
one—remember that my passion for thee amounted to a frenzy,—and it was
in frenzy that I acted thus. Instead of loathing me——"

"No—no, I do not loathe you!—my God—no!" said Rosamond, becoming the
least degree calmer. "I now perceive how dependant I am upon you—how
necessary it is that your love should console me! But my dear
father—should he learn his daughter's disgrace—Oh! heaven, have mercy
upon me!"

And she once more burst into an agony of weeping.

"Rosamond—Rosamond, compose yourself!" said Sir Henry Courtenay, with
that tenderness of tone which he so well knew how to assume, and on
which he had so much relied as an emollient means to be applied to
soothe the grief of the victim of his desires. "Shall I repeat how
deeply I love thee—how ardently I adore thee? Oh! my best beloved, do
not thus abandon yourself to the wildness of a vain and useless
despair!"

"But have I not been made the victim of a dreadful conspiracy?" said
Rosamond; "was I not inveigled hither to be ruined? Oh! I will fly—I
will fly—I will hasten home to my father—I will throw myself at his feet
and tell him all—and he will pardon and avenge me!"

Again she endeavoured to spring from the bed; but Sir Henry Courtenay
held her back—and, through sheer exhaustion, she fell weeping on his
breast.

Then the task of consoling her—or rather of somewhat moderating the
excess of her anguish, became more easy; and the baronet reasoned and
vowed—argued and protested—and pleaded for pardon so touchingly and with
so much apparent contrition, that Rosamond began to believe there was
indeed some extenuation for one who loved her so passionately, and who
had been led away by the frenzy of those feelings of which she was the
object.

"Oh! why, my adored girl, are you so beautiful?" murmured the baronet:
"rather attribute my crime to the influence—the irresistible influence
of thine own charms, than to any deeply-seated wickedness on my part! I
should have become raving mad for love of thee, had not the fury of my
passion hurried me on to that point, when, reckless of all consequences,
I had recourse to this stratagem. I know that my conduct is
horrible—that it is vile and base in the extreme;—but I sue to thee for
pardon,—I, so proud and haughty—yes, I implore thee, my darling
Rosamond, to forgive me! And, oh! if all the remainder of my life,
devoted to thine happiness, can atone for my turpitude of this night,—if
the most unwearied affection—the most tender love can impart consolation
to thee, my angel—then wilt thou yet smile upon me, and the past shall
be forgotten."

"Then you will make me your wife?" murmured Rosamond.

"Yes, sweet girl—thou shall become mine—mine in the sight of heaven!"
said the baronet, who would have made any pledge at that moment, in
order to solace and reassure his victim.

"But wherefore not have told me that you loved me—why not have demanded
my hand of my father, and have married me as Clarence did my sister?"
asked Rosamond, a doubt striking to her heart's core.

"I said many things to make you understand how dear you were to me,"
answered the baronet; "and you did not comprehend my meaning. Remember
you not that, one day when I called at your father's house, I met you
alone in the parlour; and as you offered me your hand, I said, '_Happy
will the man be on whom this fair hand shall be bestowed!_' And on
another occasion, when you and I were again alone together, the
conversation happened to turn upon death, and I remarked that '_it was
dreadful to contemplate the idea of dying, but that I could lay down my
life to serve you!_'"

"Oh! yes—I remember now!" murmured Rosamond. "And I even thought of
those observations after you were gone; and they seemed to afford me
pleasure to ponder upon them."

"Do you not now understand, then, dearest angel, how disappointment at
finding that I was not at once comprehended, drove me to despair?" said
the wily baronet. "Can you not pardon me, if—thus driven to
desperation—I vowed to possess you—to make you mine—so that you would be
compelled to accept my hand, as you already reigned undisputed mistress
over my heart?"

"If you will fulfil your solemn promise to make me your wife, I shall
yet be happy—and this dreadful night may be forgotten. No—not
forgotten," continued Rosamond, hastily; "because the memory is immortal
for such hours of anguish as these! But you will, at least, make all the
atonement that lies in your power—and I may yet look the world in the
face!"

"Rosamond—my sweet Rosamond, within a month from this time thou shalt be
my wife!" said the baronet.

"With that assurance I must console myself," returned the still weeping
girl. "And now, I adjure you—by the solemnity of the pledge which you
have made me, and which I believe—I implore, you, by that love which you
declare you entertain for me,—to leave me this moment!"

The baronet was fearful of reviving the storm of grief which his
perfidious language had succeeded in quelling; and he accordingly rose
and resumed his apparel.

Not a word was spoken during the two or three minutes which thus passed;
and when Sir Henry was once more dressed, he approached the ruined girl,
saying, "One embrace, Rosamond, and I leave thee till the morrow."

"One word ere we part," she said, in a hurried and almost hollow tone:
"does Mrs. Slingsby know——But surely, surely, she could not have lent
herself——And yet," added the bewildered Rosamond, a second time
interrupting herself abruptly, "how could you have gained admittance
into the house, and in the middle of the night? Oh! heavens, the most
fearful suspicions——"

"Calm yourself—compose your feelings, dearest," said the baronet. "Mrs.
Slingsby knows that I adore you—is aware that I love you: because the
long acquaintance—indeed the sincere friendship which exists between
us—prevents me from having any secrets unrevealed to her. But wrong not
that amiable, that excellent, that pure-minded woman, by unjust
suspicions! I entered her house like a thief—by means of a window
accidentally left unfastened; and in the same manner must I escape now.
Not for worlds would I have her suspect the occurrences of this night!
Therefore, my angel, compose yourself, so that your appearance may not
engender any suspicion in her mind when you meet at the breakfast table
in the morning:—for, remember, my Rosamond, you will shortly become my
wife,—and then, as you yourself observed, you will be enabled to look
the world in the face!"

"And until that moment comes," said Rosamond, with a deep sob, "I shall
blush and be compelled to cast down my eyes in the presence of every one
who knows me. Oh! my God—what cruel fears—what dread thoughts oppress
me! And my sister is doubtless so happy! Heaven grant that she may never
know the anguish which wrings my heart at this moment!"

"By every thing sacred, I conjure you to compose yourself, Rosamond,"
exclaimed Sir Henry Courtenay, now afraid to leave her, lest in the
dread excitement which was reanimating her, she might lay violent hands
upon herself:—for, by the light of the taper, he could perceive that her
countenance was ashy pale, and that while she was uttering those last
words relative to her sister, her features were suddenly distorted by an
expression of intense mental agony.

"Compose myself! Oh! how can I compose myself?" she exclaimed; and then
she burst into a torrent of tears.

The baronet knew the female heart too well not to allow her to give full
vent to the pearly tide of anguish; and three or four minutes
elapsed,—he standing by the bed, contemplating with but little emotion,
unless, indeed, it were of lust, the beauteous being whom he had so
ruthlessly ruined,—and she burying her face in her hands, the tears
trickling between her fingers, and her agonising sobs alone breaking the
solemn stillness of the night.

Sir Henry Courtenay waited until the violence of this renewed outburst
of ineffable woe had somewhat abated; and then he again endeavoured to
console the unhappy victim of his foul desires—the ruined sufferer by
his hellish turpitude!

And Rosamond had so much need of solace, and was so dependent on hope
for the future to enable her to sustain the almost crushing misery of
the present, that she threw herself upon his honour—his mercy—his
deceitful promises; and she even smiled—but faintly—oh! very
faintly—when he again employed his infernal sophistry to prove the deed
of that dread night to be the surest testimony to his ardent love.

At length she was sufficiently composed to induce him to take his
departure; and, like a vile snake as he was in heart, he crept away from
the chamber of the deflowered—the ravished girl.

As he stole thus stealthily along the passage, he observed a light
streaming from Mrs. Slingsby's room, the door of which had been
purposely left ajar.

He entered, and found his accomplice still up; nor had the abandoned
woman felt the least inclination to retire to rest.

For her mind had been a prey to the most terrible alarms, from the
moment when the baronet had first set foot in Rosamond's chamber.

"I have succeeded—and she will not proclaim the outrage to the world,"
said Sir Henry Courtenay, in a low tone. "I have, moreover, kept my word
with you, and have made her believe that you are innocent of any share
in the proceeding."

Mrs. Slingsby gave no answer, but bit her under lip forcibly—for vile as
she herself was, she could hardly prevent herself from exclaiming to her
companion, "You are a black-hearted monster!"

Sir Henry did not, however, notice that she was influenced by any
emotion hostile to him; or if he did, he cared not to show that he
perceived it;—but, wishing his mistress "good night," he quitted the
room, and stole out of the house.




                             CHAPTER LXIX.
                            MISERY AND VICE.


A week had elapsed since the perpetration of the atrocity described in
the preceding chapter.

The scene changes to a miserable garret in one of the foul courts
leading out of King Street, St. Giles's.

It was about eight o'clock in the evening; and the rain pattered on the
roof and against the little window of the wretched room, which, small as
it was, was scarcely lighted by the candle that flickered with the
draught gushing in from beneath the door.

On a mean and sordid mattress stretched upon the floor, and with but a
thin and torn blanket to cover him, lay a man who was not in reality
above five-and-twenty, but who seemed nearly double that age—so ghastly
was his countenance, and so attenuated was his form with sickness and
want.

Near him a young female—almost a mere girl—was seated on a broken chair.
Her apparel was mean, and so scanty that she shivered with the cold; and
though the traces of famine and care were plainly visible upon her
features, yet they had not carried their ravages so far as to efface the
prettiness which naturally characterised the composition of that
countenance.

Beautiful she was not, nor ever had been; but good-looking she decidedly
was;—and though attired almost in rags, and with an expression of
profound misery upon her face, there was something interesting in the
appearance of that poor creature.

The reader will remember that, in the earlier chapters of this tale, we
introduced him to one of those dens of iniquity called low
lodging-houses, in Castle Street, Long Acre; and he will also recollect
that a mock marriage took place in that "padding-ken," between a thief,
called Josh Pedler, and a poor labourer's daughter, named Matilda
Briggs.

The man lying on the mattress in the garret, was Josh Pedler; and the
girl sitting near him, was Matilda Briggs.

"Well, now," suddenly exclaimed Pedler, as he raised himself with
difficulty to a sitting posture, "what do you say in answer to my last
question? are we to die of starvation? or are we to have bread by some
means or another?"

Matilda burst into tears, and wrung her hands bitterly.

"Don't sit whimpering there, damn your eyes!" cried the ruffian.
"Blubbering won't do no good—and you know that as well as me. Here have
I been on my beam-ends, as one may say, for the last three weeks, and
unable to go about to pick up a single farthing—the landlord swears he
will have some money to-morrow morning—all the things is pawned—and here
am I only wanting a little proper nourishment to set me on my legs
again; but that I can't get."

"God knows I have starved myself to give you all I could, Josh," said
Matilda, her voice broken with frequent and agonising sobs. "When you
have asked me if I had kept enough meat or bread for myself, I always
answered yes; and I turned my back towards you that you mightn't see how
much—or rather how _little_ I had kept back. But what can I do? My
father and mother are gone back into the country to throw themselves on
their parish—I have no friends to apply to—and your's seem unable to
assist you at present."

"Something must be done, Tilda," said the man. "We can't starve—we must
do any thing rather than that. I am as hungry as the very devil now—and
I know that if I had a good steak and some porter, it would put me all
right again."

"But, my God! we have not even the means to buy a penny roll!" almost
shrieked the young woman. "There isn't a thing left to pawn. I have
nothing but this old gown on my back—every thing else has gone—gone!"
she added hysterically, as she threw a wild glance around the naked and
dismantled garret. "How cold it is, too! What can we do? what can we
do?"

And she rocked herself to and fro in a manner denoting an utter despair.

"You keep asking what can be done," said Josh Pedler, brutally, "and yet
you know all the time that there's only one thing to be done, and that
it must come to _that_ at last."

Matilda started, and turned a glance of horrified amazement upon her
companion.

"Well—so I suppose you understand what I mean," continued the ruffian;
"and, therefore, there's no use in gammoning about it no longer. We're
starving, and there's the rent to pay: that's one side of the question.
You're a good-looking young o'oman, and can do as other vimen do: that's
t'other side of the question."

"Oh! Josh—and would you have me become a prostitute?" shrieked Matilda,
in a tone of mingled horror and reproach.

"Come—none of your nonsense, my lady," said Josh Pedler; "or I shall
precious soon know how to settle your hash. Either go and earn some tin,
or cut your lucky altogether. If I starve, I'll starve by myself——"

"My God! I will not abandon you!" murmured the unhappy young creature,
terrified by this menace of separation from one to whom she had grown
greatly attached. "No—I cannot—I will not leave you, Josh: and yet——"

"Let's have no more of this humbug, Tilda!" exclaimed the man, brutally.
"Leave off whimpering—or, ill as I am, I'll give you something worth
crying for. Come, put on your bonnet and tramp; or, by hell——"

"Oh! you could not—you would not do me a mischief!" she cried, clasping
her hands together. "And if I obey you now, in what you have ordered me
to do, shall you not hate and detest me ever afterwards?"

"Not a bit of it," returned Josh Pedler, softening a little as he
perceived that his point was already well nigh gained: for the poor
young woman found powerful incentives to yield to the commands of the
ruffian—she herself being almost famished. "Not a bit of it!" he
repeated. "You ought to have turned out when I was first taken ill; and
then if I'd had common necessaries I should have got well by this time.
So be a good girl, and see if you can't bring back something good to eat
and drink, and a trifle to pay the landlord."

With a bursting heart, Matilda rose from her seat, and put on her bonnet
and her scanty shawl—a poor rag which the pawnbroker had refused to
advance a single penny upon.

"Give us a kiss afore you go, old gal," said Josh Pedler, by way of
affording her some encouragement to begin the frightful course of
prostitution to which he strove to urge her.

She bent down, and pressed her lips upon his forehead, murmuring, "Are
you sure that you will not loathe me _afterwards_?"

"Don't have any more of that gammon, Tilda," he cried; "but cut along—or
else I shall be tempted to bite a piece out of your face, I'm so
thundering hungry."

Matilda shuddered from head to foot, and rushed from the room.

As she was about to quit the house, a door in the passage opened, and a
stout ill-looking fellow, without a coat, and smoking a short pipe, came
forth, exclaiming, "Ah! I know'd it was you by your sneaking step. Now I
tell you what it is, Mrs. Pedler—if so be I don't have my rent, or a
good part on't to-night, you and your man must tramp before I shuts up.
I've got people as will be glad to have a airy and comfortable room like
your'n and as will pay; leastways I'll get rid of _you_."

Matilda stayed to hear no more, but rushed wildly from the house, the
threat of the landlord ringing like the knell of hope in her ears.

She observed not which direction she was pursuing;—she saw not the
passengers who jostled her on either side:—her eyes were open—and yet
the surrounding and the passing objects formed only one vast void—one
tremendous blank to her.

Her pace was hurried, like that of a person intent on some important
mission, and having some defined and positive end in view:—and yet she
had even forgotten the motive that had sent her forth into the streets
that evening, to dare the cold wind and face the pattering rain,—she who
had but so scanty a clothing to protect her!

There was a humming noise in her ears: but she could not discriminate
the sounds of voices from the roll of carriages;—and even when she
crossed a street, it was through no caution exercised on her part that
she was not ran over.

At last her ideas began to assume a more settled shape; and her
thoughts, rescuing themselves as it were from utter confusion, settled
gradually down into their proper cells in the brain—the racking brain
which held them!

She walked slower, and with more apparent uncertainty of aim; objects
assumed a defined shape to her eyes; and her ears recognised the various
sounds which raised the echoes of the streets.

At length she stood still in the midst of Holborn, and tears burst from
her eyes; for she now remembered that she was there—there, in the wide
and open thoroughfare—to commence the dread avocation of a prostitute!

She shuddered from head to foot—but with no ordinary tremor: it was a
convulsion which began at the very heart, and vibrated with electric
rapidity and spasmodic violence throughout the entire form.

"Now then, young voman—out o' the vay!" cried a porter carrying a huge
load upon his head.

And, like a startled deer, Matilda hurried along.

She glanced to the left and to the right, and beheld magnificent shops
teeming with merchandise, and crowded with purchasers:—she lingered in
front of the pastry-cooks' establishments;—and she stopped to devour
with her eyes the smoking joints, the piles of vegetables, and the large
tins full of pudding, in the windows of the eating-houses!

But she knew it was useless to implore a meal;—and moreover it was
something beyond food that she required,—for money to pay her heartless
landlord she must have!

She resumed her mournful, melancholy walk, now slow in pace and drooping
in gait.

Time was wearing on—nine o'clock would soon strike—and if she were ever
to take the first step in a loathsome trade, now was the moment!

Think not, reader, that because this young woman had become the mistress
of a thief, and had passed through all the training of a low
lodging-house and several weeks of misery and want,—think not that she
was prepared to rush at once and in a moment on a career of public
prostitution! No: she was attached to her lover, in the first place;—and
secondly, she was no brazen-faced slut, whose mind had derived
coarseness from intemperance, or callousness from ill-treatment.

She shrank from the path which alone seemed open to her: she recoiled
from the ways into which a stern necessity commanded her to enter.

While she was endeavouring to subdue the bitterness of the reflections
which crowded upon her soul, a young woman, scarcely a year older than
herself, accosted her, and said, "My dear, are you come on this beat to
be one of us?"

Matilda saw by a glance that the female was one of the lowest class of
prostitutes; and she burst into tears.

"Oh! then, you _are_ come out for that purpose!" exclaimed the other.
"Well, you must pay your footing at all events;"—and making a signal to
several of her friends who stood at a short distance, she cried, "Here's
a precious lark! a gal which wants to be one of us, and is blubbering at
it!"

Matilda was now surrounded by loose women, who vowed that she should
treat them, or they would tear her eyes out.

Vainly did she protest that she had no money: tears and remonstrances
were of no avail; and the prostitutes were growing more clamorous,—for,
it must be remembered, there were no New Police in those days,—when an
old man, decently dressed, but horribly ugly, stopped near the group and
asked what was the matter.

"Here's a young gal which wants to go upon the town, and can't pay her
footing," explained one of the loose women; "and so she shan't come on
our beat."

"Come, come," said the old man; "don't tease the poor thing! Which is
she? Oh! rather good-looking. Well, my dears—here's half-a-crown for you
to get something to drink—and I'll get the young woman to take a little
walk along with me."

Thus speaking, the old man handed the coin to the girl who had given him
the above recorded explanation; and she and her friends were too much
rejoiced at the receipt of this unexpected donation, to trouble
themselves further concerning Matilda Briggs.

When the loose women had disappeared, the old man turned towards
Matilda, and said, "Take my arm, my dear; and I'll conduct you to a nice
place where we can have a chat together for half an hour or so; and I'll
make you a present of half-a-guinea before we part."

The unfortunate girl obeyed in silence; but not quite
mechanically:—gratitude for the seasonable assistance she had received
from the old man, and the idea of obtaining enough money not only to buy
food but also liquidate the greater portion of the arrears of rent due
to the merciless landlord, were powerful motives to stifle compunctious
feelings in her breast.

The old man was one of those sexagenarian voluptuaries who dishonour
gray hairs—one of those hoary sinners who prowl about the streets after
dusk, to pick up girls of tender age, and who seldom choose females of
ripe years. Under ordinary circumstances this old man would not have
bestowed the slightest notice upon Matilda; because she was between
fifteen and sixteen, and he affected children of eleven and twelve. But
the incident which had brought them together had given him a sudden zest
for novelty; and thus the gray-headed reprobate, who was old enough to
be Matilda's great grandfather, tucked her under his arm and led her off
to the nearest brothel with which he was acquainted.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was eleven o'clock when the door of the garret in which Josh Pedler
was lying, opened abruptly and Matilda made her appearance.

"Well, what news?" demanded the man anxiously "You've left me long
enough——"

"I could not return sooner," answered the young woman, in a hoarse and
strangely altered tone. "But sit up and eat your fill, Josh—for here is
a good plate of meat——"

"And the landlord?" interrupted the thief joyfully.

"Is paid every farthing. I have earned a sovereign by yielding to the
hideous embraces of an old man," she added in a tone expressive of deep
and concentrated emotion,—"an old man whose touch was horrible as the
pawings of an imp or some filthy monster. But he gave me double what he
first promised; and now you may eat—if you can," she exclaimed, with a
hysterical laugh.

"And you will sit down and eat with me, Tilda," said the thief in a
coaxing tone—for he now saw that his mistress might become serviceable
to him, and he was anxious to conciliate her.

"No—not a morsel," she replied impatiently. "I am not hungry—_now_:
besides, even if I was, it would seem to me that I was eating my own
flesh and blood. But I have got some spirits in a bottle, Josh—and I can
drink a drop with you."

"I thought you didn't like spirits, Tilda?" observed the man,
contemplating with some degree of alarm her pale countenance on which
there appeared an expression of settled despair.

"Oh! I dare say I shall like spirits well enough now!" she said. "At all
events I feel an inclination for them to-night. But, come—sit up and
eat."

Thus speaking, she spread open a large brown-paper parcel before the
thief, whose eyes sparkled when he beheld a quantity of slices of
recently cooked meat, a loaf of bread, and some cheese.

Forgetting how the viands were procured, Josh Pedler began to devour
them with the voracity of one who had fasted a long time; and Matilda
hastened to fetch him some beer.

When she returned, she sate down, and drank two glasses of raw gin, with
but a few moments' interval between the drams; and then, bursting out
into a hysterical laugh, she said, "Blue ruin is capital stuff! I feel
myself fit for any thing now!"

"That's right, old gal—cheer up!" exclaimed Josh Pedler. "Take another
glass—and then you'll be able to eat a bit of this meat."

"Well—perhaps I may," cried Matilda. "I was tipsy when you and me were
married by the old parson in the padding-ken; and I'll be tipsy to
night, as it's the first of a new period of my life."

"Damn it! you are coming out strong, Tilda!" ejaculated Josh Pedler.
"_Blue ruin—padding-ken_—why, I never heard you patter flash before."

"Oh! you don't know what you may see me do yet," said the young woman,
in a voice indicative of unnatural excitement. "And what does it matter?
Perhaps you'll hear me cursing and swearing to-morrow! Any thing—any
thing," she added, her voice changing to a tone of deep, intense
feeling,—"any thing, so long as one can only grow hardened!"

And having tossed off a third glass of liquor, she accepted and ate the
portion of food that Josh Pedler handed to her—although but a few
minutes before she recoiled from it, as if it were her own flesh and
blood!

"Now you are acting like a sensible woman," said Josh; "and you make me
feel more comfortable. But when you first come in, I couldn't make out
what the devil possessed you: you looked all queer like—just as if you
was going to commit suicide."

"Suicide!—ha! ha!" laughed Matilda strangely. "Well—I did think
of it as I was coming home; but I remembered that you was
here—hungry—starving—and too ill to get up and shift for yourself. So I
came back, Josh. But won't you have some gin? You don't know what good
it does one. If I had only taken some before I went out just now—that
is, if I had had the money to buy it—I shouldn't have gone whimpering
along the street as I did. No wonder all the poor girls who walk the
pavement drink so much gin. I am already quite another person. I do
declare that I could sing. But here comes some one up the stairs: it
can't be for us."

"Yes, it is though," said Josh Pedler, as the heavy steps of a man
halted at the door, to which a fist was applied by no means lightly.
"Come in!"

The visitor obeyed this invitation without farther ceremony; and the
moment Josh caught sight of his countenance, he cried joyfully, "Tim the
Snammer!"




                              CHAPTER LXX.
                            TIM THE SNAMMER.


The individual who rejoiced in the name of _Tim the Snammer_, was a
tall, athletic, well-built man of about thirty-two, and tolerably
good-looking. His attire consisted of a shabby bottle-green surtout, a
dark waistcoat, and drab trousers; and he wore his hat very far down on
his head—probably because it was too large for him, his hair being
particularly short, all his superfluous curls having fallen beneath the
unsparing scissors of a gaol-barber.

"Holloa! Josh, my boy!" cried Tim, as he closed the door behind him.
"Why, you are taking it cozie there in bed."

"I have been desperate bad, Tim," was the answer; "or I shouldn't lie
quiet in such a damned empty garret as this here, you may take your
davy. But when did you get out?"

"My time was up to-day at eleven o'clock," returned Tim. "I called at
the old crib in Castle Street—Thompson's, twenty-three, and stayed with
Mutton-Face till now. She told me you'd been ill, and also where I
should find you. So I've come round to see you, old feller—and, may be,
arrange a little job that I've got in my head. But since you're unable
to get up——"

"Tim, my boy," interrupted Josh, "I've just had a deuced good supper,
and I'm sure of a breakfast and a dinner too, and may be a supper also,
to-morrow; and if I ain't well with all that in two days' time, my name
isn't Pedler. So, if you've got any thing that'll keep so long, do let
me be in it. Matilda, my dear, this is my friend Mr. Timothy Splint,
generally knowed as Tim the Snammer: and Tim, this young o'oman is my
jomen. We was regularly spliced at the padding-ken by old Barlow; and
she's staunch to the backbone. So now you're acquainted with each other;
and you needn't be afraid, Tim, of talking secrets. But how goes the
gin, Tilda?"

"There's plenty left—and I borrowed two glasses of the landlord as I
came up," answered the young woman: "so here's one for Mr. Splint."

"Call me Tim, my dear," said that individual "We have no _misters_ and
_missuses_ among us. Here's your health, Tilda, then—since that's your
name: here's to ye, Josh."

"Thank'ee. But what plan is it that you've got in your head?" asked
Pedler.

"I'll tell you in a brace of shakes," returned Splint, smacking his lips
in approval of the dram which he had just imbibed. "You may very well
suppose that I've no great reason to be pleased with the conduct of that
scoundrel Old Death."

"The damned thief!" cried Josh. "He sacked the sixteen pounds, and then
never made a move to help you when you was had up again afore the beak."

"No thanks to him that I wasn't transported," said Tim Splint, with a
fierce expression of countenance. "The prigging wasn't proved very
clearly, and so I got off with two months at the mill as a rogue and
vagabond. But, by hell! I'll have my revenge on the bilking old
scoundrel that humbugged you and Mutton-Face Sal. And what's more, I
know how to go to work, too."

"What do you mean, Tim?" demanded Josh Pedler.

"Why, I mean this—that Mutton-Face knows where Old Death is
hanging-out," responded the Snammer. "She saw him last night in the
Borough; and she dogged him into some crib. This was about eight
o'clock. Well, she was determined to see whether he lived there, or
not—and she was afraid of raising suspicion and alarming him by making
any inquiries: so she watched near the place for a matter of three
hours, and he didn't come out. So it's pretty clear he does live there.
But to make all sure, Mutton-Face has gone over there again to-night;
and she'll watch to see when he comes in, if he does at all—and then
she'll stay to see whether he comes out again. If it's all right, you
and me will just pay a visit to Old Death; and I'll be bound we shall
find something worth the trouble of going for."

"Old Death always has money about him," observed Josh; "and I should
think that there's no one wants blunt more than you and me, Tim, at this
moment."

"I haven't a blessed mag," returned Splint. "If it wasn't for
Mutton-Face Sal, I shouldn't have had a dinner to eat, when I got out of
quod this morning, till I'd prigged the money to pay for one. And after
all I've spent in Thompson's padding-kens, I couldn't get a lodging
there for love, I know. But Sal has managed to keep herself while I've
been lumbered; and now I must begin to keep her again. She's got just
enough to carry us on till either this business of Old Death or some
thing else turns up: and that's all I care about."

"Well," said Josh Pedler, "I hope I shall be able to get up in two or
three days; and then I'm your man for any thing you like. But, I say,
Tim, what a life this is of our'n, to be sure!"

"You don't mean to say you're a-tired on it—do you?" cried Splint, with
a species of anxiety and almost convulsive shudder, proving that a truth
of an unwelcome nature, and to which he never liked to be awakened, was
suddenly recalled to his contemplation.

[Illustration]

"By God! I wish I could turn honest man, Tim!" exclaimed Pedler, with
unmistakeable sincerity. "It's all very well while the excitement of
drinking or _business_ goes on; but it's when one is lumbered in bed, as
I've been for some weeks, that one feels queer and qualmish, Tim. That's
why I always hate to have the least thing the matter with me. I can't
a-bear to have time to brew and mope over things. I wish there wasn't no
such thing as _thought_, Tim."

"Blest if I didn't often say so to myself when I was cooped up in that
cursed prison, Josh!" exclaimed the Snammer. "I tell you what it is.
People say we're reglarly depraved—that's the word, Josh—and so they
invent treadmills and all them kind of things. But it's quite enow for
chaps like us to be left alone with our own thoughts—and there's no
denying it. Now my idear is jist this:—Put a man like us into gaol, if
you will and don't torture him with hard labour: but let him have time
to _think_. Then, when he comes out, say to him, '_Here's work for you,
and a chance to get an honest living_.' My opinion is that nine out of
ten would awail themselves of the offer. But suppose only one or two did
it—why, it must be a blessin' to society to reduce the number of them as
preys upon it. What do you think, Josh?"

"I can't a-bear to think about it, Tim," returned the invalid thief.
"Now, then, Tilda—what the hell are you piping your eyes for? I s'pose
you think my friend Splint is a Methodist parson? But he ain't
though—and don't mean to be. Damnation! Tilda, leave off blubbering like
that—and hand round the gin. There—that's a good girl. Blue ruin is the
mortal enemy of unpleasant thinking—and that's why we all takes to it as
nat'ral as one does to opium when he's accustomed to it."

"I've often thought, Josh," said Tim Splint, after draining the glass
which Matilda handed him, "that I should like to go over to America, and
bury myself in the backwoods that you hear talked of or read about. I
wish I had a chance! And, raly, if we do get a good haul from Old Death,
I think I shall try the game. For, arter all—and you and me may say it
between ourselves in this here room, 'cause Matilda, being a o'oman,
goes for no one,—but, arter all, there's few on us that wouldn't give up
prigging if we could. I wonder why they don't establish societies to
reclaim and provide for men-thieves, as they do for unfortunit vimen.
Blowed if I wouldn't go into such a place in a minute!"

"And do you mean to say," exclaimed Matilda, wiping her eyes, and
speaking with strange energy, "that if you choose to leave off this kind
of life, you can't? Why, you'd be happier, Josh, as a labourer with only
twelve or fifteen shillings a week, than you are now;—for I never heard
so much from your lips as I have to-night."

"Who the devil will employ people without characters?" demanded Josh
Pedler. "Do you think that if you tried to get a place even as a
scullion in a gentleman's family, you could obtain it? No such a thing.
Lord bless your dear heart! them as talks most about the depravity of
the lower classes, is always the last to give us a chance."

"Yes:—and yet we wasn't all nat'rally wicked," said Tim the Snammer.
"Some on us was made so by circumstances; and that was the case with
me."

"How came that about?" asked Josh Pedler, who, being in no humour to
sleep, was well disposed for conversation.

"Yes:—how came that about?" inquired Matilda, feeling interested in the
present topic.

"You don't mean to say you would like to hear me tell my story, do you?"
exclaimed Tim.

"I should, by all means," answered Josh Pedler.

"And I too——Oh! above all things!" cried Matilda: "particularly, if you
can show——what you said," she added hesitatingly.

"You mean to say, if I can prove that I didn't become what I am through
my own fault?" observed the Snammer. "Well—I think I _can_ prove it. But
you shall judge for yourselves. So, here goes."

And, with this free-and-easy kind of preface, the thief commenced his
narrative, which we have expurgated of those grammatical solecisms and
characteristic redundancies which, if preserved, would only mar the
interest and obscure the sense. At the same time, we have kept as nearly
to the original mode of delivery as possible.




                             CHAPTER LXXI.
                    THE HISTORY OF TIM THE SNAMMER.


"My father was a small farmer in Hampshire. He had about thirty-six
acres of his own, all well cultivated and well stocked, and free of all
mortgage and encumbrance of that kind. The farm was small enough, God
knows; but it yielded a decent living,—for my father was as industrious
as a bee,—always out by sunrise,—and my mother was as saving, thrifty,
and prudent a housewife as any in the county. They were not, however,
mean: no—very far from that. The beggar was never turned away unassisted
from their door; and if a neighbour got a little behind-hand with his
rent, and deserved aid, it was ten to one if the china tea-pot in my
mother's cupboard did not contain a few pounds, which were speedily
placed at his disposal. Farmer Splint, as my father was called, was
always regular in his attendance at the village church on Sunday; and
the only person who looked upon him as a mean-spirited fellow, was the
landlord of the ale-house—because my father so seldom entered the
_George and Dragon_ even to take a glass of beer at the bar,—and never
stopped there to pass an evening.

"My mother was a very handsome woman, and had been the village-belle
before her marriage with Farmer Splint. This marriage was one of
affection on both sides; for though my mother's parents were very poor
and unable to give their daughter any thing, yet Farmer Splint preferred
her to the wealthier young women of the neighbourhood. On her side,
though my father was nearly ten years older than herself, she refused
the offer of a rich young farmer, and became the spouse of a man whom
she could respect and esteem as well as love. The fruits of this
marriage were two children,—a daughter, named Marion, and myself. Our
mother found time, even amongst the numerous duties and cares of the
household, to teach us to read and write. The village schoolmaster then
taught us a little arithmetic, history, and geography; and we were as
well instructed as the children of poor parents were likely to be, and
much better than those of even many richer people living in our
neighbourhood.

"Now, from all I have just told you, you will see plain enough that our
mother and father were good, honest, moral, and well-intentioned people.
Their only care was to toil with all possible diligence, to make both
ends meet,—put by a little savings, when the harvest was very
plentiful,—and bring up their children in a respectable and decent
manner. My father was particularly anxious to prevent his boy from
resembling the young black-guards of the village: he would never let me
play about in the high road at marbles,—nor yet go bird's-nesting, which
he said encouraged cruelty, and was also the first step to poaching. But
he did all he could to render me hardy, and promoted innocent sports of
an athletic nature. Altogether, farmer Splint's family was considered to
be the best-behaved and the happiest in all the county.

"It was in the year 1807, that my history now dates from. I was then
thirteen years old: my sister, Marion, was eighteen, and a sweet
beautiful girl she was, with fine blue eyes, flaxen hair, and a figure
that couldn't have been made more graceful if clothed in silk or satin.
She was at that time engaged to be married to the only son of a farmer
in the neighbourhood, and who was well to do in the world. A finer
fellow than young George Dalton you would never wish to see; and when he
and Marion walked to church arm-in-arm, on a Sunday, every one noticed
them, as much as to express a conviction of the fitness of the intended
union of such a handsome, manly youth, and such a modest pretty girl.
Well, it was the summer of 1807, and the marriage was to take place in
October, when all the harvest was got in, and the good ale was brewed
for the ensuing year. Every thing appeared gay and smiling for the young
people; for George's father had promised to give up his farm to his son,
but to continue to live in the house, as soon as Marion should have
become his daughter-in-law.

"About three miles from our farm stood the beautiful seat of Squire
Bulkeley. This gentleman had been left an orphan when young; and his
estates were managed by his guardians, until he came of age, he living
with one of them in London. But when he attained his majority, he soon
showed himself to be tired of a London life; and he came down to take
possession of Bulkeley Hall, and settle there. This was in the beginning
of 1807; but for two or three months the Squire kept himself pretty
quiet. All of a sudden, however, he became as gay as he was before
tranquil and retired; and this change, we learnt, arose in consequence
of his guardians leaving him, they having accompanied him to the Hall
and remained there until all the papers and deeds connected with his
accession to his property were signed. The moment they were gone, a
number of fashionable gentlemen from London arrived as guests at the old
mansion; and the long silent rooms echoed to the sounds of their late
revellings. Then there were steeple-chases, and horse-racing, and
cock-fighting, and badger-baiting, and all kinds of sports of that
nature; and sometimes the young squire was more than half tipsy when he
lounged into church in the middle of the Sunday evening service. His
residence at the Hall did no good to the village tradespeople, because
he had every thing sent down from London;—and thus no one was rejoiced
at his settling in that neighbourhood. My parents, particularly, had no
good opinion of Squire Bulkeley; but, as the farm was their own, they
had no positive fear of him, although our land joined his estates. This
was not so, however, with the Daltons, who were only tenant-farmers, and
rented their fifty or sixty acres of the Squire. The farm had been in
old Dalton's family for many, many years, and was one of the best tilled
and best stocked in the county; and as Mr. Dalton was always regular
with his rent, it did not seem probable that the lease, which was
shortly to expire, would be refused renewal.

"One morning,—it was in the month of June, I remember, Marion and myself
happened to be alone together in the house, when the Squire, attended by
his groom, rode up to the door. Marion sent me out to learn the cause of
his visit. 'This is Farmer Splint's, my boy, I believe?' said the
Squire, who, I should observe, was a handsome young man in spite of his
dissipated appearance. I replied in the affirmative, adding, that my
father was not at home. 'Who is at home, then?' asked the Squire; 'for I
caught a glimpse of a face so pretty just now at the window, that I
should not mind beholding it again.'—'That was my sister, Marion, sir,'
I answered, not seeing any thing insolent in his remark; but, perhaps,
rather pleased by it, as it flattered a sister of whom I was very
fond.—'Well, my boy,' said the Squire, leaping from his horse, 'here is
a crown for you; and now be off and try and find your father, as I want
to speak to him. In the mean time I will walk in and rest myself.'
Catching the coin which he threw me, I hurried away, delighted with the
handsome present, and naturally thinking that the visit of so liberal a
gentleman must be with a motive beneficial to my father. But after
hunting every where for him about the farm, I remembered that he and my
mother had gone to the village to make some purchases. The village was a
mile and a half distant from our house; and as I knew that they would be
back to dinner at one, I returned straight home, expecting to find them
already arrived. The groom was walking the horses up and down at a
little distance; and, therefore, I was convinced that the Squire was
still waiting within. My hand was just upon the latch of the door, when
a scream burst upon my ears; and immediately afterwards I heard Marion's
voice reproaching the Squire bitterly for some insult which he had
offered her. I hastened into the house, and my presence appeared to
disconcert Mr. Bulkeley completely. He was standing in the middle of the
room, as if uncertain what course to adopt in a case of embarrassment;
and he turned as red as scarlet when he saw me. Marion was at the
further end of the apartment, near a door opening into the kitchen; and
she was arranging her hair, which had been disordered; while her cheeks
were also crimsoned, but, as I thought, with the glow of indignation;
whereas the face of the Squire was flushed with shame.

"I advanced towards Marion, asking, 'What is the matter? why did you
scream out? and what has he been doing to you?'—'Nothing, Tim,' she
replied, but with a profound sob. 'Have you met father?'—'No; I forgot
that he'd gone to the village; but he will be home in a minute or two,
as it's close on one.'—'I shall call another day, then, Miss,' said the
Squire; and he hurried abruptly away. For some minutes neither Marion or
myself spoke a word. I suppose she was endeavouring to compose herself,
and also deliberating what course she should pursue; while, on my side,
I did not like to question her. At length she approached me, and said,
'Tim, you are a good boy, and always do what sister tells you. Now, mind
and don't mention a word about that gentleman having been rude to me. I
have reasons of my own for it. And don't say either, that you were so
long away when he was here.' I promised to follow Marion's injunctions;
for I was very fond of her, as I have before said. Accordingly, when my
father and mother had come back, and we were all seated at dinner,
Marion remarked in an indifferent manner that the Squire had called to
see our father, and that he had given me a five-shilling piece. 'I
wonder what he can want with me?' said my father: 'it was certainly very
kind of him to make Tim such a handsome present; but after all I have
heard of him, I would rather that he should honour us with his visits as
rarely as possible. However, he can do us no harm—nor any good, that I
know of; for he has no land to let at present, and I am not disposed to
hire any even if he had.' There the subject was dismissed, at least so
far as remarks thereon were concerned; but I saw that Marion was
thoughtful and even melancholy during the remainder of the day.

"About a week had elapsed, and my father and I were one afternoon
proceeding along the borders of our land, just where it was separated by
a quick-set hedge from the Squire's estate, when Mr. Bulkeley himself,
alone and on foot, suddenly appeared at a stile. My father and I touched
our hats with the usual respect shown by country people to great folks;
and the Squire, who had for a moment shrunk back on seeing us,
exclaimed, 'Farmer Splint, you are the very man I wanted to fall in
with; and that very field in which you are standing is the object of my
business with you.'—'How so, sir?' asked my father.—'Why,' returned the
Squire, 'you see it cuts awkwardly into my estate, and breaks in on the
very best preserves I have in this quarter.—'Begging pardon, sir,' said
my father, 'I could wish it broke a little more on your preserves: for
your hares and pheasants do a world of harm to my fields when the corn
is just springing up. I lost more than an acre by them last year,
sir.'—'So much the greater folly on your part, Farmer Splint,' exclaimed
the Squire, 'to persist in remaining a landowner. You never can get a
good living out of so small a farm as your's.'—'I get enough for all our
wants sir, and am able to assist a friend now and then,' said my
father.—'Well, but if you sell your land and become a tenant-farmer, you
will be much better off,' observed the Squire. 'Suppose, for instance, I
bought the land? why, you would have received compensation for the
injury done to your crop by the game in my preserves.'—'But I should
lose my independence, sir,' said my father, in a firm though perfectly
respectful manner.—'Your independence!' ejaculated Mr. Bulkeley, with a
sneer. 'Then, I am to imagine that you consider yourself a regular
landowner, one of the lords of the soil. May be you will dub yourself
_Squire_ next! Squire Splint, eh?'—'I am plain Farmer Splint, sir, and
so I hope to remain,' was the answer.—'Then you will not sell me that
field?'—'I had rather not, sir.'—'But you may have an equivalent portion
of my seven-acre field over by the mill yonder; and your property will
be much more compact.'—'But the land is not equally serviceable, sir,'
answered my father, 'and therefore I must decline the bargain. Besides,
it may be fancy on my part; but it is true notwithstanding, that I am
rather superstitious in making boundary changes in a farm that has been
so long in my family; unless it was to extend it by a purchase of land,
and _that_ I can't afford. So good day, sir;' and my father, touching
his hat, walked on. I saw the Squire's lips quivering with rage as he
stood looking after us; and, young as I was, yet I thought my father had
made an enemy of him—for the conversation which I have just detailed,
produced a deep impression upon me.

"Six or seven weeks had passed away since this little incident, when I
one day met the Squire as I was going on an errand for my mother to the
village. He was on horseback, and his groom was in attendance. I was
thinking whether I ought to touch my hat to him or not, after his
insolence to my father, when he pulled up, exclaiming, 'Holloa!
youngster—your name is Splint, I believe?'—'Yes, sir.'—'Ah! I remember.
You are a very good lad, and I should wish to become a friend to you. I
think I gave you a crown once: well, here's another. And now answer me a
question or two. Did your sister ever say a word to her father or mother
about that visit of mine some weeks past, you know?'—I was so bewildered
by the apparent liberality of the Squire, and, boy-like, was so rejoiced
at the possession of the coin which I was rolling over and over in my
hand, that I suffered myself to be sifted by him at will; and I
acquainted him with the injunctions that my sister Marion had given me
on the occasion to which he had alluded. He seemed much pleased, but not
particularly astonished. In fact, it is of course easy to understand
what was passing in his mind, although I could not _then_ fathom his
thoughts. The respect which my father had shown him when they met in the
fields, evidently induced him to believe that Marion had _not_
acquainted her parents with his rudeness to her; and now he was pleased
to receive from my lips a confirmation of his conjecture on that point.
It was also natural for him to imagine that Marion was not in reality so
much offended with him as she had appeared to be; and it was doubtless
with this impression upon his mind that he proceeded to address me in
the following manner:—'To tell you the truth, my boy, I behaved rather
rudely to your charming sister; and I have repented of it ever since. I
do not like to call and offer an apology, because your father or mother,
or both, might be present. But if you will deliver a note to her
privately, I will write one; for I shall not feel happy till I have
convinced her that I am sorry for the past.'—'I am sure, sir,' I
replied, 'I shall be most happy to deliver such a letter to my sister,
and she will be most pleased to receive it; because she has often told
me that we always ought to forgive those who show repentance for their
errors.'—'An excellent maxim, my boy!' cried the Squire. He then desired
me to wait for him in a particular shop, which he named, in the village;
and, turning back, he rode thitherward, followed by his groom. I walked
on, thinking that the Squire was a much better man than he had at first
seemed,—wondering, too, how he could have been so harsh and unjust in
his observations towards my father, and yet so ready to acknowledge the
impropriety of his conduct towards my sister.

"Arrived in the village, I performed the commission entrusted to me by
my mother, and then repaired to the shop of Mr. Snowdon, chemist and
druggist, as directed by the young Squire. This gentleman was leaning on
the counter, writing on the sheet of paper with which the obsequious Mr.
Snowdon had provided him; and when it was terminated, the Squire folded
it, sealed it, and addressed it to _Miss Marion Splint_. Mr. Snowdon
caught a glimpse of the superscription, although he pretended to be
looking quite another way. The letter was then handed to me by the
Squire, accompanied by a whispered injunction to be sure and give it
privately to Marion; while another crown-piece anointed my hand at the
same time. I promised compliance with the instructions given, and
hurried back home. George Dalton was there, and he stayed to dinner; but
he departed soon afterwards, taking an affectionate leave of Marion as
usual. My father also went out to his work; my mother repaired to the
dairy; and I was now alone with my sister. 'Marion, dear,' said I, 'I
have got a surprise for you.'—'A surprise for me, Tim!' she
exclaimed.—'Yes; a letter from Squire Bulkeley.'—'Tim!' she cried, 'you
surely——.'—'Pray read it, Marion dear,' I interrupted her. 'Its contents
are a most respectful apology for his conduct some weeks ago. In fact,
he spoke quite like a gentleman about it, and said how sorry he was.'
Marion no longer hesitated to open the letter; but I saw that her
countenance suddenly became crimson, and she hastened up to her own
chamber, without uttering another word.

"An hour passed away, and she came down again. Having assured herself
that our mother was still occupied in the dairy, she said to me, 'Tim
dear, you must do me a kindness this very evening.'—'That I will,
Marion,' I answered. 'What is it?'—'Here is a letter for Squire
Bulkeley,' she said; and it struck me that there was something singular,
and not altogether natural in her voice and manner. 'If you meet father
on the way, say that you are going to inquire after neighbour Jones's
little daughter; and never tell any one, Tim, that you did this for me.
You are not old enough yet to understand my motives; but when you are,
you shall know them.'—I was never accustomed to question my sister, nor
even to deliberate on any thing she did; and away I sped to Bulkeley
Hall. The Squire was not at home; and so I left the letter. On my return
to the farm-house, I told Marion what I had done: she said I was a good
boy, and repeated her injunctions of the strictest secrecy.

"About a week after this incident, George Dalton took me out for a
ramble with him. I never saw him so happy and in such excellent spirits.
He spoke of the prospects of a good harvest; and observed that every
thing seemed to hold out a promise of happiness for Marion and himself.
Then he told me how glad he would always be to see me at his farm when
my sister should have become his wife. In this way he was talking, and I
was listening very attentively, when, as we were crossing a field on
Squire Bulkeley's estate, that gentleman suddenly appeared on the other
side of the hedge. 'Holloa! you fellows,' he cried; 'don't you know
you're trespassing?'—'I wasn't aware of it, Sir,' replied George,
touching his hat: 'the field has always been used as a short cut by the
people of the village; and there have been a foot-path and a stile at
each end, ever since I can remember.'—'And if my guardians chose to
permit the village people to use this short cut, it is no reason why I
should,' exclaimed the Squire, purple with rage. 'And so I order you off
at once, both of you.'—'Well, sir,' said George, still respectfully but
firmly, 'we shall never trespass again, now that we know it is
trespassing.'—'Go back, then!' cried Mr. Bulkeley.—'As we are nearer the
other end of the field, we may as well continue our walk in that
direction, sir,' returned George. 'It can't possibly make any difference
to you.'—'Yes, but it does though,' shouted the Squire. 'I order you
off; and you shan't advance another step.' Thus speaking, he sprang
through the hedge, and came towards us in a menacing manner.—'Look you,
Squire Bulkeley,' said George Dalton, without retreating a single pace:
'you warn me off your grounds, and I am prepared to obey. But you shall
not bully me, for all that.'—'Bully you!' cried the great man, now
turning perfectly white: 'do you think a gentleman like me knows what it
is to bully?'—'I think it seems very much as if you did, sir,' answered
George coolly.—'Low-bred scoundrel, insolent clod-hopper!' exclaimed the
Squire: 'you are not fit to stand in the presence of a gentleman. Go
back to your Marion, and console yourself with my leavings in that
quarter!'—'Villain! what do you mean?' cried George, rushing forward to
grasp the Squire by the throat.—'Wait one moment!' exclaimed the latter,
raising his arm and stepping back a few paces. 'I tell you that Marion
knows how to prefer a gentleman to a swineherd; and that boy there can
prove it,' he added, pointing to me.

"George Dalton turned a hasty and angry glance upon me; and I saw him
become deadly pale and tremble violently—I suppose because he saw that
my manner was embarrassed and confused. 'Tim,' he said, in a hoarse and
thick voice, 'do you know what this person means?' and he pointed
disdainfully towards the Squire, who seemed to feel a diabolical delight
at the evident pain which he was inflicting upon my sister's lover.—'If
that boy tells the truth,' said Mr. Bulkeley, 'he will admit——.'—'The
children of Farmer Splint were never known to tell a falsehood,'
interrupted George Dalton; 'and though you, sir, have made most cowardly
and insulting allusions to Marion, you are well aware that there
breathes not a purer being than she is, nor a greater scoundrel and liar
than you are. And if I restrain my hands from touching you, it is only
because you are too contemptible for serious notice. Come, Tim: let us
move on.'—'One word, George Dalton!' cried the Squire, his lips
quivering with rage. 'Ask that boy whether he knows of any thing that
has ever taken place between me and Marion. Remember, I am your
landlord; and your father's lease expires next Christmas.'—'We don't
care for the threats of a man like you, who endeavours to cause a breach
between me and a young lass that never did you any harm.'—'Oh! not at
all; but a great deal of good, on the contrary,' said the Squire, with a
chuckle of triumph. 'Why, it is but a week ago since that boy was the
bearer of the last notes which passed between us.'—'Liar!' thundered
George Dalton; and he was again on the point of rushing on the Squire,
when he checked himself, and turning to me said, 'Now, Tim, you are no
story-teller; and, indeed, I ought scarcely to insult Marion so far as
to ask such a question. But can you not tell this man to his face that
he is what I just now called him; namely, a liar?'—'Not if he tells the
truth,' observed Mr. Bulkeley coolly.—I hung down my head, and wished at
the moment that the earth would open and swallow me up.—'Tim,' said
George Dalton, again speaking in a hoarse tone, as dark suspicions were
revived in his mind, 'does this person who calls himself a gentleman
utter facts? did you ever convey letters between him and your sister?
Come, answer me, my boy: I cannot be angry with _you_.'—I faltered out a
faint 'Yes.'—'Then God have mercy upon me!' exclaimed George Dalton, in
a voice of piercing anguish, as he clasped his hands convulsively
together.

"The Squire stood gazing upon him with fiend-like malignity. I cannot
describe the dreadful picture of despair which George at that moment
seemed to be. At length he turned again towards me, and, grasping my
shoulder so tight that I nearly screamed out with pain, he said, 'Tim,
tell me all, or I shall do you a mischief. Does Marion receive letters
from Mr. Bulkeley?'—'She did one,' I stammered in reply, 'because I took
it to her. The Squire wrote it at Mr. Snowdon's.'—'And did Marion answer
it?' he demanded.—'She did,' I answered: 'but——'.—'Have you ever seen
the Squire and Marion together?' he asked in a hurried and now
dreadfully excited tone.—'Yes, once,' I said: 'but——.' And again I was
about to give certain explanations relative to what the Squire himself
had represented to me to be the nature and object of his letter to my
sister—namely, to apologise to her for some insult which he had offered
her: but George Dalton had not patience to hear me. Rushing upon the
Squire, he struck him to the ground, exclaiming, 'Vile seducer! you
glory in the ruin you have accomplished!' and then he darted away,
clearing the hedge with a bound, and was almost immediately out of
sight.

"The Squire rose slowly and with pain from the ground, muttering the
most dreadful threats of vengeance; and I, afraid that he might do me a
mischief, hurried off as quick as possible. I was old enough to
comprehend that George Dalton believed my sister to have been faithless
to him; and the same impression rapidly forced itself on my own mind.
Still I was sorry that George had not waited to hear all the additional
circumstances which I was about to relate; and it somehow or another
struck me that he would call on Mr. Snowdon, the chemist. I cannot now
account for this idea which I entertained: but I suppose it must have
been because that person's name was mentioned in the conversation, and
because I must have thought it probable that George would seek the
fullest confirmation of his cause of unhappiness. It is, however, very
certain that I hastened off to the village as quick as my legs would
carry me. But just as I entered Mr. Snowdon's shop, I caught sight of
George Dalton, standing at the counter talking to that individual. He
had his back towards me; and the chemist was so occupied with the
subject of conversation, that he also did not notice my entrance. I knew
not whether to advance or retreat; and while I stood hesitating, I
overheard Dalton say, 'And you are sure that the letter was addressed to
Marion?'—'I happened to catch a glimpse of the direction,' answered the
chemist, 'and I saw the Squire give the lad Timothy some money.'—'Then
am I indeed a wretched, miserable being!' exclaimed George Dalton; and
he rushed wildly from the shop, not noticing me as he hurried by. I was
so alarmed by his haggard looks and excited manner, that I was nailed as
it were to the spot; and it was not until Mr. Snowdon had asked me two
or three times what I wanted, that I recollected where I was. Then,
without giving any reply, I quitted the shop, and repaired homewards.

"I was afraid to enter the house; for I felt convinced that poor
Marion's happiness was menaced, and that even if she was not already
aware of the presence of the storm, not many hours would elapse ere it
would burst upon her head. And when I did reach the farm, my worst fears
were confirmed. The place was in confusion; Marion was in a state
bordering on distraction; and my father and mother were vainly
endeavouring to comfort her. An open letter lay upon the table:—without
reading its contents I could too well divine their nature and whence the
missive came. For some minutes my entrance was unperceived; but when at
last the intensity of Marion's grief was somewhat subdued, and her eyes
fell on me, she exclaimed, 'Oh! Tim, what have you done? what have you
been telling George, that he has written to say he will abandon me
forever, and that _you_ can explain the cause?'—'Reveal the whole truth,
boy,' said my father sternly, 'as some atonement for the misery which
you have been instrumental in producing.'—I then related all that had
occurred with the Squire and at the apothecary's shop.—My father and
mother showed, by their lowering countenances and searching glances
towards my sister, that they were a prey to harrowing suspicions; but
they did not interrupt the current of my story. Then, when I had
concluded, Marion, without waiting to be asked for an explanation, gave
it in the following manner:—

"'You cannot, my dear parents, think for a moment that I have acted
unworthily. Imprudent I may have been—but guilty, Oh! no—no! One day the
Squire called here, as you are well aware; and he sent Tim to search
after you, father. This was most probably a mere vile subterfuge on his
part; for when Tim had departed, the bad man began to speak to me in a
disparaging way of George; and when I begged him to desist, as he was
wronging an excellent being, his language took a bolder turn. He paid me
some compliments, which I affected not to hear; and at last his language
grew so insulting, that I was about to quit the room, when he caught me
round the waist. Oh! how can I tell you his insulting language?—but he
proposed to me—to me, your daughter, and beloved by George Dalton as I
then was,—the detestable man implored me to fly with him to his
mansion—to become his mistress!'—Here my father and mother made a
movement indicative of deep indignation; and Marion then continued
thus:—'I started away from him—I was rushing towards that inner room,
when Tim returned. I was now no longer alarmed, though still boiling
with anger: nevertheless I had presence of mind sufficient to command my
emotion so far as not to utter a word of reproach or complaint in the
presence of my brother. For, in a moment, did I perceive how necessary
it was to retain in my own breast the secret of the gross insult which I
had received. I reasoned to myself that the Squire was the landlord of
the Daltons—that their lease would expire at the end of the year—that it
would break the old man's heart to be compelled to quit a farm which had
been in his family for so many years—and that George possessed a fiery
spirit, which would render him blind to the consequences of avenging on
the Squire the insults offered to me. Of all this I thought: those ideas
flashed rapidly through my brain;—and I therefore not only resolved to
remain silent in respect to the insolence of Mr. Bulkeley, but also
tutored Tim to be so reserved, that you, my dear father and mother,
should not notice any thing unusual having occurred. When Tim brought me
the Squire's note, a week ago, I scarcely hesitated to read it, thinking
that it might indeed contain an apology. But, oh! you may conceive my
feelings, when I discovered that it repeated the insulting proposals
made to me on the first occasion. I knew not how to act; and prudence
struggled with wounded pride. But I reflected that Mr. Bulkeley was
wealthy and powerful enough to crush us all—for we _have_ seen
instances, my dear parents, of the rich landowners ruining the small
farmers, who to all appearance were independent of them: and again I
resolved to adopt a cautious line of conduct. I accordingly answered the
Squire's note. I implored him, as he was a gentleman and a Christian,
not to molest me more with importunities from which my very heart
revolted; I besought him not to ruin for ever the happy prospects of two
families by any means of vengeance with which circumstances or accident
might supply him; and I conjured him to believe that, in keeping secret
all that had hitherto passed between us, I was actuated only by the best
of motives. That letter was the one which Tim conveyed to the Squire;
and now, my dear parents, you know all.'

"I remember perfectly well that my father and mother were greatly
affected by the narrative which my pure-minded sister thus related to
them, and which was frequently interrupted by bursts of bitter anguish
on her part. She moreover added that she possessed the Squire's letter
to her and a copy of the one which she had written to him.—'Give me
those papers, my dear child,' said my father: 'and I will at once
proceed to neighbour Dalton's house. If I find George at home, I will
undertake to bring him back with me to pass the remainder of the day,
and to implore your forgiveness for his unjust suspicions; and if he is
not there, I am sure to see my old friend, to whom I will give all the
necessary explanations.'—Marion was somewhat soothed by the hopes thus
held out; and our father departed to the Daltons' farm, which was about
a mile off. Two hours elapsed before he came back; and when at last we
perceived him returning through the fields, he was alone. Marion burst
into tears: a presentiment of evil struck a chill to her heart; and as
our father approached, the serious expression of his countenance filled
us all with alarm. He entered and seated himself without uttering a
word. Marion threw herself into his arms, saying in a broken voice,
'Father, tell me the worst: I can bear every thing save suspense.'—'My
dearest child,' answered the old man, tears trickling down his cheeks,
'it has pleased heaven to afflict thee, and all of us likewise through
thee. George has quitted his home, and——.'—And what?' demanded Marion
hastily.—'And his father knows not whither he has gone,' continued he:
'but when the first fever of excitement is over, there can be no doubt
that he will return. Old Mr. Dalton is perfectly satisfied——.'

"But Marion heard not the words last addressed to her: she had fainted
in her father's arms;—and, when she was restored to consciousness, she
was so unwell that she was immediately removed to her own chamber. For
three weeks her life was despaired of; and she was constantly raving of
George Dalton. But at last, youth, a good constitution, and the care
taken of her, triumphed over the rage of fever; and she was pronounced
out of danger. Alas! what replies could be given to her anxious, earnest
questions concerning George? Old Dalton had not heard of him since the
fatal day when he disappeared. Was he no more? had he in a moment of
frenzy laid violent hands upon himself? There was too much reason to
suppose that such was the case: otherwise, would he not have written, or
returned? As gently as possible was the fatal truth, that no tidings had
been received of him, broken to Marion; and a partial relapse was the
consequence. But in another week she rallied again; and then the first
time she spoke of him, she said in as excited a tone at her feebleness
would allow, 'Had he ceased to love me—had he loved another, I could
have borne it! But that he should think me lost—faithless—degraded,—oh!
that is worse than even the bitterness of death!'

"Slowly—slowly did Marion recover sufficiently to rise from her bed: but
how altered was she! The gay, cheerful, ruddy girl, blooming with health
and rustic beauty, was changed into a pale, moping, mournful creature,
whose very presence seemed to render joy a crime and smiles a sacrilege.
The autumn came—the corn was cut—the harvest, as plentiful as had been
expected, was gathered in. Had George been there then, that was the
period settled for the wedding. And, strange as it may seem, it was
precisely on the day originally resolved upon as the one to render the
young couple happy,—that old Dalton _did_ receive tidings of his son.
George was alive, and had enlisted in a regiment then stationed at
Chatham, but shortly to embark for India. The young man wrote a letter
communicating these facts, and referring to a former letter which he had
written to his father a few days after he had quitted home, but the
miscarriage of which had produced so much uncertainty and painful
suspense. The colour came back to Marion's cheeks when she heard that
her lover was alive; and she said, 'Even though I may never see him
more, I can yet be happy; for he will now learn that I am still as I
have ever been, his faithful and devoted Marion!' Meantime, old Dalton
and my father were deliberating together what course to pursue; and it
was determined that the discharge of George should be immediately
purchased. The proper steps were taken, under the advice of an attorney
in the nearest market-town; and in the mean time his father wrote to him
a full account of the Squire's treachery and Marion's complete
innocence. The return of post brought the tenderest and most pathetic
letter to Marion, imploring her forgiveness, and assuring her that his
extreme love had driven him to such a state of desperation as to render
his native district hateful to him, and had induced him to enlist. I
need scarcely say, that Marion now enjoyed hopes of happiness again: her
cheeks recovered their lost bloom—her step grew light as formerly, and
her musical voice once more awoke the echoes of the homestead. In six
weeks time we heard that George was free, and on his way home. He
came:—it is impossible to describe the unbounded joy of the meeting!

"And now there was no longer any obstacle to the union of the lovers,
nor any wish in any quarter to delay it. The marriage was accordingly
celebrated and a happier pair never issued from the village-church; nor
did ever the bells appear to ring so merrily before. There were grand
doings at our farm-house, for my mother was determined to give a treat
to all her neighbours;—and the feast was such a one as I never can
forget. Long after George had borne away his bride to his father's
house, which, as already long before arranged, was to be the young
couple's home, the dancing was kept up on the green in front of our
dwelling, though the cold weather had already begun to show itself. But
all hearts were gay and happy, and warm with good feelings; and the old
ale and the punch flowed bountifully; for it was one of those days in
people's lives which are a reward for whole ages of care. Ah! when I
look back at those times, and think of what I was—and now reflect for a
moment on what I am——But, no; I must not reflect at all. Let me continue
this history without pausing for meditation!

"The happiness of both families was now complete; for even old Dalton
declared that he had so much reason for joy in the turn which
circumstances had lately taken, that he could even make up his mind to
receive a refusal when he should apply for the renewal of his lease. But
just at this time fortune seemed determined to be propitious; for Squire
Bulkeley, who was in London when the return of George and the marriage
took place, sent down a legal gentleman to make arrangements with his
steward for the sale of a part of his estate in Hampshire, as he wanted
to make up the money to purchase a small property in Kent. He was a wild
and reckless fellow, and full of whims and fancies; and he cared not
which portion of his land was sold, so long as his preserves and park
were left. Well, it happened that old Dalton, hearing of this, went
straight to the lawyer, and proposed to purchase the farm which had been
rented by his family for so many years. The offer was accepted: by the
aid of my father the money was made up and paid. Dalton was now a
landowner; but he did not remain so long—for he made over all his newly
acquired property to his son George, who laboured hard to improve it.

"Shortly after this transaction, it was rumoured in the neighbourhood
that the Squire had flown into a tremendous passion when he received the
news that the Daltons had purchased the farm. He had no doubt intended
to turn them out at Christmas; but he had omitted to except their farm
from the part of the estate to be sold. The Daltons cared nothing for
his anger; and George even said that he now considered himself
sufficiently avenged upon the perfidious gentleman. Shortly after
Christmas the Squire came down to Bulkeley Hall with a party of friends;
and the mansion once again rang with the din of revellers. And now I
come to a very important incident in my narrative.

"One day George Dalton had occasion to visit the neighbouring
market-town to buy a horse; and he stayed to dine in company with the
other farmers at the principal inn. The landlord of the inn dined at the
same table with his guests; and, during the meal, he informed the
company that a poor discharged gamekeeper had died at the house on the
preceding evening, leaving behind him his only possession—the only thing
that he had been able to retain from the wreck of his former
prosperity,—namely, a beautiful greyhound. The farmers were interested
in the tale, and instantly made a subscription to defray the expenses of
the poor man's funeral, and remunerate the good landlord for the care
and attention which he had bestowed on the deceased during his last
illness. The hound was brought in, and every one admired it greatly. The
landlord observed that his wife had such an aversion to dogs, he did not
dare keep it on the premises; and he proposed that the farmers should
raffle amongst them to decide to whom the hound should belong. This was
assented to; and the lot fell on George Dalton. He accordingly took the
dog home with him, and related all that had occurred to his father and
his wife, both of whom were much pleased by the acquisition of such a
fine animal, and under such interesting circumstances. The poor
gamekeeper's dog accordingly became an immediate favourite.

"About a week or ten days afterwards, and in the month of February,
George went out early, accompanied by the hound. The morning was fine
and frosty, but excessively cold; and George whistled cheerily as he
went along, Ponto trotting close at his heels. Suddenly a hare started
from her form; and away dashed the greyhound after her. George knew that
he had no right to pursue game even on his own land; and he ran after
the dog as hard as he could, calling him back. But he might as well have
whistled against the thunder: Ponto was too eager in the chase to mind
the invocations of his master. Well, after a short but exciting run, the
hound caught and killed the hare in the very last field belonging to
George's farm, the adjoining land being the Squire's. And, sure enough,
at that very instant Mr. Bulkeley appeared, accompanied by two
gamekeepers, on the other side of the boundary palings. 'George Dalton,
by God!' cried the Squire, with a malignant sneer on his
countenance.—But George took no notice of his enemy; for he had promised
Marion in the most solemn manner to avoid all possibility of quarrelling
with so dangerous an individual.—'I did not know that you took out a
certificate, Mr. Dalton,' observed the Squire, after a pause.—'Neither
do I, sir,' replied George in a cold but respectful manner; 'and I have
done nothing that I am ashamed of; for, if you have been here many
minutes, you must have heard me trying to call the dog off.'—'We know
what we heard, Mr. Dalton,' said the Squire, with a significant grin at
his gamekeepers;—and away the gentleman and keepers went, chuckling
audibly. The very next day an information was laid by the Squire against
George Dalton, who accordingly attended before the magistrates. Squire
Bulkeley was himself a justice of the peace; and he sate on the bench
along with his brother magistrates, acting as both judge and prosecutor.
The two gamekeepers swore that they saw George encourage the dog to
pursue the hare; and it was in vain that the defendant represented the
whole circumstances of the case. He was condemned in the full penalty
and costs, and abused shamefully into the bargain. Smarting under the
iron scourge of oppression, and acting by the advice of an attorney whom
he had employed in the case, George Dalton gave notice of appeal to the
Quarter Sessions. His wife, my father, and old Mr. Dalton implored him
to settle the matter at once and have done with it: but he declared that
he should be unworthy of the name of an Englishman if he suffered
himself to be thus trampled under the feet of the despotic magistracy.
The attorney, who was hungry after a job, nagged him on, too; and thus
every preparation was made to carry the affair before the Sessions.

"The event made a great stir in that part of the country, and the
liberal papers took George's part. They said how utterly worthless, as
an engine of justice, was the entire system of the unpaid magistracy;
and they denounced that system as a monstrous oppression, instituted
against the people.[30] Well, the case came on before the assembled
magistrates; but on the bench sate not only the justice who had
condemned George Dalton, but likewise Squire Bulkeley, the prosecutor
himself! Judgment was given against my brother-in-law; and he suddenly
found himself called upon to pay about sixty pounds—the amount of all
the aggregate expenses which the original case and the appeal
occasioned. The money was made up with great difficulty, and not without
my father's aid; and though George Dalton was thus relieved from any
fears of the consequences, yet he became an altered man. He went to work
with a heavy heart, because he could not prevent himself from brooding
over his wrongs. He also found frequent excuses for visiting the
village; and on those occasions he never failed to step into the
ale-house for a few minutes. There he found sympathizers; and his
generous nature prompted him to treat those who took his part. One pot
led to another; and every time he entered the ale-house, his stay was
prolonged. Care now entered both the farm-houses. In one, old Dalton and
Marion deplored the change which had taken place in George; and in the
other, my parents could not close their ears to the rumours which
reached them, nor shut their eyes against the altered manner of their
son-in-law. The great proof of dogged obstinacy which George gave, was
in his conduct respecting the hound. Those who wished him well, implored
him to dispose of it; but he declared that he considered himself bound,
by reason of the manner in which he had acquired the dog, to maintain
and treat the animal kindly. He, however, kept Ponto chained up in the
farmyard.

[Illustration]

"Time wore on; the summer arrived and passed; and the autumn yielded so
good a harvest that the produce was a complete set off against the heavy
expenses entailed on the two families by the unlucky appeal. This
circumstance somewhat cheered George's spirits; and the birth of a fine
boy restored him almost completely to his former gaiety. In the evening,
instead of finding some pretence to repair to the village, he sate with
his beloved Marion; and happiness once more entered the homestead. But
misfortune was again impending over the head of George Dalton. It was
one morning in the month of November, that he was repairing to his work,
with a spade and a hoe over his shoulder, whistling as he was wont to do
ere oppression had wronged him; and wondering, also, how he could ever
have been so foolish as to pay such frequent visits to the public-house
in the village. His mind was occupied, too, with the image of his
Marion, whom he had left nourishing her babe; and perhaps his heart was
never lighter than at that moment. But suddenly, he heard a slight noise
behind him; and, turning round, he beheld Ponto, who, having succeeded
in slipping his collar, had scampered after his master. George's first
impulse was to secure the dog; but, as the devil would have it, at that
very instant a hare jumped from her form close by. Ponto escaped from
George's grasp, and the chase ensued. My brother-in-law was
bewildered—he knew not how to act; but at last he pursued the hound,
taking care, however, not to call him. Away went Ponto—the hare doubled
and turned—George managing to keep them in sight. At length, to his
horror, the hare swept towards a hedge, which in that point separated
the Daltons' property from the Squire's preserves:—the hedge was passed
by the pursued and the pursuing animals, and the chase was now
maintained on Mr. Bulkeley's estate. But the run soon terminated by the
death of the hare; and George, after casting a rapid glance around to
assure himself that the coast was clear, sprang through the hedge to
secure Ponto. He was, however, doomed to misfortune on this, as on the
former occasion. The gamekeepers were up before he could retrace his
steps into his own property; and he was immediately seized as a poacher
and a trespasser. In dogged silence he accompanied the keepers to the
house of the same magistrate who had before convicted him; but that
'worthy gentleman' was absent in London, and the prisoner was
accordingly taken before the rector of the parish, who was also in the
commission of the peace. The Squire was sent for, and the case was
entered into under all the unfavourable circumstances of a previous
conviction—a fruitless appeal—the exaggerated or positively false
representations of the gamekeepers—the malignity of the Squire, and the
readiness of his Reverence to believe every thing that was set forth to
the prejudice of the prisoner. The parson-justice determined to send the
case to the Sessions; and George was ordered to find bail. This was
easily done, and he was accordingly liberated.

"This second misfortune, of the same kind, plunged the two families into
the deepest affliction, and made Marion very ill. George said but little
on the subject: he refused this time to employ any legal advice in
getting up his defence, both on account of the expense, and because it
was notorious that the unpaid magistrates always dealt more harshly with
those persons who _dared_ to show fight with the weapons of the law.
Again there was a great sensation in the neighbourhood; and every one
waited anxiously for the day of trial. That day came; and George left
his Marion on a bed of sickness, to repair to the market-town. The
Squire, the parson-justice, and the magistrate who had convicted the
defendant on the previous occasion, and who had by this time returned
from London, were all on the bench. The two gamekeepers swore that
George Dalton had coursed with the same hound which had led him into
trouble before—that he had persisted in keeping the dog in spite of the
remonstrances of his friends—that in the case then under the cognisance
of the court, he had encouraged the dog to chase the hare—that he had
followed into the Squire's land—and that he was in the act of concealing
the hare about his person when he was stopped by the keepers. George
told the entire truth in defence, and implored the magistrates not to
allow him to be crushed and ruined by the malignity of Squire Bulkeley.
He was then about to enter into explanations to show wherefore the
Squire persecuted him; but the chairman stopped him abruptly, saying,
that he had no right to impute improper motives to any member of the
court. The Squire, moreover, indignantly—or, at least, with seeming
indignation—denied any such selfish purposes as those sought to be
imputed to him; and it was very evident, that even if the magistrates
were not already prejudiced against Dalton, this attempt at explanation
on his part fully succeeded in rendering them so. George was sentenced
to three months' imprisonment in the County House of Correction; and he
was forthwith removed thither without being allowed to go home first and
embrace his sick wife.

"You may suppose that Marion was distracted when she received this
intelligence, although my mother went and broke it to her as gently as
possible. Old Dalton was so overwhelmed with grief that he became
dreadfully ill, took to his bed, and died three weeks after his beloved
son's condemnation. My mother went to stay altogether with Marion until
George's return, which took place at the expiration of his sentence. But
how he was altered!—altered in mind as well as in personal appearance.
He was gaol-tainted: his honourable feelings were impaired—his generous
sympathies were ruined. He was still kind and tender to Marion and his
child; but his visits to the ale-house soon re-commenced, and he
neglected his work more and more. One night, about six weeks after his
release from prison, a tremendous conflagration was seen in the
immediate neighbourhood of the Squire's mansion: all the out-houses and
farms were on fire; and, despite of the assistance rendered by Mr.
Bulkeley's people, those premises were reduced to ashes. That it was the
work of an incendiary was clearly ascertained; and suspicion instantly
pointed to George Dalton. He was taken before a magistrate and examined;
but nothing could be proved against him. The magistrate, however,
observed, that he felt convinced of George's guilt, and deeply regretted
the necessity there was to discharge him. I well remember that my father
and mother evinced by their manner their fears that George was indeed
the incendiary.

"From that moment a dreadful change came over my sister Marion. She grew
profoundly melancholy; but not a murmur nor a complaint escaped her
lips. There can be no doubt that _she_ was aware who the incendiary was;
and that knowledge was the death-blow to her happiness. The child,
deprived of its proper nutriment—for Marion wasted to a mere
shadow—drooped and died; and the poor mother declared hysterically that
its loss was the greatest blessing which could have happened to her.
This was the only allusion she was ever heard to make, direct or
indirect, to the unhappy state of her mind and of her home. George
continued kind to her; but kind rather in the shape of forbearance than
in tokens of affection: that is to say, he never said a harsh word to
her—nor beat her—nor slighted her; but he gave her little of his
society, and was usually silent and thoughtful when in her presence.

"One day the parson-justice, whom I have before mentioned, called on the
Daltons, and remonstrated with George on his conduct in absenting
himself from church.—'I shall never go again, sir,' was the dogged
answer.—'And why not?' demanded the clergyman.—'Because I got no good by
it,' replied Dalton. 'The more I strove to be respectable, the more I
was persecuted. The hound I liked, almost as if it was a human being,
and which got me into two dreadful scrapes, was obliged to be given
away; my father was killed by grief for my wrongs; and my wife's sorrow
has led to the death of my child. My character is gone; and I know that
sooner or later, I must be ruined, as I have no heart for work. Every
thing that one prays for, and that I have so often prayed for, has been
swept away: I mean an honest reputation; the bread of industry; a
cheerful disposition, and the health and long life of those who are near
and dear to us.'—'Then you refuse to go to church any more?' said the
parson-justice.—'I do,' was the answer; 'and the law can't compel
me.'—'We shall see,' observed the Rector; and away he went. A few days
afterwards the Squire issued a summons for George Dalton to attend
before him. George went, and found that the Rector had laid an
information against him, under an obsolete Act of Parliament,[31] for
having absented himself from divine service during a period of six
months. George was astounded at the charge, but could not deny its
truth. The Squire accordingly sentenced him to a month's imprisonment in
the House of Correction; and George was taken back to his old
quarters—to the farther contamination of a gaol!

"This was another dreadful blow for Marion; and it produced such an
effect upon our father, that, like old Dalton, he fell ill, and soon
died. When George was liberated once more, he was compelled to part with
his farm at a great loss; for his misfortunes and his absence on two
occasions had left it but indifferently cultivated; and, moreover, as my
father was now gone, it was thought better that we should all live
together. Dalton's farm was accordingly put up for sale; and the Squire
became the possessor of the land once more. George was now almost
constantly at the ale-house. Instead of expending the money realised by
the sale of the farm, after paying the debts due, in increasing the
stock and improving the tillage of our land, he squandered it away on
worthless companions. His wife never remonstrated when he came home
late; but would sit up for him patiently and resignedly: and if ever my
mother said any thing, she would observe, 'Poor George feels his wrongs
too acutely to be able to bear up against them: there are great
allowances to be made for him.' Thus did about two years pass away; and,
though I and the two labourers whom we kept worked hard on the farm, yet
it wanted the master-hand to superintend; and we found that its produce
now scarcely yielded a bare maintenance when every thing was paid.
Marion gradually got worse; but her endurance was inexhaustible. It
often gave me pain to look at that poor, pale, wasted young woman, and
think of her blooming charms when she first loved George Dalton. Her
heart was breaking slowly—slowly—slowly! Had she been passionate, or
liable to the influence of strong emotions, she would have gone rapidly
down to the tomb; but she was so meek—so amiable—so resigned—so
patient—so enduring, that her very weakness was her strength.

"Upwards of two years had passed since George's second liberation from
confinement, when it was found necessary to raise money to increase the
stock of the farm, and buy seed for sowing. George applied to the same
attorney who had got up his defence on the occasion of his appeal; and
this man offered to induce one of his clients to lend a certain sum on
George's and my mother's joint bill of exchange, which he said would
save all the expense of a mortgage. My mother objected strongly; but
George promised so faithfully to amend his conduct if she would consent,
that she did agree. The money was raised; but a considerable portion
found its way to the public-house before any purchases were made. Even
then, George forgot his pledges, and became, if possible, more idle and
dissipated than before. The bill became due, and there were no assets to
meet it. The lawyer, however, undertook to manage the affair; and he
induced George and my mother to sign some parchment deed, which he
previously read over in a hasty mumbling way, and in which blanks were
left for the names of another person who appeared to be interested in
it; and also blanks for certain dates, fixing the particular conditions
as to time. My mother inquired why the name of the other party was not
filled in; and the lawyer replied, with a chuckle, 'Oh! that is for the
name of my client; and as he has only lent the money to serve you, and
not as a mere lender, motives of delicacy induce this suppression for
the time being.'—My mother did not like it; but George urged her to
sign, and she did so.

"Three months after that an execution was levied upon the farm, at the
suite of Squire Bulkeley, the lawyer's accommodating client, who had
hitherto kept his name secret! George Dalton was at first a prey to the
most terrific rage; but he mastered his feelings at the intercession of
Marion and our mother. We were compelled to quit the farm, which now
became the property of the Squire, by virtue of the roguish deed which
had been drawn up by the unprincipled attorney; and we retired to a
humble lodging in the village. Need I say how we all felt this sad
reverse—this dreadful degradation? My mother and Marion strove hard to
subdue their anguish, in order not to irritate the already much excited
George; but there were moments when his outbursts of rage were furious
in the extreme. He invoked curses upon the head of the Squire, whom he
denounced as the murderer of his father and of mine, and also of his
child; and he vowed to wreak a deadly vengeance upon him. At the
ale-house, it seems, these threats were repeated, accompanied with the
bitterest imprecations. On the following day George was arrested, and
conveyed before the parson-justice, on a charge of threatening the life
of Squire Bulkeley. He was ordered to find good bail for keeping the
peace; but security was impossible in respect to one so fallen, lost,
and characterless as he. To prison, then, again he was sent; and for
three months he languished there, doubtless brooding over the awful
wrongs which the Squire had heaped upon him. And all this time the
Squire held up his head high; and no one in his own sphere of life
seemed to think that he had acted at all unjustly or tyrannically. On
the contrary, the gentry and the influential farmers in the
neighbourhood, looked on George Dalton as an irreclaimable scamp, who
had only got what he well deserved. Even those persons of the poorer
class, who were formerly our friends, looked coldly on us, and shook
their heads when the name of George Dalton was mentioned. So sure is it
that if you give a dog a bad name, you may hang him.

"We lived as sparingly as possible on the wreck of our little property,
during the three months that George's third imprisonment lasted; but I
found it very difficult to get work, as the farmers said '_that I was as
bad as my brother-in-law_.' And yet there was not a steadier lad in the
whole county than myself; and, though invited, I never set foot in the
ale-house. I was moreover regular in attendance at church, along with my
mother and sister. But I got a bad name without deserving it; and even
when I could procure a little employment, I was subjected to a thousand
annoyances. Unpleasant hints would be dropped about the burning down of
the Squire's out-houses, and the name of George Dalton was darkly
alluded to in connexion with that business; or, if I refused, on a
Saturday night, to accompany my fellow-labourers to the ale-house, I was
taunted with knowing something that I was afraid of confessing in my
cups. At that time I often thought of running away, and seeking my
fortune elsewhere; but when I looked at my poor mother, now deprived of
almost necessaries, and my sister pining away, I had not the heart to do
it. Besides, I was greatly attached to George Dalton, and was anxious to
see in what state of mind he would come out of prison. Three times
during his incarceration was Marion allowed to visit him; and on each
occasion she returned home to our humble lodging weeping bitterly.
Neither my mother nor myself ever questioned her much; for we knew her
extreme devotion to George, and that she would not only always endeavour
to conceal his failings as much as possible, but that she likewise
strove to hold out hopes of his complete reformation. But when he was
emancipated once more, he had become sullen, dogged, and
morose—_forbearing_ only in respect to Marion, to whom he could no
longer be said to be positively _kind_. He did not mention the name of
the Squire, nor in any way allude to him; neither did he visit the
ale-house—and thus my mother and I began to hope that Marion's fond
hopes were likely to be fulfilled.

"Having recruited his strength by a few days' rest, after his
half-famished sojourn in the gaol, George one morning said to me, 'Now,
Tim, you and me will go out and look for work.' We accordingly set off,
but applied fruitlessly at all the farm-houses in the neighbourhood.
Some did not want hands: others positively refused to have any thing to
do with George Dalton or any one connected with him. We were returning
homeward, mournful enough, when we passed a large lime-kiln, the owner
of which had been very intimate with George's father and mine. He
happened to be coming up from the pit at the moment when we were
passing; and stopping us, he entered into conversation. Finding that we
were in search of work, he offered to employ us in the chalk-pit; and we
readily accepted the proposal. Next day we went to work; and when the
Saturday night came round, we were paid liberally. Thus several weeks
elapsed; and we earned enough to keep the home comfortably. Our master
was good and kind to us; and the spirits of my brother-in-law appeared
to revive. But he never mentioned the Squire, nor alluded to the past
oftener than he could help.

"We had been employed in this manner for about three months, when one
evening George and I stayed later than the other labourers in the
chalk-pit, to finish a job which we knew the owner wanted to be
completed as soon as possible. It was ten o'clock before we made an end
of our toil; and we were just on the point of retiring, when we saw two
persons walking slowly along the brink of the chalk-pit. The moon was
bright—the night was beautifully clear; and we obtained a full view of
the two figures: but as we were at the bottom of the precipice, they
could not have seen us, even if they had looked attentively downward.
'Tim,' said George, in a low, hoarse whisper, 'one of those men is the
Squire. I recognised his infernal countenance just now when the
moonlight fell full upon it.'—We remained perfectly quiet at the foot of
the chalky side of the pit; although I do not believe that George had
any bad intention in view, and I only stayed because he did.

"The Squire and his companion began to talk together; and by the name in
which Mr. Bulkeley addressed the other, George and I immediately knew
that he was one of the very gamekeepers who had twice perjured
themselves in mis-stating the circumstances connected with the exploits
of Ponto.—'And so you say that the scoundrel Dalton works in this pit
now, eh?' observed the Squire.—'Yes, sir,' replied the other: 'he's come
down to that at last.'—'By God! I never shall be contented till I send
him to Botany Bay, or to the scaffold!' exclaimed the Squire. 'But
sooner or later, you see, I obtain vengeance on those who offend me. Old
Splint refused to sell me his field, and spoke insolently to me: he died
of grief through all that has happened, and the entire farm is now mine.
Old Dalton contrived to buy his land, through my cursed neglect in
forgetting to tell my agent to except his property from any part that
might be sold; but he also died of grief, and the land has come back to
me. Ah! ah! I bought that in again too, no doubt to the vexation of
young Dalton. Then, next we have the insolent jade Marion: she refused
my overtures, and persisted in marrying Dalton; and what has she gained?
Nothing but misery. As for George Dalton himself, he insulted and struck
me, besides carrying off Marion as it were before my very eyes and
making her his wife, when she was much more fitted to become my
mistress;—and what has _he_ got for his pains? I have crushed and ruined
him, and I will never stop till I have shown him what it is to dare to
offend an English landowner. But you say that this is the pit where he
works?'—'Yes, sir,' answered the gamekeeper.—'Well, I shall see his
master to-morrow,' continued the Squire; 'and I'll be bound to say
George Dalton will not do another week's work in this place. You may now
go and join your men in the preserves; and I shall return to the Hall,
by the short cut through the fields. The night is uncommonly fine,
however, and is really tempting enough to make one stay out an hour or
two.'—'It is very fine, sir,' answered the gamekeeper. 'Good night,
sir;'—and the man walked rapidly away, the Squire remaining on the edge
of the pit, about thirty feet above the spot where George and I were
crouched up.

"'Tim,' said George at last,—and his voice was deep and hollow, although
he spoke in a low whisper,—'do you remain here quite quiet: I must have
a word or two with that man.'—'For God's sake, George,' I said, 'do not
seek a quarrel.'—'No, I won't seek a quarrel exactly,' returned my
brother-in-law; 'but I cannot resist the opportunity to tell my mind to
this miscreant who is now seeking to deprive us of our bread.'—And
before I had time to utter another word, George was gliding rapidly but
almost noiselessly up the craggy side of the chalk-pit, holding by the
furze that grew in thick strong bunches. I confess that a strong
presentiment of evil struck terror to my soul; and I remained breathless
and trembling, where he had left me, but gazing upwards with intense
anxiety. 'Holloa!' suddenly exclaimed the Squire, who had remained for
nearly three minutes on the top of the precipice after his gamekeeper
had quitted him—most likely brooding over the new scheme of vengeance
which his hateful mind had planned: 'holloa!' he said; 'who is
there?'—'I, George Dalton!' cried my brother-in-law, suddenly leaping to
within a few paces of where the Squire was standing, and confronting the
bad man like a ghost rising from a grave in the presence of the
murderer.—'And what the devil do you want here, scoundrel?' exclaimed
the Squire.—'Rather what do _you_ want, plotting against me still?'
demanded George. 'I overheard every word that passed between you and
your vile agent; and if there was any doubt before as to your detestable
malignity, there is none now.'—'Listeners never hear any good of
themselves,' retorted the Squire; 'and if I called you a rascal, as
perhaps I might have done, I meant what I said, and you heard yourself
mentioned by your proper name.'—'Villain! miscreant!' cried George, now
quite furious; 'you shall no longer triumph over me!'—And in another
moment they were locked in a firm embrace, but not of love; and in the
next moment after that, they rolled over the edge of the precipice, down
to within a few paces where I was standing.

"A scream of terror escaped me; for I thought that they must be killed.
The Squire lay senseless; but George leapt upon his feet—and almost at
the same instant a low moan denoted that his enemy was not dead.—'Thank
God, murder has not been done!' I exclaimed.—'But murder _will_ be done,
Tim, this night,' said George, in a voice not loud, but so terrible in
its tone that it made my blood run cold in my veins. 'Yes,' he
continued, 'my mortal enemy is now in my power. For a long time have I
brooded over the vengeance that I had resolved to take upon him when no
one should be near to tell the tale; for _you_ will not betray me,
Tim—you will not give me up to the hangman on account of what I may
do?'—'George, I implore you not to talk thus,' I said, falling on my
knees at his feet.—'As there is a living God, Tim, above us,' said
George, solemnly, 'if you attempt to thwart me, I will make away with
you also!' And having thus spoken, he raised the Squire in his arms,
while I still remained on my knees, horrified and speechless. Never,
never shall I forget the feelings which then possessed me! The Squire
recovered his senses, and exclaimed, 'Where am I? Who are you?'—'George
Dalton, your mortal enemy,' was the terrific reply.—'Oh! I recollect
now,' cried the Squire, wildly. 'But do not murder me!'—'Your last hour
is come! and your death shall be as terrible as human revenge can render
it!' said George, in a voice which I should not have recognised without
a foreknowledge that it was actually he who was speaking.—'Mercy!' cried
the Squire, as George dragged him away towards the middle of the pit.

"Oh! then I divined the dread intent of my brother-in-law; but I could
not move a hand to help, nor raise my voice to shout for assistance in
behalf of the victim. There I remained on my knees—speechless,
stupified, deprived of motion,—able only to exercise the faculty of
sight; and that showed me a horrible spectacle! For, having half stunned
the Squire with a fearful blow, inflicted with a lump of chalk, George
dragged him towards the kiln in which the lime was still burning,
diffusing a pale red glow immediately above. 'Mercy!' once more cried
the Squire, recovering his senses a second time.—'Mercy! miscreant,'
exclaimed George; 'what mercy have you ever shown to me?' and, as he
uttered these words, he hurled his victim, or rather his oppressor, into
the burning pit! There was a shriek of agony—but it was almost
immediately stifled; and the lurid glow became brighter, and the form of
my brother-in-law seemed to expand and grow vast to my affrighted view;
so that he appeared some dreadful fiend bending over the fiery
receptacle for damned souls!

"Still was I a motionless, speechless, stupified spectator of that
horrible tragedy, at a distance of about twenty yards. But no words can
describe the dreadful feelings that seized upon me, when I suddenly
beheld an object reach the top of the burning kiln, and cling there for
an instant, until George Dalton with his foot thrust him back—for that
object was indeed the Squire—into the fiery tomb! Then a film came
rapidly over my eyes—my head seemed to swim round—and I fell back
senseless. I was aroused by a sensation of violent shaking; and, on
opening my eyes, I saw George Dalton bending over me. I shuddered
fearfully—for all the particulars of the dreadful deed so recently
performed, rushed to my mind with overwhelming force; and I remember
that I clasped my hands together in an agonising manner, exclaiming, 'My
God! George, how could you do it?'—'Tim,' he replied, 'I do not repent
what I have done. Human endurance could not stand more. If I had to live
the last hour over again, I would act in the same manner. _Your_
father—_my_ father—and my child, were all as good as murdered by that
man: and he has deserved death. Death he has met at last; and the
sweetest moments I ever tasted were when I saw him crawling painfully up
from the smouldering bottom of the pit, with his flesh all scorched, his
clothes singed to tinder, and his face awfully disfigured,—clinging,
too, with his burnt hands to the burning lime, and too wretched—yes, too
full of horror, even to utter a moan. Then I kicked him back, and I
watched his writhings till all was over. He died with difficulty, Tim;
and my only regret is that he was not ten hours in the tortures of that
death, instead of as many minutes. But, come, get off your knees, and
let us be going. I do not ask you whether you mean to tell of me,
because that would not prevent you if you have the intention.'—'George,
do you think it possible!' I exclaimed, scarcely able to recover from
the horrified sensations which were excited by the cold, implacable
manner in which he had described the dying efforts and agonies of his
enemy.—'Well, Tim,' he said, 'I don't ask you for any promises: you can
do as you like. One thing is very certain, I could never harm you; and
so, if you do take it into your head to turn round upon me, you would be
treating me as I never should treat you. Let us say no more about it;
and if you _can_ keep a composed countenance before the women, do.'

"We left the pit; and when we reached the top, George said, 'You go one
way, and I will go another. If you are met out late by any one, you
would not be suspected; but I should—and I would not involve you in any
danger by your being seen with me; for, remember Tim,' he added, as we
were about to separate, 'if I should happen to be caught out, I shall
never say that you were present. And now get home as soon as you can;
and say that you left work an hour ago, but that you took a walk, or
something of that kind, before you went home. You can also seem
surprised that I have not yet come back: that is, if I don't get home
before you.' We parted, and I took the nearest road to the village,
which I reached a little after eleven. Marion and my mother were rather
uneasy at our absence; and I was quite unable to master my feelings so
far as to appear composed and comfortable. Indeed, they were already
overwhelming me with questions, when George made his appearance. I was
astonished to see how happy he appeared: there was, positively, a glow
of animation in his countenance, as if he had done some admirable deed.
Somehow or another, his good spirits were catching; and I began to think
that an admirable deed had really been accomplished, in ridding the
earth of a monster whose delight was to crush and oppress the poor.
George said that he had been to deliver some message to the owner of the
kiln, after he had separated from me; and that made him so late. I had
already stated that I had taken a good long walk, and our tales were
believed. But, when the two women retired to rest, and George and I were
left alone for a few minutes, his manner suddenly changed, as he said in
a hoarse, low whisper, 'Tim, there is danger menacing _me_. A few
minutes after you and I parted, I met the Squire's gamekeepers near the
pit, as they were going their rounds on account of the poachers; and
they recognised me. My only chance of safety is in the probability that
the lime will consume the body entirely. At all events I shall be the
first at the pit in the morning.' I was horror-struck at what he told
me, and conjured him to seek safety by flight; but he declared his
resolution to await the issue of events, and trust to fortune. He said
that he felt perfectly happy in having wreaked his vengeance upon the
Squire, and should not experience other feelings, were he on the
scaffold. He then rose and went to join Marion, while I prepared to
spread my bed as usual on the floor of our little parlour.

"It was not yet day-light when I was awakened by hearing a noise in the
room; and on inquiry, I found that it was George, about to sally forth,
as he had intimated to me on the preceding night. I offered to get up
and accompany him; but he said, 'Not for the world, Tim. Should any
thing happen to _me_, _you_ must be at least safe, for those poor
creatures of women cannot be left without a friend and protector.' He
then left the room, and in a few moments I heard the street-door closing
gently. I lay down again and tried to sleep, but could not. An
indescribable feeling of uneasiness was upon me, and I found myself,
even against my will, balancing and calculating the chances for or
against the detection of the murder. At length my mind was worked up to
such a pitch of excitement that I could remain in bed no longer; and I
rose and dressed myself. Having opened the shutters, I found that the
day was just breaking. I cleared away the bedding, and laid the
breakfast-table, as was my custom. Presently my mother and Marion made
their appearance; and we sate down to the morning meal. But I could eat
nothing; and my uneasiness was soon perceived. 'Tim,' said Marion,
'there is something upon your mind: I know there is. You cannot conceal
it; and if you deny it, you will not be speaking the truth. In the name
of heaven, tell me what grieves you! And why has George gone out so
unusually early and without his breakfast this morning?'—I assured both
my sister and mother that there was nothing the matter with me, and that
George had merely gone out early to do a good day's work, as he hoped to
get an increase of wages. Marion was not satisfied; but she saw that it
was useless to question me, at least before our mother: accordingly,
when the latter left the room after breakfast, my sister again urged me
to make her acquainted with the cause of the secret anxiety which she
knew was preying upon me. I renewed my protestations that she was
mistaken. 'Well, Tim,' she said in her quiet, plaintive manner, while
her blue eyes filled with tears, 'if any thing should happen, the blow
will be certain to kill me, because I shall be unprepared for it.'—For a
few moments I hesitated whether I would confide to her the terrific
secret of the murder; but I had not the courage, and hurried away to
join my brother-in-law at the kiln.

"As I passed through the village, with my pickaxe on my back, I met a
person whom I knew. 'Splint,' said he, 'have you heard any thing?'—I
know that I turned deadly pale, as I stammered out, 'No, nothing
particular.'—He did not notice my change of countenance, but added, 'The
Squire is missing, and foul play is suspected. That is all I have heard.
But where is George?'—'Why should you instantly ask that question, after
mentioning the report about Squire Bulkeley?' I asked; and it was with
the utmost difficulty that I could restrain my feelings so as to speak
in a manner at all composed.—'Oh! only because if any thing should be
wrong, you know, I am afraid that George Dalton would be suspected
first; as every one is aware that he is no friend to the Squire;'—and
the man passed on his way, not having intended to say any thing cruel or
cutting, for he was a good kind of a fellow. My alarms increased; and I
felt so terribly uneasy, that I knew not whether to throw down my
pickaxe and run away altogether, or whether I should proceed to the
chalk-pit. But while I was still weighing in my mind all the chances for
and against detection, I came within sight of the fatal spot where the
dreadful murder had been perpetrated. There was the height from which my
brother-in-law and the Squire had rolled down, so firmly locked in each
other's hostile embrace: there was the chimney of the kiln, in the
burning-pit of which the wretched man had endured such fearful agonies
before death released him!

"I know not how it was—but, though I really wished to fly from the fatal
spot, some strange influence urged me on, or rather attracted me
thither. When I reached a point from which I could command a view of the
depths of the chalk-pit, an icy chill struck to my heart. George was in
the grasp of the Squire's two principal gamekeepers; and the labourers
of the pit were gathered round the mouth of the kiln, in a manner which
convinced me that they had made some discovery. At that instant the
words which George had addressed to me that morning, flashed back to
mind:—'_Should any thing happen to me, you must be at least safe; for
these poor creatures of women cannot be left without a friend and
protector._'—My soul recovered all its power, and I felt that the truth
of those words was strong indeed. Yes—what would become of my poor
mother and the unhappy Marion, if both of their protectors were snatched
away from them? Never was presence of mind more necessary. With a firm
step I descended the sloping path leading into the pit, and affected
extreme surprise when I beheld George in the custody of the gamekeepers.
A rapid but significant glance on his part encouraged me to maintain the
part I was playing; and fortunately no one suspected that a mere lad of
fifteen or sixteen like me had any hand in the dreadful deed of which
there was now evidence to prove the perpetration. It was however with no
affected horror that I gathered from the hurried words of the labourers
the particulars of the discovery. It appeared that the absence of the
Squire from home all night had created an alarm; and this was augmented
when it was ascertained that the Squire had been with one of his
gamekeepers at the chalk-pit, and that half an hour afterwards this same
keeper and another had encountered George Dalton in the same vicinity.
The gamekeepers, finding that the Squire had not returned home all
night, repaired direct to the chalk-works, where they found George
Dalton had just arrived; and the dawn of day showed them enough at the
bottom of the lime-pit to convince them that murder had been
perpetrated. To the questions put to him by those who arrested him,
George replied that he had parted from me at about a quarter to ten
o'clock on the previous evening—that I had returned home—and that he had
remained behind to finish his work;—but he denied having seen the Squire
at all.

"I may as well state now, although I was not aware of the fact till some
hours later on that terrible day, that the Squire's bailiff had been
sent for the moment George was arrested and the murder was discovered;
and that, having heard George's answers to the questions put to him, he
set off for the village by a short cut over the Bulkeley estate; whereas
I took the main road to the pit, and therefore had not met him. It
appears that on his arrival at the village, the bailiff went straight to
our lodgings, and began to question Marion and her mother as to whether
George had been home at all during the night; and if so, at what hour he
had returned. Marion named the hour at which he had returned; adding,
that he was so late because he had been, on leaving off work, to deliver
a message to the owner of the chalk-pit. The bailiff then brutally
revealed the whole terrible truth to the two females; and though I was
not there to witness the same, yet it is easy to believe that it was
terrible and heart-rending indeed. But, heedless of the misery which his
abrupt discourse had produced, the bailiff hastened off to the owner of
the chalk-pit, and learnt from him that George had _not_ been near him
on the preceding evening. Back to the pit went the bailiff, now
accompanied by its owner; and the next step was to convey the prisoner
before the nearest magistrate, who happened to be the rector of the
parish. I was desired to go with the party; but no suspicion was
attached to me. It was proved that the calcined remains of a human body
were found in the hole where the lime was burnt; and that the metal
buttons picked up were those which belonged to the coat the Squire had
on the previous evening. I need not detail the nature of the evidence
which appeared to tell against George Dalton; because you can well
understand it from all the circumstances I have already related. He
conducted himself with wonderful calmness and presence of mind
throughout the long examination, which lasted for several hours; and
when the magistrate asked him if he had any thing to say in his defence,
or to show why he should not be committed for trial, he answered in a
firm tone, 'I am innocent, and have nothing more to say.' He was
accordingly committed for trial—handcuffs were put upon him; and he was
removed to an out-house, guarded by constables, until a cart could be
got in readiness to convey him to the County Gaol.

"But in the yard of the rector's abode a heart-rending scene took place.
Marion was there, waiting to see her husband, of whose guilt _she_, poor
thing! could entertain no doubt. She had left our mother, who had fallen
down in a fit when the disclosure was so rudely made by the bailiff, to
the care of the landlady of the house in which we lived; and, crushed
with deep affliction—weak—sickly—almost heart-broken as she was, she had
dragged herself to the place where she heard the examination was going
on. 'Oh! George, George!' she exclaimed, as she rushed forward to
embrace her husband, whose manacles rattled, as, forgetting that he wore
them, he endeavoured to extend his arms to receive her. How poor Marion
wept!—what convulsive sobs escaped her bosom! George wept also; but he
said every thing fond and endearing to console her. The parson-justice
appeared at the door of his house; and, perceiving the sad spectacle,
said, 'Take that woman away: I will not have such scenes under my
windows. She is no doubt as bad as he.'—Never shall I forget the look of
imploring anguish which Marion turned towards that _minister of the
Gospel_, who spoke so sternly and so unjustly; then, in the next moment,
she fell senseless upon the ground. The constables rushed upon George to
drag him off to the out-house: but he hurled them away, manacled as he
was, crying in a voice that struck terror to my soul, 'I will not move
an inch till I see this poor innocent creature properly cared for. Keep
off—or I shall do _another murder_!'—'Another murder!' exclaimed the
rector: 'then he confesses that of the Squire!'—But George heard not the
observation; nor did he seem to notice the tremendous oversight which he
had committed in the bewildering anguish of the moment. Bending over
Marion, he raised her with his chained hands, while one of the rector's
servants, more humane than his master, brought out water to sprinkle
upon her countenance. At length she slowly opened her eyes; and George,
beckoning to me, said, 'Now, Tim, take her away: I cannot bear this
scene any more!'—I approached, and lent my support to poor Marion, while
George, of his own accord, hurried to the out-house, not once casting a
look behind him.

"I know not how I got my wretched sister home;—and I was nearly as
wretched as herself. But at length we reached our humble lodging, where
the landlady, who appeared to be the only friend left to us in the
world, did all she could to console the miserable young wife. Had it not
been for that kind-hearted woman, we must all have perished through
sheer want; for I received notice from the owner of the chalk-pit that
my services would be dispensed with in future, and no one else would
give me work. A week after George's committal, my mother died; and she,
who was once the wife of a farmer well-to-do in the world, was now
buried at the expense of the parish! When the funeral was over, and
Marion grew somewhat more composed, she insisted upon removing to
Winchester, so as to be near the gaol wherein her husband lay. 'If we
go,' said I, 'we must beg our way.'—'Then we will beg our way, Tim,'
answered Marion; 'for, whether innocent or guilty, George is my husband,
and I can never cease to love him.'—I offered no farther remonstrance;
so, bidding our kind landlady farewell, we set out, with only
half-a-crown in our pockets; and for that sum we were indebted to that
same good landlady.

"On our arrival at Winchester, we took a small lodging near the goal;
and Marion went to see her husband. She insisted upon going alone; and I
did not thwart her in any of her wishes. When she returned to me, she
seemed a little more tranquil than she had yet been since the dreadful
disclosure of George's arrest on an accusation of murder. She was
consoled by having seen her husband, although she could not do otherwise
than believe him guilty. But of that she never spoke to me; and I was
very careful not to touch upon the point. I now tried to obtain work;
but, at some places where I applied, _character_ was inquired about, and
at others no assistance was wanted. At last I was actually compelled to
go into the streets and beg, for Marion was attacked with severe
indisposition. One evening, as I was returning home without having
succeeded in obtaining a single halfpenny all day long, and in a state
bordering on despair, I was warned by a beadle that if I was seen
begging in the streets again, I should be taken up as a rogue and
vagabond. Frightened by his threats, I hurried away, and was already in
sight of the house in which we lived, and where I had left my poor
sister in the morning, when, by the light streaming from a shop-window,
I saw an old gentleman drop something on the ground as he drew out his
pocket-handkerchief. He went on without noticing the occurrence; and I
picked up the object, which proved to be his purse. Gold glittered
through the net-work at one end—silver was in the other. I ran after the
gentleman as hard as I could, hoping to receive a reward for my trouble;
but I could not find him. Thinking he had entered some house in the
street, I waited for nearly an hour—but still he appeared not. It came
on to rain hard: I was soon wet through to the skin, for my clothes were
old and tattered; and the pangs of hunger were now dreadful. The idea of
using a small portion of the money in the purse, by degrees grew
stronger and stronger in my mind. I thought of poor Marion, who was
famished as well as myself;—the temptation was too strong—and I yielded.
Rushing to a baker's shop, I procured bread: thence I proceeded to a
general-dealer's, and purchased a little tea, sugar, butter, and other
necessaries. I then returned home, and told Marion that a charitable
gentleman had given me half-a-crown, and that I was also promised work.
'Alas! my poor brother,' she said, 'you are compelled to think of
supporting me as well as yourself: but it will not be for long, Tim,'
she added: 'I feel it _there_ now,'—and she touched her forehead,—'as
well as _here_,'—and she placed her hand on her heart.—I burst into
tears, and implored her not to talk in that mournful way. She shook her
head, sighing piteously—but said nothing.

"Next day I went out and remained absent until night. When I came home
again I said that I had obtained work, at the rate of two shillings a
day and was to be paid every evening. So I laid two shillings on the
table. I forgot to observe that the purse contained about eleven pounds
in gold and silver; and I was determined to dole it out in such a way
that Marion should not suspect me of deceiving her. As often as the gaol
regulations would permit, she visited her husband; for the little
comforts which I was now able to provide for her, restored her strength
in a trifling degree—at all events, sufficiently so to enable her to
drag her drooping form along to the dungeon which held all she deemed
most dear. Once only did I see George before the day of his trial; for
Marion preferred to visit him alone. He was greatly affected at
beholding us together, and thanked me for my kindness towards my sister.

"At last, after the lapse of about three months, the Assizes commenced;
and on the second day the trial came on. George had counsel to defend
him: for I supplied the means from the purse, having invented some tale
to account for the possession of the requisite sum to fee the barrister,
so that Marion was satisfied. It was with the greatest difficulty that I
could persuade her to remain at home during the proceedings, at which I
was compelled to be present as a witness. I need not detail all the
particulars of the evidence given against my unhappy brother-in-law:
circumstances all told in his disfavour, and the observation which he
had let slip, '_I shall do another murder_,' was made the most of by the
counsel for the prosecution. I was examined, and I swore that I had
quitted the prisoner at the lime-kiln at a quarter to ten on the night
in question. It was proved that it was not until _past_ ten that the
gamekeeper accompanied the Squire to the neighbourhood of the fatal
place; and therefore no questions were put likely to embarrass me. The
counsel for the defence argued most ingeniously in George's favour; but
the Judge summed up against him.[32] The Jury did not deliberate ten
minutes; and the verdict was _Guilty_! George was standing in the dock
all the time that the Jury were whispering together and when the foreman
pronounced his doom; and a slight muscular twitching of the lips was the
only sign of emotion. The Judge put on the black cap,[33] and sentenced
him to death in the usual horrible terms. I must confess that, though I
had but little room in my soul for reflection of any kind—so much was it
occupied with the _one_ dreadful fact of the day—I shuddered and looked
with loathing upon the Judge,—to hear that old man, himself having one
foot in the grave, uttering such a disgusting, cruel, and inhuman
sentence as this:—'_You shall be taken back to the place whence you
came, and thence to a place of execution, where you shall be hanged by
the neck until you are dead!_' Then, when man has done his worst, and
will not forgive nor attempt to reform the criminal, the awful atrocity
concludes with the damnable mockery—'_And may the Lord have mercy upon
your soul!_' I call it a mockery, because it is insulting to heaven to
invoke that pity and compassion which human beings so positively refuse.
But then the old Judge was a mere mouthpiece through which the
blood-thirsty law spoke; and he was compelled to do a duty for which he
was so well paid. Still I loathed that old man who could _sell_ his
feelings for money, and who could be allured by the temptation of a
large income to undertake an office which constrained him to doom his
fellow-creatures to die the deaths of mere dogs. I wondered whether he
could sleep comfortably in his bed afterwards; and I thought at the time
that I would sooner be the veriest beggar crawling on the face of the
earth, than a Judge with all his money—all the respect shown to him—and
all his titles of Lordship!

[Illustration]

"But I have wandered away from my subject. Poor George was removed from
the dock:—I mean, he accompanied the turnkeys back to the gaol; for he
walked as firmly as I could do at this moment. I now had a most dreadful
duty to perform—to convey the result to Marion. But I hastened back to
her, fearful lest she should learn that result from lips which might not
break the horrible tidings slowly to her. When I entered the garret
where I had left her, I found her on her knees praying aloud and
fervently. The sight was too much for me; and I burst into tears. She
rose slowly, took me by the hand, and said, 'Tim—dear Tim, you need not
attempt _to break it gently to me_, as I know you have come to do. I
feel—something tells me, indeed—that it is all over: and I have been
long prepared for this awful moment! I have never allowed myself to
indulge in vain hopes. The world, I was convinced, would persecute my
poor husband until it drove him to——but I cannot, cannot say where! That
he was guilty of the deed, Tim, I have known all along; and, dreadful as
that deed was, I could not reproach him for it. He was goaded to
desperation by wrong heaped upon wrong; and, instead of being treated as
a criminal, he should be looked upon as a victim himself.'—Marion had
spoken with an unnatural calmness, which made me tremble lest her reason
was deserting her; but when she had concluded her address to me, she
threw herself into my arms, and burst into a violent flood of weeping. I
endeavoured to console her: she grew frantic. The command which she had
maintained over herself throughout that dreadful day, and in the
solitude of that garret, had tried her powers of endurance too severely;
and now that her long pent-up anguish burst forth, it was awful in the
extreme. 'Oh! my God!' I exclaimed; 'what have we done that we should be
thus tortured on earth, as if we were in hell?'—and then I thought of
the crime I had committed in appropriating the contents of the purse to
my own use—and I felt ashamed. But in a few moments other feelings came
over me: it struck me that there was no use in being good. Old Dalton—my
father—my mother—poor Marion—and, until the date of that one deed,
myself,—none of us had ever been wicked—and yet, how awfully had we
suffered. The three first had positively been _killed_ by misfortune.
And George too,—there was not a more upright, honourable,
generous-hearted man in existence than he, until oppression and cruel
wrong wrought a change in his nature. Such were my thoughts; and again I
asked myself, what was the use of being good? From that moment I
determined to do as I saw the world doing around me.

"The execution was fixed for the second Thursday after the trial, which
took place on a Tuesday; and during the interval Marion saw her husband
three times. I accompanied her on each occasion; for I was afraid to
allow her to venture out alone. George maintained his courage in an
astonishing manner; but never alluded to the crime in our presence. He
showed the greatest affection towards his wife, and the warmest
attachment for me; and implored her not to give way more than she could
help to grief on his account. The third interview was on the evening
previous to the fatal day; and that was heart-rending indeed. Marion, no
longer resigned and enduring, was absolutely frantic; and she was borne
away, raving wildly, from the condemned cell. I managed to get her home;
and some female lodgers in the same house put her to bed. A surgeon was
sent for, and he pronounced her to be in the greatest danger. I sate up
with her all that night, throughout which she slept at intervals,
awaking to rave after her '_dear murdered husband_!' Had she not been my
sister, I never could have supported the horrors of that awful night.
Towards morning she seemed quite exhausted, and fell into a deep
slumber. The execution was to take place at twelve precisely; and I
hoped, sincerely hoped, that she might sleep until all should be over.
Hour after hour passed—eleven o'clock struck, and still she slept. Every
now and then she started convulsively, and murmured the name of her
husband. Oh! how anxiously did I then wait for the chimes that
proclaimed the quarters! and how slowly went the time! 'Poor George!
what are your feelings now?' I kept repeating to myself. A quarter
past—half-past eleven,—a quarter to twelve,—these had all struck, and
still she slept. As I sate by her bed-side, I could hear the rushing
crowds in the street below; and I also heard all the lodgers hastening
down the stairs to witness the execution! But still Marion slept; and,
in the bitterness of my own grief, this circumstance was a slight
consolation.

"At length the chimes announced the hour—the fatal hour! Scarcely had
they done playing, when Marion awoke with a sudden start, and raised
herself to a sitting posture in the bed. Wildly she glanced around—and
again she started fearfully as, the chimes being over, the clock began
to strike the hour. '_One—two—three_,' she began in a tone of piercing
anguish; and on she went counting the strokes till her tongue had
numbered _twelve_! 'My God! 'tis the hour!' she exclaimed, with a
dreadful shriek; then extending her arms wildly, she cried, 'I come,
George—I come!' and fell back heavily in the bed, as if shot through the
heart. She was no more!

"It appeared that the drop fell about half a minute after the last
stroke of twelve; and, therefore, by a strange chance, poor George
must have breathed his last almost at the very instant when Marion
uttered those words so wildly—'_I come! I come!_'—Thus died my
persecuted brother-in-law and my poor sister; and I was now left
alone—friendless—unprotected in the wide world.

"A strange whim now suddenly entered my head: I would bury the remains
of the ill-fated couple in the same grave! Such was my idea; and so
determined was I to carry it into execution that I set out deliberately
and calmly for the purpose of robbing some one to obtain the means for
the purpose. When I got into the street I found the crowds dispersing
after having witnessed the execution of my brother-in-law. How I loathed
the inhuman creatures, who had shown such eager curiosity to view the
last struggles of a man hung up like a dog by the blood-thirsty mandates
of the law! Some were laughing and joking together as they walked along;
and such observations as these caught my ears:—'How game he died, didn't
he?'—'That Jack Ketch is a devilish clever fellow at his business!'—'It
was the best turnoff I have seen for a long time.'—'I propose that we
don't go to work to-day. Let's make a holiday of it? For my part, I
never fail to attend all executions that take place in the county, and I
always look upon it as a holiday; just like Easter Monday or Whit Monday
for instance.'—'What fun it was to see that old chap whom I bonneted in
the crowd! How he did curse and swear just as the parson was reading the
last prayer on the scaffold!'—'I never had such a jolly good lark in my
life. I had my arm round Tom Tiffin's wife's waist all the time.'—'What
a precious sight of pickpockets there was in the crowd!'—These, and a
hundred other observations of the same kind, met my ears as I walked
along the streets through which the people were returning from the
execution. At length I passed the door of a public news-room; and there
several gentlemen were standing, in conversation about the hideous
spectacle, which one of them had witnessed, and which this individual
was describing with wonderful minuteness to his companions. I pretended
to be looking at some pictures in the shop-window, but was in reality
surveying the group, thinking that one of them might become paymaster
(though against his will) for the funeral of my sister and
brother-in-law.—'You don't mean to say that the woman really did it?'
cried one of the gentlemen.—'I mean to say,' answered the person who had
witnessed the execution, 'that immediately after the criminal was dead,
or rather as soon as he had ceased to struggle, the woman went up on the
scaffold and the executioner put the murderer's hand upon her face to
cure the King's evil; and when she had gone down again, a countryman
ascended to the platform, and was touched in the same way for a wen
which he had got upon his head. I saw it all myself.'—'Well, I could
scarcely believe it,' said the other gentleman who had spoken.—'I will
lay you ten guineas,' exclaimed the one who had witnessed the execution,
'that if you ask any other person who was present, he will tell you the
same thing: and, thus speaking, the gentleman drew out his purse. His
friend, however, declined the wager; and the purse was re-consigned to
the pocket, but not before I had seen enough of it to convince me that
its contents were worth having. I felt the less remorse in robbing that
man, because he had described, with such methodical cold-bloodedness,
all the minute details of the execution; and, availing myself of on
opportunity when the group had got deep into a loud and excited
discourse on the incidents of touching for the King's evil and the wen,
I managed to extract the purse in even a far more skilful manner than I
had expected. The robbery was not immediately perceived; and I got clear
away.

"On returning to my miserable garret, and by the side of the bed whereon
lay the remains of my once beautiful and amiable sister, I counted the
contents of the purse. 'Eleven guineas!' I murmured to myself; and, as I
glanced tremblingly at the corpse, it actually seemed to me at the
moment as if an expression of deep gloom and sorrow suddenly passed over
its countenance. 'Oh! my sister—my dear sister!' I cried; 'I have done
it for your sake:'—and then, unable to remain any longer near one who
seemed to reproach me even in death, I hurried away to the prison to
claim the body of my brother-in-law. This request was granted without
difficulty; and in the course of the day the husband and wife lay
together upon the same bed—side by side—motionless, white, and cold,—the
former murdered by the law, the latter by cruel wrong and diabolical
oppression. The undertaker had received my instructions, and the
preparations for the funeral were in progress. But two nights did I pass
in the same room with those dead bodies; for, although I was afraid, yet
something seemed to whisper to me within, that it would be heartless and
cruel to abandon even those inanimate remains until the grave should
close over them! And as I sate by their side, while a candle burnt dimly
on the table, I thought to myself, 'All this tremendous amount of
sorrow, calamity, and woe has been caused by a wealthy and unprincipled
landlord! Had it not been for Squire Bulkeley, those two would still
have been alive, and would have been happy, prosperous, and useful to
society. But the tenant or the small landowner has no chance against the
proprietor of great estates, if the latter chooses to be a tyrant. The
herring has as much right as the whale to swim in the waters which God
has made; and yet the whale swallows up the herring! So is it with the
great and the small landholder!'

"Well, the funeral took place—and there were four mourners, one real and
three sham. The real one was myself—the three sham were the undertaker
and two of his dependants. Nevertheless, my aim was accomplished: George
and his wife slept in the same grave; and the money of a man who had
greedily devoured the hideous spectacle of public strangulation had
served to bury them! In spite of my grief I chuckled at this idea; it
seemed something like retributive justice. I had now no object in
staying at Winchester; and, with eleven shillings in my pocket, I set
out to walk to London. During my journey I passed the chalk-pit where
the dreadful deed had taken place—I passed it purposely, because I now
wanted to harden my mind as much as possible, for I saw it was no use
for a poor friendless orphan like me to think of being honest. In the
most civilised country (as it is called) in the world, I had seen such
abominable acts of oppression perpetrated, under colour of law, that I
envied those naked savages in islands a great way off of whom I had read
in books; _for I thought that it was better to be barbarians without the
pretence of civilisation, than to be barbarians with that pretence_. I
had heard a great deal said by my father, by old Mr. Dalton, and also by
the clergyman from the pulpit, about the paternal nature of the English
Government; but I now began to perceive that it had been mere delusion
on the part of my well-meaning parent and Mr. Dalton, and rank hypocrisy
and wanton deception on the part of the parson. All I could now think of
the paternal Government was, that it favoured institutions by means of
which poor men might be driven to desperation, and then they were coolly
and quietly hanged for the deeds to the perpetration of which they had
been so goaded. I began to look upon the English people as the most
chicken-hearted and contemptible nation in the world for allowing the
aristocracy to ride rough-shod over them; whereas the great and
high-minded French people, as I had read in books, had risen up like one
man and overthrown _their_ aristocracy altogether.[34] But let me
continue my history. Having passed by the chalk-pit—the fatal
chalk-pit—I visited the immediate neighbourhood of the farm-house where
a happy family had once dwelt—my own! Now it was tenanted by strangers.
I went on, and came to the house to which George Dalton had borne my
sister Marion a blooming bride: that tenement was now deserted—and it
struck horror to my heart to observe—or rather to _feel_—that death-like
silence which pervaded a place where the joyous laugh of George Dalton
and the musical voice of my dear sister had once been heard. O God! that
so much misery should have fallen upon _two_ families who strove so hard
to live honestly and in peace with all mankind!

"The tears streamed down my face as I turned back into the high road and
pursued my way towards London. I now thought, as I went along, that if I
could, _possibly_ obtain honest employment in the great city, honest I
would endeavour to remain,—I say _remain_, because although I had
committed two thefts, yet I was far from being utterly depraved. The
tears which painful remembrances had called forth, had softened my
heart; and the image of my lamented sister appeared to urge me to
virtue. Armed with this resolution, I proceeded towards the metropolis.
It was evening when, after two days' fatiguing journey, I entered
London, and put up at a miserable lodging-house in the window of which I
saw a bill stating that single men might have a bed for fourpence a
night. Eight hours' good rest gave me strength and spirits to begin my
search after employment. I went into the City and inquired at several
warehouses if a light porter was wanted. Having met with many refusals,
and being wearied with walking about, I went into a public-house to get
some refreshment; and happening to mention my situation to the landlord,
he very kindly recommended me to apply at a certain warehouse which he
named and where he knew that a porter was wanted. I did so, and was
fortunate enough to succeed in obtaining the place, with a salary of
twelve shillings a week.

"I commenced my new avocation on the following morning, and exerted
myself to the utmost to obtain the good opinion of my master. I was
regular in the hours of attendance, and frequently remained behind at
the office, when the clerks had departed, to finish the labours which
had been assigned to me in the morning. I was economical and prudent in
my expenditure; and the pittance which I received was ample to keep
myself. At the expiration of four months from the time when I first
entered this establishment, I had entirely gained the confidence of my
employer. My salary was increased; and I began to think that fortune was
once more inclined to smile upon me; when a circumstance occurred which
convinced me that the long lane of life had not yet taken a turn. My
employer one morning desired me to proceed to a particular address, at
the West End of the Town, and insist upon the payment of a bill, which,
in the course of business, had fallen into his hands, and which had been
protested. I instantly set out for the place intimated; and, having
inquired for the gentleman, whose name was familiar enough to me, though
I could not suspect the identity which proved to be the case. I was
shown into an elegant apartment, where a gentleman was sitting with his
face to the fire and his back to the door, smoking a cigar. 'Who the
devil's that?' demanded the occupant of the room, without turning his
head, but in a voice which was not unknown to me. 'If you're a dun, I
ain't at home.'——'I have called for payment——,' I began.—'Holloa! who
have we here?' ejaculated the gentleman; and, rising from his chair, he
disclosed the features of the magistrate who had first committed George
Dalton for poaching. 'What! Tim Splint!' he cried: 'is this you?'—'It is
I, the brother-in-law of the man whom you helped to persecute,' I
returned, equally surprised at this unexpected encounter.—'No impudence,
my good fellow,' said the magistrate, very coolly; 'or else I shall be
compelled to kick you out of the room. But what vulgar thing have you
got in your hand there?'—'A bill, with your name to it, and the payment
of which I am come to require,' was my immediate answer.—'Oh! that's
it—is it?' ejaculated the magistrate, casting his eyes over the document
which I displayed to his view. 'Well, let me see, how shall I pay this?
In Bank notes, or by kicking you out of the house, or by recommending
the holder to read his bill again this day six months? Oh, I have
it;'—and, sitting down to an elegant writing-table, he penned a hasty
note, sealed it, and desired me to give it to the person who had sent
me. I then withdrew, anxious to avoid a dispute which would be perfectly
useless, and which would probably prejudice the interests of my
employer. I returned to the office in the City, and delivered the note.
The merchant opened it, and his countenance changed as he perused its
contents. For some moments he remained absorbed in thought; and then,
apparently acting in obedience to a sudden impulse, passed the note to
me, who had been anxiously watching the strange demeanour of my master.
The letter contained the following words:—'_Mr.——would be much obliged
to the holder of his acceptance, for a hundred and sixty-eight pounds,
if he would forbear from sending the brother of a man who has been
hanged, to demand the amount, as such persons are by no means welcome at
the abode of Mr.——, however well they may suit the holder of his bill.
The meaning of this request would be ascertained, were the porter
Timothy Splint, questioned as to his connexion with the murderer George
Dalton._'—I folded up the letter, returned it to my employer, and said,
'I cannot deny the truth of its contents; but I am innocent, although my
poor brother-in law died on the scaffold.'—'You should have been candid
at the commencement,' interrupted my employer, firmly but mildly.
'Whether you are innocent or not, matters not now. Had you told me your
real position when you first came to me, I should have admired your
frankness, and given you a fair trial. As it is, we must part at
once.'—I attempted to justify my silence respecting the ignominious end
of my relative; but the merchant was inexorable in his determination not
to hear any thing in the shape of an explanation. He paid me the wages
due to me, with a sovereign over, and dismissed me.

"I forthwith began to look after a new situation; and I remembered the
parting words of the merchant whom I had left, resolving to be candid in
the first instance, when soliciting a new place. My duties at my recent
situation had compelled me to visit other mercantile firms on many
occasions; and I had formed the acquaintance of several of the persons
employed in those establishments. To some of them I repaired to
ascertain where vacancies were to be filled up; and, having obtained a
considerable list, I set out upon a round of applications. The first
house I inquired at was that of a general merchant and warehouseman, who
required a porter and collector of monies.—'Have you ever served in that
capacity before?' was the first demand.—'I was in the employ of a highly
respectable merchant,' I returned, mentioning his name, 'whose service I
only left a few days ago.'—'I remember that you were engaged there; I
thought your face was familiar to me,' said the merchant. 'And I also
recollect that I heard you spoken of in the highest possible terms,' he
continued; 'indeed, you were represented to me as being invaluable in
your particular department. But, of course, you did not leave your late
employer for any misconduct on your part?'—'Not at all, sir,' was my
answer. 'I must, however, explain a certain circumstance——.'—'Well, I
will just send round, merely for the form's sake, you know, and
ascertain that it is all right; and if you will call to-morrow morning,
I have no doubt I shall be enabled to give you a favourable answer.'—'I
must really, sir,' said I, 'speak to you very seriously for a moment
before you take any trouble on my behalf. If you will have the kindness
to listen to me, I shall explain my real position. The truth is, though
perfectly innocent of any crime myself, I have the misfortune to be
related to a persecuted man, who was driven by despair to commit a deed
for which he suffered on the scaffold.'—'The scaffold!' ejaculated the
merchant in dismay.—'Yes, sir,' I continued, hastily endeavouring to
give a full explanation; 'and if you will but permit me to tell you in a
few words the melancholy history, you will see no reason to be
displeased with my candour. On the contrary, you will, I am sure, pity
me, sir.'—'I thank you for such candour,' interrupted the merchant,
buttoning up his breeches-pockets, and locking his desk; 'but I regret
that, under circumstances, I cannot think of taking you into my
service.'—'But do pray listen to me, sir,' I exclaimed: 'you are
doubtless a man of sense, of justice, and of impartiality; and I appeal
to you——.'—'My good young man, it is no use to take up my time,'
interrupted the merchant impatiently; 'I am certainly not going to
receive you into my service, under existing circumstances.'

"I was compelled to take my departure. I left the house, ashamed and
abashed—fearful that my evil doom was sealed—afraid to look those whom I
met in the face—and fancying that every one seemed to know who and what
I was. But a few moments' reflection taught me to believe that I had no
reason to anticipate failure every where, because I had met with a
repulse in one place. I accordingly proceeded to another establishment
where a light porter was also required. The head of this firm was a
venerable old man, with long grey hair falling over his coat-collar, a
bald head, and a huge pair of silver spectacles on his nose. There was
altogether something so kind, so unassuming, and so philanthropic in the
appearance of this individual, that I was immediately inspired with
confidence. I began my narrative, and related the main incidents,
without interruption from my hearer, who listened to me with the
greatest attention and apparent interest.—'My good young man,' said the
merchant, taking off his spectacles, and wiping them, 'I feel deeply for
you. Every word which you have told me, I firmly believe; your manner
and your language inspire me with confidence. Merciful God! into what a
state would society be plunged if innocence that had been wronged, could
not obtain the credence of those to whom it offered its justification! I
repeat, I am interested in you; I feel deeply for you. You have had your
share of misfortune, poor young man! Most sincerely do I hope that your
future prospects will not be equally embittered. I have a son of just
your age;—he has gone to the East Indies in a free-trader in which I
have a share; and, if it were only for his sake, I should feel
interested in you, for you resemble him in person. Heaven! what a world
this is! Why, man is a cannibal in a moral sense, for he is constantly
devouring his fellow-man! Upon my word, I could weep, I could shed
tears, when I think of the misfortunes which you have endured.'—'I am
overcome by your kind sympathy,' said I, now certain that this time I
had encountered the man who would not allow my misfortunes to stand in
the way of my appointment to the vacant situation. 'How much did you
receive per week at your last place?' asked the old gentleman.—I named
the sum.—'And what hours did you keep?'—This question I also
answered.—'Was your master kind and considerate?' proceeded the
venerable merchant, in a compassionate tone of voice.—'He was very kind
in his manners; but at parting he behaved harshly and ungenerously, when
he discovered all I have just told you; and I think I had reason to
complain.'—'Ah! it was cruel, it was ungenerous,' said the venerable old
gentleman, musing. 'But don't you see,' he added, 'that as society is at
present constituted, and I admit that its constitution is vitiated in
the extreme, it is impossible for a man who depends upon the world for
his subsistence, to act contrary to the received notions and usual
habits of that world. Now, for my part, I should be glad, I should be
delighted to take you in a moment; but I dare not. I am very sorry, but
I really _would_ strain a point to serve you, if I possibly could.'—You
may suppose that I was astonished at this announcement. I had made sure
of the situation from the first moment that the old merchant had
addressed me; and I now saw my hopes cruelly and fatally defeated. With
a heavy heart I went away; and the tears ran down my cheeks, as I
reflected upon all I had just heard. Never did my situation in the world
appear more lonely—never more truly desperate!

"My position was too hopeless to allow me to apply at another mercantile
establishment for upwards of an hour. It required that interval to
soothe and soften down my feelings; and I then ventured into the
warehouse of an export merchant upon a very extensive scale, whose name
was down upon my list. I was introduced into the presence of a young
man, who wore a large blue figured satin stock with an enormous gold
pin, and a chain hanging over an elegant silk waistcoat. This gentleman
sate on one side of a desk; and his partner, who was dressed as well as
he was, occupied the other. I immediately attracted their attention; and
the elder partner, laying down his pen, exclaimed, 'Why, you're a
devilish smart looking fellow. Here, sit down and take a glass of
porter; you seem tired. By the bye, we haven't had our cigars yet,
Dick,' he added, addressing his partner; 'let's smoke and talk over this
business at the same time. Sit down, my man: we have no humbug about us,
I can tell you.'—And so indeed it appeared; for the two gentlemen
produced cigars and bottled porter, and I was very soon engaged in a
most comfortable chat with them. At length they began to speak about the
business which had taken me there, and when I told them my story in a
straight-forward manner, they declared, with an oath, that 'they would
take me on my word, and that they didn't want any damned reference, or
any thing of that kind.' The terms were agreed upon, and I was to
commence my duties on the following morning. When I took my leave the
two partners shook hands with me, expressing their conviction that 'I
was a damned good fellow and understood what was what,' and also that 'I
was just the kind of bird they had some time been looking for.' I
accordingly entered on this new place; but I had not been there long,
before I began to notice, though I was regularly paid, that a great many
persons called for money, and never could obtain a settlement of their
accounts. On some occasions the partners were denied, although they were
in the counting-house, drinking and smoking; and then the applicants
were very much disposed to be insolent, making use of such terms as
'swindlers,' 'rogues,' &c. Some would express their conviction 'that it
was all a regular _do_,' while others felt equally certain 'that it was
nothing but a _plant_.' There was also another circumstance which
astonished me; and that was the singular mode in which the business of
the firm was conducted. No sooner did the bales of goods arrive by the
front door, than they were carried out at the back, and sent away in
vans. Altogether it was a most extraordinary firm; and one morning I
discovered that the doors were closed, the partners had bolted, and the
City-officer was inquiring after them, in consequence of a warrant which
he had with him for their apprehension. Thus I lost a place where the
duties were easy, but where the respectability attached to it was not
very likely to increase my own.

"I was thus thrown once more upon the world; and again was I compelled
to look out for a situation. I applied at numerous warehouses and
offices; but when I stated my real condition,—when I revealed the secret
that I was related to a man who had been hanged,—I was thrust from the
doors of some, reproached for my impertinence in calling by others, and
treated with coolness or contempt by a third set of men. No one seemed
to believe that I could possibly be honest. Day after day saw the
renewal of disappointment, and that sickening at the heart which leads
to despair;—night after night did I return to my lodging, to meet a
landlady who wanted the money I owed her. At last she would have no
further patience; and one night when I went back late, she poked her
head out of a window, desiring me to begone and loading me with abuse. I
slunk away, almost-heartbroken at the treatment I had just received, and
at the deplorable situation to which I was reduced. Accident, or rather
necessity, conducted me back to the low lodging-house at which I had put
up on my first arrival in London; and there I fell in with some persons
who were very willing to assist me in a certain way. In fact they
proposed that I should join them in a robbery which they were arranging;
and after vainly struggling with my better feelings, I consented. It is
no use to tell you how I got on from bad to worse:—you can both very
well guess how it is that when once a man gets regularly into this line,
he seldom or ever gets out of it again till his career is cut short by
transportation or the scaffold."

Thus terminated Tim the Snammer's History, which, as we stated at the
conclusion of the preceding chapter, we have greatly modified in style
and changed in language, without however omitting, altering, or
exaggerating any one incident, nor any one sentiment.

It was now late; and the Snammer took his leave of Josh Pedler and
Matilda Briggs, having promised to call again next day, and arrange with
the former the contemplated robbery of Old Death.

-----

Footnote 30:

  Taken as a body, there is not a more infamous and tyrannical set of
  authorities on the face of the earth than the unpaid magistracy of
  England. How the high spirited people of this country can endure such
  an atrocious system, is to us surprising. Almost entirely
  irresponsible—chosen on account of their wealth and influence in their
  respective counties, but without the least reference to their
  abilities—and, by the very circumstances of their position, opposed to
  the interests of the masses, the justices of the peace are so many
  diabolical tyrants vested with a power which completely coerces the
  industrious and labouring classes. If it be necessary to have _paid
  barristers_ as magistrates in the cities and great towns, why should
  not the same rule apply to smaller towns and to rural districts? To
  invest an irresponsible, narrow-minded, and prejudiced body of men
  with such immense powers as those wielded by magistrates, is a foul
  blot upon our civilisation. Prison-chains, fines, and treadmills are
  at the disposal of these justices; and the use they make of their
  power proves that the entire system on which their attributes and
  jurisdiction are based, deserve universal execration. Thousands and
  thousands of honest, well-meaning, hard-working families have been
  ruined by this hierarchy of terrestrial fiends. Talk of the freedom of
  the British subject, and boast of the trial by jury! Why, any
  magistrate, by his own _single_ decision, can award heavy fines or
  months of imprisonment! The unpaid magistracy exists as a protection
  and also as an agency for the infernal Game Laws. Their local powers
  and influence give them immense weight in general elections, for poor
  people are afraid to offend them. But the worst kind of unpaid
  magistrates are the clergymen who are in the commission of the peace.
  These men usually act more like off-shoots of the Czar of Russia than
  as magistrates in a civilised country and as ministers of the
  charitable and generous doctrines of the Christian faith.

Footnote 31:

  This act is not only still unrepealed, but was put in force about
  eighteen months or two years ago, by certain county magistrates
  against two or three poor labourers.

Footnote 32:

  It is generally understood that the Judge should be merely an
  expounder of the law affecting the cases brought under the cognizance
  of the court, and also a means of refreshing the memories of the
  jurymen by reading over his notes, or the salient points in them. At
  least, to our thinking, a Judge should never allow his own opinion on
  the point at issue to transpire. If he do, he is almost sure to bias
  the jury. But, unfortunately, nearly all the Judges in this country
  act in a dictational manner with regard to juries. They _direct_ the
  verdicts returned. This assumption on the part of the Judges of the
  privileges and attributes of juries, renders the latter perfectly
  unnecessary. For ourselves, we believe that trial by jury is in these
  islands a mere farce—an idle mockery—a contemptible delusion: the
  Judges are the real juries after all. And yet we boast of the
  institution! That institution would indeed be a glorious one, were the
  Judges to discharge their duties properly: _but, in nine cases out of
  ten, they do not_.

Footnote 33:

  There is something uncommonly barbarous in many of our institutions
  and customs. Were it not associated with such solemn occasions, we
  should laugh at the mountebank piece of solemn humbug of the black
  cap—as if the Judge himself could not assume a demeanour serious and
  dignified enough for the awful and atrocious duty which the law
  imposes upon him in pronouncing death sentences. The custom of Judges
  and barristers disfiguring themselves in huge wigs is a mere relic of
  barbarism, and unworthy of a civilized age. If the law cannot maintain
  its solemn majesty without such wretched aids, heaven knows there must
  be something radically wrong either in the constitution of the
  tribunals themselves or in the conduct of the functionaries of
  justice. Away with all such mockeries and fools'-play as wigs and
  black caps, and let men distribute the justice _of_ men _as_ men, and
  not muffled up and disguised like old women. The maintenance of all
  customs which our barbarian ancestors handed down to us shows an
  aversion to _progress_ on the part of the Government and the
  Legislature. The wisdom of those ancestors existed, we imagine, only
  in the _wig_: let the wisdom of the present day show itself by the
  fact of discarding all useless pomp and vain ostentation.

Footnote 34:

  "The Aristocracy of England, a History for the People," by John
  Hampden, Junior (the pseudonym of a very clever writer, whatever his
  real name and whoever he may be) is a work which should be read by all
  classes—by the aristocratic sections of society, because it may warn
  them of the impending storm; and by the middle and poorer grades,
  because it will shew them their oppressors in their true characters.
  This and William Howitt's "History of Priestcraft" (both published by
  Messrs. Chapman, Newgate Street) are glorious signs of the times in
  which we live. From the first-mentioned book we quote the ensuing
  passage:—

  "Look at France. Every one is familiar with the dreadful condition to
  which its proud and imbecile aristocracy reduced it. Every one knows
  in what a storm of blood and terror the oppressed people rose and took
  an eternal vengeance on their oppressors. If we read the accounts of
  France, just previous to the Revolution, we cannot avoid being struck
  with a terrible similarity of circumstances and features with those of
  our own country now. Nay, the following description by their own
  historian, Thiers, seems to be that of England at present:—'The
  condition of the country, both political and economical, was
  intolerable. There was nothing but privilege—privilege vested in
  individuals, in classes, in towns, in provinces, and even in trades
  and professions. Every thing contributed to check industry and the
  natural genius of man. All the dignities of the state, civil,
  ecclesiastical, and military, were exclusively reserved to certain
  individuals. No man could take up a profession without certain titles,
  and the compliance with certain pecuniary conditions. Even the favours
  of the crown were converted into family property, so that the king
  could scarcely exercise his own judgment, or give any preference.
  Almost the only liberty left to the sovereign was that of making
  pecuniary gifts, and he had been reduced to the necessity of disputing
  with the Duke of Coigny for the abolition of a useless place. Every
  thing, then, was made immoveable property in the hands of a few, and
  every where these few resisted the many who had been despoiled. The
  burdens of the state weighed on one class only. The noblesse and the
  clergy possessed about two-thirds of the landed property; the other
  third, possessed by the people, paid taxes to the king, a long list of
  feudal _droits_ to the noblesse, tithes to the clergy, and had,
  moreover, to support the devastations committed by noble sportsmen and
  their game. The taxes upon consumption pressed upon the great
  multitude, and consequently on the people. The collection of these
  imposts was managed in an unfair and irritating manner; the lords of
  the soil left long arrears with impunity, but the people, upon any
  delay in payment, were harshly treated, arrested and condemned to pay
  in their persons, in default of money to produce. The people,
  therefore, nourished with their labour, and defended with their blood,
  the higher classes of society, without being able to procure a
  comfortable subsistence for themselves. The towns-people, a body of
  citizens, industrious, educated, less miserable than the people, could
  nevertheless obtain none of the advantages to which they had a right
  to aspire, seeing that it was their industry that nourished and their
  talents that adorned the kingdom.'—Is not that a wonderful fac-simile
  of our own present condition? But these circumstances produced
  revolution in France; what will they produce here! If they are allowed
  to continue they will produce the very same thing. The French
  historians assert, that had the cries of the people been listened to
  before they grew maddened with their miseries, there would have been
  reform instead of revolution, and their nation would have been spared
  the years of unexampled horror and self-laceration through which it
  had to wade. Now is the same saving crisis with us! The people, the
  most industrious of them in town and country, starve by tens of
  thousands, or lead a sort of half life in incessant labour, rags, and
  hunger. All parts of our social system call out for relief. The
  manufacturer, the farmer, equally complain; the agricultural labourers
  are reduced to a condition worse than serfdom—to a condition of
  unparalleled destitution; and in some districts gangs of them are
  driven to the field, as we learn from parliamentary reports, under
  gang-masters, and are lodged promiscuously like cattle—men, women, and
  children, in temporary booths, fitter for beasts than human beings. In
  many parts of this once happy country the agricultural labourers are
  getting but five and six shillings per week; while they are asked
  8_l._ an acre for bits of land to set a few potatoes on."

  The author of "THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON" would not have his readers
  imagine him to be in favour of "physical force." No—we abhor war even
  with foreign powers; but no words are strong enough to express our
  loathing and abhorrence of the bare idea of that infernal scourge—a
  civil war. Another quotation from the work of John Hampden, Junior,
  will serve to express also our opinions on the point:—

  "The neglect of the public interest it extends to the whole frightful
  mass of _delegated taxation_, under which the nation groans, even more
  heavily than under the direct national imposts. The reviewer justly
  remarks that the maxim of legislators is 'Every one for himself, and
  the public for us all!' But could this state of things possibly exist
  if Englishmen did their duty, if they resolved to do their own
  _public_ business, as they do their private—to do it themselves, and
  not foolishly intrust to men who have shown themselves at once so
  incapable and so unworthy of trust in every respect? Is there any
  reason why the people of England, who conduct their commerce, their
  manufactures, their domestic trade and affairs so admirably, should
  not conduct the affairs of their government just as well if they were
  to set about it? Is there any reason that a man who guides a ship
  round the world, clear of rocks and breakers, should not as well help
  to steer the vessel of state? Why should not he who governs a
  steam-engine just as well govern or assist in governing a country? The
  great Oxenstiern, Chancellor of Sweden, said to his son, 'Mark, my
  son, with what a small stock of talent a nation may be governed.' But
  our aristocracy have for ages demonstrated that they do not even
  possess this 'small stock of talent,' or of as much honesty; and the
  remedy for the evils they have covered us with is as clear as the
  day-light:—_The power must be wrested from them!_' But how? By arms?
  No: Englishmen know too well the dangers of revolution: they have too
  much to lose; and they have too much humanity. The soil of England
  will not willingly drink in the blood of its children, as in the
  barbarous ages; the remedy is alike simple and conspicuous. It lies in
  one joint rising and stern demand of all and every class in the
  country. All—manufacturer and farmer, gentleman and ploughman,
  merchant and shop-man, artizan and labourer—all must combine, and with
  one dread voice, like another Cromwell, command the aristocrats to
  quit the people's house, and 'give place to better men.' This is the
  simple and sole remedy. A thousand evils are complained of. 'The whole
  head is sick and the whole heart is sore;' but 'THE GREAT ROOT OF ALL'
  is the usurpation of the Commons House of Parliament by the
  aristocracy. One party proclaims that the whole people is corrupted by
  the bribery of these patrician senators, and demand the _universal
  franchise_, and in that they demand the true and only remedy. But
  because some are for this, and some for that, and do not all join in
  the _hearty rending shout_ for the FRANCHISE—_that magic word in which
  lies the constitution_—that cure for all bribery (for who can bribe
  thirty millions of people)—that guarantee for the steady maintenance
  of the constitution—for, once in the hands of the totality, the
  totality will never relinquish it again—they cry, but they cry in
  vain. Till we obtain the _franchise_ we obtain _nothing_; when we
  obtain _that_ we obtain _every thing_. Every petition, every demand,
  however stern or resolved, that asks for any thing short of the
  UNIVERSAL FRANCHISE, is the preparation of an absurdity, and the
  greatest of all absurdities. He is just as wise who asks short of
  this, as if he prayed the Pope to abolish the Catholic religion, or a
  Jew to give you all he is worth. The aristocracy have usurped the
  House of Commons—for what? Just for this very purpose—of resisting the
  proper demands of the people—of maintaining and perpetuating all the
  evils for whose removal you pray. It is true the people, combining on
  some great emergency—driven, as it were into this combination by some
  desperate pressure—may alarm the aristocracy into some individual
  concession, as in the case of the Reform Bill. But this is a
  stupendous exertion, a violent and convulsive sort of action in the
  political system, which wrests only, at the point of famine or
  national ruin, its own rights from the usurping party. Public opinion
  is said, in this country, to be the actual ruling power; but it is a
  fitful and irregular power. Like the Indian, or the boa-constrictor,
  it is aroused to action only by hunger or imminent impending danger;
  at the smallest return of ease it pauses; it becomes drowsy again, and
  the mischief goes on for another period. If public opinion really
  rules, it should lift itself to the necessary height of command, and
  do its work effectually. That would save us all much trouble. There is
  but one perfect permanent remedy—but one means of absolute cure for
  our perpetually recurring evils: _We must have these usurpers out of
  the people's house, and rule in it ourselves!_ and this is to be done
  only by insisting on _the franchise, the whole franchise, and nothing
  but the franchise_."




                             CHAPTER LXXII.
                          MR. AND MRS. CURTIS.


It was about two o'clock on the following afternoon that a
travelling-carriage with four posters thundered along Baker Street, to
the great admiration of that semi-fashionable neighbourhood, and at
length stopped at a house the door of which was immediately opened by a
footman wearing a livery of such varied colours that the rainbow was
nothing to it.

Divers countenances appeared at the windows of the neighbouring
dwellings; for it would seem that the travelling-carriage—or rather the
persons whom it contained, were an object of curiosity and interest to
the elderly ladies in turbans in the drawing-rooms and the servant-maids
in the garrets, the latter of whom completely flattened their noses
against the panes in their anxiety to obtain a view of the fashionably
dressed gentlemen who handed the magnificently attired lady from the
vehicle, while the footman in the transcendent livery assisted the
lady's-maid to alight from the high seat behind.

And since all the neighbourhood of Baker Street appears to know right
well who the arrivals are, we shall not affect any mystery with our
readers; but plainly, distinctly, and at once declare that the
fashionably dressed gentleman was Mr. Frank Curtis, and the
magnificently attired lady was Mrs. Curtis, late Mrs. Goldberry.

This excellent couple had just returned home, after passing their
honeymoon in the country, as all rich and fashionable people are bound
to do; and five little Goldberrys were crowding at the front door to
welcome their mamma and their "new papa." These specimens of the
Goldberry race formed, in respect to their ages, an ascending scale
commencing with Number 5 and terminating with Number 13, and exhibiting
as much pleasing variety as could possibly exist in the pug-nose species
and the chubby-face genus.

These delightful children set up a perfect yell of joy, which was heard
at least ten houses off, when their "new papa" assisted their old mamma
to alight from the carriage; for Mrs. Goldberry could not be said to be
_young_, she being on the shady side of forty, though blessed with such
a juvenile family.

"Happy is the _man_," says the psalmist, meaning also _woman_, "who hath
his quiver full of them:" but Mrs. Goldberry fancied that it rather
spoilt the effect of a bride's return, to behold a hall full of them.
Nevertheless, she gave them each a maternal hug; and the youngest set up
a shout because she did not give him a box of toys into the bargain.

Let us suppose half an hour to have elapsed since the return of the
"happy pair." At the expiration of that period we shall find them seated
in the drawing-room, enjoying a pleasant _tête-à-tête_ chat until the
early dinner which had been ordered should be duly announced by the
rainbow-excelling footman.

Mrs. Goldberry was, as above stated, a trifle past forty; although she
never acknowledged to more than thirty-one. She was somewhat stout, had
coarse masculine features, a tolerably good set of teeth, certainly fine
eyes, and was as yet independent of the adventitious aids of the
wig-maker and rouge manufacturer. Little of her history was known by Mr.
Curtis until the period (a few weeks previously to the marriage) when he
became acquainted with her through the simple process of picking up her
youngest boy who happened to fall into some mud one day when the lady
and her children were taking a walk in the vicinity of Baker Street.
This little act of politeness on the part of Frank had naturally led to
the exchange of a few observations; the exchange of a few observations
brought Mrs. Goldberry to her own door; her own door admitted her into
the house, whither Frank was politely invited to follow her; the
following her in was followed by the serving up of luncheon; the
luncheon led to increased communicativeness; and the communicativeness
made Frank aware that his new acquaintance was the widow of the late Mr.
Goldberry, gentleman, and the undisputed possessor of a clear income of
five thousand a year. Glorious news this for Frank, who suffered the
lady to understand that he enjoyed a similar income; and then they
laughed a great deal at the funny coincidence. When Frank took his
leave, he requested permission to call again; and this favour could not
be refused to a gentleman who had picked the child out of the mud and
who had five thousand a year. Thus frequent visits led to tender
proposals; the tender proposals ended in marriage; and the marriage
ended in——

But we were going on much too fast; and therefore we must pause at the
point indicated ere we commenced this brief digression—namely, at the
_tête-à-tête_ discourse while awaiting the announcement of dinner.

"Well, my love," said Frank, "here we are once more in London. Upon my
word, there's nothing like London after all—as my friend the Earl of
Blackwall says."

"And yet I think we were very comfortable in the country, Frank?"
observed Mrs. Curtis, late Mrs. Goldberry, with a simper as fascinating
as she could possible render a grimace formed by a large mouth.

"Oh! but you and I can be happy any where, dear," said Frank. "We
mustn't remain in Baker Street, though: I shall take a slap-up house in
Grosvenor Square, if I can get one there: at all events, somewhere more
in the fashionable quarter. Now, I'll tell you what I've been thinking
of—and I'm sure that you'll approve of my plan. You see, there's all
those dear children of your's—I'm sure I love them as well as if I was
their real father, the darlings——"

"You're quite a duck, Frank," exclaimed Mrs. Curtis, tapping him
slightly on the face.

"Well—I don't think I'm a bad fellow at all," continued the young
gentleman, smoothing down his hair very complacently; "And the plan I'm
going to propose to you will prove it. Indeed, it's just what my very
particular friend the Marquis of Woolwich did, when he married under
similar circumstances—I mean a lady with a young family."

"And what did his lordship do?" inquired Mrs. Curtis.

"He made this arrangement with his wife," explained Frank:—"All his own
property was to be left in the funds to accumulate for the benefit of
the children—never to be touched—to be locked up like a rat in a trap,
as one may say; and the lady's property was to serve for the household
and all other expenses. Now, this is just what I propose we shall do. My
hundred and forty thousand pounds shall be so locked up; and your
income, my love, will do for us to live upon. In fact, I'll make a will
to-morrow, settling all my fortune on you in case you survive me, or on
the children at your death."

It is astonishing how blank Mrs. Curtis's countenance became as her
beloved husband proposed this arrangement: but she managed to hide her
confusion from him by means of her handkerchief, while he flattered
himself that his generous consideration of her children had drawn tears
from her eyes.

"This little arrangement will decidedly be the best," continued Frank;
"and I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that your dear children
are well provided for. In fact, it was but the day before the happy one
which united us, that I met my friend the Duke of Gravesend, and he was
advising me how to act in the matter, saying what he had done, as I told
you just now. And his Grace's authority is no mean one, I can assure
you, my dear. But you don't answer me: what are you thinking about?"

Mrs. Curtis was thinking of a great deal;—a horrible idea had struck
her. Was it possible that Frank's vaunted property was all moonshine,
and that he was now inventing a means of concealing this fact from her.
She had been vain enough to suppose all along that he was enamoured of
her person far more than of her alleged five thousand a year; and he had
given her so many assurances of the disinterestedness of his affection,
that she had congratulated herself on hooking him most completely. She
knew that he was the nephew of the rich Sir Christopher Blunt, and had
readily believed, therefore, that he himself was rich also; and,
experienced though she were in the ways of the world, she had not
instituted any inquiries to ascertain the truth of his assertions
relative to his property. In a word, she fancied she had caught a green,
foolish, but wealthy young fellow; whereas she was now seized with the
frightful apprehension that she had laboured under a complete delusion.
And this alarm was the more terrible, as the reader may conceive when we
inform him that she herself was a mere adventuress—without a farthing of
annual income derivable from any certain source—and overwhelmed with
debts, her creditors having only been kept quiet for the last few weeks
by her representations that she was about to marry a young gentleman of
fortune. In a word, she had only taken the house in Baker Street on the
hopeful speculation of catching some amorous old gentleman of property:
and she had deemed herself particularly fortunate when she received the
proposals of an amourous _young_ gentleman who, in the course of
conversation, happened to intimate that he possessed five thousand a
year.

Mrs. Curtis's confusion and terror,—nay, absolute horror, may therefore
be well conceived, when the dreadful suspicion that she herself was as
much taken in as her husband, flashed to her mind.

"You don't answer," repeated Frank: "what the deuce _are_ you thinking
of?"

"I was thinking, my love," replied the lady, subduing her feelings as
well as she could, and still clinging to the faint hope that all might
not be so bad as she apprehended,—"I was thinking, my love, that your
arrangement is not feasible, for this simple reason—that _my_ fortune is
so locked up and settled on my children, I can only touch the dividends:
and I shall have nothing to receive till July. Moreover, I run very
short at my banker's now—indeed, I believe I have overdrawn them—and so,
all things considered, it will be impossible, and unnecessary even if
possible, to carry your generous proposal into effect."

[Illustration]

"I didn't know your money was so locked up!" exclaimed Frank, looking
mightily stupid, in spite of his strenuous endeavours to appear
perfectly happy and contented. "I thought your fortune was at your own
disposal?"

"Certainly—the interest," responded Mrs. Curtis, now finding by her
husband's manner that her worst fears were considerably strengthened.

"The devil!" murmured Frank petulantly.

"What did you say, dearest?" asked the lady.

"Oh! nothing, love—only that it doesn't signify at all, so long as we
have the interest of the money settled on your children—and that's five
thousand a year."

"Which, with your five thousand a year, makes us ten, love," added the
lady, eyeing him askance.

"To be sure!" said Frank: and, walking to the window, he hummed a tune
to conceal his desperate vexation.

This worthy pair had, however, each a consolation left—one real, the
other imaginary.

The real consolation was on the side of the lady, who had saved herself
from the danger of a debtor's prison by marrying Mr. Curtis. The
imaginary consolation was the idea which this gentleman nourished that
his amiable spouse enjoyed at all events the annual income of five
thousand pounds. Moreover, as he glanced round the elegantly furnished
drawing-room, and in imagination at all the other apartments in the
dwelling, he thought to himself, "Well, hang it! with five thousand a
year and this splendid house, I think I can manage to make myself pretty
comfortable. Of course every thing's paid for—and that's a blessing!"

Scarcely had Mr. Curtis disposed of this solacing reflection, when the
livery servant entered to announce that "dinner was served up."

Frank offered his arm to his lady in the most jaunty manner
possible—for, as the reader may suppose, he had many reasons to induce
him to be uncommonly attentive to one who (as he thought) held the
purse; and the lady, on her side, accepted in a most charming manner the
homage thus paid her—because she was not as yet quite certain that her
husband's property was really aerial, and even if it should prove so, he
must become the scapegoat between herself and her ravenous creditors.

Indeed the little tokens of endearment which the "happy couple" thought
it fit to lavish upon each other as they descended the stairs, created
such huge delight on the part of the livery servant following them, that
this individual, totally forgetting the dignity which should have
accompanied such a gorgeous livery, actually and positively diverted
himself by means of that wonderful arrangement of the hands commonly
called "taking a sight."

The dinner passed off in the usual way; and when the cloth was removed
and the domestic was about to retire, Frank exclaimed in an
authoritative manner, "John, bring up a bottle of claret."

"Yes, sir—claret, sir?" said the servant, fidgetting about near the
door, and glancing uneasily towards his mistress, who did not however
happen to observe him.

"I specified claret as plain as I could speak, John," cried Mr. Curtis
angrily; "and so make haste about it."

"Yes, sir,—only—" again hesitated the domestic.

"Only what?" vociferated Frank.

"Only there ain't none, sir," was the answer.

"No claret, John?" cried Mrs. Curtis, now taking part in the discussion.

"No ma'am. There was but two bottles of wine left when you went away,
ma'am—with master—and them's the Port and Sherry on the table now
ma'am."

"John, you must be mistaken!" exclaimed Frank. "Your mistress assured me
that the cellar was well stocked——"

"Yes, my dear," interrupted Mrs. Curtis: "and I was so far right in
telling you what I did, because on the very morning—the happy morning,
dear, you know—when we went away, I wrote to Mr. Beeswing, my
wine-merchant—or rather _our_ wine-merchant, I should say—to order in a
good stock of Port, Sherry, Champagne, and Claret."

"And what the devil, then, does Mr. Beeswing mean by this cursed
neglect?" cried Frank. "There's Log, Wood, and Juice, my friend Lord
Paddington's wine-merchants, who would be delighted to serve us. Did you
know of this order, John, that your mistress gave?"

"Ye-e-s, sir—I did," was the stammering reply, delivered with much
diffidence and many twirlings of the white napkin.

"Well, my dear—it is no use to make ourselves uncomfortable about the
business," said Mrs. Curtis, evidently anxious to quash the subject at
once. "You can put up with what there is to-day; and to-morrow you can
give an order to your noble friend's wine-merchants. That will do,
John—you can retire."

"No—by God! that will not do!" vociferated Frank. "This fellow Beeswing
has behaved most shamefully. It's a regular insult—as the Prince of
Gibraltar would call it! But I dare say he forgot it: and since you knew
of the order, John, why the devil didn't you see that it was executed
while we were away?"

"My dear——" began Mrs. Curtis, in a tone of remonstrance.

"Answer me, you fellow!" cried Frank, turning in a threatening way
towards the domestic, and unable to resist the opportunity of indulging
his bullying propensities. "Why the devil didn't you attend to the order
given by your mistress?"

"Well, sir—and so I did," responded the servant, now irritated by the
imperious manner of his master. "I went a dozen times to Beeswing's
while you and missus was away."

"Frank, dear—do leave this to me," urged the lady.

"No, my dear—this concerns me, as the master of the house," exclaimed
Frank, looking very pompous and very fierce. "Well, John—and what the
deuce did Beeswing say when you did see him?"

"Please, sir, he said he'd rayther not," was the astounding answer.

Mr. Frank Curtis looked aghast.

"I always knew he was the most insulting fellow in the world—that
Beeswing!" cried the lady, colouring deeply and affecting violent
indignation. "But we will never deal with him again, I vow and declare!
John, tell him to send in his bill——at once, mind——"

"He has, ma'am," interrupted the servant "In fact, there's a many
letters waiting for master."

"Then why the devil didn't you give them to me before?" exclaimed Frank,
not knowing precisely what to think of Mr. Beeswing's conduct, but in a
very bad humour on account of the disappointment relative to the claret.

John, the servant, made no reply to the question last put to him, but
advancing towards the table, produced from his pocket about thirty
letters and other documents, all of which he laid before his master, his
countenance the while wearing a most curious and very sinister
expression, as much as to say, "You're a very bumptious kind of a young
man; but these papers will, perhaps, bring you down a peg or two."

"You may retire," said Frank, savagely; and this intimation was
forthwith obeyed. "Very curious conduct, that of Beeswing, my dear?"
continued Mr. Curtis, as soon as the door had closed behind the servant.

"Very, dear—I can't make it out," responded Mrs. Curtis. "But pray don't
bother yourself with those letters and papers now. They can't be very
particular; and you will have more time to-morrow, dear."

"Oh! I can look over them, and we can go on talking all the same," said
Frank: "because I can't think how the deuce so many letters should be
addressed to me _here_—instead of at my own place;—I mean, I shouldn't
have thought that such a lot of my friends would have already heard of
our union, love," he added, with a tender glance towards the lady, who
was sitting very much in the style figuratively represented in common
parlance as being "on thorns."

And Mr. Curtis's visual rays, having thus benignly bent themselves on
his companion, were once more fixed on the pile of letters and documents
lying before him.

The lady tossed off a bumper of Port, and filled her glass again, in an
evident fit of painful nervousness; while her husband opened the first
letter, the contents of which ran as follow:—

                                                      _Oxford Street._

  "SIR,

  "We beg to enclose our account for furniture supplied to Mrs.
  Curtis, late Mrs. Goldberry, and respectfully solicit an early
  settlement, as the bill has been running for a considerable time.

                                     "Your obedient Servants,
                                                   "TUFFLE and TUNKS."

"The devil!" ejaculated Frank, as he cast his eyes over the inclosure:
"'_Bill delivered_, £876 6_s._ 6_d._' God bless my soul! that's a
stinger! Why, I thought all the furniture must have been paid for, my
dear?"

"Not exactly, love—you perceive," returned the lady. "One never pays an
upholsterer's bill for so long a time, you know: indeed—it quite slipped
my memory, it's such a trifle!"

"Well, so it is, dear," observed Frank, reassured by the calm and
indifferent way in which his wife disposed of _the trifle_: and he
proceeded to open another letter, which announced a second trifle in the
ensuing manner:—

                                                     _Furnival's Inn._

  "SIR,

  "We are desired by Messieurs Ore and Dross, jewellers, to apply to
  you for the payment of 377_l._ 10_s._ being the amount of debt
  contracted by your present wife, late Mrs. Goldberry, with our
  clients; and unless the same be paid, together with 6_s._ 8_d._ for
  cost of this application, within three days from the date hereof, we
  shall be compelled to have recourse to ulterior measures without
  farther notice.

                                            "Your obedient Servants,
                                                "DAWKINS and SMASHER."

"What a thundering lot of jewellery you must have, to be sure, dear!"
exclaimed Frank, as he handed this letter to his wife. "But, 'pon my
soul! I think you've been rather extravagant, love—haven't you?"

"Oh! my dear—ladies _must_ have jewellery, you know," returned Mrs.
Curtis; "and, after all I have paid Ore and Dross, I really am surprised
at their importunity. But we will pay them, and have done with them,
dear."

"So we will, love," responded Frank; "and I'll ask my friend the Duke of
Hampstead to recommend _his_ jeweller to us. But here's a precious
letter! Why—what the deuce? There's a dozen pawnbroker's tickets in it,
I declare!"

Mrs. Curtis fell back almost senseless in her chair, while her husband
perused the ensuing letter:—

  "i rite maddam 2 inform u that I can't sel the dewplikets wich u
  Placed in mi ands as seckeuraty for mi Bil and has u've married a
  gent wich as propperti i ope u'll now settel my Bil wich as bin a
  runnin for 18 munce and i ope u'll settel it soon leastways as soon
  has u cum ome becaus i ham in rale want of it being a loan widder
  wich as lorst mi Usban 2 yere cum missummer an having 5 young
  childern an another cumming bi axident but i shan't do so no more an
  shal be verry appy to go on washin for u wen u've pade this Bil wich
  is thirty fore pouns thrippense dere maddam pray do this 2 oblege me
  the instunt u cum ome u can send it upp by mr jon yure futman or els
  mi Littel gal shal wate on u at anny our u no i've never prest u an
  i tuk the dewplikits 2 oblege u but coodn't dew nuththink with them
  an now they've run out and its no falt of mine becaus i'd no munny
  to pay the interesk and u was gorn out of town with ure new usban
  wich i ear is a very fine young man wich I'm glad to ear for ure sak
  dere maddam eggskews this long letter becaus the doctor should say i
  shal be konfined this weak an its hard lines to ave no munney at
  such a time i arn't sent ome the last batch of linning becaus i ware
  obleged to mak a way with it butt I send the dewplikit of that has
  wel has the dewplikit of the wotch and chane an other trinklets wich
  i ope u'll reseave saf an now as u'r all rite and r a ritch wumman
  u'll not be angree with me for puttin ure linning upp the spont att
  such a crittikal moment dere maddam pray eggskews this riting wich i
  no is verry bad butt mi pen is verry bad an ime in grate pane wile i
  rite ure obejent umbal servant kummarn susan

                                    spriggs.
                                 mary lee bone
                 "Mrs. Kirtis      lane wigmore strete
                   baker                  cavenditch
                   strete                      squair."

"Madam, it's all a cursed plant!" vociferated Frank Curtis, starting
from his seat, and throwing down the letter, during the perusal of which
he had been scarcely able to control his impatience. "I see it all—it's
a cursed imposition—an infernal plant—and I'm a—a—damned fool!"

Thus speaking, the young gentleman shook his better half violently by
the shoulders; and she, having nothing to urge in explanation of the
extraordinary letter of her washerwoman, screamed just loud enough to
appear hysterical without alarming the servants and went off into a fit,
as a matter of course.

"Fooled—duped—done brown, by God!" exclaimed Curtis, as he began to pace
the room with no affected agitation. "Saddled with a wife and five
children—overwhelmed with her debts and my own—and, what's a deuced
sight worse, made an ass of! I've regularly sold myself, as my friend
the Duke——no, damn the Duke! I'm in no humour for Dukes and that kind of
nonsense now—I don't know a Duke, and never did—and never shall—and so
it's no use telling a parcel of lies any more! Plague take this old cat
with her half-dozen brats—or near upon that number——"

"And plague take you, then!" screeched the newly-married lady,
recovering with most surprising abruptness from her fit, and starting up
like a fury. "Why, you swindling scoundrel, how dare you call me names?
I'll tear your eyes out, I will, if you say over again what you've just
said."

"I say you're a regular adventuress!" cried Frank.

"And you are an impostor—a cheat!" yelled the lady.

"Your fortune is all a gammon!" exclaimed Curtis.

"And your's all moonshine!" retorted his wife.

"You've taken me in shameful!"

"And you've done the same to me!"

"You're——" cried Frank, nearly suffocated with rage.

"And so are you, whatever you're going to call me!" vociferated the late
Mrs. Goldberry.

Curtis was unable to give forth any rejoinder; and Mrs. Curtis, resuming
her seat, had recourse to the truly feminine alternative of bursting
into tears.

A long pause ensued, constituting a truce to recriminations and
vituperations for several minutes, and affording the pair leisure for
reflection.

We will describe the ideas that gradually expanded in their minds, as
such explanation will the more easily prepare the reader for the result
of the quarrel.

Frank Curtis, on his side, recognized the grand truth, that what was
done could not be undone; and then he came to the philosophical
conviction, that it would be prudent to make the best of a bad job. He
reflected on the folly of an exposure, which would be attended with
immediate ruin;—bringing about his ears a host of creditors, who would
only become the more clamorous when they were brought in contact with
each other, and were placed in a condition to ascertain their number and
compare the amounts of their claims. He fancied that by allowing himself
to be represented as a man of property his wife might silence the
creditors for a time, during which the war could be carried on; and
though an explosion must sooner or later take place, yet it was some
consolation to the young gentleman to think that the evil day might be
postponed by keen manœuvring and skilful generalship. He feared being
laughed at much more than the idea of a debtor's prison; and delay was
every thing to a man in his desperate circumstances. "There was no
telling what might turn up;" and he thought that if he could only dazzle
the eyes of his uncle Sir Christopher with fine stories relative to the
brilliancy of the match which he had formed with the late Mrs.
Goldberry, he might contrive to wheedle a large sum of money out of the
old gentleman on some such pretext as a desire to discharge divers
debts, and a disinclination to confess to his wife that he had
contracted them.

On the other hand, Mrs. Curtis fell into a similar train of thought. It
would, she fancied, be easy for her to visit the numerous creditors,
assure them that she had as yet intercepted all the letters they had
written to her husband, and implore them not to ruin her in his good
opinion by exposing her liabilities to him. She even arranged in her
head the very words which she would use when calling on them:—"My
husband is about to sell an estate in Ireland, and the moment the
purchase money is paid, I am sure to be enabled to obtain from him a sum
sufficient to liquidate all my debts. Have a little forbearance,
therefore, and all will be well." Thus _she_ also recognised the utter
inutility and monstrous folly of exposing themselves by means of
quarrels; and as their minds were, by these parallel systems of
reasoning, prepared for reconciliation—or at least the show of it—the
making up of their dispute was no very difficult matter.

Frank was the one to break the ice with the first overture.

"Well, I think we're two pretty fools," he said, approaching the chair
in which she was rocking herself to and fro: "don't you?"

"To alarm all the house, and let our servants know every thing," added
the lady.

"No—no: it isn't so bad as _that_ yet," returned Frank. "But I vote that
we have no more quarrels."

"I am sure I agree to the proposition, Frank," was the answer.

"It's carried then, without a dissentient voice," exclaimed Curtis; "as
my friend the Duke——"

"Let us have no more falsehoods," interrupted his wife. "You said just
now that you knew no Duke—never had known one—and never should——"

"But I thought you was in a fit at that moment, my dear?" said Frank.

"Maybe I was—but still I could hear all that passed, as you very well
know. However, let us be good friends, and hold a consultation how we
are to proceed."

"Good!" cried Frank. "And we will begin with a glass of wine each.
There—let us drink each other's health. Here's to you, my dear. And now
to business. I suppose all these letters and bills are about unpaid
debts of yours?"

"Precisely so, love," answered Mrs. Curtis.

"How much do you think they amount to?"

"About eighteen hundred pounds, I should say?"

"And how much money have you got towards paying them, dear?" inquired
Frank.

"Eighteen-pence, love," responded the lady, extracting that sum from her
pocket.

There was a pause, during which Frank Curtis refilled the glasses; and
then the "happy pair" looked inquiringly at each other, as much as to
ask, "Well, what shall we do?"

"This is devilish awkward!" observed Frank. "But I'll tell you what I've
been thinking of."

"I am all attention, dear," said his better half.

Mr. Curtis then conveyed in words the substance of those reflections
which we have recorded above, and which had bent his mind towards a
reconciliation.

"I entirely approve of all you say," remarked Mrs. Curtis; "and I will
now tell you what I have been thinking of."

"Fire away, love," was her husband's encouraging observation.

The lady detailed, in her turn, the reflections which had occupied her
mind a few minutes previously.

"Then we both hold the same opinions?" exclaimed Frank.

"Exactly. And if we play our cards well, there is no immediate danger of
any thing," remarked the lady.

"But all the threatened writs—the probability of a sudden arrest—and the
clamours of such small tradesmen or other persons as your delectable
washerwoman, who is about to add to her family two years after the death
of her husband?" exclaimed Frank interrogatively.

"I have trinkets, plate, and such like things which will realise a
hundred pounds," said Mrs. Curtis; "and with that sum we can settle the
little claimants, who are always more noisy and clamourous than the
large ones."

The colloquy had just reached this highly satisfactory point, when a
tremendous double knock threatened to beat in the front door, and the
bell was instantaneously afterwards set ringing in frantic
accompaniment.

"Some one's ill," cried Frank, "and they take this house for a
Doctor's."

"At all events it is no dun," observed Mrs. Curtis.

Here the thundering knock and insane ring were repeated.

"I just tell you what, my dear," resumed the young gentleman, rising
from his chair, and looking as fierce as possible: "I've a deuced great
mind to go out and ask who the devil it is that dares knock and ring
twice in half a minute at our door in that fashion. I'm certain it's no
friend of your's—and it's none of mine. So—as sure as my name is Francis
Curtis, Esquire, of Baker Street—I'll—"

But at this instant the dining-room door was thrown open by the domestic
in gorgeous livery; and the countenance of the warlike Francis Curtis,
Esquire, of Baker Street, grew white as a sheet, when the servant
announced—"CAPTAIN O'BLUNDERBUSS!"




                            CHAPTER LXXIII.
                      CAPTAIN O'BLUNDERBUSS AGAIN.


"Be Jasus! and it is my dear friend, Misther Frank Cur-r-tis!" exclaimed
the redoubtable officer, as he stalked into the room: then, perceiving
the lady, he untiled his head in a most graceful manner—or, in plain
terms, removed his foraging cap with a certain rounding sweep of his
right arm, saying, "Your servint, Mim. I presume that I have the
honour-r to pay my rispicts to Mrs. Curtis?"

"Ye-es—that is Mrs. Curtis, Captain," said Frank, while the lady gave a
somewhat cold inclination of the head.

"And a sweet and iligant wife ye've got, ye dog!" cried the Captain,
bestowing a friendly poke in the ribs of the newly married gentleman.
"Come, shake hands, Misther Cur-r-tis: men like you and me mustn't
harbour animosity against each other. Let the past _be_ past, as the
saying is: and an excellent saying it is too, ma'am," he added, in a
tone of bland appeal to the lady, as he nearly wrung her husband's
fingers off in the enthusiasm of his anxiety to convince him that _this
time_ at least he came for no hostile purpose.

"Sit down, Captain," said Frank, now feeling more at his ease than he
had done since the unexpected appearance of the famous duellist. "Will
you take a glass of wine? There's Port and Sherry on the table; and
there's Champagne, Claret, Hock, and Burgundy in the cellar—as well as
capital whiskey."

"Be the holy poker-r!" exclaimed Captain O'Blunderbuss, "and I'll jist
throuble ye for the potheen. The thrue Irish potheen, ma'am," he
continued, turning once more towards Mrs. Curtis, "is the most iligant
beverage unther the sun. On my estates in ould Ireland I allow no water
at all; and my pisanthry is the finest to be seen in the whole
counthry."

"Indeed, Sir," observed Mrs. Curtis, beginning to grow amused with the
strange character who had thus intruded himself upon the momentous
discussion which she and her husband were carrying on at the time.

"Be Jasus! Mim, and it's as thrue as you're sitting there!" exclaimed
the Captain. "In my own counthry, Mim, I'm a Justice of the Pace, and I
never allow my pisanthry to be interfered with by the gaugers. I let
them keep as many illicit stills as they like; and the consequence is
they adore me."

"I should think that to be very likely," said Frank. "But here's the
whiskey—and there's hot water. Now, John, put the sugar on the table:
that's right!"

The servant having retired, Captain O'Blunderbuss proceeded to compound
his favourite beverage by mixing equal parts of spirit and water, and
adding thereto three lumps of sugar.

"I always brew the first glass sthrong Mim," he observed, "in honour to
ould Ireland. Your health, Mim."

"But I'm not Irish, sir," responded the lady, laughing.

"Then I'm sure ye ought to be, Mim," cried the Captain; "and, be Jasus!
if ye was, ye'd be an honour to the counthry!"

Mrs. Curtis simpered, and bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment.

"Come, old fellow," said Frank, "you needn't mind my wife being
present—she's a woman of the world, as my friend the Archbishop of Paris
used to say of his niece;—and so you may as well tell us how you managed
to get out of a certain place and what made you think of honouring us
with this visit."

"Och! and be Jasus, I'll answer the last question fir-rst, Mr.
Cur-rtis," responded the Captain. "Well, thin, ye must know that I've
taken a great affection for ye, because, be the power-rs! I've heard
spake of your bravery in a many quar-rters; and it isn't me that would
cherish animosity against a gallant fellow."

The Captain might have added that, being in want of grog, supper, and
lodging, he had racked his brain all day to think of some soft, easy
individual amongst his acquaintance, on whom he could quarter himself
for a week or so; and having at length remembered to have seen the
marriage of Mr. Curtis and Mrs. Goldberry duly announced, at the time,
in the fashionable newspapers (the said announcements having been duly
paid for, as a matter of course), it had struck him, that he might make
himself very comfortable in Baker Street for a short period.

"Well, I feel highly flattered by your good opinion of me," said Frank.
"It's quite true that I've killed a man or two in my time, and winged
half a dozen others;—but really those are trifles which one scarcely
thinks of any value. At the same time, Captain, we duellists, you know,
are devilish chary of our reputation; and so it's just as well that the
world should talk in a respectful way about us—eh?"

"Be the holy poker-r! and ye're right, my boy!" exclaimed the Captain,
mixing the second glass of grog; then, turning towards Mrs. Curtis, he
said, "I always make my second jorum, Mim, a little stronger than the
first, for the honour of ould England; because that's always my second
toast! So here's for ould England! And now," continued Captain
O'Blunderbuss, after having taken a long draught of the potent liquor,
"I'll answer your first question, Misther Cur-r-tis. And sure it's how
I got out of limbo that ye was asking about. Well, I'll tell ye; and,
be Jasus! ye'll say that such a rum start never was seen. The cowardly
bastes locked me up in Horsemonger Lane, ye know, at the suit of one
Spriggins, for three hundred and forty-seven pounds, including costs.
For three whole days I was jest for all the world like a rampagious
lion. There's an infer-r-nal iron grating all round the yar-rd where
the prisoner-rs have to walk about; and, be Jasus! I chafed and foamed
inside those bar-rs, till the other prisoner-rs got so frightened they
sent a petition to the governor to get me locked up in the sthrong
room. So the governor sends for me, and says he, '_Capthain
O'Bluntherbuss, ye're a terror to the other people in the debtors'
department of the prison, and ye'd betther be after thinking of making
some arrangement with your creditor, or I shall be forced to put you
by yourself in the sthrong room._'—'_Be Jasus!_' says I, '_and I'll
skin any man who shall dar-r to lay even the tip of a finger on me for
such a purpose._'—'_Well_,' says the governor, '_but if you've ever so
little in the shape of ready money to offer your creditor, I'll see
him myself and thry what I can do for ye._'—So I pulled out my purse;
and behold ye! I'd jest two pound three shillings, and sixpence, to
pay three hundred and forty-seven pounds with.—'_Is it three-halfpence
in the pound ye'll be afther offering?_' asks the governor.—'_Jest
that same_,' says I; '_and if ever Misther Spriggins gets another
farthing out of me, then I'll skin myself!_'—So away goes the governor
to the creditor; and heaven only knows what blarney he pitches
him;—but in the course of a day or two, down comes a discharge on
condition that I pay the three-halfpence in the pound.—'_Now_,' says
I, '_that's trating an Irish jintleman as he deserves_;' and so I got
clean out of that infer-r-nal place. Here's your health, Mim."

And the Captain emptied his glass.

"You managed that business capital," exclaimed Frank Curtis, who began
to think that it would be no bad speculation to maintain the martial
gentleman altogether in Baker Street to frighten away the creditors,—or,
at all events, to employ him to go round to them, in case they should
prove inclined to act in a hostile manner towards him.

At that moment his eyes met those of his wife; and the glance of
intelligence which was exchanged between them, showed that the same
thought had struck them both, and at the same time.

"Help yourself, Captain," said Frank. "That whiskey was sent me as a
present by the Crown Prince of Denmark, for having been second to his
illustrious wife's uncle's stepmother's first cousin's nephew, in a duel
three years ago."

"Blood and thunther-r!" ejaculated Captain O'Blunderbuss, "what a
disthant relation! But the potheen is beautiful. I always mix my third
glass sthronger than the two first, because in this same thir-rd I
dhrink to the ladies—the sweet-hearts—and God bless 'em!"

Mrs. Curtis again acknowledged the compliment with a simper and an
inclination of the head; and by the time the Captain had disposed of his
third glass, the domestic in transcendent livery announced that coffee
was served in the drawing-room.

Thither the party accordingly proceeded; Captain O'Blunderbuss escorting
Mrs. Curtis, with a politeness which would have been perfectly
enchanting had he not smelt so awfully of poteen.

And now, in a few minutes, behold the trio seated so cozily and
comfortably at the table in the drawing-room, sipping the nectar of
Mocha; while a friendly little contest took place between Frank and the
Captain, to decide who could tell the greatest number of lies in the
shortest space of time.

"Be Jasus!" cried O'Blunderbuss; "this coffee is an iligant beverage!
But, saving your prisence, Mim, it don't come up to the coffee which I
grew on my own estate in ould Ireland. The thruth was, I had such a vast
extent of bog-land that I was at a loss what use to tur-rn it to—so I
sent my steward off to Arabia,—yes, be the holy poker-r, direct off to
Arabia,—to buy up as much coffee as he could get for money. Och! and
with a power-r of coffeeberries did he come back, in the next West
Indiaman, up the Meditherranean; and wasn't it a sowing of them same
berries that we had in the bog! Ye should have seen the land eight
months afterwards, with the coffee-plants grown up bigger than
gooseberry bushes, and making the whole counthry smell of coffee for
eight miles round. I rayalized seven hunthred pounds by that spec the
first year; and I have gone on with the culthure of coffee ever since."

"Oh!" said Frank, "it is astonishing what improvements might be
introduced in that way, if one only had the sense to do it. When I was
staying in Paris, I was very intimate with the Governor of the Bank of
France, and he had a beautiful conservatory on the top of the Bank. He
took me up one day to see it: 'twas in the middle of winter, and cold as
the devil in the open air—but warm as a toast inside the conservatory.
Well, there I saw melons as large as a bumb-shell growing in flower-pots
no bigger than that slop-bason—pine-apples hanging over the sides of
tea-cups—and a kind of fruit the name of which I've forgotten; but I
know that it was as large as a horse's head, and of the same shape. So I
said to my friend the Governor of the Mint, says I——"

Mr. Curtis stopped; for the radiant footman entered the room, saying,
"Please, sir, two men wish to speak to you immediately."

"Two men!" exclaimed Frank, casting an uneasy glance towards his wife,
who, it was evident, shared her husband's very natural apprehensions.

"Yes, sir——But here they are," added the footman: then turning round
towards the intruders, he said, "Why didn't you wait quiet down in the
hall till I'd informed master that you wanted to speak to him?"

"'Cos we doesn't do business in that ere way, old feller," responded a
voice which was not altogether unknown to either Mr. Curtis or the
Captain.

"Proggs, the officer-r—by God!" vociferated the latter, starting from
his seat.

"Yes—it's me and my master, Mr. Mac Grab, at your service, gen'lemen,"
said Proggs, pushing his way past the footman, and entering the room
with his hat on his head and his stout stick in his hand. "Please, Mr.
Curtis, sir—you're wanted."

And as these words were uttered by the subordinate, the principal
himself—namely, Mr. Mac Grab—made _his_ appearance (and a very dirty one
it was too) in the door-way; while the footman stood aghast, and Mrs.
Curtis went off into hysterics.

"Wanted!" cried Frank, casting an appealing glance towards the Captain:
"who the devil wants me?"

"Whose suit is it at, sir?" asked Proggs, turning towards his superior.

"Beeswing, wine-merchant—debt, two hundred pounds, owing by the lady,"
answered Mr. Mac Grab.

"Is it arresting my friend Misther Curtis, ye mane?" demanded Captain
O'Blunderbuss, advancing towards the officers with tremendous
fierceness, now that he found his own personal security unendangered.

"And why not?" growled Mac Grab, shrouding himself behind his man
Proggs.

"Is it why not, ye're afther asking?" shouted Captain O'Blunderbuss.
"Now, be Jasus! and if ye don't both make yourselves as scarce as ye was
before ye was bor-rn, it's myself that'll tayche ye a lesson of
purliteness in the twinkling of a bed-post."

"Oh! that's all gammon," muttered Proggs. "Mr. Curtis must either pay
the money or come along with us."

"He won't do neither the one nor the t'other, ye bastes of the ear-rth!"
exclaimed the Captain.

"I say now——" began Mac Grab: but, before he had time to utter another
word, the redoubtable Captain wrenched the short stick from the hands of
Mr. Proggs, and throwing it to a distance, boldly attacked the officers
with his long sinewy arms in such an effectual manner, that they
disappeared from the drawing-room in as short a space of time as their
assailant had represented by that beautiful figure of rhetoric—"the
twinkling of a bed-post."

Mrs. Curtis had deemed it most prudent to go off into a fit—Frank was
nailed to the floor by the terror of being captured and dragged off to a
debtor's prison—the footman considered it wise to remain a mere
spectator of the fight;—and thus the Captain was unassisted in his
gallant onslaught upon the sheriffs' officer and his man.

The Captain, however, had an advantage on his side: namely, that when he
had once succeeded in driving the enemy back as far as the staircase, it
was comparatively an easy matter to fling them headlong down—a feat
which he performed without the least ceremony or hesitation, to the
infinite alarm of the female-servants in the kitchen, who came rushing
up into the hall from that lower region, screaming as heartily as they
could under the conviction that the house was tumbling about their ears.

"Hold your pace! my dears," exclaimed Captain O'Blunderbuss, rushing
down the stairs after the vanquished enemy,—his countenance purple with
whiskey and excitement—every vein in his forehead swollen almost to
bursting—and his fists clenched for a renewal of the onslaught.

"We'll make you smart for this, my man!" growled Mac Grab, as he rose
painfully from the hall-floor.

"I'm jiggered if we don't too!" added Proggs, picking himself up as it
were from the last step, and feeling his legs and arms to see if any of
his bones were broken.

"Out of the house, ugly bastes that ye are!" thundered the Captain.

The officers had received sufficient evidence of the redoubtable
gentleman's warlike propensities, to induce them to beat a rapid
retreat,—and the moment they had evaporated by the front-door, the
Captain banged it violently after them, securing it with bolts and
chain.

"That's the way we serve out the riptiles in ould Ireland, my dears," he
exclaimed, turning towards the female servants, who, having at length
comprehended the nature of the amusement going on, had ceased to scream
and were enjoying the animated scene as much as if it had been a play.

Frank Curtis had heard the front door close violently; and the drawing
of the bolts afterwards convinced him that the house was cleared of its
invaders. He accordingly descended the stairs, laughing heartily now
that the immediate peril had been averted by the prowess of the Captain.
The resplendent footman was following close behind his master—very
anxious to solicit his wages and his discharge there and then, and only
prevented from acting thus abruptly by the formidable presence of
Captain O'Blunderbuss.

"Now, my frinds," exclaimed this gallant gentleman, who was quite in his
element under existing circumstances, "the house is in a complate state
of siege! Ye must look to me as the commander of the garrison. So let
the area and the ground-floor windows be all properly fastened: take
care of the back door, wherever it leads to—and, be Jasus! we'll keep
the rascals out! I know 'em well! They'll be thrying all manner of
dodges to get in: but they'll find themselves as mistaken as the old
lady was when she scratched the bed-post and thought she was scratching
her head."

Then, with wonderful alacrity, Captain O'Blunderbuss hastened to
superintend the arrangements and the precautions which he had briefly
suggested. He examined the windows in the drawing room—he descended to
the kitchen—went out into the area—poked his nose into the
coal-cellar—inspected the yard at the back—issued his orders—saw that
they were executed—and then drank off half a tumbler of whiskey neat,
both as a slight refreshment after the exertions of the evening, and as
a token of his satisfaction at the various measures which he had adopted
with a view to convert the house into an impregnable fortress.

By this time Mrs. Curtis had made up her mind to recover from her fit;
but she was so dreadfully shocked at the exposure which had taken place
before the servants, that she retired to her bed-chamber forthwith.

The Captain and Frank then sat down to hold, as the former gentleman
expressed it, "a council of war-r-r;" and as one bottle of whiskey had
been emptied, and there was not another in the house, the martial
gentleman was kind and condescending enough to put up with gin, of which
exhilirating fluid he found, to his great satisfaction, there was a
large supply in the cellar.

"What the devil would you have me do in this cursed embarrassment?"
asked Frank.

"Be Jasus! and I'll jest tell ye now," answered the Captain. "Let me
see?—this is Thuesday. Well, we must maintain the siege until Sunday;
and then you must give the traps leg bail into another counthy. Whose
furnitur-r is it in the house?"

"Why—it's ours, and it isn't," responded Frank.

"Och! and be asy now—I understand ye, my boy!" cried the Captain. "It
isn't paid fur, ye mane—but possission is nine points of the law; and,
be the holy poker-r! we'll make it the whole twilve. Jest allow me to
carry ye through this little affair. Next Sunday night, me lad, ye must
be off into Surrey with the lady and little ones; and lave me to manage
here. On Monday, at the top of the mornin', I'll have in a broker and
sell off every stick; and I'll bring ye over the proceeds like a man of
honour-r as I am."

"So far, so good," said Frank. "But how are we to get things to eat
between this and Sunday, if no one is to stir out of the place?"

"Is it ayting ye mane, when there's three gallons of gin in the house?"
demanded Captain O' Blunderbuss, with something like indignation in his
tone and manner.

"Well, but the wife and the children can't live upon gin, Captain,"
observed Frank; "even though the servants should have no objection."

"Not live upon gin, me boy!" vociferated Captain O'Blunderbuss, in a
state of astonishment as complete and unfeigned as if some one had just
shown him his own name in the Army List, or presented him with the
title-deeds of his often vaunted Irish estates: "not live upon gin,
Misther Curtis!" he repeated, surveying Frank as if this young gentleman
were actually taking leave of his senses. "Show me the discontended
mortal, my frind, that says he _won't_ live upon gin, and I'll jest——"

"Just what?" asked Frank, somewhat dismayed at this irascibility on the
part of his companion.

"I'll skin him—by the holy poker-r!" cried Captain O'Blunderbuss,
rapping his clenched fist violently upon the table.

There was a long pause, during which the two gentlemen emptied and
refilled their glasses.

"Be the way, me boy," suddenly exclaimed the Captain, as if an idea had
just struck him, "is that old uncle of yours in town at present?"

"Yes: he came back some days ago, I understand," replied Frank.

"D'ye think he'd bleed?" asked the Captain: "for 'tis supplies to carry
on the war-r in an iligant style for a long time to come, that we want;
since now that we're once on a frindly footing together, Curtis, I'm not
the boy to desert ye in your throubles."

He might have added that he would stick to Mr. and Mrs. Curtis so long
as they had a bottle of spirits to give, or a shilling to lend him.

"I really think that it's very likely you might be able to draw the old
bird," said Frank: "and to tell you the truth, I had already entertained
the idea. Besides, he won't _dare_ refuse _you_, Captain."

"Be Jasus! I should take it as an insult if he did," exclaimed the man
of war, caressing his moustache. "But let us strike the ir-r-ron while
it is hot. Dthraw up a letter to Sir-r Christopher-r in your best style;
and I'll be off with it at once. Trust me for getting out of the
garrison safe and coming back again in the same way; but mind and keep a
sharp watch while I'm gone."

Frank promised compliance with this injunction, and hastened to pen a
letter to his uncle, the Captain kindly undertaking to dictate the sense
in which it was to be written.

The precious document ran as follows:—

  "MY DEAR UNCLE,

  "I hope this will find you blooming, as it leaves me; and as you and
  me have both made ourselves happy by marriage, don't let us have any
  more animosity between us. In fact, I will show you at once that I
  mean to forget the past, and treat you as an uncle ought to be
  treated by his dutiful nephew.

  "Well, then, to come to the point. My friend, Captain O'Blunderbuss,
  whom you have the pleasure of knowing, and who improves vastly on
  acquaintance, has kindly lent me five hundred pounds, just to settle
  a few pressing debts which I had contracted during the time that I
  was so unfortunate as to be on bad terms with you; and as the
  Captain wants his money again, and I don't like to tell my wife so
  soon after marriage that I owe this sum, you will greatly oblige me
  by giving the Captain a cheque for the amount—or else Bank notes at
  once—he isn't very particular which, I dare say;—and I will repay
  you the moment I get my quarter's allowance, as the beloved and
  angelic creature, whom I shall have so much pleasure in introducing
  to you and to my dear aunt Charlotte, has promised me seven hundred
  pounds every three months to spend as I like and no questions asked.

  "So no more at present, my dear uncle, from your dutiful, attached,
  obliged, and grateful nephew,

                                                     "FRANCIS CURTIS."

"What do you think of _that_?" demanded Frank triumphantly, when he had
read the letter aloud for the opinion of his friend.

"Is it what I think?" exclaimed the Captain. "Be the power-rs! and it's
as well as I could have done it myself, if I'd studied it for a week."

"Thanks to your suggestions," added Frank. "And now I'll just seal and
direct it, while you finish your glass."

Captain O'Blunderbuss _did_ drain the contents of his tumbler, as Frank
foresaw that he would do; for it was one of that gallant gentleman's
maxims never to waste good liquor;—and, being thus fortified with
upwards of a pint of whiskey and ditto of gin—the effects of which were
evident only in the fiery hue of his complexion, but by no means in his
gait nor speech—he prepared to set out on his expedition to the dwelling
of Sir Christopher Blunt.

"Frank," said he, putting on his foraging cap and conveying the letter
to his pocket, "take the poker-r."

"The poker!" repealed the young man, with mingled surprise and dismay.

"And what else would ye take to dash out the brains of any man who
should thry to spring in at the door while I go out!" exclaimed
O'Blunderbuss. "That's right, me boy," he added, as Curtis shouldered
the fire-implement. "Not that it's likely for any of them bastes of the
ear-rth to be lur-rking about so soon afther the little affair of jest
now: but it's as well to be on our guar-rd."

Accordingly, Frank Curtis stood behind the front door, poker in hand, as
the redoubtable officer issued forth; but the coast was clear so far as
the retainers of the Sheriff were concerned; and the peace of the
garrison remained unmolested.

Frank closed, chained, and bolted the door again; and Captain
O'Blunderbuss wended his way with an awful swagger down the street,
frightening by his fierce looks all the small children whom he happened
to encounter.




                             CHAPTER LXXIV.
                      THREE MONTHS AFTER MARRIAGE.


Sir Christopher Blunt was pacing his drawing-room in a very agitated
manner; and the expression of his countenance was so ludicrous, in its
reflection of the thoughts that were stirring within his breast, that it
was impossible to say whether he was influenced by commingled hope and
suspense on the one hand, or by fear and shame on the other.

It was pretty evident that he had not been out all day; for he was
unshaven—and he wore the light blue dressing-gown, the bright red
trousers, and the scarlet silk cap, which his dear wife had devised as a
most becoming morning costume, but which gave him the appearance of a
Mussulman quack-doctor, as the golden lustre of the handsome lamp
brought forth all the flaunting effects of the garb.

Advancing towards the time-piece, Sir Christopher compared his watch
with that dial.

"A quarter to nine!" he murmured to himself, as he restored the huge
gold repeater to his fob; "and the doctors have been an hour with her
already! Well—I never heard of such a thing before—three months after
marriage—it's impossible—quite impossible! Dr. Wagtail is a very clever
man, no doubt—but he's wrong for once in his life. If it was six or
seven months, now—one might suppose that a premature birth—but three
months——"

And the worthy knight paced the apartment in a manner which showed that
"he didn't know wha the deuce to make of it."

"Well," he continued, again speaking in a murmuring tone, after a short
pause, "it may be so, after all! For really science does discover such
wonderful things now-a-days, and the world seems to undergo so many
strange changes, that upon my word I should not be at all surprised if,
on going out some morning, I was to see the people walking on their
heads along Jermyn Street. Ah! things weren't like this when I was a
boy! But then I must recollect that I live in the fashionable quarter of
the town _now_, and ladies at the West End ain't like those vulgar
citizens' wives. Thank God that I didn't get in for Portsoken! It was
quite enough to have filled the high and responsible office of Sheriff,
and to have received the distinguished honour of knighthood——But, three
months!" exclaimed Sir Christopher, interrupting himself, and flying
back with ludicrous abruptness to the idea that was uppermost in his
mind; "three months! And, after all, who knows but that it's the fashion
at the West End; and I'm sure that if it is, I shall be very glad that
it has happened so. And yet the most extraordinary part of the business
is that—when I suspected something of the kind, and just hinted at it to
Lady Blunt—she—she scratched my face to pieces for me. Very
extraordinary, indeed!"

Sir Christopher now became lost in a maze of conjecture, vague
suspicion, and bewilderment, through which he certainly could not find
his way; and heaven only knows how long he might have remained in the
labyrinth, had not Dr. Wagtail appeared to his rescue.

"Well, doctor?" exclaimed the knight, hastening to meet the physician.

"My dear Sir Christopher, I congratulate you!" said Dr. Wagtail,
considering it decent and becoming to assume a joyous and smirking
expression of countenance for the occasion, while he wrung the knight's
hand with most affectionate warmth: "for it is my duty," he continued,
now suddenly adopting the pompous and important style of the fashionable
physician to a rich family,—"for it is my duty, Sir Christopher, to
announce to you that you are the happy father of a charming boy, with
whom her ladyship has been kind enough to present you."

[Illustration]

"A boy—eh, doctor?" faltered the knight. "But of course it isn't—I
mean—it can't be—a—a—full grown child?"

"Well, my dear Sir Christopher," responded Dr. Wagtail, who perfectly
understood where the shoe pinched, "from what Mr. Snipekin, the talented
and much-sought-after accoucheur whom I deemed it prudent to call in
just now,—from what Mr. Snipekin says, Sir Christopher, I do believe
that the dear little creature has come a leetle before his time. But
pray don't make yourself uneasy on that account, my dear Sir
Christopher; for the sweet babe is in no danger, and is an uncommonly
fine child, to be sure!"

"Then it is a little before its time, doctor—eh!" said Sir Christopher.
"But—doctor—you and me are old friends, and you can speak candidly, you
know——and—the truth is——you must remember that—that—our marriage only
took place—three months ago—and it seems to me rather unusual—not that I
suspect dear Lady Blunt's virtue for a moment—on the contrary—I know her
to be a perfect paragon of morality: at the same time—three months,
doctor—and a fine boy——"

"My dear Sir Christopher," responded Dr. Wagtail, foreseeing that the
amount of his fee would depend vastly upon the state of mind in which
the Knight might be when he should give it, and acting moreover upon his
favourite principle of humouring the whims and wishes of all persons
with whom he had any professional connexion,—"my dear Sir Christopher,"
he said, looking very solemn indeed, "your avocations in the world have
not allowed you time to dive into the mysteries of science and
investigate the arcana of learning—much less to pursue with
sesquipedalian regularity the routine of that course of study which, in
the abstract, and also considered in a purely professional point of
view—and having due regard to the wonders of physiological science,—in
fact—ahem!—you understand me, Sir Christopher?"

"Ye-e-s, doctor," drawled forth the bewildered knight. "But I think you
were going to satisfy me—you know—about the three months—and a fine
boy—doctor——"

"I was coming to that point, my dear Sir Christopher," said Dr. Wagtail.
"In fact, I was about to observe that _physiology_, properly considered
in its etymological signification, comprehends the entire science of
Nature; but I must impress upon your mind, Sir Christopher, that the
ratiocinative propensities of modern physicians have induced them,
doubtless after much profound cogitation, to restrict the term to that
department of physical knowledge relating, referring, and belonging
exclusively to organic existence. And thus, Sir Christopher——ahem!—you
follow me?"

"Oh! quite easy—indeed!" returned the knight, wondering in his own mind
whether it were dog Latin that stunned his ears, and also how any one
individual could possibly pick up and retain such an immense amount of
knowledge. "But—the point was, doctor——"

"Precisely, my dear Sir Christopher!" exclaimed the physician, looking
as wise as all the seven sages of Greece put together: "it was to that
very point which I was coming;—but I thought that a detailed and full
explanation would prove most satisfactory to you."

"Oh! decidedly, doctor:—and I am sure I am very much obliged to you for
taking the trouble to—to——"

"Well, then, my dear Sir Christopher," interrupted the fashionable
physician; "all my premises being granted, and the arguments which I
have adduced being fully admitted, I think that the demonstration is
easy enough. Consequently, Sir Christopher, it is quite apparent that a
child _may_ be born three months after marriage; at the same time, I
think I can assure you, that in future your excellent and amiable lady
will not be quite so premature in her accouchements."

"It is not unusual, then, doctor, amongst your female patients?" said
Sir Christopher, who was not entirely satisfied yet.

"It is by no means unusual that a _first_ child should be born a few
months after marriage, my dear Sir Christopher," answered the physician.

"And perhaps—perhaps, it's rather fashionable than otherwise?" asked the
knight, in a hesitating manner.

"Well—I don't know but what it is, Sir Christopher," replied Dr.
Wagtail, taking a pinch of snuff. "And now that your mind is completely
set at rest on this point—as indeed it must and ought to be, after the
full and professional explanation which I have given you,—I will return
to the chamber of your amiable and excellent lady, and see whether you
can be permitted to visit her for a few moments."

"Do, my dear doctor. And, doctor," cried the Knight, as a sudden idea
struck him; "pray don't—I mean, it is not necessary to let Lady Blunt
know that—that—in a word—that I asked you any questions——"

"Oh! certainly not, my dear Sir Christopher," exclaimed the physician;
and he then quitted the room.

"Well," thought the knight to himself, as soon as he was again alone;
"and so I am the father—the happy father,"—and he made a slight
grimace,—"of a fine boy. A fine boy—eh! 'Pon my honour, I'm very
glad—very glad, indeed! A son and heir—a little Christopher! How very
kind of my dear wife: it is a tie which will bind us together—perhaps
soften her temper a leetle—and make her more sparing in the use of her
finger nails. Well—if it's only for that, the coming of this child will
be a great blessing—a very great blessing. But I really do wish the dear
babe had made its appearance about six months later. Not that it matters
much—seeing that I must be its father, and that the thing is rather
fashionable than otherwise. Besides—Doctor Wagtail is such a clever
man—such a very clever man—and his explanation was so completely
satisfactory—so very lucid and clear—a fool might understand it. Well, I
really ought to be a very happy fellow!"

But all the knight's attempts at self-persuasion and self-consolation
were futile: there was a weight upon his spirits that he could not throw
off—and in the depths of his secret soul there was an awful misgiving,
to the existence of which he vainly endeavoured to blind his mental
vision. He strove to be gay—he tried to establish the conviction that he
was perfectly happy and contented—he did all he could to make himself
admit _to_ himself that the doctor's reasoning was conclusive:—still he
could not shut out from his heart the ever recurring thought that the
physician's argument might be very conclusive indeed, but that he was
totally unable to understand a word of it.

Then came the fear of ridicule;—and this was the most galling sentiment
of all. But, on the other hand, there was an apprehension which was not
without its weight: namely, the anger of his wife, in case she should
discover that he had dared to doubt her virtue.

Thus, by the time the doctor came back, the silly old gentleman had
determined to take matters just as he found them: and, though half
suspecting that there was something wrong in the business, he resolved
to maintain as contented an air as possible, as the only means of
combatting ridicule should he experience it, or of quieting his wife
should she hear of any thing to excite her irritability.

"We are getting on so well, my dear Sir Christopher," said the
physician, "that we can see you for a few minutes; but we cannot bear
any loud speaking as yet, and we establish it as a condition that you do
not attempt to kiss our child more than once, for fear you should set it
crying and make our head ache."

Sir Christopher attempted a pleasant smile, and followed Dr. Wagtail to
the chamber of the indisposed lady.

The moment the door was opened, the shrill but nevertheless apparently
half-stifled cry of a newborn child saluted the knight's ears; and,
hastening up to the bed, he bent over and kissed his wife.

"See what heaven has sent us, Sir Christopher!" said the lady, in a low
and weak voice, well suited to the solemnity of her observation; and,
slightly uncovering the bed-clothes, she exhibited a tiny object,
looking amazingly red, but which she assured him was "the sweetest
little face in the world."

"That it is—the pretty creatur!" observed a hoarse voice, which appeared
to emanate from the chimney, but which in reality came from no further
off than the fire-place, and belonged to an elderly woman of tremendous
corpulency, who was arranging some baby-linen on a clothes-horse. "I've
nussed a many ladies," continued the stout proprietress of the hoarse
voice, "but never such a patient dear as your'n, Sir Christopher: and I
never see such a angel at its birth as that babby. Why," continued the
woman, advancing towards the knight and giving him a good long stare,
while, potent odours of gin assailed his nostrils all the while, "I do
declare that the babby is as like his father as he can be."

Sir Christopher "grinned horribly a ghastly smile," and slipped
half-a-guinea into the nurse's hand, at which proof of his generosity
she dropped him a curtsey that shook the house so profoundly as nearly
to drop her through the floor.

"Yes—the babby's as like you, Sir, as two peas is like each other,"
continued the nurse, while Dr. Wagtail and the accoucheur exchanged
rapid but intelligent glances at the excellence of the idea, and Sir
Christopher grunted like a learned pig which has just put its snout upon
the right card in a show. "I'm sure, Sir, you ought to be wery much
obleeged to missus for presenting you with such a cherub. Poor dear! she
had a sad time of it—but she bore it like a saint, as she is. Won't you
let master have just one kiss at the little dear, my lady?"

The saint was just at that moment wondering whether the child, as it
grew up, would bear any resemblance to a certain tall footman in a
certain family at the West End: but why such an idea should enter her
head, we must leave to the readers to divine.

The nurse repeated her question, adding, "Do let the little dear's pa
just kiss it once; and then we must turn him out, you know, ma'am, for
the present."

"Yes, Sir Christopher—you may kiss the little cherub, if you like," said
Lady Blunt, in a tone which was meant to impress on her husband's mind a
full sense of the favour conferred upon him: "but pray don't make the
sweet child squeal out—for you're so rough."

The knight accordingly touched the babe with his lips, which he smacked
to make believe that the kiss was a hearty one in spite of his wife's
injunction; and, this ceremony being completed, he was turned out of the
room by the nurse, whose power on such occasions amounts, as all fathers
know, to an absolute despotism.

"The nurse" is a species exhibiting but little variety. Stout and in
good spirits she must always be; and bottled stout and ardent spirits
she highly esteems. She moreover has an excellent appetite, and is fond
of many meals in the course of the day. She awakes at five or six in the
morning, and makes herself strong hot coffee and a couple of rounds of
toast, putting a great deal of sugar to the former, and a vast quantity
of butter to the latter. At nine she is ready for her _breakfast_—the
first meal not being so denominated and in fact considered as nothing at
all. If her mistress be awake, the nurse will amuse her with innumerable
stories relative to her former places; and she will not fail to make
herself out the very best nurse in the world. She will describe how one
lady was inconsolable because she could not have her at the desired
time; how another lady would eat nothing unless prepared by the said
nurse's own hands; how a third would have died if it had not been for
her care and attention; and how she never slept a wink nor put her
clothes off once for a whole month while in attendance upon another
lady. Then she is sure to be well connected and to have seen better
days: and if asked for her address, she is certain to reply, "Lord bless
you, my dear: all you have to do is to send and inquire for me in
such-and-such a street, and any body will tell you where I live." In
fact she is as well known in her quarter of the town as the Queen is at
Pimlico. But—to continue the category of meals—at eleven o'clock she is
quite prepared for a mutton-chop and half a pint of stout; and she
forces a basin of gruel down her mistress's throat, accompanied with
many a "Poor dear, I'm sure you must want it!" At two o'clock she has a
good appetite for her dinner; and then she manages to get on pretty
comfortably till tea-time. The nurse is very fond of her tea, and likes
it strong. After tea, as her mistress most likely sleeps, she gets hold
of an odd volume of a romance, or a newspaper not more than a week old;
and it is ten to one that she believes every word she reads in both. If
her mistress happen to be awake, the nurse will comment upon what she
reads. The newspaper, especially, is sure to set her talking on the
"hardness of the times," and arouse all her reminiscences of "when she
was a gal." She will often express her mysterious wonder at "what the
world is coming to," and invariably speaks as if every thing had
undergone a great change for the worst. She is sure to know a poor
family whom she is mainly instrumental in saving from starvation; and
she is equally certain to descant upon the necessity of sobriety and
frugality amongst the working classes. Then she remembers that it is
time "for missus to take her medicine;" but when she goes to the shelf
or the cupboard, she stays a little longer there than is quite necessary
to pour out the medicine aforesaid; and, as she approaches the bed to
administer the same, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and
her eyes are observed to water. The invalid lady may now thank her stars
if she be not assailed with an odour of ardent spirit while she receives
her medicine from the hand of the nurse. Well, the time passes away
somehow or another until the supper hour; and it is a remarkable fact,
that the nurse never seems wearied of the monotony of her avocation.
But, then, in the evening she manages to get half-an-hour's chat with
the servants down stairs; and the chat is rendered the more pleasant by
a little drop of something short out of a black bottle which the cook
mysteriously produces from the cupboard. On these occasions the nurse
exhibits all her importance. She assures the listening domestics that it
was very fortunate _she_ happened to be sent for to attend upon
"missus," as if any other nurse had been called in the results would
have been most unpleasantly different. She then expresses her opinion of
the medical attendant; and her estimation of this gentleman is
invariably regulated by the amount of his liberality towards her. If he
gave her the odd shillings which accompanied the sovereigns in the
little piece of paper containing the fee, then he is sure to be a very
clever man indeed; but if he forgot this important duty, then in the
nurse's estimation he is certain to be a most unfit doctor to call in;
and "it was quite a wonder that he didn't kill poor dear missus." Having
thus delivered her opinion, which is received as gospel by the servants,
she hastens up stairs again, and relates to her mistress her own version
of the conversation which has taken place down below. After supper she
no longer partakes of ardent spirit on the sly, and unblushingly brews
herself a potent glass. But then she is sure to have an excuse—such a
dreadful pain in the stomach, or a bad cold; and her mistress, whose
peace of mind depends on keeping her attendant in a good humour, says in
a mild, languid voice, "Do make yourself comfortable, nurse!" And the
nurse obeys the hint to the very letter. The liquor induces her to
descant upon spirits in general; and she is sure to inform her mistress
that the _Duke of Wellington_ doesn't sell near such good things as the
_Duck and Drake_; but that "the beautifullest gin is at the public round
the corner." Sometimes—and this is one of the worst features in her
character—the nurse will take it into her head to relate gloomy stories
to her mistress; and when once she gets on this subject, the devil
himself could not stop her. She tells how she knew a lady who went on
very well for ten days, and then popped off all on a sudden; or else she
was once in a house which caught on fire in the middle of the night, and
the poor lady and child were burnt to death. If the husband should
happen to be out late, the nurse, when she is in this gloomy vein, talks
mysteriously of the danger of the streets; and says how she knew a
gentleman who was run over by an omnibus during the fog. But, in justice
to the nurse, we must observe, that these horrible subjects are not very
frequently touched on by her—and only when she gets somewhat maudlin
with too much ardent spirit or bottled stout. For the first week she is
in her place, no one comes to see her; but in the course of the second,
she is visited by her married daughter and her married daughter's eldest
girl. During the third week, the nurse is constantly wanted by people
who come to see her, or inquire for her; and at the beginning of the
fourth the front door bell is rung frantically, and the nurse hears,
with a countenance so innocent that it is almost impossible to think she
has pre-arranged the whole matter, that Mrs. So-and-so, whom she has
pledged herself to attend upon, is just taken in labour, and she (the
nurse) must go to her directly. Her mistress is by this time well enough
to do without her; and the nurse receives her full month's wages for
three week's attendance.

But let us return to Sir Christopher Blunt, whom we left at that
pleasant point when, having undergone the ceremony of embracing the babe
which, according to his lady's account, heaven had sent him, he wended
his way back to the drawing-room.

At that precise moment Sir Christopher would have given just one half of
his fortune to be enabled to undo all he had done three months
previously. He had married in haste, and he now repented at leisure. But
it was too late to retract; and he found, to his infinite mortification,
that he must "grin and bear it."

The accoucheur shortly entered the room to report that "all was going on
as well as could be expected;" and, having received his fee, he took his
departure.

Soon afterwards the pompous and self-sufficient Dr. Wagtail made _his_
appearance, and received _his_ fee, which, out of sheer ostentation, the
knight rendered as liberal as the physician had anticipated.

These little matters being disposed of, Sir Christopher rang the bell,
ordered up a bottle of claret and was about to console himself with the
solitary enjoyment of the same, when an astounding double knock and
tremendous ring at the front-door startled him so fearfully that he
spilt the wine over his red trousers and nearly upset the table on which
his elbow was leaning.

"Who can this be?" he exclaimed aloud.

"Captain O'Blunderbuss!" cried the footman, throwing open the door as
wide as possible to afford ingress to the swaggering officer.




                             CHAPTER LXXV.
                      THE KNIGHT AND THE CAPTAIN.


"Captain O'Blunderbuss!" murmured Sir Christopher, in a faint tone, as
he sank back dismayed into his seat.

"Be the power-rs! and how are ye, my hearty old cock?" was the polite
salutation of the gallant gentleman, as, advancing close up to the
knight, he grasped his hand and shook it with as much energy as if he
were a policeman carrying off a starving mendicant to the station-house
for the _heinous crime_ of begging.

"Thank you, Captain—I—I'm pretty well," responded Sir Christopher.

"Well, that's a blessing, be Jasus!" cried the Captain, coolly taking a
seat. "Is it claret that you're after dhrinking, Sir-r Christopher?" he
demanded, taking up the bottle and holding it between his eyes and the
lamp. "Iligant stuff in its way—but not my lush. Have ye no potheen in
the house, Sir Christopher-r?"

"Potheen?" repeated the knight, not understanding the name nor half
liking the intrusion.

"Is it you, Sir-r Christopher, that don't know what rale Irish potheen
is?" cried the Captain. "Why, there's niver a child in ould Ir-reland
that can't spell potheen. Whiskey, Sir Christopher—whiskey! But I'll
save ye the throuble of ringing for it yourself:"—and, with these words,
Captain O'Blunderbuss applied his hand most vigorously to the bell-pull.

The footman answered the summons.

"Your masther says, sirrah," exclaimed the Captain, "that ye're to bring
up a bottle of the best Irish whiskey—rale potheen—with a tumbler, a
spoon, a lemon, hot water, and sugar and look shar-rp about it, too!"

The domestic retired, and Sir Christopher stared in amazement at the
Captain; for the worthy knight was so astounded by the free and easy
manners of his visitor, that he was not quite certain whether he, Sir
Christopher Blunt, was actually in his own house at the moment, or
whether he was in some public coffee-room where every one had a right to
order the waiter about as he chose.

"I hope you're not offinded with me, Sir Christopher-r, by making myself
at home?" said the Captain: "but it isn't me that's the boy to stand on
any ceremony."

The knight thought that his visitor could never have said a truer thing
in his life.

"Not I, be Jasus!" continued Captain O'Blunderbuss. "But thin I'm the
man to let others do the same with me; and if you should ever find
yourself in the wilds of Conamar-r-ra, Sir Christopher, jist ask the
first naked urchin ye meet with to show the way to Bluntherbuss Park,
and see if I won't trate ye as ye deserve to be trated. Blood and
murther! it's me that keeps open house save whin the sheriff's-officers
are prowling about the neighbourhood, which is generally from the 1st of
January to the 31st of December in every year."

The servant now made his appearance with the whiskey and the _et
ceteras_ which the gallant gentleman had ordered; and the said gallant
gentleman straightway began to brew himself some toddy, with the air of
an individual who had had nothing stronger than mild ale to drink all
day long.

"May I request to be informed——" began Sir Christopher, his courage
reviving now that the Captain's visit appeared to be one altogether of
an amicable nature.

"Faith! and is it to be informed ye'd be?" ejaculated O'Blunderbuss, as
he stirred his whiskey-and-water up with the spoon. "But don't alarm
yourself, Sir Christopher-r: my call this evening was merely jist to ask
ye how ye do and present ye with a little note from that rale broth of a
boy, Misther Frank Curtis."

"Frank—my nephew!" exclaimed Sir Christopher: "what can he want with me?
Surely 'tis not to congratulate——But, no—he can't have heard of _that_
yet."

Be the power-rs! and is there any thing to congratulate ye upon, Sir
Christopher?" cried the Captain. "Have ye been made a baronet—or elected
an alderman?"

"I would have you know, Captain O'Blunderbuss," said the knight, in a
solemn tone, "that I was once so unadvised as to put up for Portsoken——"

Be Jasus! have nothing to do with Port—it lies heavy on the stomach, my
frind!" interrupted the gallant officer. "Dhrink potheen—and you'll
niver grow old nor yet gray. But we were spaking of congratulations. Is
it possible that your dear wife has tumbled down stairs and broken her
neck? or has she presented ye with a pledge of her affiction?"

"Since you must know, Captain O'Blunderbuss," responded the Knight, "it
is——the latter."

"I give ye joy, old brick!" vociferated the gallant officer and seizing
Sir Christopher's hand, he subjected it to such a process of violent
shaking, that the victim almost yelled out with agony. "But from what
Frank tould me," continued the Captain, at length relinquishing the hand
which he had so unmercifully squeezed, "I thought you hadn't been
married long enough for such a happy evint to take place. However—I wish
ye joy, my frind; and now to business. Read this little bit of a note,
and ye'll be charmed with the kind way in which Frank Curtis spakes of
ye."

The knight received the letter which the Captain handed to him; but ere
he had time to break the seal, the door opened and the nurse made her
appearance.

"Well, nurse—what is it?" demanded Sir Christopher.

"Please, sir," was the reply, "missus wants to know who it was as come
with such a chemendous knock and ring that it has set her poor head
a-aching ready to split, and the blessed babby a-crying as if he was in
fits."

"Tell your misthress, nurse," exclaimed the visitor, in an imperious
tone, "that it's Captain O'Bluntherbuss, of Bluntherbuss Park,
Ir-r-reland," with an awful rattling of the r's; "and prisint my best
rispicts to your lady and the babby."

"Thank'ee, sir," replied the nurse; "but missus says, Sir Christopher,
please, that she hopes you won't make no noise in the house."

"Very well—very well, my good woman!" exclaimed the knight hastily.
"Tell your mistress I shall not be engaged long, and will come up and
see her presently."

"Wery good, sir;"—and the nurse withdrew.

Sir Christopher then proceeded to open the letter; but it was with
trembling hands,—for the visit of the nurse had thrown him into a most
unpleasant state of nervousness—he being well aware that he should
receive a blowing up on account of the Captain's call,—although no one
could possibly wish more devoutly than himself that such a call had not
taken place.

"Ye thrimble, Sir Christopher!" cried the Captain; "but there's no need
to be alar-r-med—for your nev-vy hasn't sent ye a challenge. So let your
mind be at pace—and read the little note at your leisure. I'm in no
hurry for an hour or two."

And indeed the Captain appeared to be quite comfortable; for he brewed
himself a second glass of whiskey and water—threw some coals upon the
fire—and trimmed the lamp in such a way that the flame rose above the
globe.

Meantime Sir Christopher perused the letter with great attention, and
did not altogether seem to relish its contents.

"I really cannot oblige my nephew in this respect," he said, fidgetting
the paper about in his hands. "The truth is—he has not behaved
altogether well to me—nor to Lady Blunt;—and if I was to do this for
him, Lady Blunt would be so angry. He must fight his own way in the
world, Captain O'Blunderbuss, as I did; for I have no hesitation to
admit that I rose from nothing—indeed, I glory in the fact: and having
filled the high and responsible office of Sheriff, with credit to myself
and advantage to my fellow-citizens——"

"Damn the high office of Shiriff!" exclaimed the gallant gentleman,
striking his fist upon the table. "I want my money—and it isn't Captain
O'Bluntherbuss that ye'll be afther putting off in this snaking
fashion."

"But, my dear sir," said the knight, in a tone of gentle remonstrance,
"_I_ don't owe you the money."

"Be Jasus! but your nev-vy does—and therefore it's all in the family!"
cried the Captain.

"That is a proposition I cannot agree to, my dear sir," returned the
knight.

"D' ye mane to differ from me?" demanded the Captain, looking
desperately ferocious.

"Why—as for that—I—I——"

"D' ye mane to differ from me, I repate?" vociferated Captain
O'Blunderbuss, again striking the table with his fist, but so violently
this time that the bottles and glasses danced a hornpipe: "answer me
that, Sir-r Christopher-r!"

"I don't wish to offend you, Captain—I couldn't wish to do that; but,"
added the knight, "I must beg leave most respectfully to dissent from
the proposition that I am in any way answerable for the debts of Mr.
Curtis. And since he has married a lady of fortune, let him be candid
with her at once; and——"

"Is it candid that he's to be, when the wife would kick up hell and
blazes?" cried O'Blunderbuss. "But I tell you purty frankly, my frind,
that if ye don't shell out the seven hunthred pounds——"

"Seven hundred!" ejaculated Sir Christopher. "It says only five hundred
in the letter."

"I don't care two r-raps for the letther," answered the Captain: "all I
know is that Misther Frank Curtis, your nev-vy, had seven hunthred of
me—and, be Jasus! I'll have seven hunthred of you."

"It can't be done," said Sir Christopher doggedly.

"Then, be the holy poker-r! I'll shoot ye to-morrow mornin'!"
vociferated the gallant officer: "so name your frind; and I'll take care
that ye shan't be afther shir-r-king this time as ye did when ye had to
mate my frind Morthaunt."

"Really, Captain O'Blunderbuss, this strange conduct on your
part—is—is—" stammered the knight, scarcely knowing what to say or do;
while his countenance became elongated to an awful extent.

"Sthrange!—sthrange! do ye say?" exclaimed the Captain. "Why, ye're
adding insult to injury, man. But don't desayve yourself—ye won't come
the counterfeit-crank over me, be Jasus! I'm not the boy to be bullied
afther this fashion, Sir Christopher-r. So shell out the eight
hunthred—or be the Lor-r-d Harry!——"

"Eight hundred!" murmured the miserable knight, now cruelly alarmed at
the ferocious manner and the progressive attempt at extortion on the
part of his visitor.

"Eight hunthred is what I lent, and eight hunthred is what I'll have
back," said the Captain, in a determined tone: "and if ye're afther
denying your debts of honour-r, Sir Christopher, I'll make such an
example of ye as shall let all the wor-rld know what ye are—as soon as
I've shot ye dead, which I'll do in the mornin'."

"You surely wouldn't commit such a crime—without—without just
provocation?" urged the knight, in a coaxing manner.

"I'll not hear another word of palthry excuse, sirrah," replied the
Captain, starting from his seat; "and if the money isn't forthcoming in
the twinkling of a bed-post, I'll flay ye first and shoot ye
aftherwards."

"Oh! dear—Oh! dear," said the wretched Sir Christopher: "what shall I
do?—I wouldn't mind the five hundred that my nephew asks for—since he
promises so faithfully to pay me again· but eight hundred——"

"Nine!" thundered the Captain. "D'ye mane to tell me as good as that I'm
a liar-r, and that I can't recollect amounts?—Be Jasus! I niver was so
insulthed in my life—and nothing but blood can wash it away!"

"Blood!" murmured Sir Christopher: "my blood! and I the father of a
family, as I may say."

"So much the more dishonour-r-able for ye to dispute a just debt, and
thry to shir-rk off in this bastely fashion!" cried the Captain,
twirling his moustache, and eyeing Sir Christopher in a way which made
the latter tremble in every limb. "I always thought that ye was a man
famous for your straight-for'ard dalings; but I'm desayved—grossly
desayved;—and I'll sind my frind to ye to-morrow mornin', before you've
had time to break the shell of your first egg at breakfast."

"Well, Captain—to oblige _you_," said Sir Christopher, "I don't mind if
I write a cheque for five hundred pounds; but I positively will give no
more—I won't indeed—I can't."

"Put down the palthry five hunthred, then, on the dhraft," exclaimed the
Captain; "and I'll make Misther Curtis fork me out the rest at his
convaynience."

The miserable Sir Christopher, though feeling that he had been
completely bullied into the settlement of the demand made upon him,
nevertheless stood in such awful dismay of the warlike Irishman, that he
wrote a cheque for the five hundred pounds, which said cheque the
Captain secured about his person, exclaiming, "And now, my frind, I'll
look over all the insulting words ye have applied to me this evening.
But, be the power-r-s! if I hadn't a great respict for ye, I'd make a
mummy of ye before ye was twelve hours oulder."

Having thus spoken, the Captain tossed off the remainder of his
whiskey-and-water, shook the knight violently by the hand once more, and
took his departure, just as the nurse was coming down to desire that Sir
Christopher would get rid of his guest and send up the keys of the
wine-cellar to her ladyship.

Now, strange as it may appear to the reader,—considering all that they
know relative to the character of Captain O'Blunderbuss,—it is
nevertheless a fact that he never once thought of appropriating to his
own use the amount just extorted from the knight. He was a man who would
not hesitate to get into debt, without the least intention of ever
paying the same,—he moreover thought that he had accomplished a highly
meritorious deed in extorting the five hundred pounds from Sir
Christopher: but he was honourable after his own fashion—that is to say,
he would scorn to perpetrate an actual robbery, or to betray the trust
reposed in him by an accomplice. He was, in fact, one of those curious,
but not uncommon beings, who might be trusted with a thousand pounds to
convey to the bank for a friend, but who would borrow eighteen-pence
without the remotest intention of ever repaying it, and who thought that
the most brilliant act a gentleman could achieve was to chouse a
creditor.

Accordingly, the clock had scarcely struck eleven, and Frank Curtis was
already beginning to get uneasy, when the Captain's thundering knock at
the front door in Baker Street, proclaimed his return; and in a few
moments the young gentleman was made acquainted with the success
experienced by his friend.

"And now, be the holy poker-r! we'll make a night of it," said the
Captain, when, the front-door having been duly secured, the two worthies
were once more seated in the dining-room: "and it's myself that'll tell
ye stories and sing ye rale Irish songs to keep ye awake, my boy."

And a night they did make of it, heaven knows!—and tremendous inroads
were effected upon the supply of gin then in the "garrison," as the
Captain now termed the house. Such lies, too, as the Captain and Frank
Curtis told each other! until the latter gentleman began to entertain
the pleasing idea that the room was spinning round, and that there were
four candles on the table instead of two. The gallant officer, on the
other hand, carried his liquor like a man who was inaccessible to its
inebriating fumes; and when Curtis fell dead drunk upon the carpet, the
Captain considerately picked him up, tossed him over his shoulder as if
he was a sack of potatoes, and thus transported him to the door of his
wife's bed-room, at which he deposited the senseless gentleman, having
intimated in stentorian tones that Mrs. Curtis would do well to rise and
look to her husband.

The Captain then went down stairs again, finished the bottle last
opened, and, throwing himself on a sofa, fell into a sound sleep.




                             CHAPTER LXXVI.
                 TIM THE SNAMMER AND JOSH PEDLER OUT ON
                               BUSINESS.


He who delights in wandering amongst the mazes of this mighty city of
London,—this wilderness of brick and mortar,—and who can view, with the
eye of a philosopher or a moralizer, the various phases in which the
metropolis is to be considered, may find ample food for reflection, and
much changing interest of scene, if he post himself at that point in the
Borough of Southwark, called Newington Butts.

From this point diverge Blackman Street, the Newington Road, the Borough
Road, and Horsemonger Lane.

Blackman Street and the Newington Road constitute the great thoroughfare
between London Bridge and the _Elephant and Castle_ tavern; and
incalculable are the multitudes—innumerable are the vehicles, which pass
along the busy way,—oh! so busy, because the love of money and the love
of pleasure cause all those comings and goings,—those hurryings hither
and thither,—those departures, and those returns!

What a tremendous conflict of interests,—what a wondrous striving to
accomplish objects in view,—what an energy—what an activity—what an
unwearied industry, are denoted by a great thoroughfare like this! Nor
less does that bustle speak of recreation and enjoyment—parties of
pleasure to end in dissipation—amusement, diversion, and holiday, too
often to be dearly paid for thereafter!

Close by Newington Butts you behold a portion of the wall of the Bench
Prison, with its _chevaux de frise_, denoting rather the criminal prison
than a place of confinement for unfortunate persons. What a horrible
cruelty it is to incarcerate men who are unable to liquidate their
liabilities—as if such immurement would place within their reach the
philosopher's stone. Where one dishonest debtor finds his way thither, a
dozen human beings who are enclosed within that gloomy wall, would
gladly—willingly, acquit themselves of their responsibilities if they
had the means. And shall the law be so framed that, in order to punish
one, it must cruelly oppress twelve individuals? Is such a principle
consistent with common sense, justice, or civilisation? Many and many a
heart has been broken within those walls: many and many a fine spirit
has been crushed down to the very dust; and the man who went into that
prison with honourable feelings and generous sympathies, has gone forth
prepared to play the part of a sneaking swindler. For a creditor to lock
his debtor up in prison, is the same as if a master took away the tools
from a mechanic and said, "Now do your work as usual." The Legislature
does not understand this. It allows an expensive process to take place,
so that the debtor who cannot originally pay 50_l._, for instance, has
his liabilities immediately increased to 60_l._: then, when responding
negatively to the demand for this larger sum, he is taken away from the
avocations by pursuing which he might obtain the means to settle with
his creditor, and is thrown into prison. The routine is precisely
this:—If a person cannot pay a debt, you increase it for him: and,
having increased it, you tie his hands so that he shall have no chance
of paying it at all! Merciful heavens! is this common sense?[35]

The system of imprisonment for debt falls trebly hard upon the poor. The
gentleman, though reduced himself, has friends who can assist him; but
the poor are too poor to aid each other. Then money can purchase bail
when a schedule has been filed in the Insolvents' Court; but the poor
man must languish in prison until his hearing. Oh! the advantages of
wealth or wealthy connexions in this mercenary land!—oh! the benefits of
being by birth _a gentleman_!

It was about ten o'clock in the evening, when Tim the Snammer and Josh
Pedler encountered each other, by appointment, at Newington Butts; and,
as it was yet too early for the business which they had in hand, they
repaired to a public-house hard by, where they drank porter, smoked
pipes, and conversed, until the clock in the tap-room denoted the hour
of eleven.

They then rose, paid their score, and took their departure,—bending
their way into Horsemonger Lane.

Tim the Snammer now fell a few paces behind his comrade, Josh Pedler,
who hurried a short distance up the lane, and stopped at the door of a
house of mean, sordid, and sombre appearance.

He knocked at the door, which was opened by an old and hideous-looking
woman, holding in her hand a candle, by the light of which she surveyed
the visitor in a very suspicions manner.

"I want to speak to a genelman of the name of Bones which lives here,"
said Josh, placing his foot, with apparent carelessness, in such a way
over the threshold that the door might not be shut against his
inclination.

"No sich a person don't live here," returned the woman gruffly; and she
was about to close the door, when Josh again addressed her.

"Well," said he, "if he don't pass by that there name, he does by
another—and it's all the same. We ain't partickler, ma'am, as to names;
but my business is partickler, though—and I've got an appintment with
Mr. Benjamin Bones—or Old Death—or whatever else he calls his-self or is
called by others."

"It ain't of no use a standing bothering here, my good man," said the
woman, "'cause vy—no sich a person lives here, I tell you—and I don't
know sich a person by sich a name at all."

"Humbug!" cried Josh and, giving a low, short whistle, he pushed into
the house.

A moment had not elapsed ere Tim the Snammer was at his heels—the door
was forcibly closed—the candle was wrested from the old woman's hand—and
she was threatened with throttling if she attempted to raise an alarm.

The two men bound her with a cord, and carried her into the room opening
from the passage. They then left her, vowing with terrible oaths to
return and "do for her," if she dared make the slightest disturbance.

"There isn't a room on t'other side of the passage, is there, Tim?"
demanded Josh of his companion, who carried the light.

"No. And now let's creep up stairs as gentle as if we was mice," said
the Snammer.

"You've got your barkers, Tim?" asked Pedler.

"Yes—and a damned good clasp knife too," replied the ruffian, with a
significant leer at his accomplice, and speaking in a low whisper. "I
don't think we shall find any one else in the house besides that old
woman and Ben Bones his-self, 'cause Mutton-Face Sal is a devilish keen
one—and she would have found it out if there was any lodgers."

"Well, cut up stairs, Tim," said Josh Pedler, "and don't let us be
a-standing here palavering—or the old scamp may overhear us and get out
by the back windows, or some such a dodge. I'll go fust, if you like."

"No—I'll go fust, Josh," answered the Snammer; "for it's me that has got
the most spite agin the ancient willain."

With these words, Tim Splint crept cautiously up the narrow and dirty
staircase, Josh Pedler following close behind him.

The robbers stopped at the door on the first landing, and knocked; but,
no answer being returned, they broke it open in a few moments by means
of a small stout chisel such as housebreakers are in the habit of using.

"Who's there?" cried the deep, sepulchral voice of Old Death, as he
started from the arm-chair in which he had been taking a nap.

"It's only two of your friends," returned Tim the Snammer; "and _as_
friends you had better treat us, too—or it'll be the wuss for you."

"I don't know that I ever treated you in any way but as friends," said
old Death, glancing somewhat uneasily from the one to the other. "As for
you, Tim—I can guess why you're angry with me; but I wasn't at liberty—I
wasn't my own master, I can assure you—on that Saturday when I promised
to get you out of the Jug; or I should have kept my word. But it's too
long a story to tell you now—even if I was disposed to do so; and so the
shortest way to make us all right, is for me to give you back the money
that was placed in my hands by Josh Pedler."

"And what'll pay me for the two months of quod that I had all through
you, you cheating old fence?" demanded Tim Splint, placing his back
against the door in a determined manner.

"I couldn't help it, Tim—I couldn't help it," returned Old Death with a
hideous grin. "And may be—may be," he added, with the hesitation
habitual to him, "I can put something in your way, that will make up for
the past."

"Well—that looks like business, at all events," observed Tim, exchanging
a rapid glance with his companion; for it struck the two robbers at the
same moment, that they should perhaps act prudently to join Old Death in
any enterprise which he might have in hand, and then plunder him
afterwards—provided that the affair he had to propose, gave promise of a
better booty than that which they stood the immediate chance of
obtaining from him.

Old Death looked leisurely round the small, mean, and ill-furnished
room, as much as to say, "What can you hope to get out of me?"—for the
meaning of the glances which he had observed to pass between the two
robbers, was perfectly well understood by him.

"Is the business you hinted at for to-night?" demanded Josh Pedler,
after a brief pause.

"For to-night," replied Benjamin Bones. "But sit down, my good friends,
and may be I can find a dram of brandy in the bottle for you."

"Thank'ee, we'll stand, old chap," said the Snammer; "but we shan't
refuse the bingo, for all that."

Old Death regaled his two visitors each with a wine glass full of
brandy, and then took a similar quantity himself.

"Yes," he said, continuing the discourse: "it is for to-night—and a good
thing may be made of it, if you're staunch and resolute. In fact, I
wanted to meet with a couple of such active fellows as you are, for I
have been sadly used lately—in more ways than one."

"Well, what is it?" demanded Tim the Snammer. "You know that we're the
lads to do any thing it ought to be done; and I don't see the use of
wasting time, if the business is really for to-night."

"I have had positive information," continued Old Death, his dark eyes
gleaming snake-like beneath the shaggy brows that overhung them, "that a
gentleman, who lives in a lonely house not many miles off, this morning
received a considerable sum of money at a banker's, on a cheque which he
get cashed there; and in a few days he will pay it all away to his
creditors—for he has been building a great number of houses at Norwood;
and so I think," added Bones, with a horrible chuckle, "that it would be
just as well to anticipate him."

"And can you rely on this information?" asked Tim the Snammer. "Come—let
us know all the particklers."

"Two or three days ago he took into his service a man named John
Jeffreys—a groom who was lately in the household of a certain Sir
Christopher Blunt," said Old Death; "and this person sells his secrets
to those who pay him best."

"In plain terms he's in your pay," exclaimed Josh Pedler. "Well—that's
all right. What next?"

"Nothing more than that if you like to crack that crib, you can do it
to-night; and I'll smash the notes, which will be of no use to you till
they're melted into gold," answered Old Death; thereby intimating to
them, first that he should take no active part in the business, and
secondly that it would not be worth their while to cheat him of his
share of the plunder, inasmuch as they were totally dependent on him for
rendering the hoped-for booty at all available.

Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler consulted together for a few moments in
low whispers.

"But how do we know," said the former, suddenly turning round upon Old
Death, "that this isn't all a cursed plant to get us out of the house
here—or may be to inveigle us into some infernal trap—eh? Answer us
that."

"Read John Jeffreys' note," said Old Death coolly, as he produced the
letter from the pocket of his capacious old grey surtout coat.

Tim the Snammer, and Josh Pedler, accordingly read the contents of the
paper, which ran as follow:—

  "This cums to tel you, sir, that Master resceved a chek for about
  twelve undred pouns yesterday from Sir enry courtenee, a
  barrow-night, and that master got it keshed this mornin at the benk,
  wich I no becos I had to go with him in the gigg to the benk, and I
  see him cum out of the benk a-countin the notes, and I no he will
  pay it all away in 2 or 3 days to his bilders and arkitecks and
  carpinters at norwood. anny thing you leeve for mee in a broun paper
  parsel at the ushoul crib will reech mee. Yure fatheful servant,

                                                               "J. J."

"Satisfactory enow," exclaimed Tim the Snammer, with an appealing glance
to his comrade, who nodded his head approvingly. "Well," continued the
thief, "give us the necessary description of the place; and we'll be off
at once. It's fortnit that we've got our tools about us."

"Which you have used against my miserable lodging," observed Old Death,
with a grim smile. "However, I would rather you'd have introduced
yourselves in that way, than not come at all; for I should have let this
matter," he added, pointing to Jeffreys' note, which now lay on the
table, "go by without attending to it. So it's lucky for us all that you
did make your appearance; and if you serve me well in this case, you
shall not want employment of my finding."

[Illustration]

"Good again, old tulip," said Tim the Snammer; "and now tell us where
this Mr. Torrings lives—or whatever his name is—and we will lose no
time."

Old Death gave the necessary explanation; and the two men took their
departure, having first acquainted their employer with the condition in
which they had left the old woman down stairs—a piece of information
which made him hasten to her rescue.

-----

Footnote 35:

  The records of the Insolvent Debtors' Court prove that the average
  dividend paid upon the estates of persons who take the benefit of the
  Act is _one farthing_ in the pound!




                            CHAPTER LXXVII.
                        THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER.


Proceed we now to Torrens Cottage, on the road to which place we have
just left Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler.

It was past eleven o'clock, and Mr. Torrens was seated alone in his
parlour, examining a pile of papers which lay before him. A decanter
more than half emptied of its ruby contents, and a wine-glass also stood
upon the table; and the flushed countenance of the unprincipled man
showed that he had sought to drown the remorseful feelings of a restless
conscience by means of the juice of the grape.

But he could not;—and though ten days had now elapsed since the
sacrifice of the beautiful Rosamond had taken place, there were moments
when the father felt even more acutely than on the fatal night when, in
the solitude of his chamber, he endured the torments of the
damned,—_mental torments, indescribably more severe than the most
agonising of physical pain could possibly be_!

He had received the price of _his_ infamy and _her_ dishonour: the last
portion of the "price of blood" he had drawn from the bankers in the
morning—and he was now arranging and casting up his accounts to satisfy
himself that he had actually obtained sufficient to settle all his
liabilities.

But his occupation was every moment interrupted by a gush of terrible
thoughts to his maddening brain;—and if he laid down the pen, it was to
grasp the bottle.

What would the world say if his black turpitude were to transpire?—how
should he ever be able to meet Clarence Villiers and Adelais again, if
they were to become acquainted with Rosamond's dishonour? He knew that
the baronet had hitherto managed somewhat to tranquillise the ruined
girl by promises of marriage and eternal affection;—he was also aware
that Rosamond had endeavoured to subdue her anguish as much as possible
in order to avoid the chance of arousing any suspicion on the part of
Mrs. Slingsby! But a term must at length arrive to those specious
representations and mendacious assurances adopted by Sir Henry Courtenay
to lull the agonising feelings of the unhappy girl;—and then—oh! it was
then, that the danger would be terrible indeed! Of all this Mr. Torrens
thought; and he suffered more acutely from his fears than from his
consciousness of infernal iniquity.

The time-piece upon the mantle had struck the hour of eleven some time,
and Mr. Torrens was in the midst of his terrible meditations, when a
loud, long, and impatient knock at the front-door caused him to start
from his seat.

He had already desired the servants not to sit up on his account, as it
was probable that he should be occupied with his papers until a late
hour in the night; and he was therefore now compelled to answer the
summons himself.

A cold chill struck to his heart—for he entertained a presentiment of
what was about to occur: indeed, such an anticipation was natural on his
part when we reflect that his soul was a prey to conscious guilt, and
that the knock at the door was hasty and imperative.

For a moment he staggered as if about to fall: then, calling all his
firmness to his aid, he proceeded to open the front-door, the knocking
at which was repeated with increased vehemence.

His presentiment was correct;—for, scarcely had he drawn back the bolt,
when the door was pushed open—and Rosamond rushed into the house.

"My dearest father!" she exclaimed, and fell insensible into his arms.

He conveyed her to a sofa in the parlour, tore off her bonnet and shawl,
and sprinkled water upon her pale—her very pale countenance.

Merciful heavens! how acute—how agonising was the pang which shot to his
heart, as he contemplated that lovely brow on which innocence had so
lately sate enthroned, until the spoiler had pressed the heated lips of
lust thereon! Then for a few moment all the father's feelings were
uppermost in his soul; and he gnashed his teeth with rage at the thought
that he himself was dishonoured in that dishonoured daughter!

Oh! to have given her back her purity and her self-respect,—to have
known that she could raise her head proudly in maiden pride,—to have
been able to embrace her as the chaste and spotless being she was ere
hell suggested its accursed machinations to achieve her destruction!

But it was too late!—Here lay the ruined child—and there were piled the
notes and gold which had purchased her virtue!

Three or four minutes elapsed, and still Rosamond gave no signs of
returning animation. Suddenly the father desisted from his endeavours to
restore her; for an infernal thought flashed to his mind.

He would suffer her to die!

No sooner did the atrocious idea enter his soul, than he longed to see
it fulfilled. He dared not meet her eyes—even should she be unsuspicious
relative to his unnatural treachery. No—it were better that she should
die!

But the infernal hopes of the wicked man were not to be realized;—and,
monster that he was, he could not slay her with his own hands!

Slowly, at length, her bosom began to heave—a profound sigh escaped
her—she opened her eyes, and gazed vacantly around.

"Rosamond," said her father, now mastering his feelings of bitter
disappointment so far as to be able to speak in a kind tone: "Rosamond,
dearest—what ails you? Fear not—you are at home! But why do you look at
me so wildly!"

"Oh! my God—what have I done, that I should have deserved so much
misery!" exclaimed the young girl, in a voice of the most piercing
anguish, as she covered her face with her hands and burst into a flood
of tears:—then, raising herself to a sitting posture on the sofa, she
seized her father's hands, saying in a different and more profoundly
melancholy tone, "My parent—my only friend! I am unworthy to look you in
the face!"

"Do not speak thus, Rosamond," said Mr. Torrens, seating himself by his
daughter's side, and maintaining a demeanour which bespoke the deepest
interest in her behalf. "Something has cruelly afflicted you?" he added
interrogatively—as if _he_ had yet the fatal truth to learn!

"Oh! heavens—your kindness kills me, dearest father!" shrieked Rosamond.
"Yes—never did you appear so kind to me before—and I—I——But, merciful
Saviour! my brain is on fire!"

"My sweet child," returned Mr. Torrens, whose soul was a perfect hell as
he listened to the words which came from his daughter's lips,—"you can
surely have no secrets from me? Has any one caused you chagrin? has any
one dared to insult you? And what means this sudden arrival at home—at
so late an hour—and when I fancied that you were staying with that
excellent woman, Mrs. Slingsby?"

"Mrs. Slingsby!" repeated Rosamond, with a shudder which denoted the
loathing and abhorrence she entertained for that woman. "Oh! my dear
father, that Mrs. Slingsby is a fiend in human shape—a vile and
detestable hypocrite, who conceals the blackest heart beneath the garb
of religion!"

"Rosamond—Rosamond—you know not what you are saying!" exclaimed Mr.
Torrens, affecting to be profoundly surprised and even hurt at these
emphatic accusations.

"Alas! I know too well—oh! far too well, the truth of all I am saying!"
said Rosamond, a hectic glow of excitement appearing upon her cheeks,
hitherto so ashy pale. "Yes, father—that woman is a disgrace to her sex!
This evening—but two hours ago—I accidentally heard a few words pass
between her and Sir Henry Courtenay——"

"Sir Henry Courtenay is at least an honourable man," said Mr. Torrens.

"Sir Henry Courtenay is a monster!" cried Rosamond emphatically: then,
bursting into tears again, she threw herself at her father's feet,
exclaiming, "Oh! that I had a mother to whom I could unburthen all the
woes that fill my heart:—but to you—to you—my dearest parent—how can
your daughter confess that she has been ruined—dishonoured—undone?"

"Unhappy girl!" cried the hypocrite, affecting a tone and manner
denoting mingled indignation and astonishment: "what dreadful things are
these that you have come home to tell me?"

"The truth, my dear father—the horrible, the fatal truth!" continued
Rosamond, in a fearfully excited tone.

"Speak lower—lower, my child," said Mr. Torrens: "the servants will be
alarmed—they will overhear you. And now resume your seat near me—rise
from that humiliating posture—and——"

"Humiliating indeed," interrupted Rosamond, sinking her voice to a
comparative whisper, but with an utterance that was almost suffocated by
the dreadful emotions raging within her bosom:—"because I myself am so
signally humiliated!" she added. "And yet I am innocent, dear father—it
was not my fault—not for worlds would I have strayed from the path of
virtue! But a hideous plot—a diabolical scheme of treachery—devised
between that bad woman and that still more dreadful man——"

"No more—no more, Rosamond!" exclaimed Mr. Torrens, still maintaining a
well-affected semblance of indignation and astonishment. "I understand
you but too well—and you shall be avenged!"

"Alas! vengeance will not make me what I once was—a happy and spotless
girl!" said Rosamond: "and now that I am dishonoured, it would require
but the contumely with which the world would treat me, to drive me to
utter desperation—to madness, or to suicide!"

Mr. Torrens said all he could to console his unhappy child; and he very
readily promised her to abandon all ideas of vengeance on those who had
been the authors of her shame.

"Until this evening," said Rosamond, her head reclining upon her
father's shoulder, "I had hoped that Sir Henry Courtenay would repair
the wrong he had done me by means of marriage,—for, alas! my dear
father, I loved him! But—two hours ago—I overheard a few words pass
between him and Mrs. Slingsby,—a few words which rivetted me to the spot
where I was at first only an involuntary listener. Then I became a
willing and attentive eaves-dropper,—for, oh! the little which had
already met my ears, intimately—too intimately regarded myself! And,
dear father, you can conceive with what horror and dismay I learnt
enough to convince me, that she whom I had loved and esteemed as a dear
friend and a model of perfection, was a vile—an abandoned—an infamous
woman,—the mistress of Sir Henry Courtenay, and in the way to become a
mother also! I could not believe my ears—I fancied that I was dreaming.
But, alas! it was indeed a frightful reality;—and then I heard that I
had been sold,—yes, _sold_—I, your daughter, _sold_ to Sir Henry
Courtenay,—and, I suppose, by that dreadful woman! Yes—yes—father," she
continued wildly, "I was sold to his arms,—and he never intended to
marry me! I screamed not,—I uttered not a word: I was crushed too low—I
had too great a load of misery upon my soul to be able to give vent to
my feelings; but I dragged myself away from the spot where I had
overheard that terrible discourse,—a veil had fallen from before my
eyes, and I saw all the extent of my hopeless position in its true
light. How I managed to reach my bed-room I know not: my brain began to
whirl, and I thought that I should go mad! Of what followed I have but a
dim recollection; but methinks that, having put on my bonnet and shawl,
I was flying from the house, when Sir Henry Courtenay pursued me down
the stairs—and how I escaped from him I cannot say! There was a chaos in
my bewildered brain; and when I was enabled to collect my scattered
thoughts—when consciousness, as I may term it, came back, I found myself
hurrying along the streets. I looked round, fearful of being pursued;
but there was no cause for alarm. Nevertheless, I hastened on,—and all
that long distance have I accomplished on foot, dear father; for, oh! I
felt that home was the place where my deep sorrows would receive
sympathy, and where only I could hope to enjoy security. And now, my
beloved parent," added Rosamond, throwing her arms around his neck, "you
will not spurn your unhappy daughter,—you will not thrust her from you!
My God! why did I ever reveal to you all this? Oh! it was because my
heart was so full of woe, that if I had not unburthened it to you in the
hope of receiving consolation, it would have broken—it would have
broken!"

"Rosamond," said Mr. Torrens, "you did well to reveal all these dreadful
things to me; because I alone am the proper person to counsel and
console you. A fearful crime," he continued, shuddering at his own
monstrous duplicity, "has been perpetrated; but, alas! the criminals
must go unpunished. Yes,—Rosamond, you were right when you declared that
vengeance would lead only to exposure; and that exposure would kill you.
My poor child, not even your sister must be made acquainted with this
awful calamity."

"No—no!" exclaimed Rosamond: "it is sufficient that _you_ are aware of
the ignominious treatment which I have received! Not for worlds would I
have the bridal happiness of my dearest sister poisoned by the
revelation of my wrongs! And Clarence, too—Clarence—oh! from him, of all
men, must this secret be kept; or he would, perhaps, be urged to wreak
on his aunt, and on that vile baronet, a vengeance which would lead to
exposure, and render Adelais miserable for ever!"

"It charms me, Rosamond," said Mr. Torrens, "to perceive that the wrongs
heaped upon you have not impaired your prudence. Between you and me
shall this secret now remain,—for, depend upon it, the authors of this
cruel outrage will not themselves be anxious to publish their own
infamy. You are now beneath the paternal roof—and here you are certain
to enjoy security; and from this night forth, Rosamond, let us place a
seal on our lips so far as the _one_ dread topic is concerned."

"And you, my father," asked the ruined girl,—"shall you not love me the
less? Shall you not look with loathing and abhorrence upon your
daughter? Oh! if there be a change in your sentiments towards me, I
shall have no alternative save to die!"

The miserable and criminal father embraced his dishonoured child, and
said every thing he could to console her.

Rosamond then retired to her chamber,—that chamber which she had left
ten days previously a pure and spotless virgin, and to which she now
returned a deflowered and ruined girl!

Mr. Torrens remained in the parlour.

Amidst all the horrible thoughts that forced themselves upon his mind,
he saw one glimmering of consolation: and this was that Rosamond
suspected not his complicity in the nefarious plot which had destroyed
her. It was evident that in the conversation which she had overheard
between Mrs. Slingsby and the baronet, _his_ connivance had only been
hinted at,—too darkly and mysteriously for Rosamond to comprehend the
meaning of those words which alluded to the fact of her having been
_sold_!

But what pen can describe the tortures which the guilty man experienced,
as he pondered on the scene that had just occurred? In spite of that
gleam of solace he was the prey to ineffable anguish,—for he could not
help feeling as a _father_: nature asserted her empire,—and he was in
despair as he contemplated the awful crime which had led to the
dishonour of his own child!

Never had she appeared to him so beautiful as when, ashy pale, she had
awakened from the deep trance into which she fell on crossing the
parental threshold;—never did he feel more inclined to love her, or to
be proud of her charms, than when he afterwards saw her kneeling at his
feet, the light of the lamp falling with Rembrandt effect upon her
upraised countenance! Alas! through him was she ruined—by his
machinations was she destroyed! And of what avail was that beauty now,
since honour was lost?

He fixed his eyes upon the gold, and endeavoured to console himself with
the contemplation of the glittering metal.

It seemed dross—vile dross in his eyes; and could he have recalled the
deeds of the last ten days, he would gladly have fallen back into the
inextricable labyrinth of his pecuniary difficulties, and have dared
even the disgrace and punishment of a debtors' prison, so that he might
not have had to reproach himself with _the sale of his daughter's
virtue_!




                            CHAPTER LXXVIII.
                              RETRIBUTION.


It was long past midnight—and Mr. Torrens was still pacing the parlour
with uneven steps, when a low double knock at the front-door aroused him
from his painful meditations.

Wondering who could visit the cottage at that late hour, he hastened to
reply to the summons; and, to his surprise, the lustre of the
parlour-lamp which he carried in his hand, streamed full upon the pale
and agitated countenance of Sir Henry Courtenay.

Making a sign to the baronet not to speak, Mr. Torrens led the way into
the parlour; and the visitor, in the excitement of the feelings which
had brought him to the cottage, neglected to shut the front-door close
as he entered, but merely pushed it back in such a way that the bolt of
the lock did not catch.

This little incident was unperceived by the two gentlemen.

When they were both in the parlour, Mr. Torrens shut the room-door, and
said in a low whisper, "She has come home!"

"Thank God! she is safe then!" observed the baronet, also in a subdued
voice. "The fact is, Mrs. Slingsby and myself were so dreadfully
frightened that she might either make away with herself, or else adopt
some measure that would lead to a certain exposure, that we have both
been hunting for her through all the streets at the West End; and at
last I determined, late as it was, to come over and acquaint you with
her flight. But it never struck me that I should hear of her return
home."

"She is unaware of my sad complicity in the dreadful business," replied
Mr. Torrens sternly. "But pray repeat to me the whole conversation which
took place between Mrs. Slingsby and yourself, and which she
unfortunately overheard. I shall then be enabled to judge whether
reflection on that discourse may lead her to imagine that her own father
was indeed a party to her ruin; for I must confess that I have terrible
fears lest she should indeed imbibe such a suspicion."

"Give me a tumbler of wine, Torrens," said the baronet, throwing himself
upon the sofa which had so lately been pressed by his victim when in a
state of insensibility: "I am regularly exhausted, for I have walked all
the way hither;—and, when I have a little recovered myself, I will
detail all the conversation which took place between me and Mrs.
Slingsby, as nearly as I shall be able to recollect it."

Mr. Torrens produced a bottle of wine from the side-board, he having
already emptied the decanter upon the table.

"Help yourself, Sir Henry," he said: "and in the meantime I will steal
cautiously up stairs and see if Rosamond be yet retired to rest—for I
would not for worlds have her come down and find you here."

"A wise precaution," observed the baronet.

Mr. Torrens accordingly quitted the parlour, and hastened up stairs. He
stopped at the door of his daughter's chamber, and listened. Profound
sobs and impassioned ejaculations, indicative of terrible grief, met his
ears; and he grew alarmed lest she should feel herself so thoroughly
wretched and lonely as to be unable to sleep, and perhaps return to the
parlour.

He accordingly knocked gently at the door, and Rosamond speedily opened
it.

She had not as yet divested herself of a particle of her clothing, nor
made any preparation to retire to rest; and her countenance was so truly
woebegone—so thoroughly the picture of a deeply-seated grief, that even
her iron-hearted father was affected to tears. She threw her arms around
his neck, and thanked him for his kind solicitude. He remained with her
nearly half-an-hour, exerting all his power of language to console her;
and the anxiety which he experienced to induce her to seek her couch, so
that he might return to the parlour and get rid of Sir Henry Courtenay
as soon as possible, rendered him so eloquent and so effective in the
(to him) novel art of administering solace, that he succeeded fully.

"Now I am convinced that you do not loathe, despise, and hate your
daughter," said Rosamond at length; "and this impression has removed an
immense weight from my mind. Though true happiness may never more be
mine, yet shall I find a substitute in Christian resignation to my fate;
and henceforth, dear father, I will not make _you_ unhappy by compelling
you to act the part of a comforter. And now, good night, my only
friend—my beloved parent; and fear not that I shall give way again to
that violent outpouring of grief in which you so kindly interrupted me."

Mr. Torrens embraced his daughter, and a pang shot to his heart as he
thought of his infernal conduct towards that good and affectionate girl!

As he descended the stairs he heard her lock her chamber-door; and he
was just congratulating himself upon the success of his attempt to
console her, when the murmuring sounds of voices, apparently coming from
the front parlour, caused him to redouble his pace thither—for the idea
flashed to his mind that Mrs. Slingsby might also have visited the
cottage in her alarm concerning Rosamond, and that the baronet had
probably afforded her admission while he was up stairs with his
daughter.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler, bent on their predatory intent, and
hoping to reap a good harvest at the house of Mr. Torrens, approached
that dwelling nearly half an hour after Sir Henry Courtenay had entered
it.

Perceiving a light gleaming from the divisions in the parlour-shutters,
they crept cautiously up to the window, and through those crevices
beheld the glittering gold piled upon the table, and a person lying upon
the sofa, apparently in a profound sleep.

The fact was that the baronet was completely exhausted with his long
walk from Old Burlington Street to the Cottage; and, having tossed off a
tumbler of wine, he lay down on the sofa to await Mr. Torrens' return.

But we have seen that the father had found his daughter in such a state
of profound affliction as to be totally unable to leave her for nearly
half an hour; and during that interval an irresistible drowsiness stole
over Sir Henry Courtenay,—speedily wrapping him in a deep slumber.

Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler were determined to risk "the crack," in
spite of the sleeper whom they descried upon the sofa, and whom they
believed to be Mr. Torrens; for neither was this gentleman nor the
baronet known to them by sight.

With their housebreaking implements they were on the point of making an
attempt on the front-door; when it yielded to their touch, and swung
noiselessly open. At this they were not at all surprised; for it
immediately struck them that John Jeffreys had expected the visit that
night, and had left the door ajar on purpose.

They stole into the house, and succeeded in entering the parlour without
arousing the baronet.

Tim the Snammer instantly drew forth his clasp-knife, and, bending over
Sir Henry Courtenay, held the murderous weapon close to his throat,
while Josh Pedler hastily secured the notes and gold about his person.

"We may as well have the plate, if there is any," whispered this
individual to his companion. "In fact, we'll have a regular ransack of
the place; and if he awakes——"

"I'll cut his infernal throat in a jiffey," added Tim the Snammer.

Josh grinned an approval of this summary mode of proceeding, and opened
one of the side-board drawers. But the noise which a sugar-basin or some
such article made inside the drawer, by falling over with the sudden
jerk, aroused the sleeper.

Sir Henry Courtenay started—opened his eyes—beheld a strange countenance
hanging over him—and was about to utter a cry of alarm, when the
terrible clasp-knife was drawn rapidly and violently across his throat.

There was a dull, gurgling noise—a convulsive quivering of the entire
frame,—but not a groan—much less an exclamation of terror,—and Sir Henry
Courtenay was no more!

"Come along, Tim," said Josh Pedler, whose face was ghastly pale. "We've
done enough for to-night."

"Yes—let us be off," returned the murderer, now shuddering at the
dreadful deed which he had just perpetrated.

And they were issuing from the room, when the noise of footsteps on the
stairs made them redouble their speed to gain the front-door.

It was Mr. Torrens who had thus alarmed them; but they escaped without
molestation—for when that gentleman reached the hall, and beheld two men
rushing towards the front-door, he was himself seized with such profound
terror—painfully strung as his feelings had been that night—that he was
for a few moments stupified, and rivetted to the spot.

But when he saw the front-door close behind the strangers, he took
courage—hastily secured it within—and then hurried to the parlour, in
agony of fear lest his gold and notes should have become the prey of
plunderers!

One glance at the table was sufficient:—the money was gone!

Mr. Torrens dashed his open palm against his forehead with frantic
violence, and was about to utter a cry of rage and despair, when the
remembrance of his unhappy daughter sealed his lips.

At the same instant he looked towards the sofa:—but, holy God! what a
spectacle met his view!

For there lay the baronet with his head nearly severed from his
body,—murdered—barbarously murdered upon the very sofa where his victim
had so lately reposed in trance-like insensibility. On that sofa slept
he his last sleep; and, even in that appalling moment when Mr. Torrens
recoiled, shuddering and shocked, from the dreadful sight, it struck him
that there was something of retributive justice not only in the loss of
his own treasure but also in the death of Sir Henry Courtenay!

The frightened man uttered not a murmur as that spectacle encountered
his eyes. His amazement was of so stupifying a nature that it sealed his
lips—paralysed his powers of utterance. With staring orbs he gazed on
the grisly corpse from which he recoiled staggeringly; and several
minutes elapsed ere he could so far command his presence of mind, as
even to become aware of his own dreadful predicament.

But as the truth dawned upon him, he was seized with indescribable
alarms—with horrible apprehensions.

The double crime of robbery and murder, had been perpetrated so speedily
and so noiselessly, that not a soul in the house was alarmed by any
unusual sound—and Mr. Torrens felt the sickening conviction that it
would be a difficult thing to persuade a jury that _he himself_ was
innocent! Suspicion must inevitably attach itself to him:—circumstantial
evidence would be strong against him! In a word, the appalling truth
broke in upon him, that _he_ would be accused of the assassination of
Sir Henry Courtenay!

Mr. Torrens sate down, and, burying his face in his hands, fell into a
profound but most painful meditation.

Should he raise an alarm—arouse Jeffreys and the female-servant, as well
as his daughter—and proclaim all he knew about the horrible transaction!
No:—something whispered in his ear that he would not be believed.
Rosamond, not knowing that he was the baronet's accomplice in achieving
her dishonour, would naturally conceive that the murder was the result
of paternal vengeance. It was, then, impossible to suffer the occurrence
to transpire. But what was he to do with the body?—how dispose of it?
Terrible dilemma!

All the atrocity of his crime towards his daughter now returned with a
tremendously augmenting intensity to his mind. His punishment on earth
had already begun:—he was doomed—accursed. Wretched man! gold was thy
destroyer! Ah! gold—but thou hast lost thy gold,—and in a few days the
creditors who yet remain unpaid, will be upon thee! But——

What!—does such an idea actually strike him?—urging him to plunder the
murdered victim of any coin which there may be about the corpse!
Yes:—and now behold the father, who sold the honour of his child, about
to examine the pockets of that child's assassinated ravisher?

The purse contains some fifteen or sixteen sovereigns; and these Mr.
Torrens self-appropriates. The pocket-book of the deceased is next
scrutinized. But there are no Bank-notes—nothing save papers and
memoranda, totally valueless.

Mr. Torrens stamps his foot with rage:—his predicament is truly awful.
Ruin still menaces him on one side in respect to his affairs—for, having
reckoned on the money to be produced _by the sale of his daughter's
virtue_, he had contracted fresh liabilities within the last ten days:
and on the other side is the terrible danger in which the presence of
that corpse may involve him! Add to these sources of agonising feelings,
the conviction that the sacrifice of Rosamond will, after all, have
proved ineffectual in respect to the complete settlement of his affairs,
even should he succeed in burying the more serious event—namely the
murder—in impenetrable mystery,—and the wretched state of mind in which
Mr. Torrens was now plunged, may be conceived.

He rose from the chair, on which he had a second time flung himself,
after plundering the corpse, and approached the time-piece.

It was half-past one o'clock.

But as Mr. Torrens glanced at the dial, which thus told him how short an
interval remained for him to take some decisive step, if he really
intended to dispose of the corpse before the servants should be
stirring, he caught a glimpse of his countenance in the mirror over the
mantel.

He recoiled—he shrank back with horror.

Was it indeed _his own_ countenance that he saw?

Or was it that of some unquiet ghost, wandering near the spot where its
mortal tenement had been cruelly murdered?

He turned round suddenly, to avoid farther contemplation of that ghastly
visage;—and again he recoiled from an object of terror—staggered—and
would have fallen, had he not caught the back of a chair for support.

For in the half open door way he beheld a human face, which was
withdrawn the moment his eyes encountered it.

Driven to desperation, and reckless now of what might happen to him, the
maddened man rushed into the hall, in time to observe a figure turn the
angle of the staircase.

In another moment he had caught that figure by the arm; and, dragging
the person forcibly down, beheld his new man-servant John Jeffreys, by
the light of the lamp streaming from the open parlour-door.

Totally forgetful at the instant of the presence of the corpse in the
room,—so terribly excited and bewildered was he,—Mr. Torrens dragged
Jeffreys into the parlour to demand the reason why he was up and
_dressed_ at that hour of the night—or rather morning:—and it was not
until he saw the man himself turn ghastly pale as his eyes encountered
the hideous spectacle on the sofa, that Mr. Torrens remembered the
frightful oversight which he had committed.

Then, hastening to close the room-door, which he locked also, Mr.
Torrens said, "Why are you up? and wherefore were you prying about the
house?"

The fact was that Jeffreys had expected a visit from some of Old Death's
gang that night, and had never retired to bed at all. He heard the two
double-knocks at the door—the first being that given by Rosamond, and
the other by the baronet;—and when the robbers had quitted the house,
closing the front-door after them, Jeffreys thought it must be the last
visitor (whoever he might be) going away. After that the house had
remained quiet for some little time; and Jeffreys fancied that Mr.
Torrens had retired to bed. He had accordingly stolen down from his
bed-room to unfasten a window shutter, and thus render the ingress of
the expected robbers an easy matter: but perceiving a light in the
parlour, he began to suspect that they must be already there.
Accordingly he crept cautiously up to the door, and was for a moment
stupified when he obtained a glimpse of the reflection of his master's
ghastly countenance in the mirror, a view of which he could command from
the hall.

"Why are you up? and wherefore were you prying about the house?"
demanded Mr. Torrens.

"The truth is, sir, I heard a noise, just now, and I was afeard that
thieves was breaking in," was the ready reply: "so I got up and dressed;
but, sir—"

And he glanced significantly towards the dead body.

"Jeffreys," said Mr. Torrens, in a hurried and excited tone, "a dreadful
event has occurred to-night. This gentleman came to call upon me late—on
very particular business—I left him here, while I went up stairs to
speak to my daughter, who has returned home—and, on coming down stairs
again, I saw two men escaping from the house. When I entered the
parlour, a considerable sum of money, which I had left on the table, was
gone—and my poor friend was as you now see him!"

The man-servant believed the tale; but he affected not to do so—for he
was villain enough to rejoice at such an opportunity of getting his
master completely in his power.

"You smile incredulously, John," said Mr. Torrens; "and yet I take
heaven to witness——"

"It's orkard, sir—very orkard," observed Jeffreys; "and may be it'll
lead to scragging, if the stiff'un isn't put away."

Mr. Torrens shuddered from head to foot.

"What _do_ you mean to do, sir?" asked Jeffreys. "I am quite ready to
assist you; but it's getting on for two o'clock——"

"Yes, I know it," interrupted Mr. Torrens. "I am mad—I am driven to
desperation! What would you advise? But will you be faithful? Will you
keep the secret? I can reward you——"

"We'll talk of that another time, sir," said Jeffreys; "for the present
let's think of making away with the stiff'un. We must bury it. Stay here
a moment, sir, while I go and get the stable lanthorn and a sack."

"Or rather," observed Mr. Torrens, "I will fetch some water to wash the
carpet; fortunately, the blood has not trickled upon the sofa."

Noiselessly the two crept away from the parlour—one to the stables, the
other to the kitchen.

In a few minutes they met again by the side of the corpse, which they
thrust into the sack; and between them the load was conveyed to the
stable.

"You go and clean the carpet, sir," said John Jeffreys, whose superior
presence of mind served to invest him with authority to direct the
proceedings; "while I dig a hole in the garden."

Mr. Torrens hastened to obey the suggestion of his servant, and returned
to the parlour, where he cleansed the carpet, as well as he could. He
then took a bottle of Port-wine from the side-board, and broke it over
the very spot where the blood had dripped down, leaving the fractured
glass strewed about, and drawing the table near the sofa, so as to
produce the appearance of the bottle having been accidentally knocked
off it.

Nearly half an hour was consumed in this occupation; and Mr. Torrens,
whose mind was already much relieved, hastened back to the garden, where
Jeffreys was busily engaged in digging a grave for the murdered baronet.
When the servant was tired, his master took a turn with the spade; and,
as the soil was not particularly hard, an hour saw the completion of the
labour.

The corpse was thrown into the hole, and the earth was shovelled over
it—each layer being well stamped down by the feet.

When the task was accomplished, Mr. Torrens and Jeffreys re-entered the
house; and, ere they separated to retire to their respective rooms, the
former said, in a low whisper, "Once more I conjure you to maintain this
secret inviolable, and I will find means to reward you well. For the
present take this!"

And he slipped ten sovereigns—a portion of the murdered baronet's
money—into the hands of Jeffreys.

"Don't be afeard that I'm leaky, sir," responded the man, clutching the
gold, and consigning it to his pocket, where he had already stowed away
the baronet's handsome repeater and gold rings—to which valuables he had
helped himself, while his master was busily engaged in cleansing the
carpet in the parlour;—for Mr. Torrens had merely plundered the corpse
of the contents of the purse, and had not touched the jewellery, through
fear that it might lead to the detection of the murder, if seen in his
possession.

Master and man now separated—the former to seek a sleepless couch, and
the latter to dream of the good fortune which that night's adventure had
brought him.

And in his unconsecrated grave—a victim to the assassin's knife—slept
the once gay, dissipated, and unprincipled Sir Henry Courtenay!




                             CHAPTER LXXIX.
                THE EARL OF ELLINGHAM AND LADY HATFIELD
                                 AGAIN.


It was about two o'clock, on the day following the incidents just
related, that we shall find the Earl of Ellingham seated with Lady
Georgiana Hatfield, in the drawing-room at the residence of the latter.

Arthur had returned on the preceding evening from France, accompanied by
Mr. de Medina and Esther, after having seen Tom Rain, Tamar, and Jacob
Smith embark at Havre-de-Grace for the United States.

Rainford and Tamar were united in the bonds of matrimony in Paris; and
Mr. de Medina had insisted upon placing in the hands of his son-in-law a
sum of ten thousand pounds, as a proof of his perfectly cordial feeling
towards him, and of his determination, also, fully to recognise Tamar as
his daughter again.

The Earl communicated all these incidents to Lady Hatfield, who listened
to them with the greatest interest.

"I propose to introduce the Medinas to you shortly, Georgiana," said the
young nobleman. "You will find the father a person of very gentlemanly
manners, well read, and particularly agreeable in conversation; while
his daughter, Miss Esther, is as amiable and accomplished as the child
of such a man should be."

"Arthur," replied Lady Hatfield—for they now addressed each other in the
same friendly, or rather familiar manner, when alone together, as if
they were brother and sister—"I would rather not form the acquaintance
of your friends for the present."

The Earl appeared surprised and vexed.

"Georgiana," he exclaimed, in a tone of gentle remonstrance, "is it
possible that you entertain any of those ridiculous prejudices[36] which
only very ignorant or very narrow-minded persons can possibly entertain
towards a most estimable race?"

"Oh! no—no," cried Lady Hatfield emphatically. "I have read much
concerning the Jews, and I feel convinced that they are most unjustly
treated by Christians. Heaven knows, Arthur, that I have no bad
prejudices of that nature; and were I imbued with them, I would never
rest till I had stifled such evidences of an illiberal and narrowed
mind."

"I am delighted to hear you thus express yourself," said the Earl.
"During my sojourn in France with the Medina family, I have obtained a
great insight into the Jewish character; and I am convinced that it is
fully as benevolent, as generous, and as liberal as that of the
Christian. But we were speaking of my proposed presentation of Mr. de
Medina and his daughter Esther to you. From all that I have said to them
concerning you, they are most anxious to form your acquaintance; and you
have yet to explain to me the meaning of your observation that you would
rather postpone the introduction."

"To justify myself," returned Georgiana, blushing, "against your
suspicion that I entertain illiberal prejudices, Arthur, I will frankly
state my motives for expressing that wish. Indeed, I know not why any
consideration should induce me to retain those motives a
secret—especially as the explanation of them will afford me an
opportunity to give you my advice. For have we not agreed to be unto
each other as brother and sister?—and in what can a sister more
conscientiously advise her brother than in matters regarding his
happiness?"

"My happiness!" exclaimed the Earl, starting slightly, and evincing some
degree of astonishment at Lady Hatfield's remark.

"Yes, Arthur—your happiness!" repeated Georgiana, with difficulty
suppressing a sigh. "Now, listen to me attentively. I have heard that
Miss Esther de Medina is eminently beautiful—excessively
accomplished—very amiable—and endowed with every qualification to render
her worthy of becoming even a monarch's bride."

"Georgiana!" cried the Earl of Ellingham, his heart fluttering with
mingled suspense, surprise, and joy.

"Yes," observed Lady Hatfield; "and since you have learnt," she added
more slowly, and in a softly plaintive tone—though she endeavoured to
subdue the emotion which so modulated her voice,—"since you have learnt
that _our_ union is impossible, Arthur,—since you have ceased to look
upon me otherwise than as a sister,—it is probable—nay, it is both
natural and certain that you cannot have beheld Esther de Medina with
indifference."

"Georgiana," exclaimed Arthur, in a solemn tone, "I never can forget
that my first love was devoted to you; and—although circumstances have,
alas! prevented our union—yet I should be unwilling to promise to
another that heart which I so freely—so gladly gave to you!"

"It is alike unjust and ridiculous for me to suppose that, as I cannot
become your wife, Arthur, you may never marry. No," continued Lady
Hatfield; "I should despise myself, were I to entertain such abhorrent
selfishness. My ardent desire is to know that you are happy; and Esther
de Medina is well qualified to ensure your felicity. Nay—interrupt me
not: remember, it is now a sister who counsels a brother! Granting even
that you could never love another as you have loved me—and this is a
supposition which I have not vanity enough to entertain for a
moment—but, even granting it, for argument's sake, you may yet treat a
beautiful and affectionate wife with that tenderness—those delicate
attentions—and that cherishing kindness which will make _her_ happy. Oh!
believe me, such a state of bliss would soon beget love in your heart,—a
love for Esther as ardent and sincere as that with which you honoured
me; for it is the mere idle theory of romance-writers, that the same
heart cannot love twice. Nature herself proclaims the falsehood of the
doctrine; and the experience of all wise legislators, whether secular or
ecclesiastic, declares the same, by the mere fact of allowing second
marriages. Believe me, Arthur, I am speaking solely in regard to your
happiness; and the day shall come when your lips breathe the words,
'_Georgiana, I thank thee for the counsel thou gavest me_.'"

The Earl surveyed with respectful admiration that noble-hearted woman
who thus stifled her own feelings through generous solicitude for his
felicity.

"And now," she resumed, after a moment's pause, "you can divine the
reasons which induced me to express a wish that my introduction to the
Medinas should be postponed for the present. I am but a weak woman;—and
though I can proudly say that no petty feeling of jealousy would ever
enter my heart—yet I would rather not awaken in my mind painful
recollections of _what might have been_, by beholding you in the society
of one to whom you would be engaged. Moreover, as Miss de Medina has
doubtless heard that _our_ union was once resolved upon," added Lady
Hatfield, now unable to suppress a profound sigh, "it would not be
agreeable for her to visit me, if she accept you as her husband, until
after your marriage. Those are my motives, Arthur: and now you will
admit that, so far from entertaining any illiberal prejudices against
the Jews, I have proved the very contrary, by earnestly recommending you
to espouse an amiable and beautiful lady belonging to that nation."

[Illustration]

"Dearest sister—for such indeed you are to me," said the Earl of
Ellingham, "I appreciate all the excellence of your intentions in thus
advising me; and I will frankly admit to you, that did I now think of
uniting my fate with any woman, Esther de Medina would be the object of
my choice, since my alliance with yourself has been rendered impossible.
But I am not quite prepared to take that step—nor do I even know whether
Miss de Medina would accept my suit, were I to proffer it."

"If her affections were not engaged before she saw you—before she knew
so much of you," exclaimed Georgiana, "she loves you now. Oh! of this I
am convinced," she continued enthusiastically. "Consider how much you
have done to render her grateful to you; and gratitude in woman is the
parent of affection! You have saved her beloved sister Tamar from the
depths of despair by adopting those wondrous schemes, by which he who is
now her husband, was snatched from the jaws of death;—you reconciled a
father to a long discarded daughter;—and you have at length seen that
daughter made a wife—the wife of the man she adores! Oh! Arthur, think
you not that Esther ponders on all this? Yes—and, in the gratitude of
her generous soul, she already sees a god-like being in the Earl of
Ellingham."

"You will render me quite vain, Georgiana," said the young nobleman;
"for you are magnifying into glorious achievements a few very
common-place acts on my part."

"I am giving you your due for all that is great and noble in your
disposition—all that is excellent and estimable in your character,"
replied Lady Hatfield, in a tone of fervent sincerity. "And that you are
every thing I describe is so much the more to your credit, inasmuch as
you belong to a class not famous for good qualities. The aristocratic
sphere is characterised by intense selfishness—by a love of illegitimate
power—by an abhorrence of the inferior grades,—and by a hollowness of
heart which brings shame and reproach upon their hierarchy. When, then,
we find this corrupted and vicious sphere possessing a glorious
exception such as yourself, the world should be the more ready to
recognise your merits. But I will say no more on this head, my dear
Arthur," added Georgiana, with a smile, "for fear that you should think
I wish to coax you into following that counsel which I, ere now, so
seriously and so conscientiously gave you."

"And on that advice will I reflect deliberately," replied the Earl, who
could not conceal from himself that he was rejoiced it had been given.
"And now, Georgiana, I must take my leave of you for the present," he
added, rising from his seat: "for I have a commission of a somewhat
important nature to execute for my half-brother. Indeed, the mention
thereof reminds me that I have never made you acquainted with one of the
best traits in his character. But does it annoy you,—does it vex you to
hear me speak of him?"

"No—no," answered Georgiana, somewhat hurriedly. "Since I have known
that he is your brother, I have been pleased to hear you say as much
good of him as possible."

"And this incident to which I allude," continued the Earl, "is not the
least praiseworthy of the many fine deeds which must be placed to his
account on the bright side. It appears that about three months ago he
adopted a little boy under very peculiar circumstances. A poor woman
died suddenly, through want and exposure to the inclemency of the
weather, at an obscure house in Seven Dials. Rainford happened to be
there at the time, and he took compassion on the little boy whom this
poor woman had in charge. The boy was not the woman's child—as a certain
letter found upon the person of the female proved. This letter was at
first detained by those miserable wretches who so persecuted my poor
brother: but it subsequently fell into his hands; and he entrusted it to
a Mr. Clarence Villiers, in order that this gentleman might institute
inquiries relative to its contents. I am now about to seek Mr. Villiers,
and obtain the letter from him; because, it appears from all I have
heard, that it is indubitably addressed to some lady of title, although
no name be mentioned in it. In fact, the poor woman—whose name was Sarah
Watts——"

"Sarah Watts!" repeated Lady Hatfield, with an hysterical scream, a
deadly pallor overspreading her beautiful countenance.

"That is the name——But, my God! you are ill!"—and the Earl rushed
forward to catch Georgiana in his arms, as she was falling from her
chair.

He conveyed her to the sofa; but for some moments she seemed insensible.
He was about to summon her female attendants, when she opened her eyes,
glanced wildly around her, and then said in an excited tone, "Do not
ring for any one,—I shall be better in a minute—remain with me,
Arthur,—I have now much to tell you!"

Surprised and grieved at the effect which his words had produced on Lady
Hatfield—yet unable to comprehend wherefore the mere mention of a name
should have so seriously touched her feelings,—the Earl gazed upon her
with interest and curiosity.

At length a faint tinge of red appeared upon her cheeks; and, with
reviving strength, she sate up on the sofa, motioning the young nobleman
to take a chair near her.

"Arthur," she said, "I ought not to have kept that _one_ secret from
you—for are we not now brother and sister? But, alas! you—with your
generous heart and fine feelings—can well understand how painful it is
for me to speak of my own dishonour,—and the more so, since that
degradation—that deep disgrace was caused by _him_ who is nearly allied
to you."

"What! can it be possible?" exclaimed the Earl, a sudden light breaking
in upon him: "that child—that boy, whom Rainford has adopted as his
own——"

"Is mine!" said Georgiana, in a voice of despair;—and, covering her face
with her hands, she burst into an agony of tears.

The Earl of Ellingham started from his seat, and began to pace the room
in a manner denoting the most painful excitement.

He was, indeed, deeply afflicted.

How wronged—how profoundly wronged had Georgiana been!—and by _him_ who,
as she herself had said, was so nearly allied to him!

Oh! Tom Rain—Tom Rain! that was the darkest episode in thy life!

Thus thought the Earl likewise;—and bitter was his sorrow at the revival
of such appalling reminiscences as those which now rent Lady Hatfield's
heart with anguish, and called forth the floods of grief from her eyes.

"Arthur," at length she said, exercising a violent effort to subdue her
sorrow, "give not way to bitter reflection on my account. For _your_
sake, all has been forgiven—though it may never be forgotten; for memory
is immortal! But that child—that boy of whom you speak—he is indeed with
his own father; and Providence doubtless willed that it should be so!"

She paused, and stifled the sobs which rent her bosom.

"You may think me a cruel and heartless mother, Arthur," she resumed at
length, now speaking in a mournful, plaintive tone, "thus to have
abandoned my offspring: but reflect ere you blame me! I was as it were
alone in a house situated in a retired part of the country—a man entered
at night—he found his way to my chamber—he took advantage of my
loneliness——O God! how have I survived that disgrace—that infamy?
Desperate was my resistance—but vain: and the ravisher, as you already
know, was Rainford! Alas! pardon me if I then mentioned his name with
bitterness; but human patience could not speak it calmly when such a
cloud of crushing reminiscences come back to the soul."

Again she paused: the Earl remained silent. What could he say? He
loathed—he abhorred the conduct of his half-brother, whom he would not
attempt to justify;—and his good sense told him that it were worse than
mockery to aim at consoling the victim of that foul night of maddened
lust and atrocious rape.

"Some weeks afterwards," continued Lady Hatfield, in a voice scarcely
audible and deeply plaintive, "I found that I was in a way to become a
mother. You may conceive——But no: it is impossible to imagine the state
of mind into which this appalling conviction threw me. And yet I was
compelled to veil my grief as much as possible;—for at that time a
suspicion of my condition on the part of the world, would have driven me
to suicide. I need not—I could not enter into the details of the plan
which I had adopted to conceal my dishonour. Suffice it to say, that I
succeeded in so doing—and, in a small retired village, and under a
feigned name, did I give birth to a son. To Sarah Watts was the babe
confided;—and, for a sum of money paid down at once, she agreed to adopt
it as her own. By an accident she discovered who I was—my name was on an
article of jewellery which I had with me. But she promised the strictest
secrecy, and I put faith in her words. Oh! do not blame me, if I acted
as I have now described—if I abandoned that child whose presence near me
would only have been a proof of my dishonour, and a constant memorial of
the dread outrage which no levity—no encouragement—no fault on my part
had provoked!"

"Blame you, Georgiana!" exclaimed the Earl, approaching and taking her
hand kindly;—"how could I blame you? You acted as prudence dictated—and,
indeed, as circumstances inevitably compelled you. But—now that the
parentage of this child is at length discovered—how do you wish me to
act? Remember, Georgiana, every thing in this respect shall be managed
solely with regard to your wishes—solely according to your directions.
Shall I communicate in a letter to my half-brother the secret which has
thus strangely transpired this day?—or shall I leave him in ignorance of
the fact that he has adopted his own son?"

"He knew not that the outrage he perpetrated led to that consequence,"
said Lady Hatfield, now cruelly bewildered and uncertain how to decide.
"No—he could not even suspect it—for I never met him again until that
night on the Hounslow road—and even then I recognised him not—and it was
only at the police-office in Bow Street that I again beheld him who had
been my ruin!"

"I am convinced," observed the Earl, "that Rainford has not the least
suspicion that you indeed became a mother. And, oh! when I touched upon
the subject of his atrocious behaviour towards you—while we were in
Paris—had you seen the tears of contrition—heart-felt contrition which
he shed——But, no," added the Earl, suddenly interrupting himself,—"it
were impossible that you could forgive him!"

"I forgive him for _your_ sake, Arthur," said Georgiana, in a mild but
firm tone. "And now, relative to that child—yes—he shall know that he is
with his father; and your brother must be informed that he has adopted
his own son! Providence indeed seems to have so willed it; for we cannot
believe that accident alone threw the child thus wondrously into the way
of the author of its being. Arthur," she added, taking the young
nobleman's hand,—"you will write to Rainford—and you will tell him all.
It is not necessary to enjoin him to treat the child with kindness—for
you say that his disposition is naturally generous. Nevertheless—I
should wish," continued the lady, looking down as she uttered these
words, and sinking her voice almost to a whisper—for _maternal feelings_
were stirring within her bosom,—"nevertheless, I should wish that you
impress upon the mind of your half-brother the necessity of bringing
that child up in the paths of virtue and honour."

"Your wishes shall be complied with," answered the Earl. "But fear not
that Rainford would inculcate evil principles into the mind of his son.
No—he is thoroughly changed, and will become a good, and, I hope, a
happy and prosperous man."

The young nobleman then took leave of Lady Hatfield, whom he left a prey
to emotions of a very painful nature.

For deeply and tenderly did she love Arthur; and great violence did she
to her feelings when she so generously and conscientiously counselled
him to take the beautiful Jewess as his wife!

And as the Earl returned home to his mansion in Pall Mall, to pen a
letter to Rainford, who was then on his voyage, under an assumed name,
and accompanied by Tamar, Jacob Smith, and little Charley, to the United
States,—he reviewed all the details of that long and interesting
conversation which had that afternoon passed between Lady Hatfield and
himself;—and he found that the tendency thereof was to make him ponder
more seriously and more intently upon the image of the charming Esther
than he ever yet had done.

-----

Footnote 36:

  We have been much gratified by observing that our attempt to vindicate
  the Jews against most of the unjust charges which it seems to be a
  traditionary fashion to level against them, has not passed unnoticed.
  All the Jewish papers have quoted the exculpatory passage at page 172
  of this Series of "THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON:" many provincial journals
  have also transferred it to their columns; and in No. 173 of
  _Chambers's Edinburgh Journal_ (New Series) it was printed, with the
  following record of approval on the part of the Editors of that
  well-conducted periodical:—"_We cordially agree in this manly defence
  of a cruelly misrepresented people_."

  In this enlightened age it is really horrible to think that the most
  abominable prejudices should prevail amongst Christians against the
  Jews. England boasts her high state of civilisation; and yet the Jews
  labour under innumerable disabilities, which have been abolished in
  France. After all, the French understand what civilisation really is
  much better than the English. The idea of a Jew sitting in the House
  of Commons would send all the Church party raving mad: but in France
  there are many Jews in the Chamber of Deputies. The learned Selden
  said very justly, "Talk what you will of the Jews, that they are
  cursed, they thrive where'er they come; they are able to oblige the
  prince of their country (and others too) by lending him money; none of
  them beg: they keep together; and for their being hated, my life for
  your's, Christians hate one another as much."

  The worst feature in the malignant persecution and misrepresentation
  of the Jews, is that the evil prejudice against them has been, and
  still is, fostered by Christian Divines and Theological writers. A
  Spanish theologian has placed on record the following infamous
  specimen of malignity:—

  "The tribe of Judah treacherously delivered up our Lord, and thirty of
  them die by treason every year.

  "The tribe of Reuben seized our Lord in the garden, and therefore the
  curse of barrenness is on all they sow or plant, and no green thing
  can flourish over their graves.

  "The tribe of Gad put on the crown of thorns, and on every 25th of
  March their bodies are covered with blood from deep and painful
  wounds.

  "Those of Asher buffeted Jesus, and their right hand is always nearly
  a palm shorter than the left.

  "Those of Napthali jested with Christ about a herd of swine, since
  when they are all born with tusks like wild boars.

  "The tribe of Manasseh cried out, 'His blood be on us and on our
  children,' and at every new moon they are tormented by bloody sores.

  "The tribe of Simeon nailed our Lord to the cross, and on the 25th of
  March, four deep and dreadful wounds are inflicted on their hands and
  feet.

  "Those of Levi spat on the Saviour, and the wind always blows back
  their saliva in their faces, so that they are habitually covered with
  filth.

  "The tribe of Issachar scourged Christ, and on the 25th of March blood
  streams forth from their shoulders.

  "The tribe of Zebulon cast lots for the garments, and on the same day
  the roof of their mouth is tortured by deep wounds.

  "The tribe of Joseph made the nails for crucifying Jesus, and blunted
  them to increase his sufferings; and therefore their hands and feet
  are covered with gashes and blood.

  "Those of Benjamin gave vinegar to Jesus; they all squint and are
  palsied, and have their mouths filled with little nauseous worms,
  which, in truth (adds our author), is the case with all Jewish women
  after the age of 25, because it was a woman who entreated the tribe of
  Joseph not to sharpen the nails used for the crucifixion of our Lord."

                  *       *       *       *       *

  That wretchedly prejudiced and unprincipled writer, Justin Martyr,
  wrote as follows, while apostrophising the Jews:—

  "God promised that you should be _as the sand on the sea shore_; and
  so you are indeed, in more senses than one. You are as numerous, and
  you are as barren, and incapable of producing any thing good."




                             CHAPTER LXXX.
                     MRS. SLINGSBY AND MR. TORRENS.


While the scene, related in the preceding chapter, was taking place at
the residence of Lady Hatfield, in Piccadilly, incidents requiring
mention occurred elsewhere.

Mrs. Slingsby was seated in her drawing-room, a prey to the most
frightful alarms.

Sir Henry Courtenay had left her the evening before to acquaint Mr.
Torrens with Rosamond's flight, and consult with him relative to the
necessary steps to be taken to prevent the exposure which himself and
Mrs. Slingsby so much dreaded. On thus parting with her, the baronet had
faithfully promised to call early in the morning and inform her of the
particulars of his interview with Mr. Torrens;—but it was now past one
o'clock in the afternoon, and he had not made his appearance.

What could his absence mean?—had any thing disagreeable occurred?—was it
possible that Rosamond could have made away with herself, and that Sir
Henry had taken to flight through dread of an exposure and its
consequences?

The suspense which Mrs. Slingsby endured, was horrible—horrible!

Guilty consciences invariably magnify into giants even the most
dwarf-like causes of apprehension; and there was no exception to this
rule on the present occasion.

A hundred times had she glanced at the elegant or-molu clock on the
mantel—and as hour after hour passed, and he came not, her restlessness
increased to such a degree that it at length reached a state of nervous
excitement no longer endurable.

She accordingly hurried to her chamber, dressed herself in her
walking-attire, and having left word with her servants that in case Sir
Henry Courtenay should call, he was to be requested to wait until her
return, sped to the nearest hackney-coach stand, where, stepping into a
vehicle, she ordered the driver to take her over to Torrens Cottage.

Yes—thither she was determined to proceed without delay, even at the
risk of encountering Rosamond; though she could scarcely believe that
the wronged girl had returned home. For, not precisely remembering all
the details of the conversation which took place between herself and the
baronet, and which Rosamond had overheard, the guilty woman imagined
that something more than mere allusions might have been made to the
connivance of Mr. Torrens in the ruin of his daughter; and hence Mrs.
Slingsby's very natural supposition that the victim of the infernal plot
had not returned to the parental dwelling.

The coach did not proceed with particular celerity, and the distance
from the West End to Torrens Cottage was great:—Mrs. Slingsby had
therefore ample leisure to continue her harrowing meditations upon the
real or supposed dangers which menaced her.

In sooth, her position was by no means an enviable one—unless indeed a
convict under sentence of death might have preferred her state to that
of imminent and ignominious death. For circumstances appeared suddenly
to combine against her. She was in the family-way—and this was alone
sufficient to cause her the most serious chagrin, especially as her
impious scheme of proclaiming herself a second Johanna Southcott had
been so completely frustrated by the determined opposition of her
paramour. Then there was the affair of Rosamond Torrens, one word from
whose lips would have the effect of tearing away the mask of hypocrisy
which Mrs. Slingsby had so long worn, and exposing her to the world in
all the hideous nudity of her criminal character. Lastly, the
unaccountable absence of the baronet filled her mind with the most
serious misgivings; for she knew that if he had indeed absconded, and if
he should cease to maintain her in a pecuniary sense, her position would
become lamentable in the extreme.

All these maddening reflections raised a storm of agitation in her
guilty mind; and she could scarcely subdue her excitement so that it
should escape the notice of the coachman, as he opened the door of the
vehicle when it stopped opposite Torrens Cottage.

Mr. Torrens was at home; and Mrs. Slingsby was immediately conducted by
Jeffreys to the parlour—the very parlour where her paramour had been
murdered on the preceding evening!

Rosamond, from her bed-room window, had observed the arrival of the
hateful woman, and was lost in surprise at her conduct in daring to
visit her father's abode.

Mr. Torrens received Mrs. Slingsby in the apartment where, as we have
just stated, the awful tragedy of the previous night had been enacted;
and this was the first time the criminal pair had ever met.

Bad as Mr. Torrens himself was, he could not help feeling a sentiment of
extreme loathing and disgust for the woman who concealed so black a
heart beneath the garb of religious hypocrisy;—and, though he
endeavoured to speak politely to her as he desired her to be seated, his
manner was cold, reserved, and indicative of the influence which her
presence produced upon him.

"We know each other by name, Mr. Torrens," began Mrs. Slingsby; "but it
is only now that we have met. You can doubtless conjecture the object of
my visit——"

"Yes, madam," exclaimed Rosamond, suddenly bursting into the room,
evidently in a state of fearful excitement: then, hastily closing the
door, she added, "My father can too well divine the purport of this
insolent intrusion. You doubtless seek to recover possession of _me_—to
take me back to your infamous abode—to surrender me up to your own vile
paramour! Oh! my dear father, surely—surely you will not allow this
polluted creature to remain beneath your roof a minute longer!"

"Rosamond—Rosamond," said Mrs. Slingsby, becoming the colour of scarlet,
"you will regret those harsh words. I came for the purpose of giving
certain explanations to your respected parent——"

"Explanations, madam!" cried the young girl, with a bitter smile of
contempt. "What explanations can _you_ offer which _I_ have not already
given?"

"I have every reason to believe that you overheard a conversation
between Sir Henry Courtenay and myself," said Mrs. Slingsby, growing
bolder as she perceived that the atrocious complicity of Mr. Torrens was
not suspected by his daughter; "and that conversation seems to have
alarmed you—for your flight from the house was wild and precipitate."

"Had I not already tarried there too long?" demanded Rosamond
emphatically. "Oh! think not to be able to delude me any more with your
specious misrepresentations—your disgusting sophistry! A veil has fallen
from my eyes—and I now behold _you_, madam, and that baronet whom you so
much vaunted, in your proper colours."

"You are wrong thus to suspect us so cruelly," said Mrs. Slingsby. "The
conversation which you overheard was but the repetition of another
conversation which Sir Henry Courtenay had himself overheard between two
persons whom you know not, and which he was relating to me. But I appeal
to your father whether _he_ believes me——"

"Enough, madam!" exclaimed Rosamond, in a tone which convinced the base
woman that she was indeed no longer to be imposed upon. "My father knows
you to be a degraded hypocrite—and your insolence is extreme in thus
daring to violate the sanctity of the paternal dwelling to which I have
been forced to return for shelter and refuge. And were it not," she
added bitterly, "that I should be proclaiming my own dishonour, not a
moment's hesitation would I manifest in tearing away the mask from your
face, and exposing you to the world. Oh! when I think of all the
insidious wiles which you have practised—all the abhorrent tutoring
which you have brought to play upon my mind, I deplore—yes, deeply do I
deplore that necessity which compels me to place a seal upon my lips!"

Mrs. Slingsby had heard enough to satisfy her that no exposure would
take place at the hands of Rosamond; and she was not very solicitous to
prolong her visit. The cause of the baronet's absence she had yet to
learn; but she concluded that it was not at Torrens Cottage she must
seek to have her curiosity in that respect gratified.

She accordingly rose—bowed to Mr. Torrens, who had remained a mute but
most alarmed spectator of the whole scene—and hastily withdrew, just in
time to avoid coming in collision with John Jeffreys; for that worthy,
judging by the excited manner in which he, himself unobserved, had seen
Rosamond rush into the parlour, that something extraordinary was
connected with the arrival of Mrs. Slingsby, had very coolly and quietly
listened at the parlour-door to every word that was uttered within.

Mrs. Slingsby returned home, somewhat consoled by the conviction that
her character was safe from any vindictiveness on the part of Rosamond:
but she was still alarmed in respect to the baronet;—and this fear
increased greatly, when, on her arrival in Old Burlington Street, at
about four o'clock, she learnt that he had not called.

She immediately despatched a note to his residence; but the domestic
returned with the answer that Sir Henry Courtenay had not been home
since the preceding day—a circumstance which caused no small degree of
alarm in the baronet's household, inasmuch as though he often slept away
from his abode, his servants were invariably kept ignorant of those
proofs of irregularities on his part. In a word, he was accustomed so to
arrange matters, that his nocturnal outgoings were never suspected at
his own residence—and thus his absence on this occasion had naturally
inspired some degree of apprehension.

Mrs. Slingsby was astounded at the message which her servant had brought
back. She could not even hazard a conjecture relative to the cause of
Sir Henry Courtenay's disappearance; and she was at a loss where to
search for him.

She therefore resolved to remain at home in the hope that he would
presently call upon her; but time passed—and still he came not.

At length there was a loud double knock at the door; and she fancied it
was the announcement of Sir Henry's arrival. But, instead of the object
of her anxiety, Mr. Torrens was ushered into the drawing-room.

"I fancied, madam," he said, "that you had some particular reason in
calling upon me just now, and which the presence of the unfortunate
Rosamond prevented you from explaining. I therefore lost no time in
waiting upon you."

"My alarm was somewhat appeased by the words which fell from your
daughter's lips," answered Mrs. Slingsby, motioning to her visitor to be
seated; "inasmuch as she expressed her intention of remaining silent on
a subject which neither I nor you would wish to become a matter of
public gossip. But I am astonished and grieved at the behaviour of Sir
Henry Courtenay, who left me last night with the intention of proceeding
direct to your house, and whom I have not since seen."

"He came not to me, madam," answered Mr. Torrens, with an unblushing
countenance.

"This is most extraordinary—most alarming!" cried Mrs. Slingsby; "for he
has not been home all night—nor yet to-day—and I begin to have vague
suspicions that something wrong must have occurred."

"Sir Henry Courtenay is a gallant man——"

"Yes," interrupted Mrs. Slingsby hastily, as if the subject were not a
very agreeable one: "but he also _maintains_ a character for propriety
and good conduct—and his dependants are never suffered to know that he
stays away from home at night. You see that I am compelled to be candid
with you—for the affair is most serious. Now, only reflect for a moment,
Mr. Torrens, upon what my state of mind would be, were I questioned
relative to Sir Henry's disappearance. Suppose, I say, that he did not
soon come back—that he continued to be missing,——it would transpire that
he was with me until late last evening—that we went out together,—for we
_did_ go out, to search for Rosamond,—and that I came back alone."

"No one could suspect _you_, madam, of having made away with him,"
observed Mr. Torrens.

"No—but I should be overwhelmed with the most embarrassing questions,"
exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby hastily. "And, do you know, that remark of
your's has inspired me with horror and alarm? No one would suspect _me_
of having made away with him! Of course not:—how could a weak woman
assassinate a man in the streets of London, and not leave a trace of the
dreadful deed behind? But might not inquiries be made—might it not be
discovered that Sir Henry and myself were frequent visitors—I must speak
candidly to you—to a house of ill-fame? And then—oh then! what a
dreadful exposure would take place!"

"You are torturing yourself with vain apprehensions, Mrs. Slingsby,"
said Mr. Torrens, experiencing the greatest difficulty to conceal his
own agitation.

"I should have thought that _you_, Mr. Torrens, would have assisted me
with your advice—considering how we have been involved in the same
transaction—rather than treat my fears with levity," said Mrs. Slingsby,
in an excited manner. "And, if I tell you the candid truth," she added,
fixing her eyes upon his countenance in a way which seemed intended to
read the inmost secrets of his soul, "I must declare my conviction that
_you_ know more of the cause of the baronet's disappearance than you
choose to admit."

"I—madam!" exclaimed Mr. Torrens, shrinking from the accusation in spite
of himself.

"Yes—_you_," returned the lady, growing more and more excited: "and that
suspicion which I hazarded, I scarcely know why, is now confirmed by
your manner. I again say, yes—you know more of the cause of Sir Henry
Courtenay's disappearance than you are willing to admit. I am convinced
that he _did_ visit you last night—and if he never came back, what
account will you give?—what explanation will you render? Your anxiety in
coming after me just now,—the singularity of your remark that no one
would suspect _me_ of foul play towards the baronet,—and your
trepidation when I named the suspicion which had flashed to my mind
concerning you,—all these circumstances convince me that you are no
stranger to the cause of Sir Henry Courtenay's disappearance."

"Madam—this outrageous charge—implying a crime of which I am utterly
incapable——" began Mr. Torrens, scarcely knowing how to meet the
accusation, and seriously inclined to divulge the whole truth.

"I do not say that you have _murdered_ Sir Henry Courtenay," interrupted
Mrs Slingsby, speaking in a low tone, and giving a strong, hollow
emphasis to that dreadful word which few can breathe without a shudder:
"but that some quarrel may have taken place between you—that you were
compelled to appear violent and vindictive in respect to him, your
daughter perhaps being present—and that all this led to a fatal issue,
are things which now seem to form a complete and connected train of
horrible impressions in my mind. At all events, Mr. Torrens," she added,
sinking her voice to a low whisper, "be candid with me—tell me the whole
truth—and we will consult together, circumstances having already
rendered us colleagues in _one_ transaction."

"I have nothing to tell you, Mrs. Slingsby, in respect to this
business," said Mr. Torrens; "and I am as astonished at Sir Henry
Courtenay's disappearance as yourself."

"Then, if I were questioned," observed the lady, "you would have no
objection to my saying that I parted last night from Sir Henry Courtenay
near St. James's Church, Piccadilly, his last words being to the effect
that he was about to call at Torrens Cottage on particular business?"

As she thus spoke, Mrs. Slingsby fixed her eyes in a searching—nay, a
piercing manner upon the countenance of her companion, who for a moment
quailed and betrayed evident signs of the desperate efforts he was
making to conceal his agitation.

"Yes—you may safely say _that_, if you perceive any utility in so
doing," returned Mr. Torrens at length: then, his features suddenly
assuming a ferocious expression, he added, "But why proclaim war against
me! Do we not know too much of each other to render such a warfare safe
or useful to either? Were you not the paramour of Sir Henry
Courtenay?—did you yourself not admit ere now that you visited a house
of ill-fame with him?—and are you not at this moment with child by him?
Woman—woman," muttered Torrens between his teeth, "provoke me not,—or it
shall be war indeed—war to the knife!"

"Be reasonable, sir," said Mrs. Slingsby, now assuming a cold and
resolute air; "and let us talk as two accomplices ought to converse—and
not with menaces and threats."

"Agreed, madam—but be you reasonable also," returned Mr. Torrens.

"Then wherefore keep anything secret from me?" demanded Mrs. Slingsby.
"I have read the truth—I have divined it—and your language has just
confirmed my impression. But think not that I care for Sir Henry
Courtenay, as a loving mistress or wife might care for him. No," she
added contemptuously: "any affection which I may ever have experienced
towards him, has long since vanished."

"And of what avail would it be to you to know that Sir Henry Courtenay
was no more, even for a moment granting that he indeed exists no
longer?" asked Torrens.

"I will tell you," replied Mrs. Slingsby in a low and hoarse whisper,
while she looked intently and in a manner full of dark meaning into her
companion's eyes, as she bent her countenance towards him. "If I were
assured that Sir Henry Courtenay was indeed no more, I would become
possessed of two thousand pounds by ten o'clock to-morrow morning."

"Ah!" ejaculated Mr. Torrens, his mind instantly conceiving the idea of
sharing the produce of whatever plan the lady might adopt to accomplish
her purpose—for we have already said that his necessities were still
great, and that, unless he shortly obtained funds, he would be as badly
off as he was ere he sold the virtue of his daughter.

"Yes," resumed Mrs. Slingsby; "and to show you that I have more
confidence in you than you have in me, I will give you a full and
complete explanation. Sir Henry Courtenay promised me two thousand
pounds as a reward for my connivance in the plan respecting Rosamond."

"Go on—go on," said Mr. Torrens hastily.

"That reward I have not received, because the payments which Sir Henry
had to make to you, and other claims upon him, had caused him to
overdraw his bankers. But yesterday morning he paid in eight thousand
pounds; and he intimated to one of the partners that he should give me a
cheque for two thousand in the course of the afternoon. The fact is,"
continued Mrs. Slingsby, "those bankers believe that I have property in
India, which Sir Henry Courtenay's agent there manages for me, and that
the proceeds therefore pass through Sir Henry's hands. This tale was
invented to account for the numerous and large cheques which I have
received from the baronet on that bank:—it was the saving clause for my
reputation. Now, those two thousand pounds which were promised me I can
have for little trouble and a small risk."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Torrens, becoming more and more interested in this
explanation.

"Yes," continued Mrs. Slingsby, "and I will tell you how almost
immediately. But I must first observe that I should have received the
cheque last evening had not the sudden flight of Rosamond interrupted
the discourse which I was having with the baronet, and thrown us into
confusion. But,"—and again she lowered her voice to an almost inaudible
whisper—"I can imitate the handwriting of Sir Henry Courtenay to such a
nicety that it would defy detection. Now, do you understand me?"

"I do—I do," answered Mr. Torrens.

"And you perceive that I have full confidence in _you_," added the
widow.

Mr. Torrens rose and paced the room for a few minutes. He was
deliberating within himself whether he should repose an equal trust in
Mrs. Slingsby; and he decided upon doing so. She saw what was passing in
his mind, and remained silent, confident as to the result.

"My dear madam," he said, resuming his seat, "I will at once admit to
you that Sir Henry Courtenay is indeed no more."

The lady heard him with breathless attention; for though she was fully
prepared for the avowal, yet when it came it sounded so awfully—so
ominously, that she received it with emotions of terror and dismay.

"It is indeed too true," continued Torrens: "but think not for a moment
that I am a murderer! No—no; bad as I may be—as I know myself to be, in
fine—I could not perpetrate such a deed as that. A strange and wonderful
combination of circumstances led to the shocking catastrophe. Listen—and
I will tell you all."

Mr. Torrens then related every incident of the preceding evening,
suppressing only that portion of the tale which involved the fact of his
servant John Jeffreys being acquainted with the occurrence, and having
lent his aid in disposing of the body. This circumstance he concealed
through that inherent aversion which man ever has to confess that he is
in the power of any one; and he made it appear, by his own story, that,
unassisted, he had buried the corpse.

At first Mrs. Slingsby was incredulous relative to the version of the
murder which she heard. She thought that Torrens was himself the
perpetrator of the act; but when he declared how cruelly the robbery of
his money had embarrassed him, and when she reflected that there really
could have been no reason urgent or strong enough to induce him to make
away with the baronet, she ended by fully believing his narrative.

"Then he is indeed no more!" she exclaimed. "But, my God! what will be
thought of his disappearance?—and will not those enquiries, which I so
much dread, be made?"

"As no suspicion can possibly fall upon either yourself or me,"
responded Mr. Torrens, "it is far from likely that any such enquiries
will be instituted. No—you need not be alarmed on that head, my dear
madam. I should rather be inclined to entertain apprehensions for the
success of your own scheme of——the forgery," he added, after a moment's
pause.

"No danger can possibly attend that undertaking," said Mrs. Slingsby.
"The baronet stated at the bankers' that he should give me the cheque
yesterday; and it will be paid in a moment, even if they have already
heard of his disappearance, which is scarcely probable, because the
fears excited by that fact have not as yet become so strong as to lead
to the suspicion that he has indeed met with foul play."

"You are, then, confident of being enabled to counterfeit his
handwriting successfully?" asked Mr. Torrens.

"Beyond all possibility of doubt," replied the widow.

"And shall you want my assistance?" inquired Torrens, thinking how he
could start a pretext for claiming a portion of the expected proceeds of
the nefarious plan.

"Listen to me," said Mrs. Slingsby, after a few moments' deliberation,
and now speaking as if she had finally come to a settled resolution on a
particular point, which she had been revolving in her mind almost ever
since Mr. Torrens entered the room: "I have something to propose to you
which regards us both, and which may suit yourself as well as it would
suit me. You are involved in embarrassments?"

"I am indeed," replied Mr. Torrens, now awaiting breathless suspense the
coming explanation, which, by the leading question just put, appeared to
relate to some scheme for relieving him of his difficulties.

"And these embarrassments are very serious?" continued the widow.

"So serious that they are insurmountable, as far as I can see at
present," was the response.

"Then you fear executions—arrest—prison—and all the usual ordeal of an
insolvent debtor?" asked the lady.

"Just so: and sooner than enter on that ordeal, I would commit suicide,"
rejoined Mr. Torrens.

"The alternative I have to propose to you is not quite so serious nor
alarming as that," resumed Mrs. Slingsby. "I have shown you that I can
put myself in possession of two thousand pounds to-morrow morning: will
that sum relieve you completely from your difficulties?"

"And enable me to carry out those speculations which must produce a
large fortune," answered Torrens.

"Then those two thousand pounds are at your disposal, on one condition,"
said Mrs. Slingsby.

"And that condition?" gasped Mr. Torrens, in mingled joy and suspense.

"Is that you marry me," returned Mrs. Slingsby, as calmly as if she were
making a bargain of a very ordinary nature.

"Marry you!" exclaimed her companion, quite unprepared for this
proposal.

"Yes—marry me," repeated the widow. "You want money to save you from
ruin—I want a husband to screen me from disgrace. You are involved in
pecuniary troubles—I am in a way to become a mother. I can save your
person from a gaol—you can save my character from dishonour."

"The arrangement is indeed an equitable one," said Mr. Torrens, not
without the least scintillation of satire in his remark: "but I see one
fatal objection."

"And that is your daughter Rosamond," observed Mrs. Slingsby. "Surely
the whim—the aversion—or the phantasy of a girl will not induce you to
reject a proposal which will save you from ruin and imprisonment?"

"And yet, what could I say to her? how could I explain my conduct? what
would she think, after all she knows of you?" demanded Mr. Torrens.

"She has not the power to prevent the match; and that is the principal
point in the matter," returned Mrs. Slingsby coolly. "You may as well
urge as an objection that Clarence Villiers, my nephew, is your
son-in-law; but I am not so foolish as to be alarmed at such scruples,
and you must have seen too much of the world to allow yourself to be
irretrievably ruined for the sake of a few idle punctilios. Give me your
decision at once—aye or nay. If it be the former, the marriage may be
celebrated by special license to-morrow evening; if it be the latter,
there is at once an end of the business, and we need not be the less
good friends."

"You regard the whole proposition, then, entirely as a matter of
_business_," said Mr. Torrens. "Well—that is indeed the way to look at
it. Of course, if we strike a bargain and unite our fortunes, we shall
require only one establishment. Will you break up this in Old Burlington
Street, and be contented to dwell at my Cottage?"

"Certainly," was the reply. "The sale of my furniture will pay my debts,
and perhaps leave a surplus; at all events we shall have the two
thousand pounds clear."

"And that sum you will place in my hands to-morrow morning?" said Mr.
Torrens interrogatively.

"No—to-morrow evening, _after_ the ceremony," responded the widow.

"Then we cannot trust each other?" continued Mr. Torrens.

"I think we should act prudently to adopt as many mutual precautions as
possible," observed Mrs. Slingsby coolly.

"Granted!" exclaimed Mr. Torrens. "And what guarantee have I that, when
once the indissoluble knot shall have been tied, you will hand me over
the promised sum?"

"Simply the fact that I do not wish to marry a man who will be the next
morning conveyed away to a prison."

"That is a mere assertion, and no security," remonstrated Mr. Torrens;
"we are talking the matter over in a purely business-like sense. Now, as
far as I can see, the advantages will be all on your side. If you happen
to be in debt, you will have a husband on whose person your creditors
will pounce instead of on your own; and, at all events, as you are with
child, you will have a person whom you can represent as the legitimate
father of the expected offspring."

"I will tell you how the business can be managed," said Mrs. Slingsby,
after a pause. "A thought has struck me! I will lodge the money in the
hands of a very respectable solicitor whom I know, and you can accompany
me to his office for the purpose. In his keeping shall it remain, with
the understanding that it is to be paid to you on your becoming my
husband."

"Good!" observed Mr. Torrens. "Who is the solicitor?"

"Mr. Howard," was the answer.

"I know him, and have no objection to him as the agent in the business.
I think we have now got over all obstacles in that respect. A difficult
task will it however prove to me to prepare my daughter this evening for
the step which I am to take to-morrow."

"Oh! I have no doubt you will succeed," said Mrs. Slingsby: "it would be
indeed hard if a father could not overcome, with his reasoning, the
objections of his own child."

"I must do my best," observed Torrens, rising. "At what hour to-morrow
shall I call to accompany you to the lawyer's?"

"At about twelve. I shall go to the bank between ten and eleven; and you
can in the meantime obtain the marriage-license."

"It shall be done," returned Mr. Torrens. "The ceremony will be
performed here?" he added interrogatively.

"Yes—at seven o'clock in the evening. I will make arrangements with two
ladies whom I know, to be bridesmaids, and Dr. Wagtail will give me
away. After the ceremony we will repair to Torrens Cottage."

Thus, calmly and deliberately, was settled the solemn covenant between
the man who had sold his daughter's virtue and the licentious woman who
was now prepared to commit a forgery!

And the worthy pair separated, Mr. Torrens having embraced his intended
wife, because he considered a kiss to be as it were the seal of the
bargain just concluded, and also because Mrs. Slingsby by her manner
appeared to invite the salutation.




                             CHAPTER LXXXI.
                           ROSAMOND AT HOME.


We shall follow Mr. Torrens homeward, and see how he acquitted himself
of the disagreeable and difficult task of breaking his matrimonial
intentions to his daughter, the fair but ruined Rosamond.

It was past nine o'clock in the evening when he reached the cottage; and
Rosamond, with a charming filial solicitude to render her parent's home
as comfortable as possible, had superintended the preparations for
supper. Exercising a command, too, over the sad feelings which filled
her bosom, and invoking resignation with Christian fortitude to her aid,
she even manifested a species of cheerfulness as she opened the
front-door at the sound of his well-known knock. But, alas! it was not
the innocent—artless cheerfulness of other days:—it was merely the
struggle of the moonbeam to pierce the mass of dark and menacing clouds!

And now behold the father and daughter seated at the supper-table—that
repast which the care of Rosamond had endeavoured to render as agreeable
as possible, but which was disposed of hastily and without appetite on
either side.

At length, when the things were cleared away and Mr. Torrens had
fortified his courage with sundry glasses of wine, he prepared to enter
on the grave and important subject which occupied his mind.

"Rosamond, my love," he said, speaking in as kind a tone as it was
possible for his nature to assume, "I have something to communicate to
you, and shall be glad if you will hear me calmly and without
excitement. I have this evening seen Mrs. Slingsby."

"That woman!" exclaimed the daughter, starting. "Oh! I had hoped that
her name would no more be mentioned in this house."

"I begged of you not to give way to excitement—I warned you to be
reasonable," said Mr. Torrens severely. "Surely you can accord me your
attention when I am anxious to discourse with you on matters of
importance?"

"Pardon me, dearest father—and, oh! do not blame nor reproach me if I
manifest a very natural irritability—a loathing—an abhorrence——"

She could say no more, but burst into a flood of tears.

Mr. Torrens suffered her to give full vent to her emotions; for he knew
that the reaction would produce comparative calmness.

"Rosamond," he at length said, "you _can_ be reasonable when you
choose—and I do hope that you have sufficient confidence in your father
to accord him your attention and to believe what he may state to you.
Listen then—and rest assured that I should never take the part of any
one against my own daughter. I have seen Mrs. Slingsby."

Rosamond gave a convulsive start; but her father, appearing not to
observe it, proceeded.

"It struck me," he continued, "that she would never have had the
presumption and impudence to call here this morning, if she were really
as guilty as you supposed her to be. I therefore deemed it an act of
justice to ascertain the nature of those explanations which she
proffered in this room, and which your presence cut short. With that
object in view, I proceeded to her abode; and she assured me that she
was entirely innocent of any connivance in the atrocity perpetrated by
Sir Henry Courtenay——"

"Innocent!" almost shrieked Rosamond. "Oh! my dear father, you know not
how specious—how plausible that woman can be when she chooses; and it
has suited her purpose to be so with you. But be not deceived——"

"Do you imagine that I am not old enough and sufficiently experienced to
discriminate between sincerity and duplicity?" demanded Mr. Torrens. "I
tell you, Rosamond, that you wrong Mrs. Slingsby—that your suspicions
are most injurious! Reflect—consider before you thus condemn! You
overheard a few words which immediately threw you into a state of such
excitement that your imagination tortured all the subsequent discourse
into an evidence of guilt on the part of a lady who is deeply attached
to you—who loves you as if she were your own mother—and who will die of
grief if you continue thus to misjudge her. Yes, Rosamond—Mrs. Slingsby
has declared that she will put a period to her existence if you persist
in your present belief! She accuses you of ingratitude towards her,
after all her affectionate kindness in your behalf; and, should she
carry her dreadful threat into execution—which I much fear, for she
seems literally distracted—her blood will be upon your head!"

[Illustration]

"Merciful heavens!" exclaimed Rosamond, appalled by this terrible
announcement. "But if I cannot command my own convictions?" she added
hastily.

"You must cherish a Christian spirit—you must be less prompt in forming
opinions—less ready to arrive at those convictions which you represent
to be uncontrollable," said Mr. Torrens, endeavouring to bewilder his
daughter, and thereby render her spirit ductile and her mind pliant, so
that he might manage both as he pleased. "So far from nourishing
malignity against Mrs. Slingsby, you should seek consolation with her;
for your own mother is not here to console you!"

"God be thanked that my mother is not here to witness my disgrace!"
ejaculated Rosamond, clasping her hands fervently.

"For the sake of my daughters I was wrong—yes, I was wrong not to have
married again," said Mr. Torrens, as if musing to himself. "I should
have given a protectress to my children—a lady who would have been a
second mother to them; and then all this would not have occurred! But it
is not yet too late to ensure your future welfare, Rosamond, by those
means," he added, turning towards his daughter, who had listened with
surprise to her father's previous observations; "and in accomplishing
that aim, I may at the same time afford a convincing proof to a
deserving, wrongly-suspected, and misjudged woman of my own esteem, and
inferentially of your regret at the calumniatory sentiments you have
cherished concerning her."

"My dear father—I do not understand you!" cried Rosamond, a dreadful
suspicion weighing on her mind; and which, nevertheless, seemed so wild
and ridiculous—so utterly impossible to be well-founded, that she
fancied she had not rightly comprehended the sentiments of her parent.

"I am thinking how I can best ensure your welfare and happiness,
Rosamond," he said, "by giving you a substitute for that maternal
protectress whom you have lost—one who will be a companion and a friend
to you——"

"Father!" exclaimed Rosamond, horrified at the idea of having a
step-mother, and trembling with indescribable alarms lest she had indeed
too well read her sire's intentions respecting the _one_ whom he
proposed to invest with that authority.

"Will you hear me with calmness?—will you subdue this excitement, which
amounts to an undutiful aversion to all I am projecting for your sake?"
demanded Mr. Torrens, again assuming a severe tone: then, perceiving
that his daughter was dismayed by his manner, he hastily added, as if
determined at once to put an end to a painful scene, "If I have
consulted you, Rosamond, on the step that I propose to take, it was
because I deemed you sensible and reasonable enough to merit that proof
of confidence on my part, and obedient enough to submit becomingly to
the dictates of my superior wisdom and experience. Know, then, that it
is my intention to marry again—_for your sake_—and that my inclinations,
as well as my interests, induce me to fix my choice upon Mrs. Slingsby."

Rosamond uttered not a word, but fell back senseless in her chair.

"Obstinate fool!" muttered Torrens between his teeth, as he hastened
forward to save her from slipping off on the fender. "But I will neither
argue nor consult any more—I will command, where I wish to be obeyed."

He applied a scent-bottle to her nostrils; and she soon gave signs of
returning animation. Opening her eyes, she glanced wildly at her father,
as if to interrogate him whether that were really true which appeared to
have been haunting her like a horrid dream.

"Father—father," she murmured, grasping his hands; "you will not—no, you
will not do what you have said! Oh! I implore you—I conjure—sacrifice
not your own happiness and mine at the same instant! I was not mistaken
in one syllable that I overheard between that woman and that man—and
their discourse filled me with horror. She is his paramour, father—she
is in a way to become a mother——"

"Silence, daughter!" cried Mr. Torrens, sternly. "And now listen to me,
while I make you acquainted with my _commands_! Not only is it my
intention to marry Mrs. Slingsby, but I desire that you will treat her
with respect—if not with affection. And as you value my love and the
continuance of my kindness, you will observe these instructions. If any
thing more be wanting to induce you to comply with my desire, that
additional argument will, perhaps, be found in the fact that if I do not
marry Mrs. Slingsby, I shall be ruined—utterly undone—my property
wrested from me—my person conveyed to a prison—and _you_ thrust out,
houseless and penniless, into the wide world, without a soul to protect
or befriend you. Now I have told you all—and it is for you to decide
whether your prejudices shall prevail against my most substantial
interests."

Rosamond was astounded at the words which met her ears; and she knew not
how to reply.

For a few moments she stood gazing vacantly upon her father's
countenance, as if to read thereon a confirmation of words, the import
of which seemed too terrible to be true: then, probably experiencing the
necessity of seeking the solitude of her own chamber for the purpose of
giving vent to the overflowing fulness of her heart's emotions, she
hurried from the room.

Poor friendless girl! dreadful was the position in which she found
herself placed! Oh! why were not Clarence and Adelais near to console
her—to receive her beneath their protecting influence? Alas! she would
not have dared to face them, even were they in the metropolis at the
time; for she could not have revealed to them her dishonour—Oh! no, she
would sooner have died!

Throwing herself on a seat in the privacy of her bed-chamber, she burst
into tears, and gave vent to her anguish in heart-rending sobs.

An hour passed—and still she thought not of retiring to rest;—she was in
a state of utter despair!

She heard her father ascend to his chamber: but this circumstance
reminded her not that the usual hour when she herself sought her couch
had gone by.

Suddenly she was aroused from the deep reverie of woe that had succeeded
the violent outburst of her anguish, by the movement of the handle of
the door, as if some one were about to enter her room.

She started and listened, the bed being between the place where she was
and the door, so that she could not see the latter.

Yes—some one was indeed entering the chamber.

With a faint scream she darted forward, and beheld a man in the act of
closing the door behind him.

The intruder was Jeffreys, the recently-hired servant.

"What has brought you hither, John?" enquired Rosamond, in hasty and
anxious tone—for she feared lest something had happened to her father.

"Nothink but your own beautiful self, Miss," answered the ruffian,
advancing towards her as well as he was able—for he was much
intoxicated.

"Begone!" cried Rosamond, her whole countenance becoming suddenly
crimson with indignation. "Begone, I say—and to-morrow my father will
know how to punish this insolence."

"Your father, Miss, won't do no such a thing," returned Jeffreys; "and
it'll be all the worse for you if you holler. I know a many things that
wouldn't render it safe for master to quarrel with me. So give me a
kiss——"

"Villain!" exclaimed Rosamond, bursting into tears: "how dare you thus
insult me? Leave the room—or I alarm the house at any risk!"—and she
rushed towards the bell-pull.

"None of that nonsense, Miss—_or I'll hang your father, as sure as
you're alive_!" said Jeffreys, placing his back to the door, folding his
arms, and surveying Rosamond with the insolence of a licentious, drunken
bully.

"Hang my father!" repeated the unhappy girl, staggering back and sinking
into a chair—for so many dreadful things had recently occurred, that her
mind was more attuned to give immediate credence to evil than to receive
good tidings.

"Yes, by jingo!" said Jeffreys: "I can hang him any day I like. But
what's more, I know pretty well all that's happened to you. I didn't
listen for nothink at the parlour door this morning when that Mrs.
Bingsby or Stingsby, or whatever her name is, was here."

"My God! my God!" murmured Rosamond, pressing her hands to her brow with
all her might—for she felt as if she were going mad.

"Now don't take on so, Miss," said Jeffreys: "I'm sure I didn't mean to
vex you like that. But the fact is I've took a great fancy to you: and
if so be I let out that your father did draw a knife across the throat
of that baronet which come here last night, and which I s'pose was the
same you spoke of this morning to Mrs. Bingsby——"

"Monster!" shrieked Rosamond, in a shrill, penetrating tone—for she was
unable any longer to subdue the horrible emotions which racked and
tortured her, goading her almost to madness.

In another instant Mr. Torrens was heard to rush from his chamber—a
moment more, and he forced his way into his daughter's room, hurling the
villain Jeffreys forward with the violence exerted in dashing open the
door.

"Father—dear father!" exclaimed Rosamond, springing into his arms; "save
me—save me from that monster, who has told me such dreadful—dreadful
things!"

"Be calm, Rosamond," said Mr. Torrens in a low and hoarse tone; "or you
will alarm the other servant. Jeffreys," he added, turning towards the
fellow who was swaying himself backwards and forwards, in the middle of
the room, in that vain attempt to appear sober so often made by drunken
men, "how dare you to intrude here? But follow me—I must speak to you
alone."

"Father—one word," said Rosamond, in a voice indicative of deep feeling.
"This man uttered a frightful accusation against you—Oh! an accusation
so terrible that my blood curdles——"

"Nonsense, Rosamond!" interrupted Mr. Torrens, cruelly agitated: "you
see that he has taken a drop too much—he is a good well meaning
fellow—and will be very sorry in the morning——"

"Sorry! why the devil should I be sorry?" cried Jeffreys, with the
dogged insolence of inebriation. "I don't know what I've got to be sorry
for——"

"Come, come," said Mr. Torrens, gently pushing his daughter aside, and
approaching the man-servant in a coaxing, conciliatory way; "this is
carrying the thing too far, John——"

"Well—well, we can talk it over in the morning, Miss—and I dare say we
shall make matters right enough together," stammered the drunken hind,
as he allowed himself to be led away from the chamber by Mr. Torrens.
"You're a pretty gal—and if I said anythink amiss——"

The almost maddened father hurried him over the threshold, and Rosamond
hastened to secure the door behind them both.

Then flinging herself into a chair, she exclaimed, "My God! what horrors
have met my ears this night! Misfortunes—crimes—woes—fears—outrages have
entered the house, like an army carrying desolation along with it! But
my father—a murderer—Oh! heavens—no—no—it cannot be! And yet that dread
accusation—so cool—so systematic——my God! my God!"

And she wept as if her heart would break.

From this painful—or rather most agonising condition of mind, she was
aroused by a low knock at her door; and, in answer to her question who
was there, the voice of her father replied.

She hastened to admit him;—but, as he entered, she started back,
appalled by the ghastliness of his countenance, every lineament of which
denoted horror and fearful emotions.

"Father, tell me all—keep me not in suspense—let me know the worst!"
exclaimed Rosamond, clasping her hands in an imploring manner. "Dreadful
things have happened, I am sure—and my brain is reeling, maddening!"

"Daughter," said Mr. Torrens, taking her hand, "you _must_ and you
_shall know_ the worst now—for I find that the miscreant Jeffreys has
indeed told you too much for me to attempt to conceal the truth——"

"Just heavens! my father—stained with blood—the blood of vengeance on
account of his dishonoured daughter;" said Rosamond, speaking in broken
sentences and with hysterical excitement, while her eyes were fixed
intently and with a fearfully wild expression upon the haggard
countenance of her sire.

"No—not so, Rosamond," answered Mr. Torrens emphatically. "Sit
down—there—and try and compose yourself for a few moments, while I give
you an explanation which circumstances have rendered imperative."

The wretched girl suffered herself to be placed on a seat: her father
then drew another chair close to the one which she occupied—and, leaning
with folded arms over the back of it, he continued in these terms:——

"Last night—after you had retired to your room—Sir Henry Courtenay
called. Yes—he dared to visit the house into which such dishonour and so
much misery had been brought by his means. But he came to offer every
possible atonement which it was in his power to make; and then I
ascended to your room—here—to make you aware of his presence in the
parlour below and of the proposals which I had received. But I found you
in a state of mind too profoundly excited to bear the announcement—I
remained with you to console and tranquillise you—and, when I saw that
you were growing more calm, I retraced my way down stairs. Merciful
heavens! what a spectacle then met my eyes!"

And Mr. Torrens, having introduced his fearful history by this deceptive
and well coloured preface, proceeded to narrate the facts of the murder
precisely as they had really occurred,—not forgetting to mention the
robbery of a sum of money which he had left on the table. He then
explained the part which John Jeffreys had subsequently performed in the
occurrences of the preceding night; and he wound up in the following
manner:——

"Thus you perceive, dear Rosamond, how a fearful combination of
circumstances would fix dark and dreadful suspicions on me, were this
tragedy to be brought to light. And now, too, you can understand how
that miscreant Jeffreys dared to presume upon his knowledge of the
shocking event—how, believing me to be completely in his power, he
fancied that I dared not defend my own daughter from his licentious
ruffianism. And, more than all this, Rosamond—Mrs. Slingsby holds me
also beneath the rod of terrorism! For she knew that the baronet came
hither last night—she knew also that he did not return—and I was
compelled to reveal to her the whole truth, even as circumstances have
now forced me to reveal it to you. And this is the secret of my intended
marriage with her—a marriage that will take place to-morrow, and into
which she has coerced me! Thus, Rosamond, if you ever loved and if you
still love your unhappy father—pity him, pity him—but do not reproach
him—nor aggravate his grief and his mental anguish by thought or deed on
your part!"

So ingeniously had Mr. Torrens blended truth and fiction in his
narrative, to work upon the feelings of his daughter,—so artfully had he
combined and explained the various incidents in order to represent
himself as the victim of cruel circumstances—that the generous-minded
Rosamond felt the deepest commiseration and sympathy on behalf of her
father rapidly taking possession of her soul.

"My dearest parent," she said, "I crave your pardon—I implore your
forgiveness, for having wronged you by the most unjust—the most horrible
suspicions! But the conduct of that man Jeffreys—his awful
accusation—the reluctance you appeared to exhibit in dealing summarily
with him, when you entered the room the first time this night,—all these
things operated powerfully upon my mind, which has been attenuated by so
many dreadful shocks within the last ten or twelve days! Alas! what
sorrows have overtaken us—what perils environ us! Let us fly from this
neighbourhood, dear father—let us leave England——"

"It is impossible, Rosamond!" interrupted Mr. Torrens hastily. "I had
myself thought of that means of ensuring personal safety: but I
abandoned the idea almost as soon as formed—for it was better to stay
here, surrounded by danger, yet having bread to eat, than seek a foreign
clime to starve!"

"We can work, dear father—we can toil for our livelihood! But,
no—never should you be reduced to such a painful necessity, so long as
your daughter has health and strength to labour for our mutual
support!" exclaimed the excellent-hearted girl. "Oh! let us fly—let us
quit this country—let us repair to France! I have some few
accomplishments—drawing—music—a knowledge of all the branches of
needlework; and it will be hard indeed if I cannot earn enough to
procure us bread."

"No—no, Rosamond—it cannot be!" said Mr. Torrens, tears now trickling
down his cheeks—for the better he became acquainted with the admirable
traits of his daughter's character—traits which adversity, misfortune,
and danger now developed—the more bitterly did his heart smite him for
the awful treachery he had perpetrated with regard to her.

"And wherefore is it impossible?" she asked. "Consider, my dear father,
by what circumstances you are now surrounded. On one side is Jeffreys
whom you dare not offend—whom you cannot discharge—and from whose
ruffianism your daughter is not safe. On the other side, is this
marriage with Mrs. Slingsby—a marriage which I now perceive to be forced
upon you—a marriage that will bring into this house a person whom
neither of us can ever love or respect!"

"Enough! enough! Rosamond," exclaimed Mr. Torrens: "all these sad
things—these dangers and these sacrifices—have become interwoven with
the destiny which it is mine to fulfil; and I must pursue my painful
course—follow on my sad career, in the best manner that I may. I cannot
risk starvation in a foreign land—I could not support an existence
maintained by the toils of my daughter. Besides, I am confident of being
able to realise a fortune by my speculations in this neighbourhood.
Here, then, must I remain. And now, Rosamond, it remains for you to
decide whether you will receive the mother-in-law whom imperious
circumstances force upon you—or whether you will abandon your father!"

"Never, never will I leave you!" cried the affectionate girl, throwing
her arms around her parent's neck, and embracing him tenderly.

The interview—the painful interview between the father and his child
then terminated. The former retired to his own apartment, a prey to
feelings of the most harrowing nature; and the latter sought her couch,
to which slumber was brought through sheer exhaustion.

But the horrors of the early portion of the night were perpetuated in
her dreams!




                            CHAPTER LXXXII.
                           THE FORGED CHEQUE.


Oh! what a strange, and, at the same time, what a wondrous world is this
in which we live;—and how marvellous is human progress! The utmost
attainments effected by the wisdom of our ancestors were but ignorance
and short-sightedness compared with the knowledge of the present day.
Antiquity had its grand intellects and its sublime geniuses; but it
furnished not the same abundance of materials to act upon as is afforded
by the discoveries and likewise by the spirit of this age!

But are we proportionately happier, on this account, than were our
forefathers? Is the working-man, for instance, more prosperous, more
comfortable, more enviable as to his condition, than the aboriginal
Briton who lived in a cave or the hollow of a tree, and who painted his
body to protect it against the cold?

With all our prosperity—with all the grandeur, the glitter, and the
refinement of our civilisation—with all our moralising institutions and
our love of social order and mental improvement, we yet find the
national heart devoured, tortured, and preyed upon by that undying
serpent—PAUPERISM!

Yes: the millions are not so happy, so prosperous, or so comfortable as
they ought to be;—for they are compelled to gnaw the tares of
civilisation's field, while the proud and heartless oligarchy
self-appropriate the corn!

Proud and heartless, indeed, are the rulers and the mighty ones of this
land; and if the millions remain passive and patient, that pride and
that heartlessness will grow, the one more despotic and the other more
selfish.

It was but a few days ago that we marked two distinct articles in the
morning newspapers, which formed a contrast fearfully significant in its
evidence of the pride and the heartlessness which we abominate on the
one hand, and of the distress and suffering which we so deeply deplore
on the other.

One of these articles consisted but of _four lines_: the other occupied
nearly _two columns_.

The first stated as laconically as possible that bread had risen to
thirteen-pence the quartern loaf, and recorded a rapidly-disposed of
regret that provisions should be so dear, on account of the poor. The
second gave a laboured, fulsome, and tediously wire-drawn narrative of
"Her Majesty's State Ball."

Thus the misery endured by millions in consequence of dearness and
scarcity, is a trivial matter deserving only of _four lines_; whereas
the trumpery nonsense and childish tom-foolery of a royal dance are
deemed of sufficient importance to merit nearly _two columns_!

Oh! instead of giving balls and splendid entertainments at such a time,
if the Sovereign of this land were to say to the people, "Ye are
starving, and it makes my heart bleed to think that from your very
vitals are wrung the hundreds of thousands of pounds which are wasted by
myself and the other members of the Royal Family on our frivolities, our
whims, our caprices, and our wanton extravagances: therefore will I give
ye back one half of the enormous income which I have hitherto enjoyed,
in the full confidence that my example will be imitated by many others
who prey upon you;"—did the Sovereign thus speak to the nation, the
nation would be justly proud of its Sovereign; and yet this Sovereign
would only be performing a duty dictated by humanity and common justice.

What would be thought of the father of a family who feasted on turtle
and venison, accompanied by generous wines, every day, while his
children were thrust into the cold, humid cellar, to devour a mouldy
crust and drink water?

Yet the Sovereign delights in the attribute of a general and
comprehensive paternal solicitude in the welfare of the people: but it
is an attribute which exists only in the imaginations of grovelling
courtiers or lick-spittle historians.

Royalty and Aristocracy are intensely—necessarily—and thoroughly
selfish: and as for any anxiety on behalf of the toiling and suffering
millions, the idea is absurd—the notion is a mere delusion—the assertion
that such a feeling exists, is a lie—a monstrous, wicked, atrocious lie!

There is more of the milk of human kindness in a single cottage than in
all the palaces of Europe taken together.

There is more true philanthropy in one poor man's hovel, than in a
thousand mansions of the great and wealthy in the fashionable quarters
of London.

Oh! if the father or the mother can dance and be glad while the children
are famishing, the sooner all ties are severed between such worthless
parents and such an oppressed and outraged offspring, the better!

Nero danced and sang on the summit of a tower at the spectacle presented
to his eyes by burning Rome;—and festivity and rejoicing reign in our
English palaces, at a moment when scarcity menaces the land with famine
and its invariable attendant—pestilence!

People of England! ye now understand how much sympathy ye may expect on
the part of those who derive all their wealth from the sweat of your
brow!

People of Ireland! ye now comprehend how much pity your starving
condition excites on the part of your rulers!

People of Scotland! ye now perceive how worthy the great ones of the
realm are of your adulation!

But it is sickening, as it is sorrowful, to dwell on this subject. Some
of our readers may perhaps ask us wherefore we broach it at all? We will
reply by means of a few questions. Is not every individual member of a
society interested in the welfare of that society? or ought he not at
least to be so? Is he not justified in denouncing the errors or the
downright turpitude of the magistrates whom that society has chosen to
govern it, and who derive their power only from its good will and
pleasure? or is it not indeed his duty to proclaim those errors and that
turpitude? Should not this duty be performed, even if it be unpleasant?
and can we ever hope to ameliorate our condition, unless we expose the
abuses which oppress, degrade, and demoralise us?

Oh! let no one rashly and in a random manner say that he cares nothing
about politics! Such an assertion denotes a wilful disregard not only of
his neighbour's interests, but also of his own. Were all men to
entertain such an indifference, the people would be the veriest slaves
that an unrestrained despotism and an unwatched tyranny could render
them. It is as necessary for the industrious classes to protect their
rights and privileges by zealously guarding them, as to adopt
precautions to save their houses from fire.

One word more. It is a common saying, and as absurd as it is
common—"Oh! women have no right to meddle in politics." Women, on the
contrary, have as much right as "the lords of the creation" to exhibit
an interest in the systems and institutions by which they are
governed. For the sake of their children, as well as for their own,
they should assert and exercise that right. It is a lamentable
delusion to suppose that the intellect of woman is not powerful nor
comprehensive enough to embrace such considerations. The intellect of
woman is naturally as strong as that of man; but it has less chances
and less opportunities of developing its capacity. The masculine study
of politics would aid the intellect of woman in putting forth its
strength; and we hope that the day is gone by when the female sex are
to be limited to the occupations of the drawing-room, the nursery, or
the kitchen. We do not wish to see women become soldiers or sailors,
nor to work at severe employment: but we are anxious to behold them
_thinkers_ as well as _readers_—utilitarians as well as domestic
economists. And we know of no greater benefit that could be conferred
on society in general, than that which might be derived from the
influence of the well developed intellect of woman. Her mind is
naturally better poised than that of man: far-seeing and quick-sighted
is she;—a readiness at devising and combining plans to meet
emergencies, is intuitive with her. Her judgment is correct—her taste
good;—and she profits by experience far more usefully than does man.
Is it not absurd, then—is it not unjust—and is it not unwise to deny
to woman the right of exercising her proper influence in that society
of which she is the ornament and the delight?

Alas! that there should be such exceptions to the general rule of female
excellence, as Martha Slingsby,—a woman whose principles were thoroughly
corrupt, whose licentious passions were of the most devouring,
insatiable kind, and whose talent for wicked combinations and evil
plottings was unfortunately so great!

Let us return to this hypocritical and abandoned creature, and follow
her in the vile scheme which now occupies all her attention.

Having breakfasted at an early hour, she seated herself at her desk,
whence she drew forth a packet of letters received by her at various
times from Sir Henry Courtenay, and the signatures of which now became
the objects of her special study. The art of counterfeiting the late
baronet's autograph was practised by her for nearly half an hour; for
though she was already tolerably confident of her ability to forge his
signature most successfully,—as she had assured Mr. Torrens,—she
nevertheless deemed it prudent to render the imitation as perfect as
possible.

At last the atrocious deed was accomplished to her complete
satisfaction; and a cheque for two thousand pounds lay, drawn in a
thoroughly business-like manner, upon her desk!

She was bold and courageous in the execution of plots and the carrying
out of deep schemes;—but this dark and dangerous crime which she had
just perpetrated, caused her to shudder from head to foot! Hitherto all
her wickedness had been of a nature calculated only, if detected, to
involve her in disgrace, and not in peril—to ruin her character, but not
place her life in jeopardy! Now she had taken a step—a bold and
desperate step—which at once set her on the high road that conducts all
those who are found treading its pathway, to the foot of the scaffold!

Yes—she shrank back and she trembled violently as she rose from the desk
whereon the forged cheque now lay; and for a moment she was inclined to
seize it—to rend it into a thousand pieces—and thus to dispel at once
and in an instant the tremendous black cloud of stormy danger which she
had drawn over her own head.

But, no—she had courage enough to be wicked and rash; but she had not
strength of mind sufficient to render her prudent. She therefore decided
on daring all—risking everything, by the presentation of the forged
cheque!

Having dressed herself in a style of unusual elegance, she proceeded in
a hackney-coach to Lombard Street, and alighted at the door of the
banking-house on which the cheque was drawn.

Saying to herself,—"Now for the aid of all my courage!"—she entered the
spacious establishment, and advanced towards the counter.

One of the numerous clerks in attendance instantly received the cheque
which she handed across to him;—and, as it left her hand, a chill struck
to her heart—and she would at that moment have given worlds to recall
it.

Her composure was now only the effect of utter desperation: but so
unruffled was her countenance, that not a lineament was so changed as to
be calculated to engender suspicion.

The clerk took the cheque to the nearest desk upon the counter; and
after reading it with more than usual attention, as Mrs. Slingsby
thought, he said, "This is dated the day before yesterday, madam. Have
you seen Sir Henry Courtenay since then?"

"I have not," answered Mrs. Slingsby, wondering how she was able to
speak in a tone so cold and collected. "I believe," she added, "that he
is gone out of town."

"Pardon the question, madam," observed the clerk; "but one of his
servants was here last evening, just before closing time, to enquire if
we had seen Sir Henry:"—then, after a few moments' pause, he said, "How
will you have this?"

Immense was the relief suddenly experienced by the guilty woman! She
seemed as if drawn abruptly forth from the depths of an ocean in which
she had been suffocating—drowning. The revulsion of feeling was so
great, that, whereas she had been enabled to stand without support
throughout the few minutes of frightful ordeal just passed, she was now
compelled to cling to the counter, though the clerk observed not her
emotion.

Having specified the manner in which she desired the amount of the
cheque to be paid her, Mrs. Slingsby received the produce of her crime,
and quitted the bank.

She was now so astounded at the complete success of her
scheme,—although, when able to reflect calmly upon it, she had never
once doubted the issue,—that she could scarcely believe in its
realization. Her brain whirled—her heart palpitated violently, as she
ascended the steps of the hackney-coach;—and its motion, as it rolled
away from the door of the bank, increased the excitement under which she
was now labouring.

On her return to Old Burlington Street, she found Mr. Torrens waiting
for her, it being nearly twelve o'clock—the hour appointed for their
visit to the solicitor.

The moment she entered the drawing-room, Mr. Torrens rose from his seat,
and advanced towards her, his eyes fixed intently upon her countenance.

In fact Mr. Torrens was deeply anxious to learn the result of the bold
venture which Mrs. Slingsby was that morning to make. With him it was
now a matter of pecuniary ruin or salvation; and he had overcome so many
difficulties already,—stifling his own scruples at taking an immodest
woman for his wife, and reducing his daughter to a belief in the
necessity of his submitting to this matrimonial arrangement,—that he
trembled lest some unforeseen accident should thwart him just at the
moment when he appeared to be touching on the goal of success. Moreover,
he had that morning, ere quitting home, so contrived matters with John
Jeffreys as to induce this man to leave his service without delay; and
he had enjoyed the supreme satisfaction of seeing that dangerous person
leave his house ere he himself had set out to keep his appointment with
Mrs. Slingsby. Thus every thing had progressed in accordance with Mr.
Torrens' views and wishes, so far as the preliminaries to his change of
condition were involved.

"Well, my dear madam, what tidings?" he eagerly demanded, as he
approached to meet Mrs. Slingsby.

"I have succeeded," she said, throwing herself into a chair. "But I
would not for worlds undergo again the same dreadful alternations
between acute suspense and thrilling joy—cold tremor and feverish
excitement."

"And yet the transaction has given a charming glow of animation to your
countenance," observed Mr. Torrens, now for the first time inflamed by
desire in respect to the amorous widow whom he was shortly to make his
wife. "I have procured the license; and——"

"And Rosamond—what of her?" demanded Mrs. Slingsby hastily.

"She will receive you with a respectful welcome at Torrens Cottage," was
the answer. "By dint of reasoning with her, I overcame all her scruples,
and rendered her pliant and ductile to our purposes."

"All progresses well, then," said Mrs. Slingsby. "Let us now away to Mr.
Howard."

And to that gentleman's office did the pair proceed. Their business was
soon explained to the attorney, who manifested no surprise nor any
particular emotion at the singularity of the transaction; for Mr. Howard
was a perfect man of business, ready to receive instructions without
expressing any feelings at all calculated to annoy his clients, and
never indicating a curiosity to learn more than those clients might
choose to confide to him.

"I am to keep this sum of two thousand pounds until such time as Mr.
Torrens may claim it in the capacity of your husband?" he said, as
coolly and quietly as if he were receiving a deposit on the purchase of
an estate.

"Exactly so," answered Mrs. Slingsby.

"And to-morrow morning, my dear sir," added Mr. Torrens, with a smile,
"I shall come to claim it."

"Good," exclaimed Mr. Howard, locking up the bank-notes and gold in his
iron safe. "I give you joy, Mr. Torrens: Mrs. Slingsby, I wish you all
possible happiness."

Thus speaking, the attorney bowed his clients out of the office.

Mr. Torrens escorted Mrs. Slingsby back to Old Burlington Street, and
then repaired as fast as his horse and gig would take him to his own
dwelling, to sit down to an early dinner, and afterwards dress himself
for the interesting ceremony of the evening.

But on his arrival at the Cottage, he learnt from the female servant who
opened the door, that his daughter Rosamond had left home an hour
previously.

"Left home!" ejaculated Mr. Torrens. "But she will return?" he continued
interrogatively. "Did she not say that she would return?"

"She desired me to give you this note, sir," answered the domestic.

Mr. Torrens tore open the letter placed in his hands, and read the
following impressive lines:—

  "Pardon me, dearest father, for the step which I am now taking; but
  I cannot—cannot support the idea of dwelling beneath the same roof
  with that lady who is soon to be my mother-in-law. I know that I
  promised not to desert the paternal home: that promise was given in
  sincerity—though maddening reflections now render me incapable of
  keeping it. You are well aware how dreadfully my feelings have been
  wounded—how cruelly my heart has been lacerated, during the last few
  hours; and I have struggled against the violence of my grief—I have
  endeavoured to subdue my anguish;—but the occurrences of last
  night—the outrage attempted by that villain Jeffreys—the revelation
  of the terrible secret relative to Sir Henry Courtenay——Oh! my dear
  father, a mind ten thousand times stronger than that of your unhappy
  daughter could not endure the weight of all this aggregate of
  misery! Therefore, sooner that my presence should render my father's
  house unhappy, I depart thence, hoping to be followed by your
  blessing! Grieve not for me, dear father—heaven will protect me!
  From time to time I shall write to you; and should happier days
  arrive——but of that, alas! I dare entertain no hope at present. To
  you must I leave the painful task of accounting to my dearest,
  dearest sister and her esteemed husband for my absence when you see
  them again. Farewell—farewell, my beloved father! I scarcely know
  what I have written—my brain is on fire—my heart is ready to
  burst—my eyes are dimmed with tears."

The servant watched the countenance of her master with evident interest
and curiosity as he perused this note.

"Did Miss Rosamond appear much excited?" he asked, in a tremulous tone,
and without raising his eyes from the letter which he held in his hand.

"She was crying very much, sir," responded the servant; "and it made me
quite sad to see her. I attempted to comfort her; but she only shook her
head impatiently, and then sobbed as if her heart would break. I knew
that she was going to leave, because she had a small package in her
hand; and she did cry so dreadful when she told me to give you this
note."

Mr. Torrens turned aside, and hastened to his chamber, where he remained
until half-past five o'clock. He then descended to the parlour, dressed
for the nuptial ceremony. To the servant's enquiry relative to the
serving up of the dinner, he replied that he had no appetite, and
immediately gave orders for the horse and gig to be got ready by a
stable-boy, who had been hastily hired in the morning to take the place
of Jeffreys until a more efficient substitute could be found.

This command was soon obeyed, and shortly before seven o'clock Mr.
Torrens arrived in Old Burlington Street.

The flight of his daughter from home had proved a more severe shock to
him than the reader might imagine, considering the cold and heartless
disposition of this man. It was not that he felt he should miss her
society;—no—he did not love her enough to harbour a regret of that
nature;—but her departure from the paternal dwelling had made him writhe
beneath the maddening—the galling conviction that his independence was
in a measure gone, and that a stern necessity had compelled him to
assent to link his fate with that of a woman so vile and abandoned, that
his own child fled at the idea of her approach.

Influenced by such feelings as these, it was no easy task for Mr.
Torrens to assume a complacent demeanour suitable to the occasion of his
nuptials. He, nevertheless, managed to conceal the emotions which wrung
him so acutely, and played his part with tolerable satisfaction to Mrs.
Slingsby as she introduced him to Dr. Wagtail and the other guests,
including a clergyman, who were already assembled at her house.

The ceremony was performed by the reverend gentleman just alluded to,
Dr. Wagtail giving the bride away. A splendid banquet was then served
up; and shortly after ten o'clock Mr. and Mrs. Torrens departed together
for the Cottage.




                            CHAPTER LXXXIII.
                          THE REWARD OF CRIME.


At half-past eleven on the following morning, Mr. Torrens entered the
office of Mr. Howard, the solicitor.

His countenance wore a smile of satisfaction, in spite of the various
events which had lately occurred to harass him; for he was about to
receive a large sum of money—and his fingers itched to grasp the
bank-notes and the gold which he had seen stowed away in the safe on the
preceding day.

He already beheld his debts paid—his mind freed from pecuniary
anxieties—and his speculations prospering in a manner giving assurance
of the realization of a splendid fortune; and these pleasing visions,
with which his imagination had cheered itself during the drive from the
Cottage to the attorney's office, naturally tended to bestow on his
countenance the expansiveness of good humour.

And, after all, it is a pleasant thing to enter a place where one is
about to receive a good round sum of money, even though the amount will
not remain long in pocket, but must be paid away almost as soon as
fingered.

Mr. Torrens had never felt more independent than he did on this
occasion; and the look which he bestowed upon a poor beggar-woman with a
child in her arms, as he ascended the steps leading to the front-door of
Mr. Howard's abode, was one of supreme contempt—as if a pauper were
indeed a despicable object!

Well—Mr. Torrens entered the office with a smiling countenance:—but he
was immediately struck by the strange aspect of things which there
presented itself.

The place was in confusion. The clerks were gathered together in a group
near the window, looking particularly gloomy, and conversing in
whispers;—several gentlemen were busily employed in examining the
japanned boxes which bore their names and contained their
title-deeds;—and two or three females were weeping in a corner, and
exchanging such dimly significant observations as—"Oh! the rascal!"—"The
villain!"—"To rob us poor creatures!"

Mr. Torrens recoiled, aghast and speechless, from the contemplation of
this alarming scene. A chill struck to his heart: and, in common
parlance, any one might have knocked him down with a straw.

"Good heavens! gentlemen," he exclaimed, at length recovering the use of
his tongue: "what is the meaning of this?"

"Ask those youngsters there, sir," said one of the individuals engaged
in examining the tin-boxes: and the speaker pointed towards the clerks
in a manner which seemed to imply that the news were too shocking for
_him_ to unfold, and that it was moreover the duty of the lawyer's
subordinates to give the required information.

"Well, gentlemen, what _is_ the matter?" demanded Mr. Torrens, turning
to the clerks. "Has any thing sudden happened to Mr. Howard?"

"Oh! very sudden indeed, sir," was the answer vouchsafed by one of the
persons thus appealed to, and accompanied by a sinister grin.

"Is he dead?" enquired Mr. Torrens, his excitement now becoming
absolutely intolerable.

"No, sir—he isn't dead exactly—but——"

"But what?" cried Torrens, trembling from head to foot.

"He's bolted, sir!" was the astounding answer.

"Absconded!" murmured Mr. Torrens faintly;—and, reeling like a drunken
man, he would have fallen had he not come in contact with the wall.

Yes—it was indeed too true: Mr. Howard—the cold, phlegmatic,
matter-of-fact, business-like lawyer—had decamped no one knew whither,
though numbers had to mourn or curse his flight!

"Are you ill, sir?" enquired one of the clerks, at the expiration of a
few moments; for Mr. Torrens was leaning against the side of the room,
his countenance pale as death, his eyes rolling wildly in their sockets,
and his limbs trembling convulsively.

"No—no—I shall be better in a minute," groaned the unhappy man. "But
this blow—is cruel—indeed!" he gasped in a choking voice. "Two thousand
pounds—ruin—ruin!"

"Ah! there's many who'll be ruined by this smash, sir," said the clerk:
"you're not the only one—and that's a consolation."

A consolation indeed!

It was none for Mr. Torrens, who saw himself ruined beyond all hope of
redemption,—ruined in spite of the immense sacrifices he had made to
avert the impending storm—the sacrifice of his daughter's innocence to
Sir Henry Courtenay, and the sacrifice of himself to an abandoned and
profligate woman!

Miserable—miserable man! what hast thou earned by all thine
intriguings—thy schemings—thy black turpitude—and thy deplorable
self-degradation? Oh! better—better far is it to become the
grovelling, whining beggar in the streets, than to risk
happiness—character—name—honour—all, on such chances as those on which
thou didst reckon!

And now, behold him issue forth from that office into which he had
entered with head erect, self-sufficient air, and smiling
countenance:—behold him issue forth—bent down—crushed—overcome—ten years
more aged than he was a few minutes previously,—and an object of pity
even for that poor beggar-woman whom ere now he had treated with such
sovereign contempt!

Miserable—miserable man! has not thy punishment commenced in this
world?—is there not a hell upon earth?—and is not thy heart already a
prey to devouring flames, and thy tongue parched with the insatiate
thirst of burning fever, and thy soul tortured by the undying worm? Oh!
how canst thou return to thy house in the vicinity of which lies
interred a corpse the discovery of which may at any time involve thee in
serious peril?—how canst thou go back to that dwelling whence thine
injured daughter has fled, and over the threshold of which thou hast
conducted a vile strumpet as thy bride?

When we consider how fearfully we are made,—how manifold are the chances
that extreme grief—sudden ruin—and overwhelming anguish may cause a
vessel in the surcharged heart to burst, or the racked brain to become a
prey to the thunder-clap of apoplexy,—it is surprising—it is truly
wondrous that man can support such an enormous weight of care without
being stricken dead when it falls upon him!

And yet to what a degree of tension may the fibres of the heart be
wrung, ere they will snap asunder!—and what myriads of weighty and
maddening thoughts may agitate in the brain, ere reason will rock on its
throne, or a vein burst with the gush of blood!

                  *       *       *       *       *

In the meantime occurrences of importance were taking place at Torrens
Cottage.

Mrs. Torrens—late Mrs. Slingsby—was whiling away an hour in unpacking
her boxes and disposing of her effects in the wardrobe and cupboards of
her bed-chamber; congratulating herself all the time on the success
which her various schemes had experienced. She had obtained a husband to
save her from disgrace; and that husband had set out to receive, as she
fancied, a considerable sum of money, which would relieve him of his
difficulties, and enable him to pursue his undertakings in such a manner
as to yield ample revenues for the future! She was moreover rejoiced
that Rosamond had quitted the house;—for, shameless as this vile woman
was, she could not have failed to be embarrassed and constrained in her
new dwelling, had that injured girl met her there!

While Mrs. Torrens was thus engaged with her domestic avocations and her
self-gratulatory thoughts in her bed-chamber, the stable-boy, who had
been hired on the preceding day, was occupying himself in the garden.

"Well, what do you think of your new missus?" he said to the
maid-servant, who had just been filling a stone-pitcher at the pump in
the yard.

"She seems a decent body enow," was the reply. "But I haven't seen much
of her yet. What are you doing there, Harry?"

"Why, you must know that I'm rather a good hand at gardening," answered
the lad, desisting from his occupation of digging a hole in the ground,
and resting on his spade: "and I'm going to move that young tree to this
spot here—because it's all in the shade where it stands now, and will
never come to no good."

[Illustration]

"Ah! that's one of the young trees that Jeffreys planted—him who went
away so suddenly yesterday morning, and which made me come and fetch you
to help us here," observed the maid. "But, come—go on with your work,"
she added, laughing; "and let me see whether you really know how to
handle a spade."

"Well—you shall see," returned the boy; and he fell to work again with
the more alacrity because a pretty girl was watching his progress. "But
I'll tell you fairly," he said, after a few minutes' pause in the
conversation, "this digging here is no proof of what I can do; because
the ground is quite soft—and the more I dig, the surer I am that the
earth has been turned up here very lately."

"That I am certain it has not," exclaimed the maid-servant.

"But I say that it has, though," persisted Harry. "Look here—how easy it
is to dig out! Do you think I don't know?"

"You fancy yourself very clever, my boy," said the female-domestic,
laughing: "but you're wrong for once. We had no man-servant here before
Jeffreys come—and he never dug there, I declare."

"Now, I just tell you what I'll do for the fun of the thing," cried the
lad. "I'll dig out all the earth as far down as it has been dug out
before—because I can now see that a hole _has been dug_ here," he added
emphatically.

"You're an obstinate fellow to stand out so," said the maid. "But I'll
come back in five minutes and see how you get on."

The good-natured servant hastened into the kitchen with the pitcher of
water in her hand; and the lad continued his delving occupation in such
thorough earnest that the perspiration poured down his forehead.

By the time the maid-servant returned to the spot where he was digging,
he had thrown out a great quantity of earth, and had already made a hole
at least three feet deep.

"Still hard at work?" she said. "Why, you have made a place deep enough
to bury that little sapling in! And what a curious shape the hole is, to
be sure! Just for all the world like as if it was dug to put a dead body
in! I wish you wouldn't go on digging in that way, Harry—I shall dream
of nothing but graves——"

A cry of horror, bursting from the lips of the boy, interrupted the
maid-servant's good-natured loquacity.

"What is it, Harry?" she demanded, peeping timidly into the hole, from
which the boy hastily scrambled out.

"You talk of dead bodies," he cried, shuddering from head to foot, and
with a countenance ashy pale;—"but look there—a human hand——"

The maid shrieked, and darted back into the kitchen, uttering
ejaculations of horror.

Mrs. Torrens heard those sounds of alarm, and hastily descended the
stairs.

"Oh! missus," cried the boy, whom she encountered in the passage leading
from the hall to the back door of the house; "such a horrible sight—Oh,
missus! what shall we do?—what will become of us?"

"Speak—explain yourself!" said Mrs. Torrens, amazed and frightened at
the strange agitation and convulsed appearance of the boy.

"Oh! missus," he repeated, his eyes rolling wildly, and his countenance
denoting indescribable terror; "in that hole there—a dead body—a man's
hand——"

"Merciful heavens!" shrieked Mrs. Torrens, now becoming dreadfully
agitated in her turn—for, rapid as lightning-flash, did the thought
strike her that the corpse of Sir Henry Courtenay was discovered.

"Yes, missus—'tis a man's hand, peeping out of the earth," continued the
lad; "and I'm afraid I hacked it with the shovel—but I'm sure I didn't
mean to do no such a thing!"

The newly-married lady staggered, as these frightful words fell upon her
ears—and a film spread over her eyes.

But a sudden and peremptory knock at the front-door recalled her to
herself; and she ordered the trembling maid, who was now standing at the
kitchen entrance, to hasten and answer the summons.

The moment the front-door was opened, two stout men, shabby-genteel in
appearance, and smelling uncommonly of gin-and-peppermint, walked
unceremoniously into the hall.

"Is Mrs. Torrens at home, my dear?" said one, who carried an ash-stick
in his hand: "'cos if she is, you'll please to tell her that two
genelmen is a waiting to say a word to her."

"What name?" demanded the servant-maid, by no means well pleased at the
familiar tone in which she was addressed.

"Oh! what name?" repeated the self-styled gentleman with the ash-stick:
"well—you may say Mr. Brown and Mr. Thompson, my dear."

"_I_ am Mrs. Torrens, gentlemen," said that lady, who having overheard
the preceding dialogue, now came forward; "and I suppose that you are
the persons sent by the auctioneer about the sale of my furniture in Old
Burlington Street."

"Well—not exactly that neither, ma'am," returned the individual with the
ash-stick. "The fact is we're officers——"

"Officers!" shrieked the miserable woman, an appalling change coming
over her.

"Yes—and we've got a warrant agin you for forgery, ma'am," added the Bow
Street runner, who was no other than the reader's old acquaintance Mr.
Dykes.

Mrs. Torrens uttered a dreadful scream, and fell senseless on the floor.

"Come, young o'oman, bustle about, and get your missus some water, and
vinegar, and so on," exclaimed Dykes. "Here, Bingham, my boy, lend a
helping hand, and we'll take the poor creatur into the parlour."

The two officers accordingly raised the insensible woman and carried her
into the adjacent room, where they deposited her on the sofa—that sofa
which had proved the death-bed of her paramour! In the meantime the
servant-maid, though almost bewildered by the dreadful occurrences of
the morning, hastened to procure the necessary articles to aid in the
recovery of her mistress; and in a few minutes Mrs. Torrens opened her
eyes.

Gazing wildly around her, she exclaimed, "Where am I?"—then,
encountering the sinister looks of the two runners, she again uttered a
piercing scream, and clasping her hands together, murmured, "My God! my
God!"

For a full sense of all the tremendous horror of her situation burst
upon her; and there was a world of mental anguish in those ejaculations.

"She's a fine o'oman," whispered Dykes to his friend, while the
good-natured servant endeavoured to console her mistress.

"Yes, she be," replied Bingham; "what a pity 'tis that she's sure to be
scragged!"

"So it is," added Mr. Dykes. "And now, you stay here, old chap—while I
just make a search about the place to see if I can find any of the blunt
raised by the forgery."

Thus speaking, the officer quitted the room.

"Oh! ma'am, pray don't take on so," said the good-natured servant-maid,
endeavouring to console her mistress. "It must be some mistake—I know it
is,—you never could have done what they say! I wish master would come
home—he'd soon put 'em out of the place."

"My God! my God! what will become of me?" murmured Mrs. Torrens,
pressing her hand to her forehead. "Oh! what shall I do? what will the
world say? Just heavens! this is terrible—terrible!"

At that moment the parlour door was opened violently, and Mr. Dykes made
his appearance, dragging in the lad Harry, who was straggling to get
away, and blubbering as if his heart were ready to break.

"Hold your tongue, you damned young fool!" cried Dykes, giving him a
good shake, which only made him bawl out the more lustily: "no one ain't
a going to do you no harm—but we must keep you as a witness. Bless the
boy—I don't suppose you had any hand in the murder."

These last words brought back to the mind of Mrs. Torrens the dread
discovery which had ere now been made in the garden, and the remembrance
of which had been chased away by the appalling peril that had suddenly
overtaken her: but at the observation of the Bow Street runner to the
boy, she uttered a faint hysterical scream, and fell back in a state of
semi-stupefaction.

"Murder did you say, old fellow?" demanded Bingham.

"Yes—summut in that way," returned Dykes. "At all events there's a man
with his throat cut from ear to ear lying at the bottom of a hole in the
garden——"

"You don't mean to say he was left all uncovered like that?" exclaimed
Bingham.

"No—no," answered Dykes. "Them as did for him, buried him safe enough;
and it seems that this boy has been a-digging there, and comes to a hand
sticking out of the ground. So he's too much afeared to go down any
farther; but I deuced soon shovelled out the earth—and, behold ye! there
lies the dread-fullest spectacle you ever see, Bingham, in all your
life. But it wont do to waste time in talking here. You cut over to
Streatham and get a couple of constables—'cos there's plenty of work for
us all in this house, it seems."

Bingham departed to execute the commission thus confided to him; and
Dykes remained behind in charge of the premises.

It would be impossible to describe the wretchedness of the scene which
was now taking place in the parlour. The lad Harry was crying in one
corner, despite the assurances which Dykes had given him;—the
maid-servant, horrified and alarmed at all the incidents which had
occurred within the last quarter of an hour, was anxious to depart from
a house which circumstances now rendered terrible; but she could not
make up her mind to leave Mrs. Torrens, who was in a most deplorable
condition;—for the unhappy woman lay, gasping for breath and moaning
piteously, on the sofa—her countenance distorted with the dreadful
workings of her agitated soul, and her eyes fixed and glassy beneath
their half-closed lids!

Dykes accosted the boy, and, was beginning to put some questions to him
with a view to ascertain when it was likely that Mr. Torrens would
return, when that gentleman suddenly drove up to the door in his gig.

"Now, my lad," said Dykes, "go and open the door, and mind and don't
utter a word about what has taken place here this morning."

The boy hastened to admit Mr. Torrens, who passed him by without even
appearing to notice his presence, and proceeded straight to the parlour
in a mechanical kind of manner, which showed how deeply his thoughts
were occupied with some all-absorbing subject.

But the moment the ruined, wretched man opened the door, he shrank back
from the scene which offered itself to his view; for the condition of
his wife, and the presence of so suspicions-looking a person as Mr.
Dykes told the entire tale at once—the forgery had been discovered!

"Oh! master," exclaimed the servant-maid, "I am so glad you're come
back;—for your poor dear lady——"

"Yes, master—and that dreadful sight in the garden," interrupted the
boy, whimpering again,—"the murdered man in the hole——"

Mr. Torrens staggered—reeled—and would have fallen, had not Dykes caught
him by the arm, saying, "Sit down, sir—and compose yourself. I'm very
sorry that I should have been the cause of unsettling your good lady so,
sir: but I'm obleeged to do my dooty. And as for t'other business in the
garden—I s'pose——"

"I presume you are an officer?" cried Mr. Torrens, suddenly recovering
his presence of mind, as if he had called some desperate resolution to
his aid.

"That's just what I am, sir," answered Dykes.

"And you have come here to—to——"

"To arrest Mrs. Slingsby that was—Mrs. Torrings that is—for forgery, was
my business in the first instance," continued Dykes; "and now its grown
more serious, 'cos of a orkard discovery made in the garden——"

"What?" demanded Torrens, with strange abruptness: but he was a prey to
the most frightful suspense, and was anxious to learn at once whether
any suspicion attached itself to him relative to that discovery, the
nature of which he could full well understand.

"The dead body—the murdered gentleman, master!" exclaimed the lad Harry,
throwing terrified glances around him.

"I do not understand you!" said Mr. Torrens, in a hoarse-hollow tone:
"what do you mean? All this is quite strange—and therefore the more
alarming to me."

But the ghastly pallor and dreadful workings of his countenance
instantly confirmed in the mind of Dykes the suspicion he had already
entertained—namely, that Mr. Torrens was not ignorant of the shocking
deed now brought to light: and the officer accordingly had but one
course to pursue.

"Mr. Torrens, sir," he said, "the less you talk on this here business,
perhaps the better; 'cos every word that's uttered here must be repeated
again elsewhere; and it will be my dooty to take you afore a
magistrate——"

"Take me!" ejaculated the wretched man: and his eyes were fixed in
horrified amazement on the officer.

"I'm sorry to say I must do so," answered Dykes.

"Martha—Martha!" ejaculated Torrens, starting from the seat in which
the officer had just now deposited him, and speaking in such wild,
unearthly tones that those who heard him thought he had suddenly
gone raving mad: "why do you lie moaning there? Get up—and face the
danger bravely—bravely! Ah! ah! here is a fine ending to all our
glorious schemes!"—and he laughed frantically. "Howard has run
away—absconded—gone, I tell you! Yes—gone, with the two thousand
pounds! But I did not murder Sir Henry Courtenay!" he continued,
abruptly reverting to the most horrible of all the frightful
subjects which racked his brain. "No—it was not I who murdered
him—you know it was not, Martha!"

And he sank back, exhausted and fainting, in the seat from which he had
risen.

"Sir Henry Courtenay!" cried Dykes. "Well—this _is_ strange; for it's on
account of forging his name that the lady is arrested—and notice of his
disappearance was given at our office this morning."

                  *       *       *       *       *

Late that evening the entire metropolis was thrown into amazement by the
report "that a gentleman, named Torrens, who had hitherto borne an
excellent character, and was much respected by all his friends and
acquaintances, had been committed to Newgate on a charge of murder, the
victim being Sir Henry Courtenay, Baronet." And this rumour was coupled
with the intelligence "that the prisoner's wife, to whom he had only
been married on the previous day, and who was so well known in the
religions and philanthropic circles by the name of Slingsby, had been
consigned to the same gaol on a charge of forgery."




                            CHAPTER LXXXIV.
                           OLD DEATH'S PARTY.


While these rumours were circulating throughout the metropolis, Old
Death was preparing for the reception of visitors at his abode in
Horsemonger Lane.

The aged miscreant, assisted by the old woman who acted as his
housekeeper, arranged bottles, glasses, pipes, and tobacco on the
table—made up a good fire so that the kettle might boil by the time the
guests should arrive—and carefully secured the shutters of the window in
order to prevent the sounds of joviality from penetrating beyond that
room.

When these preparations were completed, the old woman was despatched to
the nearest cook's-shop to procure a quantity of cold meat for the
supper; and shortly after her return with the provender, the visitors
made their appearance—arriving singly, at short intervals.

The housekeeper was dismissed to her own room: and the four men, having
seated themselves at the table, began to mix their grog according to
their taste.

"I s'pose you've heard the news, Mr. Bones?" said Jeffreys.

"About your late master and his wife—eh?" asked Old Death.

"Just so. They're in a pretty pickle—ain't they?" exclaimed Jeffreys,
with a chuckle. "We little thought last night, when we was a talking
over the whole business and dividing the swag, that the corpse would so
soon turn up again. But, I say," he added, now breaking out into a
horrible laugh, and turning towards Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler, "it
was rather curious, though, that I should have had a hand in burying
that there feller which you made away with."

"And still more curious," replied Tim, "that we should have done for a
stranger, while the master of the house his-self escaped altogether. But
'tis no use talking of that there now. I wish it hadn't happened. It was
however done in a hurry——"

"Never mind the little windpipe-slitting affair," said Josh Pedler
impatiently. "We got the swag—Old Death here smashed the screens[37]—and
that's all we ought to think of. Twelve hundred between us wasn't such a
bad night's work—although it did lead us to do a thing we never did
afore."

"And now my late master is certain sure to be scragged for it,"
exclaimed Jeffreys; "for no one could believe such a tale as he must
tell in his defence. Well—I'm not sorry for him: he is a harsh,
reserved, sullen kind of a chap. But there's one thing I'm precious
sorry for——"

"What's that?" demanded Old Death.

"Why—he promised me fifty pounds, to be paid this evening at seven
o'clock," answered Jeffreys; "on condition that I'd leave his service at
an instant's notice: and the blunt isn't of course forthcoming."

"Never mind that—don't make yourself uneasy, my boy," said Old Death,
with a significant chuckle. "You've got plenty of money for the present:
and the business which we've met to talk about, will put ever so much
more into your pocket."

"Well—let's to business, then," exclaimed Jeffreys. "The fact is, I
shan't go out to service no more; for, since I'm reglarly in with you
fellers now, I shall stick to you."

"And I can always find you employment, lads," observed Old Death.
"Come—help yourselves: we shall get on so much more comfortable when
we're a little warmed with good liquor."

"The cunning old file!" exclaimed Tim the Snammer, laughing and winking
at his comrade, Josh Pedler; "he wants to make us half lushy so as to
get us to undertake anythink, no matter how desperate, on his own
terms."

"'Pon my word, Tim," said Old Death, affecting a pleasant chuckle, which
however sounded like the echo of a deep-toned voice in a cavern, "you
are too hard upon me. I don't mean any such thing. I'll treat you
liberally whatever you do for me."

"And so you ought, old boy," returned Tim Splint: "for you know how I
suffered by you—and how cursed shabby you behaved towards me."

"We agreed yesterday to let bygones be bygones," said Benjamin Bones,
somewhat sternly. "Do you mean to keep to that arrangement? or am I to
consider that you still bear me a grudge?"

"No—no," cried Tim. "What I said was only in fun. So tip us your hand,
old boy. There! Now we'll each brew another glass—and you shall explain
your business, while we blow a cloud."

The fresh supplies of grog were duly mixed: Jeffreys, Josh Pedler, and
Tim Splint lighted their pipes;—and Old Death addressed them in the
following manner:—

"There is a man in London who has done me a most serious injury—an
injury so great that I can never cease to feel its consequences as long
as I live. In a word," continued Old Death, his features becoming
absolutely hideous with the workings of evil passions, "he discovered my
secret stores—he destroyed all the treasures, the valuables, and the
possessions which I had been years and years in accumulating."

"Destroyed them!" cried Tim Splint. "Stole them, you mean?"

"No—destroyed them—wantonly destroyed them—destroyed them all—all!"
yelled forth Old Death, his usually sepulchral voice becoming thrilling
and penetrating with hyena-like rage. "The miscreant!—the fiend! All—all
was destroyed! Thousands and thousands of pounds' worth of valuables
wantonly—wilfully—methodically destroyed! I did not see the work of
ruin: but I know that it must have taken place—because the man of whom I
speak is what the world calls honourable! Perdition take such honour!"

"But of what use was all that property to you, since you didn't convert
it into money?" demanded Josh Pedler.

"Of what use?" cried Old Death, again speaking in that yelling tone
which manifested violent emotions. "Is there no use in keeping precious
things to look at—to gloat upon—to calculate their value? To be sure—to
be sure there is," he continued, with a horrible chuckle. "But of that
no matter. It is sufficient for you to know that I was deprived in one
hour—in one minute, as you may say—of that property which had been
accumulating for years. And the house, too, which was mine so long—which
I had purchased on account of its conveniences,—even those premises this
man of whom I speak, made me sell him. But I swore to have vengeance on
him—I told him so when we parted—and I will keep my word!"

"Who is this person that you speak of?" asked Tim the Snammer.

"The Earl of Ellingham," was the reply.

"He is a great and a powerful nobleman, I suppose," observed Tim. "It
will be difficult and dangerous to do him any harm."

"What's a nobleman more than another?" cried John Jeffreys. "I for one
will undertake any thing that our friend Mr. Bones may propose."

"And so will I—if we're well paid," added Josh Pedler. "But there's one
thing I must mention while I think on it. Don't none of you ever speak
about that affair down at Torrings's, you know—the cut-throat business,
I mean—before my blowen, Matilda. I like to have a little comfort at
home; and a woman's tongue is the devil, when it's set a wagging in the
blowing-up way."

"We'll mind our p's and q's before 'Tilda," said Tim the Snammer. "It
isn't likely that any of us would be such fools as to talk of that
business to women, or to others besides ourselves. But let Mr. Bones
continue his explanations."

"I have told you enough," resumed Old Death, "to convince you that this
Earl of Ellingham deserves no mercy at my hands: and if I say that I
will give each of you a hundred pounds—yes, a hundred pounds each—to do
my bidding in all things calculated to accomplish my vengeance on that
man,—if I make you this promise, I suppose you will not refuse to enlist
yourselves in my employ. But, mark you!" he added hastily, and with a
sinister knitting of the brows; "before you give me your answer, bear in
mind that my vengeance is to be terrible—terrible in the extreme!"

"You mean to have the Earl murdered, I suppose?" said John Jeffreys.

"Murdered—killed!—no—no," exclaimed Old Death; "that would be a
vengeance little calculated to appease me! _He must live to know—to feel
that I am avenged_," added the malignant old villain. "He must
experience such outrages—such insults—such ignominy,—that he may writhe
and smart under them like a worm under the teeth of the harrow. He must
be made aware whence the blow comes—by whose order it is dealt—and
wherefore it is levelled against him. Will you, then, for one week
devote yourselves to my service? If you agree, I will at once give you
an earnest of the sums promised as your recompense: if you refuse, there
is an end of the matter—and I must look out elsewhere."

"But you haven't told us what we are to do to earn our reward," said
Josh Pedler.

"There is no murder in the case," observed Old Death, emphatically.

"Then I for one consent without another minute's hesitation," exclaimed
Josh Pedler.

"And me too," said Tim the Snammer.

"And I'm sure I'm not going to hang back," cried John Jeffreys.

"Good!" continued Benjamin Bones. "Though you've all got plenty of money
in your pockets, there's no harm in having more. I will give you each
thirty pounds on account of the business I have now in hand," he added,
taking his greasy pocket-book from the bosom of his old grey coat.

The specified amount was handed over to each of the three villains, who
received the bank-notes with immense satisfaction.

"Three or four more things like Torrings's and this," observed Tim the
Snammer, "and we shall be able to set up in business as genelmen for the
rest of our lives."

"Now listen to me," resumed Old Death, his countenance expressing an
infernal triumph, as if his vengeance were already more than half
consummated. "In the first place I must tell you that I'm going to move
to-morrow morning up to Bunce's house, in Earl Street, Seven Dials; and
to-morrow night must you perform the first duty I require of you."

"And what's that?" demanded Josh Pedler.

"You know that a few weeks ago a certain person, named Thomas Rainford,
was hanged at Horsemonger Lane Gaol," proceeded Old Death, glancing
rapidly around from beneath his shaggy, overhanging brows.

"The very prince of highwaymen—a glorious fellow,—a man that I could
have loved!" exclaimed Josh Pedler, in a tone the enthusiasm of which
denoted his heart's sincerity.

"Well—well," said Old Death, impatiently: "but he's put out of the
way—dead—and gone—and it's no use regretting him. I suppose," he added,
"that if you saw Tom Rain's body here, you wouldn't mind spitting in the
face of the corpse, or treating it with any other kind of indignity, if
you was well rewarded for your pains!"

"Why—my respect for the man while he was living wouldn't make me such a
fool to my own interests as to refuse to do what you say now that he's
dead," answered Josh Pedler. "Besides, a dead body's a lump of clay, or
earth—or whatever else you may choose to call it: at all events it can't
feel any thing that's done to it. But what in the world has made you
touch on such a queer subject?"

"Because it is with Tom Rain's body that you will have to come in
contact to-morrow night!" responded Old Death, in a low, sepulchral
voice, and now fixing his eyes as it were on all the three at the same
time.

And those three men started with astonishment at this extraordinary and
incomprehensible announcement.

"Yes," proceeded Benjamin Bones: "it is just as I tell you—for the late
Thomas Rainford was the elder brother of the Earl of Ellingham, and was
legitimately born!"

This declaration excited fresh surprise on the part of the three men to
whom it was addressed.

"And therefore," continued the aged miscreant, his countenance
contracting with savage wrinkles, "it must be by the desecration of the
corpse of Tom Rain, that the Earl will be alike exposed to the whole
world and goaded to desperation by the insult offered to the remains of
his brother. Now do you begin to understand me? No! Well, then I will
explain myself more fully. It is known that the Earl demanded of the
Sheriff the corpse of the highwayman—that his request was complied
with—and that the body was interred privately in consecrated ground. I
set people to make enquiries; and it was only this morning—this very
morning—I learnt that a coffin, with the name of THOMAS RAINFORD on the
plate, was buried in Saint Luke's churchyard. This intelligence my
friend Tidmarsh gleaned from the sexton of that church. To-morrow
night," added Old Death, "it is for you three to have up that coffin and
convey it to the Bunces' house in Earl Street, Seven Dials."

"Do you want us to turn resurrectionists?" demanded Josh Pedler, in
unfeigned surprise.

"I wish you to do what I direct, and what I am going to pay you well
for," answered Benjamin Bones. "If you refuse, give me back my money,
and I'll find others who will be less particular."

"Oh! I don't want to fly from the bargain," said Josh; "only you'll
allow me the right of being astonished if I choose—or rather if I can't
help it. As for the resurrection part of the business, I'd have up all
the coffins in Saint Luke's churchyard on the same terms."

"I thought you were not the man to retreat from a bargain," observed Old
Death. "Well—when you have brought the coffin to Earl Street, we'll take
out the body, put a rope round its neck, and a placard on its breast:
and that placard shall tell all the world that _it is the corpse of
Thomas Rainford, the famous highwayman who was executed at Horsemonger
Lane Gaol, and who was the rightful Earl of Ellingham_! This being done,
it will be for you to convey the body to Pall Mall, just before
daybreak, and place it on the steps of the hated nobleman's mansion."

"There will be danger and difficulty in performing that part of the
task," said Tim the Snammer.

"Not at all," exclaimed Old Death. "A light spring cart will speedily
convey the burthen to Pall Mall; and it will be but the work of a few
moments to achieve the rest. Besides, at that hour in the morning there
is no one abroad."

"All this can be managed easy enough," observed Jeffreys. "I don't
flinch, for one. Is that every thing we shall have to do?"

"No—no," replied Ben Bones, with a grim smile: "I can't quite give three
hundred pounds for one night's work. But since we are on the subject, I
may as well explain to you what else I require in order to render my
vengeance complete."

The three men replenished their glasses and their pipes; and Old Death
then proceeded to address them in the following manner:—

"From certain information which I have received, I am confident that the
Earl of Ellingham experiences a great friendship towards Esther de
Medina, who was, I am pretty certain, Rainford's mistress."

It must be remembered that Benjamin Bones knew nothing of those
incidents which have revealed to the reader the existence of Tamar—her
beautiful sister's counterpart.

"This Esther de Medina is now in London, having been absent for a short
time with her father. Another important point is that the newspapers
some weeks ago announced the intended marriage of the Earl of Ellingham
and Lady Hatfield. We are therefore aware of these two facts—that the
Earl is attached to Esther de Medina as a friend, and to Lady Hatfield
as her future husband."

It may also be proper to remind the reader that as Old Death knew
nothing more of the position in which the nobleman and Georgiana stood
with regard to each other, than what he had gleaned from the fashionable
intelligence in the public prints,—so he was completely ignorant of all
the circumstances which had tended to break off the alliance thus
announced.

"Now," resumed the malignant old fiend, his eyes glistening with
demoniac spite, as he glanced rapidly from Josh Pedler to Tim the
Snammer, and from Tim the Snammer to John Jeffreys,—"now, it is my
intention to wound the heart of that hated Earl—that detested nobleman,
through the medium of his best affections! Yes—by torturing those
ladies, I shall torture him: by subjecting them to frightful inflictions
I shall punish him with awful severity. For to-morrow night, my good
friends, your occupation is chalked out: for the night after, the task
will be to inveigle Esther de Medina to the house in Earl Street; and on
the night after that, Lady Hatfield must also be enticed thither. How
these points are to be accomplished, I will tell you when the time for
action comes."

"And what do you mean to do with the two ladies when you get them
there?" demanded Tim the Snammer.

"What will I do to them?" repeated Old Death, his features animated with
a malignity so horrible—so reptile-like, that he was at the moment a
spectacle hideous to contemplate: "what will I do to them? I will tell
them all I have endured—all I have suffered at the hands of the
hated—the abhorred Earl of Ellingham;—and you three will be at hand to
hold them tight—to bind them—to gag them,—so that I, with a wire heated
red, may——"

"What?" demanded Jeffreys impatiently.

"Blind them!" returned Old Death, sinking his voice to a whisper, which
sounded hollow and sepulchral.

The three villains—villains as they were—started at the frightful
intention thus announced to them.

"Yes—I will put out their beautiful eyes," said Benjamin Bones,
clenching his fists with feverish excitement: "then I will leave them
bound hand and foot in the house, and will send a letter to the Earl to
tell him where he may seek for them! Will not such vengeance as this be
sweet? Did you ever hear of a vengeance more complete? The Earl I leave
unhurt, save _in mind_—and _there_ he will be cruelly lacerated! But
_he_ must have _his eyes_ to see that those whom he loves are blind—he
must be spared _his_ powers of vision, that he may read in the
newspapers the account of those indignities which will have been shown
to the corpse of his elder brother!"

And, as he feasted his imagination with these projects of diabolical
vengeance, the horrible old man chuckled in his usual style,—as if it
were a corpse that so chuckled!

The three miscreants, whom he had taken into his service, expressed
their readiness to assist him in all his nefarious plans; for the reward
he had promised them was great, and the earnest they had received was
most exhilirating to their evil spirits.

The infernal project having been fully discussed, and it having been
agreed that Tidmarsh should proceed with one of the three villains in
the morning to Saint Luke's churchyard, to point out the precise spot
where the coffin bearing the name of Thomas Rainford had been
interred,—all preliminaries, in a word, having been thus settled, the
old housekeeper was summoned to place the supper upon the table.

The meal was done hearty justice to; and when the things were cleared
away, Old Death, who was anxious to conciliate his friends as much as
possible by a show of liberality, commissioned John Jeffreys to compound
a mighty jorum of punch, the ingredients for which were bountifully
supplied from the cupboard, the wash-hand basin serving as a bowl.

And now the four villains—four villains as hardened and as ready for
mischief as any to be found in all London—dismissed from their minds
every matter of "business," and set to work to do justice to the punch.

"Come—who'll sing us a song?" exclaimed Tim the Snammer.

"Don't let us have any singing, my dear friend," said Old Death: "we
shall alarm the neighbours—and it's better to be as quiet as possible."

"Well, we must do something to amuse ourselves," insisted Timothy
Splint. "If we get talking, it will only be on things of which we all
have quite enough in our minds; and so I vote that some one tells us a
story: I'm very fond of stories—particklerly when they're true."

"I'll tell you a true story, if you like," said Jeffreys: "for I don't
mind about smoking any more. In fact, I'll give you my own history—and a
precious curious one it is, too."

"Do," said Josh Pedler. "But mind and don't introduce no lies into
it—that's all."

"Every word is as true as gospel," observed Jeffreys.

The glasses were replenished—Old Death snuffed the candles with his
withered, trembling hand—and Jeffreys then commenced his narrative,
which, as in former instances, we have modelled into a readable shape.

-----

Footnote 37:

  Changed the notes.




                             CHAPTER LXXXV.
                    THE HISTORY OF A LIVERY-SERVANT.


"My parents were very poor, but very honest; and I was their only child.
My father was a light porter in a warehouse, earning fifteen shillings a
week; and my mother took in washing to obtain a few shillings more. We
lived in a court leading out of High Holborn, and occupied one room,
which was very decently furnished for people in my parents' condition of
life, the things moreover being all their own. My father had a good suit
of clothes, and my mother a nice gown, bonnet, and shawl, for Sundays
and holidays; and they also took care to keep me neat and decent in my
dress. Neither of them ever went to the public-house except just to
fetch the beer for dinner and supper; and they were always regular in
their attendance at church. In addition to all these proofs of good
conduct and respectability, they put by two or three shillings a-week as
a provision against a rainy day; and you may be sure that to be able to
do this, they lived very economically indeed. In fact a more industrious
couple did not exist than my father and mother; and you will admit that
they deserved to succeed in the world. This much I have heard from
people who knew them; for they died when I was too young to be able to
understand their ways or judge of their merits.

"It seems that my mother was a very pretty young woman. She had been a
servant in the family of the merchant in whose warehouse my father was;
and, an attachment, springing up between them, they married. The
merchant, whose name was Shawe, had a son—a dissipated young man,
addicted to gaming and bad company, and consequently a source of great
uneasiness to his parents, who were highly respectable people. During
the time that my mother was in service at the merchant's, Frederick
Shawe was on the Continent, his father having sent him to a commercial
establishment at Rotterdam, in the hope that he would amend his ways
when under the care of comparative strangers. But this hope, it appears,
was completely disappointed; and the young man was after all sent back
to his father's house as irreclaimable. At this time my parents had been
married three years, and I was two years old. My mother was in the habit
of taking my father's dinner to him at the warehouse, whenever his
duties prevented him from running home to get it; and on one of these
occasions, Frederick Shawe saw her as she was going out of the
establishment. He followed her, made insulting proposals, and behaved
most grossly. She had me with her; and this circumstance rendered his
conduct the more abominable, if any thing was wanting to aggravate it.
Indeed, his persecution was carried to such an excess, that she was
obliged to take refuge in a shop, where she went into hysterics through
fright and indignation. Shawe sneaked away the moment he found that the
master of the shop was disposed to take my mother's part against him;
and when she was a little recovered, she was sent home in a
hackney-coach. On the return of my father in the evening, she told him
all that had occurred; and it seems that she had scarcely made an end of
her narrative, when Frederick Shawe entered the room. He declared that
he had come to express his sincere penitence for what he had done, and
to implore that his father might not be made acquainted with his
behaviour. He seemed so earnest, and so excessively sorry for his
infamous conduct, that my parents consented to look over it. He thanked
them over and over again, and took his departure. My father, however,
desired his wife never to come to the warehouse to him any more, as he
was unwilling to expose her to even the chance of a repetition of the
insult.

"A few weeks after this occurrence Frederick Shawe one evening, when
under the influence of liquor, called at our lodgings, my father being
absent, and renewed his outrageous conduct towards my mother. An alarm
was created in the dwelling—a constable was sent for—and the young
gentleman was taken off to the watch-house. Of course the matter was now
too serious to be hushed up; and the elder Mr. Shawe necessarily learnt
all the particulars. His son was fined and held to bail to keep the
peace towards Mrs. Jeffreys; and my father obtained another
situation—for though the old merchant knew that his son was alone to
blame, yet my father thought that he could not prudently remain in a
place where he must daily meet a person who, he felt convinced, was now
his sworn enemy. And such indeed did Frederick Shawe prove to be; for by
misrepresentations and heaven only knows what other underhand means, he
so successfully avenged himself that my poor father soon lost his new
situation, and was totally unable to find another. The most infamous
reports were circulated concerning him; and he took the cruel treatment
he had received so much to heart, that his spirit was completely
broken—he fell ill, and died in a few weeks.

"Poverty and despair thus seized upon my mother at the same moment. She
saw all her happiness suddenly blasted by the agency of a reckless
villain; and, to add to her afflictions, the only friend who showed any
compassion for her or who came forward to assist her in the midst of her
wretchedness—namely, the old merchant—was suddenly snatched away by the
hand of death, ten days after the earth had closed over my father's
remains. The poor woman was unable to bear up against her sorrows: she
languished for a few months, and then departed this life, leaving me a
friendless and unprotected orphan at the tender age of three years! You
may guess what then became of me: I was taken to the workhouse!

"I have sketched these circumstances just to show you how unfortunate I
was in my earliest infancy. My parents would have lived to thrive and
prosper had it not been for the miscreant Frederick Shawe; and under
their protection I should have been happy. However, it was destined that
my father and mother should be cut off thus early; and their cruel fate
threw me as a pauper-child upon the parish. At the workhouse I remained
until I was thirteen; and it was from an elderly couple whom distress
brought to the same place, and who had known my parents well, that I
learnt all the particulars which I have related to you. Well, at the age
of thirteen I was transferred to the care of a surgeon and accoucheur,
who took me into his house to clean the boots and shoes, run on errands,
and beat up drugs in the mortar. Finding me active and, as he said, a
good-looking lad—for I was not then seared with the small-pox as I am
now—he put me into the regular livery of a doctor's boy after I had been
with him a few months; and I was then entrusted with the delivery of the
medicine. My master was an old man; and his wife was a bustling, active,
elderly lady, in whom implicit confidence might be placed as long as she
was well paid for her services and her secresy. You will understand what
I mean very shortly. In fact one day I noticed a great deal of
whispering between the doctor, his wife, and the housekeeper; and their
looks were mysterious and important. Certain preparations, too,
commenced, which showed me that a visitor was expected; for I was a
shrewd and observing boy for my age. I was ordered to clean the windows
in the spare bed-room and the well-furnished little parlour
communicating with it; and while I was thus occupied, the housekeeper
put the two apartments into the nicest possible order. I asked her if
any one was coming to stay at the house, and was desired to mind my own
business. I accordingly held my tongue; but my curiosity was only the
more excited in consequence of the answer I received and the mystery in
which the motive of the preparations in progress was involved. At an
earlier hour than usual I was ordered to retire to my own room; but as
it commanded a view of the street—it was Brook Street, Holborn—I sate
up, watching at my window—for I felt sure that I had not been dismissed
to my attic without some good reason. Nor was I mistaken. At about
half-past ten a hackney-coach drove up to the door: two trunks were
carried into the house, and a lady, muffled in a cloak, was assisted to
descend from the vehicle by the doctor and his wife, who seemed to treat
her with the greatest respect. I was able to notice all that passed,
because the moon was bright and I was looking out of the open window.
The lady accompanied the doctor and his wife in-doors; and the coach
drove away.

"Next morning I saw the housekeeper take up a breakfast-tray to those
rooms which I had now no doubt were occupied by the lady who had arrived
the night before; but I was cautious not to appear even to notice that
any thing unusual was going on, much less to ask questions,—for I
remembered the rebuff I had already received in this latter respect. The
cook and housemaid were as mysteriously reserved as the housekeeper
herself; and I could not for the life of me make out what it all meant.
To be brief, a month passed away; and though I never saw the tenant of
the spare-rooms all the while, yet I knew that a tenant those rooms had;
for the meals were regularly taken up—the doctor looked in there two or
three times a day—and his wife passed hours together there. At length
the housemaid, who was a pretty, wicked-looking girl of about nineteen,
undertook to initiate me into the secret which so much puzzled me; and,
taking advantage of a Sunday evening when she and I were alone together,
the other servants having gone out, she explained how some young lady,
who was not married, was about to become a mother—and how the
spare-rooms were always kept for lodgers of that kind.—'Have you seen
her?' I asked.—'No,' she replied; 'nor am I likely to see her. I have
been four years in this house, and during that time there have been
eight or ten ladies here in the same way; but I never caught a glimpse
of the face of any one of them. They pay, or their friends pay for them,
a good round sum to master for the accommodation; and that is the manner
in which he has made so much money; for you can see that his regular
practice is not very great. But you must not tell any body that I have
been talking to you in this style, John; or else I shall lose my
place.'—I promised her not to betray her.—'How old are you, John?' she
asked.—'Going on for fourteen,' I said.—'You are a pretty boy,' she
continued. 'Would you like to give me a kiss?'—'You would think me very
rude,' I answered.—'No, I shouldn't: try.'—'But I should feel so
ashamed,' I said.—'Then you are a fool, John,' exclaimed the pretty
housemaid; and she got into a pet, which lasted all the rest of the
evening.

"I lay awake a long time that night thinking of what I had heard
concerning the lady in the private apartments; and, I can't say how it
was—but I felt an extraordinary longing to catch a glimpse of her. The
more I reflected on this wish, the stronger it grew: and at last I
determined to gratify it somehow or another. Having come to this
resolution I fell asleep. Next morning the twopenny postman at eight
o'clock brought a letter directed to my master; but in the corner were
two or three initials which I could not quite make out. I took it into
the parlour, where the doctor was seated alone at the time; and, when he
had glanced at the address, he said, 'Oh! it is to go up stairs: give it
to the housekeeper:'—and he went on reading his newspaper. Here was an
opportunity which presented itself almost as soon as my desire to see
the tenant of the spare-rooms had been formed; and, without any
hesitation, I hurried upstairs. I knocked at the door of the parlour
communicating with the bed-chamber; and a sweet voice said, 'Come in.' I
accordingly entered the room and beheld a beautiful creature of about
seventeen or eighteen, dressed in a morning wrapper, all open at the
bosom, and reclining in an arm-chair. She uttered an exclamation of
surprise when she saw me, and drew the wrapper completely over her
breast. It was evident that she had expected to see either the
housekeeper or my mistress. I handed her the note, stammered out
something about 'Master having told me to bring it up,' and then
retired, awkward and embarrassed enough. A few minutes afterwards the
bell of the spare-rooms was rung rather violently; and the housekeeper
went up. She shortly came down again, and went into the parlour, to
which I was presently summoned. The doctor and his wife were seated at
the breakfast-table, looking as gloomy and solemn as possible, and the
housekeeper was standing in the middle of the room. I suspected that a
storm was brewing. 'John,' said the doctor, 'what induced you to take
such a liberty as to enter the apartments of a lady who is lodging in my
house?'—'Please, sir,' I answered, as boldly as possible, 'you told me
to take up the letter; and I did so.'—The doctor, his wife, and the
housekeeper looked at each other by turns; and then they all three
looked very hard at me. 'Well,' said the doctor, 'I suppose it _was_ a
misunderstanding on the boy's part;'—for I did not blush nor seem at all
confused while they were all staring at me.—'But you must not tell any
one that you saw the lady up stairs, John,' exclaimed my mistress.—'I
don't know a soul who would care about knowing such a simple thing,
ma'am,' I replied, pretending to be very innocent indeed. I was then
told to withdraw; and thus passed off this little affair.

[Illustration]

"Throughout that day I saw the pretty housemaid showing great anxiety to
speak to me alone; but circumstances so occurred, that we had not an
opportunity of exchanging a word in private together. At half-past nine
I went to bed as usual, an hour before the other servants; and I soon
fell asleep. But I was awoke by some one shaking me gently; and I was
also startled by seeing a light in the room. In another moment my fears
subsided; for my visitor was the pretty servant-girl in her night-gear.
She sate down on the edge of the bed, and asked me what I was called
into the parlour for in the morning. I told her all that had occurred.
'You are a dear boy,' she said 'not to have confessed that I had put you
up to any thing; for that was what I was afraid of:'—and she gave me two
or three hearty kisses. Then she asked me a great number of questions
about the lady I had seen—what she was like—how old—the colour of her
hair and eyes—and all sorts of queries of that kind. I replied as well
as I could; and she seemed vastly to enjoy the idea of my cool impudence
in taking up the letter just for the sake of getting a peep at the lady.
In fact she was so much pleased with me, that she kept on kissing me;
and all this ended just as you might suppose—for the pretty housemaid
shared my bed during the remainder of the night. This occurrence was
most unfortunate to us both; for we over-slept ourselves,—and the
housekeeper, doubtless having vainly searched for us down stairs, came
up to look after us. We were discovered fast asleep in each other's
arms; and a terrible scene ensued. The housekeeper alarmed the doctor
and his wife with her cries—for I suppose the old lady was quite
scandalised, though she herself had often chucked me under the chin in a
tender manner. The result was that the pretty housemaid was packed off
without delay; and I was stripped of my livery, compelled to put on my
workhouse clothes again, and sent back to the parish officers.

"At the very moment when I was conveyed into the presence of the
overseers by the doctor, a middle-aged lady, magnificently dressed, was
returning to her carriage which waited at the door. She immediately
recognised the doctor as an acquaintance, and he addressed her by the
name of Mrs. Beaumont. The exchange of a few remarks led the lady to
observe that she had applied to the parish officers for a
well-conducted, genteel-looking lad to take the place of a page in her
household; and, as she spoke, she eyed me very attentively. The doctor
informed her that I had been in his service and was a good boy in all
respects save one:—and he explained to her the indiscretion which had
compelled him to part with me; adding, 'The lad was no doubt won over by
the young woman herself; but as my professional success depends on the
reputation of my house, I could not overlook this occurrence.'—The lady
declared that she entertained great compassion for me, and said what a
pity it was that such a nice boy should be thrown back on the parish. In
a word, the business ended by her agreeing to take me on trial; and,
before the doctor left me, he whispered in my ear, 'You see, John, that
I have not ruined your character as I might have done; and therefore you
must be a good lad, and never mention to any one that you saw the lady
who is now lodging at my house.'—He then took his departure; and Mrs.
Beaumont, having arranged with the overseers relative to receiving me
into her service, desired that I might be sent to her abode in the
evening. The instructions were obeyed; and I entered my new place, the
first appearances of which pleased me much.

"Mrs. Beaumont was a widow-lady of about six-and-forty, and was still a
very handsome woman considering her age. Her house was in Russell
Square; and she lived in an elgant style—keeping a butler, a footman,
and three female domestics. She had a Miss Stacey residing with her as a
companion; and this lady was about five or six-and-twenty—somewhat
stout—and rather good-looking. The moment I entered my new place, I was
supplied with a page's livery, and was informed that I was to consider
myself at the orders of the butler. I soon found that I had got into
very comfortable quarters; for the best of provisions were consumed in
the kitchen as well as in the parlour, and the butler, who was fond of a
glass of good liquor himself, often treated me to some likewise. Mrs.
Beaumont saw a great deal of company; and there were dinner-parties or
evening-parties at least three or four times every week. I had not been
many days in this place, before I began to notice that both Mrs.
Beaumont and Miss Stacey treated me with much the same kind of innocent
familiarity which the housekeeper at the doctor's had shown towards me.
They would pat me on the cheek, or chuck me under the chin, and tell me
I was nice boy: but this they never did before each other—only when I
happened to be alone with either one of them. Indeed, when they _were_
together, and I entered the room to answer the bell or for any other
purpose connected with my duties, they would both appear as indifferent
towards me as if they had never shown any other feeling in my behalf. Of
the two I liked Miss Stacey much the best, because she was younger; and
I felt a strange excitement come over me whenever she began to toy about
with me in the way I have described. One day, when I entered the drawing
room, where I found her alone at the time, she said to me, 'John, you
are a very nice boy; and here is half-a-guinea for you to buy what you
like. Only don't let any one know that I gave you the money.'—'Certainly
not, Miss,' I replied.—'And now, John,' she continued, 'I want you to
answer me a question which I am going to put to you. Will you tell me
the truth?'—I of course declared that I would.—'Then tell me,' she said,
patting my face, and looking full at me with her large blue eyes, 'does
Mrs. Beaumont ever play about with you as I do?'—'Oh! never, Miss,' I
answered immediately, and without undergoing the least change of
countenance.—'You are a good boy, John,' she said; and pulling me
towards her, covered me with kisses. A double-knock at the front-door
interrupted her amusement, which, as you may suppose, I took in very
good part; and she hurried me out of the room, enjoining me not to tell
any one that she played about with me.

"The next day Mrs. Beaumont was rather indisposed, and kept her own
chamber until the evening, when she descended to the drawing-room. Miss
Stacey had gone out to a party at a married sister's; and, the footman
being absent likewise, it devolved upon me to take up the tea-tray.
'Well, John,' said my mistress, 'are you comfortable in your present
place?'—'Quite, thank you, ma'am,' I replied.—'You like it better than
the doctor's?' she continued, smoothing down my hair, and then passing
her hand over my face.—'Oh! a great deal ma'am.'—'But do you not miss
the pretty servant-girl, John?' she asked, with a sly look and a half
smile. 'Why, what a naughty boy you must be, and at such an age
too!'—'It was all the young woman's fault, ma'am,' I said; 'and I hope
you do not think any the worse of me for it.'—'If I had I should not
have taken you into my service, John,' she answered. 'And to show you
that I am really attached to you and consider you to be a very good boy,
here's a sovereign for you. It is not on account of your wages, mind;
but a little gift. You must not however tell any body that I gave it to
you, or else you will make the other servants jealous.'—'I'll be sure
not to tell, ma'am,' I said: 'and I thank you very much.'—'And now,
John,' continued Mrs. Beaumont, 'I have one question to put to you, and
you must tell me the truth. Does Miss Stacey ever speak kindly to you? I
mean, does she ever do any thing to show you that she likes you better
than the other servants?'—'No, ma'am,' I replied. 'On the contrary, I
fancy she sometimes speaks sharp to me.'—'Oh! indeed,' said Mrs.
Beaumont; and she then subjected me to the same kissing process that I
had undergone on the part of Miss Stacey—only I did not like it quite so
well. The old lady hugged me very tight, and seemed as if she wanted to
say something, but did not exactly like to do so. At last she spoke out
plainly enough, though in a whispering tone. 'John,' she said, 'I just
now gave you a sovereign, because you are a good boy; and I will give
you another if you will do what I ask you and not tell any one about it.
Should you like to have another sovereign?'—'Very much indeed, ma'am,' I
answered.—'Well, then,' continued Mrs. Beaumont, 'you must come to my
room to-night, when the house is all quiet; because I want to speak to
you very particularly indeed.'—'But I promised the servants, ma'am, to
sit up to let Miss Stacey in,' I answered.—'So much the better,'
observed Mrs. Beaumont. 'Miss Stacey has promised to be back by twelve
at latest; and as soon as you have let her in, you can go up to your own
room, and then a few minutes afterwards come down to mine.'—I promised
to do exactly as I was desired; and, having received a few more kisses
and pawings about, was suffered to return to the kitchen.

"The footman came back at eleven; and as Mrs. Beaumont had already
retired to her chamber, all the servants except myself went off to
theirs. I then remained alone in the kitchen, thinking of what had
occurred between my mistress and myself, and not half liking the idea of
sleeping with her—for I knew very well what her object was in asking me
to go to her room. I wished it had been Miss Stacey who had made such an
appointment with me; for, young as I was, I was greatly smitten with
that lady; and I thought she had never looked so well as when I saw her
that evening dressed for the party to which she had gone. She had on a
very low gown, and her neck was so beautifully white, and her naked arms
seemed so plump, that I was really quite in love with her. It gave me
great pleasure to think that I had been chosen to sit up for her, and I
longed for her return. The clock struck twelve; and a few minutes
afterwards a vehicle stopped at the door. I knew it must be Miss Stacey
who had come back; and I did not wait for the knock and ring, but
hurried to the hall to admit her. She seemed pleased when she saw who it
was that opened the door for her; and I observed that her countenance
was rather flushed, as if she had been drinking an extra glass of
champagne, of which I knew she was very fond. The moment I had closed
and bolted the door, she asked me in a low whisper, whether any of the
other servants were up. I answered in the negative.—'Does your mistress
know that you are sitting up for me?' she next inquired.—'No, Miss,' I
unhesitatingly said.—She began to caress me, and I found that she smelt
rather strong of wine; but she looked so nice that I did not care about
that; and I was so excited that I kissed her in return.—'Light me up
stairs, John,' she at length said; 'and let us go as gently as possible,
so as not to make any noise, on account of Mrs. Beaumont, who is
unwell.'—I led the way up stairs, my heart beating violently; for I more
than half suspected that I should not keep my appointment with my
mistress that night. Nor was I mistaken: for, on reaching the door of
Miss Stacey's chamber, she took my hand, drew me towards her, and said
in a low, hurried whisper, 'Come down to my room in about a quarter of
an hour: I wish to speak to you very particularly indeed.'—I promised to
do so, and hurried up to my own chamber, Miss Stacey having previously
lighted her candle and said, 'Good night, John,' in a tolerably loud
voice, but making a sign to convince me that it was only a precaution on
her part. When I reached my room, I sate down on the bed to think how I
should act. My inclination prompted me to keep the appointment with Miss
Stacey: my fears urged me to keep the one given me by Mrs. Beaumont. I
cared nothing about the sovereign promised me by my mistress, now that I
had received such an invitation from her pretty companion; and I thought
that it would be very easy to excuse myself to Mrs. Beaumont, should she
question me next day, by saying that I fancied her to be only joking, or
perhaps trying me. So, at last, I resolved to follow my inclinations,
and disregard my fears; and I acted in pursuance of this determination.
I accordingly repaired to Miss Stacey's room, and was completely happy.

"We had been an hour together, when a knock at the door alarmed us. Who
could it be? what could it mean? We remained silent as the dead. The
knock was repeated, and was immediately followed by Mrs. Beaumont's
voice, saying, 'Miss Stacey, dear! Miss Stacey!'—'Good God! what can she
want?' whispered Miss Stacey to me; 'she is perhaps unwell, and will
come into the room to speak to me. John, my dear boy, you must get under
the bed, and keep as quiet as a mouse.'—This was done in a moment, and
Miss Stacey bundled my clothes under the bed after me. She then opened
the door, and, sure enough, my mistress entered the room, saying, 'I am
sorry to disturb you, my dear; but I am so unwell I cannot sleep. I have
got such nervous feelings that I am really afraid to be alone.'—'Had I
not better call up one of the servants and send for the doctor, my dear
madam?' asked Miss Stacey, her voice trembling; I could well conjecture
why.—'No, thank you, dear,' answered the lady; 'if you have no
objection, I will pass the remainder of the night with you.'—'Oh! with
pleasure, ma'am,' exclaimed Miss Stacey. 'I will accompany you to your
room directly.'—'We may as well remain here,' replied Mrs. Beaumont; and
it struck me that there was something strange in the way that she spoke.
Miss Stacey urged that it was very injurious for persons in delicate
health to change their beds; but Mrs. Beaumont declared it to be a mere
prejudice. Miss Stacey invented some other frivolous excuse, and I
suppose that this confirmed Mrs. Beaumont's suspicions; for she
immediately exclaimed, 'Really, one would suppose that you wished to get
rid of me, Miss Stacey!'—'To speak candidly, my dear madam,' was the
reply, 'I can't bear sleeping with another person.'—'Indeed!' said Mrs.
Beaumont. 'Hey day! what shoes have we here? Why, surely these cannot be
your's, my dear?'—I have noticed that the more spiteful ladies are
together, the more they '_dear_' each other.—'It must be some oversight
on the part of one of the servants,' said Miss Stacey, in a faint
tone.—'It's very strange!' cried Mrs. Beaumont; and I heard her stoop
down and take up the unfortunate shoes. Oh! how I did shiver and
tremble! and how sincerely I wished both the amorous ladies at the devil
at that moment! But matters grew speedily much worse; for, in stooping
down to pick up the shoes, Mrs. Beaumont had spied my trowsers; and
these she fished up in another moment. Miss Stacey shrieked; Mrs.
Beaumont raised the drapery hanging round the bed to the floor—and,
behold! by the light of the candle which had been left burning in the
room, she discovered unfortunate me!

"I cannot tell you what a scene ensued. Mrs. Beaumont raved like a
mad-woman, and Miss Stacey protested her innocence. The house was
alarmed—the other servants came down to the door—and Mrs. Beaumont's
reproaches and upbraidings, levelled against Miss Stacey and myself,
made every thing known to them. I scarcely know how I had pluck enough
to play the part which I did play; but it is, notwithstanding, a fact
that I was resolved to screen Miss Stacey, and throw all the scandal on
Mrs. Beaumont. I accordingly begged to be allowed to explain; and when I
could obtain a hearing, I swore that Mrs. Beaumont had given me a
sovereign, and promised me another to sleep with her—that I had mistaken
the room—and that the moment I had seen Miss Stacey enter and perceived
my error, I had managed to creep under the bed, unnoticed by her. Mrs.
Beaumont went into strong hysterics at this accusation, and was conveyed
away to her own apartment by the female servants, while I hurried off to
my own room. You may suppose that I scarcely slept a wink all the
remainder of the night. I knew that I had lost both my place and my
character—but I felt satisfied in having done all I could to screen poor
Miss Stacey, though it did not strike me at the time that my version of
the business could not possibly be taken as a very probable story. Next
morning the butler came up to me very early, and in a long, humbugging
speech, assured me that, out of good feeling towards me, Mrs. Beaumont
had consented to keep me in her service, and look over the affair, if I
would confess the truth. I however persisted in my original statement,
and displayed the sovereign that Mrs. Beaumont had given me. The butler
went away, telling me not to leave my room until he came back. Half an
hour passed before he returned, and again he tried to argue me into his
views; but I was obstinate, and the interview ended by his desiring me
to pack up my things and leave the house directly. This I very willingly
agreed to, and in a few minutes my preparations were complete. 'Where
are you going to, youngster?' asked the butler, when he had paid me the
amount of wages due.—'I don't know,' was my reply.—'Well,' he said, 'I
should advise you to take a room at the family washerwoman's. She has
got one to let, I know; and if you hold your tongue about what has
occurred in this house, I will try and get you another place.' I readily
gave the required promise, and also followed the advice relative to the
lodging, in which I was installed in another half hour.

"In the evening the butler came to me, and gave me the addresses of
several families in whose service pages were wanted. 'You will have to
apply to the butlers at those houses,' he said, 'and therefore you can
refer them to me. I will endeavour to make it all right for you, as I
should be sorry to see a promising young lad ruined for want of a
character.' I thanked him very much, pretending to see nothing but pure
friendship in his conduct, although I was quite enough experienced in
the ways of the world to understand that Mrs. Beaumont herself had
instigated this lenient treatment as a means of sealing my lips. I
ventured to ask him about Miss Stacey, and he at once told me that she
had left the house at a very early hour in the morning. I longed to
enquire if he knew where she was gone, but dared not. On the following
day I called at the various addresses which the butler had given me, and
was not considered suitable at any. At one I was thought too young—at
another too old: here I was too short—there I was too tall. In fact, the
objections were trivial, but fatal. I was returning to my lodging along
Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury, when I saw in a shop window a notice
that a livery boy was wanted, and that applications were to be made
within. I entered the shop, and received the address of a house in the
same street. There I went, and was shown into a small parlour, where I
was kept waiting for nearly a quarter of an hour. At last a gentleman
and lady—an elderly couple—entered the room, and I was immediately
subjected to no end of questions, all of which I answered in the most
satisfactory manner, because I did not hesitate to say 'Yes' when an
affirmation was required, and 'No' when a negative was necessary. At
last the gentleman said to the lady, 'Well, my love, what do _you_
think?'—'What do _you_ think, my dear?' asked the lady.—'I think, my
dear——' began the gentleman.—'So do I, Mr. Turner,' exclaimed the lady,
without waiting to hear what her husband _did_ think. It however
appeared that they perfectly well understood each other; for the lady,
turning towards me, said, 'We will give you a trial if the butler at
your last place speaks as well of you as you assure us he will. But you
will have to be very active here, for I must tell you that this is a
boarding-house——'.—'A boarding-house of the highest respectability,'
interrupted the gentleman, looking very solemn indeed, as if he was
afraid that I was going to say I didn't believe him.—'And there are many
ladies and gentlemen to wait upon,' continued Mrs. Turner: 'but we shall
see.' I then withdrew. Mr. Turner went about my character in the
evening, and found every thing satisfactory; and next day I entered my
new place, wondering what adventures would befal me here.

"This boarding-house proved to be the hardest place I ever was in. I had
to get up at five in the morning to clean six pairs of boots and ten
pairs of ladies' shoes. If they did not shine well, I was blown up on
all sides; and if I did make them shine well, Mrs. Turner blew me up for
wasting the blacking. Then I had to bees-wax heaven knows how many
chairs and tables, and to clean the windows from top to bottom at least
twice a-week. In the middle of my work I was constantly interrupted by
knocks at the door, or errands to run upon. Then at meal-times something
was always wanting—something had always been forgotten. The cleaning of
knives and plated forks and spoons would have alone been a good four
hours' work for a strong man. If I did them properly and devoted time to
them, I was scolded for being slow and lazy: and if I knocked them off
in a hurry, they were sure to be found fault with. Sometimes the bells
of half a dozen rooms would ring in the morning, when the boarders were
getting up, all at the same instant; and if I was long in taking up any
particular gentleman's hot water to shave, or any lady's shoes, I was
certain to hear of it when Mrs. Turner came down into the kitchen. In
fact, it was a hard life, and an unthankful office; for when I did my
best, I could not give satisfaction; and yet the cook and housemaid—the
only servants kept besides myself—were candid enough to declare that I
was the best lad that had ever been in the house during their time.

"There was one elderly lady—a Miss Marigold—who seemed to have taken a
particular hatred for me; and only because when, one day, she began to
caress me in the same way that Mrs. Beaumont and Miss Stacey had done, I
laughed in her face and told her to keep her wrinkled old hands to
herself. From that minute she grew desperately malignant against me, and
was always finding fault. I determined to have my revenge, and waited
patiently for the opportunity. That occasion came at last. One evening
Miss Marigold retired earlier to bed than usual; and Mrs. Turner rang
for me in the parlour. I went up and found my mistress alone. 'John,'
she said, 'go directly with this box,'—pointing to a round paste-board
one on the table—'to the hair-dresser's, and tell him that you will call
for it at eight precisely to-morrow morning. Then, in the morning, when
you come back with it, send it up by the housemaid to Miss Marigold's
room.'—I took the box, which was tied round with string, and was
particularly light. It immediately struck me that it must be Miss
Marigold's wig: for I was convinced she wore one. Accordingly, as I went
along the street, I stepped up an alley; and by the light coming from
the window of a house, unfastened the strings to peep inside. Sure
enough, it was Miss Marigold's wig. It immediately struck me that her
going to bed earlier than usual was only an excuse to be able to send
her wig in time for the hair-dresser to do it up that night; and this
circumstance, joined to the fact that she wanted it the very next
morning, convinced me that Miss Marigold had but one wig belonging to
her. I therefore resolved that some accident should occur to the wig
before it went back to her; but in the meantime I took it to the
hair-dresser. He seemed to understand what it was; for without opening
the box, the strings of which I had carefully re-fastened, he promised
me that I should have _the article_ when I came back in the morning,
shortly before eight.

"I must now inform you that there was an elderly gentleman at the
boarding-house, whose name was Prosser. Captain Prosser he was called;
and a jovial kind of old bird he was too. He was amazingly fond of
breaking out now and then, staying away all night, and coming home
between six and seven in the morning, so precious drunk that he could
not see a hole through a ladder. But he was always sensible enough to
know that he must not make a noise; and when I let him in on these
occasions, he would put his fore-finger by the side of his nose in such
a comical fashion, as much as to say, 'Don't let any body know it!' that
I could scarcely keep from laughing. Well, on this very night, when the
affair of the wig occurred, the Captain went out for a spree; and it
happened that he came home rather later than usual the next morning. I
had just returned with the wig-box, and had it still in my hand, when
the Captain's low sneaking knock at the door summoned me to open it. He
came in worse than I had ever seen him before: he could scarcely keep
upon his legs, and his head rolled about on his shoulders just as if he
had no bones in his neck at all. His hat, too, was smashed completely
in; and his coat was slit completely up the back to the very collar.
Such a comical figure I never saw in my life. He staggered into the
hall, seeming quite to forget where he was, or what he wanted there. A
thought struck me, and I resolved to put it into execution. He was so
uncommonly drunk, and yet so quiet and tractable, that I saw I could do
with him just as I liked: so I led him into the parlour where the long
table was laid for breakfast; but no one had come down yet. I seated him
on the sofa in such a way that he could not fall off, and in a few
moment he was in a sound sleep. I removed his hat, took the wig from the
box and fixed it all awry upon his head, purposely tumbling all the
curls, so as to make it appear as if he had thus adorned himself with
his own hand. I then stole away from the room; and, having suffered
about ten minutes to elapse, so as to bring the time nearer to breakfast
before the exposure should take place, I went into the kitchen to tell
the housemaid that there was a box in the parlour which she must
presently take up to Miss Marigold. But she, not knowing what the box
might contain, waited a few minutes more to finish something that she
was about; and I did not choose to hurry her. At last Miss Marigold's
bell rang; and I laughed in my sleeve to think that the poor lady would
vainly wait for her wig. The housemaid hastened to answer the summons,
and I followed her as far as the parlour, under pretence of taking up
some plates for the breakfast-table. But just before we reached that
room, seven or eight of the boarders, ladies and gentlemen alike, came
pouring down stairs to breakfast; and the moment they entered the
parlour, such screams of amazement burst from the women, and such roars
of laughter from the men. The housemaid hurried into the room, and I
behind her; and almost immediately afterwards in came Mr. and Mrs.
Turner, and all the rest of the boarders, except poor Miss Marigold!

"And what a sight burst upon their view! The screams and the roars of
laughter had awoke Captain Prosser; and he was sitting, propping himself
up, in the corner of the sofa, and looking stupidly about him, as if
quite unconscious of where he was, and certainly ignorant of the reason
which drew all eyes upon him. Such a comical spectacle as he was, with
the wig perched all crooked upon his head! At length the ladies began to
give vent to their indignant feelings. 'Shameful!' said one.—'Well, I
never!' cried another.—'And _this_ in a respectable boarding-house!'
exclaimed a third.—'It all comes of having such a monster as the Captain
in the place!' observed a fourth.—'But whose wig is it?' cried one of
the gentlemen, a humorous fellow in his way; and, approaching the
leather box, he took it up. 'MISS MARIGOLD!' at length he exclaimed, his
eyes catching some writing in the inside.—Mrs. Turner, who had suspected
the ownership of the wig, declared that she should go into hysterics;
but her husband begged her not to do any thing of the kind; and so she
followed his advice. Of course no suspicion fell upon me. When
questioned, I said that I had brought home the box without knowing its
contents; that I had put it on the sofa; and that before I had gone down
stairs to tell the housemaid to take it up to Miss Marigold, I had
opened the front door to let in the Captain. The thing was therefore
clear:—the Captain had come in, in a state for which he ought to be
ashamed of himself; and nothing would please him but he must decorate
himself with poor Miss Marigold's wig! Such was the explanation agreed
upon by all present; and while two or three of the gentlemen conveyed
the Captain up to his own room, the wig having been previously removed
from his head, Mrs. Turner went up to break the fatal news to Miss
Marigold. To make an end of this part of my story, I need only say, that
Miss Marigold left the house on the sly the moment her wig was done up
again by the hair-dresser; and Mrs. Turner easily persuaded the ladies
to forgive the Captain, on condition that he would stand a dozen of
wine—which he did.

"Several months passed away after this incident without any adventure
worth relating. It was a most unpleasant place; but there was amusement
in it; and moreover there was a certain love-affair in progress, in
which I felt interested, and the end of which I was determined to wait
and see. Not that I was an actor in it at all; but only a go-between.
The fact was, that amongst the boarders there was a widow-lady, of about
seven or eight and twenty—a very pretty woman, whose name was Percy.
There was also a young gentleman of very effeminate appearance, but
possessing a handsome—or rather a beautiful countenance, and a very
slight figure. He was also short—a complete doll of a man; for he was
within four years as old as the widow. His name was Hulse. This couple
fell in love with each other: or rather, I think, the love was all on
the side of the young gentleman, who possessed some little property and
better prospects, whereas the widow was notorious as a husband-hunter
ever since she had been in the boarding-house, and was moreover very
poor. She was however sweetly pretty; and she had such wicked eyes that
it gave me strange sensations to meet her looks. It was in this way that
I came to know of the love-matter existing between Mr. Hulse and Mrs.
Percy. About the time when the adventure of the wig took place, Mr.
Hulse one evening asked me to give a letter privately to the widow-lady;
and he slipped half-a-crown into my hands. You may have already seen
that I possessed no small degree of curiosity, and I longed to know what
that letter could possibly contain. I took it up into my own room with
me, and tried to catch a glimpse at the writing inside; but it was so
carefully folded that I could not. At last, to my joy, I perceived that
the wax was stamped with a seal which was invariably left lying in the
ink-stand drawer in the parlour, for the general use of the boarders. I
therefore hesitated no longer to open the letter, breaking the wax as
carefully as possible. The letter was a declaration of love, the writer
stating that he had not courage to make the avowal in words; and he
implored a written answer, observing that the lad John was to be
trusted, as he seemed a quiet steady youth. I was much amused by the
letter, and early next morning I re-sealed it by means of the stamp in
the ink-stand drawer: then, watching the opportunity when Mrs. Percy
descended to breakfast, I gave it to her as she was coming down stairs.
In the evening she put into my hands an answer, accompanied by a
shilling for myself; and as she smiled significantly, and showed her
pretty white teeth, I felt that I could do any thing to obtain a kiss
from that sweet mouth. Fortunately this letter was also fastened with
the house-seal, and I was therefore able to read its contents. It
thanked Mr. Hulse for the favourable opinion he had entertained of her,
and stated that she felt she could love him, but that she required a
more explicit avowal of his intentions. This letter I re-sealed and gave
to the young gentleman. A reply was ready in the evening; and another
half-crown was slipped into my hand. This letter I likewise read, and
found that Mr. Hulse professed the most honourable intentions, but
begged that their engagement (should the correspondence have that
result) might be kept a secret, as he had an uncle (from whom he had
considerable expectations) to consult, but who was at present abroad and
would not be in England again for several months. The lady's answer,
which also passed through my hands, was quite satisfactory; and in the
course of a few days I saw that the tender pair exchanged significant
looks when they thought themselves unperceived, and that Mr. Hulse was
gradually losing much of his bashfulness. Nevertheless frequent notes
passed between them, and several presents were made to the lady by the
young gentleman, all of which went through my hands and were duly
inspected by me. It may seem strange that two people living in the same
house should require the aid of a go-between; but such was the fact—for
I believe Mr. Hulse to have been one of the very sentimental and
romantic class of lovers who are fond of mystery and of tender
correspondence.

"This absurd courtship went on for several months; and the lovers little
suspected that I was as well acquainted with its progress as themselves.
At length I perceived by one of Mr. Hulse's letters that his uncle was
expected home in a few days, and he spoke of the necessity which would
compel him to go on a visit to the old gentleman, but also expressed his
hopes that the result would be according to the wishes of the lady and
himself. And in less than a week he did depart on the proposed visit,
having previously exchanged most tender and affectionate letters with
the widow. The very next morning a new boarder arrived—a gentleman who
in every respect was quite different from Mr. Hulse. He was tall,
largely-made, and wore a great deal of hair about his face. Without
being handsome, he was a very fine man; and he talked away at a rapid
rate, getting on good terms with all the other boarders by the time
breakfast was over, and very intimate indeed before the cloth was
removed after dinner. He sate next to the widow, to whom he paid great
attention; and she appeared very well satisfied with his civilities. In
fact, in one single day he made more progress in thrusting himself into
the good graces of Mrs. Percy than Mr. Hulse had done in a week. The
name which the gentleman bore at the house was Jameson; but I did not
believe it to be his right one, because his hat had the initials of F.
S. in it; the same letters were marked, as I heard from the housemaid,
on all his linen; and they were also described by means of brass nails
on the lid of his trunk. However, a few days passed; and I saw that Mr.
Jameson and Mrs. Percy were becoming more and more intimate. They sate
together at meals—they lounged together on the sofa in the
drawing-room—and, as I watched them narrowly, I saw that they exchanged
glances which convinced me that Mr. Hulse had been forgotten by the
faithless lady. Somehow or another I took an immediate hatred to Mr.
Jameson, the moment he set foot in the house; and this feeling was
increased by his harsh and commanding ways towards me. I was moreover
sorry for Mr. Hulse, who had been kind and generous in his behaviour to
me; and I longed to do Jameson some evil turn. The opportunity arrived
sooner than I expected; for one morning—about a fortnight after he had
arrived at the establishment—I was accosted in the street, when going on
an errand, by an ill-looking fellow who was loitering about, and who
said he wanted to speak to me particularly. I asked him his business;
but he would not exactly explain it. He however said he was very anxious
to learn some tidings of a certain gentleman, and that he had received a
hint of the person alluded to being at a boarding-house in Great Russell
Street, under a feigned name. It instantly struck me that the gentleman
thus enquired about was Jameson; and I was moreover convinced, by the
appearance of the enquirer, that he had no good intentions towards the
individual whom he was seeking. I therefore readily gave such
information as convinced the man that Mr. Jameson was the person he was
looking for; and I then learnt, to my astonishment, that this Mr.
Jameson's real name was Frederick Shawe! I now showed myself so much
interested in the affair, and expressed myself in so hostile a way
relative to Mr. Frederick Shawe, that the man at last admitted to me
that he was a sheriffs'-officer's follower, and had a writ against the
man who, I was convinced by all I now heard, was the same that had
treated my deceased parents in so scandalous a manner. We did not part
before we came to an understanding together; and I returned to the
boarding-house, overjoyed to think that the moment of vengeance was not
very far distant.

"The dinner-hour was five o'clock; and on the day of which I am
speaking, there was company present besides the boarders. Mr. Jameson,
as usual, sate next to Mrs. Percy; and his attentions were of the most
amiable description. Had Mr. Hulse returned at the moment, he would not
have been very well pleased at the way in which she received them. But a
storm was brewing over the head of the successful rival; and I was
longing for it to burst. Towards the close of the meal Jameson asked me
for a glass of porter. I pretended not to hear him, and waited on some
one else. He called me again; and when I at length drew near his chair
to serve him, he said in a harsh voice, 'You're very neglectful, John;
and I wonder how Mrs. Turner can keep such a stupid boy in the
house.'—'Then why don't you ask her to discharge me, _Mr. Shawe_?' I
said.—You should have seen how he turned—first as white as a sheet, and
then as red as scarlet.—'_Mr. Jameson_ you mean, John,' exclaimed Mr.
Turner. 'Call gentlemen by their proper names, and don't be rude, sir,
or you shall leave the house directly.'—'I did call _this gentleman_ by
his proper name, sir,' I answered: 'and that name is _Shawe_.'—'The poor
boy is labouring under a mistake,' said Shawe, dreadfully confused and
stammering as he spoke; 'but don't be harsh with him: he did not intend
any harm.'—'I do not want _you_ to speak in favour of me, sir,' I
exclaimed; 'and perhaps you'll guess why, when you know that my name is
_Jeffreys_.'—The villain's countenance now showed the most awful dismay;
and the scene produced great excitement amongst all present. But at that
moment, a knock at the front-door was heard; and I ran to answer it,
well knowing who were there. How my heart beat with joy when I admitted
the officer and his follower (the man I had seen in the morning) into
the house; and, without caring how my master and mistress might take it
on my part, I threw open the dining-room door, led the officers in, and,
pointing to the person they wanted, said, '_This_ is Mr Frederick
Shawe!' The officers instantly arrested him; and a scene of
extraordinary confusion followed. Mrs. Turner fainted in right earnest,
and while several of the ladies flocked round her, others began
tittering and whispering, and Mr. Turner requested Mr. Shawe to pay his
bill before he went to prison. But the conduct of Mrs. Percy was the
most extraordinary part of the whole performance. It is, however, most
probable that she acted in the way she did to conceal her vexation and
annoyance. For, bursting out into a loud laugh, and casting a look of
contempt at the man with whom she was on such good terms a few minutes
before, she expressed her surprise that '_fellows of his stamp_ should
dare to force their way into _genteel society_!'—To be brief, Mr. Turner
could not get the amount of his claim on Shawe, whose trunks he
accordingly detained; and the scoundrel was conveyed away by the
officers. I followed the party to the street-door, and took good care to
let Shawe know that it was I who had betrayed him. The exposure of this
person caused such a sensation in the house, that my share in it created
a feeling of curiosity; and, when questioned by Mr. Turner before all
the company, I explained how he had treated my parents, so that I was
rather praised than blamed for what I had done. But Mrs. Percy applauded
me the most, and spoke warmly in my favour—at which I was very much
pleased.

"Two or three days after this occurrence, Mr. Hulse returned—but only
for a few hours; and during that time he was alone with Mrs. Percy in
the parlour. The nature of their interview was soon known throughout the
house; for it appeared that the news he had brought from his uncle were
favourable, and their engagement was now no longer kept secret. It was
fortunate for the widow that he did not remain in the boarding-house
until their marriage; for, if he had, some kind friend would have been
sure to tell him of the flirtation that had gone on between herself and
the scoundrel Shawe. As it was, every thing turned out well: Mr. Hulse
took and furnished a nice house in Bloomsbury-square, and in a few weeks
he and Mrs. Percy were married. My former services were not forgotten by
either; but, on the contrary, were rewarded on the wedding-day by a
guinea from the gentleman and half that sum from the lady. I had thus
seen the end of this very extraordinary courtship, and being thoroughly
tired of my place, began to look out for another. I accordingly made the
usual enquiries, and heard of several vacancies. My very first
application was successful, and I was engaged by the Honourable Mr.
Ilverton, Mr. Turner giving me a good character and expressing no
dissatisfaction at my desire '_to better myself_.'

"The Honourable Mr. Ilverton resided in St. James's Square. He was a
gentleman of about forty years of age, and was on the point of marriage
with a lady much younger than himself, and who was one of the numerous
daughters of the Marquis of Mountcharlton. But as Mr. Ilverton was very
rich, and the Marquis was but a poor peer, the match was considered a
very desirable one by the friends of Lady Hortensia Stanhope. I heard my
fellow-servants in my new place say that she was a very beautiful
creature; and I longed to see her; but six weeks were yet to elapse
before the celebration of the marriage. The place was a very nice one;
and the establishment was on a large scale. There were six female
servants, and four men, besides the butler and coachman. Two of the
footmen were constantly on duty in the hall, that is, they had nothing
to do for the four hours that their turn lasted, but to look out of the
hall-windows, and attend the front-door. When their four hours expired,
the other two took their place for a like interval. There was a great
deal of aristocratic feeling amongst these servants. The butler had
_his_ room, and the housekeeper had _her_ room; and they took their
meals apart from the rest. The other servants were obliged to say
'_Sir_' to the butler, and '_Ma'am_' to the housekeeper. The cook and
the two housemaids were likewise above the kitchen-maids, who said
'_Miss_' when addressing either one of them. The footmen also considered
themselves above the coachman; but they allowed the latter to take his
meals at their table. As for myself, I was looked upon as a mere child
by the men; and probably by the women too—for they were very much
addicted to fondling me when I happened to be alone with either one of
them.

"Well, the six weeks passed away; and the day came on which Mr. Ilverton
was to be married. The ceremony was performed at St. George's, Hanover
Square; and the 'happy couple,' as the newspapers always call
new-married people, started off for Mr. Ilverton's country-seat. A
fortnight elapsed; and then came the day when the town-mansion was to
receive its new mistress, whom I had not yet seen. I remember the
profound curiosity which I felt on that occasion, my fellow-servants,
who had frequently beheld her, having spoken so high of her beauty. It
was about six o'clock in the evening when they were expected to arrive,
dinner having been provided for seven. I stationed myself in the hall to
obtain as early a view as possible of Lady Hortensia Ilverton; and
shortly after six the carriage drove up to the door. From the
hall-window I saw her ladyship alight; but she had a veil over her face.
I was, however, enabled to admire the beauty of her figure, which was
very finely proportioned; and I thought, as she stepped from the
vehicle, that I had never before seen such a charming foot and ankle.
The loveliness of her form rendered me the more anxious to behold her
face; and this curiosity on my part was soon gratified. For, on entering
the hall, the lady threw back her veil;—but no words can explain the
full extent of my astonishment, when I beheld the very same charming
creature of whom I had once before caught a hasty glimpse at the
doctor's house in Brook Street! A faint exclamation of surprise escaped
my lips; no one however heard it—and I instantly mastered my feelings.
Lady Hortensia passed through the hall, leaning on her husband's arm,
without looking either to the right or to the left;—and as she did not
therefore observe me, I had no opportunity of knowing whether she would
remember me or not.

"It was a part of my duty to help to wait at table; and I longed for the
dinner-hour to arrive, to clear up that point. At length my doubts were
set at rest;—dinner was served up—the lady saw me; and I felt convinced
that she had completely forgotten my face. I was not however quite a
year older than when I saw her at the doctor's, and therefore not much
changed: nevertheless, she evidently did _not_ know me again. I really
felt relieved on her account; for she was such a beautiful creature, and
seemed so amiable, that I should have been sorry for her to have
experienced any annoyance or vexation on my account. During the whole of
dinner, I took my station near her chair, and watched her attentively;
and though she conversed pleasantly enough with her husband when he
started a subject, or addressed himself to her, yet it struck me that
she was not altogether happy—for she seldom commenced a topic of her own
accord, but seemed rather to love silence; and I now and then fancied
that she sighed in a subdued manner. I don't know when I ever felt a
deeper interest in any one than I did in this lady; and it seemed to me
as if I could do any thing to serve her. But I am afraid that I am
tiring you with this long story;"—and Jeffreys abruptly broke off.

"Not at all, old fellow," exclaimed Tim the Snammer. "It's only just
struck twelve by St. George's; and we don't mean to separate yet
awhile."

"No—not quite yet, I should hope," observed Josh Pedler. "Besides I'm
getting deucedly interested in that Lady Hortensia of your's. I all
along expected that the beautiful young creature at the doctor's would
turn up again somehow or another."

"To be sure," said Old Death: "it wouldn't be a regular romance if she
didn't."

"It's all as true as gospel!" cried Jeffreys. "Do you think I could
invent such a pack of curious adventures? If you don't believe what I've
told you already, I'm sure you won't believe what there is to come; and
so I'd better hold my tongue."

"Now don't be angry, my dear boy," said Old Death: "I was but joking. I
like your story amazingly: so pray finish it. We're in no hurry, and
there's plenty of drink."

Jeffreys accordingly complied with the solicitations of his comrades,
and proceeded uninterruptedly to the end of his narrative.




                            CHAPTER LXXXVI.
             CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF A LIVERY-SERVANT.


"I am now going to take a leap of about six months in my story; because,
during that time, nothing of any importance occurred in the
establishment of the Honourable Mr. Ilverton. I may, however, observe
that my suspicion relative to the unhappiness of his wife was confirmed
the more I saw of her; for she was often dull and melancholy—and once or
twice I saw that she had been shedding tears. Her husband was very kind
and attentive to her; but he was a great deal from home, as he had large
estates in the country which he was frequently obliged to visit, and he
was also canvassing a borough for the approaching elections. Her
ladyship preferred remaining in town, because she could then enjoy the
society of her mother and sisters, who were almost constantly with her.
Well, as I just now said, six months had passed away without any
adventure of importance, and I was already wearied of the sameness of
the life I was leading, when something occurred which tended to excite
my curiosity and interest. It was about four o'clock, one summer
afternoon that the little incident took place; and this was it. A letter
came, addressed to her ladyship; and the hall-porter gave it to me to
take up into the drawing-room. I went up stairs, and my hand was on the
drawing-room door, when sounds of sobbing and low whispering, coming
from inside, met my ears. I stopped and listened. 'My God! you know that
I love you, Herbert,' said the voice of Lady Hortensia, who no longer
spoke in a whisper.—Then another voice made some reply which I could not
catch; and several minutes passed in a whispered conversation, not one
single word of which did I overhear. At last I could judge that the
visitor was about to take his leave; and I entered the room, first
making as much noise as I could with the handle of the door so as to
warn those inside that some one was coming in. But a single glance was
enough to show me that Lady Hortensia was in great confusion, while a
tall, handsome, young gentleman who was with her turned aside and walked
towards the window. They were both standing when I went in; but her
ladyship seated herself the moment after I entered and passed her
handkerchief rapidly over her charming face. I endeavoured to appear as
if I saw nothing to excite my curiosity, handed my mistress the letter,
and retired. I waited in the hall to catch another glimpse of the
gentleman when he went out; and in a few minutes he took his departure.
I asked the hall-porter who he was. 'I never saw him before,' was the
answer; 'but I heard him desire the footman to announce him by the name
of Mr. Herbert Remington.'—'Well,' thought I to myself, 'Mr. Herbert
Remington is a very fortunate man to be loved by such a beautiful lady.'
But I did not breathe to a soul what I had overheard, nor any thing that
I knew concerning my mistress.

[Illustration]

"Mr. Ilverton was in the country at this time; and I now observed that
Mr. Remington called regularly every day at about four o'clock. The
other servants did not appear to notice it as at all extraordinary; but
I had my own reasons for thinking a good deal on the subject. Several
times, on the occasion of these visits, did I creep to the drawing-room
door, and listen; and much of their conversation did I thus overhear.
From that I gleaned that Mr. Remington and Lady Hortensia had been
attached to each other for a long time; but that their marriage had been
rendered impossible by his poverty. I also learnt enough to convince me
that he was the father of a child of which she had been delivered at the
doctor's house, but which had died a few hours after its birth. I felt
no small degree of importance in knowing myself to be acquainted with
all their secrets; and I considered myself not only bound to keep those
secrets to myself, but also to assist them in any way I could, if an
opportunity served to render my humble aid available. And the time to
put me to that test soon came. Mr. Ilverton returned home from the
country much sooner than was expected; and the servants, when talking
together in the kitchen, said that he had come back in a very queer
humour. He was, however, more amiable than ever with her ladyship at
dinner on the day of his return; and I saw nothing to prove the truth of
what I had heard down stairs. Lady Hortensia retired early that evening,
saying she was unwell; and her maid observed on returning to the
servants' hall, after attending on her mistress in her bed-chamber, that
her ladyship appeared very unhappy. Then for the first time did the
servants speak of the constant visits of Mr. Remington; and as they
talked on the subject, suspicions seemed to spring up in their minds.
But the entrance of the housekeeper put an end to the gossip; and soon
afterwards the drawing-room bell rang. I hastened up to answer the
summons, and found Mr. Ilverton walking up and down the apartment in so
excited a manner that he did not even notice my entrance. At length he
perceived me; and, throwing himself in a chair, beckoned me towards him.
'John,' said he, laying his hand on my shoulder, and speaking in a
strange tone of voice, 'I think you will tell me the truth, if I ask you
a few questions,'—I said that I would.—'And will you keep to yourself
whatever I am going to say to you?' he asked.—'I will, sir, certainly,'
was my answer.—'I thought you were a good and discreet lad,' he
continued, putting a couple of sovereigns into my hand: 'act as you
ought towards me, and you shall never want a friend. Now, tell me, my
boy, whether a gentleman named Remington has called here every day
during my absence this last time?'—'Not every day, sir, I should think,'
was my reply; for I saw that a storm was brewing, and felt determined to
screen my mistress as much as possible.—'Yes, but he has though,'
returned Mr. Ilverton sharply; 'you may not, however, have observed it,'
he added immediately afterwards, in a milder tone: 'now answer me truly
my next question; and don't be afraid that I shall be angry, or shall
say any thing about it if you reply in the affirmative. Do the servants
talk amongst themselves of Mr. Remington's visits?'—'I have never heard
a word said on the subject, sir,' was my answer.—'Then I am not laughed
at in that quarter!' he muttered to himself; but I heard his words plain
enough, although he seemed to forget that he had spoken them a minute
after they had left his lips. 'John,' he continued, his fingers actually
griping my shoulder, 'you can do me a great service if you will; and I
will reward you handsomely.'—'It is my duty to do all I can for you,
sir,' I replied.—'Yes,' he said; 'but what I now require is something
out of the way of your ordinary duties, and is rather the part of a
friend, than a servant towards a master.'—'I will do any thing I can,
sir, to oblige you,' I exclaimed.—'And you will swear solemnly not to
breathe to a soul a word of all that now takes place between us, or that
you may have to do for me, unless I call upon you to proclaim any thing
in a court of justice.'—'I will obey you in all things, sir,' I
replied.—'You are a good lad,' he said; 'and I am not mistaken in you.
To tell you the truth,' he continued, 'I have received an anonymous
letter, creating the most painful suspicions in my mind. This letter
assures me that a gentleman whom I do not know, and whose name is
Remington, is a too frequent visitor at this house. But before I act, I
must be satisfied that his visits are injurious to my honour. Do you
understand me, my boy? You see, I am obliged to be open and candid with
you, as I require an important service at your hands.'—'I understand you
perfectly, sir.'—'What, then, do I mean?'—'Why, sir, that my lady should
not receive that gentleman's visits so often, and while you are away,' I
answered, pretending first to reflect for a few moments.—'Exactly so!'
he cried. 'And now I will explain what I require of you. To-morrow at
about half-past three o'clock,' he continued, 'I will give you a letter
addressed to some friend of mine at a little distance; and you must tell
the butler you are going to take it, and that you shall be upwards of an
hour away. By these means you will not be missed by the servants. But,
instead of leaving the house, you must steal up to the drawing-room, and
conceal yourself under the sofa. There must you lie as quiet as
possible, and listen to all that may take place between Lady Hortensia
and Mr. Remington, who, not knowing of my return, will be sure to call
at his wonted hour.'—'But suppose, sir,' I said, 'that I should be
discovered?'—'Then leave it to me to extricate you from the difficulty,
which is not likely to arise,' answered Mr. Ilverton.—'But,' I again
argued, 'if her ladyship should happen to come down earlier to the
drawing-room than usual, how shall I be able to conceal myself beneath
the sofa?'—'Should this occur, I will devise some means to induce Lady
Hortensia to quit the room for at least a few minutes, at about
half-past three. Be you on the watch.'—'I will sir,' was my answer.—'And
if you serve me faithfully, John,' he added, 'you will find a friend in
me; but if you disobey me in one single point, I will find means to
punish you somehow or another.'—I, of course, made all the necessary
promises; and he dismissed me, apparently well satisfied with my
assurances of fidelity.

"I slept but little all that night. I saw that a dreadful storm hung
over the head of my mistress; and I lay awake, planning a thousand
schemes to avert it. It was very easy for me to hide myself under the
sofa; and, whatever I might overhear, afterwards assure my master that
not a word had been said which he could possibly be angry at. But I was
experienced and cunning enough to fear that Mr. Ilverton wanted a
witness; and that though I might be listening under the sofa, he would
also be listening at the door, and would burst into the room in case his
suspicions respecting his wife should receive confirmation. Even if he
should not adopt this plan, but merely use me as a means of ascertaining
whether his wife was faithful or not, and take my word respecting the
particulars of the anticipated interview between herself and Mr.
Remington,—nevertheless, I saw the necessity of warning my mistress that
such suspicions did exist concerning her, and put her fully upon her
guard. This I resolved to do; and at last I made up my mind to speak
frankly to her next day. But when that day came, I saw no chance of
having an opportunity of carrying my intention into effect;—for her
ladyship did not come down stairs to breakfast nor to luncheon, she
being still indisposed, as I heard from her own maid. I loitered upon
the landing near the drawing-room as much as I dared; and once or twice,
when my master went up or down stairs, he nodded approvingly of my
conduct, thinking that I was there only to serve his interests. At last,
just as the clock had struck three, to my joy I saw Lady Hortensia
descend from her own chamber, and enter the drawing-room. Not a moment
was to be lost. I rushed in after her, closed the door, and said, 'My
lady, listen to me for one instant, I implore of you.' She looked at me
with mingled surprise and anger; for my manner must have appeared not
only strange, but also boisterously rude. I am sure I do not recollect
now—for I did not remember ten minutes after this scene occurred—what
words I used, or how I introduced the subject; but it is very certain
that I told her how I was the very lad who had seen her at the doctor's;
how her husband had bribed me to watch her; how I was determined to warn
her of the plot in progress against her; and how I would do any thing in
the world I could to serve her. She seemed perfectly astounded at all I
told her: she sank on the sofa, turned red and white a dozen times in a
minute, and then burst into tears. I dared not say a word: the idea of a
poor servant like me venturing to console a great lady like her was
ridiculous. But I was in a dreadful state of alarm lest Mr. Ilverton
should come in.—'John,' she said at last, wiping away her tears, 'if all
you have told me is true, you are one of the best lads that ever lived.
But how am I to know that this is as you represent it?'—I understood
what she meant: she feared lest it was only a trap to ensnare her into
something amounting to a confession.—'My lady,' I answered, 'if I wished
to injure you, could I not have at once revealed to Mr. Ilverton all
that took place at the doctor's house in Brook Street?'—'True!' she
said, blushing scarlet. 'Yes—you are faithful!' and she put her purse
into my hand. I returned it to her, declining to take any reward; but
she forced it upon me, and I was compelled to accept it. 'Now retire,'
she said hastily; 'and follow your master's bidding in respect to
concealing yourself. I shall afford you an opportunity,' she added:
then, turning away, she again burst into tears.

"I hastened from the room, well pleased with the success of my interview
with her ladyship, and feeling myself so important a person that I
scarcely knew whether I stood on my head or my heels. The secrets of the
family were in my keeping,—in the keeping of a boy not sixteen years
old; and it was enough to make me proud. Besides, I felt so satisfied
with my conduct in respect to her ladyship, that it seemed to me as if I
had done a great and a glorious deed. Well, on quitting the
drawing-room, I went up to my own chamber, to compose my feelings; for I
was really so much elated as to be quite unfit to meet my master for a
few minutes. But at the expiration of that time I hastened down stairs,
received the letter which he had in readiness for me, and, after looking
in at the servants' hall for a moment, just to say I was going out on an
errand, stole up to the drawing-room, where I found no one. I therefore
thrust myself under the sofa, and awaited anxiously the termination of
the adventure. Just as the time-piece on the mantel struck four, her
ladyship returned to the room; and almost immediately afterwards Mr.
Remington was announced. Hasty whispers were exchanged between them in a
language—most likely French—which I did not understand; and then they
seated themselves on chairs at some distance from each other, Lady
Hortensia having previously rung the bell. I was surprised at this
proceeding: what could she possibly mean? But I was more astonished
still, when, on the entrance of one of the footmen, she said, 'Ask your
master if he will have the kindness to favour me with his company for a
few minutes.' The servant retired to execute this command; and I was now
frightened lest her ladyship intended to accuse her husband of his
stratagem, and thereby expose my want of faith towards him. But second
thoughts convinced me that this was not the case; because her ladyship
must remember that it was in my power to ruin her effectually if she
meditated any treachery towards me. A few minutes elapsed, during which
Mr. Remington and my mistress conversed on the most common-place
subjects—such as the weather, the new opera, and so on; and at length
Mr. Ilverton entered the room. 'I am sorry to disturb you, my dear,'
said Lady Hortensia, speaking in her most amiable manner, 'since I know
that you are so fully engaged with election matters and other important
business; but I have a favour to ask of you. This gentleman is Mr.
Remington. Mr. Remington,' she added, 'Mr. Ilverton:' thus calmly and
quietly introducing them.—I do not know how my master looked, but I
could fancy that he felt very queer: at all events, he said
nothing.—'Mr. Remington, my dear,' continued Lady Hortensia, speaking
with a tranquil affability that quite astonished me, 'is a gentleman to
whom our family are under the greatest obligations; for it was he who
saved my brother Edward's life at Oxford a few years ago.'—'I remember
to have heard that your brother Edward had a narrow escape from being
drowned in the river on a boating excursion,' said Mr. Ilverton; 'but I
was not until now acquainted with even the name of the gentleman who so
generously risked his life to save him.'—'It was a deed which scarcely
deserves such warm praise, sir,' observed Mr. Remington.—'On the
contrary, Mr. Remington,' exclaimed Lady Hortensia, 'Mr. Ilverton must,
as my husband, experience the same gratitude which I feel towards you,
and ever shall, for your noble conduct.'—'Certainly, most decidedly,'
exclaimed my master, who, I could very well suppose, was now feeling
particularly sheepish.—'And I am convinced, my dear,' continued her
ladyship, addressing herself altogether to her husband now, 'that you
will approve of certain steps which I have taken in order to convince
Mr. Remington of the gratitude of the near relatives of him whom he
saved from a premature death. Mr. Remington has a sister who has been
left a widow, and who is anxious to turn her accomplishments to a good
account. She is desirous of entering some family as a governess; and I
have supplied Mr. Remington with letters of introduction on behalf of
his sister to several of our friends and acquaintances. He has this day
called to inform me of his sister's success in obtaining the situation
she requires, by means of one of those letters.'—Mr. Ilverton expressed
his entire approval of this proceeding on the part of her ladyship; and
Mr. Remington rose, and took his leave in that formal manner which
seemed to show that he did not even pretend to be considered in any
other light than a mere acquaintance.

"When he was gone, Lady Hortensia said, 'I am really glad that I have
been able to serve that young man's sister, for they are both very poor,
it seems and the service which he rendered our family in saving the life
of my brother was not one that should have gone unrewarded.'—'Oh!
decidedly not, my love,' said Mr. Ilverton. 'But will you accompany me
to the library now, and see the new picture that I bought some weeks
ago, and which has been sent home this morning? It was kept to be
framed.'—'Certainly,' answered Lady Hortensia; and she quitted the room
with her husband. I of course understood that he had purposely enticed
her away to allow me an opportunity of leaving my hiding-place; and I
was very glad to get from under the sofa, where I was most terribly
cramped, not having dared to move, and scarcely able to breathe free
through fear of being heard. I was highly delighted at the clever manner
in which Lady Hortensia had got herself out of the serious scrape that
for a time seemed to threaten her with total ruin; and I was heartily
glad to think that her husband must be thoroughly ashamed of having
exposed himself so completely to me. At dinner-time Lady Hortensia gave
me a glance which seemed to thank me again for the part I had acted
towards her; whereas Mr. Ilverton never once looked me in the face—not
even when I was close by his side and he ordered me to serve him with
any thing. Shortly after dinner her ladyship retired to the
drawing-room; and the moment I was alone with my master, he beckoned me
to approach him, and said in a low tone, 'John, what took place between
your mistress and that gentleman before I came in?'—'Mr. Remington said
he came to thank her ladyship for her kindness towards his sister,' I
answered, taking my cue from what I had heard before; 'and then her
ladyship said that you was at home, sir, and she would introduce Mr.
Remington to you.'—'Then I have been altogether misled, John,' he
observed: 'and mind that you never breathe a syllable of what has passed
to a living soul.'—'Certainly not, sir,' I replied. He put a couple of
sovereigns into my hand, telling me I was a good boy, and repeating his
injunction of strict secresy.

"I was now a very great favourite with both my master and mistress,
though, in each other's presence, they neither showed any particular
kindness towards me. Mr. Remington came no more to the house; but her
ladyship now and then gave me letters to put privately into the post for
her, and which were addressed to him. Thus three months more passed
away; and the general election came on. Mr. Ilverton went out of town;
and he had not left the house an hour, before Lady Hortensia gave me a
note to convey by hand to Mr. Remington's lodgings in Sackville Street,
with directions to wait for an answer. Mr. Remington seemed greatly
delighted at the contents of the note, and gave me the reply, which, in
his hurry and joy, he omitted to seal, although he had lighted a taper
on purpose. I hastened away, and went into a public-house to read the
letter. To my surprise I found, by its contents, that an appointment had
been made for the lover to pass the night with Lady Hortensia, she
having already admitted her maid into her confidence, thereby arranging
for his admission into the house at twelve o'clock. I was now dreadfully
annoyed at being no longer treated as a confidant, I who had done so
much to protect them from exposure! My interest in behalf of my mistress
suddenly turned to hate; and I thought seriously of revenging what I
considered to be a slight. I however ran back to Mr. Remington's
lodgings, and said to him, 'Sir, you have not sealed this letter; and I
would rather not take it like this to her ladyship, for fear she should
think I had read it, which I would not do for all the world.'—He looked
very hard at me, and seemed dreadfully confused at his oversight; but,
perceiving that I did not change colour, and that I met his gaze
steadily, he was more satisfied. Having sealed the letter, he returned
it to me, putting half-a-guinea into my hand; and I then hastened away
with it to my mistress, from whom I received double that sum. But a
wonderful change had come over my mind. I saw that I was made a mere
tool of; whereas so long as I thought myself important as a confidant, I
was happy. I had moreover hoarded near twenty pounds, by means of the
presents I had received; and I thought how foolish I was not to turn my
knowledge of certain secrets to account, and extort a good round sum
from her ladyship. In a moment I grew avaricious and spiteful. I know
how it was: while my vanity was flattered, I was contented; but the
instant I saw that I was a tool, and not a confidant, I was mortified,
and therefore changed. It did not strike me then that delicacy would of
course prevent Lady Hortensia from making use of me to give admittance
to her lover; and I looked on myself as a person badly used. I did
nothing that day; but I lay awake during the best part of the night
settling in my mind how I should proceed. Thus, while the lovers were in
each other's arms—as I had no doubt they were—a storm was brewing
against them in a quarter from which they little expected it.

"The very next day I went into the drawing-room when I knew that her
ladyship was there alone, and, shutting the door, advanced in a resolute
manner towards her. She seemed astonished, and asked me what I wanted.
'A hundred pounds,' I answered in a dogged style.—'Do you mean to
request that sum as a favour, or to demand it as the price of the
secrets you have promised to keep faithfully?' she said in a mild and
reproachful way, which made me more than half repent of my conduct; but
I had gone too far to retreat.—'Whichever your ladyship likes,' I
replied.—'I will give you _two_ hundred if you will leave the house this
minute, and let me make what excuse I choose for sending you away,' she
said.—The offer was too tempting to be rejected; and I immediately
accepted it. Two hundred pounds! it was a fortune, and I fancied that I
should never be able to spend it.—'Pack up your boxes, and prepare to
depart,' said Lady Hortensia, 'If the servants ask you any questions,
steadily refuse to answer them, beyond merely stating that I have
ordered you to leave immediately; and if you will call on Mr. Remington
this evening at eight o'clock, he will give you two hundred pounds in
gold.'—I was overjoyed at this arrangement, and gladly took my departure
on such terms, caring little what reason her ladyship might allege for
the abruptness with which I left. Two hundred pounds to be received in a
few hours! Oh! how happy I was!—and what castles did I build in the air!
I removed my trunk to a public-house in St. Martin's Lane; and having
had a pint of wine to celebrate the occasion, strolled out to purchase
new clothes—for I had of course left my livery at Mr. Ilverton's house,
and was not overwell dressed. Having bought all I required, thereby
making a considerable hole into the twenty-five pounds which, with my
hoardings and wages, I had in my pocket when I came away, I returned to
the public-house, and put on my new things. I then went out again to
while away an hour till eight o'clock, it being now seven. As I was
going along Piccadilly, I saw an elegantly dressed lady step out of a
carriage at a shop-door; and to my joy I recognised Miss Stacey. She
immediately knew me; and, seeing me so well attired, did not hesitate to
stop and speak to me. We conversed together for a few minutes, during
which I told her that I was no longer under the necessity of working for
my living, as fortune had been kind to me. She expressed her pleasure,
gave me her address, and asked me to call upon her; telling me, however,
that I must be sure to come between two and seven, and at no other time.
I promised to visit her; for she looked sweetly pretty and very
amorous;—and we parted.

"Precisely as the clock struck eight, I knocked at Mr. Remington's
door,—none of your sneaking single knocks; but a good loud double
one—for I felt all the importance of a man who has two hundred pounds to
receive. Mr. Remington was at home, and I was shown up into his room. He
desired me to be seated; but in a very cold tone and with a haughty
manner. I did not however care one fig for that: the idea of the two
hundred pounds rendered me as independent as possible. When I sate down,
Mr. Remington rose from his chair; and, advancing close up to me, he
said in a low, savage tone, 'You are a contemptible villian!'—'I did not
come here to be abused,' I exclaimed insolently: 'give me my money, and
let me be off.'—'Your money, indeed!' he cried: 'not one farthing will
you receive of me, or of Lady Hortensia Ilverton. Now, listen, young
man, and be cautions how you act. Had you conducted yourself fairly, you
would always have found friends in me and her ladyship; but you have
shown yourself a villain, and we are determined to crush you at once.
You think you have us in your power; but you are mistaken. Her ladyship
has already stated to her entire household that you were discharged
suddenly for an atrocious attempt to extort money from her: and say but
one word of scandal, utter one syllable against her, and you will be
handed over to justice. Begone, sir; and take care how you conduct
yourself. One word, by the way, before you leave me—and that is a word
of friendly warning. The hall-porter in St. James's Square has
instructions to give you over to the care of a constable, if you present
yourself again at that mansion.'—'You cannot bully me,' I exclaimed; 'I
know too much! Every thing shall now be made known to Mr.
Ilverton.'—'And he will not believe a word you utter,' answered
Remington. 'This night's post bears to him a letter in which Lady
Hortensia declares that you threatened to expose both him and her if she
did not give you a sum of money; and that you dared to assert that her
husband had bribed you to conceal yourself under a sofa. _She_ of course
pretends to think her husband incapable of such mean and cowardly
conduct; and he will be sure to deny it; at the same time he will never
forgive nor believe you.'—'But there is the affair at the doctor's house
in Brook Street,' I cried.—'The doctor will deny that such a lady was
ever there,' returned Mr. Remington, with a triumphant smile.—'And the
maid who knows that you passed an entire night with her mistress?' I
said, my courage sinking rapidly.—'You had better ask her what she knows
of the business! Now, mark me, young man; every precaution is taken to
put you to confusion. You are forestalled in every possible way. Say
what you will, positive contradictions and denials will meet your
assertions; and the result will be to you transportation for life, for
attempting to extort money! Now, then, reflect well before you plunge
yourself headlong into difficulties.'—'But I am thoroughly ruined!' I
exclaimed, tears starting into my eyes, as I saw the truth of all he
said. 'I have lost my place and my character!'—'It is your own fault,'
replied Mr. Remington. 'At the same time,' he added, after a few moments
consideration, 'I do not wish you to be crushed completely down to the
very mire. I will give you one chance. Sign a paper, stating that all
your accusations are so many falsehoods, and that you make this
acknowledgment to save yourself from being handed over to justice; and I
will then present you with fifty guineas.'—Thus speaking, he took out a
handful of notes and gold, to tempt me to conclude the bargain.—'But
every thing I can state is true!' I exclaimed.—'Never mind _that_,' he
answered: '_we_ can prove it to be all false. So, haste and decide: my
time is precious.'—What could I do? I wanted money, and I saw that he
was determined to resist all attempts at positive extortion. I therefore
expressed my readiness to sign the paper, which was already drawn up;
and, having done so, I received the fifty guineas promised.—'Now,' said
he triumphantly, as he folded up the document and placed it in his
pocket-book, 'you know the consequence of a single slanderous
whisper!'—I took my departure, terribly nettled, but still somewhat
consoled by the possession of the fifty guineas; for I thought that one
third of the sum at first expected, was better than none at all.

"I longed to be revenged on Lady Hortensia and Mr. Remington; but I knew
not how. I smarted dreadfully under the treatment I had received;—I
uttered bitter words against my folly in consenting to leave the house
before I had the money paid down; and I pondered on a thousand different
ways of venting my spite on my enemies. For several days I rambled about
by myself, racking my brain with devices. At last I resolved to abandon
the idea, at least for the present; and then I set to work to enjoy
myself—or rather to see how soon I could make away with my money. A few
weeks beheld the bottom of my purse—and I was astonished to think that
so many guineas should have disappeared in so short a time. I was now
seriously troubled what to do for a living; because I had no character.
Suddenly I bethought myself of Miss Stacey's invitation, and hastened to
call on her, it being then about three o'clock in the day. I found her
living in elegant lodgings in Maddox Street: and she received me most
kindly. I told her, word for word, all that had occurred to me since I
last saw her; and she was equally candid with me. In fact, she was then
in keeping by one of the Cabinet Ministers, who allowed her ten guineas
a week, paid her rent, her milliner's and her wine-merchant's bills, and
also the hire of her carriage. We soon came to an understanding
together; she wanted a page, or tiger, just at that moment, and I
accepted the post. The very next day I entered my new place—the most
comfortable I had ever yet been in, because I shared my mistress's bed
nearly every night. But I soon discovered that the Cabinet Minister and
myself were not the only persons who enjoyed the favours of Miss Stacey.
Several gentlemen called during those hours when she knew there was no
chance of her 'friend' making his appearance: in fact, the lady had
become a regular wanton. It was not however for me to make any
observations on her conduct: I was well satisfied with my place—and that
was enough. I learnt from her that Mrs. Beaumont had died a few months
previously, having just before married her butler, who came into
possession of all her fortune and had set up as a gentleman, driving his
cab and finding plenty of people to honour his champagne parties with
their presence. Miss Stacey also gave me a little sketch of herself. She
had been seduced, when only fifteen, by the husband of a lady with whom
she was placed as companion; and she unhesitatingly admitted that in all
the families where she had lived, she had maintained an intrigue with
some one, either master, man-servant, or page. Since she had left Mrs.
Beaumont she had been in keeping with the Cabinet Minister;—'but,' she
added with a smile, 'you see that I am not particular where I take a
fancy.' She was indeed a licentious woman, but very good-natured, and
possessing a temper that nothing could ruffle.

"I had been with her about three months, when I saw in the newspaper an
account of the sudden death of the Honourable Mr. Ilverton, M.P., who
was found a corpse in his bed one night by the side of his wife. There
was a Coroner's Inquest; and the verdict was 'Died of apoplexy.' I
however had my suspicions that some foul play had been practised. In a
little less than a year afterwards, I learnt, by the same channel of
intelligence, that Lady Hortensia Ilverton had become the wife of
Herbert Remington, Esq. About the same time I met Mrs. Hulse—the pretty
lady, you remember, who played such pranks with her two lovers at the
boarding-house. She stopped and spoke to me. I inquired after Mr. Hulse;
and she said that he was quite well, and that they lived very happy
together. I then asked her slyly if she had seen Mr. Frederick Shawe
lately.—'What!' she exclaimed, 'do you not know all that happened to
him?'—I assured her I did not.—'He committed a forgery some months ago,'
she replied, 'and was hanged for it. It was down in the country; but I
forget where. The whole account was, however, in the papers at the
time.'—I was delighted to hear that the enemy of my parents had come to
such a miserable end. Mrs. Hulse gave me half-a-sovereign, and bade me
good bye.

"A short time after these little incidents, and when I had been in Miss
Stacey's service nearly eighteen months, the Cabinet Minister suddenly
withdrew his protection from her—I never heard why. It is however more
than probable that her numerous intrigues reached his ears. The
immediate result of the stoppage of funds in that quarter was a bolt
from the lodgings, my mistress being over head and ears in debt. She
removed to Norfolk Street, Strand: and I accompanied her. It was at this
time that I was attacked by the small-pox, and obliged to leave. I went
to the hospital, where I remained dangerously ill for several weeks;
and, when I did recover, I was marked as you now see me. I may therefore
say without vanity, that before this unfortunate occurrence I was a very
good-looking lad; and it was no wonder that the women used to take a
fancy to me. Well, I left the hospital with only a few shillings in my
pocket, which I had about me when I went in; and my first step was to
enquire after my late mistress in Norfolk Street. But there I learnt a
sad tale. She had been greatly reduced in circumstances, and had made
away with the things in her ready-furnished lodgings. The landlady gave
her into custody; she was committed for trial, and sentenced at the Old
Bailey to transportation for seven years. But this sentence was commuted
to imprisonment for two years, by an order from the Home Office,
although the judge who presided at the trial declared it to be a most
aggravated offence. I thought I could understand the secret of this
leniency; nor was I mistaken; for, on calling upon my poor mistress in
Newgate, where she was imprisoned, she told me that she had written to
her late 'friend,' the Cabinet Minister, who had procured the alteration
in her sentence. She was very happy, and made me promise to call and see
her again. But I never had the opportunity; for some Member took up the
case in the House of Commons, and asked the Home Secretary the reason
why the original sentence was not carried out, seeing that the jury had
given no recommendation to mercy, and that the judge had pronounced a
strong opinion on the matter. The affair made such a noise, and the
_Weekly Dispatch_ took it up in such strong terms, that the Government
was obliged to order the sentence of transportation to be put into
immediate effect.[38] The consequence was that the poor lady was sent
out of the country as soon as possible; and I never saw her any more. I
felt for her deeply: she had been kind to me—and, with all her faults,
there were many excellent points in her character. But, somehow or
another, I never did meet a woman who, let her be ever so bad, had not
some redeeming qualities. I have met hundreds of men so thoroughly bad,
that they had not a single thing to recommend them: but it has not been
so in my experience with the other sex. I don't believe that any woman
can become so utterly depraved, as not to retain a little amount of good
feeling about her. I wish I could say as much for men.

"But let me make haste and bring this story to an end. I was now a
miserable, friendless wretch in the world, and knew not what to do for a
living. I had no character, and could not get a place. At last, when
driven to desperation, I resolved to call on the person whom Mrs.
Beaumont married, and who was for many years her butler. I accordingly
went up to Russell Square, and knocked at the well-known door. A servant
in splendid livery answered the summons; and I was shown into the hall,
where I was kept waiting for nearly two hours. At last I was shown up
into the drawing-room, where the ex-butler lay lounging on the sofa,
reading the _Morning Post_. 'Just sit down, young man, for a moment,'
said he, with an affected drawl, although he was an old fellow of sixty,
'while I finish the _Fashionable Intelligence_; because, you see, I'm
interested in it.'—So I took a seat, and was kept waiting for another
half-hour. At last the _gentleman_ laid aside the paper, and enquired my
business. I told him who I was, and how distressed was my position. He
stared at me for a long time, as if to make sure that I was really the
John Jeffreys whom he had once known—for I was cruelly disfigured; and
when he was convinced that I was no impostor, he gave me half-a-guinea,
saying that he had been a looser by the late Derby, and had lent his
friend Lord Mushroom so much money lately, that he could do no more. I
thanked him very sincerely and went away. I walked on to Great Russell
Street, being in the neighbourhood, and called at the Turners'
boarding-house. But I learnt from the servant that Mr. Turner was dead,
and Mrs. Turner had _declined_ business in consequence, and would see
nobody. I went away with a heavy heart; for I knew that the half-guinea
would not last for ever. At length I was so tired with walking about,
that I entered a public-house to get some refreshment. Two men were
sitting in the parlour, drinking ale; and their conversation, singularly
enough, happened to turn on a friend of theirs who, as I heard them say,
had just got a situation as footman in a good family.—'But how the devil
did he manage, though?' asked one; 'since he only came out of quod for
stealing that plate, you know, ten days ago.'—'Why, he got a character
of that chap who lives at the house with the balcony, up in Castle
Street, Portland Place, to be sure,' was the answer.—'You don't mean old
Griffiths, do you?' said the other.—'Of course I do,' replied his
friend: 'he's been in that line now for the last six months, and makes
an excellent thing by it. I've recommended several poor devils of
men-servants to him.'—'The deuce you have!' I exclaimed: 'I wish to God
you would recommend me!'—'Are you out of place and got no character?'
demanded the man.—'Just so,' I answered; 'and if I don't get a situation
soon, I shall starve.'—'Have you got any tin about you?' asked the
man.—'Ten shillings, when I've paid for what I've had,' I
replied.—'That'll just do the trick!' cried the man: 'you must stand a
pot to me and my friend here; and you'll have to pay seven-and-sixpence
entrance fee to old Griffiths. Then you'll have a trifle left to take
you on till to-morrow.' I readily paid for a pot of the best ale; and
when we had disposed of it, I received a note of recommendation to the
Mr. Griffiths spoken of. He was an old, respectable-looking man, with a
bold crown, and grey hair at the back and sides of his head; and he was
sitting in a neat office, with a large book before him. He read the
note, which explained my business, and then demanded the entrance fee.
This I paid; and he put down my name in the book. 'I will give you the
addresses of several families who require a young livery-servant,' he
said; 'and you may refer them to Captain Elphinstone, No.—, Mortimer
Street, Cavendish Square. You may say that you lived with that gentleman
for three years, and only left him on account of ill health. And now I
must tell you the nature of the bargain which exists between you and me.
You are sure to obtain a situation; and when your first quarter's wages
are paid, you must bring me a sovereign; and a sovereign from second
quarter. You will then always have me as your friend, and need never be
afraid of remaining long out of place. But if you do not keep faith with
me, I shall find means to make you repent it.'—I assured the old
gentleman I would do the thing that was right; and took my leave of him,
rejoiced at the prospect of obtaining a situation.

"Next morning I made myself as tidy as I could, and called at the places
pointed out by Mr. Griffiths. I was soon successful, and gave Captain
Elphinstone as my reference. The gentleman of the house said he would
call on the captain in the course of the day, and I was to return in the
evening for the answer. This I did, and found that an unexceptionable
character had been given of me. I was therefore admitted into the
gentleman's service at once. It was a quiet place, and a small
establishment, only consisting of myself and two female servants—a cook
and housemaid; for Mr. Farmer, our master, was an elderly bachelor.
There I stayed for several years, and was very happy and comfortable
indeed. But one day Mr. Farmer took it into his head to marry the cook;
and as she could not bear to have in her house the same people who had
known her as a fellow-servant, the housemaid and myself both got our
discharge. We, however, had good characters, but we did not avail
ourselves of them—for, having each scraped up a little money, we agreed
to club our savings, and open a shop in the chandlery line. We had long
been intimate enough to render the parson's services quite unnecessary
in enabling us to live together; and so we commenced business, passing
ourselves off as man and wife. The thing did not, however, succeed; and
care drove me to the public-house. It was then that I met you, Mr.
Bones; and you suggested how much good might be done if I would go back
into service, and give you notice of any little things worth your
knowing. This I resolved to do; and, leaving my female companion to do
what she liked with the shop, I took leave of her. We parted very good
friends; and by the aid of old Griffiths I very soon obtained a place. I
need not say any more,—unless it is that since then I've been in
situations at many houses, and have generally managed to do a pretty
decent amount of business with Mr. Bones."

Jeffreys ceased speaking; and his three companions expressed the
amusement they had derived from his narrative.

A few more glasses of grog were drunk, as well as a few more pipes
smoked; and it was not until past three in the morning that Old Death's
visitors left him.

                  *       *       *       *       *

We cannot close this chapter without a few observations relative to that
large and important class—domestic servants.

And first of female servants. It is said that great numbers of them are
immodest, and that from their ranks the class of unfortunate women, or
prostitutes, is largely recruited. We believe that the immorality of
female servants is considerably exaggerated by these representations,
and that the cases of frailty are the exceptions and not the rule. There
are thousands and thousands of females amongst this class as respectable
and well conducted as women ought to be, and who take a pride not only
in maintaining a spotless character, but in so behaving themselves that
there shall be no chance of its becoming tainted. And this is the more
creditable to them—the more to their honour, inasmuch as the temptations
to which they are exposed are very great. Sent out on errands at all
hours—compelled to go to the public-houses to fetch the beer and spirits
for the use of the family—constantly placed in contact with the
serving-men belonging to the family's tradesmen—exposed to the chance of
sustaining insulting liberties at the hands of the visitors to the
house—and often persecuted by the lustful addresses of some male inmate
of the establishment, such as a brother or son of the master, and
perhaps the master himself,—what strength of mind—what moral courage
must the servant-maid possess to resist these temptations and escape
from so many perils! We mean to say, then, that if she do fall, there is
far more scope for pity and a far greater amount of extenuation on her
behalf, than on that of the lady who surrenders herself, unmarried, to
the embraces of her lover!

And in many—too many instances—what a life of slavery is that of the
female servant!—and how little enviable is the lot of the poor
maid-of-all-work! Talk of the hard fate of the negress—think of the hard
fate of the maid-of-all-work! Excellent saint of Exeter Hall! you need
not send your sympathies travelling some thousands of miles across the
sea: there is plenty of scope for their exercise at home, if you be
really sincere—which we know you are _not_! Look to the
maid-of-all-work—up at five in the winter, and heaven only knows when in
the summer,—compelled to keep an entire house neat and decent—to black
all the boots and shoes—to run on all the errands—to put herself in
awful peril by standing or sitting outside the windows which she is
compelled to clean—and very frequently half-starved by those whom she
serves so assiduously and so faithfully,—what a life is hers![39]

Female servants are treated with much greater kindness in France than in
England. In the former country they are considered rather in the light
of humble friends of the family than as mere slaves, which is the
estimation in which they are usually held, we are sorry to say, in the
British Islands. Let them be treated with kindness and forbearance: they
have much to try their patience and sour their tempers by the very
nature of their condition and the miscellaneous character of their
avocations. A man or a woman who is unkind to a servant, is a wretch
deserving obloquy and execration. But a master or a mistress who,
through petty spite or sheer malignity, refuses to give to a discharged
servant the good character which such servant may in reality deserve, is
a very fiend, unfit to remain in civilised society.

[Illustration]

Before we take leave of this subject, we cannot resist the opportunity
of expressing our opinion relative to a practice adopted at Court: we
mean the fact of the Queen being waited upon in her private apartments
by ladies of high rank and good family, instead of by female servants.
Who is Queen Victoria, that a Duchess must select her gown, and a
Marchioness hook it? Is she a goddess that a Countess must help her to
put on her shoes, and a Baroness tie them? Must not royalty be touched
by the hands of a female servant? Alas! we strongly suspect that Queen
Victoria is a woman made of the same flesh and blood as the most
ordinary mortals: and we feel confident that the practice of attaching
ladies of rank and title to her august person is as pernicious to her,
as it is degrading to the ladies themselves, and as flagrantly insulting
to the entire class of well-conducted ladies'-maids. But royalty in this
country must be idolized—deified: no means must be left untried to
convince the credulous public that royalty is something very different
from commonalty. This delusion shall, however, be dispelled;—the people
must be taught to look on Victoria as nothing more than the chief
magistrate of the country, deriving her power from the nation at large,
and holding it only so long as the majority of the inhabitants of these
realms may consider her worthy to retain it. The contemptible farce of
firing cannon to announce her movements—of illuminating dwelling-houses
on her birth-day—of cheering her whenever she appears in public, just as
if she cared two figs for the bawling idlers who gaze on Majesty with
awe and astonishment,—all this miserable humbug should be abolished.
_The more a Sovereign is deified, the more the people are abased._
Instead of the nation being obliged to Queen Victoria for ruling over
it, Queen Victoria ought to be very much obliged to the nation for
allowing her to occupy her high post. For the only real _sovereign
power_ is that of the people; and the individual who looks on royalty as
something infallible—divine—supernally grand and awe-inspiring, is a
drivelling, narrow-minded idiot, unworthy of the enjoyment of political
freedom, and fit only to take his place amidst the herds of Russian
serfdom.

-----

Footnote 38:

  This incident is founded on fact. Many of our readers will doubtless
  recollect the case of J——N——and her mother, who were convicted of
  robbing ready-furnished lodgings about ten years ago. Miss J——N——had
  been the mistress of a noble lord who was a Cabinet Minister at the
  time of the condemnation of her mother and herself, _and who is a
  Cabinet Minister at the present moment_. The affair created a great
  sensation at the time; but the _Dispatch_ and other independent
  newspapers took it up; not in order to persecute the unhappy women,
  but on public grounds. The result was that the original sentence
  passed upon them, and which Ministerial favouritism sought to commute
  to a much milder penalty, was carried into force. The entire business,
  so far as the noble lord was concerned, was vile and scandalous in the
  extreme.

Footnote 39:

  We avail ourselves of the opportunity afforded us by the glance which
  we are taking at this subject, to recommend to perusal an admirable
  little work, written by our esteemed and talented friend, Mr. John
  Taylor Sinnett, and entitled "The Servant Girl in London." It is
  published by Hastings, Carey Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields; and is a
  little book which should be found in all families, as it contains
  sentiments and precepts useful alike to the employer and the employed.

  In a work from which we have frequently quoted in the Notes belonging
  to the present Series of "THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON,"—we allude to
  "Poverty, Mendicity, and Crime,"—we find an important passage bearing
  strongly upon the subject of the text. It runs as follows:—"We must
  now direct attention to the class of female servants, and they form no
  insignificant number: from these the higher ranks of our prostitutes
  are recruited. Thirst for dress and finery, which has crept on to such
  a degree that it is not a very rare sight to behold them waiting on
  their mistress in the morning, bedecked in silks and ornaments equal
  to the young ladies themselves, even where the ladies are of the
  highest class of the community. Great censure is due to ladies,
  especially those who are mothers, for not restraining their servants
  from squandering away the whole of their money, loss of place ought to
  be the consequence of not laying by a small portion of wages to
  sustain themselves in the event of illness or other unforeseen
  calamity; the dress of a female servant ought to be good, but
  perfectly void of ridiculous ornament and frippery. The ladies' maids
  of our aristocracy are a race the most highly culpable of their sex,
  aping all the pride and airs of their lady, and desiring to appear
  abroad with equal _éclat_, to effect which, the wardrobe of the
  mistress is not unfrequently resorted to, and the purse not always
  held sacred, or she becomes a prostitute whilst under the roof of her
  employer, till descending from one false step to another she at length
  links her fate to some favourite of the swell mob, to whom she at
  first listened as a suitor, and ends in her being accessary to robbing
  the family which had fostered her. It is ascertained, beyond doubt,
  that most of the houses that are robbed, arises from the connexion and
  intimacy which the servant has contracted with some of the petty
  workmen who have been employed about the premises, many of whom are
  thieves themselves, or connected with some gang of villains who resort
  to that expedient to learn what property is kept on the premises, and
  how it is disposed of at night. 'A great deal of crime,' says Mr.
  Nairn, in his evidence, 'is generated in consequence of the tradesmen
  who employ journeymen to work for them, in gentlemen's houses, not
  taking care to inquire into their character: by getting acquainted
  with servants, they get a knowledge of those parts of the house where
  anything valuable is kept. A number of men that were in the prison
  were painters, plasterers, and bricklayers, they were in the practice
  of communicating with thieves, and it is in that secret manner that
  they get information where property is kept.'—_Vide J. H. Nairn, p.
  370, 2nd Report, Lords, on State of Gaols, 1835._

  "There is a most infamous conspiracy existing between the purveyors or
  housekeepers of the aristocracy and their tradespeople, the latter
  paying the former a large per centage on the bills for the sake of
  'gaining their custom.' Twenty per cent. is often given, and it has
  been known to rise as high as fifty; unfortunately, the nobleman
  considers it as derogatory to his high rank to look into his pecuniary
  domestic affairs; but taking it in a moral point of view, it is his
  duty to do so for the sake of preventing this species of peculation,
  which is an absolute theft and one of the stepping-stones to crime
  generally, as the money so attained is mostly as lightly spent, and
  the servants out of place for a length of time, the difficulty to
  procure the wherewithal to keep alive their former extravagance makes
  them not hesitate to become _regular thieves_, the fine sense of
  honesty having been destroyed by the transaction with the tradesman,
  who had not failed, in his turn, to make out a bill more than
  sufficiently long to cover merely his generosity in bestowing
  Christmas boxes upon the domestics of his patron. These tradesmen are
  a rank disgrace to their more honest fellow shopkeeper; they are worse
  than fences, and it is greatly to be regretted that a complete
  _expose_ cannot take place, and all such tradesmen dealt with
  according to their merit.

  "Another evil in society that is pregnant with mischief is giving a
  false character to servants, which ladies are constantly in the
  practice of doing, to avoid being plagued, or 'perhaps,' as they say,
  'insulted by the discarded servant,' whose character, if correctly
  stated, would not be such as easily to procure a new situation; thus a
  pilferer having once had the luck to start off in a private family
  with a good name, is from this shameful habit let loose upon the
  public to commit his depredations at leisure and convenience, with the
  chance of blame falling upon an honest individual, through the crafty
  machination of the wicked. By making servants conscious that they
  would only procure such a character as they really deserve, great good
  would accrue to the public generally, and the servants themselves
  would be taught to curb their temper and other bad propensities, by
  which they would become infinitely more contented and happy beings,
  and valuable members of society.

  "It is too often the case that servants are looked upon as little
  better than slaves, and so to treat them. To say the least of such
  conduct it is unwise, for in proportion to the kindness with which
  they are treated, so will they study in return to make us enjoy
  numberless little comforts so delightful to experience, and which it
  is in their power to give life to or destroy. Humanity ought to
  suggest that the situation in which these persons are placed,
  witnessing nightly those scenes of pleasure, without being permitted
  to join in them, is sufficiently grating, for they all have their
  feelings, in common with the best of us, and it ought to be one of the
  first cares of the heads of families to lighten, as far as consistent
  with the rules and shades of society, the state and labours of their
  dependants. In France the servants are in an enviable condition
  compared with those of England, and if the plan were followed in this
  country, giving them their little pleasures, many a one, whose
  propensities were wavering, would be confirmed in virtue, and become a
  useful member, instead of a disgrace to society."




                            CHAPTER LXXXVII.
                            THE BLACKAMOOR.


Upon quitting Old Death's abode, Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler
proceeded together in the direction of Blackfriar's Bridge; while John
Jeffreys, having wished those worthies "good night," pursued his way up
Horsemonger Lane, and plunged into the maze of narrow, obscure streets
lying at the back of the prison.

Although he had said "_good night_" to his companions, it was in reality
_morning_; for the clock of the gaol chimed a quarter-past three as
Jeffreys passed by that dismal-looking establishment.

Having reached the door of the house in which he lodged, and which was
in one of the streets above alluded to, he drew a pass-key from his
pocket, and was about to apply it to the lock, when the sounds of
footsteps close by fell upon his ears, and almost at the same moment a
heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder.

The conscience of Mr. John Jeffreys was not quite so free from sources
of alarm as to prevent him from being painfully startled by this
occurrence; and turning suddenly round towards the individual who had
thus accosted him, he found himself face to face with a blackamoor.

"Fear not—no harm is intended you," said the negro, in a deep, solemn,
and sonorous voice, but without the least peculiarity of accent; "that
is," he added, "if you follow my directions."

"And who are you?" demanded Jeffreys, reassured by the certainty that he
was addressing no myrmidon of the law.

"It is not for you to question, but to answer," said the Black in a cool
and authoritative manner which seemed to indicate the consciousness of
possessing the power to enforce his will, even against any resistance
that might be offered. "But I have no time to waste in unnecessary
discourse. You must accompany me whither I shall lead you."

"And if I refuse?" asked Jeffreys, trembling he scarcely knew why.

"Then I shall summon to my aid those who are ready at hand, and who will
carry you off by force," calmly replied the Black.

"But if I raise an alarm," said Jeffreys, gradually yielding to a
sensation of awe in the presence of the mysterious stranger who spoke
with the confidence of power and authority, "the neighbours will come to
my rescue, and——"

"A truce to this argument," interrupted the Black, sternly. "If you
accompany me of your own free will, it will be to your advantage, and no
harm shall befall you: but if you venture to resist me, I shall
unhesitatingly make you my prisoner by force; and we shall then see what
account John Jeffreys can give of his long and intimate connexion with
Old Death."

"I will go with you—I will do any thing you command," said the villain,
trembling from head to foot. "Only——"

"Again I tell you that you have nothing to fear and much to gain,"
observed the Black; and taking Jeffreys' arm, he led him hastily back
towards Horsemonger Lane, neither of them uttering a word as they thus
hurried along.

The night—or rather morning, was dark and sombre, and there were no
lamps in the streets which they were threading. Thus, although
arm-in-arm together, Jeffreys could obtain but a very imperfect view of
his companion's features: nevertheless, it struck him that though the
stranger's countenance was black as that of an African negro, the facial
outline was not characterised by the protuberant thickness of lips and
hideous flatness of nose which usually belong to that race. But Jeffreys
was too much alarmed—too much bewildered by the sudden and mysterious
adventures which had befallen him, to be able to make any very steady
reflections; and whenever he threw a furtive glance towards his
companion's countenance, he was instantly met by eyes the pupils of
which seemed to glare upon him from their brilliant whites like those of
a basilisk.

It was, indeed, an awe-inspiring and most uncomfortable situation in
which Jeffreys found himself placed. Having numerous misdeeds upon his
conscience, he shuddered at the idea of coming in contact with the law;
and if he offered any resistance to his strange companion, such contact
was the alternative with which he was menaced. But who was this strange
companion? who was this Black that spoke with a tone of authority, and
acted in a manner denoting a consciousness of power? For what purpose
was he now hurrying Jeffreys along through the darkness of the silent
night? and whither were they going? Even had the man been armed with
conscious innocence, his position was one calculated to engender acute
suspense, painful doubt, and wild apprehension;—but, knowing that he had
been guilty of many deeds any one of which would be sufficient to
involve him in serious trouble with regard to the law, the miserable
wretch had every thing to fear, and scarcely any thing to hope.

It was true he had received assurances that no harm should befall him;
and that the incident would, on the other hand, prove advantageous to
him. But the influence of those assurances was completely absorbed in
the vague and terrible alarms which the dread mystery of the adventure
was so well calculated to excite. Conscious guilt made him a complete
coward; and his ideas became so confused—his nervousness so great—his
excitement so wild, that he began to fancy he was in the power of some
unearthly being of evil nature and design. As this impression grew
stronger in his attenuated mind, he cast in his terror more frequent
glances at his companion;—and now it seemed as if the black countenance
were rapidly changing—becoming hideous to behold, and lighted up with
eyes that burnt in their sockets like red hot coals!

John Jeffreys felt his legs failing beneath him—his brain whirling—his
reason going;—and he was on the point of falling to the ground, overcome
by the terror that oppressed him, when his companion's voice suddenly
broke upon his ear, dispelling all the superstitious portion of his
alarms, and recalling him to his senses.

"Step in!" said the Black;—and Jeffreys found himself by the side of a
hackney-coach which was waiting beneath the wall of Horsemonger Lane
gaol.

He obeyed the command issued in that authoritative tone which he dared
not resist; and the Black followed him into the vehicle, which
immediately drove away.

"I must now blindfold you," observed the mysterious stranger; "and I
warn you not to attempt to discover the road which we are about to
pursue. Even in the darkness which prevails in this coach, I shall be
able to distinguish all your movements."

"Where are we going?—what are you about to do with me?" asked Jeffreys,
in an imploring voice.

"If you are such a coward as you now seem to be, you will prove of
little service to me, I am afraid," said the Black, as he fastened a
handkerchief over his prisoner's eyes. "Cheer up, man," he added, in a
tone not altogether free from contemptuous disgust: "if I meant to
deliver you into the hands of justice, for your numerous misdeeds, I
should not take this round about manner of accomplishing the task. Once
more I tell you that the result of this adventure depends wholly and
solely on yourself. It may prove a fortunate occurrence for you, if your
conduct be such as to beget confidence and merit forbearance and
protection."

"Then you wish me to do something for you?" said Jeffreys, considerably
reassured by the words just addressed to him.

"A great deal," was the laconic answer. "But we will not continue the
discourse at present, if you please."

This intimation was followed by profound silence; and the vehicle rolled
along at a rapid rate. Jeffreys was now so far relieved of the
oppressive fears which had recently paralysed his intellectual energies,
that he could even smile at the superstitious alarm which had seized
upon him; and he endeavoured to follow in imagination the route pursued
by the coach. But he soon became aware that it was taking such a
circuitous and tortuous way as fully to destroy all possibility on his
part of instituting any clue to its course; and he at last threw himself
back in the vehicle, to give way to reflections on another subject—thus
abandoning the idea of studying the direction in which he was being
hurried along.

For an hour did the coach proceed, making numerous turnings into fresh
streets, and often appearing to retrace the way it had previously
pursued. At length it stopped; and, one of the doors being immediately
opened, the Black took Jeffreys' hand and assisted him to alight. The
mysterious guide then hurried his prisoner into a house, up a flight of
stairs and into a room, where he conducted him to a seat.

"Remove the bandage from your eyes," said the Black.

This command was instantly and cheerfully obeyed; and Jeffreys, casting
a rapid glance around, found himself to be in a well-furnished
apartment, of which he and his mysterious guide were the only occupants.
The curtains were drawn completely over the windows; and Jeffreys had
not the least idea of the locality to which he had been brought.

Opposite to him, but in such a manner that the light of the candles did
not fall upon his countenance, sate the Black, whose person Jeffreys was
now enabled to examine more narrowly than when they were walking
arm-in-arm in the neighbourhood of Horsemonger Lane Gaol; and that
survey showed him a man of middle height, well-built, and dressed in
good but plain attire. His features were too delicate to be of the negro
cast: he had no whiskers, and his hair was of the glossiest jet and
seemed to curl naturally. On the table near him lay a pair of pistols;
and over the mantelpiece two swords hung cross-wise, beneath a
formidable blunderbuss.

The Black allowed Jeffreys leisure to examine the apartment, probably
with the view of convincing him, by the appearance of the weapons
distributed about, that he was in a place where treachery could be
punished in a moment, and that it would be prudent for him to resolve
beforehand to accept any conditions that might be proposed to him.

After a short pause, the Black assumed an attitude significant of his
intention to open the business of the morning's adventure.

"John Jeffreys," he said, in his calm but imposing manner, "I am well
acquainted with all that concerns you; and I know your readiness to
serve those who pay you well. Now, however well Old Death may have
already paid, or may promise to pay you, for any thing you may have done
or may have to do for him, I will pay you better. Do you choose to enter
my service—my service exclusively, remember; because, in serving me, you
can really serve none other?"

"You seem to know me well, indeed, master," said Jeffreys, assuming a
familiar tone, now that he began to fancy the Black to be no better than
he should be.

"Dispense with jocularity, sir," exclaimed the other sternly; and
Jeffreys shrank from the severe look fixed upon him and the haughty
manner which accompanied the words just uttered. "Look you," continued
the Black,—"I may as well inform you at once that the companionship
which you may expect to enjoy with me, will not be of the kind to which
you are accustomed with such men as those from whom you parted an hour
ago. If you serve me, you must become my slave: you must execute my
bidding without even pausing to reflect on the motives which may
instigate the commands I shall give you. You must consent to become a
mere automaton in my hands—a machine that is to move only as I choose to
direct. There will be no familiarity between us—no friendship. All will
be enveloped in the strictest mystery; and you will often have to act
without comprehending what you are doing, or the objects you are
destined to accomplish. You will moreover be watched by invisible
spies—at least by persons whose supervision you will not suspect; so
that the least attempt at treachery on your part will be sure to meet
with instantaneous punishment—and that punishment is _death_."

"I see nothing to object to, sir, in all that," said Jeffreys, now
speaking in a respectful tone, "providing the advantages are as great as
they ought to be."

"The advantages to you will be immense," resumed the Black; "and I will
explain them. In the first place, there is nothing criminal in my
service—nothing that can make you tremble when a stranger taps you on
the shoulder. On the contrary, I will protect you even from the effects
of the crimes which you have already committed, should they transpire by
accident or by the treachery of any of your former accomplices. Your
salary shall be liberal and regularly paid; and thus you will be freed
from those vicissitudes which make such men as you rich to-day and poor
to-morrow. When the time shall come—which it must—that I no longer need
your services, I will settle on you an income for the remainder of your
days. These are the advantages which I offer you."

"If you only fulfil one tenth part, sir——" began Jeffreys, delighted at
the prospects opening before him.

"I am not in the habit of promising more than I can perform,"
interrupted the Black haughtily. "If my service suits you, you enter it
from this moment."

"I accept the terms with joy and gratitude," said Jeffreys.

"Good!" exclaimed the Black; and tossing a well-filled purse towards his
new servant, he said, "There are a hundred pounds to confirm the
bargain. One piece of advice I must give you:—indeed, it involves a
condition on which I must insist; and this is, that you do not, through
idle vanity, display your gold to those persons who may be likely to
suspect that you have not come honestly by it. For you will not be able
to give any satisfactory explanation; and I do not choose you to get
into any difficulty just that I may have the trouble of getting you out
of it again. Why I say that you will be able to give no satisfactory
explanation relative to the source of your prosperity, is because you
will not know who your master is—nor where he lives—nor any thing
concerning him. You will have no one to refer to, in case you fall into
difficulty: at the same time, I should hear of it, and would hasten to
assist you, if you be worthy of my regard—if you deserve that I should
care for your welfare."

"But how am I to receive your orders, sir, if I do not know where you
live nor who you are?" inquired Jeffreys, his astonishment and awe
increasing with every word that came from the lips of his new master.

"Shall not I know where _you_ live?" said the Black, smiling for the
first time since they had met: "and can I not come to you when I require
your services? Will not the post convey my letters? and have I not
messengers to dispatch to you? Leave all those matters to me; trouble
not yourself relative to the means of communication between us: and ask
no questions which do not bear upon the mechanical and even blind
service which you are to devote to me. You will find me a good and
liberal master, if you prove faithful, diligent, and sincere; but should
you attempt to practise perfidy against me—should you deceive me in any
one single thing, however trifling, I shall become a terrible and
implacable enemy."

"I can have no interest in deceiving you, sir, considering all the
advantages your service holds out," said Jeffreys: "and yet I should
like to know a little more of the nature of what you will require at my
hands—what I shall have to do, indeed."

"No—I will explain nothing," returned the Black. "I have already assured
you that my service is safe, so far as the laws of the country are
concerned, and that you will never be called upon to do a deed of which
you need be ashamed—supposing that you have any shame in you. I say
this, because I know that you have hitherto pursued evil courses—that
you have maintained a desperate connexion with Benjamin Bones—and that
many robberies have taken place through your instrumentality, if not
actually perpetrated by your hands. But if you remain in my service, I
hope to render you a better man—I hope to see the day come when you will
know what proper shame is, and will blush at many of the actions of your
earlier years. Of this enough, however, for the present. I did not bring
you hither to listen to moral lectures or sermons from my lips. Neither
do I believe that precepts are of much benefit to a man who has pursued
a long career of vice and error. Example does much more—but experience
most of all. When you shall have learnt the value of good conduct and
the advantage of fidelity to him whom you serve, you will see how far
preferable it is to dwell without the fear of incurring the resentment
of outraged laws than to lead an existence of harassing excitement
produced by the perpetual dread of falling into the grasp of justice.
But, again I say, of this enough. Do you still adhere to your desire to
enter my service?"

"I do, sir," was the answer, delivered in a firm tone.

"I must then warn you," resumed the Black, "that though I exact the most
complete fidelity from you—and though I should punish, in a terrible
manner, the least perfidy on your part,—yet, in respect to others, you
will often be compelled to exercise stratagem and practise plots which
at first sight may appear treacherous. You will have to wage war,
perhaps, against some of your old companions—to defeat their
projects—even to betray their schemes. Are you prepared to agree to all
this?"

"I am prepared to obey your orders in all things," was the reply.

"Without even questioning my motives?"

"That was a condition already imposed by you, and agreed to by me."

"And you will undertake never to breathe to a single soul a word
relative to the secret service in which you are engaged? Remember,"
added the Black, hastily, "I merely mention this as a warning; because I
should immediately detect any treachery on your part, and should not
hesitate to punish it terribly."

"I wish you would at once put me to the test in some way or another,
sir," said Jeffreys. "You seem to know all about me—but in what way you
got your information, is of course a mystery to me. However, you _do_
know me well—and, having that knowledge of me, I can perfectly
understand that you do not feel disposed to trust to my bare word in any
thing. Now give me something to do—put me on trial in some way or
another—and then judge whether I am the man to serve a good paymaster,
or not."

"You speak to the point—and I will at once put you to the test you
solicit," returned the Black; "and mind how you reply to my
questions—because, even were you to amuse me with deceptive answers now,
in a few hours I should discover the real truth, and my vengeance would
overtake you—aye, even in the midst of those companions whom I am about
to ask you to betray. In a word, then, what was the nature of the
business which took you and two other men to Old Death's lodgings last
evening, and detained you there a great portion of the night?"

"One word, sir, before I answer the question!" exclaimed Jeffreys. "If I
reveal to you every thing which took place between myself, those two men
and Old Death last night, will you not think that in the same manner I
shall betray to them what is now taking place between you and me?"

"I have already told you that the greatest proof of faithful service
towards _me_ is to betray _others_," returned the Black; "and I have
given you ample assurance that if you attempt to betray _me_ to
_others_, certain vengeance will overtake you."

"Then if you consider my treachery towards others as a proof of fidelity
to you, sir," continued Jeffreys, "I am content to be put to such a
test. You ask me what took place between Old Death, Tim the Snammer,
Josh Pedler, and myself last night; and I will tell you word for word. A
few weeks ago one Thomas Rainford was hanged at Horsemonger Lane gaol,
and was buried in St. Luke's churchyard. To-night Old Death means to
have the coffin dug up, and conveyed to the house of certain people
named Bunce, in Earl Street, Seven Dials; to which house he himself will
move to-day. It seems that this Rainford was the eldest brother of the
Earl of Ellingham, against whom Old Death has a dreadful spite; and so
he intends to have the body of Tom Rain taken out of the coffin, a rope
put round its neck, and a placard on its breast, stating that the famous
highwayman was the Earl's brother. The body is then to be conveyed to
Pall Mall, and placed on the steps of the nobleman's house. This is one
part of the scheme concocted last night, and which me and the two other
men were engaged to execute."

"Go on," said the Black, in a low tone.

"The part that's to come is worse than what I've already told you, sir,"
observed Jeffreys; "and I am afraid that if you know I consented to
serve in the matter——"

"Go on—go on," exclaimed the Black, impatiently.

"Well, sir—since I must, I will tell you all," continued Jeffreys. "Old
Death has found out that a lady, named Esther—Esther—I forget——"

"Never mind! Go on, I say," cried the Black, more impatiently than
before.

"I was saying that Old Death had found out that this lady was the
mistress of Tom Rain, the famous highwayman, and that the Earl has a
great esteem for her. He has also heard that the Earl _is_ going—or
_was_ going—to marry another lady, named Hatfield; and he has made up
his mind to have these two ladies carried off and conveyed to Bunce's
house in Seven Dials. When he has got them there, sir, he intends——But I
really——"

"Go on, man!" exclaimed the Black. "What does he mean to do?"

"To put their eyes out," replied Jeffreys, in a low tone, and speaking
with considerable hesitation.

"The fiend!—the monster!" ejaculated the Black, starting from his chair;
but instantly composing himself, he resumed his seat, saying, "Was that
the full extent of the atrocity planned and agreed upon last night?"

"That was the whole scheme, sir," answered Jeffreys. "Benjamin Bones
agreed to give us each a hundred pounds for serving him in those
matters, and he paid us each thirty on account."

"Show me your share," said the Black, abruptly.

Jeffreys hesitated, and turned pale.

"Beware how you deceive me—take care how you trifle with me!" exclaimed
his master. "If you received those thirty pounds from Old Death, you
must have them about you now; for _I know_," he added emphatically and
significantly, "that between the time you left his lodgings and stopped
at your own door, whither I followed you expressly to ascertain where
you lived, you entered no place at which you could have deposited the
money."

Jeffreys no longer dared to hesitate; but taking a large roll of
Bank-notes and a quantity of gold from his pocket, he spread them upon
the table, saying, "The thirty pounds I received from Old Death last
night are amongst this lot."

"And whence did you obtain such a large sum?" demanded the Black,
hastily glancing over the amount, "there are several hundreds of pounds
here!"

"Well, sir," said Jeffreys, completely over-awed by the tone and manner
of his new master, as well as by the mystery which surrounded him; "I
will tell you all about it—and then you will be convinced that I am
ready and anxious to secure your good opinion. I was until very lately
in the service of a Mr. Torrens——"

"Ah!" exclaimed the Black, starting as if with sudden surprise at the
information he had just received: then, again composing himself, he said
in his usual calm, but authoritative manner, "Proceed."

"This Mr. Torrens was paid a sum of money a few days ago—about fifteen
hundred pounds," continued Jeffreys; "and I put Old Death up to it."

"Benjamin Bones again—Benjamin Bones at the bottom of every villainy!"
cried the Black, in an excited manner.

"Well, sir—and so Old Death sent two men—the very same men who was with
me at his lodgings last night—to rob Mr. Torrens of the money. They
succeeded, and Old Death changed the large notes into small ones and
gold; because large notes are useless to such men as Tim the Snammer and
Josh Pedler. If they attempted to change a fifty pound note, they would
get taken up in a moment; whereas they can manage to smash small notes
at the public-houses where they deal. So Old Death had his share of the
plunder; and mine is part of that heap. I have now told you every thing,
sir——"

"No—not every thing!" said the Black, in a more serious and solemn tone
than he had yet adopted during his interview with Jeffreys. "Mr. Torrens
is in Newgate—charged with a fearful crime," he continued; "and his
daughter Rosamond is in a state bordering on despair at the house of
kind and generous people with whom I am acquainted."

"Good God! who are you?" exclaimed Jeffreys, surveying his master in
terror and amazement. "You know every thing—every body! The least word
that is uttered leads to a subject with which you are sure to be
acquainted! Oh! sir—if you have had me brought here to do me a
mischief—to get me into trouble—to make me confess things—"

"Fear not, Jeffreys!" interrupted the Black, in a reassuring tone. "I am
acquainted with Mr. Torrens' version of the history of that murder—and I
know that suspicion rests not upon you. But I now perceive clearly that
the tale which Mr. Torrens has told to his daughter, and which his
daughter has repeated to those friends of mine who have granted her an
asylum,—I perceive that this tale is, alas! too true, strange and
incredible as it at first appeared. Yes: Mr. Torrens did not deceive his
daughter! The house was entered by two men and robbed, as he described
the occurrence—and those two men were the real murderers of Sir Henry
Courtenay! Jeffreys," continued the Black, in a lower and more measured
tone, "you are now completely in my power. Nay—start not—fear not: it is
far from my intention to harm you. But it is as well for you to know
that you are now bound to me in two ways: first, because I pay you for
your services—secondly, because I will denounce you as an accomplice and
an accessory before the fact, in respect to that murder, if you hesitate
to fulfil my orders! On the other hand, if you remain faithful—if you
serve me with that blind obedience and implicit zeal which I exact from
you, you have nothing to fear, but every thing to hope."

"Before I was in your power I had made up my mind to serve you in the
manner you state," said Jeffreys; "and now of course I am compelled to
do so. Give me your orders—what is there for me to undertake? Shall I
inform against Josh Pedler and Tim Splint? or shall I go and set the
constables upon Old Death, who was an accomplice in the robbery, since
he sent those two men to commit it."

"Silence, Jeffreys!" exclaimed the Black imperiously: "it is not for you
to suggest any thing—but to perform what is suggested by myself! And
remember—I will not allow you to take a single step in these matters,
unauthorised by me. Stir not of your own accord—or you will only involve
yourself in ruin. See the position in which you are placed! If the two
men who murdered Sir Henry Courtenay, be surrendered up to justice, they
may confess all—and their confession would implicate you and Benjamin
Bones. Nevertheless, an innocent victim shall not be sacrificed to the
blood-thirsty law which authorises the punishment of death: Mr. Torrens
must be saved! This is an affair which demands the greatest caution; and
if you utter a word more than I direct you to speak, or take a single
step unknown to me, you will be undone! But time has passed rapidly—more
rapidly than I had expected, while we have been thus conversing
together," added the Black, looking at his watch. "It is now
day-light—and you cannot depart hence until the evening."

He knew by the hour that morning had dawned some time; but the
window-shutters were closed, and the curtains were thick and ample, so
that not a gleam of sunshine penetrated into that apartment, where the
candles were still burning.

"Yes—you must remain here until the evening," repeated the Black. "At
what time was it arranged that you should meet the other agents of Old
Death in order to visit St. Luke's churchyard?"

"To-night at eleven," answered Jeffreys; "and the place of appointment
is at the back of the burial-ground. But do you intend, sir, that I
should fulfil my agreement with Benjamin Bones?"

"Ask me no questions!" cried his master, evidently much excited—if not
absolutely perplexed by the various ideas that were agitating in his
brain. "I have not yet resolved how to act: I must be alone for some
hours to meditate! In the meantime you no doubt stand in need of rest?
Follow me."

With these words the Black took up a candle and led the way into an
adjoining room, which was fitted up as a bed-chamber. There also the
shutters were closed, and the curtains drawn over the windows.

"This will be your apartment until the evening," said the Black: "but as
I am accustomed to adopt all proper precautions to ensure the complete
carrying out of my views, I shall be compelled to place some one with
you, and I most moreover request that those shutters remain closed
throughout the day."

Jeffreys' new master rang a bell; and in a few minutes a tall, thin,
genteel-looking lad, but of a complexion as dark as his own, answered
the summons.

"Cæsar," said the elder Black, addressing the lad, "you will stay in
this room until I give you permission to leave it; and you will see that
Jeffreys, whom I have taken into my service," he added significantly,
"is supplied with every thing which he requires in the shape of
refreshments."

"Yes, sir," replied the youth, in a respectful manner.

The Black then quitted the room; and Jeffreys remained with the lad who
had been addressed by the name of Cæsar.




                           CHAPTER LXXXVIII.
                   SCENES AT THE BLACKAMOOR'S HOUSE.


When the Black returned to the parlour where he had received from the
lips of Jeffreys revelations which had produced a strange effect upon
his mind, he threw himself upon the sofa, and gave way to his
reflections.

Although he had been up all night, yet he experienced no sensation of
weariness: he possessed a soul of such indomitable energy that by a
natural kind of sympathy between mind and matter, it sustained even the
physical powers to a wondrous degree.

We must follow him in the train of meditations into which he was
plunged; for the affairs in which he suddenly found himself interested,
through the confessions of John Jeffreys, were of so complicated and so
difficult a nature,—involving, too, so many delicate points,—that to a
mind endowed with one whit less of courage, or with one gleam less of
clearness, those affairs would have appeared to be entangled beyond all
possibility of a safe and prudent unravelling.

Let the reader bear in mind that there were two distinct affairs in
question; although they might at a first glance be confounded, because
certain persons who were connected with one were also involved in the
other.

The first of these affairs was the scheme of Old Death to avenge himself
on the Earl of Ellingham,—a scheme involving many frightful details,
such as the exhumation of a coffin, the capture of Esther de Medina and
Lady Hatfield, and the atrocity of blinding those fair and interesting
creatures.

The other affair was the accusation of Mr. Torrens of a crime which he
had not committed, and the necessity of proving his innocence.

"If those miscreants Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler be informed
against," reasoned the Black within himself, "they will be certain that
either Benjamin Bones or John Jeffreys has betrayed them, and they will
accordingly give a full and complete explanation, the result of which
would be that the whole four would swing together. But I am bound to
save Jeffreys from that terrible fate; and God forbid that that I should
be the means, direct or indirect, of sending Benjamin Bones to the
scaffold! And yet, on the other hand, knowing all that I have elicited
from Jeffreys, and acting in the true spirit of that mission which I
have voluntarily undertaken, I dare not allow this innocent man Torrens
to be condemned by a frightful combination of circumstantial evidence,
when the utterance of a single word will prove him guiltless and fix the
crime on those who really perpetrated it. How stands the matter, then?
Torrens must be saved on the one hand; but the real murderers must be
allowed to escape on the other! Oh! this is a fatal necessity—a dreadful
alternative; and yet it is imperious!"

The Black rose and paced the room with slow and measured steps. He
reflected profoundly. He separated all the details of the two
complicated matters which occupied his thoughts, and examined them one
by one.

"In respect to the vengeance of Benjamin Bones,"—it was thus that his
musings were continued after a time,—"_that scheme_ must be completely
strangled at once—annihilated at its very commencement. Not for worlds
must aught scandalous or degrading occur to Arthur, Earl of
Ellingham!—not for worlds must the relationship subsisting between him
and Thomas Rainford be published and proclaimed! Yes—Benjamin Bones must
be rendered powerless for the future;—and yet how can this be
accomplished without permitting a legal tribunal to seize upon him?"

The Black continued to pace the room, his sable countenance denoting by
its workings the searching keenness with which his mind seized upon and
examined each successive project that suggested itself as a means to
accomplish all his objects and carry out all his aims in a manner
certain to produce the results which he was anxious and resolved to
bring about.

At length one particular scheme flashed to his mind; and the smile which
appeared on his countenance, as his imagination seized on that project,
was an augury of its subsequent adoption. He weighed it well in all its
details—he calculated its consequences—he minutely examined all its
certain results,—and he arrived at the conviction that, though a large
and even a dangerous measure, it was the only one whereby all his
designs could be effected.

Having resolved to carry it into execution, the Black felt his mind
relieved of a considerable load;—and, seating himself at the table, he
wrote the following letter:—

  "The account which Rosamond Torrens received from her father
  relative to the assassination of Sir Henry Courtenay, and which that
  unfortunate girl recited to you, is strictly and substantially
  correct. Accident has enabled me to discover the real perpetrators
  of the crime; _and Mr. Torrens shall be saved!_ You will know in
  what terms to convey this assurance to that poor, suffering creature
  whom you have taken under your protection."

The Black sealed this note, and addressed it to "_Miss Esther de Medina,
Manor House, Finchley_." He then repaired to the room where he had left
Jeffreys and Cæsar together, and found that the former, having partaken
of some refreshments, had thrown himself on the bed and fallen into a
profound sleep.

"Cæsar," said the Black, "you must hasten to Finchley with this letter.
Take your horse and delay not. On your return, come back by way of
Grafton Street, and tell Dr. Lascelles that I desire to see him as soon
as he can possibly visit me."

Cæsar immediately departed to execute these commissions; and the Black
seated himself by the side of the bed on which Jeffreys was sleeping.

Nearly an hour passed, and the man did not awake. The Black rang the
bell, and a domestic in plain clothes answered the summons.

"Wilton," said his master, "remain here, and keep watch upon this
person,"—pointing to the sleeper. "When he awakes, ring the bell."

The servant bowed obedience to these instructions; and the Black left
the room.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Several hours had passed away, and it was three o'clock in the
afternoon.

Cæsar had returned with letters for his master, who had scarcely made an
end of their perusal when Dr. Lascelles was announced.

"Well, my dear friend," said the physician, "what new scheme have you
now in view? in what new project do you require my assistance?"

"Sit down, Doctor, and listen to me attentively," observed the Black;
"for many and strange incidents have occurred since I saw you last. But
perhaps you have been to Finchley; and in that case, one of those
circumstances to which I allude will have been made known to you."

"No, my dear friend," replied Dr. Lascelles, depositing his hat and
gloves on one chair and himself in another: "I have not had time to call
upon the Medinas since they removed to their country residence. I have
been experimentalising on a most splendid brain which the surgeon of St.
Bartholomew's Hospital was kind enough to send me as a present. But of
what nature is the circumstance of which I should have heard at
Finchley, had I called? Nothing disagreeable, I hope?"

"I will explain it to you in as few words as possible," answered the
Black, seating himself opposite to the physician. "The day before
yesterday—at about five o'clock in the evening—Mr. de Medina and Esther
were walking along the high road in the immediate vicinity of the Manor,
to which they had removed, as you are well aware, in the morning, when
they saw a beautiful young creature sitting on the step of a stile, and
evidently a prey to the most heart-rending anguish. They accosted
her—spoke kindly to her—and at length induced her to tell just so much
of her sorrowful tale as to enlist their warmest sympathies in her
behalf. They took her to the Manor; but on their arrival, the poor girl
was so overcome by illness, fatigue, and distress of mind, that Esther
insisted on her retiring to rest. Yesterday morning she was so far
recovered as to render it unnecessary to send for you in your medical
capacity; and Esther assured her that she might not only look upon the
Manor as her home, but that she should be treated with all the kindness,
attention, and respect, due to her misfortunes. It then appears that the
poor creature made a confidant of Esther, and revealed her entire story,
which shows how deeply she is to be pitied, and how cruel were the
circumstances that had driven her from her home, and made her resolve to
fly from London as from a city of pestilence. The entire details of that
story I will give you presently. Yesterday afternoon I repaired to the
Manor, and the particulars connected with the young lady were
confidentially narrated to me by Mr. de Medina. Last night the
metropolis rang with the rumours of a dreadful murder having been
discovered——"

"The assassination of Sir Henry Courtenay," remarked the physician; "and
the murderer, a gentleman named Torrens, is in Newgate."

"The _alleged_ murderer, you mean, doctor," said the Black,
emphatically. "And now prepare yourself to hear an amazing
revelation—for the young creature who found an asylum at Finchley Manor,
is the daughter of that _alleged murderer_, and her name is Rosamond."

"But surely she could not have been in any way implicated——"

"Patience, doctor—patience," said the Black. "On hearing last night of
the arrest of Mr. Torrens, I immediately dispatched Cæsar to Finchley
with a note to Mr. de Medina, containing the sad intelligence; and I
find by letters which I have just received," he added, glancing towards
the documents which lay open on the table, "that the news were broken as
delicately as possible to the unhappy girl: nevertheless, she is, as you
may suppose, a prey to the most lively grief; and it has been with the
greatest difficulty that Mr. de Medina and Esther have restrained her
from flying to Newgate to console her father. Let me now relate her
history to you."

The Black then detailed those incidents in connexion with Rosamond,
which are already known to the reader—save and except the dreadful fact
that Mr. Torrens had sold his daughter's virtue to Sir Henry Courtenay;
for though the unhappy girl had confessed the outrage which had been
perpetrated on her, she knew not—as the reader will remember—that her
own father had been an accomplice in the fearful deed.

"I have now some further explanations to give you, doctor," continued
the Black; "and then I shall have completed my long, long preface to the
business which induced me to request your presence here now. In
pursuance of that grand and difficult project, the nature of which is so
well known to you, I resolved to enlist one of Old Death's confederates,
or rather instruments, in my own service. Accordingly, last night, as
soon as I had dispatched Cæsar to Finchley with the note containing the
intelligence of Mr. Torrens' arrest, I went into the Borough, and
watched in the neighbourhood of Old Death's lodgings: for I informed you
a few days ago, if you recollect, that Cæsar had succeeded in
discovering the abode of that terrible man. Well, I kept not my watch
uselessly; for I soon beheld three men enter the house in Horsemonger
Lane, individually and at short intervals. Two of them were unknown to
me—although I have since found that their names were by no means
unfamiliar; but the third was a fellow of whom I knew something. This
was John Jeffreys—once a servant in the employ of Sir Christopher Blunt.
Now it immediately struck me that this was the very man who would suit
my purposes; for he is crafty—intelligent—and always ready to serve the
best paymaster. I accordingly resolved to enlist him in my employ; and
to this determination I was the more readily brought, because I felt
convinced that mischief was brewing under the auspices of Old Death. The
fact of the three men arriving so mysteriously—singly and at short
intervals, on the same evening, evidently by appointment—and the length
of time they remained in the place, were sufficient arguments to prove
to a far less experienced person than myself, that a council of
desperate men was being held for no good purposes. It was not until past
three this morning, that the villains separated. I had already made up
my mind how to act, and a hackney-coach was ordered by me to wait
beneath the wall of Horsemonger Lane. I fancied that Old Death's
visitors would depart singly as they had arrived; and my expectations
were so far realised that Jeffreys went off by himself. I resolved to
follow him home first—for I suspected that he lived at no great
distance; because, I thought that if I could not succeed in inducing him
to accompany me, I should at least know where to find him on another
occasion. At his own door I accosted him; and, by working on his fears
by means of my mysterious behaviour, as well as by holding out to him
vague threats that I was prepared to carry him off by force, if he
should resist me, I succeeded in bringing him blindfold to this house."

"Well done!" exclaimed the physician. "And so I presume you have
regularly enlisted the respectable Mr. Jeffreys into your
service—thereby securing the aid of a spy in the enemy's camp."

"The very object aimed at—the very point gained!," cried the Black,
"Jeffreys, under the joint influence of bribery and menaces, is
completely mine: and he gave me proofs of his fidelity by revealing to
me many interesting matters. Indeed, it was providentially fortunate
that I got him into my power and service just at this particular time;
as you shall judge for yourself."

He then related the details of the damnable conspiracy planned by Old
Death, and to be executed by his myrmidons, against the peace of the
Earl of Ellingham and the happiness of Lady Hatfield and Esther de
Medina.

"This man is a perfect monster!" ejaculated Dr. Lascelles indignantly.
"How is it possible that you can have any forbearance, my dear friend?
Set your retainers to watch for him—have him captured—and lock him up
for life in one of the dungeons which he himself doubtless rendered
serviceable to his own purposes on more than one occasion."

"Patience, doctor," said the Black: "nothing must be done rashly nor
without due consideration. Besides, you are well aware that my object is
to endeavour to reform that bad man——"

"Reform the devil!" cried the physician impatiently. "You know very well
that I ridiculed the idea when you first started it."

"And I intend to try the experiment, doctor," observed the Black, calmly
but firmly. "In the meantime, pray listen to me. In the course of the
conversation which I had with Jeffreys this morning, he mentioned the
name of Torrens; and to my surprise I found that he had lately been in
that gentleman's service. When Rosamond told her story to Esther, the
poor girl alluded several times to her father's man-servant, as I stated
to you just now; but as she did not happen to mention his name—or if she
did, it was not mentioned to me—I was unaware of the identity of that
domestic and Jeffreys till the latter himself suffered the fact to
transpire. Then was it that I also received a corroboration of the truth
of the version which Mr. Torrens had given his daughter of those
circumstances that led to the death of Sir Henry Courtenay; for Jeffreys
instigated the robbery at Torrens Cottage—Benjamin Bones appointed two
men to execute it—and those men assassinated the baronet."

[Illustration]

"You have thus become the depositor of a very agreeable secret, my dear
friend," said the doctor, somewhat ironically. "How do you intend to
act? For my part, I consider the position to be embarrassing; for if
those two men are arrested, they will perhaps inform against Jeffreys
and Old Death,—and, in this case, you lose not only your new dependant,
but also the opportunity of trying your great moral theory—which I call
great moral nonsense—upon the respectable Mr. Benjamin Bones."

"Doctor—doctor," exclaimed the Black, in a reproachful tone: "is this
your friendship for me? is this the way in which you fulfil your promise
of assistance?"

"Pardon me, my dear fellow," cried the good-hearted physician, wringing
his companion's hand violently. "If I talk to you in that fashion, it is
simply because I am deeply anxious for your welfare, and that—in
consequence of certain circumstances which we need not specify—I look
upon you just as if you were my own son. You know that I am ready to
serve you by day and by night—that you may command me at all times, and
my purse to its fullest extent——"

"A thousand thanks, doctor, for these proofs of generous friendship,"
interrupted the Black. "Your assistance I indeed require: on your purse,
thanks to the liberality of Mr. de Medina and the Earl of Ellingham, I
shall not be compelled to make any inroad."

"Then in what way can I assist you?" demanded the physician.

"I will explain myself," continued the Black. "But first I must tell you
that the very two men who murdered Sir Henry Courtenay, are of the gang
employed by Old Death to persecute the Earl and the two ladies in whom
we all feel an interest—I mean Georgiana Hatfield and Esther de Medina."

"This makes the business more complicated," said the doctor: "because if
those two men are arrested on the charge of murder, they may perhaps
confess not only that Old Death urged them to the robbery and that
Jeffreys was an accomplice in it; but they may also state the services
which Benjamin Bones hired them to perform respecting the Earl and the
two ladies,—thereby at once publishing to the world that Thomas Rainford
was indeed the elder brother of the Earl, and propagating the infamous
scandal relative to Esther de Medina having been the said Thomas
Rainford's mistress."

"You embrace the whole difficulty—or rather the greater portion of it at
once, my dear doctor," exclaimed the Black, delighted to find that his
friend entered so minutely and with such keen perception into the
affair. "The business presses in every way. In the first place, it is
necessary that an innocent man should be relieved as speedily as
possible from the dreadful charge hanging over his head; and secondly,
the exhumation of the coffin in Saint Luke's churchyard must be
prevented this night."

"Certainly it must;" observed Dr. Lascelles. "For if once Old Death knew
that the coffin contained not the remains of Thomas Rainford, the
discovery might engender certain suspicions in the mind of such an
astute old scoundrel as he."

"In a word, doctor, Torrens must be saved; and yet the two men, who
rejoice in the names of Joshua Pedler and Timothy Splint, must not be
handed over to justice," observed the Black.

"Such ought to be the policy adopted," said the physician: "and,
remember, that though these two men are not to be rendered up to
justice, they must be taken such care of for the future as to commit no
more murders and accept no more employ in the service of such miscreants
as Old Death."

"Of that I shall indeed take good care," said the Black.

"But how will it be possible to save Torrens without handing Splint and
Pedler over to justice in his place?" demanded the physician. "You will
be a clever fellow if you accomplish that difficulty."

"I am prepared to encounter it, doctor," returned the Black; "and you
must aid me in the business. Are you so intimately acquainted with any
magistrate or justice of the peace, that you could invite him to
dinner?"

"What an extraordinary question!" cried Dr. Lascelles, laughing. "How
will my asking a magistrate to dinner serve your purposes?"

"Only thus far," responded the Black: "that you would have the kindness
to walk a little way with him on his return home in the evening, and
that I should have you both very quietly kidnapped, blindfolded, and
carried off to some place where you would both have to receive and
witness the statements made by two men named Joshua Pedler and Timothy
Splint, whom I shall have safe in my own custody within a few hours."

"I understand," said the physician, laughing heartily. "Capital!
capital! But, by the bye,—when I think of it—your old friend Sir
Christopher Blunt was gazetted two days ago to be one of his Majesty's
Justices of the Peace for the County of Middlesex. Would he not serve
your purpose? or do you think——"

The physician paused and looked the Black steadfastly and significantly
in the face.

"He will answer admirably!" exclaimed the latter, after a few moments'
reflection. "Yes—better than any other, all things considered! I will
undertake to get him into my power without giving you the trouble to ask
him to dinner. But I must request, doctor, that to-morrow night at
eleven o'clock you will take a lonely walk in some very retired spot,
and at a good distance off too, so that you may lose all trace of the
path pursued by your kidnappers."

"You do not require two persons, surely?" said Lascelles.

"Yes—it will be better," responded the Black; "a Justice of the Peace,
and a competent and credible witness. Do you happen to have any patient
in the neighbourhood of Bethlem, for instance?"

"Let me see," said the doctor, in a musing manner. "Yes," he cried: "an
old lady whom I have not visited for some time."

"Very good," observed the Black. "Then you can call on her to-morrow
evening; and between ten and eleven, as you are returning on foot—on
foot, remember—you will be set upon by half a dozen ruffians," he
continued, laughing, "who will blindfold you, shove you into a chaise,
and carry you off—you never will be able to say whither."

"I understand you, my dear friend," said the physician, laughing
heartily also. "Your scheme is admirable and certain of success."

"Thus far, then, the business is settled," observed the Black.

At that moment Cæsar entered the room, and informed his master that the
man Jeffreys had just awoke, having slept uninterruptedly for many
hours.

"But you have not left him alone, Cæsar?" exclaimed the Black.

"No, sir—Wilton is with him," was the answer given by the youth.

"Good!" observed his master: then, turning towards the doctor, he added,
"If that fellow were to open the shutters and look out into the street,
he might recognise the locality; and I intend to allow him no
opportunity of playing me false."

"You act wisely," said the physician, who then took his departure, while
the Black repaired to the chamber where Jeffreys was remaining.

The man rose and bowed respectfully on the entrance of his master, who,
having dismissed Wilton, seated himself and proceeded to address his new
dependant in the following manner:—

"I have resolved how to act in the emergencies which have arisen, and to
which I have devoted my best consideration. You will not only be saved
from the consequences of your connivance with the robbery which took
place at Torrens Cottage, and which ended in so tragic a manner; but you
will likewise be rendered secure from the possibility of being in any
way implicated hereafter. My promises will be faithfully kept, if you
prove faithful. But if, on the other hand, you deceive me, I will find
you out wheresoever you may hide yourself; and you shall assuredly
perish on the scaffold! For you cannot conceive the extent of my power
to reward, nor of my ability to punish."

"I have seen enough, sir, to be convinced that you are some great
person," said Jeffreys, "and I assure you that you will find me faithful
and devoted."

"Act according to your words, and you will bless the day when you first
encountered me," observed the Black. "And now listen to my instructions.
Soon after it is dark you will be conveyed away from this house; and, at
the proper hour, you will keep your appointment to-night with Pedler and
Splint. You say that you are to meet them behind St. Luke's church. Do
you mean in the road which separates the two burying-grounds from each
other?"

"That is the place of meeting, sir," was the answer.

"Very well," continued the Black. "Is there any chance of Old Death
forming one of the party?"

"Not the slightest, sir. He loves to plan and plot; but he usually pays
agents to execute."

"I could have wished it had been otherwise. However, you will meet your
two friends according to agreement; and you will endeavour to keep them
in conversation for a few minutes in the road between the two
burial-grounds. This will give my people time to surround them, as it
were: for it is my intention to arrest those two men this very night."

Jeffreys looked alarmed and said, "They will be sure to think that I
have betrayed them, sir."

"Leave all that to me," returned the Black. "I will take care that they
shall never have the opportunity of injuring you. Wilton—the servant who
has just left this chamber—will conduct the expedition to night; and he
will allow you to escape. You will then proceed as quickly as possible
to Seven Dials, where Old Death, according to what you told me this
morning, must have already taken up his abode;—and you will tell him
that when it came to the last moment, Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler
were afraid to undertake the business of digging up the coffin, and
resolved to have nothing more to do with him or his affairs. But you
will assure him that you remain faithful to him, and that you can
recommend two friends of your own who will be delighted to do all he
requires for a quarter of the sum he agreed to pay Pedler and Splint. If
he accepts the service of your pretended friends, you will make an
appointment to meet him in some, low neighbourhood the day after
to-morrow, in the evening. Let the time named be a late hour; and should
he wish you and your friends to call on him in Earl Street, raise
objections, as it does not suit my purpose that the appointment should
be there. It must be a place of meeting _from which he has to walk home
afterwards_."

"I understand all your commands, sir," said Jeffreys; "and you may
depend upon them being faithfully executed."

"I rely upon you," observed the Black; and, after a few moments'
consideration, he added, "To-morrow evening at nine o'clock, punctually,
you must be in Wilderness Row, beneath the wall of the Charter House
gardens; and I shall send some one to receive an account of your
proceedings with Old Death, and give you further instructions. But once
more I say, be faithful—be prudent—and avoid any vain or foolish display
of your money."

"I wish you would have more confidence in me, sir," exclaimed Jeffreys:
then, after a brief pause, he said, as an idea struck him, "I have a
great deal of money about me, sir—and I wish you would take care of it
for me."

"Now I am convinced of your honest intentions, my good fellow," said his
master, in a kinder tone than he had yet adopted towards the man. "If
you propose to leave your money with me as a guarantee of your good
faith, I do not now require any such security: but if your object be to
place it in safety, I will accept the trust."

"Well, sir—let it be in the way you have just mentioned," returned
Jeffreys.

"Here is a drawer—lock up any thing you choose therein, and take the key
with you," said the Black.

Jeffreys did as he was desired: Wilton was again summoned—an excellent
dinner was supplied the new dependant and the servant who was appointed
to remain with him;—and the Black retired to his own apartment.

Soon after it was dark, Jeffreys was blindfolded and conducted to a
private carriage, which was waiting. Wilton accompanied him in the
vehicle, which, after driving about for nearly an hour, stopped at last;
and Jeffreys, on removing the bandage from his eyes, and alighting,
found himself in an obscure street in the immediate vicinity of
Shoreditch Church.




                            CHAPTER LXXXIX.
                 THE SURPRISE.—JEFFREYS AND OLD DEATH.


The deep tones of St. Luke's bell, proclaiming the hour of eleven,
oscillated though the gusty air, as Tim the Snammer entered the narrow
road dividing the two burial-grounds belonging to the church. John
Jeffreys was already at the place of appointment; and not many moments
had elapsed after those two met, ere Josh Pedler joined them, bringing
with him the necessary implements for the work of resurrectionists, and
which he instantly threw over the wall.

"What a windy night it is," said Tim the Snammer; "and how precious
dark."

"All the better for our business," observed Josh Pedler. "I should have
been here a little earlier; but I had such a cursed deal of trouble to
get rid of that bothering wench 'Tilda. She wouldn't let me come out at
first; and swore that if I did, she'd foller me."

"And did she follow you?" demanded Jeffreys.

"Deuce a bit," answered Josh. "I was obliged to give her a good drubbing
because she whimpered, and then another to make her hold her tongue; and
afterwards we kissed and made it up—and so she went quietly to bed. What
strange things women are, to be sure! If you beat 'em, they're sure to
love you all the more."

"Well, are we going to stand here talking all night?" cried Tim the
Snammer. "Who knows but what there's a watchman about here?"

"I know there isn't," said Jeffreys: "because I made the enquiry in a
careless kind of way at a public-house close by, where I bought some
brandy in a pint bottle."

"That's capital!" cried Tim. "Give us a dram, old feller."

"I got it on purpose to keep the cold out and our spirits up," said
Jeffreys, playing his part admirably so as to gain time, in obedience to
the orders he had received from his master. "Who was it that came with
Tidmarsh this morning to see the place where Tom Rain is buried?"

"I did," answered Tim the Snammer, smacking his lips in approval of the
brandy, and handing the bottle to Josh Pedler.

"Ah! Tom Rain was a fine fellow!" said Jeffreys. "I knew him well. In
fact, I was with old Sir Christopher and Frank Curtis the night he
robbed them. What a bold, dashing, and yet cool-headed chap Rainford
was!"

"The finest highwayman that England ever had," observed Josh Pedler,
returning the bottle to Jeffreys.

"Beat your Dick Turpins and your Jack Sheppards all to nothink!" added
Tim the Snammer. "I say, Josh, let you and me take to the road when
we've done Old Death's business for him, and sacked the blunt he's still
got to pay us."

"Well—well, we'll see about it, Tim," answered Pedler. "But—hush! here's
some one coming. Let's pretend to be walking on: we haven't time to jump
over after the tools."

The three accordingly put themselves in motion; but Jeffreys knew pretty
well that the critical moment was now at hand. Tim the Snammer affected
to whistle a tune in a careless way; and Josh Pedler began talking loud
on some indifferent subject.

Meantime, the footsteps advanced; and it was evident that more than one
person was approaching. In fact, there seemed to be three or four; but
Josh Pedler and Tim Splint had not the least suspicion of impending
danger: they thought that a party of jovial fellows were returning from
the public-house—an idea that was excited by the merry song which one of
the persons now approaching was singing.

A few minutes brought the two parties within ten paces of each other;
when a sudden and suspicious noise was heard, as of a rustling of
clothes against the walls which bounded the road. Both Tim the Snammer
and Josh Pedler stopped short, alarmed and irresolute: the next instant
they, as well as Jeffreys, were seized by two persons who leaped upon
them from the walls, and by those who had advanced along the road.

Jeffreys was liberated the moment he mentioned his name; and he hurried
away as quickly as possible from the scene of the surprise and
capture;—but not before he had witnessed enough, even in the obscurity
of the night, to convince him that Josh Pedler and Tim the Snammer were
gagged and rendered powerless in the grasp of the agents of the
mysterious Blackamoor.

And such was indeed the fact. Before they were able to offer the
slightest resistance, or even utter a cry, they were reduced to the
condition just described. Their captors immediately divided into two
parties, each bearing off a prisoner, so that the villains had not even
the consolation of remaining together.

So well were all the arrangements made to ensure the complete success of
the affair, that a vehicle was waiting in the vicinity of each end of
the road separating the burial-grounds; and the moment the prisoners
were thrust inside, bandages were tied over their eyes.

Tim the Snammer was the first who arrived at the place of the villains'
destination. At the expiration of an hour from the time of his capture,
the vehicle, which had purposely driven about in a circuitous manner,
stopped at a house, into which the prisoner was hurried. Up a flight of
stairs he was then led—through several rooms—and at length down a long
spiral descent of stone steps, a trap shutting with a crashing sound
above, and a huge door opening and closing with the din of massiveness
below,—then along a place in which the rapid tread of the numerous feet
echoed with a gloomy and hollow sound, as if in a paved and vaulted
passage,—and lastly into a dungeon, where the wretched man was
deposited, unbound, and left to himself, the huge door closing upon
him,—such was the hurried progress and ultimate destination of Tim the
Snammer in the strange and unknown place to which his captors had borne
him!

The treatment experienced by Josh Pedler was precisely the same, save
that he did not enter his prison-house until a good half hour after the
arrival of his companion in iniquity.

                  *       *       *       *       *

In the meantime, John Jeffreys proceeded to Seven Dials, and found Old
Death seated with Mrs. Bunce, Toby having been dismissed—as was usual
when Mr. Bones had business to transact in Earl Street—to the
public-house to amuse himself with his pipe and his pint.

Old Death was surprised and alarmed when he beheld Jeffreys make his
appearance so early, and unaccompanied by Tim Splint and Josh Pedler.

"Is any thing the matter?" enquired the ancient miscreant, as Mrs. Bunce
carefully closed the room door.

"No great harm—only something to delay your business," replied Jeffreys.

"Well—if it's no worse, there isn't much harm done," said Old Death.
"But where are the others?"

"It's just on account of them that nothing has been done to-night,"
answered Jeffreys. "In two words, they funked over the affair and have
given it up."

"What!" cried Old Death, his countenance becoming grim and ghastly with
rage and disappointment: "those scoundrels have received my money—my
good money—thirty pounds each, in advance—and have given up the
business! You are joking, Jeffreys,—you are bantering me! Why, Tim the
Snammer would go through fire and water for such a sum of money as I
promised him; and Josh Pedler would sell his skin for half the amount."

"All I can say is this, Mr. Bones," continued Jeffreys, "that I was
punctual at the place of meeting at five minutes to eleven; and when Tim
Splint and Josh Pedler made their appearance, they said they had changed
their minds and should not proceed farther in the business, and that I
might come and tell you so if I liked."

"The villains!—the rascals!" growled Old Death, clenching his fists, and
working his toothless jaws about horribly as he spoke.

"I asked them what had made them come to such a resolution," proceeded
Jeffreys; "and they said that on account of Torrens's affair they had
plenty of money, and it was useless to risk transportation by turning
resurrectionists, at least before it was all spent. I argued with
them—but it was all in vain: they went away to some public-house; and as
I couldn't do the job myself, I started off here to tell you what had
occurred."

"Those men don't know me, or they would not attempt to play their tricks
in this fashion," murmured Old Death: then, turning towards Jeffreys, he
said in a louder tone, and in a conciliating manner, "But you are a good
fellow—you are faithful and true, as I always found you; and I am
pleased with you. The day will come when Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler
shall bitterly repent of their conduct! But in the meantime I am not to
be disappointed in my vengeance—I will not be foiled: I have set my mind
on a particular course—and I will follow it."

"There are other men in the world who can do all you require, Mr. Bones,
besides Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler," said Jeffreys. "I wish you had
spoken to me first of all——"

"Why so?" demanded Old Death, hastily.

"Because I could have got a couple of chaps to help me to do all the
business, and who would have been contented with a quarter of the money
you promised those sneaking scoundrels Splint and Pedler," answered
Jeffreys.

"Indeed!" cried Old Death eagerly. "You are a good fellow, Jeffreys—an
excellent fellow; and you may always calculate upon having me as your
friend. But where are these people that you speak of?—who are they?"

"You don't know any thing of them, I fancy," was the reply. "They are
like myself—servants out of place; but they are a precious sight worse
off than me in respect to money-matters, and would be glad to do any odd
job for a ten-pound note or so."

"And when can you see them?" demanded Old Death.

"When can I see them?" repeated Jeffreys in a musing tone, as if he were
giving the matter his most serious consideration: "why—I might hunt them
up to-morrow night—in fact, I'm sure I could——"

"And you can make an appointment for me to see them the night after?"
said Old-Death, with fiendish eagerness to consummate the atrocious
vengeance which he had planned.

"I will undertake to do that, Mr. Bones," returned Jeffreys. "Shall I
explain to them the nature of the business before they see you, or not?"

"No—let me see them first!" said Old Death. "Or stay—you may sound 'em
about the resurrection business—but mention no names at all. Don't tell
them who has employed you to treat with them——"

"Mr. Bones is a good judge of people's faces," observed Mrs. Bunce; "and
knows by their looks whether they're to be trusted or not."

"Generally speaking, I do—generally speaking," said Old Death. "Now, for
instance," he added, staring from beneath his shaggy, overhanging brows,
full upon the countenance of Jeffreys, "I know that you're faithful—and
I can trust you."

The man to whom these words were addressed, met the searching look fixed
upon him with an unchanging cheek and eyes that quailed not; although
for a moment he feared lest Old Death had suddenly entertained some
suspicion concerning him. But it seemed that the ancient miscreant, with
all his boasted skill in reading the human physiognomy, was on this
occasion completely at fault.

"To tell you the truth, Jeffreys," he continued, "I never liked the
looks of the Snammer: but I thought that good pay would make him
faithful. However, he will yet repent his conduct towards me—and so
shall Josh Pedler. If it wasn't for their infernal treachery, my
vengeance would be by this time in a fair way towards prompt and speedy
gratification. For if that Earl was allowed to go scot-free—if I didn't
punish him—aye, and fearfully too—for all the injuries he has done to
me, I should go mad! My property all destroyed—my riches taken from
me—the very house that was so useful to me——"

"Don't take on so, Mr. Bones!" interrupted Mrs. Bunce, in a coaxing
manner. "Come—shall I put a leetle brandy on the table?"

"No—gin!" ejaculated Old Death savagely: then, turning towards Jeffreys,
he said, "You won't bring those friends of yours here, mind, the night
after to-morrow: it will be quite time to let them know where I live and
where business will afterwards lead them to meet me, when I have
satisfied myself that they are of the right sort."

"You don't think I would ask you to employ any one that I wasn't sure
of?" exclaimed Jeffreys, affecting an angry tone.

"No—no, my good fellow," hastily responded Old Death: "but
experience—experience teaches us much; and my experience is greater than
yours. Come—take a glass of gin-and-water, and don't be annoyed. I
didn't mean to vex you."

"Say no more about it, then," observed Jeffreys. "Where shall we meet
the night after to-morrow?"

"Let me see," mused Benjamin Bones aloud: "I have an appointment for
that evening in the actual neighbourhood of St. Luke's Church; and
there's a flash ken in Helmet Row, called the _Stout House_. We will
meet there between ten and eleven."

"Agreed," said Jeffreys. "Have you any farther instructions?"

"None—none, my good fellow," answered Old Death: "only don't promise
your two friends too much for the services required of them. You see how
I have lost already by those scoundrels Pedler and Splint: but I will be
even with them—I will!"

"The two persons I shall introduce to you will do your work well and
cheap, Mr. Bones," replied Jeffreys; "and I am sure you will be
satisfied. I shall now be off—because I may perhaps find them to-night.
At all events we meet at the _Stout House_, Helmet Row, the night after
next."

"Exactly," said Old Death. "By the way, if you run against Tim the
Snammer or Josh Pedler, just try and find out where they are to be met
with, and let me know."

"I'll bear it in mind," answered Jeffreys.

He then took his departure, well pleased at the success which had
hitherto attended his proceedings in working out the designs and
fulfilling the instructions of his master.

But who was that master?—and where dwelt the mysterious personage? Ah!
these were points which defied all conjecture.

                  *       *       *       *       *

On the following evening, shortly before nine o'clock, Jeffreys was
pacing Wilderness Row, in obedience to the appointment arranged by his
employer.

He was not kept waiting many minutes, ere the youth Cæsar accosted him.

"Our master," said the lad, "has sent me to inquire of you the result of
your interview with Old Death; and he desires me to assure you that he
is well satisfied with your conduct of last night, inasmuch as you
effectually amused your companions until their captors came up. But what
of Old Death?"

"He has completely fallen into the snare laid for him," answered
Jeffreys; "and will meet me and _my two friends_," he added
significantly, "at the _Stout House_, Helmet Row, to-morrow night
between ten and eleven."

"Good!" observed Cæsar. "Wilton and another of our master's retainers,
both dressed in a suitable manner, will meet you at that place to-morrow
night shortly before ten, so that you may have time to arrange the plan
of proceeding together, before Old Death makes his appearance."

"I shall not fail to be there at a quarter to ten," answered Jeffreys.
"Have you any further orders for me?"

"Yes," replied Cæsar: "listen! To-morrow you must endeavour to find out
the abode of one Tidmarsh, a friend of Old Death's."

"That will be easily accomplished to-morrow night when I meet Benjamin
Bones," said Jeffreys. "You are aware that the object of my appointment
with him, is to introduce to him two friends of mine who will undertake
to dig up the remains of Tom Rainford, the famous highwayman."

"Yes—yes," said Cæsar hastily.

"Well," continued Jeffreys, "I am supposed to be the leader of the party
by whom that task is to be performed; and I shall tell Old Death that he
must send Tidmarsh with me in the morning to point out the place where
Rainford is buried. He will then let me know where Tidmarsh lives; or
else will at once make him write a note to that person to arrange an
appointment."

"I understand," said Cæsar. "But suppose that Old Death will do neither,
alleging that he will call himself on Tidmarsh and send him to meet you
on the following morning at some place named? In this case all will be
wrong, because Old Death is to be captured to-morrow night on his way
home. Had you not better call in Seven Dials to-morrow morning, tell Old
Death that you have found your friends and made the appointment with
them for the evening, and then ask him to let Tidmarsh at once afford
you the clue you will require to—to—the grave of Rainford?" asked the
lad, his voice trembling and hesitating slightly as he uttered the
concluding words of his question.

"I understand you perfectly, Cæsar," replied Jeffreys. "Leave it to me
to manage as our master desires: I will undertake to be able to give
Wilton good news of Tidmarsh to-morrow night."

"Our master will rely upon you," said the youth. "Meantime
farewell;"—and he hurried rapidly away, Jeffreys not offering to follow
him.




                              CHAPTER XC.
                     THE NEW JUSTICE OF THE PEACE.


Sir Christopher Blunt was seated in his library, on the same evening
which saw the interview between Cæsar and Jeffreys; and his countenance
was animated with a glow of indescribable delight as he glanced his eyes
over several letters which he opened one after another.

He was dressed in a very elegant manner; though he had somewhat punished
his corns by persisting to wear tight boots in order to make his feet
look small, and he might have felt a trifle or so easier at the waist if
he had not tied his waistcoat strings so tight. But if Sir Christopher
Blunt chose to enhance the fascinations of his appearance by converting
himself into a voluntary victim of that all-powerful Inquisition called
"Fashion,"—if Sir Christopher Blunt, like a great many other silly, old
gentlemen of this age, smiled at his self-martyrdom with the equanimity
of a saint broiling on a gridiron,—it is no business of any body save
the Sir Christopher Blunt aforesaid.

In spite of the pinching boots end the excruciating tightness of the
figured silk waistcoat, the worthy knight was in a most glorious humour.
It was not because fortune had favoured him with great wealth: he was so
accustomed to riches by this time that a little poverty might have
proved an agreeable variation, if only for the excitement of the thing.
Neither was it the pleasing fact that his dear spouse had been in such a
hurry to present him with a son and heir, that she could not wait longer
than three months after their marriage;—for Sir Christopher was already
accustomed to the cries of the child, and somehow or another was growing
less and less proud of his paternal honours every day, the reasoning of
Dr. Wagtail relative to the premature birth appearing more and more
illogical each time he sate himself down to reflect upon it. "Then, what
_was_ the cause of the worthy knight's joyousness and good humour on the
evening in question?" demands the impatient reader: to which query we
hasten to reply—"Sir Christopher Blunt had just been placed in the
commission of the peace, and congratulatory letters from his friends
were pouring in on all sides!"

"Well, upon my word, this is very pleasant," said Sir Christopher to
himself: "I should not have thought that I was so beloved! Not a man in
England has such a host of dear, disinterested friends as I seem to
possess. Scarcely does my name appear in the _Gazette_, when—whisk! in
come the letters, by twopenny post and general—by hand and by
conveyance! And some too are from people that really had no particular
cause to be so devoted to me—people that I never spoke to six times in
my life! But let's see—what have we here? A sheet of foolscap completely
covered—and crossed in some parts. God bless me! what a letter. Why, it
must have taken the man an hour to write it; and I am sure it will take
me two to read it. But who does it come from? _Henry Atkins!_ Henry
Atkins—who the deuce is he? Oh! I remember—the gentleman who allowed me
a seat in his pew at Hackney, when I went to lodge there four years ago
for the benefit of my health. Well, it's very kind of him to write me
this long letter of congratulation—for I never exchanged ten words with
him in my life. But let's see what he says. '_My dear Blunt._' Very
friendly indeed! '_It was with indescribable delight and supreme
satisfaction that I heard of your appointment to a position which no man
in Europe can fill with more suitable dignity than yourself._' Well,
come—that's a good beginning. '_Your business habits, your high standing
in society, your great name, your unblemished character, your brilliant
talents, and your immense benevolence, render you most eligible to fill
that office, and most competent to discharge its functions._' Upon my
honour, it's very prettily worded—quite sonorous! It reads admirably.
And this sincere and heart-felt congratulation is from a man whom I
scarcely know. But he seems to know me well enough, however. '_In these
times of agricultural distress and commercial embarrassment—in this age
when England's heaven is overcast with lowering clouds, and the storms
of anarchy and discontent menace us imminently—it is delightful to
reflect that authority is so judiciously entrusted as in your case._'
That's the best rounded period I ever met with in my life. What a
clever, far-seeing, shrewd man this Atkins must be: and what an idiot I
have been not to cultivate the acquaintance of such a sincere friend!
'_But it is chiefly your_ _benevolence—it is principally your boundless
charity, which is the theme of all praise, which is chanted by all
tongues, and which is hymned beneath every roof throughout the length
and breadth of the land._' Well, I could not have believed that I was so
famous—particularly on that score. However, it must be so, since Atkins
says it is. '_Yes, my dear Blunt_,'—very friendly indeed!—'_it is your
boundless charity, your anxiety to do good to deserving persons, that
will hand your name down to posterity, and send it floating like an
eternal bark, over the waves of Time._' Egad! that's splendid. Milton
never wrote any thing finer. I have never read Milton, it is true; but I
am sure Atkins can beat him. Let us see how it goes on. '_It is under
these impressions, and acting in obedience to these convictions, that I
have ventured to address you._' And I am very glad he has: I'll write to
him presently and tell him I shall always be delighted to hear from him.
Let's see—where was I? Oh!—'_ventured to address you for the purpose of
soliciting your aid under very peculiar circumstances_.' Hem! I don't
like that sentence so much as the others. '_I am a man possessing a
large family and very limited means; and business having been lately
indifferent, I have fallen into sad arrears with my landlord._' The
style gets worse—that's clear! '_At this present moment I have an
execution in my house for forty pounds; and when I look around me, I
behold a distracted wife on one side, and a grim bailiff in possession
on the other._' This is the least interesting part of his letter: that
period was not at all well turned. Milton beats him hollow there.—'_If,
then, my dear Blunt_,'——damned familiar, though, with his '_dear
Blunt_,' upon my honour!——'_If, then, my dear Blunt, you would favour me
with the loan of fifty pounds for three months_,'——Confound his
impudence!" ejaculated the knight, throwing the letter into the
waste-paper basket. "A man I know nothing of—who knows nothing of me—who
never saw me ten times in his life—to ask me for fifty pounds! It is
absurd—preposterous!"

And the knight's countenance underwent a complete change, which lasted
for several minutes, until its joyous expression was gradually recalled
by the perusal of letters which contained congratulations only, without
soliciting favours.

Presently a servant entered the room, and stated that a gentleman named
Lykspittal requested an interview with Sir Christopher Blunt.

"Show him up—show him up immediately!" exclaimed the knight. "I have
been expecting the gentleman this last half-hour," he added, looking at
his watch. "It is now nine—and he was to have been here soon after
eight."

The domestic withdrew, and speedily returned, ushering in a thin, pale,
elderly, sneaking-looking man, dressed in a suit of black which would
not bear too close an inspection in the day-time, but passed off well
enough by candle-light.

"Sit down, Mr. Lykspittal—pray sit down," said the knight, looking, in
contrast with the visitor, just like a wax figure recently added to
Madame Tussaud's exhibition, so bright was the red of his animated
cheeks, so glossy his coat and trowsers, and so stiff and starch his
attitude. "You have been well recommended to me, Mr. Lykspittal, by a
friend to whom your literary labours have given complete satisfaction,
and who speaks highly of you as a man in whom implicit confidence may be
placed."

"I am very much obliged to you, Sir Christopher, for the kind opinion
you have formed of me," answered the visitor in a tone of the deepest
veneration and respect, and appearing by his manner as if he did not
dare to say that his soul was his own. "Allow me to congratulate you,
Sir Christopher, on your appointment as one of his Majesty's Justices of
the Peace. I am convinced a worthier selection could not have been
made."

"Well, you're very kind, Mr. Lykspittal," returned the knight. "All my
friends seem to agree that the Lord Chancellor acted in a wise and
prudent manner in placing my name before his most gracious Majesty for
the purpose: and it will be my endeavour, Mr. Lykspittal," added Sir
Christopher, pompously, "to discharge the duties of my office with
credit to myself and benefit to my country."

"It is not every one who possesses your advantages, Sir Christopher,"
observed his visitor, in a cringing tone and with a sycophantic manner
which would have disgusted any person endowed with good sense and proper
feeling; but which were particularly pleasing to the shallow-pated,
self-sufficient old beau.

"At the same time," said Sir Christopher, "whatever advantages I may
possess—whatever be those merits which have placed me in this—this——"

"Enviable and responsible," suggested Mr. Lykspittal, meekly.

"Enviable and responsible position," continued the knight, adopting the
epithets as coolly and quietly as if they were prompted by his own
imagination;—"at the same time," he said, "it will not be amiss if
certain measures be adopted to—to——"

"Enhance the popularity of your name," observed Mr. Lykspittal, in the
same low, cringing, and meek tone as before.

"Just so," exclaimed the knight. "In fact, I mean to take a high stand
in the county—to put myself more forward than I have hitherto done—to
attend public meetings and——"

"Public dinners," suggested Mr. Lykspittal.

"Exactly," said Sir Christopher: "in a word, I want to—to——"

"Become a public man," added the ready-witted gentleman, whose business
it was to furnish ideas to those who furnished him with cash in return.

"You understand me as well as I understand myself, Mr. Lykspittal,"
observed the knight.

"It's my business, sir," was the answer. "Besides, you are so
enlightened and enlightening a man, Sir Christopher, that you may be
regarded as a lamp constantly diffusing its lustre even upon the darkest
and most chaotic ideas. Pardon me, Sir Christopher, for being so bold as
to express my opinion: but it is the truth—and I never flatter."

"I am convinced you speak with sincerity, my dear sir," said the new
Justice of the Peace, playing with his eye-glass. "Well, then, Mr.
Lykspittal—to go back to our original subject—the subject of this
interview—I think you fully comprehend me: indeed, I know that you do.
It is my object and my determination to take a high position in the
county—so that I may in a short time reckon upon the honour of being one
of its representatives in Parliament."

"Very easily managed, Sir Christopher," said Mr. Lykspittal. "The
electors would be proud of such a man as yourself:—pardon me for making
the observation—but I never flatter. In the first instance, however, it
is necessary that they should know you well."

"Now we are coming to the point, my dear sir," exclaimed the knight.

"Will you permit me to offer my suggestions?" asked Mr. Lykspittal, in a
tone of insinuating meekness.

"Certainly—by all means. Proceed."

"Well, Sir Christopher, in the first place I should propose that a
pamphlet be written on some taking subject, and addressed to your
worship," continued Mr. Lykspittal. "Suppose we say the _Corn Laws_—or
_Prison Discipline_—or _Catholic Emancipation_—or _Church Extension_—or
_Parliamentary Reform_—or _Labour in Factories_——"

"All good subjects, Mr. Lykspittal—all good subjects," observed the
knight. "But I do not mind telling you in private, that I know nothing
about any one of them."

"Of course not, Sir Christopher," exclaimed Mr. Lykspittal. "It is not
to be expected that a man of your standing will trouble himself about
the details of such trivial matters. But which side will you take—the
Liberal or the Tory?"

"Oh! the Tory, by all means!" cried Sir Christopher.

"Very good, my dear sir," said Mr. Lykspittal. "It is all the same to
me—I can write on one side as well as on the other. Suppose, then, we
take up the subject of _Catholic Emancipation_, which begins to make a
great noise.[40] A pamphlet must be got up, supposed to be written by
'_A Friend to the Established Church_,' and it must be in the shape of a
letter addressed to yourself. I should begin by saying,—'SIR,—_The
interest which you are known to take in this great and important
question—the perseverance you have manifested in making yourself
acquainted with all the bearings of the case, its certain results and
its inevitable influences—the stanch and long-tried ardour which you
have evinced in maintaining and upholding the institutions of the
Established Church—the numerous proofs which you have given of your
attachment to the Protestant Faith—and the fact that the eyes of the
whole country are upon you as a man resolved, at any personal sacrifice,
and at all individual risks, to oppose all dangerous innovations and
resist all perilous changes,—these motives, sir, have induced me to
address the following pages to you._'"

"Nothing can be better, Mr. Lykspittal!" exclaimed the knight. "I
should, however, be glad if you will, in the course of the pamphlet,
allude especially—and more than once, too—to the fact that I have been
the artificer of my own fortune—that I raised myself from nothing—and
that the greatest mistake the livery-men of Portsoken ever made was to
reject me as a candidate for the aldermanic gown of that ward."

"I shall not forget, Sir Christopher," observed Mr. Lykspittal.

"And you may add, my dear sir," continued the knight, pompously, "that
you are well aware that circumstances have since occurred to make me
rejoice at that rejection."

"I will declare it to be a well known fact amongst all your friends,"
said the accommodating literary gentleman.

"And you may touch upon the zeal—the ability—and the efficiency with
which I performed the duties of the shrievalty—the very arduous duties
of that office," observed the new Justice of the Peace.

"I shall certainly do so, Sir Christopher," replied Mr. Lykspittal; "and
it will only be telling the exact truth."

"You may likewise touch upon the reward which it graciously pleased the
illustrious Prince to confer upon me," continued the magistrate: "I
mean—the honour of knighthood."

"As a matter of course, my dear sir; and never was that title bestowed
upon a gentleman better calculated to wear it worthily."

"I thank you, Mr. Lykspittal," returned Sir Christopher, "for your very
flattering opinion of me. When can the pamphlet be got ready?"

"I shall set about it immediately, sir," was the answer. "The moment it
is published, you must seize upon some point, which I shall purposely
leave open for discussion, and write a letter to a morning newspaper,
declaring that you agree with the general tenour of the work, but that
you totally dissent from that particular doctrine."

"Decidedly," said Sir Christopher. "You will then write a reply, through
the same channel, and signed '_A Friend of the Established Church_.'"

"That is my intention. We shall thus excite an interest relative to the
pamphlet, and your name, Sir Christopher, will be kept before the
public. The discussion may lead to a second pamphlet——"

"Stay!" exclaimed the knight, smiling with the brightness of the idea
which had just struck him: "we will manage better than all that! You
shall write a pamphlet which you must address to me in the terms just
now specified by you; but the work must contain throughout opinions
totally opposed to mine, and the object of the pamphlet must seem to be
my conversion to your particular way of thinking. Then I must write
another pamphlet in answer—or rather, you must write it for me; and you
must cut up, hip and thigh, and completely refute all the doctrines set
forth in the first pamphlet. In fact, you must start a theory in that
first pamphlet, and knock it down altogether in the second, which must
be supposed to come from me."

"A very ingenious idea, my dear sir," said Mr. Lykspittal, "and just
such an one as I should have expected from a man of your enlightened
mind. I admire the plan amazingly; and will set to work at once."

"Very good," exclaimed Sir Christopher. "I will write you a cheque for
thirty guineas on account. You will of course make all the necessary
arrangements with the printer and stationer, and you may apply to me for
money as you require it. I shall do the thing handsomely, and spend
fifty pounds at least in advertising each pamphlet."

Mr. Lykspittal coincided altogether in the propriety of these
intentions—indeed, he never was known to differ from a patron in the
whole course of his life; and, having received the cheque, he took his
leave, walking backwards to the door in homage to the great man who had
just been placed in the commission of the peace.

Almost immediately after the departure of Mr. Lykspitttal, a servant
entered, announcing Captain O'Blunderbuss.

-----

Footnote 40:

  The reader will observe that this was said in the year 1827, _before_
  the emancipation of the Catholics took place.

[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER XCI.
                  CAPTAIN O'BLUNDERBUSS AGAIN.—ANOTHER
                            STRANGE VISITOR.


Sir Christopher Blunt was a man having many antipathies. Since his
rejection for Portsoken he had disliked all aldermen, individually and
collectively; and since his union with the present Lady Blunt, he had
conceived a violent aversion for all lady's-maids. He abominated Italian
organ-players, and hated mendicants. Many other dislikes had Sir
Christopher Blunt;—but of the whole batch, none was more settled, more
genuine, and more sincere than his antipathy for Irishmen generally, and
Captain O'Blunderbuss in particular.

His interview with Mr. Lykspittal had left complacent smiles upon his
countenance;—but these suddenly yielded to clouds of the darkest
description when the domestic announced the name of that dreadful and
dreaded man.

"Be the powers, and how is your wor-r-r-ship?" roared Captain
O'Blunderbuss, at the top of his stentorian voice, rattling the r most
awfully, as he strode towards the knight with outstretched hand: "tip us
your fin, my hearty—and allow me to congratulate ye on your appintment
to the Commission of the Pace!"

Thus speaking, the captain shook with such exceeding violence the member
which he metaphorically designated as a fin, that the wretched Sir
Christopher groaned aloud, while tears started into his eyes.

"Be Jasus! and it's proud I am to own ye as my frind, Sir Christopher!"
continued the gallant officer, not observing the pain which his proof of
extreme cordiality inflicted upon the worthy knight: then, throwing
himself into a chair, he exclaimed, "That rascal of a lacquey of your's
told me you was out; but I wasn't to be desayved in such a gross fashion
any how. So I just tould him my mind—"

"And what was that, captain?" asked the knight, in a half terrified—half
sulky tone.

"That he was an insolent blackguard, Sir Christopher," returned
O'Blunderbuss emphatically; "and be Jasus! I was just on the point of
taching him how to behave towards his superiors, when I saw the
gentleman who was last with ye coming out, and he tould me that your
wor-r-r-ship was at home."

"But I—I am very particularly engaged, captain," said the knight; "and
if you would excuse me now—another time I shall be happy—when you are
passing this way——"

"Be the holy poker! and there's no time like the prisint!" interrupted
the captain; "and as I want just to have a little cozie chat with you,
my dear frind, may be ye'll orther up the whiskey at once, and so save
us the throuble of talking dry-lipped."

"Really, Captain O'Blunderbuss," stammered the knight, "as a
gentleman—as a—ahem—a person being in the Commission of the Peace—I—must
protest against—this—this intrusion——"

"Inthrusion do ye call it?" vociferated the captain: then, after a few
moments' pause, during which he surveyed Sir Christopher in a most
ferocious manner, he suddenly assumed a milder demeanour, and, coolly
ringing the bell, said, "Be Jasus! I'll save ye the throuble of giving
any orthers at all, my frind."

"Captain O'Blunderbuss," cried Sir Christopher, plucking up a spirit, "I
will not be treated in this manner! One would think that I am not master
in my own house. I have already told you that I am very particularly
occupied with business—in consequence of my recent appointment to——"

"To the Commission of the Pace!" added the captain. "Well, my frind—and
we are going to dhrink success to the Commission and the Pace and all
the rist of it. My good fellow," he continued, addressing himself to the
footman who now entered the room, "bring up the whiskey and hot wather;
with the sugar and a lemon—d'ye hear?"

"Don't do any such thing," exclaimed Sir Christopher, now in a furious
passion. "Who are you, sir, that thus dares to give orders in the house
of—of an ex-sheriff and an actual magistrate?" demanded the knight, in a
stern and pompous tone, for the presence of the servant seemed to be a
kind of protection beneath the shield of which the old gentleman grew
every moment more valourous.

"Be the powers! and that same is soon answered," said the captain,
rising from his chair and drawing himself up to his full height. "Is it
myself that ye are afther enquiring about, Sir Christopher? Be Jasus,
then—it's Capthain O'Bluntherbuss, I am—of Bluntherbuss Park, Connemara;
and it's a pair of pisthols I've got for any man who dares to insulth
that same Capthain O'Bluntherbuss. So, if you're for war-r-r, Sir
Christopher-r-r," roared the gallant gentleman, "it shall be war-r-r;
and if ye're for pace, let it be pace—and potheen!"

The captain looked so very terrible—grew so awfully red in the
face—seemed to swell out so tremendously at the chest—and raised his
voice to such a thundering tone, as he enunciated his name and that of
his imaginary estate, that Sir Christopher's valour, like the courage of
Bob Acres, oozed rapidly away, and the servant drew back as near the
door as possible so as to be able to beat a retreat, in case of need,
without any assistance from the warlike Irishman's foot.

"Is it war-r-r, or pace?" demanded the captain, seeing that the enemy
was discomfited.

"Peace—peace, captain,—by all means," returned the knight, in a
tremulous voice. "You'll alarm Lady Blunt—and—and make the dear baby
cry—"

"It's pace—and potheen, sirrah," said the military gentleman, addressing
himself in a tone of stern determination to the domestic, who instantly
disappeared. "Now, my dear frind, ye're too impatient be half,"
continued the captain, resuming his chair and again speaking to the
knight: "you don't give me time to explain to ye the nature of my
business and the rayson of me calling; for sure and it was to tell ye
how plazed your nev-vy Misther Frank Curtis is to think that ye're put
in the Commission of the Pace—and how sorry he is to think that ye
should have lost any thing by that scounthrel Howard—and how plazed he
is to learn that your son and heir is flourishing just like a green
bay-leaf—and how sorry he is to think that your frind Torrens should
have got himself into such a tirrible pother—and how plazed he is to be
able to send ye back the thrifling amount of five hunthred pounds which
ye was kind enough to advance him t'other day—"

"Oh! he has done _that_, has he?" said Sir Christopher, rubbing his
hands, and evidently getting into a better humour. "Well, I am glad he
has fulfilled the little engagement, at all events; and I shall not
hesitate to receive it, because—because I am sure he would not have sent
it, if he couldn't have spared it."

"Your nev-vy, my dear sir, is a man of honour-r—like myself!" cried the
captain, striking his breast very hard, so that it gave forth a hollow,
rumbling sound, as if he had a small drum buttoned inside his
frock-coat. "But, be the powers! here's the potheen; and it's over the
glass that we'll settle the little business of the five hunthred
pounds."

The servant placed the tray upon the table, and withdrew. Sir
Christopher then, with the politeness of a man who is about to receive
the payment of money which he had never expected, did the honours in a
most affable manner, and only seemed contented when the captain, having
poured half a tumbler of scalding hot toddy down his throat, declared
that it was excellent!

"And now for the little business," resumed the gallant gentleman; and he
forthwith began to fumble in his pockets, producing various pieces of
paper, and discarding them one after the other as soon as he
consecutively glanced at their contents. "That's not it, be the powers!"
he said, laying down a piece of a play-bill;—"and that's not it, be the
holy poker!" he added, throwing aside an old account of his
washerwoman's: "nor yet that, be Jasus!" he continued, similarly
disposing of a tailor's bill. "Why—what the blazes could I have done
with the note?"

"Dear me, captain," observed Sir Christopher, in a tone of gentle
remonstrance, "it is very imprudent of you to carry notes about loose in
that way."

"So it is, my dear frind," returned the gallant gentleman; "but it's a
fashion I have, d'ye see—and it's hard to break one-self of habits of
the kind. Be the powers! and here it is at last!"

"All right—all right," said Sir Christopher, rubbing his hands.

"Ye can give me change out of a thousand pounds, can't ye, my dear
frind?" demanded the captain, crunching a bit of paper in his hand as he
spoke.

"Oh! I can write a cheque for the difference, you know," returned the
knight. "I presume it's a note for a thousand pounds?"

"Just so," responded the captain; "and as good as a Bank of England
note, be the powers—although 'tisn't quite payable at sight."

"Not payable at sight!" exclaimed Sir Christopher, in astonishment.
"Why—I never heard of the Bank of England issuing notes that weren't
payable on demand."

"Egad, nor I!" said Captain O'Blunderbuss. "But sure it isn't a Bank of
England note at all, at all: it's just my own acceptance——"

"Your acceptance!" groaned the knight, his countenance becoming suddenly
blank.

"Yes—be Jasus! and here it is, my dear frind," returned O'Blunderbuss,
thrusting the rumpled slip of paper into Sir Christopher's hand. "It's
as dacent a note for a promissory one as ever you'd wish to see, and as
good as any of the palthry flimsy stuff that the Bank of England ever
issued—or the Bank of Ould Ireland either: and that's not even saying
enough for it."

Sir Christopher—looking indeed like a knight of the rueful
countenance—turned the document over and over in his hands, having
glanced impatiently at its contents, which were drawn out in the usual
style of a bill of exchange, Captain O'Blunderbuss having accepted it in
favour of Frank Curtis, for the amount of One Thousand Pounds, and at
three months after date.

"Well, Sir Christopher, and what d'ye say to that, my old buck?" cried
the captain, apparently surprised that the knight had not already
expressed his admiration at the whole proceeding.

"What—what would you have me do with this?" asked Sir Christopher, in a
hesitating manner; for the fact is, he could not think well of it, and
he dared not speak ill of it.

"Is it what you should do with it?" vociferated the captain. "Arrah! and
be Jasus, man, pay yourself out of it and write me a cheque for the
balance."

"But, captain—I—I am no discounter," remonstrated the knight. "This
little slip of paper is no use to me."

"Why! sirrah, and just now you was prepared to pay me the difference if
it had been a Bank-note!" cried O'Blunderbuss. "D'ye suspict the thing,
my frind? For if you mane to infer that it isn't as good as a Bank-note,
it's a direct insult to myself; and, be the Lord Harry! it's me that'll
resint it."

With these words, the captain assumed a most menacing attitude; and Sir
Christopher was already in a dreadful fright lest he should be compelled
to submit to this new demand on the part of the extortioner, when the
footman entered to announce that a gentleman was waiting in the parlour
down stairs to speak to him upon very particular and urgent business.

"You must excuse me for a few minutes, Captain O'Blunderbuss," said the
knight, rising to quit the apartment.

"By all manes," cried that gentleman. "We can finish the little matther
prisintly; and during your absence I'll pay my respicts to the potheen."

Sir Christopher accordingly repaired to the ground-floor parlour, where
he beheld a venerable old man who rose from the sofa whereon he was
seated, to greet him.

The stranger's aspect was indeed most imposing and respectable. From
beneath a black silk skullcap flowed hair as white as silver; and his
form seemed bowed by the weight of years. He was dressed in a complete
suit of black, having knee-breeches, silk stockings, and shoes with
large silver buckles. He supported himself by means of a stick, and
appeared to walk with considerable difficulty.

"Pray be seated, sir," exclaimed the knight, already prepossessed in
favour of his venerable-looking visitor, who resumed his place on the
sofa in such a manner that the light of the lamp should not fall upon
his countenance, which however appeared to be very pale and drawn up
about the mouth with the wrinkles of age.

"Sir Christopher Blunt," said the old gentleman, in a tremulous voice,
"I have ventured to intrude myself upon you, for the purpose of
soliciting a very great favour. It is not of the ordinary nature of
boons—it involves nothing of a pecuniary kind; for, thank heaven! I am
placed far above the necessity of requiring such succour. Indeed, I may
say that I enjoy affluence."

"Be assured, my dear sir," returned the knight, whose respect for his
visitor was amazingly enhanced by this announcement,—"be assured that if
I can serve you in any way—compatible with my honour as a man, and with
my position as an individual in the Commission of the Peace——"

"It is just because you are a magistrate, Sir Christopher," interrupted
the old gentleman, his tone becoming slightly less tremulous as he
continued, "that I have now visited you. Not that any other magistrate
would have failed to answer my purpose; but I have heard so much in your
favour—the admirable manner in which you filled the office of
Sheriff—the becoming way in which you presented the address to his
present Majesty, when Prince Regent, and which was so very properly
rewarded by the honour of Knighthood—the dignified manner in which you
left the ungrateful livery-men of Portsoken to ruminate over their folly
in bestowing their votes on your unworthy rival in that grand
contest,—in a word, Sir Christopher, the whole tenour of your life, from
the period when you were poor and friendless until now that you are a
rich, esteemed, and influential member of society——"

"My dear sir—my dear sir," cried Sir Christopher, absolutely whimpering
for joy at hearing his praises thus chanted by a gentleman of so
venerable and saint-like an appearance; "I really must know you
better—I—I—am quite at a loss to express my thanks—my——"

"No thanks are required by one who proclaims the truth," said the
stranger, shaking his respectable old head in a solemn and imposing
manner. "You will yet be a great—a very great man, Sir Christopher; or
my experience, which is of four-score winters, is miserably—miserably
deceived."

"Do you really think so, my dear sir?" exclaimed Sir Christopher. "Well,
I suppose you know—or perhaps you may not—that I am a very stanch and
sincere friend to the Established Church—that I am entirely opposed to
Catholic Emancipation—that I have made the subject a profound study, and
have devoted——I wish to God Lykspittal was here to prompt me," he
muttered in an under-tone to himself.

"I was not exactly aware of all that, my good—my worthy Sir Christopher
Blunt," responded the old gentleman; "but I respect you all the more now
that I am acquainted with those facts. Indeed, I am proud and delighted
to have the honour of your acquaintance—an honour for which I have long
craved urgently. But let me return to the subject of my visit? I was
saying that you could render me a great—a very great favour, and at the
same time convince the world how zealous, how active, and how worthy a
magistrate you are."

"My dear sir, I shall be quite delighted to serve you," cried Sir
Christopher, catching also at the idea of serving himself by performing
some duty which would put him in such a comfortable and desirable light
before the world.

"The fact is, most estimable man," continued the stranger, his voice
again becoming very tremulous, as if with deep emotion, so that Sir
Christopher was positively affected in no ordinary degree, "two men,
stained with a dreadful crime, and now in a position which precludes the
possibility of their appearing before a magistrate, are anxious to
confess their enormity to some competent authority; and I have selected
you for the reasons which I mentioned just now."

"You have done me infinite honour, my dear sir," cried the knight. "I
presume that this confession will be published to the world——"

"Decidedly so," interrupted the venerable stranger; "and your name will
go forth as that of the zealous, trustworthy, and highly respectable
magistrate who was selected under such peculiar circumstances to receive
the confession."

"Really this is no favour which you ask of me, my venerable friend,"
exclaimed Sir Christopher, rejoiced at the lucky chance which thus gave
promise of publishing his name in so remarkable a manner. "I shall be
delighted to serve you in that or any other way. When do you require me
to visit these unhappy men?"

"Immediately—at once," answered the old gentleman. "My own carriage is
at the door; and we can proceed to the place of destination with a
privacy which the nature of the circumstances renders imperative."

Sir Christopher rose and signified his readiness to accompany his
venerable visitor, the joy which he experienced entirely obliterating in
his mind all remembrance of the fact that he had left Captain
O'Blunderbuss in his library.

Giving his arm to his new friend, who walked with considerable
difficulty, Sir Christopher led him into the hall, where the knight only
stopped for a moment to take down his hat from a peg. They then issued
forth together, and Sir Christopher assisted the old gentleman to ascend
the steps of the vehicle which was waiting. He then leapt in himself;
and the footman belonging to the carriage had just closed the door, when
Captain O'Blunderbuss rushed from the house, exclaiming, "Be the powers,
and this is the greatest insulth 'twas ever my misfortune to mate with
in all my life!"

"Oh! the dreadful man!" murmured the knight, throwing himself back in
the carriage in a state of despair.

"Sir Christopher-r-r!" cried the captain, thrusting his head in at the
carriage window: "Sir Christopher-r-r!" he repeated, with a terrible
rattling of the r: "is this the way ye mane for to trate a gintleman?
Now, be the holy poker! if ye don't come forth and finish the little
business——"

At this moment the captain was abruptly stopped short in a most
unexpected manner; for the old gentleman, growing impatient of the
delay, and perceiving that Sir Christopher was cruelly annoyed by the
presence of the Irishman, suddenly dealt so well applied and vigorous a
blow at the gallant officer, that his countenance disappeared in an
instant from the window, and he rolled back upon the pavement,
exclaiming, "Blood and thunther!" in a tone of mingled rage and
astonishment.

At the same moment the coachman whipped his horses, and the vehicle
rolled away with extraordinary rapidity; while a merry laugh burst from
the lips of the venerable old gentleman who had so successfully
discomfited the warlike captain.

As soon as Sir Christopher Blunt had recovered from the alarm and
excitement which the conduct of Captain O'Blunderbuss had caused him, he
was seized with a strange surprise, not altogether unaccompanied by
vague fear, at the sudden demonstration of vigour and strength made by
his companion. This feeling was enhanced by the youthful tones of the
merry laugh, which lasted long after the performance of the pleasant
feat; and the knight began to tremble with apprehension, when that same
mysterious companion hastily drew up the windows and the wooden blinds
of the carriage, the interior thus being thrown into a state of utter
darkness.

"My dear Sir Christopher Blunt," said a voice, now tremulous no more,
but still evidently disguised, "you will pardon me for having practised
upon you a slight deception, which would indeed have been sustained
until the end of the present adventure, had not the chastisement which I
was tempted to administer to that bullying fellow convinced you that I
cannot be an old gentleman of four-score. In all other respects no
duplicity was practised upon you; for I am a great admirer of your
character—the object I have in view is precisely the one I named to
you—and I selected you to receive the confessions of the two men,
because I knew no magistrate better qualified to answer the purpose in
every way."

A faint degree of irony marked the manner in which these last words were
uttered; but Sir Christopher Blunt observed it not—for he was now a prey
to oppressive fears and vague apprehensions.

"Do not alarm yourself, my dear sir," resumed the stranger: "I pledge
you my most solemn word of honour that no harm shall befall you.
Circumstances which I cannot disclose render it necessary to observe all
possible mystery in respect to the present transaction. To you the
results will be just as I ere now promised. You will receive and attest
the confession of two criminals; and in forty-eight hours the contents
of that confession, coupled with an account of how you became possessed
of it, will appear in every London newspaper. Thence the whole
transaction will be transferred to the provincial press; and in less
than a week, the name of Sir Christopher Blunt, Knight, and Justice of
the Peace, will be published and proclaimed throughout these islands."

"And you really mean me no harm?" said Sir Christopher, considerably
reassured as well as consoled by this intelligence.

"Give me your hand, my dear sir," exclaimed his companion. "There! And
now I swear that as there is a God above us, you hold the hand of
friendship in your's; and may that hand wither if I forfeit my word, or
do you harm."

"I believe you, sir—I believe you," said the knight, pressing the hand
which he held, with convulsive ardour. "But who are you that act thus
mysteriously? what is your name? where do you live? and whither are we
going?"

"Not one of those questions can I answer," was the reply; "and it is
expressly to prevent you from ascertaining the route which we are
pursuing that I have drawn up the wooden blinds. I must also inform you
that ere we alight at the place where you will have to receive the
confession of the two men, I must bind a handkerchief over your eyes, so
that you may obtain no clue to the point of our present destination.
Recollect, the event of this evening will give you an immense
popularity: you will become the hero of one of the most romantic—one of
the most extraordinary—one of the most unheard-of adventures that have
ever occurred, or will again occur in this metropolis. You will be
courted by all the rank, beauty, and fashion of the West End, to learn
the narrative from your own lips; and if you write a novel founded upon
the occurrence," added the stranger, again in a slight tone of
unperceived irony, "you will instantaneously become the most popular
author of the day."

"Upon my honour—my dear sir," said Sir Christopher, rubbing his hands,
"I am not altogether sorry that—that—ahem!—that you should have pitched
upon me to become the hero of this adventure: at the same time you must
confess that never was a hero placed in a position so well calculated to
alarm him."

"The character of a hero is not to be bought cheaply in the world,"
observed the knight's companion. "To become such a character, one must
necessarily pass through extraordinary circumstances; and extraordinary
circumstances are never without their degree of excitement."

"Very true, my dear sir—very true," said Sir Christopher. "But I don't
care how extraordinary the circumstances may be, so long as I run no
risk. It's the risk—the danger I care about; and I shall be very happy
indeed, if I can become a hero—as you are pleased to call it—without
undergoing any such peril."

"You shall become a hero, Sir Christopher, without having undergone the
slightest danger," returned his companion; "and that's even more than
can be said by people who go up in balloons or by men who put their
heads into lions' mouths in menageries."

"Upon my honour, your observations are most true—most just," exclaimed
the knight, now finding himself almost completely at his ease. "I
suppose that if I do get my friend Lykspittal to write me——I mean, if I
do write a novel founded on the occurrences of this night, you will have
no objection to my putting in all our present conversation?"

"Oh! not the least!" cried the stranger. "It is however a great pity
that the night is calm, serene, and beautiful."

"Why so?" enquired Sir Christopher, in a tone of profound astonishment.

"Simply because it would be such scope for a splendid opening, if there
were a fearful storm, with all the usual accessories of thunder and
lightning," observed the stranger, in a cool, quiet, but dry way. "Only
fancy, now, something like this:—'_It was on a dark and tempestuous
night—the wind blew in fitful gusts—the artillery of heaven roared
awfully—the gleaming shafts of electric fluid shot in eccentric motion
across the sky_;'——and so on."

"Upon my honour, that commencement would be truly grand!" cried the
knight, altogether enraptured by the turn which his companion had given
to the discourse. "And, after all, as it would be a novel, I might
easily begin with the storm. Let me see—I must recollect that sentence
which you composed so glibly. How did it run? Oh! I recollect:—'_It was
on a dark and tempestiferous night—the wind roared—the artillery blew in
fitting gusts—the streaming shafts of electricity shot across the
eccentric sky_.' Eh? that will do, I think," exclaimed Sir Christopher,
rubbing his hands joyously. "You see I have not got such a very bad
memory, my dear sir."

"Not at all," answered the stranger; "and I should certainly advise you,
Sir Christopher, not to lose sight of the novel. If you publish it by
subscription, you may put down my name for half a dozen copies."

"But I don't know your name," cried the knight. "And yet," he added,
after a moment's pause, "I suppose you must have one."

"I believe that I have," responded the stranger, in a tone suddenly
becoming solemn—even mournful; and it struck Sir Christopher that his
ear caught the sound of a half-stifled sigh.

But he had not many instants to reflect upon this occurrence—nor even to
continue the discourse upon the topic which had so much interested him;
for the carriage suddenly stopped, and his companion immediately said,
"Now Sir Christopher, you must permit me to blindfold you."

The operation was speedily completed; and the stranger led the knight
from the vehicle, into a house, the door of which immediately closed
behind them. Up a flight of stairs they then proceeded, and entered a
room, where the stranger desired Sir Christopher to remove the bandage.

As soon as this was done, and the knight had recovered his powers of
vision, he found himself in a well-furnished room, with the shutters
closed, the curtains drawn, and a lamp standing in the middle of a table
spread with wine and refreshments of a luxurious description.

His companion still retained the garb and disguise, but no longer
affected the decrepitude of old age; and, seating himself with his back
to the light, he invited Sir Christopher to take wine with him.

They then sate chatting for upwards of half an hour, when the sound of
several footsteps ascending the stairs fell upon their ears: the door
opened—and two men entered, leading between them a gentleman with a
bandage over his eyes.

The two men retired,—and the stranger desired the gentleman to remove
the bandage, adding, "Dr. Lascelles, you will pardon this apparent
outrage, the motives of which have doubtless been explained to you by my
dependants."

"I am led to believe that my presence is required to witness the
confession of two criminals," said the physician, affecting complete
ignorance alike of the mysterious master of the house and his affairs;
"and if no treachery be intended towards me, I do not feel inclined to
complain much of the treatment I have already received."

"I am delighted to hear you express yourself in these moderate terms,"
observed the prime mover of those widely ramified schemes which are now
occupying the reader's attention. "Allow me to introduce you to a
gentleman whose name is doubtless familiar to you—Sir Christopher
Blunt:" then, turning towards the knight, he added, "Sir Christopher,
this is Dr. Lascelles, the eminent physician."

"I think I have had the honour to meet Sir Christopher Blunt on a former
occasion—at Lady Hatfield's," said the doctor, offering the knight his
hand.

"It is therefore a strange coincidence which has thus brought you
together again under such circumstances as the present," observed the
stranger. "But you are both no doubt anxious to depart hence as speedily
as possible, and I will not detain you longer than is absolutely
necessary."

He then rang a bell; and in a few minutes four of his dependants entered
the room, leading in Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler, both strongly
bound with cords, and having handkerchiefs over their eyes. These
bandages were removed—the two villains cast rapid and searching glances
around them—the stranger ordered them to be seated and his dependants to
retire—and the business of that memorable night commenced.




                             CHAPTER XCII.
                            THE CONFESSION.


"Sir Christopher Blunt," said the stranger, "in your capacity of one of
his Majesty's Justices of the Peace, you will have the kindness to
receive the confession of the two men now before you; and you, Dr.
Lascelles, as a gentleman of the highest respectability, will witness
the present proceedings."

Thus speaking, he drew a writing-table close up to the place where Sir
Christopher Blunt was sitting; and the knight, inflated with the pride
of his official station, and conscious of the importance of the part
which he was now enacting, assumed as dignified and solemn a deportment
as possible. A Bible was produced; and he directed the two prisoners to
be sworn, the stranger administering the oath.

"Now, my men," said the Justice of the Peace, "it is my duty to hear and
receive any confession which you may have to make to me. But I give you
due warning that it is to be published, and, from what I have already
been told, will be used elsewhere. Remember, also, that you are now upon
your oaths; and you must consider yourselves in just the same position
as if you were in a regular police-court, under usual circumstances."

Having thus delivered himself of what he believed to be an admirable
prelude to the proceedings, Sir Christopher glanced complacently towards
Dr. Lascelles, as much as to say, "That was rather good, I flatter
myself;" and the physician responded with a sign of approval. The knight
then fixed his eyes in a searching manner upon the two prisoners, who,
however, appeared to be much less in awe of the magisterial dignity than
of the presence of the mysterious stranger, at whom they from time to
time cast furtive looks of terror and supplication.

"Sir Christopher Blunt," said that individual, who throughout the
proceedings spoke in a feigned tone, and sate in such a manner that the
light never once fell fully upon his countenance, "it is now necessary
to remind you that a gentleman with whom you are well acquainted, and
whose name is Torrens, is now in a criminal gaol, charged with the
murder of Sir Henry Courtenay."

"I heard the news with grief, and indeed with incredulity as to the
truth of the accusation," observed the knight.

"Ask those men, sir," said the stranger, in a low and impressive voice,
"what they know of that foul assassination."

"God bless me!" exclaimed Sir Christopher, much agitated: "surely these
men now before me are not the—the——"

"The real murderers of Sir Henry Courtenay!" added the stranger
solemnly.

"Is this possible?" cried the Justice of the Peace, surveying the
prisoners with apprehension and horror.

"That's the confession we have to make, your worship," said Tim the
Snammer, in a dogged tone.

"Dreadful! dreadful!" murmured the knight: then, somewhat mastering his
emotions, he asked, "What is your name?"

"Timothy Splint, your worship," was the reply.

"And your's?" demanded Sir Christopher, making notes as he proceeded.

"Joshua Pedler, your worship."

"Where do you live?—and what are you?" were the next questions.

"Where we _did_ live, your worship means," said Tim the Snammer; "but it
doesn't much signify answering that query—since we don't live now where
we used to do; and as for what we are, your worship can pretty well
guess, now that we've confessed having murdered Sir Henry
Courtenay—which was all through a mistake."

"A mistake!" repeated Sir Christopher.

"Yes, sir," continued the Snammer; "and I'll tell you all about it."

"Speak slow—very slow," said the knight; "because I shall commit to
paper every word you utter, remember."

"Well, sir," resumed Timothy Splint; "it happened in this way. Me and my
companion here, Joshua Pedler, took it into our heads to break into
Torrens Cottage, for no good purpose, as you may suppose."

"To rob the house—eh?" said Sir Christopher.

"Just so, your worship. Well, we reached the Cottage between twelve and
one o'clock at night—or nearer one, I should think—and looking through
the chinks of the shutters, for there was a light in the parlour, we saw
a pile of gold and a heap of notes on the table, and a gentleman asleep
on the sofa."

"You follow this man, Dr. Lascelles?" said Sir Christopher, turning
towards the physician.

"Word for word," was the reply.

"Go on, then," exclaimed the knight.

"We opened the front-door in a jiffey, your worship, and without making
any noise," continued Splint; "and we went into the parlour. Josh Pedler
secured the notes and gold; and I held my clasp-knife close to the
throat of the gentleman sleeping on the sofa."

"Did you know who he was?" demanded the knight.

"Not a bit of it, your worship. We took him for Mr. Torrens, as a matter
of course," continued the Snammer. "Josh Pedler went to ransack the
side-board, and upset a sugar-basin, or some such thing in the drawer.
The gentleman awoke, and was just on the point of crying out, when I
drew the clasp-knife across his throat."

"Merciful goodness!" exclaimed Sir Christopher, shuddering from head to
foot, and glancing uneasily around him.

"Shocking! shocking!" said the doctor, with unfeigned emotion.

"The very knife that I did it with was in my pocket," observed Tim the
Snammer, "when we was made prisoners and brought here."

The stranger, who had remained silent for some time, now rose from his
seat, and took from the mantel the fatal weapon, which he laid upon the
table before Sir Christopher, saying, "This is collateral evidence of
the truth of the deposition now made."

"Well, upon my honour," observed the knight, recoiling from the
ominous-looking instrument, "I have commenced my magisterial functions
in an extraordinary—I may say, unheard-of manner. But let the prisoner
proceed with his confession."

"I've very little more to say, your worship," answered the Snammer. "As
soon as the deed was done, I could have wished it to be undone; and I
know that my companion in trouble here, wished the same. We didn't go
with the intention of doing it: it come upon us by itself, like—and I
hope mercy will be showed us," he added, with a significant glance of
appeal towards the mysterious individual of whom he seemed to be so much
in awe.

"You and your comrade then left the house immediately, I suppose?" said
Sir Christopher, interrogatively.

"Exactly so, your worship," replied Timothy Splint.

"And do you," continued the knight, addressing himself to Joshua Pedler,
"admit the truth of all that your companion now states?"

"Every word of it, your worship," answered the man.

"We must therefore suppose," observed Dr. Lascelles, "that Mr. Torrens,
upon discovering the dreadful deed, feared lest suspicion should fall
upon himself, and buried the corpse in the garden where it was found."

"True!" said Sir Christopher. "And now, Joshua Pedler, you will inform
me what you did with the money which you took away with you."

"I divided it, sir; and the big notes was changed into small ones," was
the answer. "When me and my companion here was made prisoners, we had
ever so much of the money about us; and it was took from us."

The stranger produced from his pocket a small parcel which he handed to
Sir Christopher, saying, "There is the amount taken from the two
prisoners."

"Very good," said Sir Christopher: then, after a few moments' profound
reflection, he turned towards Dr. Lascelles, in whose ear he whispered
these words, "To me it is very clear that those men have confessed the
truth, and that they are the dreadful villains they represent themselves
to be. But, as this statement is to be published, in connexion with our
names, we must render the evidence _against_ those fellows as complete
and satisfactory as possible."

"I am perfectly of your way of thinking, Sir Christopher," returned the
doctor, also speaking in a low whisper. "Since we are here on such an
unpleasant business, we must do our duty effectually."

"Then those men should be examined separately in respect to the very
minutest details of their self-accusing evidence," said the knight,
still addressing himself in an under-tone to the physician; "or else the
world will immediately declare that the whole thing was a mere farce,
contrived by some of Torrens' friends to save him, and of which you and
I were the dupes and the instruments."

"A very just fear on your part, Sir Christopher," observed the doctor,
who, from the little he knew of the knight, would not have given him
credit for so much penetration and forethought.

"But—but," said Sir Christopher, "I hardly like to propose it to the
gentleman who had us brought here——"

"Oh! I will take that duty upon myself," interrupted Dr. Lascelles; and,
immediately turning towards the stranger—who was however no stranger to
him—he said in a loud and firm tone, "We wish to examine these men
separately."

"Certainly," was the reply; and the mysterious master of the house
forthwith rang the bell.

Wilton answered the summons, and was ordered to conduct Joshua Pedler
into an adjoining room.

When this command was obeyed, and the domestic had led the prisoner
away, Sir Christopher proceeded to question Timothy Splint again.

"You said just now that when you looked through the window, you saw a
gentleman sleeping on the sofa? Now, did your companion also peep
through the crevices in the shutters?"

"He did, your worship," was the answer.

"And which way was the gentleman lying?"

"With his feet towards the window, and his head on that end of the sofa
which was nearest to the door."

"And when you both went into the house, who entered first?"

"Myself, your worship."

"And when you went away again, who departed first?"

"I think Josh Pedler was in advance—in fact, I'm sure he was, because I
remember shutting the front-door behind me."

"Which side of the table were the pile of gold and the heap of notes
on?" inquired Sir Christopher, racking his brain for as many minute
questions as possible.

"The money was all lying on a large book at that end of the table next
to the window, your worship," responded Tim the Snammer.

The knight put several other queries of the same trivial, but really
important nature; and Splint was then removed from the room, Joshua
Pedler being led back again to his place.

Precisely the same questions which had been asked of the Snammer, were
now put to the other villain; and the answers corresponded in the
minutest particulars.

"There is no possibility of doubt as to the genuine character of the
present scene," whispered the knight to Dr. Lascelles.

"I have been all along of that way of thinking," replied the physician.
"At the same time I admire the precautions you have adopted, Sir
Christopher, and the skilful manner in which you have examined and
cross-examined these self-inculpatory scoundrels."

"You really are of opinion that I have done the thing well—eh, doctor?"
said the Justice of the Peace, with a complacent smile. "Well—I am
rejoiced to perceive that I have given you satisfaction. Our unknown
friend there may now have the other villain brought back again; so that
the two partners in crime may sign these depositions."

Dr. Lascelles intimated the knight's desire to the stranger, who
forthwith caused Tim the Snammer to be reconducted to his place in the
room where this extraordinary scene was enacted.

Sir Christopher then read over, in a slow and measured tone, the whole
of his notes—containing the voluntary confession of the miscreants, and
the subsequent examination.

"You, Timothy Splint, and you, Joshua Pedler," he said, when that task
was accomplished, "will now sign, or otherwise attest, this document."

The unknown rang the bell twice, and the four dependants who had
conducted the two prisoners into the room in the first instance,
immediately re-appeared; and, on a signal from their master, they
loosened the cords which confined the hands of the villains, in such a
way that the latter were enabled to affix their signatures to the
depositions, Dr. Lascelles acting as the witness.

"You may now remove those men altogether," said the unknown.

The four dependants immediately blindfolded them, and led them away from
the apartment, carefully closing the door behind them.

"I presume that Sir Christopher Blunt and myself are now at liberty to
depart?" said the doctor.

"Not before you have each given me a solemn pledge that you will not
publish nor even hint at the occurrences of this night until twenty-four
hours shall have elapsed," returned the stranger.

"For my part I don't at all object to give the promise required,"
exclaimed the knight hastily; for the mystery of the whole proceeding
had imbued him with the utmost awe in respect to the unknown.

"And I will as readily pledge my solemn word of honour to maintain that
condition," observed the doctor.

"In that case, gentlemen," said the stranger, "you shall be conveyed
hence without delay. I need hardly enjoin you to use that confession,
which you will take away with you, in the manner alone calculated to
save the life of Mr. Torrens and relieve him from the dreadful charge
hanging over his head."

"Rest assured that all shall be done which the emergency of the case
requires, and which we have now the means to effect," said Sir
Christopher. "And now, with your permission, I shall take a draught of
wine and water—for I feel somewhat exhausted with these proceedings."

While Sir Christopher was helping himself at the table, Dr. Lascelles
stepped up to the individual whom circumstances compel us to denominate
"the stranger" or "the unknown," and said in a low and hasty whisper,
"What is the reason of this delay of twenty-four hours in respect to the
proclamation of Torrens' innocence?"

"Because Old Death and others must be in my power, ere the occurrences
of this might be published," was the answer, likewise spoken in a
hurried whisper; "or else _they_ will suspect _where_ these scenes have
been enacted."

"But are you sure of capturing them?" demanded Lascelles.

"Confident," was the brief but emphatic reply.

The unknown then rang the bell, and significantly intimated to Wilton,
who answered the summons, that his guests were ready to depart. The
domestic bowed and withdrew: but in a few minutes he returned,
accompanied by another dependant; and the two domestics proceeded to
blindfold both the doctor and the knight, the unknown apologising for
the necessity of renewing this process. He himself then conducted them
to the carriage which Wilton had ordered round to the door, and into
which the stranger followed them.

It then drove away at a rapid rate; and, after taking sundry windings,
stopped, at the expiration of an hour, opposite St. James's church,
Piccadilly, just as the clock struck two in the morning.

The knight and the doctor descended, having already bade farewell to the
mysterious individual whom they left inside; and the carriage
instantaneously drove off.




                             CHAPTER XCIII.
                                NEWGATE.


Yes—'twas two o'clock in the morning; and the hour was proclaimed by the
iron tongues of Time, from the thousand steeples of the mighty
metropolis.

How solemnly does the sound of those deep, sonorous, metallic notes
break upon the dead silence of that period when darkness spreads its
sable wing over an entire hemisphere!

And though 'tis the time for rest, yet repose and slumber are not the
companions of every couch.

Crime, sickness, and sorrow close not their lids in balmy sleep, weighed
down with weariness though they be: too much happiness has likewise an
excitement hostile to the serenity of the pillow.

For sleep is a fickle goddess, who succumbs not to every one's wooing at
the hour when her yielding is most desired: now coy and coquettish, she
hovers around, yet approaches not quite close:—now sternly and
inexorably obstinate, she keeps herself at a great distance, in sullen
mood.

And when the iron tongues of Time proclaimed the hour of two, were the
eyes of the wretched Torrens or his miserable, guilty wife closed in
slumber?

No—no: beneath the same roof, though in compartments far asunder, they
writhed and tossed upon their hard pallets, in feverish
excitement—craving, longing for sleep to visit them,—and sleep would
not!

In those hours of wakefulness, and amidst the solemn stillness and utter
darkness of the night, how terrible are the trains of thought which pass
in rapid procession through the guilty mind,—as if imagination itself
were being hurried along an endless avenue of horrors—grim spectres,
hideous phantoms, and appalling sights on the one hand and on the other!

Then with what tremendous speed does memory travel back through the
vista of a mis-pent life, all the foul deeds of which become personified
in frightful shapes, and muster themselves in terrible array on either
side!

[Illustration]

In his narrow stone-cell, the wretched Torrens felt as if he were in a
coffin, suffocated, hemmed in around;—and yet his imagination possessed
boundless space wherein to raise up the awful shapes that haunted his
pillow.

Was it possible that he was there—in Newgate? Did he dream—was he the
sport of a hideous phantasy? Could it be true that he was dragged away
from his comfortable home—snatched as it were suddenly from the world
itself—and flung into a felon's dungeon?

No—no: it was impossible—absurd. Ha! ha! the folly of the idea was
enough to make one laugh!

But—oh! merciful heavens!—he extended his arms, and his hands touched
the cold—rugged—uneven wall: thence they wandered to the iron of the
bed-stead—and came in contact with the coarse horse-cloth which covered
his burning, feverish limbs!

Then a dreadful groan burst from him,—a groan which, even were he ten
thousand, thousand times more guilty than he really was, would have been
lamentable, heart-rending to hear,—a groan of such ineffable anguish
that Satan himself might have said, "This man hath suffered enough!"

Suffered!—holy God, how deeply—deeply has he suffered since the massive
door of that mighty stone sepulchre first closed upon him,—appearing to
shut out the pure air of heaven, the golden light of day, and to mark a
point where even human sympathies could follow no farther!

Suffered!—the wretched felon whose foot is upon the first step of the
scaffold, never suffered more than the crushed, ruined, accused
Torrens;—for all his guilt had arisen from the lack of moral courage to
meet misfortune face to face; and now that misfortune had thrust itself
upon him, and compelled him to gaze on its pale and death-like
countenance, he was completely weighed down.

His infamy in respect to Rosamond, lay as heavily upon his conscience as
would have lain the crime of murder, had he really perpetrated it; and
he suffered more on account of the deed which he had committed, but for
which the law _had not_ touched him, than on account of the charge of
which he was innocent, but for which the law _had_ seized upon him.

Miserable—miserable man! Darkness—silence—and sleeplessness were indeed
terrible to him,—so terrible that, as he lay tossing upon his feverish
pallet, he wished that he was dead:—yet, had he possessed the means of
inflicting self-destruction, he would have been afraid to die!

He was not placed in a ward along with other prisoners; because the
charge against him was so black and terrible—the charge of murder—that
he was lodged in a dungeon by himself—a cell that had seen many, many
previous occupants, most of whom had gone forth to the scaffold!

For in Newgate the possession of a room to oneself—if a room such a
coffin of masonry can be called—is the horrible privilege of him who is
accused of _murder_; and those whose alleged offences are of a less deep
dye, herd together in common wards, where a fetid atmosphere is the
medium of communicating the foulest ideas that words can convey or ears
receive.

Oh! what a plague-spot is that horrible gaol—that pandemonium of
Newgate—upon the civilisation of the metropolis of these realms!

Shame—shame, that it should be allowed to exist under the management of
an incapable, ignorant, and monstrously corrupt body—the Aldermen of
London:—shame, shame that it should be permitted to remain as a
frightful abuse of local jurisdiction, just because no statesman has yet
been found bold enough to wrest a barbarian charter from an overgrown,
bloated, and despicable corporation!

The wife—the newly married wife of Mr. Torrens,—that woman so well known
to our readers by the name of Martha Slingsby,—was not lodged by
herself:—being accused of a crime one degree less heinous than that of
murder, she was placed in a ward with several other females.

And she also heard the iron tongue of Time proclaim the hour of two in
the morning;—and she also tossed upon a hard, sleepless, and feverish
pallet.

For she had not even the solace of conscious innocence as an anodyne for
her lacerated heart and wounded spirit: she knew that she was guilty of
the crime imputed to her—and that knowledge lay upon her soul like a
weight of lead.

And—O horror! she was well aware that the black deed of forgery would be
indubitably fixed upon her: and the penalty of that deed was—_death_!

Yes:—death by the hand of the common executioner—an ignominious death
upon the scaffold!

She knew that almost her very minutes were now numbered—that, as the
clock struck eight on some Monday morning, not very far distant, she
must be led forth to die—that after her trial, which was sure to end in
her condemnation, she should be consigned to the condemned cell—that
from this cell she must proceed through several dark and dismal passages
to that door upon whose very threshold would appear the gibbet, black
and sinister—that she would have to ascend, or perhaps be carried up,
the steps to the platform of the horrible machine—that she should see
myriads and myriads of human beings crowding around to behold her dying
agonies—that she would be placed upon a drop soon to glide away from
beneath her feet and leave her suspended in the air—that the few minutes
during which she must stand upon that drop, while the chaplain said the
parting prayer, would comprise whole years, aye, centuries of the
bitterest, bitterest anguish—that her attentive ear would catch even the
sound caused by the finger of the executioner, when he touched the bolt
of the drop an instant before he pulled it back—and that her soul would
be yielded up in the agonies of strangulation!

Thus—thus, in spite of herself, did the wretched woman's imagination
picture in frightful detail the whole of the dreadful ceremony of a
violent death: thus—thus did she shadow forth, in imagination, every
feature—every minute particular of the appalling ordeal;—and, in
imagination also, did she now pass through it all, as vainly she craved
for sleep in the silence and the darkness of the prison-ward!

The dread routine of the whole ceremony assumed an historical
exactitude, a palpable shape, and a frightful reality in her mind.

Terrible—terrible was it for her to think upon what she now was, and
upon what she might have been.

Not a hope was left to her in this world: she must be cut off in the
meridian of her years;—she must bid adieu for ever to all the pleasures,
the enjoyments, the delights of society and of life!

Oh! for the power—oh! for the means to avert her maddening, harrowing
thoughts from the prophetic contemplation of that fatal morning when she
must walk forth to the scaffold—when the close air of that prison would
suddenly change to the fresh breeze of heaven, as she stepped forth from
the low dark door which the passer-by outside ever beholds with a
shudder,—and when she should raise her eyes to that black and ominous
frame-work, with the chain hanging from the cross-beam, and her own
coffin beneath the drop! All this was horrible—horrible,—sufficient to
deprive the strongest mind of its reasoning faculties, and to paralyse
the boldest with excess of terror!

For, oh! the reward of crime is dispensed in two ways upon earth,—by
the law, and by the criminal's own thoughts;—and far—far more dreadful
is the punishment inflicted by the guilty conscience than by the
vengeance of outraged justice. Even the horrors of the scaffold,
immense—tremendous though they must be in the reality, are magnified a
hundred-fold by the terror-stricken imagination!

From the examples of the wretched man and the guilty woman of whom we
have been speaking, and on whose heads afflictions and miseries fell
with such frightful rapidity and crushing weight,—from their examples
let the reader judge of the _folly_—setting aside the _wickedness_—of
crime.

Gold—deceitful gold—was the will-o'-the-wisp which led them on through
the devious ways of iniquity, until they suddenly found themselves in
Newgate!

For the woman forged for gold—and the man sold his daughter's virtue for
gold; and from the moment when Torrens consented to that vile deed,
every thing went worse with him—nothing was bettered—and the
circumstances resulting from that one act, combined to overwhelm him
with afflictions, and even to fix upon him a horrible charge of which he
was really innocent!

To err, then, is to be foolish, as well as wicked;—and this grand truth
has doubtless been felt and acknowledged, when too late, by many and
many a wretched being within those very walls and that sombre enclosure
of Newgate!

Newgate!—what numberless ties have been severed on its threshold;—and
what countless thousands of individuals, on entering that dread portal
one by one, have gnashed their teeth with rage at the folly, even though
they have felt no compunction for the guilt, of the career which they
pursued and which had its natural ending there!

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was ten o'clock in the morning, when a hackney-coach stopped at the
door of the governor's house, which stands in the centre of the front
part of Newgate; and a fine, tall, handsome young man, having leapt
forth, assisted a closely veiled lady to alight from the vehicle.

They were almost immediately admitted into the office of the governor,
the young lady clinging to her companion's arm for support, for she was
labouring under the most dreadful mental anguish.

These persons were Clarence Villiers and his beauteous bride, Adelais.

Returning from Devonshire, whither they had been to pass the honeymoon,
they heard on the road, ere they reached the metropolis, the astounding
intelligence that the aunt of the one had been committed to Newgate on a
charge of forgery, and that the father of the other was consigned to the
same place under an accusation of the murder of Sir Henry Courtenay.
They also learnt at the same moment and for the first time, that the
wretched pair had only just been united in matrimonial bonds when this
fearful fate overtook them; but they were too much shocked by the more
grave and serious portion of the tidings which thus burst upon them, to
give themselves even leisure to express their surprise at the less
important incident of the marriage of Mr. Torrens and Mrs. Slingsby.

They had arrived in London on the preceding evening, and had repaired
direct to Torrens Cottage, hoping—and, indeed, expecting as a matter of
course—to find Rosamond there.

But they were disappointed—cruelly disappointed that anticipation!

The female servant and the lad were, however, still at the Cottage; and
from the former they learnt tidings which enhanced, if possible, the
grief that already rent the heart of Adelais, and which excited vague
but terrible suspicions in the mind of Clarence.

For the servant informed them that Miss Rosamond went to stay with Mrs.
Slingsby almost immediately after the wedding—that she remained there
almost ten days, and came home the very night when the murder was
committed, and seemed dreadfully unhappy during the short time that she
did remain at the Cottage—and that she departed no one knew whither, the
second day after her return, leaving a note for her father.

While Adelais sate weeping at these tidings, to her so completely
inexplicable, a torrent of suspicions and terrible ideas rolled through
the mind of her husband Clarence. For he knew—as the reader will
remember—that Sir Henry Courtenay was not only the paramour of his aunt,
but that he had likewise cast lustful looks upon Rosamond; and he was
equally aware that the young girl's imagination had been excited and
inflamed by the false representations his aunt had made in respect to
the character of the baronet. Then that second visit of Rosamond to Old
Burlington Street—her unhappiness on returning home—the assassination of
Sir Henry Courtenay at Torrens Cottage—the sudden marriage of two
persons who were almost entire strangers to each other—and the
contemporaneous flight of Rosamond from her home,—all these incidents
seemed of so suspicious and terribly mysterious a nature as to strike
Clarence with dismay.

The version which Mr. Torrens had given Rosamond of the particulars of
the murder—and which, as the reader is aware, was the true one so far as
the actual perpetration of the deed itself was concerned—was unknown to
Clarence, inasmuch as it had not been published in the newspapers;—for,
when arrested by Dykes and Bingham, Mr. Torrens had immediately sent for
able counsel, to whom he told his story previously to the examination
before the magistrate, and by the advice of his legal assistant, the
prisoner had contented himself by simply declaring his innocence,
stating that he should reserve for his defence the explanations whereon
that assertion was founded.

Thus Clarence Villiers could not help believing that Torrens was really
guilty of the murder; and he shuddered at the idea which forced itself
upon him, that his aunt was an accomplice in the crime. In fact, it
naturally appeared as if that woman and that man had suddenly blended
their congenial spirits for the purpose of working out deeds of the
blackest dye; and he dreaded lest the honour of Rosamond had been
wrecked in the frightful convulsion produced by that association.

But none of his awful misgivings did he impart to Adelais. On the
contrary, he strove to console her by assurances of his hope that her
father must be the victim of a terrible junction of adverse
circumstances, and that his innocence would yet transpire. Such ideas he
was in reality very far from entertaining;—but it cut him to the quick
to behold the anguish of his young wife—and he uttered every thing of a
consolatory nature which his imagination was likely in such a case to
suggest as a means of imparting hope and affording comfort.

They remained at the Cottage that night; and on the ensuing morning
repaired to Newgate, as we have already stated.

The governor, upon learning the degree of relationship in which Mrs.
Villiers stood towards Mr. Torrens, expressed himself in terms of the
kindest sympathy, and offered to proceed in the first instance to the
prisoner's cell to prepare him for the meeting with his daughter and
son-in-law. This proposal was thankfully accepted; and the governor,
after remaining absent for about ten minutes, returned to conduct the
young couple into the presence of the prisoner, with whom he left them.

Adelais threw herself into her father's arms, embraced him with a
fondness that was almost wild and frantic, and sobbed bitterly upon his
breast,—while Clarence Villiers stood a deeply affected spectator of the
sad—the touching scene.

"My child—my dear child," exclaimed the father, more moved by paternal
tenderness than he ever yet had been,—"I am innocent—I am innocent!"

"Almighty God be thanked for that assurance!" murmured Adelais, as she
fell upon her knees, and bent her burning face over her father's
emaciated hands:—for Mr. Torrens had become frightfully thin—altered—and
care-worn,—and his entire appearance denoted how acute his mental
sufferings had been.

"Clarence," he cried, after a few moments' pause during which he raised
his daughter, and placed her upon a seat,—"Clarence, did you hear my
declaration? I am innocent!"

"I heard it—and I rejoice unfeignedly—oh! most unfeignedly," returned
the young man, not knowing what to think, but speaking thus to console
his heart-wrung wife.

"But whether I can prove my innocence—whether I can triumph over the
awful weight of circumstantial evidence which has accumulated against
me," continued Mr. Torrens, "is a point which God alone can determine."

An ejaculation of despair burst from the lips of Adelais.

"For heaven's sake, compose yourself, dearest!" said Villiers. "You have
heard your father declare his innocence——"

"Yes—yes," she cried: "but if the world will not believe him? It is not
sufficient that _we_ should be convinced of that innocence! Oh! my
God—wherefore has this terrible affliction fallen upon us?"—then,
suddenly struck by another idea, she exclaimed, "And Rosamond, dear
father—what has become of my sister Rosamond?"

Mr. Torrens turned away, and burst into tears—for that question revived
a thousand agonising reminiscences in his mind.

"My father _here_—my sister _gone_," mused Adelais, her manner suddenly
becoming strangely subdued, and the wild intensity of her earnest eyes
changing in a moment to an expression of idiotic vacancy;—"and
Clarence—where is he? Methought he was with me just now——"

"Merciful God! her senses are leaving her!" exclaimed Villiers, in a
frantic tone: then, throwing his arms around her, he said, "Adelais—my
beloved Adelais—Clarence is here—by your side! Oh! look not at me so
strangely, Adelais—do you not know me?—speak—speak!—I am Clarence—your
husband—he who loves, who adores you! My God! she does not recognise
me!"

And the young man started back, dashing his right hand with the violence
of despair against his forehead; while Adelais remained motionless in
the chair, gazing on him with a kind of vacant wonderment,—and the
miserable father staggered against the wall for support, murmuring in a
tone of ineffable emotion, "Great God! where will all this end?"

But at that moment the heavy bolts were drawn back—the door
opened—Adelais uttered a scream of mingled amazement and delight—and in
an instant Rosamond was clasped in her arms.

Long and fervent was that embrace on the part of the sisters: nor were
Torrens and Clarence Villiers alone the witnesses thereof—for the heavy
door of the stone cell had, ere it closed again, given admittance to
Esther de Medina.

Fortunate for Adelais was it that Rosamond appeared at such a moment,—a
moment when the reason of the young bride was rocking on its throne, and
the weight of an idea no heavier than a hair would decide whether it
were to be re-established on its seat or overturned for ever!

Faint and overcome by the sudden revulsion of feeling produced by this
sudden meeting with her sister, Adelais slowly disengaged herself from
Rosamond's arms, and falling back in the chair, beckoned Clarence
towards her, saying, "My dearest husband—keep near me—stay with me—for I
know not what dreadful ideas have been passing in my mind;—and it seemed
to me for a time that I was in utter darkness—or that I was buried in a
profound sleep."

"But you are better now, dearest?" exclaimed Clarence, overjoyed at this
sudden return of her senses.

"Yes—I am better now," said Adelais; and, falling upon her husband's
neck, she burst into a flood of tears.

Meantime Rosamond was weeping also in her father's arms; and the eyes of
the generous-hearted—the amiable Esther de Medina were overflowing at
the contemplation of this mournful and touching scene.

"Father—father," murmured Rosamond, her voice almost suffocated with the
sobs which agitated her bosom,—"there is hope—every hope——"

"Hope!" ejaculated Mr. Torrens, catching at the word as if the halter
were already round his neck and the cry of "a reprieve!" had fallen on
his ears.

"Hope, did you say?" exclaimed Adelais, now so completely relieved by
the issue her pent-up anguish and shocked feelings had found in copious
weeping, that all the clearness of her intellect had returned.

"Hush—Rosamond!" said Miss de Medina, advancing towards the group:
"hush—my dear madam," she added, turning hastily towards Adelais; "that
word must not be breathed here aloud _yet_! Nevertheless, it is true
that there _is_ hope—and every hope—nay, even certainty——"

"Great God! I thank thee!" cried Adelais, clasping her hands together in
fervent gratitude, while Mr. Torrens was so overcome by emotions of joy
and amazement that he sank upon that prison-pallet whereon he had passed
a night of such horrible watchfulness.

"I implore you to restrain your feelings as much as possible," said
Esther, speaking in a low and mysterious tone, which made Torrens,
Clarence, and Adelais suddenly become all attention and breathless
suspense; "the proofs of your innocence, sir," she added, looking at the
prisoner, "have been obtained! Nay—give utterance to no ejaculation—but
hear me in silence! Within twenty-four hours from this time your
guiltlessness will be proclaimed to the world. Already are the proofs in
the hands of a magistrate but circumstances, with which I am not myself
altogether acquainted, render that delay imperiously necessary. It
would, however, have been cruel to have left you in ignorance of this
important circumstance; and——"

"And this admirable young lady, at whose father's house I found a home,"
hastily added Rosamond, "would not refuse me the joy—the indescribable
joy of being the bearer of these tidings. Nay—more: she offered to
accompany me——"

"God will reward you for all your kindness to my sister, dear lady,"
said Adelais, embracing Esther with heart-felt gratitude and affection.

"You are doubtless anxious to learn how the proofs of Mr. Torrens'
innocence have been obtained," resumed Esther, after a pause: "but my
explanation must be very brief. Suffice it to say that in this mighty
metropolis, which contains so much evil, there is a man bent only on
doing good. Accident revealed to him certain particulars which convinced
him of your innocence, sir," continued the beautiful Jewess, addressing
herself now especially to Mr. Torrens: "upon the information which he
thus received, he acted—and he has succeeded in obtaining and placing in
the hands of a Justice of the Peace the confession of the real
perpetrators of the awful deed——"

"Then the murderers are in custody, doubtless?" exclaimed Clarence,
astonished and delighted at all he heard.

"They are not in the grasp of justice," answered Esther. "But on this
head you must ask me no questions. Rest satisfied with the assurance
that the innocence of Mr. Torrens will completely and unquestionably
transpire—that he will soon be restored to you all—and that his secret
friend watches over him even from a distance. Who that individual is,
you cannot know—and perhaps never may. All the recompense he demands at
your hands is the subduing in your minds of every sentiment of curiosity
that may prompt you to pierce the mystery which shrouds his actions; and
remember also that every syllable I have now uttered, is to remain a
secret profoundly locked up in your own breasts until the proclamation
of innocence shall be made from that quarter to which the solemn duty of
publishing it has been entrusted."

"We should be wanting in common gratitude, indeed, to him who has thus
interested himself in behalf of the innocent, were we to act in
opposition to those injunctions," said Clarence Villiers. "But through
you, lady, do we each and all convey our heart-felt thanks for that
generous intervention which is to produce so vitally important a
result."

"Yes—and to you also, dearest Miss de Medina, is our eternal gratitude
due!" exclaimed Rosamond—an assurance that was immediately and sincerely
echoed by Adelais, Clarence, and Mr. Torrens.

Hope had now returned to that prison-cell,—hope in all her radiance and
her glory,—with her smiling countenance and her cheering influence!

The name of Mrs. Torrens—late Mrs. Slingsby—was not mentioned by a soul
during this meeting: her husband uttered it not—Clarence, through
motives of delicacy, remained silent likewise in that respect—and the
sisters had too much to occupy their thoughts relative to their father's
position and the hope of his speedy release, to devote a moment's
attention to that woman.

For the interview was necessarily short, in consequence of the severity
of the prison regulations; but when Mr. Torrens was again alone in his
cell, he could scarcely believe that so sudden a change had taken place
in his prospects.

On leaving the gaol, after having taken a tender and affectionate leave
of their father, the sisters looked inquiringly at each other, as if to
ask whither each was going.

"We have taken up our abode at the Cottage," said Adelais, breaking
silence; "where we shall remain, doubtless," she added, glancing towards
her husband, "until our father shall be restored to us."

Clarence signified his assent.

"I should be grieved to separate you from your sister immediately after
your unexpected meeting to-day," said Esther, addressing herself to
Adelais; "but if Rosamond will continue to make our house her home——"

"Yes—yes, my dear friend," exclaimed Rosamond, hastily: "I will intrude
a little longer upon your hospitality—for I feel that my nerves have
been too much shaken by recent occurrences to allow me to return to the
Cottage, at least for the present."

The reader need scarcely be informed that the young lady desired to
avoid the painful prospect of being alone with her sister and Clarence:
for what explanation could she give of her flight from home?—an
explanation which she knew would naturally be required of her.

Adelais, indeed, felt somewhat hurt at the decision which her sister had
made in respect to remaining with Miss de Medina: but she concealed her
vexation, and they parted with an affectionate embrace.

Thus, Clarence and Adelais proceeded to Torrens Cottage, while Esther
and Rosamond returned in Mr. de Medina's carriage to Finchley Manor.

During their ride home in the hackney-coach, Villiers and his wife
discussed all the incidents which had just occurred; but during a pause
in the conversation, Adelais bethought herself for the first time that
day of her mother-in-law.

"Clarence," she said, laying her hand upon her husband's arm, "we have
been sadly culpable——"

"I know to what you would allude, dearest," interrupted Villiers.
"To-morrow I shall call upon my wretched aunt; but it is by no means
necessary for you to accompany me. Your father did not once mention her
name during the interview: we will not seek to penetrate his motives for
that silence—but we will endeavour to imitate him in that respect as
much as possible."

"I do not clearly understand you, Clarence," said Adelais, gazing at him
enquiringly.

"I mean that the less we speak concerning my aunt, the more prudent it
will be, my love," responded Villiers; "for I fear that _she_ will not
prove to be innocent of the crime imputed to her—and, under all
circumstances, you can owe her no sympathy nor respect, either as my
relative or your mother-in-law."

Adelais made no answer; and Clarence immediately changed the
conversation.




                             CHAPTER XCIV.
                           "THE STOUT HOUSE."


London is a wondrous city for the success with which the most flagrant
quackery is accomplished. Things not only improbable, but absolutely
impossible, are puffed off with matchless impudence; and, what is more
extraordinary still, they obtain an infinite number of believers. Thus
we have snuffs which will cure blindness when the most skilful oculists
are at fault,—oils and pomatums that will make the hair grow in spite of
nature's denial,—cosmetics that will render every skin, though tawny as
a gipsey's, white as a Circassian's,—pills so happily compounded as to
be an universal panacea, annihilating diseases of even the most opposite
characters, and effecting for thirteen-pence halfpenny what all the
College of Physicians could not accomplish for millions,—lozenges by
which a voice cracked like a tin-trumpet, may become melodious as a
silver bell,—ointments that will cure in a week ulcers and sores which
have baffled all the experience of famous hospital-surgeons for a
quarter of a century,—decoctions prepared on purpose to prolong life,
although the _elixir vitæ_ of the alchemists has long been regarded as
an absurd fable,—boluses competent to restore to all their pristine
vigour constitutions shattered by years and years of dissipation and
dissolute habits,—pulmonic wafers efficient to wrestle against the very
last stage of consumption, and restore lungs entirely eaten away,—tonics
so wonderful that they will even give new coats to the stomach, though
the old ones have been destroyed by ardent spirits,—and heaven only
knows how many more blessings of the same kind!

Seriously speaking, it is deplorable to perceive how tremendously the
millions are gulled by all these details of an impudent and most
dishonest quackery. The coiner who passes off a base shilling,
representing it to be a good one, is punished as a felon and stigmatised
as a villain. But the quack who sells articles which he announces to be
capable of performing physical impossibilities, is not tangible by the
law, nor does he become branded in the opinion of the world. Such are
the conventional differences existing in civilised society!

Of all the demoralising species of quackery practised now-a-days,
certain medical works are decidedly the worst. We allude to
those beastly things which are constantly announced in the
advertisement-department of newspapers, but which, with a scintillation
of good taste on the side of the printers, are invariably
huddled together in the most obscure nook. It is evident that
newspaper-proprietors are ashamed of the filthy advertisements, although
they cannot very well refuse to insert them. But we warn all our readers
against suffering themselves to put the least confidence in the
representations set forth in the announcements alluded to. The works
thus puffed off are contemptible as regards medical information,
demoralising in their very nature, and delusive in all their promises.

An amusing species of quackery exists with repect to many public-houses.
Passing along a thoroughfare, or visiting some fresh neighbourhood
springing up in the outskirts of the metropolis, you will probably see a
new building, destined for the "public" line, and with the words—"NOTED
STOUT HOUSE"—painted on a board, or cut in the masonry. The cool
impudence of proclaiming an establishment to be famous for a particular
article, before it is even finished, is too ludicrous to provoke serious
vituperation. The merit of the place is agreed upon beforehand between
the architect and the proprietor. Never mind how worthless the beer to
be retailed there may eventually prove, it is a Noted Stout House all
the same! But so accustomed are the inhabitants of London to behold such
things, that the springing up of such a structure causes no sensation in
its neighbourhood: good, easy people that we are now-a-days—we take
every thing for granted and as a matter of course!

The _Noted Stout House_ in Helmet Row, St. Luke's—called by its patrons,
for abbreviation's sake, the _Stout House_—was one of those flash
boozing-kens which are to be found in low neighbourhoods. And noted it
indeed was—not on account of its beer, unless the fame thereof consisted
in its execrable nature—but by reason of the characters frequenting it.
The parlour was large, low, and dark; and in the evening it was
invariably filled with a miscellaneous company of both sexes.
Prostitutes and thieves—old procuresses and housebreakers—dissolute
married women, and notorious coiners,—these were the principal
supporters of the _Stout House_.

Had Machiavelli once passed an evening there, he would not have declared
as a rule that "language was given to man for the purpose of disguising
his thoughts;" inasmuch as no attempt at any such disguise at all was
made in that place. Every one spoke his mind in the most free and open
manner possible,—calling things by their right names—and expressing the
filthiest ideas in the plainest phraseology. If foul words were capable
of impregnating the air, the atmosphere of the _Stout House_ parlour
would have engendered a pestilence.

At about half-past nine in the evening, John Jeffreys sauntered into the
establishment, took a seat at the table, and gave his orders to the
waiter for the beverage which he fancied at the moment.

Whenever a new-comer appears in a public room of this kind, the company
invariably leave off talking for a minute or so, to enjoy a good stare
at him; and they measure him from head to foot—turn him inside out, as
it were—and form their rapid and silent conjectures regarding him, just
as a broker "takes stock" in his mind, with a hasty survey around, on
putting an execution for taxes or rates into a defaulter's house.

We cannot exactly say what opinion the company present on this occasion
at the _Stout House_ formed of John Jeffreys; but we are able to assure
our readers that, much as he had seen of London, and well as he was
acquainted with its vile dens and low places of resort, he thought to
himself, as he glanced about him, that he had never before set eyes on
such a dissipated-looking set of women or such a repulsive assemblage of
men.

"Well, and so Mother Oliver's place is broke up at last," observed one
of the females, addressing herself to another woman, and evidently
taking up the thread of a conversation which the entrance of Jeffreys
had for a few moments interrupted.

"Yes—and the poor old creature has been sent to quod by the beaks at
Hicks's Hall, till she finds sureties for her good behaviour in future,"
was the reply.

"What—is that the Mother Oliver you mean, as kept the brothel in Little
Sutton Street, t'other side of the Goswell Road there?" demanded a man,
desisting from his occupation of smoking, for a few moments, while he
asked the question.

"To be sure it is," returned the female, who had previously spoken; "and
a bad thing it is for me, I can tell you. I was servant there—and a good
living it were. But I'll tell you how it all come about. It was a matter
of six or seven weeks ago that a young feller came to the house, quite
on his own accord, as you may suppose; and he stayed there three whole
days, for he was quite struck, as one may say, with a fair-haired gal
which had been lodging with us for some time. Well, he orders every
thing of the best, promising to pay all in a lump; and so Mother Oliver
gives him tick, like a fool as she was. But at last she wanted to see
the colour of his money; and then he bullied, and swore, and kicked up a
row, and went away without paying a mag. Well, the debt was given up as
a bad job, and we thought no more about it, till we heard a few days
afterwards that the house was to be indicted. So off Mother Oliver goes
to the Clerk of the Peace: but, lo and behold ye! the young gentleman
was a clerk in his office; and not content with reglarly robbing the
poor old o'oman, he must try and ruin her into the bargain. Mother
Oliver got to see the Clerk of the Peace, and began to tell him all
about the trick his young man had played her; but he said he knowed
every thing already, that she had enticed the young feller into her
house, and that was the reason she was to be indicted. So the thing come
on yesterday before the Middlesex magistrates at Hicks's Hall, and
Mother Oliver was sent to gaol."

"There's been a reglar rooting out of them kind of cribs all over the
parish," observed one of the company; "and it's the same in a many other
parishes."

"Yes: but I'll tell you what it is," exclaimed the woman who had related
the above particulars; "it's only against the poor sort of houses that
these prosecutions is ever got up. Lord bless you! before I went to
Mother Oliver's, I was servant in a flash brothel at the West-End—a
reglar slap-up place—beautifully furnished, and frequented by all the
first folks. It was kept—and still is kept—by a Frenchwoman. I was there
as under-housemaid for a matter of seven year; and should have been
there till now, only I was too fond of taking a drop the first thing in
the morning, to keep the dust out in summer and the cold out in winter."

"Ah—I des say you was always a lushing jade, Sally," observed an
individual in his shirt-sleeves, and who seemed to know the woman well.

"Well, old feller—and what then?" cried she, for a moment manifesting a
strong inclination to draw her finger-nails down the cheeks of her
acquaintance: but, calming her anger, she said, "It don't matter what
comes from your lips—so I shan't be perwoked by you. Howsomever, as I
was telling you, I was servant in the flash house at the West-End for
upward of seven years; and such scenes as I saw! The old Frenchwoman
used to entice the most respectable gals there by means of
advertisements for governesses, ladies-maids, and so on; and they was
kept prisoners till they either agreed to what she proposed, or was
forced into it by the noblemen and gentlemen frequenting the place. And
all this occurred, I can assure you, in one of the fashion-ablest
streets in London. But there was never no notice taken by the
parish-authorities; and as for the Society—what's its name again?—that
prosecutes bad houses, it didn't seem to know there was such a brothel
in existence. And I'll tell you how _that_ was, too. The Frenchwoman
gave such general satisfaction to her customers, and was always treating
them to such novelties in the shape of gals, that she was protected by
all the gay noblemen and gentlemen at the West-End. Lord bless you! some
of her best customers was the Middlesex magistrates themselves; and two
or three of the noblemen and gentlemen that I spoke of, was members of
the Committee of that very Society which prosecutes brothels. So it
wasn't likely that the house would ever be interfered with. I recollect
the old Frenchwoman used to laugh and joke with the great Lords and the
Members of the Commons that patronised her, about the way they talked in
the Parliament Houses, and the bother they made about the better
observance of the Sabbath, and so on. It used to be rare fun to hear the
old lady, in her broken English, repeating to them some of their fine
speeches, which she'd read in the newspapers; and how the gals used to
laugh with them, to be sure!"

"You don't mean to say that them Lords and Members, which is always
a-going on about the Sabbath, used to frequent the brothel you speak
of?" exclaimed a man.

"Don't I, though?" cried the woman, in a tone of indignation at the bare
suspicion against her veracity implied by the question: "I do indeed, my
man; and I should think you ought to know the world better than to be
astonished at it. It was through having the patronage of all them great
people, that the old Frenchwoman never got into trouble. But none of the
fine brothels at the West-End are ever prosecuted: no one would think of
such a thing! It's only the low ones in the poor neighbourhoods."

"Well, I always heard say that poverty is the greatest possible crime in
this country," observed the man who had recently spoken; "and now I'm
convinced on it."

"I never had any doubt about it," said another. "A rich man or a rich
woman may do anythink; but the poor—deuce a bit! That's quite another
thing. Why, look at all these Bishops, and great Lords, and Members of
the Commons, which are constantly raving about Sunday travelling: don't
they go about in their carriages? and ain't Hyde Park always more filled
with splendid vehicles on a Sunday than on any other day? The very
Bishops which would put down coaches on a Sabbath, goes in their
carriages to the Cathedrals where they preach."

"By all I can hear or learn," observed another individual present,
"there's a precious sight more religious gammon in the Parliament Houses
than anywheres else."

"I should think there is too," exclaimed the woman who had told the tale
relative to the brothel-keepers. "Some of them noblemen and gentlemen
that I spoke of was the most terrible fellows after the young women that
I ever see in all my life; and they was always a bothering the
Frenchwoman to send over to France, or down into the country, to entice
more gals to the house. The Frenchwoman used to send out agents to
entrap innocent creatures wherever she could—farmers' and clergymen's
daughters, and such like. I remember what a spree we had with one of the
religious Members of the Commons one night. He had been bringing in a
bill, or whatever you call it, to protect young females from seduction,
and had drawed such a frightful picture of the whole business, that he
made all the other Members shed tears. Well, as soon as he'd done, he
came straight off to our place, and asked the old Frenchwoman if she had
got any thing new in the house. That very day a sweet young gal—a poor
marine officer's daughter, who wanted to be a governess—had been enticed
to the brothel, and the Member that I'm speaking of gave the old
Frenchwoman fifty guineas for the purchase of that poor creatur'."

The woman was entering into farther details, when Wilton and another of
the retainers of Jeffreys' mysterious master entered the parlour of the
_Stout House_, both disguised as servants out of place. The place was
too much crowded to enable them to converse at their ease: they
accordingly all three repaired to a private room, Jeffreys having left
at the bar a suitable message to be delivered to Old Death who was well
known at that establishment.

Wilton ordered up glasses of spirits-and-water; and when the waiter had
retired, after supplying the liquor, Jeffreys proceeded to acquaint his
colleagues with the promised tidings relative to Tidmarsh.

"I called at the Bunces' house in Earl Street, Seven Dials, this
morning," he said, "and saw Old Death, who was quite delighted when I
assured him that I had already found the two friends of whom I had
spoken to him, and that that they would be here punctual this evening at
half-past ten. I then told him that as the resurrection affair in St.
Luke's churchyard would most likely come off to-morrow night, and as I
should be engaged the best part of to-morrow on my own business, he had
better let Tidmarsh go with me at once and show me the exact spot where
Tom Rain was buried. The old man bit directly, and said, '_Well,
Jeffreys, you're a faithful and good fellow, and can be trusted.
Tidmarsh lives here now, and is up stairs at this moment._'—So Tidmarsh
was sent for; and away him and me went together to St. Luke's. In the
course of conversation I found out that Tidmarsh, Bunce, and Mrs. Bunce
were to go out with Old Death on some business this evening; and that
while Old Death came here to meet me, the other three were to wait for
him at another flash house in Mitchell Street close by."

"This is admirable!" said Wilton. "We have now the whole gang completely
in our power. Fortunately, I have several of our master's people in the
neighbourhood; and I will go at once and give them the necessary
instructions. Wait here, Jeffreys, with Harding," he added, indicating
his colleague with a look; "until I return. My absence will not be
long."

Wilton left the room, Jeffreys and Harding remaining alone together.

In a quarter of an hour the Black's trusty dependant returned.

"All my arrangements are now complete," he said, resuming his seat; "and
the entire gang must inevitably fall into our hands."

Jeffreys then acquainted Wilton and Harding with the exact nature of the
proposal which would be made to them by Old Death; and scarcely were
these preliminaries accomplished when the ancient miscreant made his
appearance.

"This is business-like indeed—very business-like, my good fellow," said
Old Death, taking a chair, and addressing himself to Jeffreys while he
spoke. "And these, I suppose," he continued, fixing a scrutinizing
glance upon the others, "are the friends you spoke of."

"Just so," replied Jeffreys. "This is Bill Jones," he added, laying his
hands on Wilton's shoulder; "and there's no mistake about him. T'other
is named Ned Thompson, and knows a thing or two, I rather suspect."

"All right—all right!" chuckled Old Death, rubbing his hands joyfully
together. "I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Jones—and your's too,
Mr. Thompson."

"And we're not sorry to form yours, Mr. Bones," said Wilton, affecting a
manner and tone suitable to the part he was playing. "Our pal Jeffreys
here has told us quite enough to make us anxious to know more of you."

"And so you shall, my dear friends," exclaimed Old Death. "I can always
find business for faithful agents—and I can pay them well likewise."

"Jeffreys has told us _that_," observed Wilton.

"And I've also explained to them what you want done to-morrow night, Mr.
Bones," said Jeffreys.

"Good!" ejaculated Old Death. "Well—is it to be done?"

"There's no manner of difficulty that I can see," said Harding; "and as
for any risk—why if the reward's at all decent——"

"The reward shall be liberal—very liberal," interrupted Old Death
hastily. "What—what should you say to a ten-pound note a-piece?"

"Deuce take it!" cried Wilton, thinking it would look better to haggle
at the bargain: "remember, there's the chance of transportation—and my
friend and I are not so desperate hard up——"

"No—no—I understand," observed Old Death, fearful that his meanness had
disgusted his new acquaintances and that he should lose their services
unless he immediately manifested a more liberal disposition: "I meant
ten pounds each on account, and ten pounds more for each when the job is
done. Besides," he added, "there's other business to follow on: this is
only the first scene in the play that I'm going to get up, and in which
you must be prominent characters."

And the aged miscreant chuckled at his attempt at humour.

"What you have now said," observed Wilton, "quite alters the case.
Twenty pounds each, and the chance of more work, is a proposal that we
can accept. What say you, Thompson?"

"I say what you say, Jones," replied Harding.

"Now then we understand each other, my friends," continued Old Death;
"and I will at once give you the earnest-money."

Thus speaking, he drew forth a greasy purse, and presented the two men
each with ten sovereigns, which they appeared to snatch up with much
avidity.

"I have now nothing more to say to you," resumed Benjamin Bones, his
fierce eyes sparkling beneath his overhanging brows with the hope of
speedy vengeance on the Earl of Ellingham. "You must place yourselves at
the disposal of your friend Jeffreys here, who will inform you how to
act and show you precisely in what way my wishes are to be executed. I
must now leave you: but to-morrow evening," he added, in a tone of
savage meaning, "I shall see you in Earl Street with the coffin!"

"You may rely upon us, Mr. Bones," replied Wilton.

"But won't you stay and take a glass with us?" demanded Jeffreys.

"Not to night—not to night," was the answer. "I took something short at
the bar as I passed by; but to-morrow night, my friends—to-morrow
night," he exclaimed emphatically, "you shall find a good supper ready
for you in Earl Street when you come, and a drop of the right sort."

"So much the better," said Jeffreys: "I like a good supper. But what's
your hurry at present, Mr. Bones?"

"To tell you the truth, my dear boy," answered the old man, "I have got
three friends waiting for me at a ken in Mitchell Street; and I promised
not to keep them longer than I could help. So you must excuse me on this
occasion; and, therefore, good bye."

Old Death shook hands with the three men, and took his
departure—chuckling to himself at the idea of having secured the
services of Jeffreys' friends at so cheap a rate, inasmuch as he would
cheerfully have given them, griping and avaricious as he was, three or
four times the sum stipulated in order to secure their services in the
scheme of carrying out his atrocious plans of vengeance.

[Illustration]

But for once, Old Death! the laugh was against yourself—as you speedily
discovered to your cost!

We must not however anticipate.

The moment the old man had left the room, Wilton, Harding, and Jeffreys
exchanged glances of satisfaction and triumph.

"Bunce, Tidmarsh, and Bunce's wife are all three at the flash house in
Mitchell Street—that is quite clear," said Jeffreys.

"Yes," observed Wilton: "and the moment for action is now at hand. Let
us depart."

The three men accordingly left the tavern, and hastened in the direction
which they knew Old Death must pursue in order to reach Mitchell Street.

As they passed by another public-house in Helmet Row, Wilton bade them
pause for a moment, while he went in to give the necessary instructions
to the persons who were associated with him in the expedition of this
night, and whom he had ordered to remain there until his return. He
speedily rejoined Jeffreys and Harding; and all three were once more on
the track of Old Death.

At the same time, half-a-dozen men, dressed as labourers, issued from
the public-house at which Wilton had called; and, dispersing themselves,
hurried singly by different ways towards the road separating the two
burial-grounds.

Precisely at the corner where Mitchell Street joins Helmet Row, and just
as he was in the act of turning into the former thoroughfare, Old Death
was suddenly seized by three men, and gagged before he had time to utter
a single exclamation. The moon shone brightly; and his eyes flashed the
fires of savage rage and wild amazement, as their glances fell upon the
countenances of Wilton, Harding, and Jeffreys. He stamped his feet in a
paroxysm of fury, and then struggled desperately to release himself: but
his efforts were altogether unavailing—though he exerted a strength
which could scarcely have been expected on the part of so old and feeble
a man. He was borne off to the Black's carriage, which was waiting close
by; and, being thrust in, was immediately bound and blindfolded by two
persons who were already seated inside the vehicle, which drove away at
a rapid rate.

This important feat being accomplished, Wilton desired Jeffreys to
proceed to the flash-house in Mitchell Street, and induce Tidmarsh and
the Bunces to accompany him into the ambush prepared for them.

Jeffreys accordingly repaired to the boozing-ken alluded to, where he
found the objects of his search seated at a table, and occupied in the
discussion of bread and cheese and porter.

"Sorry to interrupt you, my friends," said Jeffreys; "but you must come
away with me directly. Mr. Bones has sent me to fetch you——"

"Is anything the matter?" asked Mrs. Bunce, in a low but agitated voice,
as she glanced towards the strangers present in the room.

"I can't say what's the matter," replied Jeffreys, "because I don't
know. But Mr. Bones seems much excited—and he's walking up and down the
road between the burying-grounds. He told me to desire you to come to
him directly."

"Is he alone there?" inquired Toby Bunce, looking particularly
frightened.

"Yes—quite alone. There's no danger of any thing, if that's what you
mean: but I think Mr. Bones has met with some annoyance. Come on!"

Tidmarsh and the Bunces accordingly rose, paid for what they had
ordered, but which they had not time to finish, and repaired with
Jeffreys to the place mentioned by him.

"Where _is_ Mr. Bones?" demanded Mrs. Bunce, in her querulous voice.

But ere Jeffreys had time to give any answer, his three companions were
set upon and made prisoners by the Black's retainers.

It is only necessary to state, in a few words, that they were gagged,
blindfolded, thrust into a second vehicle which was in attendance, and
conveyed to the same place whither Tim the Snammer, Josh Pedler, and Old
Death had preceded them.

Wilton, having superintended this last transaction, remained behind
along with Jeffreys, to whom he addressed himself in the following
manner, as soon as the carriage had departed:—

"I am commissioned by my master, who is also your's, to state to you his
entire approval of your conduct. Measures have been taken to save Mr.
Torrens, in a manner which cannot implicate you. Keep your own counsel:
be prudent and steady—and you may not only atone for past errors, but
become a respected and worthy member of society. For a few days it will
be necessary for you to remain as quiet as possible at your own
lodgings; and whatever extraordinary reports you may hear concerning the
affairs of Mr. Torrens—however wonderful the means adopted to proclaim
his innocence of the crime of murder may be—keep a still tongue in your
head! So much depends upon your implicit secrecy, that you would not be
now left at large, did not our master entertain a high opinion of your
fidelity. But beware how you act! You have had ample proofs not only of
his power, but likewise of his matchless boldness and unflinching
determination in working out his aims."

"For my own sake, Mr. Wilton," said Jeffreys, "I shall follow all your
advice."

"And you will live to bless the hour when you first encountered our
master," was the answer. "It is not probable that your services will be
required again for some days: but should it be otherwise, a letter or a
messenger will be dispatched to your abode. Our master retains in his
hands the money that you left with him; and the next time he has
occasion to see you, he will advise you in what manner to lay it out to
your best advantage. In the meantime he has sent you a moderate sum—not
from your own funds, but from his purse—for your present wants; and so
long as you remain in his service, your wages will be liberal, but paid
in comparatively small and frequent sums, so that the possession of a
large amount may not lead you into follies. By this course he will train
your mind to recognise the true value of money honourably obtained, and
fit you for the position in which the funds he holds of your's may
shortly place you."

Jeffreys and Wilton then separated, the former more astonished than ever
at the bold and yet skilfully executed proceedings set on foot by his
mysterious master.




                              CHAPTER XCV.
                    CLARENCE VILLIERS AND HIS AUNT.


The church of Saint Sepulchre on Snow Hill, was proclaiming the hour of
nine on the following morning, when Clarence Villiers again entered the
office of the governor of Newgate, and solicited permission to see Mrs.
Torrens, representing the degree of relationship in which he stood with
regard to that unhappy woman.

We have before stated that Mrs. Torrens had been placed in a ward where
there were several other prisoners of her own sex; and the governor,
animated by a proper feeling of delicacy, and supposing that the
interview of relatives under such circumstances was likely to be of a
nature which it would be cruel to submit to the gaze of curious
strangers, immediately conducted Clarence into his own parlour, whither
the guilty aunt was speedily conducted.

When they were alone together, Clarence endeavoured to find utterance
for a few kind words; but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth—and
he burst into tears.

Mrs. Torrens threw herself into a chair, covered her face with her
hands, and expressed the anguish of her soul in deep and convulsing
moans.

"Oh! my dear aunt," exclaimed Clarence at length; "in what a frightful
position do I find you! What terrible changes have a few short days
effected!"

"Do not reproach me, Clarence—Oh! do not reproach me," said the wretched
woman, extending her arms in an imploring manner towards him: "I am
miserable enough as it is!"

"My God! I can well believe you," cried Villiers, speaking in a tone of
profound commiseration, and forgetting for a moment the iniquity of
which his aunt had been guilty: for she was frightfully altered—her
plumpness was gone—her cheeks were thin and pale—and she even stooped,
as if with premature old age.

"Oh! yes—I am indeed very, very miserable," she repeated, in a tone of
intense bitterness, and clasping her hands together in the excess of her
mental agony. "Such nights as I have passed since I first set foot in
this dreadful place! No human tongue can tell the amount of wretchedness
which I endure. In the day-time 'tis too horrible—oh! far too horrible
to think of: but at night—when all is dark and silent, and when my very
thoughts—my very ideas seem to spring into life and assume ghastly
shapes——"

"Oh! my dear aunt, do not allow your imagination thus to obtain dominion
over you!" interrupted Clarence. "Endeavour to compose yourself a
little—if only a little—for it does me harm to see you thus! Besides, I
have so much to say to you—so many questions to ask you—so much advice
to give you——"

"Alas! the only counsel you can give me, Clarence," said the wretched
woman, shaking with a cold shudder, though the perspiration stood in big
drops upon her brow,—"the only counsel you can give me, Clarence, is to
bid me prepare for another world."

"Is it possible?" cried Villiers, shocked by the appalling significance
of these words: "have you no hope—no chance——"

"Would you believe me were I to assure you that I am not guilty of the
crime imputed to me—the forgery of a draft upon the bankers of the late
Sir Henry Courtenay?" demanded Mrs. Torrens, fixing her sunken,
lustreless eyes upon her nephew. "No—no: you are convinced that I _am_
guilty—and a jury will pronounce me to be so! Think not that I blind
myself against all the horrors of my position! I know my fate—I know
that I must die eventually by the hand of the executioner——"

"God have mercy upon you!" exclaimed Villiers, pressing his hand to his
brow as if to calm the dreadful thoughts which his aunt's language
excited in his brain.

"Yes, Clarence—that must be my fate," she continued: "unless I obtain a
short respite—of a few months—by confessing——"

"Confessing what?" cried Clarence impatiently.

"Oh! no—not to you can I make that avowal!" she exclaimed, in a
shrieking tone.

"But I understand you! Yes—a light breaks in upon me—and——"

"Do not spurn me altogether, Clarence!" said the wretched woman,
throwing herself upon her knees before him and grasping one of his hands
with convulsive tightness in both her own. "Oh! I know what you would
reproach me with! If not for my own sake—yet for that of the unborn
child which I bear in my bosom, I should have avoided this awful
risk—recoiled from that fatal crime! But I was so confident of
success—so certain of avoiding exposure,—and my affairs, too, were so
desperate—without resources—Sir Henry Courtenay having disappeared in
such a mysterious manner——"

"Aunt," interrupted Clarence, in a firm and solemn tone, as he raised
her from her suppliant posture, and placed her in a chair,—"answer me as
if you were questioned by your God! Are your hands unstained with the
blood——"

"Holy heavens! would you believe me capable of murder?" cried Mrs.
Torrens, in a penetrating, thrilling tone of deep anguish. "Listen,
Clarence," she continued, her voice suddenly becoming low and hollow, as
she rose also from her seat and laid her emaciated hand upon his
arm,—"listen, Clarence, for a few moments. I have been of all hypocrites
the most vile—I have led a dissolute life, the profligacy of which has
been concealed beneath the mask of religion—I have subsisted upon the
wages paid to me by a paramour for the use of my person—I have forged—I
have become the accomplice of the ravisher of innocence,—but a
murderess—no—never—never!"

"God be thanked for that assurance, which I now sincerely believe!"
exclaimed Clarence. "But you speak of being the accomplice of the
ravisher of innocence? Is it possible—answer me quickly—that Rosamond—my
sister-in-law——"

"Oh! kill me—kill me, Clarence!" cried the miserable woman, again
throwing herself at his feet in the anguish of her soul: "kill me, I
say—for that was the blackest crime which one woman ever perpetrated
towards another!"

"Then all my worst fears are confirmed!" groaned Clarence; and, turning
abruptly away from her in sudden loathing and horror, he broke forth
into violent ejaculations of rage.

But in less than a minute the sounds of grief, more bitter than his fury
was terrible, forced themselves on his ears; and glancing round, he
beheld his aunt lying prostrate on the floor, her face buried in the
carpet, and her whole frame convulsed with an anguish which in a moment
renewed all the feelings of commiseration in his really generous heart.

Springing towards the spot where she had fallen when he burst so rudely
away from her, he raised the wretched creature in his arms, conveyed her
once more to a seat, and endeavoured to address her in terms of
consolation and kindness. He even implored her pardon for what he termed
his brutality towards her.

"Oh! you have no forgiveness to ask of me, Clarence," she murmured, in a
faint and half-suffocating tone. "Your indignation is most natural—and I
am the vilest being in female shape that ever cursed the earth with a
baleful presence, or brought dishonour on a glorious sex! My God! when I
look back and survey all my crimes—all my misdeeds, I despair of pardon
in another world!"

"And now you add another wickedness to those of which you spoke,"
exclaimed Clarence: "for the mercy of God is infinite! It must be so—it
would be an awful sin, a monstrous impiety to believe otherwise! A great
and good Being, possessing omnipotent power and a will which there is
none to question, can have no pleasure in casting your soul—poor, frail,
crushed-down woman!—into a lake of eternal fires! Oh! believe me—there
is hope even for greater criminals than yourself! But every atonement
which it is possible for you to make upon earth, _must_ be made; and,
whatever be your fate amongst beings who forgive nothing, you will
experience the blessings of salvation at the hands of a Being who
forgives every thing!"

"I am penitent—oh! believe me, Clarence, I am very penitent!" exclaimed
his aunt. "Would to God that I could live the last twenty years of my
life over again! Not an error—no, not even a frailty should stain my
soul! But these thoughts come upon us when it is too late to take them
as the guides of our conduct."

"Alas! such is indeed the case!" said Clarence, mournfully. "And now,
aunt, I am about to ask you to perform a duty which will perhaps
lacerate your bosom—revive a thousand bitter reflections—"

"I understand you, Clarence," interrupted Mrs. Torrens, subduing her
emotions as much as possible, and speaking in a comparatively tranquil
tone: "you require from my lips a true and faithful narrative of all
that has occurred since you left London with your beautiful bride?
Well—that narrative shall be given. Sit down by me—and listen: but, in
so listening, you will only receive fresh proofs of my black turpitude!
For systematically and coolly—not in the excitement of moments when evil
passions were more powerful than reason—have I perpetrated those crimes
which now weigh so heavily upon my soul!"

Clarence took a chair by his aunt's side, and prepared to hear her story
with an earnest but mournful attention.

His aunt then related to him the particulars of the dreadful conspiracy
which had been devised by herself, the late Sir Henry Courtenay, and Mr.
Torrens against the honour of Rosamond; and Clarence now learnt for the
first time that Mr. Torrens had only consented to his marriage with
Adelais in order to get them both out of the way, so that the younger
sister might be completely in the power of those who had thus leagued
against her happiness and her virtue.

"Although I deplore that such motives should have been the favouring
circumstances which led to my union with Adelais," said Clarence, "yet I
rejoice that my charming and adored wife is safely removed by the fact
of that marriage from the power of such a monster of a parent."

Mrs. Torrens sighed profoundly, and then entered upon those details
which explained to her nephew how she became acquainted with Mr.
Torrens—the whole particulars of the murder of Sir Henry Courtenay, as
she herself had heard them from the lips of Mr. Torrens—the forgery of
the cheque, to which crime that individual was privy—the way in which
she had compelled him to marry her—and the flight of Howard, the
attorney, with the produce of the crime for which she was now in a
felon's gaol.

"And you believe that Mr. Torrens is really innocent of the black deed
imputed to him?" said Clarence, inquiringly—for he was now anxious to
ascertain whether the tale which he had just heard in explanation of
that mysterious event, would correspond with the proclamation of Mr.
Torrens' innocence which was to be that day made to the world, according
to the assurances given on the preceding morning by Esther de Medina.

"I am confident that the account given by Mr. Torrens, and which I have
now related to you, is correct," answered Mrs. Torrens: "for," she
added, after a few moments' hesitation, "when once we understood each
other—when once our hands were united—there was no necessity to maintain
any secrets from each other. We plunged headlong into crime,
hand-in-hand—and felt no shame in each other's presence. Besides, he had
no motive to perpetrate such a deed: on the contrary, he deprived
himself of a friend whose purse was most useful to him."

"True!" observed Clarence, struck by the truth of this reasoning.

"In respect to myself," resumed the unhappy woman, "I have made up my
mind how to act. I shall not aggravate my enormity by denial: I shall
plead guilty to the charge of forgery—and without implicating that
wretched man on whom the charge of murder now presses with such a
fearful weight of circumstantial evidence. No—I shall not mention him in
connexion with that deed of mine; so that if he escape from the cruel
difficulty in which he is now placed, no other accusations, beyond those
of his own conscience, may injure his peace."

"You have determined to adopt the course which I should have
counselled," said Clarence. "It would be useless to attempt the defence
of that which is so clearly apparent. The forged signature had not the
baronet's private mark attached to it; but the clerk who cashed it for
you, did not think of scrutinising it so closely at the moment, as you
were well known to him. A subsequent examination of it proved the
forgery. Stands not the case so? At least, it was thus reported in the
newspapers."

"The statement is correct," answered Mrs. Torrens, mournfully; "and I
feel convinced that I shall possess a greater chance of obtaining the
royal mercy, by pleading guilty at once and confessing my error. Oh! to
escape death—a premature death—a horrible death!" she cried, suddenly
becoming nervously excited again.

"Compose yourself, aunt—compose yourself!" exclaimed Clarence; "for you
have an act of justice to do towards an innocent man. In a word, I wish
you to sign the account of the murder of Sir Henry Courtenay, as you
received it from the lips of Mr. Torrens, and as you have now related it
to me. I will draw it up briefly; and no one can tell of what benefit
the existence of such a document may prove to your unhappy husband."

Clarence hastened to procure writing materials from the governor's
office; and, on his return to the parlour, he drew up the statement,
combining it with a confession of the forgery, though not mentioning the
name of Mr. Torrens in connexion with that latter crime. The penitent
woman then signed the paper in a firm handwriting; and it immediately
appeared as if a load were taken from her mind.

Villiers now informed her that Rosamond had found an asylum with some
kind friends of the Jewish persuasion; but, faithful to his promise to
Esther de Medina, he did not drop even so much as a hint of the hopes
which that admirable young lady had held out with regard to the expected
proclamation and existing proofs of Mr. Torrens' innocence. It struck
him, however, that the paper which he had that moment received from his
aunt might assist the steps that were in such mysterious progress
elsewhere to remove from the head of his father-in-law the dreadful
charge which rested upon it.

"I must now leave you, aunt," said the young man, rising from his seat.

"Shall you visit Mr. Torrens?" she inquired, in a hesitating manner.

"Not to-day," was the answer. "The prison regulations do not permit
visitors to call on the same inmate of this gaol two days consecutively.
In fact—for I abhor every thing savouring of duplicity—I will candidly
inform you that Adelais, myself, Rosamond, and the young lady with whom
that poor girl is staying, saw Mr. Torrens yesterday."

"You visited him first!" murmured the wretched woman. "But I do not
blame you—I cannot reproach you, Clarence," she added hastily. "It was
natural that your wife should wish to see her father—and equally natural
that you should accompany her. Besides, I know that it must have cost
you a painful effort, to enter the presence of one so stained with
crime—so polluted—so infamous as I!"

"Your contrition has obliterated from my mind all feelings save those of
regret and commiseration," returned Clarence warmly. "Would that justice
could so easily forget the past as I!"

"Oh! I thank you for those generous assurances," exclaimed Mrs. Torrens,
bursting into tears; "for sympathy in such a place as this is dearer to
the soul than all the enjoyments which the great world outside could
possibly bestow! The kind word—aye, and what is more, the word of
forgiveness—is the holy dew of heaven. For years and years, Clarence,
was I a vile hypocrite, and such sentences as those flowed glibly from
my tongue—because they were the means whereby I deceived the world. But
now—oh! now, I feel all I say; and whatever may be my doom, I shall at
last appreciate the sublime truths of that religion which I so long used
as a mask. Clarence," she added, in a more measured tone, "always
suspect the individual who makes a display of his religion. Be assured
that true religious feelings do not obtrude themselves in all
unseasonable moments upon society. The man or the woman who enacts the
part of a _saint_, is nothing more nor less than a despicable hypocrite;
and I believe that more profligacy is concealed beneath such a mask as I
so long wore, than can possibly exist amongst those who make no outward
display of religion. But I will not detain you longer: I know that
Adelais must be cruelly shocked by all that has lately happened. One
word, however, before we part:—you will not—you can not acquaint _her_
with—with——"

"With the ruin of Rosamond!" cried Clarence, seeing that his aunt
hesitated. "Oh! no—no: it would kill my poor wife! Not for worlds would
I allow her to learn that dreadful secret! And now I understand full
well wherefore Rosamond preferred to remain with her new friends, rather
than accompany her sister and myself."

Mrs. Torrens and Clarence embraced and separated; the former returning
to her ward in company with the matron, who had waited in an adjacent
room during this interview;—and the latter repairing to the office of
the governor, to whom he handed the document which his aunt had signed.

The young man then proceeded to the house of some friends dwelling in
the City, and with whom he had left Adelais during his visit to Newgate.

We should observe that he was fully enabled thus to dispose of his time
according to his own will, he having obtained six weeks' leave of
absence from the Government Office to which he belonged.

In the course of the morning, he called at the lodgings which he had
occupied in Bridge Street, Blackfriars, previously to his marriage with
Adelais, to see if there were any letters lying there for him. There was
only one; and the contents of that ran as follow:—

                                                    "_Pall Mall West._

  "The Earl of Ellingham presents his compliments to Mr. Villiers, and
  requests that Mr. Villiers will, on his return to town, favour the
  Earl with an interview relative to private business of some
  importance."

"There must assuredly be some mistake in this," observed Clarence, as he
showed the letter to Adelais, "for I am totally unacquainted with this
nobleman, and cannot understand what private business he can possibly
have to transact with me. However, I will call to-morrow or next day and
ascertain the point, when the excitement connected with your father's
situation shall have somewhat subsided by the declaration of his
innocence."

We need hardly say that Clarence had communicated to his beloved wife
the fact that his aunt had narrated to him the particulars of the manner
in which Sir Henry Courtenay came by his death, and that he had drawn up
the narrative, which, upon being signed by her, had been deposited in
the hands of the governor of Newgate.




                             CHAPTER XCVI.
                     SIR CHRISTOPHER BLUNT A HERO.


It was about mid-day when an extraordinary rumour began to spread like
wildfire throughout the metropolis.

The report was, that between ten and eleven o'clock that morning, Sir
Christopher Blunt and Dr. Lascelles had presented themselves to the
sitting magistrate at Bow Street, and had not only communicated to that
functionary a surprising account of certain adventures which had
happened to themselves, but had likewise placed in his hands a document
which proclaimed the innocence of Mr. Torrens, who was lying in Newgate
under an accusation of murder.

The adventures alluded to were of such an amazing character, that, had
they been related by persons of a less honourable reputation than Sir
Christopher Blunt and Dr. Lascelles, they would have been treated as a
pure invention on the part either of maniacs or unprincipled friends of
the accused.

But the known integrity of those two gentlemen gave no scope for even
the slightest breath of suspicion; and their tale, though wonderful, was
so consistent in all its parts, that it was received as one of those
truths which are "stranger than fiction."

The entire metropolis was in amazement!

Two respectable gentlemen—an eminent physician and a wealthy Justice of
the Peace—had been conducted, blindfolded, to a house where they had
received the depositions of two men who confessed themselves to be the
murderers of the late Sir Henry Courtenay. There was no appearance of
fraud in that confession. The men had been cross-examined apart, and had
agreed in the minutest details. Every one therefore believed that Mr.
Torrens was indeed innocent; and the sitting magistrate at Bow Street
expressed the same opinion.

But who was the individual that had caused Sir Christopher Blunt and Dr.
Lascelles to be thus made the recipients of the confession of the
murderers? Where was the house to which those gentlemen had been taken?
What motive was there for screening the assassins? Why was so much
mystery observed in the entire transaction? And wherefore had Sir
Christopher and the physician been enjoined to withhold the publication
of the matter for twenty-four hours after its occurrence?

These questions were in every body's mouth; but no one could suggest any
thing resembling even the shadow of a satisfactory solution.

The weapon with which the crime had been perpetrated, and a portion of
the proceeds of the robbery effected at Torrens Cottage at the same
time, accompanied the depositions placed by Sir Christopher Blunt in the
hands of the magistrate; and a surgeon, on examining the corpse which
had been removed to the deceased's house previous to receiving the rites
of Christian burial, declared that the throat must have been cut by such
an instrument as the one thus produced.

But this was not all. The moment the rumour of what had occurred at Bow
Street reached the prison of Newgate, the governor hastened to the
police-office, and submitted to the magistrate the confession made that
morning by Mrs. Torrens.

This confession not only admitted her guilt in respect to the
forgery—but gave such a version of the murder, as completely tallied
with the depositions made by Timothy Splint and Joshua Pedler.

Looking at the entire case, as it thus stood, there was no doubt of the
innocence of Mr. Torrens; and all that gentleman's friends—who, by the
bye, had hitherto kept aloof from him—crowded to Newgate to congratulate
him on the facts which had transpired.

The sensation created by the affair, throughout the capital, was
tremendous; and when the evening papers were published, the copies were
greedily caught up in all directions. It was a fine harvest for those
journals; and their sale that day was prodigious.

An individual often spoken of, but never yet seen—namely, "the oldest
inhabitant in the metropolis"—was duly mentioned on the occasion.

"Never," said each of the evening papers—as if the reporters had all
been suddenly struck by the same idea,—"never, within the memory of the
oldest inhabitant of the metropolis, has so extraordinary a case
transpired."

And certainly no event for many years had produced such a powerful
excitement, animating even the most callous and indifferent dispositions
with a desire to know more, and setting a-thinking many who had quite
enough in their own affairs to occupy all their thoughts.

The taverns, public-houses, and coffee-shops became the scenes of loud
and interesting discussions, but even the knowing-ones found no
opportunity of displaying their sagacity, for the mystery of the whole
affair positively defied conjecture.

"But who can the man be that is at the bottom of all this? and where can
his residence be situated?" were the questions which every tongue
uttered, and to which no one could reply.

That such an extraordinary incident could occur in the metropolis,
without leaving the faintest trace or the smallest clue to the
elucidation of the enigma, appeared almost incredible.

As for Sir Christopher Blunt—he certainly did not appear to know whether
he stood upon his head or his heels. The Home Secretary sent for him in
the course of the afternoon, and received from his lips a full and
complete statement of the whole occurrence; for the Government was
naturally indignant that any individual should unwarrantably usurp the
functions of the proper authorities by holding murderers in his own
custody and adopting his own course to prove the innocence of a man in
the grasp of justice. Sir Christopher was, however, unable to afford the
slightest information which was likely to lead to the discovery of that
individual, or of his place of abode.

On his return to his own house in Jermyn Street, Sir Christopher found
several noblemen and influential gentlemen, including three or four
Members of Parliament, waiting to see him; and he instantly became the
lion of the company.

No pen can describe the immense pomposity with which he repeated his
narrative of the mysterious transaction: no words can convey an idea of
the immeasurable conceit and self-sufficiency with which he described
the cross-examination of the murderers.

In fact, the knight made himself so busy in the matter—was so accessible
to all visitors who were anxious to gratify their curiosity by asking a
thousand questions—and was so ready to afford the newspaper-reporters
all the information which he had to impart respecting the incident, that
no one thought of applying to Dr. Lascelles in a similar manner. This
circumstance was the more agreeable to the physician, inasmuch as he not
only disliked wasting his time in gossip, but was well pleased at
escaping the necessity of giving vague answers or positive denials in an
affair the details of which were in reality no mystery to him.

To all his visitors Sir Christopher Blunt took care to speak in the
following terms:—"You see, the individual who is the prime mover in this
most extraordinary proceeding, required the assistance of no ordinary
magistrate. He wanted a man of keen penetration—the most perfect
business-habits—and of the highest character,—a man, in a word, who
would probe the very souls of the two miscreants to be placed before
him, and on whose report the world could implicitly rely. _That_ was the
reason wherefore I was pitched upon as the Justice of the Peace best
qualified to undertake so difficult a business."

Sir Christopher became a perfect hero, as the mysterious stranger had
predicted; and during the remainder of that memorable day on which the
innocence of Mr. Torrens was proclaimed, Jermyn Street was literally
lined with carriages, the common destination being the knight's
abode;—so that a stranger in the metropolis would have supposed that
such a scene of animation and excitement could only be occasioned by the
arrival of some great foreign prince, or that the Prime Minister lived
in that house and was holding a levée.

When all Sir Christopher's visitors had retired, and he found himself
alone in his drawing-room at about half-past ten that evening, he threw
himself on a sofa, exclaiming aloud, "Egad! that old fellow, who knocked
down the Irish Captain and afterwards turned out to be a young man, was
quite right. I am a hero—a regular hero! This popularity is truly
delightful. I really do not envy the Duke of Wellington his having won
the battle of Waterloo. No, indeed—not I! Sir Christopher Blunt is a
greater man than his Grace, although only a knight."

Scarcely had the worthy gentleman arrived at this very satisfactory
conclusion, when Mr. Lykspittal entered the room, holding his portfolio
in his hand, and bowing so low at every third step which he took in
advancing towards the knight, that it really seemed as if he were
anxious to ascertain how close to the floor he could put his nose
without rolling completely over like the clown at Astley's.

"My revered patron," began Mr. Lykspittal, "I have taken the liberty of
bringing the first half dozen pages of the manuscript of the pamphlet——"

"The deuce take the pamphlet, Mr. Lykspittal!" shouted Sir Christopher,
leaping from the sofa, and, in the exuberance of his joy, kicking the
portfolio from the literary gentleman's hands up to the ceiling, so that
the papers all showered down upon the head of their author, who stood
amazed and aghast at this singular reception.

But in the next moment it struck the discomfited Mr. Lykspittal that Sir
Christopher Blunt had suddenly taken leave of his senses—or, in other
words, had gone raving mad; and he rushed to the door.

"Stop—stop!" cried Sir Christopher, darting after him. "What the deuce
is the matter with the man?"

"No—don't—don't injure me!" roared Mr. Lykspittal, falling upon his
knees, as the knight caught him by the arm.

"Injure you, my good fellow!" exclaimed Sir Christopher, surveying him
with the utmost amazement. "What could possibly put such a thing into
your head? I am not angry with you: I'm only mad——"

"I know you are!" cried Mr. Lykspittal in a tone of horror, while his
countenance expressed the most ludicrous alarm.

"Yes—mad—literally mad—insane—my dear fellow!" vociferated Sir
Christopher, quitting his hold upon the literary gentleman and
absolutely dancing round him.

"O Lord! O Lord!" groaned Mr. Lykspittal, still upon his knees and
nailed by terror to the spot.

"Insane—mad with joy!" cried the knight. "But get up—and don't be
frightened. I am not angry with you. But I suppose that the idea of
entering the presence of a man like me is too much for you, my poor
fellow," added Sir Christopher, stopping short in the midst of his
capering antics, and surveying the literary gentleman with immense
commiseration.

"Oh! only mad—with joy?" murmured Mr. Lykspittal, considerably relieved
by the assurance, and starting to his feet: then, dexterously catching
at the suspicion which Sir Christopher, in his boundless self-conceit,
had expressed, the literary gentleman suddenly resumed his usual
cringing manner, and said in a tone of deep veneration, "Pardon me, my
excellent patron, if—for a moment overcome by your presence—the presence
of a man whose name is upon every tongue——"

"Say no more about it, my good fellow!" cried the knight, with all the
bland condescension of a patron. "To tell you the truth, I am quite
beside myself with joy; but I should not expose myself thus to any one
save yourself. You are, however, a privileged person—behind the scenes,
as it were; and you know how necessary popularity is to me. Egad! Mr.
Lykspittal, I little thought when I began life as a poor boy, that I
should one day become a great——"

"A _very_ great," meekly suggested the sycophant.

"A very great man," added Sir Christopher, emphatically, as he surveyed
himself in a neighbouring mirror. "I tell you what, Mr. Lykspittal—those
vulgar citizens of Portsoken must now be ready to cut their throats——"

"A person _did_ expire in that ward very suddenly to-day, Sir
Christopher," observed the literary gentleman, drawing upon his
imagination for this little incident, which he knew would prove most
welcome to the knight's vanity; "and there's every reason to suppose
that his death was caused by vexation."

"No doubt of it!" exclaimed the Justice of the Peace, playing with his
shirt-frill. "Don't you see that there will be now no necessity for the
pamphlets?"

Here Mr. Lykspittal's countenance fell.

"But you shall write instead," continued the knight, "a complete
narrative of my most romantic and extraordinary adventures."

Here Mr. Lykspittal's countenance brightened up again.

"No—you shan't, though," cried his patron, an idea striking him.

Again the sycophant's brow became overcast.

"You shall write the history of my life!" added Sir Christopher.

And again the literary gentleman's brow expanded.

"Yes—_The Life_——"

"And _Times_," suggested Mr. Lykspittal.

"_The Life and Times of Sir Christopher Blunt_," exclaimed the knight
triumphantly.

"In three volumes, large octavo, with portraits," added the sycophant.

"Egad! that's a capital suggestion of your's—the portraits, I mean,"
said Sir Christopher. "But you must show that, although I began the
world with nothing, yet I am of an ancient and highly respectable
family——"

"Certainly, my dear sir. There was no doubt a Blunt at Crecy or
Agincourt," observed Mr. Lykspittal. "At all events it is easy to say
there was, and in a note put '_See M.S.S., British Museum._' That is the
way we always manage in such cases, my dear Sir Christopher. The British
Museum is a most convenient place——"

"What—to write in?" asked the Justice of the Peace.

"No, sir—to furnish pedigrees for those who haven't got any."

"Ah! I understand!" cried Sir Christopher, chuckling. "Capital! capital!
Well, my good fellow, set about the _Life and Times_ directly. But, by
the bye, I wish the work to begin something in this way—'_It was on a
dark and tempestiferous night—the wind roared—the artillery flew in
fitting gusts—the streaming shafts of electricity shot across the
eccentric sky_,'—and so on. That's a pretty sentence, you perceive; and
being entirely my own composition—striking me, in fact, at the
moment—and not suggested by any other person——"

"It does you infinite credit, Sir Christopher," interrupted Mr.
Lykspittal, with an obsequious bow; "and with a _leetle_ correction——"

"Oh! of course you will use your discretion. Well, now we understand
each other, Mr. Lykspittal; and you will begin the work immediately. Of
course you must introduce a great quantity of correspondence between
myself and the leading men of this age, but who are now all dead."

"Have you any such letters by you, sir?" enquired the literary
gentleman.

"Not I!" ejaculated Sir Christopher Blunt, speaking bluntly indeed.

"Oh! that's no matter—I can easily invent some," observed Mr.
Lykspittal. "I thank you most sincerely for your kind—your generous
patronage, my dear Sir Christopher. In fact, I can never forget
it—I—I——"

And Mr. Lykspittal, by way of working his sycophancy up to the highest
possible pitch—or, shall we not say, down to the lowest degree of
self-abasement—affected to burst into tears and rushed from the room.

"Poor fellow! he's quite overcome by his feelings," murmured Sir
Christopher to himself. "That's what I call real gratitude, now!"

And, having mused upon this and divers other matters for some few
minutes, the worthy knight went up stairs to see his affectionate spouse
and the baby, ere he retired to his own apartment.




                             CHAPTER XCVII.
                             CARLTON HOUSE.


We are now about to relate an incident which, at present, may appear to
have little to do with the thread of our narrative, but which, we can
assure our readers, will hereafter prove of immense importance in the
development of the tale.

On the evening of that day when the innocence of Mr. Torrens was
proclaimed, as related in the preceding chapter, King George IV. gave a
grand entertainment at Carlton House.

This splendid mansion was that monarch's favourite residence—not only
when he was Prince of Wales and Regent, but likewise while he wore on
his unworthy brow the British diadem.

Execrable as the character of this unprincipled voluptuary and
disgusting debauchee notoriously was, he unquestionably possessed good
taste in choosing the decorations of a drawing-room, selecting a paper
of a suitable pattern to match particular furniture, and superintending
the fittings of a banquetting-hall. Carlton House was accordingly
rendered a perfect gem of a palace under his auspices; and there the
King loved to dwell, passing his evenings in elegant orgies and his
nights in lascivious enjoyment.

The interior of Carlton House was indeed most sumptuous in all its
arrangements. The state-apartments were fitted up with a grandeur
properly chastened by elegance; and convenience and comfort were studied
as much as magnificence. The entrance-hall was paved with veined marble,
the roof being supported by Ionic columns from the quarries of Sienna.
The west ante-room contained many fine portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds.
But the most splendid of all the apartments was the Crimson
Drawing-room, which was decorated in the richest and yet most tasteful
manner. The rich draperies, the architectural embellishments, the
immense pier-glasses, the chandeliers of cut glass, and the massive
furniture all richly gilt, evinced the state of perfection which the
arts and manufactures have attained in this country.

Adjoining the Crimson Drawing-room was the Rotunda, the architecture of
which was of the Ionic order, every part having been selected from the
finest specimens of ancient Greece. The ceiling was painted to represent
the sky, and was in the shape of a hemisphere. Another beautiful
apartment was the Rose Satin Drawing-room, fitted up after the Chinese
fashion, and in the middle of which stood a circular table of Sevres
porcelain, the gift of Louis XVIII. to the King. Many pictures by the
old masters likewise embellished that room.

We must also mention the Blue Velvet Room, remarkable for the refined
taste displayed in its decorations,—and the Library, Golden
Drawing-room, Gothic Dining-room, Bow Room, Conservatory, Armoury,
Vestibule, and Throne Room, the last of which was fitted up with crimson
velvet, and produced, when illuminated, a superb effect.

This rapid glance at the interior of Carlton House may serve to afford
the reader a general idea of the splendour of that palace,—a splendour
almost dazzling to contemplate, if we consider it for a few moments in
juxta-position with the deplorable misery of thousands and thousands of
cottages, huts, and hovels in which so large a number of the working
population are forced to dwell!

But kings and queens care nothing for the condition of their people. So
long as their selfish desires can be gratified and all their childish
whims or extravagant caprices can be fulfilled, the industrious millions
may rot in their miserable hovels, crushed by the weight of that
taxation which is so largely augmented by the wants of Royalty!

It is absurd to venerate and adore Royalty; for Royalty is either
despicably frivolous, or vilely arbitrary:—and he who admires or adores
it, is an enemy to his own interests.

Let us, however, return to the subject of this chapter.

It was ten at night; and carriage after carriage, in rapid succession,
set down the noble and beauteous guests at the entrance of Carlton
House.

The palace itself was a blaze of light; and the brilliant lustre, shed
throughout the spacious rooms by the magnificent chandeliers, was
reflected on the numerous pier-glasses and enhanced by the splendour of
the diamonds worn by the ladies.

Upwards of four hundred guests—constituting the _élite_ of the
fashionable world—were there assembled; and amongst them moved the King
himself—undoubtedly a polished gentleman, although the few—the very few
qualifications which he did possess have been greatly exaggerated by
writers of the Lykspittal school.

It was a _re-union_ of beauty, rank, and fashion, of the most brilliant
description, though on a limited scale. A full band was in attendance;
and dancing commenced in the drawing-rooms shortly after ten o'clock.

Amongst the guests was the Earl of Ellingham,—conspicuous by his fine
form and handsome countenance, and more deserving of respect on account
of his noble nature than by reason of his noble name: for a title is a
thing which any monarch can bestow—but God alone can create the generous
heart and the glorious intellect!

Lady Hatfield was likewise there; for, averse as she was to the
assemblies of fashion, yet having received a card of invitation to this
_re-union_, she could not refuse to obey the "royal commands."

And beautiful she appeared, too—with diamonds sparkling on her hair, and
in a dress which enhanced the loveliness of her complexion and set off
her graceful figure and rounded bust to their utmost advantage.

She had accompanied the ladies of a noble family with whom she was
intimately acquainted; and when the party was presented to the King, he
contemplated Lady Hatfield with an admiration which he did not attempt
to conceal. Indeed, he addressed himself particularly to her during the
few minutes that he remained in conversation with the party to which she
belonged. But other guests speedily demanded his attention, and he moved
away, not however without bestowing another long and even amorous look
upon Georgiana, who felt relieved when the monarch was no longer near.

[Illustration]

The Earl was speedily by Lady Hatfield's side, as soon as she was
seated; and, after a few cursory observations upon the entertainment,
she said to him, "Have you lately visited Mr. de Medina?"

"Not for the last two or three days," he replied. "I have been kept much
at home by the necessity of preparing materials for the speech which I
shall have to make on Monday evening next, on moving, according to the
notice which I have already given in the House of Lords, for certain
papers calculated to throw some light on the state of the industrious
classes."

"You at last intend to shine as a great statesman, Arthur?" said Lady
Hatfield, with a smile.

"I intend to apply myself to the grand subject of proposing those
measures which may ameliorate the condition of millions of human
beings," answered the Earl. "Do you not remember, Georgiana, that I told
you how one whose name I need not mention, adjured me to do my duty as a
British legislator? and have you forgotten that I explained to you the
deep impression which his language on that occasion made upon me?"

"I have forgotten nothing that you ever told me," answered Lady
Hatfield; "and I am rejoiced to hear that you are now seriously resolved
to apply your great talents to so useful a purpose. You must give the
necessary orders to enable me to obtain admittance to the House of Lords
on Monday evening next; for I would not for worlds be disappointed in
hearing your sentiments upon so grand and important a question."

"If we were not in the light of sister and brother to each other,
Georgiana, I should say that I am flattered by your words," remarked the
Earl: "but, as it is, I can only assure you that I receive the
expression of your desire to be present in the House of Lords next
Monday, as a mark of that sincere attachment—that profound friendship
which you bear towards me, and which is so entirely reciprocated."

"And have you reflected upon the conversation which occurred between us
the other day relative to Miss Esther de Medina?" enquired Georgiana.

"I have," was the answer; "but as yet I have arrived at no decision."

"The next time you call upon me, then," said Lady Hatfield, smiling, and
yet subduing a sigh at the same moment, "I shall repeat to you all the
arguments in that respect which I used on the former occasion. Now give
me your arm, and we will walk into the next room through the open
folding-doors of which I catch a glimpse of some fine paintings."

To the adjacent apartment they accordingly proceeded, and inspected
several fine pictures, some by the old masters, and others by the most
celebrated professors in modern art.

While they were thus engaged, the King approached them, greeted the Earl
with urbane cordiality, and proceeded to point out to Lady Hatfield the
best compositions amongst the works which she was admiring. The monarch
then proposed that she should visit the Armoury; and as, when he had
first approached, she had, through deference to Royalty,[41]
relinquished the arm of the Earl of Ellingham, she was now compelled to
accept that of the King. His Majesty, however, implied by his manner
that Arthur was to accompany them; and the young nobleman accordingly
followed the monarch and Georgiana to the Armoury.

As they passed through the rooms leading thither, many an envious glance
was bent upon Lady Hatfield by the wives and daughters of aristocracy,
each of whom would have given ten years of her life to obtain so much
favour in the eyes of Royalty; although the King was, at this period,
upwards of sixty-four years of age.

There was, nevertheless, nothing in Lady Hatfield's manner which
indicated a consciousness of triumph: her deportment was modest, yet
dignified—and manifesting that ease and self-possession which constitute
such important proofs of good breeding.

"This is the first time that I have seen your ladyship at Carlton
House," remarked the King, as they passed slowly on towards the Armoury.

"I have never had the honour of visiting your Majesty's palace until the
present occasion," was the reply.

"You must not be forgotten in future," said the King: then slightly
sinking his voice, he added, "A palace is the fitting region to be
adorned by beauty such as your's."

Lady Hatfield affected not to hear the observation; and the Earl of
Ellingham actually did not.

"I am an enthusiastic admirer of female loveliness," continued the King;
"and I envy those who possess the talent of pourtraying upon canvas the
features which are most dear to them. By the way," added his Majesty, as
if a sudden idea had just struck him, "I intend to have a Diana painted
for my Library. Beautiful Lady Hatfield, you must be the original of my
Diana! Grant me that favour—I shall esteem it highly; and to-morrow Sir
Thomas Lawrence shall call upon your ladyship to receive your commands
relative to the first sitting."

"Your Majesty will deign to excuse me," said Georgiana, in a cold but
profoundly respectful tone.

"Indeed, I shall receive no apology," observed the King, laughing. "But
here we are in the Armoury; and it will give me infinite pleasure to
direct your attention to those curiosities which are the worthiest of
notice."

George the Fourth then pointed out to Lady Hatfield and the Earl of
Ellingham, the swords which had belonged respectively to the Chevalier
Bayard, the great Duke of Marlborough, Louis XIV., that glorious patriot
Hampden (would that we had such a man at the present time!), General
Moreau, Marshal Luckner, and other heroes. There was also a hunting
knife which had belonged to Charles XII. of Sweden; and in addition to
these curiosities, there were many military antiquities, especially in
costume, all of which the King explained to the lady and the Earl.

From time to time it struck Lady Hatfield that her royal companion
pressed her arm gently in his own, and not in an accidental way, as he
addressed himself to her; and he also looked at her more than once in a
very peculiar manner. Had he been of a less exalted rank, she would have
instantaneously quitted him; but she reflected that it would be an
evidence of insane vanity and conceit on her part were she to interpret
in a particular way attentions which after all might have nothing more
than a common significancy. She however remained cold, but respectful;
and if the King really meant any thing more than the usual courtesy
which a gentleman naturally pays to a lady, he received not the
slightest encouragement.

"Ellingham," he said, turning abruptly towards the Earl, "do you carry a
snuff-box?"

"I do not, sire," was the answer.

"That is provoking! I left mine on the porcelain table in the Chinese
Drawing Room."

The young nobleman understood the hint, bowed, and departed to fetch the
box—not however for a moment suspecting that the King had any sinister
motive in sending him away from the Armoury, where his Majesty and
Georgiana now remained alone together; for that museum had not been
thrown open for the inspection of the guests generally.

"Beautiful Lady Hatfield," said George the Fourth, the moment the
folding-doors had closed of their own accord behind the Earl, "you will
consent to allow Lawrence to copy your sweet countenance for my Diana?"

"Your Majesty will deign to excuse me," was the cold and now reserved
answer; for Georgiana's suspicions, previously excited in a faint
degree, had gathered strength from the fact of her royal companion
having got rid of the Earl in the manner already described.

"No—I will not excuse you, beautiful lady," exclaimed the King,
enthusiastically—or with affected enthusiasm. "Your's is a countenance
which, being seen once, leaves behind a desire to behold it again; and
as I shall have no chance of often viewing the original, I must content
myself with the contemplation of the picture."

"Your Majesty is pleased to compliment me thus," said Georgiana, more
coldly than before: "and your Majesty is of course privileged. But such
words, coming from a less exalted quarter, would be deemed offensive."

"I am unfortunate in not being able to render myself agreeable to Lady
Hatfield," observed George the Fourth, drawing himself proudly up to his
full height—for he was really piqued by the lady's manner—he who never
sued in vain for a beauteous woman's smiles! But, probably reflecting
that his haughtiness was little suited either to his previous conduct
towards Georgiana or to his aims with regard to her, he immediately
unbent again, saying in his blandest and most amiable tones, "Not for
worlds would I offend you, charming lady: on the contrary, I would give
worlds, did I possess them, to be able to win a single smile from those
sweet lips."

Georgiana withdrew her hand from the King's arm, and became red with
indignation.

"Forgive me—pardon me," said the monarch hastily: "I perceive that you
are vexed with me—and I am very unfortunate in having offended you."

Thus speaking he again proffered his arm, which Lady Hatfield took,
saying, "Would your Majesty deign to conduct me back to the company?"

At this moment the Earl of Ellingham returned to the Armoury, and handed
the King his snuff-box. The party then retraced their way to the
splendid saloons, the monarch conversing the while in a manner which
seemed to indicate that Lady Hatfield had no ground to fear his
recurrence to subjects that were disagreeable to her. At length he
resigned her to the care of Lord Ellingham; but ere he turned away, he
gave her a rapid and significant look, as much as to say, "I throw
myself upon your generosity not to mention my conduct towards you."

The King now withdrew from the apartments thrown open for the reception
of the company, and remained absent for nearly an hour. When he
returned, his countenance was much flushed; and it was evident that he
had been enjoying a glass or two of his favourite curaçoa-punch, in
company with a few boon-companions, who had been summoned to attend him
in a private room remote from the state-saloons.

One of the boon-companions just alluded to, was a certain Sir Phillip
Warren—an old courtier who was supposed to enjoy the confidence of the
King, and who, it was rumoured, had been the means of extricating his
royal master, when Prince of Wales, from many a difficulty in financial
matters as well as from the danger of exposure in divers amatory
intrigues. Without any defined official position about the person of the
King, Sir Phillip was nevertheless a very important individual in the
royal household—one of those useful, but mysterious agents who, while
enjoying the reputation of men of honour, are in reality the means by
which the dirty-work of palaces is accomplished. In appearance, Sir
Phillip Warren was a stout, red-faced, good-humoured-looking man; and
not the least of those qualifications which rendered him so especial a
favourite with the King, was the aristocratic faculty that he possessed
of taking his three bottles after dinner without seeming to have imbibed
any thing stronger than water.

Such was the courtier who, accosting the Earl of Ellingham, shortly
after the King's return to the drawing-rooms, drew that nobleman aside
with an intimation that he wished to say a few words to him in private.

Taking the Earl's arm, Sir Phillip Warren led him away from the
brilliantly lighted saloons, and introduced the nobleman into the Blue
Velvet Closet—a small but elegantly decorated room, where a single lamp
was burning upon the table.

"His Majesty has been speaking to me concerning your lordship," said Sir
Phillip Warren, when Arthur and himself were seated alone together in
the Closet; "indeed, our royal master has been graciously pleased to
intimate that he is much prepossessed in your favour."

The Earl bowed a cold recognition of the compliment,—for he was far too
enlightened a man not to feel disgust at the sycophantic language in
which that compliment was conveyed—and he was likewise convinced that
there was some ulterior object in view.

"A young nobleman such as your lordship, may rise to the highest offices
in the State by means of the royal favour," continued Sir Phillip. "Your
talents are known to be great—and your influence in the House of Lords
is consequently extensive. But his Majesty regrets to learn that your
lordship seems inclined to proclaim opinions so far in advance of the
spirit of the age as to be dangerous to the institutions of the
country—those institutions which the wisdom of our ancestors devised,
and which the experience of ages has consecrated."

"Really, Sir Phillip Warren," said the Earl, unfeignedly surprised at
this address, "I am at a loss to conceive wherefore you should seek to
lead me into a political discussion on such an occasion as the present."

"I will explain myself," returned the courtier. "His Majesty retired
just now, with a few of his faithful servants, amongst whom I have the
honour to be included, to partake of a little refreshment; and while we
were thus engaged, his Majesty made an observation highly in favour of
yourself. A nobleman present thereupon informed his Majesty that your
lordship had placed a certain notice upon the books of the House of
which your lordship is so distinguished an ornament. The nature of that
notice is displeasing to his Majesty, who is graciously pleased to think
that the common people already consider themselves of far greater
importance than they really are."

"If, sir, by the contemptuous phrase '_the common people_,' you mean
that enlightened and respectable body—_the working classes_," exclaimed
the Earl indignantly, "I must beg to declare that I differ totally from
the opinion which his Majesty has expressed concerning them."

"Well—well, my dear Earl," said Sir Phillip, in a conciliatory tone:
"every one has a right to his own opinion—we are aware of _that fact_.
But permit me to represent to you that you will gain no personal
advantage, by espousing the cause of the masses."

"I seek no personal advantage," cried Arthur, with an impatient gesture,
indicative of his desire to terminate the interview at once. "I am not
putting myself forward as a factious demagogue—I seek not the honours of
a democratic championship: but _this_ I intend and contemplate, Sir
Phillip Warren—to exert all my energies, use all the little influence I
may possess, and devote any amount of talent which God has given me, for
the purpose of directing the attention of the Legislature to the
neglected, oppressed and impoverished condition of that fine English
people which constitutes the pillar of the State."

"By adopting such a course, my lord," remonstrated Sir Phillip, "you
will offend his Majesty, who is now so well disposed towards you, that
were you inclined to enter his service in the sphere of diplomacy, your
wishes might be complied with at once. Indeed, the post of Envoy
Plenipotentiary to the important Grand Duchy of Castelcicala is at this
moment vacant; and if your lordship——"

"In one word, Sir Phillip Warren," interrupted the Earl of Ellingham,
rising from his seat, "you are desirous to tempt me into a compromise.
Wherefore do you not frankly explain yourself at once, and say,
'_Withdraw your notice from the books of the House of Lords, and depart
as Ambassador to the Court of Angelo, Grand Duke of Castelcicala_:' to
which I should immediately reply, '_No possible reward which an earthly
monarch can give, should induce me to abandon that task which a sense of
duty has imposed upon me_.'"

Sir Phillip Warren was astonished at the firmness and boldness with
which the Earl spoke; for such manly independence was quite unusual in
the atmosphere of a corrupt Court and venal political world. The fact
was that Sir Phillip had undertaken the task of effecting the desired
compromise with the Earl: the King had specially entrusted the matter to
him;—and the courtier trembled at the idea of being compelled to report
the total failure of the negotiation to his royal master. He was
therefore cruelly embarrassed, and knew not what course to adopt.

But suddenly an idea struck him;—for he perceived that the Earl was not
a man to be tempted by reward; but he thought that the nobleman might
perhaps be overcome by the powers of eloquent reasoning.

"My dear Earl," he accordingly said, "you are too honourable and too
highly-principled a statesman not to yield to conviction. Grant me, in
common justice, one favour: I ask it in the name of his Majesty."

"Speak," exclaimed Arthur, resuming his chair to show that he was
prepared to listen with courteous attention.

"The Prime Minister is present at the _re-union_ this evening," said Sir
Phillip: "will you hear any argument which he may address to you upon
the subject of your notice for next Monday night, and consider whatever
may pass between you to be strictly confidential?"

"I should be unreasonable to refuse to listen to any observations which
so high a functionary as the Prime Minister may address to me," answered
the Earl; "and I shall consider our interview to be private and
confidential, on condition that no insult be offered to me in the shape
of temptation or promise of reward. If it can be shown by fair argument
that I am wrong in pursuing the course which I have adopted, I will
yield to conviction; but I shall spurn with contempt and indignation any
other means that may be adopted to induce me to withdraw my notice from
the books of the House."

"The Interview shall take place upon the condition your lordship has
stipulated. Be kind enough to await my return with the Prime Minister."

Sir Phillip Warren then withdrew, closing the door behind him.

But scarcely had he left the Blue Velvet Closet, when the lamp upon the
table suddenly grew dim; and in a few moments the light expired
altogether, doubtless through lack of oil—leaving the room in total
darkness.

The Earl was uncertain how to act; and while he was still deliberating
with himself whether to leave the Closet in search of a servant to
procure another light, or await the return of Sir Phillip Warren, the
door opened.

"This room is in darkness, sire," immediately said a female voice, which
the Earl of Ellingham recognised to be that of Lady Hatfield.

"I pledge you my royal word that I was ignorant of the fact when I
conducted you hither," returned the King. "But, pray enter, beauteous
lady: we may at all events converse at our ease for a few minutes."

And to the amazement of the Earl, Georgiana complied with the King's
request, accompanying his Majesty into that dark room, the door of which
was immediately closed. Indeed, so astounded—so shocked was Arthur by
this incident, that he sate motionless and speechless in his chair at
the further extremity of the apartment.

"My dearest Lady Hatfield," said the King, "I thank you most sincerely
for having thrown aside that chilling—freezing manner which you
maintained in the early part of the evening, when I sought to make you
understand the profound admiration with which your beauty has inspired
me. How unfortunate are princes! They cannot obey the dictates of their
hearts—they dare not bestow their hand where their affections are
engaged. But society is justly lenient in their behalf; and thus the
lady who becomes a monarch's favourite, is regarded with envy and
respect, and not with contumely or reproach."

"But no lady who entertains the slightest feeling of self-respect,"
observed Lady Hatfield, in a low and tremulous tone, "will abandon
herself in a moment even to a monarch. There must be proofs of real
attachment on his side——"

"Granted, beauteous Georgiana," interrupted the King impatiently. "Show
me how I can demonstrate my affection towards yourself—ask me any boon
which I have the power to grant, and which I dare accord——"

"Oh! if your Majesty would only fulfil this pledge!" exclaimed Lady
Hatfield joyfully.

"Do you doubt me?" demanded George the Fourth. "Put me to the test, I
say—and you shall be convinced of my readiness, my anxiety to prove how
deeply I am attached to you, although the impression made on my heart be
so sudden."

"Sire," resumed Lady Hatfield, "I shall be so bold as to take your
Majesty at your word. To-morrow your Majesty will receive a certain
paper; and I warn your Majesty beforehand that its contents will be most
singular."

"I shall ask no farther explanations than you may choose to give,
beauteous Georgiana," observed the King. "But when I receive the paper,
what next do you require?"

"That your Majesty shall affix to it your royal signature, and likewise
direct your Majesty's Secretary of State for the Home Department to
countersign it," responded Lady Hatfield. "This being done, the document
must be returned to me."

"All that you have stipulated, shall be carried into effect," said the
King: then, sinking his voice and assuming a tender tone, he added, "But
will there be room for me to hope, sweet lady——"

"Your Majesty must remember the observation I made ere now," interrupted
Georgiana. "Before a woman, whose affection is really worthy of being
possessed, can consent to surrender herself entirely even to one so
highly placed as you, sire, her heart must be won by kindnesses shown—by
proofs of attachment given——"

"I accept the condition implied, charming Georgiana," exclaimed the
King. "You imagine that I am now influenced by a sudden caprice—that the
love which I bear for you is the phantasy of a moment. Well—I will
convince you to the contrary; and when I shall have proved to you that
my passion survives the passing hour—then—then, sweet lady, you will not
suffer me to hope in vain! Come—let us return to the drawing-room; and
believe me when I declare that you have made me supremely happy. But,
ere we again seek that society where a cold ceremony must keep us under
a rigid restraint, allow me to seal upon your lips that pledge for which
I have already given my royal word."

"No, sire—not now—not yet!" cried Lady Hatfield, in a tone which showed
that she felt herself to be in a position to dictate to her regal
admirer.

"Cruel charmer!" said the King: "but I suppose you must be permitted to
have your own way. Send me the paper to-morrow—let it be addressed to me
under cover to Sir Phillip Warren;—and you shall see by the haste with
which it will be returned to you, that I shall count every minute an
hour, and reckon every day to be a year, until that happy moment comes
when you will be wholly and solely mine."

George the Fourth then opened the door, and led Georgiana away from the
room in which this singular scene had taken place.

But what of the Earl of Ellingham?

So completely stunned and stupified was he by all that had occurred,
that he never moved a muscle and retained his very breath suspended
while his ears drank in every word that passed between the King and Lady
Hatfield. Thus did he become an unwilling and unintentional listener to
a discourse which created the most painful emotions in his breast.

Was it possible that the Lady Hatfield whom he looked upon as the very
personification of virtue, in spite of the terrible misfortune which had
deprived her of her chastity,—was it possible that she, whose soul he
had imagined to be so pure, though dwelling in a body polluted by the
ravisher,—was it possible that she had already suffered herself to be
dazzled by the delusive overtures of royalty? and was she seriously
about to resign herself to the King's arms—to become the mistress of
that regal debauchee of sixty-four?

"My God!" thought the Earl: "I, who had such an exalted opinion of
female virtue!"

Then he remembered that portion of the conversation which had turned
upon the document Lady Hatfield was to send to the King for his royal
signature, and which she had prepared him to find of a most singular
character. Of what nature could that document be? Conjecture was vain
and useless.

The first impulse of the Earl was to inform Lady Hatfield that he had
overheard her conversation with the King, and conjure her to reflect
seriously ere she committed a fatal step of which she would assuredly
have to repent for the remainder of her life. But second thoughts
convinced him that he must retain profoundly secret the fact of his
acquaintance with the understanding existing between Georgiana and the
monarch; for in confessing himself to have been an eaves-dropper, he
should have to blush in the presence of one whom he was to take to task.
He saw it would be difficult to make the lady believe that he himself
was so stupified by her conduct, as to be totally unable to declare his
presence in a room where a private conversation was in progress; and she
would naturally upbraid him, he thought, for what might be looked upon
as a proof of mean and contemptible curiosity on his part—although, as
the reader is aware, he was indeed animated by no such vile sentiment.

Moreover, in resigning all claim to her hand—or rather, in recognising
the impossibility of contracting an alliance with a woman whom his
brother had ravished—the Earl had ceased to enjoy any right to advise or
control her in respect to her moral conduct;—and it now struck him that,
painfully situated as she was—unable to become the wife of any
honourable and confiding man—she had accepted overtures which would
render her a monarch's mistress. In a word, he conceived that he should
best consult her happiness, as matters stood, by affecting a complete
ignorance of the understanding so suddenly established between herself
and George the Fourth.

Having come to this determination, he quitted the Blue Velvet Closet,
and was retracing his way to the scene of brilliant gaiety, when he
encountered Sir Phillip Warren in the corridor.

"I searched every where for the Minister, and was unable to find him,"
said the courtier. "At last, upon making enquiries, I learnt that he had
taken his departure."

"I am not sorry that it is so," returned the Earl of Ellingham; "for I
feel convinced that no argument, although I should have listened to it
as a matter of courtesy, could deter me from advocating the cause of the
working classes."

With these words the nobleman bowed coldly to Sir Phillip Warren, and
passed on to the state-apartments, in one of which he found Lady
Hatfield seated with the friends in whose company she had arrived at the
entertainment.

Her manner was calm and collected; and if there were any change, it was
in the slight—the very slight smile of triumph which played upon her
lip:—at least, it struck the Earl that such an expression her rosy mouth
wore, as he approached her. But it disappeared as she began to converse
with him; and he so subdued his own feelings, that she did not observe
any thing to lead her to suppose that he was aware of her understanding
with the King.

Precisely at midnight the supper-rooms were thrown open; and a
magnificent banquet was served up. We need scarcely say that the most
costly wines, the most expensive luxuries, and every delicacy that gold
could procure, appeared upon the board, which absolutely groaned beneath
the weight of massive plate, superb porcelain, and brilliant crystal.

The festivity was kept up until a late hour: indeed it was past two in
the morning before the company began to separate.

But when the Earl of Ellingham was once more at home, and had retired to
his chamber, sleep would not visit his eyes, fatigued though he
were:—the scene which had occurred in the Blue Velvet Closet was so
impressed upon his mind, that he could not divert his thoughts into
another channel. It was not that he was jealous of Lady
Hatfield:—no—circumstances had changed his love for her into a sincere
and deeply-rooted friendship. But he felt disappointed—he felt deceived
in the estimate he had formed of her character: he had believed her to
be possessed of a mind too strong to be dazzled by the splendours of
Royalty, and to yield herself up to a man whom it was impossible for her
to love, merely for the sake of becoming a King's mistress.

Had George the Fourth been estimable on account of character, amiable in
disposition, and worthy of admiration as a sovereign, the Earl thought
that there would in this case have been a shadow—but even then, only a
shadow—of an excuse for the conduct of Georgiana. The reverse, was,
however, the precise fact;—for the King was notoriously a hardened
profligate—a confirmed debauchee—a disgusting voluptuary—and an
unprincipled monarch,—in a word, such a man as a refined and
strong-minded woman would look upon with abhorrence.

So thought Lord Ellingham;—and when he recalled to memory the frightful
behaviour of George the Fourth towards the unhappy Caroline, against
whom his vile agents trumped up the most unfounded accusations, and who
was hunted to death by the blood-thirsty instruments of a hellish system
of persecution,—when the Earl reflected upon all this, his amazement at
the conduct of Lady Hatfield increased almost to horror.

At length his thoughts wandered to Esther de Medina—or rather, the
beautiful Jewess became mixed up with them; for it was impossible that
the scene in the Blue Velvet Closet could be entirely banished from his
mind;—and, as he pondered upon _her_ innocence—_her_ artlessness—_her_
amiable qualities, his confidence in woman revived, and he exclaimed
aloud, as he lay in his sumptuous couch, "Oh! wherefore do I delay
securing to myself the possession of such a treasure? Yes,
Esther—dearest Esther—thou shalt be mine!"

-----

Footnote 41:

  It is contrary to Court etiquette for a lady and gentleman to remain
  arm-in-arm when conversing with a Royal personage.




                            CHAPTER XCVIII.
                      AN ACQUITTAL AND A SENTENCE.


The Blackamoor, in his mysterious abode, beheld the successful progress
of his grand schemes; and while all London was busy with conjectures
relative to the daring unknown who seemed to have constituted himself
the instrument of justice and the champion of innocence wrongly accused,
the object of this general interest and curiosity remained in impervious
concealment.

The Secretary of State offered a reward of two hundred pounds to any one
that should give such information as to lead to the discovery of the
person who had enticed Sir Christopher Blunt to his unknown abode, and
who had caused Dr. Lascelles to be conveyed thither by force; and the
most astute Bow Street agents were employed in instituting enquiries in
every part of the metropolis with a view to find out the dwelling of the
individual in question.

The newspapers teemed with the most absurd and contradictory reports on
the subject; and a thousand wild rumours were constantly circulating
throughout the metropolis. The result of all this was that those who
were employed in the enquiries above alluded to, were so mystified and
bewildered, that they worked like drunken men in the dark,—taking up and
following any ridiculous information which they obtained either from
wags or from persons who wished to appear more knowing than their
neighbours,—and pursuing what at first might seem to be a clue, but
which invariably led to nothing satisfactory at last.

The Blackamoor's own retainers, who were all faithful to their master,
augmented this confusion of rumours and ideas, by mingling amongst the
gossips in places of public resort, and gravely propagating reports
which were sure to direct the attention of the Bow Street runners from
the very point where its object lay; and all that Dr. Lascelles had been
known to hazard in the shape of conjecture in the matter, was a hint
that, to the best of his belief, the carriage in which he had been borne
away on the memorable night of the confession, had eventually stopped in
one of the most easterly suburbs of the metropolis. The consequence of
this suggestion was, that Wapping, Whitechapel, Bethnal Green, and Globe
Town were regularly explored by the Bow Street officials—but entirely
without success.

Although the innocence of Mr. Torrens was universally believed, yet, as
he had been committed for trial, it was necessary that he should undergo
the ordeal. This ceremony took place a few days after the publication of
the confession of the real murderers—indeed, on the very Monday
following the grand entertainment at Carlton House.

The prisoner was arraigned on the charge of having assassinated Sir
Henry Courtenay; and the Recorder of London presided on the bench. The
counsel for the prosecution merely stated the particulars of the
discovery of the corpse of the deceased baronet, and the circumstances
which had led to the prisoner's committal; but he did not for a moment
insist that those circumstances were conclusive against him. Sir
Christopher Blunt then detailed in evidence all that he had given in
narrative at Bow Street; and Dr. Lascelles corroborated his statement.
The confession signed by Joshua Pedler and Timothy Splint, and likewise
the one in which Martha Torrens had attested to certain facts in favour
of the prisoner, were read by the clerk of arraigns; and the counsel for
the defence was about to address the Court, when the jury declared that
their minds were already made up.

The _acquittal_ of the prisoner immediately followed; and the first
person who shook hands with him as he was released from the dock, was
Sir Christopher Blunt.

Mr. Torrens accepted a seat in the knight's carriage, and repaired to a
friend's house in the neighbourhood, where Clarence Villiers, Adelais,
Rosamond, and Esther de Medina were assembled to welcome his acquittal,
relative to which none of them had felt at all uneasy.

But it was evident that, although thus relieved from the dreadful charge
and appalling danger which had recently hung over him, Mr. Torrens was
an altered man. He had received a blow which had shaken his constitution
to its very basis:—his mental energies were impaired;—and instead of a
hale man of between fifty-five and fifty-six, which was his actual age,
he seemed to be a feeble, tottering octogenarian.

When the excitement produced by the meeting with his family after his
release had somewhat subsided, Mr. Torrens said with nervous impatience,
"Rosamond, my dear child, I shall leave England this very day. Will you
accompany your father?"

"Leave us the moment you are restored to us!" exclaimed Adelais,
bursting into tears.

"Yes—yes," returned the unhappy man: "I cannot—dare not remain in
England. Though released from a criminal gaol, yet I am in danger of
being plunged into a debtors' prison; for I am ruined, as you all
know—totally, irredeemably ruined. Besides—never, never again could I
dwell in that house where so many frightful things have occurred. Yes,"
he repeated, "I must leave England at once; and you, my poor Rosamond,"
he added, with tears trickling down his sunken cheeks, "will have to
support your father, by means of your accomplishments, in a foreign
land."

"No—that must not be," said Esther de Medina, passing a handkerchief
rapidly over her eyes: "Rosamond has friends to whom, although they have
known her but for so short a period, her welfare is dear. Foreseeing
some such decision as that to which you have now come, relative to
leaving England, my father has desired me to place a thousand pounds at
your daughter's disposal," continued the beautiful Jewess, addressing
herself to the wondering Torrens, and at the same time placing a sealed
packet in Rosamond's hands.

"Oh! my generous—my excellent-hearted friend," exclaimed Rosamond,
embracing the Jewess tenderly: "how is it possible that I could have
merited this kindness—this extraordinary bounty at your hands?"

"We are fellow-creatures, though of a different creed," said Esther
modestly;—but she was compelled to receive the thanks of the astonished
Torrens and of the admiring Clarence and Adelais.

Villiers now drew his father-in-law aside, and spoke to him concerning
Mrs. Torrens.

"I cannot see her, Clarence—I cannot meet her again," he replied.
"Besides, an interview would be useless. Our marriage was not one of
affection, as you are well aware: and, moreover——But," he added,
suddenly interrupting himself, and looking tremblingly in the young
man's face, while his voice sank to a low, hollow whisper,—"she has
doubtless told you _all_?"—and then he glanced toward Rosamond, who was
conversing with Esther de Medina and Adelais at the farther end of the
room.

"Yes—I know _all_," returned Villiers; and the words seemed to convulse
his wretched listener with horror. "But it is too late to amend the
past—and it is not for me to reproach you _now_. Your own conscience,
Mr. Torrens, will prove a sufficient punishment for the frightful wrong
you have done to that poor girl. And fear not that I shall impart the
sickening truth to my wife, who is already too deeply affected by all
that has lately occurred."

"Thank you, Clarence—thank you, at least for that assurance," said the
old man, his voice almost suffocated with terrible emotions. "You
perceive how impossible it is that I should remain in England—with so
many dreadful reminiscences to make me ashamed to look those who know me
in the face. This very instant will Rosamond and myself set out on our
way to a foreign land: you will be kind enough to send my trunks after
me to Dover."

"I do not attempt to dissuade you from this step," observed Villiers;
"because I can see no more agreeable alternative."

Mr. Torrens' decision was then communicated to the three ladies: and the
farewell scene between the sisters was affecting in the extreme. Nor
less did Adelais deplore the necessity which compelled her to separate
from her father; but she at least had a consolation in the midst of her
grief—a solace in the possession of a husband who loved her devotedly,
and whom she adored.

A post-chaise was speedily in attendance: and Mr. Torrens took his
departure from the English capital, in company with his younger
daughter.

Esther de Medina did not take leave of Clarence and Adelais before she
had made them promise to pay her an early visit at Finchley Manor; and
the young couple returned to Torrens Cottage more than ever prepossessed
in favour of the beautiful Jewess, who seemed to delight only in doing
good.

                  *       *       *       *       *

On the ensuing day Martha Torrens was placed in the dock, before the
Recorder of London, charged with the crime of forgery.

The court of the Old Bailey was crowded with persons belonging to those
religious associations of which the prisoner had lately been so
conspicuous a member. There was Mr. Jonathan Pugwash, President of the
_South Sea islands Bible-Circulating Society_, not only with a face
indicative of its owner's attachment to brandy, but also with a breath
smelling very strongly of that special liquor: there also was the
Reverend Malachi Sawkins, looking so awfully miserable at the scandal
brought by the prisoner's conduct on the religious world, that a
stranger would have supposed him to be at least her brother, if not her
husband;—and there likewise was the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks, who,
having made his peace with the members of the above-mentioned Society,
had latterly come out much stronger than ever in the shape of a saint.
Many other sleek and oily, or thin and pale, religious gentlemen were
present on this occasion; and in the gallery were numerous old ladies,
all belonging to the ultra-evangelical school, and who appeared to
divide their attention between the task of wiping their eyes with white
cambric handkerchiefs and strengthening their nerves by means of
frequent applications to little flasks or bottles which they took from
their pockets or muffs.

Mrs. Torrens was supported into the dock by two turnkeys of Newgate; for
she was overcome with shame and grief at the position in which her crime
had placed her. She was indeed a pitiable object; and it was evident
that, whatever penalty the Bench might award, her punishment in this
world had already begun.

The indictment being read, she pleaded _Guilty_ in a faint voice; and
the prosecutors strongly recommended her to mercy.

The Recorder[42] put on the black cap, and proceeded to address the
prisoner in a most feeling manner. His lordship said that the law left
him no alternative but to pronounce sentence of death. He however
observed that, considering the contrition manifested by the plea of
_Guilty_ and the intercession of the bankers who had been defrauded of
their money by the forgery, he should recommend the prisoner to the
mercy of the Crown. His lordship concluded by an intimation that she
must make up her mind to pass the remainder of her days as an exile in
the penal settlements, but that her life would be spared.

She was conveyed in a fainting state away from the dock; and the
religious gentlemen present gave so awful and simultaneous a groan, that
the judge was quite startled upon the bench, and the jury were horrified
in their box.

-----

Footnote 42:

  At the period of which we are writing, this high civic functionary
  tried cases involving capital penalties as well as those of a less
  serious nature. Since the establishment of the Central Criminal Court,
  the great judges of the kingdom preside at the Old Bailey to try
  prisoners charged with grave offences.




                             CHAPTER XCVIX.
                 THE CONDITION OF THE WORKING CLASSES.


In the afternoon of that same Monday on which Mr. Torrens was acquitted
and his wife condemned, vast crowds collected in the vicinity of the
Houses of Parliament.

The multitude consisted chiefly of members of the industrious classes,
many individuals being accompanied by their wives and children. They
were attired in the best raiment that they possessed; and their conduct
was most orderly and creditable.

At about a quarter to five o'clock, the carriages began to arrive and
set down at the respective entrances the Members of the two Houses of
Parliament: some, however, proceeded thither on horseback; and others on
foot. The crowds neither cheered the popular, nor hissed the unpopular
legislators who thus passed through the mass which had divided to make
way for them; until at last one long, hearty, and glorious outburst
welcomed the appearance of the Earl of Ellingham, as he proceeded on
horseback, attended by his groom, to St. Stephen's.

The young nobleman acknowledged this outpouring of a people's
gratitude—not with a patronising condescension, but with an affability
which seemed to say, "I am one of yourselves—we're all equal—and I am
proud of being considered your _friend_!"

Long after he had entered the portals of the House of Lords, and was
lost to the public view, did the cheering continue outside; for the
multitudes appreciated all that was great and generous in the task which
a member of a proud aristocracy had undertaken to perform that day in
their behalf.

There was a full attendance of Peers, Temporal and Spiritual; and the
strangers' galleries, overlooking the throne and the woolsack, were
crowded with fashionable gentlemen and elegantly dressed ladies. Amongst
the audience there assembled, were Lady Hatfield, Mr. de Medina, and
Esther. Georgiana was not however seated near the Jew and his daughter,
she being unacquainted with them otherwise than by name, as the reader
is already aware.

Soon after five o'clock the Earl of Ellingham rose from his seat,
advanced towards the table, and proceeded to address the House on the
motion of which he had given notice.

[Illustration]

He began by expressing a regret that so important a subject as that
which he proposed for discussion—namely, the condition of the
industrious population—should not have been taken up by some noble
lord more competent than himself to do it adequate justice; and he
declared most solemnly that no selfish idea of obtaining popularity
had influenced him in the course which he was pursuing. He then
proceeded to expatiate upon the state of the working classes, and to
urge upon the House the necessity of adopting measures to ameliorate
their lamentable condition. It was too frequently alleged, he
observed, that those classes were thoughtless, improvident,
ungrateful, and intellectually dull; but this assertion he
emphatically denied. 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. His lordship would have no fixed _maximum_ of wages,
because wages ought always to be increased in proportion to the value
of productive labour to employers: but he would have a _minimum_
established, to obviate the cruel and disastrous effects of those
periods when labour exceeded the demand in the market. This could not
be considered unfair towards employers, because when the markets were
brisk and trade was flourishing, they (the employers) reaped the
greatest benefit from that activity, and enriched themselves in a very
short time: therefore, when markets were dull and trade was stagnant,
they should still be compelled to pay such wages as would enable their
employed to live comfortably. The profits gained during prosperous
seasons not only enabled employers to enjoy handsome incomes, but also
to accumulate considerable savings; and as the best wages scarcely
enabled the employed to make any thing like an adequate provision for
periods of distress, it was not fair that the representatives of
property should use the labour of the working classes just when it
suited them, and discard it or only use it on a miserable recompense
when it did not so well suit them. For the labour of the employed not
only made annual incomes for the employers, but also permanent
fortunes; and the value of that labour should not be calculated as
lasting only just as long as it was available for the purpose of
producing large profits. Labour was the working man's _capital_, and
should have 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 would always obtain three per cent.
interest, under any circumstances; and, at particular periods, might
be worth six or seven per cent. Labour should be considered in the
same light. Stagnant markets diminished the profits of employers, but
did not ruin them: if they did not obtain profit enough to live upon,
they had the accumulations of good seasons to fall back upon. But how
different was 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 terrible necessity of applying
to the parish! The supply and demand of labour were necessarily
unequal at many times, and in many districts; and the Government
should therefore adopt measures to prevent those frightful
fluctuations in wages which carried desolation into the homes of
thousands of hard-working, industrious, and deserving families. In
fact, a law should be passed to ensure the working-man against the
casualty of being employed at a price below remuneration. In England
the poor were not allowed to have a stake in the country—there were no
small properties—the land was in the possession of a few individuals
comparatively; and thus the landed interest constituted a tremendous
monopoly, most unjust and oppressive to the industrious classes. The
only way to remove this evil influence, and ameliorate the condition
of the working population—the only way to countervail the disastrous
effect of that monopoly, short of a Revolution which would treble or
quadruple the number of landed proprietors,—was to compel property to
maintain labour as long as labour sought for employment and
occupation. The noble Earl then proceeded to state that if the
working-classes were thus treated, they would not be driven by their
cares and troubles to the excessive use of alcoholic liquors: they
would not become demoralised by being compelled to migrate from place
to place in search of employment—going upon the tramp, sleeping in
hideous dens of vice, where numbers were forced to herd together
without reference to age or sex: they would not be unsettled in all
their little arrangements to bring up their children creditably and
with due reference to instruction;—they would not be made
discontented, anxious for any change no matter what, vindictive
towards that society which thus rendered them outcasts, and sullen or
reckless in their general conduct. But as things now were, the
industrious man never felt settled: he knew that the hut which he
called his home, was held on the most precarious tenure;—he felt the
sickening conviction that if he had bread and meat to-day, he might
have only bread to-morrow, and no food at all the day after. It was
positively frightful to contemplate the condition of mental
uncertainty, anxiety, and apprehension in which millions of persons
were thus existing; and those who reproached them with recklessness or
sullenness, should blame themselves as the causes of all that they
vituperated. Lord Ellingham next proceeded to show that although there
had been a vast increase of wealth and comfort amongst the middle and
upper classes, yet the condition of the industrious millions was not
only unimproved, but had positively deteriorated. The population was
increasing at the rate of 1000 souls a day—and pauperism was keeping
pace with that increase. Unrepresented in Parliament—without any means
of making their voice heard—positively incapacitated from having a
stake in the country, the industrious millions were the mere slaves
and tools of the wealthy classes. Thus an immense mass of persons was
kept in bondage—in absolute serfdom by an oligarchy. Was such a state
of things just? was it rational? was it even humane? The millions 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 noble lords
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. He would
again declare that the poor paid more in indirect taxes than the rich
did in both direct and indirect ways, when the relative means of the
two parties were taken into consideration. From these subjects the
Earl passed to the consideration of the inequality of the laws, and
the incongruity, severity, and injustice of their administration
towards the poor. 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. Then, again, there were offences of
a comparatively venial kind, and for which penalties might be
inflicted in the shape of fines, the alternative being imprisonment.
These fines were insignificant trifles in the estimation of a rich
man; but the smallest of them was quite a fortune in the eyes of the
poor. Even a person with a hundred a-year would pay a fine of five
pounds rather than go to prison for a month or six weeks: but a
labouring man, earning ten or twelve shillings a week, could no more
satisfy the demand thus made upon him than he could influence the
motion of the earth,—unless, indeed, he pawned and pledged every
little article belonging to him; and the infliction thereby became a
blow which he never afterwards recovered. Did a poor man offend a
clergyman, he was forthwith put into the Spiritual Court, as the
common saying was; and the expensive proceedings, which he could not
stay, involved him in utter ruin. When a poor man was oppressed by a
rich one, it was vain and ludicrous to assert that the Courts of Law
were open to him: law was a luxury in which only those who possessed
ample means could indulge. In a case where some grievous injury was
sustained by a poor man—the seduction of his wife or daughter, for
instance—redress or recompense was impossible, unless some attorney
took up the case on speculation; and this was a practice most
demoralising and pernicious. But if left entirely unassisted in that
respect, the poor man could no more go to Westminster Hall than he
could afford to dine at Long's Hotel. With regard to the subject of
education, the noble Earl 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 enjoyed revenues the amount of
which actually brought the ministers of the gospel into discredit, as
evidencing their avaricious and grasping disposition;—while the people
remained as uneducated as if not a single shilling were devoted to
spiritual pastors or lay instructors. He 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 was imparted
gratuitously, it was 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 was over-run by clergymen, who
lived upon the fat of it—Universities and public schools had been
richly endowed for the purpose of propagating knowledge and
encouraging learning,—and yet the people were lamentably ignorant. It
was a wicked and impudent falsehood to declare that they were
intellectually dull or averse to mental improvement. Common sense—that
best of sense—was the special characteristic of the working classes;
and those who could read, were absolutely greedy in their anxiety to
procure books, newspapers, and cheap publications for perusal. The
fact was, that the mind of the industrious population was a rich soil
wherein all good seed would speedily take root, shoot up, and bring
forth fruit to perfection: but the apprehensions or narrow prejudices
of the upper classes—the oligarchy—would not permit the seed to be
sown. Now, as the soil must naturally produce something, even of its
own accord, it too often gave birth to rank weeds; and this was made a
matter of scorn, reviling, and reproach. But the real objects of that
scorn—that reviling—and that reproach, were those who obstinately and
wickedly neglected to put the good soil to the full test of
fertilization. Lastly, the Earl of Ellingham directed attention to the
state of the criminal laws. These were only calculated to produce
widely spread demoralization—to propagate vice—to render crime
terribly prolific. A man—no matter what his offence might have
been—should be deemed innocent and untainted again, when he had paid
the penalty of his misdeed; because to brand a human being eternally,
was to fly in the face of the Almighty and assert that there should be
no such thing as forgiveness, and was no such thing as repentance. But
the nature of punishments in this country was so to brand the
individual, and so to dare the Majesty of Heaven. For the gaols were
perfect nests of infamy—sinks of iniquity, imprisonment in which
necessarily fastened an indelible stigma upon the individual. He
either came forth tainted; or else it was supposed that he must be so.
Under these circumstances, he vainly endeavoured to obtain employment;
and, utterly failing in his attempt to earn an honest livelihood, he
was compelled perforce to relapse into habits of crime and
lawlessness. This fact accounted for an immense amount of the
demoralization which the Bishops so much deplored, but the true causes
of which they obstinately refused to acknowledge. The criminal gaols
were moral pest-houses, in which no cures were effected, but where the
contagious malady became more virulent. Society should not immure
offenders solely for the sake of punishment—but with a view to
reformation of character. The noble Earl then summed up his arguments
by stating that he was anxious to see measures adopted for a _minimum_
rate of wages, to prevent the sudden fluctuation of wages, and to
compel property to give constant employment to labour:—he was desirous
that indirect taxes upon the necessaries of life should be
abolished;—he wished the laws and their administration to be more
equitably proportioned to the relative conditions of the rich and the
poor;—he insisted upon the want of a general system of national
education, to be intrusted to laymen, and to be totally distinct from
religious instruction and sectarian tenets;—he desired a complete
reformation in the system of prison discipline, and explained the
paramount necessity of founding establishments 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 he hoped that the
franchise would be so extended as to give every man who earned his own
bread by the sweat of his brow, a stake and interest in the country's
welfare. The noble Earl wound up with an eloquent peroration in which
he vindicated the industrious millions from the aspersions,
misrepresentations, and calumnies which it seemed to be the fashion
for the upper classes to indulge in against them; and he concluded by
moving a number of resolutions in accordance with the heads of his
oration.

The Earl's speech was received with very partial cheering by the
assembled Lords, to whom its tenor was most unpalatable: but such was
its effect upon the auditors in the strangers' galleries, that, contrary
to the established etiquette, it was loudly applauded by them. The Lord
Chancellor immediately called to order; and in a few minutes a dead
silence reigned throughout the House.

The leading Minister present then rose to answer the Earl's oration;
which he did in the usual style adopted by official men under such
circumstances. Entirely blinking all the main arguments, he declaimed
loudly in favour of the prosperity of the country—dwelt upon the
happiness of English cottagers—lauded the "wisdom of our
ancestors"—uttered the invariable cant about our "glorious
institutions"—spoke of Church and State as if they were Siamese twins
whom it would be death to sever—and, after calling upon the House to
resist the Earl of Ellingham's motion, sate down.

Several noble Lords and Right Reverend Fathers in God took part in the
discussion; and at length the House divided, when the Earl's motion was
of course lost by an overwhelming majority against it. Arthur was by no
means disappointed: he had foreseen this result—but he had made up his
mind to renew the subject as often as he could, in the full hope that a
steady perseverance would ultimately be crowned with success.

The House adjourned—the strangers' galleries were speedily cleared—and
the Lords, Spiritual and Temporal, rolled home in their carriages, the
multitudes, who still remained assembled in the vicinity of St.
Stephen's, preserving a profound silence, until the Earl of Ellingham
was observed to issue forth by those persons who were nearest to the
Lords' entrance. Then arose a shout more loud—more hearty even than that
which had greeted his arrival a few hours previously: it was the voice
of a generous and grateful people, expressing the sincerest thanks for
the efforts which the noble patriot had exerted in their cause.




                               CHAPTER C.
                  THE EARL OF ELLINGHAM AND ESTHER DE
                                MEDINA.


It was about two o'clock in the afternoon of the day following the scene
just described, that the Earl of Ellingham and Esther de Medina were
walking in the gardens attached to Finchley Manor.

The beautiful Jewess leant upon the arm of that fine young nobleman who
had suddenly appeared before the world in the light of the champion of
the industrious classes.

Never had Esther seemed so ravishingly lovely as on this occasion:—a
rich carnation hue tinged her cheeks, beneath the clear, transparent
olive of her complexion; and her fine large black eyes mirrored the
enthusiasm of her soul, as she listened to her companion, who was
expatiating upon the wrongs and sufferings endured by the sons and
daughters of toil.

Her generous heart beat in entire sympathy with his own in this respect.
Until the previous evening she had known little more of the condition of
the people than is generally gleaned by young ladies of good education
from the works which they peruse. But the Earl's lucid and convincing
exposure had shed a marvellous light upon her soul: she comprehended how
much the industrious millions were neglected by the Government—how
sorely they were oppressed by a selfish, grasping, greedy oligarchy—how
noble a task it was which the Earl had imposed upon himself.

His brilliant eloquence—his logical reasoning—the tone of deep
conviction in which he had spoken—the conscientious earnestness of his
manner—and the honest fervour that animated him when, having disposed of
the more argumentative portion of his speech, he burst forth in his
impassioned peroration,—all this had made a profound impression upon
Esther de Medina. For hitherto her gentle heart had loved him for all
those qualities of person and of mind which usually engender tender
feelings in the maiden's bosom: but now she felt that she could adore
him—that she could worship him as a hero who had stood forth in honest
championship of a cause which it was so glorious to undertake.

Therefore was it that her cheeks were tinged with the carnation glow of
youthful enthusiasm: therefore was it that her fine dark eyes flashed
with the fires of so generous a fervour, as she now dwelt upon every
word that the nobleman was uttering in reiteration of those sentiments
which he had so boldly enunciated the night before.

But by degrees the conversation took a different and more tender turn;
and as they entered an avenue of trees verdant with the foliage of an
early Spring, the nobleman found himself speaking in obedience to those
feelings of admiration which he experienced towards the beautiful
Jewess.

"It was not to treat you with a political disquisition, Miss de Medina,"
said the Earl, "that I came hither to-day. I had another and very
different object in view; for I am about to ask you to bestow upon me a
boon which, if accorded, shall ever—ever be most highly prized.
Esther—dearest Esther," added the nobleman, sinking his voice to a
tender whisper, and gazing upon her affectionately, "it is this fair
hand which I solicit!"

"Oh! my lord," murmured Esther, casting down her swimming eyes, while
she felt that her cheeks were burning with blushes, "you have not well
considered the step which you are now taking."

"I have reflected deeply upon the course which I am adopting," answered
the nobleman, "and I am convinced that my happiness depends upon your
reply. Tell me, Esther dearest—can you love me? Will you accept me as
your husband?'

"Did I consult only my own heart, my lord," replied the beautiful
Jewess, her countenance still suffused in virgin blushes, and her voice
tremulously melodious, "I should not hesitate how to reply—oh! how could
I? But I cannot forget, my lord, that I am the daughter of a despised—a
persecuted—a much maligned race,—that the prejudices of your country and
your creed are hostile to such an alliance as this, the proposal of
which has done me so much honour."

"You are well aware, my beloved Esther," said the Earl, "that I have
none of those absurd prejudices. The proudest Christian who wears a
crown might glory in being the son-in-law of such a man as Mr. de
Medina; and, even were he otherwise than what he is, it were a worthy
aim of ambition to become the husband of his daughter Esther."

"I am well aware, my lord," resumed Esther, "that your heart harbours
every noble and ennobling sentiment—that you are all that is great, and
liberal, and good. Proud and happy, then, must that woman esteem herself
who shall be destined to bear your name. But not for me, my lord—not for
the despised Jewess must that supreme honour be reserved. No," she
continued, her voice faltering, and her bosom heaving convulsively,—"no,
my lord,—it may not be!"

"Esther," exclaimed the Earl of Ellingham, in an impassioned tone, "tell
me—I conjure you—is this the only motive which induces you to hesitate?
Is it simply on account of those absurd prejudices which my illiberal
fellow-countrymen entertain in reference to your race? is it solely on
this account that you deny me the boon I demand?"

"That reason—and another," murmured the lovely Jewess, in a
low—hesitating—and tremulous tone.

"Ah! that _other_—I can divine it!" cried the young nobleman. "You know
that I was engaged to Lady Hatfield;—but that engagement exists no
longer—has ceased to exist for some time! I will not attempt to persuade
you, dearest Esther, that I did not love Georgiana;—but I now feel that
my passion in respect to her was very different from the affection which
I entertain for you. Georgiana was the idol of my imagination—you are
the mistress of my soul. My attachment to her was wild and passionate—to
you it is tender and profound. Dazzled by her splendid beauty, I was
bewildered—captivated—held in thraldom: but such a love as that
contained not those elements which might render it durable. Your modest
and retiring charms, sweet Esther—your amiability—your gentleness—your
goodness, all combine to render my love permanent and impossible to
undergo diminution or change. Moreover, circumstances which I need
not—cannot explain to you, suddenly transpired to alter my sentiments in
respect to Lady Hatfield—to make me look upon her as a sister, and never
more in any other light. But if you will give me your love, my Esther,
you shall experience all the happiness which can arise from an alliance
with one who will make your welfare the study of his life. Indeed, if
you still hesitate on the score of those prejudices to which we just now
alluded,—then—sooner than resign my hope of possessing this fair hand of
your's, I will renounce the society in which I have been accustomed to
move—I will dwell with you, when heaven's blessing shall have united us,
in some charming seclusion, where we shall be all in all to each other—I
will devote myself entirely to you and to that task which I have taken
upon myself in respect to the industrious classes—that fine English
people, in whom my sympathies are so deeply interested—"

"Oh! my lord," murmured Esther, in a joyous though subdued tone, "how
have I merited all the proofs of attachment which you now lavish upon
me?—how can the obscure Jewess flatter herself that she is worthy of
becoming the bride of one of England's mightiest nobles?"

"Then you _do_ consent to become mine, Esther?" cried the handsome young
peer; and, reading her answer in her eloquent eyes, he caught her in his
arms—he pressed her to his heart—and on her virgin lips he imprinted the
first kiss which Esther had ever received from mortal man save her own
father.

A few minutes elapsed in profound silence,—a few minutes, during which
the happy pair exchanged glances of sincere, and pure, and hallowed
love.

Suddenly the sound of footsteps drawing near fell upon their ears: they
turned, and beheld Mr. de Medina approaching down the avenue of trees.

Then the Earl of Ellingham, taking Esther's hand, advanced towards the
Jew and said in a firm and manly tone, "Mr. de Medina, I am glad that
you have come hither at this moment, for I have a great boon to beg of
you—a precious gift to solicit!"—and he glanced tenderly towards the
blushing maiden who stood by his side.

"I understand you, my dear Arthur," returned Mr. de Medina, smiling.
"But I presume that the whole business is already settled and arranged
between you," he added, looking slily and benignantly at his daughter.

"Miss de Medina has consented to bestow her hand upon me, my dear sir,"
answered the nobleman; "and I scarcely dread a refusal on your part."

"A refusal!" ejaculated Mr. de Medina, the tears of joy and gratitude
starting to his eyes: "there is indeed no danger of that! On whom would
I consent to bestow my jewel, my pride, if not upon you—_you_, my dear
Arthur, who are all that an Englishman ought to be? Yes—I give you my
daughter; and may God ensure your happiness!"

The venerable Jew embraced the Earl and Esther; and the happiness of
those three deserving and admirable persons was complete.

The Earl of Ellingham passed the remainder of that day at Finchley
Manor; and it was past eleven o'clock in the evening when he alighted
from his carriage at the door of his own abode.

On the ensuing morning Clarence Villiers called upon the nobleman, by
whom he was most courteously received; and the Earl proceeded to explain
to him the nature of the business which had induced him to request the
favour of that interview.

"Mr. Villiers," said Arthur, "it will be sufficient for me to inform you
that I had reasons for experiencing a more than common interest in
behalf of Thomas Rainford, with whom you were somewhat intimately
acquainted. What those precise reasons were, you, as a gentleman, will
not enquire: but I believe that you have in your possession a particular
letter, which Thomas Rainford entrusted to you; and circumstances now
render it necessary that this document should pass from your hands into
mine."

"The high character of your lordship commands immediate compliance on my
part," said Villiers, producing the letter from his pocket-book and
tendering it to the Earl.

"I thank you for this proof of confidence, Mr. Villiers," observed the
nobleman: "but to set your mind completely at rest, I can show you a
written authorization, signed by Thomas Rainford, to enable me to
receive the paper from you."

"It is not at all necessary, my lord," answered Clarence, rising to take
his departure.

"One moment," said the Earl, much struck by the frank, candid, and
gentlemanly demeanour of Villiers: "any one who felt an interest in
Thomas Rainford—especially one in whom he reposed sufficient confidence
to entrust with that letter—has a claim on my friendship. I should
therefore be delighted to serve you, Mr. Villiers; and let this
assurance tend to convince you that I am animated by no idle curiosity
in enquiring relative to your position in life. I believe you hold a
situation in Somerset House?"

Villiers answered in an affirmative.

"And the salary you at present receive is only ninety or a hundred
pounds a-year?" continued the Earl. "You see that Thomas Rainford made
me acquainted with your circumstances, and that I have not forgotten
them. Indeed, he requested me to exert myself in your behalf; and I am
anxious to fulfil his desire. I called at your lodgings in Bridge
Street, and learnt that you had been very recently married. Now, ninety
or a hundred pounds a-year," continued the Earl, with a smile, "are
little enough to enable you to support your changed condition in
comfort; and the state of political parties forbids me to ask any
favours of the men in power. I will make you a proposal, which you may
take time to reflect upon. I require a private secretary: and that post
I offer to you. The emoluments are four hundred a-year, and a house
rent-free. The dwelling is a beautiful cottage belonging to me, and
situate at Brompton. Moreover, I will give you three hundred guineas for
your outfit and furniture."

Clarence Villiers was astonished—nay, perfectly astounded by the
liberality of this offer; and, unable to utter a word, he gazed upon the
Earl with eyes expressive of the most sincere gratitude, mingled with
admiration at his generous behaviour.

"I know," resumed the Earl, "that a government situation is a certainty,
and that you have every chance of rising in your present sphere: think
not, therefore, that I now offer you a precarious employment. No—whether
I continue in that activity of political existence on which I have just
entered—or whether I be compelled by circumstances to renounce it,—you
shall be duly cared for."

"My lord, I accept your generous proposal," exclaimed Clarence, at
length recovering the power of speech; "and I shall exert myself
unweariedly to deserve your lordship's good opinion of me."

"The bargain is therefore concluded," said the nobleman. "I will give
you a note to my solicitor, who will immediately put you in possession
of the lease of the house at Brompton."

The Earl seated himself at a writing-table, and penned the letter to his
professional agent: he also wrote a cheque on his bankers for three
hundred guineas; and the two documents he handed to Clarence Villiers,
who took his leave of the kind-hearted nobleman, his soul overflowing
with emotions of gratitude and admiration.

How joyous—oh! how joyous a thing it is to carry glad tidings to the
beloved of one's bosom,—to hasten home to a fond, confiding, adoring
wife, and be able to exclaim to her, "The smiles with which thou
greetest me, dearest, will not be chased away from thy sweet lips by the
news which I have in store for thee! For God is good to us, my angel—and
happiness, prosperity, and buoyant hopes are ours! From comparative
poverty we are suddenly elevated to the possession of affluence; and we
enjoy the protection of one who will never desert us, so long as we
pursue the paths of rectitude and honour!"

Oh! to be enabled to say this to a loved and loving creature, is
happiness ineffable; and that felicity was now experienced by Clarence
Villiers, and shared by his charming wife.

Wealth in the hands of such a man as the Earl of Ellingham was like
anodynes in the professional knowledge of the physician who attends the
poor gratuitously:—the power to do good is the choicest of the unbought
luxuries of life, and far more delicious than all the blandishments that
gold can procure.

From the midst of a selfish and bloated aristocracy, how resplendently
did the Earl of Ellingham stand forth as a glorious example of
generosity, manliness, and moral worth! He was the true type of a
sterling English gentleman—an Englishman of education, enlightened soul,
and liberal sentiments;—not one of those narrow-minded beings, who
believe that birth and wealth are the only aristocracy, and whose ideas
are limited as the confines of the land to which they belong. Your
prejudiced Englishman is a most contemptible character:—borrowing so
much as he does from foreign nations—even to the very fashion of his
coat and hat, or his wife's gown—he boasts in his absurd and pompous
pride, that England is all and every thing in itself. Britain is indeed
a wonderful country; but Britain is not the whole world, after all. In
all that is useful as far as the solid comforts of life are concerned,
she stands at the head of civilisation; but she cannot compete with
France in the refinements and elegancies of existence, nor in the
progress of purely democratic principles. If Great Britain be a
wonderful country, the French are a wonderful—aye, and a mighty and
noble nation, likewise; and in France at least the principles of
equality are well understood, and the battering ram of two Revolutions
has knocked down hereditary peerage—class distinctions—religious
intolerance—and that vile _prestige_ which makes narrow-minded
Englishmen quote the "wisdom of their ancestors" as a reason for
perpetuating the most monstrous abuses!

But let us return to the Earl of Ellingham, who, having terminated his
interview with Clarence Villiers, repaired to the dwelling of Lady
Hatfield.

Georgiana was at home, and Arthur was immediately admitted to the
drawing-room where she was seated.

He had not now the same feelings of pleasure which had lately animated
him, when entering the presence of one whom he had sought to love as a
sister: the scene at Carlton House haunted him like an evil dream;—and
as he contemplated the calm and tranquil demeanour of Georgiana, he felt
grieved at the idea that beneath this composure must necessarily reign
the excitement experienced by a woman who had resolved on becoming the
King's mistress.

Nevertheless, in pursuance of the resolutions already established in his
mind, he conquered—or rather, concealed his sentiments; and, though a
bad hand at any thing resembling duplicity of conduct, he managed to
greet her without exhibiting any thing peculiar in his manner.

"I have two important communications to make to you, Georgiana," he
said, as he seated himself opposite to her. "The first relates to a
delicate subject, which we will dispose of as soon as possible. In a
word, I have this morning seen Mr. Villiers; and he has given me this
paper."

Lady Hatfield eagerly received the document from the hands of the
nobleman, and ran her eyes rapidly over it. Her countenance grew deadly
pale, and tears trickled down her cheeks, as she murmured in a tone of
subdued anguish, "My God! they were in want—they were starving—that
woman and my child—and I——"

Then, stopping suddenly short, she threw herself back upon the sofa,
covered her face with her hands, and no longer sought to repress the
outpourings of her grief.

The Earl interrupted her not: he understood the nature of those emotions
which constituted a subject of self-reproach on the part of the unhappy
lady, who was so deeply to be commiserated; and he thought within
himself, "She possesses a kind—a feeling heart!"

At length Georgiana broke the long silence which prevailed.

"Yes—there can be no doubt?" she exclaimed: "that boy is my child—and he
is now with his father! May heaven bless him!"

"Rest assured that he is with one who will treat him kindly, although
some weeks must elapse ere _he_ can learn who the boy really is,"
observed the Earl of Ellingham. "And now for the second communication
which I have to make to you, Georgiana," continued the nobleman,
desirous to change the topic as speedily as possible. "I have taken your
advice—I have followed your counsel——"

"And Esther de Medina is to become the Countess of Ellingham?" said Lady
Hatfield, in a low and mournful tone of voice.

"Esther has consented to be mine," added the Earl; "and her father has
expressed his joy and delight at the contemplated alliance."

For a few moments Georgiana turned aside her head, and appeared to
struggle violently and painfully with the emotions which filled her
bosom.

"Arthur," she said at last, evidently scarcely able to stem the flood of
her agitated feelings, "I am happy to learn these tidings. You will be
blessed in the possession of one who has been represented to me in such
an amiable—such an estimable light. I congratulate you—and _her_
likewise. You deserve all the felicity which this world can give; and
she who is destined to be—your bride," added Georgiana tremulously,
"must feel proud of you. Yes, Arthur—your high character—your
talents—your generous disposition—your noble nature——"

She could say no more: in summing up all his good qualities, she seemed
to be reminded how much she had lost—and she burst into tears.

Arthur was painfully affected: he had not expected such a scene as this!

Was it possible that a woman who, either yielding to the cravings of a
voluptuous disposition or dazzled by an ignoble and false ambition, had
consented to become the mistress of a King,—was it possible that such a
woman could manifest so much true and profound feeling on learning that
he whom she had once loved was about to wed another, she herself having
counselled the alliance? Was it possible that he was still so dear to
her, and that her own generous nature had suggested that union through a
conscientious belief that it would result in his happiness, though she
herself sacrificed all her tenderest feelings in urging him to adopt a
course which must necessarily interfere even with the friendship which
had conventionally succeeded their love? He had indeed, in the first
instance, fancied that the advice which Georgiana had given him arose
from the best and kindest motives; but the scene at Carlton House had
made him mistrustful of her. Now, then, all his good opinion of her
revived in its pristine strength;—and yet he was bewildered when he
thought that one, who was susceptible of such noble conduct, could have
become so suddenly depraved as to consent in a single hour to resign all
the purity of her soul in homage to the advances of a royal voluptuary.

But Georgiana understood not what was passing in his mind; and she
supposed, by his embarrassed manner and air of profound thought, that he
felt only for her in regard to the position in which they had been
formerly placed.

"Let no thought for me mar your happiness, Arthur—dear Arthur," she
said, in a voice of solemn mournfulness. "Believe me, I have your
welfare sincerely—deeply at heart—far more than perhaps you imagine,"
she added, with strange yet unaccountable emphasis. "At the same time, I
am but a poor weak woman, and cannot altogether restrain my feelings. I
rejoice that you are about to form an alliance with an amiable and
beautiful young lady, who is so well deserving of your love: at the same
time, my memory—oh! too faithful memory—carries me back to those
days—indeed, to only a few months ago, when _my_ hopes were exalted and
_my_ prospects of happiness bright indeed. However," she added hastily,
"let me not dwell upon that topic—and pardon my momentary weakness,
Arthur. May God bless you!"

With these words, Lady Hatfield hurried from the room; and the Earl of
Ellingham took his departure, grieved and bewildered by all that had
just occurred.

"If Georgiana be really serious in resigning herself to King George the
Fourth," thought Arthur, as he returned in his carriage to Pall Mall,
"she sacrifices the purity of the most generous—the tenderest—the
noblest heart with which woman ever was endowed,—save and excepting my
own well-beloved Esther!"




                              CHAPTER CI.
                  THE BLACKAMOOR'S STRANGE ADVENTURE.


It was about nine o'clock in the evening of the same day on which the
above-recorded interview took place between the Earl of Ellingham and
Lady Hatfield, that the Blackamoor, clad in a very plain—almost a mean
attire, sauntered along Pall Mall West, and stopped for a few moments in
front of the nobleman's house.

He gazed wistfully at the windows—murmured something to himself—uttered
a sigh—and passed on.

His appearance attracted the notice of two gentlemen who were walking
arm-in-arm in the same direction; and, as they examined him more closely
by the light of an adjacent lamp, one said to the other, "Since his
Majesty has taken it into his head to have a black servant, I really
think that the very man to suit the purpose is now before us. He is a
well-made, good-looking fellow."

"My dear Warren," said the gentleman thus addressed, "you are positively
absurd with your notions that you have only to _ask_ in a King's name in
order to _have_. How do you know that this man wants a situation?"

"He looks as if he did, Harral," replied Sir Phillip Warren. "See—he
lounges along as if he had no fixed object in view—his clothes do not
appear to be any of the best—and his whole demeanour gives me the idea
of a lacquey out of place."

"My dear friend," whispered Sir Randolph Harral—who, like his companion,
was one of the King's courtiers, "you are really wrong. That man is
something far superior to what you conceive him to be: there is even an
air of subdued gentility about him——"

"Pooh! pooh! Harral," interrupted Sir Phillip Warren: "you do not
understand these matters so well as I do. At all events there is no harm
in questioning that fellow—for I should rejoice to be able to fulfil
to-night a whim which our royal master only expressed this afternoon
when he saw the French Ambassador's splendid black _chasseur_."

"Well, as you please, Warren," observed Sir Randolph Harral: "but as I
do not wish to get myself knocked down for insulting a person of a
superior class to what you imagine, I shall leave you to pursue the
adventure alone."

This conversation had been carried on so close to the Blackamoor, that,
although the two courtiers had spoken in a very low voice, and had not
of course intended that their remarks should be overheard, yet scarcely
a word had escaped his ears. Affecting, however, all the time to
continue his lounging, listless walk, he took no apparent notice of the
gentlemen behind him, and even pretended to start with surprise when Sir
Phillip Warren—Sir Randolph Harral having re-entered Carlton
House—tapped him on the shoulder.

"My good man," said the courtier, in a patronising fashion, "I wish to
have a few moments' conversation with you."

"Certainly, sir," exclaimed the Blackamoor, touching his hat just like a
lacquey, and assuming the tone and manner of one.

"I thought so—I knew I was right?" exclaimed Sir Phillip, rubbing his
hands in proof of his satisfaction; then, attentively scanning the Black
from head to foot, by the aid of the lamp at the door of a neighbouring
mansion, he said in a less excited tone, "I suspect you, my good fellow,
to be a person in search of employment——"

"Yes—sir," interrupted the Blackamoor, now enjoying the farce that he
was playing; "I should very much like to obtain a good situation, and
can obtain a first-rate character from my late master."

"The very thing!" cried Sir Phillip Warren, hugely delighted at the
opportunity of crowing over his friend Sir Randolph Harral: then, once
more addressing himself to the Black, he said, "Now what should you
think if I proposed to you to enter the household of his most gracious
Majesty?"

"I should be afraid that the offer was too good to be realized, sir,"
was the answer, delivered in a tone of deep respect; although the
Blackamoor was laughing in his sleeve the whole time.

"It all depends upon me, my good fellow," said Sir Phillip: "and if _I_
am satisfied with you, the matter is settled immediately. But we cannot
continue to talk in the open street: so follow me to my own apartments
in the palace."

Thus speaking, the courtier led the way to Carlton House, the Blackamoor
following at a respectful distance, and saying to himself, "What object
I propose to myself in embracing this adventure, I know not. It,
however, tickles my fancy, and I will go on with it. Besides, having an
hour to spare, I may as well divert myself in this way as any other."

Accordingly, he followed Sir Phillip Warren into the royal dwelling; and
in strict silence did they proceed, until they reached an ante-room
leading to a suite of apartments which were occupied by the old
courtier. In that ante-room they stopped; for Sir Phillip was
immediately accosted by his valet, who, starting from a seat in which he
had been dozing, said, "If you please, sir, his Majesty has sent twice,
during the last half-hour, to desire your presence."

"Very good, Gregory," exclaimed Sir Phillip: "I will attend to the royal
command this moment; and do you take the present of hot-house fruit at
once to my sister, Lady Maltoun. Her ladyship requires it for her grand
supper to-night. Tell her that I am enabled to send it through the
goodness of my royal master."

"Yes, sir," answered the valet, and instantly took his departure.

"My good fellow," said Sir Phillip Warren, turning towards the
Blackamoor, "you perceive that it is impossible for me to speak to you
at present. You must sit down and wait patiently until my return. I
shall not be very long away; but, in any case, wait!"

Sir Phillip Warren, having issued these injunctions, hastened into the
inner apartments to amend his toilette after his evening's stroll; and
in a short time he came forth again, with knee-breeches and silk
stockings, all ready to attend upon the king. In passing through the
ante-chamber he repeated his command that the Black should await his
return; and the latter promised to obey.

When left alone, this individual seated himself, and gave way to his
reflections, forgetting for a time where he was. At length he started
up, looked at his watch, and found that upwards of half-an-hour had
elapsed since the old courtier had left him. He was already wearied of
waiting; but a natural love of adventure and of the excitement of
novelty induced him to remain a little longer to see the issue of the
affair which had led him thither. He accordingly whiled away another
half hour with a newspaper which lay on the table; and, that interval
having passed, he began to think of taking his departure without farther
delay.

Issuing from the ante-room, he proceeded along a well-lighted corridor,
from the extremity of which branched off two smaller passages, one to
the right, and the other to the left. The Blackamoor was now at a loss
which path to pursue; for he could not, for the life of him, remember by
which passage the old courtier had led him on his arrival an hour
previously.

He was not, however, a man at all capable of hesitating to explore even
a royal palace, in order to find a mode of egress, when it did not suit
him to wait for the return of his guide: and taking the passage to the
right, he hastened on until he reached a pair of colossal folding doors.
Perfectly recollecting to have passed through those doors on his
arrival—or at all events through folding-doors exactly like them—he
pushed them open, and entered a large ante-room, well lighted, and
containing four marble statues as large as life.

"Now," thought the Blackamoor, "I am mistaken; for I do not remember to
have seen those statues as I followed the old gentleman into the palace
just now. And yet I might have passed through this room without noticing
them. At all events, I well recollect those large and splendid
folding-doors; and so I must be right."

It happened, however, that he was altogether wrong in the path which he
had pursued in order to find an egress from the palace; and he was
deceived by the fact that at each end of the long passage, from the
middle of which the corridor branched off, there were folding-doors of
an uniform shape, size, and appearance. But, conceiving himself to be in
the right road, he crossed the ante-room, and, pushing open a door at
the farther extremity, found himself in a magnificent apartment, the
furniture of which was of the French fashion of King Louis the
Fifteenth's time. The hangings and drapery were of crimson velvet, of
which material the cushions of the chairs and the sofas were also made.
Several fine pictures, by old masters, and vast mirrors with elaborately
decorated frames, graced the walls; and the whole was displayed by a
rich, subdued, golden lustre, diffused throughout the room by lamps, the
globes of which were of very thick ground glass. It was a mellow light,
sufficient, yet without glare—misty, without being positively dim—and
calculated to produce a lulling sensation of voluptuous indolence,
rather than to dazzle the eyes with a wakeful brilliancy. In fact, there
was altogether something ineffably luxurious in the general appearance
of this apartment, which was magnificent without being spacious, and the
perfumed atmosphere of which stole like a delicious languor on the
senses.

The Blackamoor forgot for a few moments that he was an intruder—or, if
he remembered the fact, he was indifferent to it: and, though the
instant he entered this apartment he saw that he had indeed taken a
wrong path, yet he could not help advancing farther into it to admire
its sumptuous elegance and fine pictures. He was thus gratifying his
curiosity, when he heard voices in the ante-room through which he had
just passed; and, obeying a natural impulse, he slipped behind the rich
velvet curtains drawn over the immense window, near which he happened to
be standing at the moment.

The door opened, and two persons entered the apartment.

"I will await her here, Warren," said one, in a commanding and
triumphant tone: "and see that during our interview, we are secured
against interruption of any kind."

"Your Majesty shall be obeyed," answered Sir Phillip. "Have you any
farther orders, sire?"

"None, my faithful friend," returned the King. "Stay—have I the
document?"

"I gave it to your Majesty ere now, after having myself fetched it from
the Home Office," said the courtier.

"True! I have it safe," said George the Fourth. "And now hasten to
receive the fair one, Warren: it is past ten o'clock, and I am impatient
to behold her charming countenance again."

Sir Phillip departed; and the King, throwing himself upon one of the
voluptuous ottomans, exclaimed aloud, "Now for a new pleasure! I know
not how it was, but I never before took so sudden and ardent a fancy for
any woman, as for this Georgiana Hatfield. There is something truly
bewitching—ineffably captivating in her sweet countenance; and the calm
repose which characterises the general expression of that face, has for
me an influence profoundly voluptuous. Then her bust—oh! her bust—_that_
is charming indeed,—so full—so richly proportioned—and yet evidently so
firm! She has never been married, and Warren says that her reputation is
untarnished. It will be a luxury of paradise to revel in her virgin
charms. And yet, somehow or other, the joys of love are not generally
unknown to ladies in the fashionable world who have reached the age of
four or five and twenty. No matter! be she virgin or not, she is an
adorable woman; and I am madly impatient for her coming."

The King rose from the ottoman, and walked slowly across the apartment,
stopping opposite a mirror in which he surveyed himself. His admirably
fashioned wig was entirely to his taste: there was not a curl nor a wave
which he could have wished otherwise than it was. His false teeth were
white, fixed firmly in his mouth, and had a perfectly natural
appearance. The tie of his cravat—borrowed from the fashion set by his
once all-powerful favourite, Beau Brummell—was unexceptionable. The
white waistcoat had not a crease, so perfectly did it fit the portly
form of the royal voluptuary. The above-mentioned Beau Brummell could
not, even in his ire against the King, have found the shadow of an
excuse for a cavil against the black dress-coat, so artistically was it
made. No tailor in the famous city of Paris could have achieved a
greater triumph in respect to the pantaloons: and as for the polished
dress-boots——O immortal Hoby!

Well satisfied with the result of his survey, George the Fourth returned
to the ottoman, and relapsed into a train of voluptuous imagings with
respect to Lady Hatfield. This current of thought, whereby, in his
emasculated old age, he endeavoured to invigorate his physical powers
through the medium of an excited and heated imagination, led him to
reflect upon all the beauteous women—and their name was Legion—who had
ever surrendered themselves to his embraces; and his ideas naturally
wandered to the enjoyments, luxuries, and pleasures which his exalted
rank and immense resources enabled him to procure. Then he chuckled with
triumphant delight at the egregious folly of the great and powerful
English people tolerating a King at all. But he likewise knew that his
own conduct and example had done more harm to the cause of Monarchy than
all the republic pamphlets or democratic disquisitions ever published.
He was well aware that, without intending to be so, he was the most
effectual means of opening the eyes of the civilised world to the
insanity and madness of maintaining monarchical institutions: and,
though he foresaw that the industrious millions of this realm must
inevitably, sooner or later, overthrow Monarchy and establish a pure
Democracy, yet he consoled himself, in his revolting selfishness, with
the conviction that "the throne would last during his time, at all
events."

[Illustration]

It was about half-past ten, when the door opened; and the Blackamoor,
peeping from behind the curtains, beheld a lady, closely veiled, enter
the room, the door immediately closing behind her.

"Adorable Georgiana!" exclaimed the King, hastening forward to receive
her, and then conducting her to a seat: "I am rejoiced that you have
thus yielded to my wishes—that you have come to me this evening."

"But wherefore, sire, did you insist upon this visit?" asked Lady
Hatfield, in a low and tremulous tone. "Our compact stipulated that I
was first to receive a certain document, as a proof of your Majesty's
sincerity——"

"Dearest Georgiana, raise that odious veil—lay aside that invidious
bonnet, which conceals your charming countenance!" exclaimed the
monarch, in an impassioned voice.

"Oh! sire, I have taken a step at which I tremble," said Lady Hatfield,
raising her veil, but retaining her bonnet. "On my way through the
corridors, guided by Sir Phillip Warren, I met two or three of your
Majesty's retainers; and if they recognised me—in spite of the thick
veil——"

"Fear not on that account," interrupted the King. "I admit our compact
was as you just now stated it to be, and that the paper should have been
forwarded to you. But I was so anxious to see you soon again, that I
could not resist the temptation of that idea which suggested to me how
much better it would be to solicit you to come hither this evening and
receive from my hands the document which you so much desire. Here it is,
beloved Georgiana—signed by myself, and countersigned by the Secretary
of State."

The King presented the paper to Lady Hatfield, who received it with joy
flashing from her eyes: and she immediately secured it about her person.

"My curiosity prompts me to ask an explanation of the extraordinary
contents of that document," said the monarch; "but, on the other hand,
delicacy forbids."

"And I thank you for this delicacy, sire," exclaimed Lady Hatfield, with
earnest sincerity. "It were a long tale to tell—and an useless one——"

"Yes—useless, indeed, when we have a far more interesting topic for our
discourse," interrupted George the Fourth, throwing one of his arms
round the lady's neck.

"Sire!" cried Georgiana in a reproachful tone, as she hastily withdrew
herself from that half-embrace, and retreated to the further end of the
ottoman.

"Oh! wherefore play the coy and the cruel?" exclaimed the King. "Have I
not given you a signal proof of my attachment, by affixing my signature
to a paper the contents of which I scarcely understand, and by ordering
the Minister to legalize it with his name? And think you, sweet lady,
that it was an easy task to induce that responsible functionary to obey
me in this respect? But I menaced and coaxed by turns; and all this for
your sake! Do I not, therefore, deserve the reward of your smiles—the
recompense of your caresses?"

"I recognise all that is generous in the conduct of your Majesty towards
me in respect to this document," said Lady Hatfield: "but were I to
succumb to you now, sire, I should loathe myself—I should become
degraded in my own estimation—I should feel that I had been purchased by
a bribe! No—sire: I cannot renounce every consideration of purity—every
sentiment of propriety, in a single moment."

"What further proof do you require of my attachment?" demanded the King,
in a tone of vexation which he could not altogether subdue.

"No other proof, save your forbearance on this occasion," answered
Georgiana. "Remember, sire, what I told you the other night: I am not a
woman of impure imagination—no—nor of depraved character; and I cannot
consent to become your mistress, without a mental effort on my
part—without wooing on your's. In yielding myself to your Majesty, it
will be as a wife who is forced to dispense with the ceremony which
alone can make her one in reality; and if your Majesty deem me worth the
winning, let me be won by means of those delicate attentions which would
be shown in honourable courtship."

"Perdition!" ejaculated the King, who was as much unaccustomed to hear
such language as he was to sue at the feet of beauty: "how long will you
keep me in this suspense, fair lady?—how long must I endure the tortures
of deferred hope? Consider—I love you madly: you are so beautiful—so
sweetly beautiful! Oh! to press you in my arms——"

"Pardon me, sire, for daring to interrupt you," said Georgiana; "but if
there be nothing save the impulse of the senses in this _liaison_ of
ours, your Majesty will soon become wearied of me—and I shrink in horror
from the idea of becoming the cast-off mistress of even Royalty itself.
Let me seek to engage your affections, as you must endeavour to enchain
mine; so that our connexion may be based upon the sentiments and
feelings of the heart."

"But I already love you sincerely—devotedly, cruel Georgiana!" cried the
King, his eyes greedily running over the outlines of the exquisitely
proportioned form of the lady, and the rapid survey exciting his desire
almost beyond endurance.

"Not with a love calculated to be permanent," said Georgiana quietly;
"and unless I become the object of such an affection, never—never shall
I so far forget myself——"

"This is cruel—this is maddening!" exclaimed the King; and he extended
his arms towards Lady Hatfield.

"Sire, do not treat me with outrage," she said, rising from the ottoman,
and speaking in a dignified manner. "If your Majesty supposed that your
sovereign rank would so far dazzle my imagination as to make me throw
myself into your arms at the very first words of encouragement which
fell from your lips, your Majesty has sadly misunderstood the character
of Georgiana Hatfield."

"Be not angry with me, adorable creature!" exclaimed the King: "I love
you too much to risk the chance of losing you by any misconduct on my
part. Name, therefore, your own terms. Or rather, let me ask whether you
will consent to visit me every evening for an hour, and allow us an
opportunity to become better acquainted with each other?"

"Now your Majesty speaks in a manner calculated to win my esteem,"
observed Lady Hatfield, avoiding a direct reply to the question put to
her; "and when the esteem of a woman is once secured——"

"I understand you," interrupted George the Fourth, hastily: "her love
speedily follows. Be it as you say, sweet lady," he continued, in a
slower tone; "and let us secure each other's affections. You shall find
me docile and obedient to your will—and this is much for _me_ to
promise. But let me hope that the period of probation will not be
long—that the hour of recompense is not far distant——"

"Hush, sire!" exclaimed Georgiana, in a reproachful voice: "this is the
language of sense—whereas you must secure my affections by the language
of sentiment. If you treat me as a woman who is to be purchased as your
mistress, let our connexion cease this moment: but if you will woo me as
a wife should be won—although I am well aware that your Majesty's wife I
can never be——"

"Would that I could marry you this moment!" cried the King, fixing his
eyes upon her beauteous countenance; "for you are ravishingly lovely! I
would give a year of my life to obtain all I crave this night. Oh!
Georgiana, be not so coy and cruel with me—for you madden me—my veins
seem to run with molten lead. Be mine at once—and render my happiness
complete. Behold that small low door in yonder corner: it opens into a
room which may serve as our nuptial chamber. Come, then, dearest
Georgiana—let me lead you thither—not cold, hesitating, and
resisting—but warm, and impassioned, and prepared to revel in the
delights of love! Our privacy will be complete: no intruder need we
fear;—and the world will never know that you have become mine."

"Sire, this language on your part—in spite of all the arguments and
remonstrances which I have used," exclaimed Lady Hatfield, "is unworthy
of a great King and a polished gentleman."

"The madness of love knows nothing of regal rank nor the shackles of
etiquette," said the monarch, speaking in a tone of great excitement;
"and, in spite of the promises which I just now so rashly made, I cannot
endure delay. No—sweetest lady—you must be mine at once!"—and he wound
his arms around Georgiana's form, the fury of his desires animating him
with a strength against which she could not long have resisted.

But at that moment succour was at hand!

Forth from his place of concealment sprang the Blackamoor; and an
ejaculation of surprise and rage burst from the lips of the King, while
a cry of joy emanated from those of Lady Hatfield.

"Who are you? and what signifies this intrusion?" demanded George the
Fourth, instantly releasing his intended victim at this sudden
apparition.

But, without answering the monarch, the Blackamoor hastily led the
half-fainting Lady Hatfield to the door—opened it to allow her to pass
out of the room—and, closing it behind her, placed his back against
it,—the whole being effected with such speed, that Georgiana had
disappeared before the King could recover from the astonishment into
which the very first step of the bold proceeding had thrown him.

"Villainous negro!" cried the disappointed monarch, at length recovering
the power of speech: "do you know who I am, that you have thus dared to
outrage me?"

"I know full well who you are, sire—and I am grieved to the very soul at
the idea of being compelled to acknowledge you as my King," returned the
Black, in a calm—collected—and somewhat mournful tone.

"This insolence to me!" ejaculated George the Fourth, becoming purple
with rage. "Make way, sirrah, for me to pass hence!"

"Not until I have allowed Lady Hatfield sufficient time to escape from
this house which the country has given as a palace for your Majesty, but
which seems to be used for purposes too vile to contemplate without
horror," was the firm reply.

The King fell back a few paces in speechless astonishment. Never before
had he been thus bearded:—but in that momentary interval of silence, a
crowd of recollections rushed to his mind, warning him that the
individual who thus seemed to defy his rank and power, had been present
during the whole of the interview with Lady Hatfield,—and that this
individual had learnt how the Royal and Ministerial signatures had been
given as a means of propitiating a coy beauty, without any reference to
the interests of the State:—when the King remembered all this, he was
alarmed at the serious manner in which he suddenly found himself
compromised. For that Blackamoor could make revelations of a nature to
arouse against him the indignation of the whole kingdom; and, reckless
as George the Fourth was of public opinion, he trembled at the idea of
exciting public resentment.

Thus did a few moments of reflection show him the precipice on which he
stood, and carry to his mind a conviction of the necessity of making
terms with the sable stranger who had obtained such a dangerous power
over him. But the mere thought of such a compromise was sorely repugnant
to the haughty spirit of George the Fourth: and yet there was no
alternative! He accordingly addressed himself with the best grace he
could assume, to the task of conciliation.

"My good sir," he said, approaching the Black, "I seek not to deal
harshly with you: and yet you owe me an explanation of the motives which
induced you to penetrate into the palace, and the means by which you
gained access to my private apartments."

"I feel bound to answer your Majesty with candour and frankness, in
order to clear myself from any injurious suspicion which my concealment
in this room might naturally engender," was the reply. "The explanation,
sire, is briefly given:—I was accosted by an elderly gentleman in Pall
Mall, and asked if I required a situation. In truth I do not; but it
being intimated to me that the proffered place was in the royal
household, curiosity prompted me to follow the gentleman into the
palace. He left me alone in his ante-room for upwards of an hour; and,
growing weary of waiting, I sought a means of egress. But, losing my
way, I found myself at length in this room; and almost immediately
afterwards your Majesty entered with the very gentleman I am speaking
of, and whose name I learnt to be Warren. I concealed myself behind the
curtains—with no bad intention; and indeed I was about to come forth and
explain the reasons of my presence to your Majesty, when certain words
which fell from your Majesty's lips made me acquainted with the fact
that Lady Hatfield was expected here every moment. That name nailed me
to the spot—and I was prompted by an uncontrollable curiosity to wait
and satisfy myself whether Lady Hatfield could have become so depraved
as to surrender herself to your arms."

"You are acquainted with her, then!" exclaimed the King. "And yet," he
added, a moment afterwards, "she did not appear to recognise you."

"No, sire—she did not recognise me," returned the Black.

"But you must know her well, since the mere mention of her name rendered
you thus anxious to see the issue of our interview?" said the King,
impatiently.

"I know her well, sire," was the guarded response: "and yet she knew not
me."

"Who _are_ you, then?" demanded George the Fourth, fixing a searching
look upon the stranger. "You certainly are not what Sir Phillip Warren
took you for——"

"I must firmly, though respectfully, decline to give any account of
myself," said the Blackamoor. "Your Majesty will now permit me to
withdraw."

"One moment," cried the King. "How stand we in respect to each other? Do
you constitute yourself the enemy of your sovereign?—will you publish
your knowledge of all that has transpired here this evening?—or can I
offer you some earnest that I myself am not offended by the manner in
which you ere now thought fit to address me?"

"I have no interest in making known to the public those secrets which
have so accidentally been revealed to me," answered the Blackamoor. "It
is never a pleasing task to an honest man to publish the frailties or
failings of a fellow-creature—much less when that fellow-creature is
placed at the head of the nation. As for any reward—or rather _bribe_,
to induce me to remain silent, none is necessary. At the same time," he
added, hastily correcting himself as a second thought struck him, "it
may be as well that I should avail myself of your Majesty's offer; for
it might so fall out that the privilege of claiming a boon at your royal
hands——"

"May prove serviceable to you some day or another—eh?" added the King,
impatiently. "Well—be it so; and, stranger though you be to me, I rely
in confidence upon your solemn pledge to place a seal on your lips
relative to the incidents of this night."

Thus speaking, the monarch seated himself at the nearest table, and
opening a drawer, took forth writing materials: then, with a haste which
showed his desire to put an end to a painful interview, he penned the
following lines on a slip of paper:—

  "We acknowledge a sense of deep obligation to the bearer of this
  memorandum, the said bearer having rendered us especial 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.)

The King lighted a taper, and affixed his royal seal to this document,
which he then handed to the Blackamoor, saying, "You perceive what
confidence I place in you: see that the good name of Lady Hatfield on
the one side, and your Sovereign's honour on the other, be not
compromised by any indiscreet revelations on your part."

"Your Majesty may rest assured that I shall maintain the incidents of
this evening a profound secret, and that I shall not abuse the privilege
conferred upon me by this paper which bears your royal signature."

The Blackamoor bowed, and retired from the presence of King George the
Fourth, whom he left in no very pleasant humour at the turn which his
meditated attack upon the virtue of Lady Hatfield had taken.

On this occasion, the Black had no difficulty in finding the way to the
private staircase up which Sir Phillip Warren had originally introduced
him; and he was about to issue forth from Carlton House, when he
suddenly encountered that old courtier and Sir Randolph Harral in the
hall.

These gentlemen were disputing in a loud tone; but the moment the
Blackamoor appeared, Sir Phillip Warren sprang towards him, exclaiming,
"Why, where have you possibly been? But no matter," he added, in a
triumphant tone, "since you are here at length to settle the question
between me and my friend."

"The fact is, my good sir," said Sir Randolph, "I have laid Sir Phillip
Warren twenty guineas——"

"Yes—twenty guineas," interrupted Sir Phillip hastily, "that you are——"

"That you are _not_——" cried Sir Randolph.

"I say that you are!" exclaimed Sir Phillip.

"And I say that you are _not_!" vociferated Sir Randolph.

"Gentlemen, pray explain yourselves," said the Blackamoor.

"Well—I say that you are a lacquey out of place," observed Sir Phillip
Warren.

"And I say that you are _not_," cried Sir Randolph Harral, in his turn;
"whereupon we have bet twenty guineas."

"And you must decide who has won," added Sir Phillip.

"Then, gentlemen," said the Blackamoor, in a merry tone, "I can soon set
the matter at rest. So far from being a lacquey out of place, I have
upwards of a dozen dependants of my own. I wish you a very good night."

"Why—I am robbed as if it were on the highway!" exclaimed Sir Phillip
Warren, his countenance suddenly becoming as awful and blank as such a
Port-wine visage could possibly be.

"Ha! ha!" chuckled Sir Randolph: "robbed or not—please to hand me over
twenty good guineas."

And the cachinnation of the winning courtier was echoed by the merry
laugh of the Blackamoor, as this individual issued forth from Carlton
House.

Again, as he passed along Pall Mall, did the Black pause for a few
moments opposite the splendid mansion of the Earl of Ellingham, and gaze
at it with the attention of no common observer. He was about to continue
his way, when two men, belonging to the working class, stopped likewise
for an instant in front of the house; and one said to the other, "That
is where the Earl lives. God bless him!"

"Yes—God bless him!" repeated his companion, with the emphasis of
unfeigned sincerity: "for he is the people's friend."

The two men then passed on.

"Who dares to say that the industrious millions have no gratitude?"
murmured the Blackamoor to himself, as he also pursued his way. "O
Arthur! you are now indeed worthy of the proud name which you bear: and
I likewise exclaim from the very bottom of my heart, '_May God bless
you!_'"




                              CHAPTER CII.
                           A STATE OF SIEGE.


Return we now to Frank Curtis, his excellent wife, and Captain
O'Blunderbuss, who were living in a complete state of siege at the house
in Baker Street.

The captain was the commandant of the garrison, and superintended all
the manœuvres and the devices which it was necessary to adopt to keep
out the enemy. The front-door was constantly chained inside; and every
time there was a knock or a ring, John the footman reconnoitred from the
area. Whenever any one was compelled to go out to order in provisions,
the captain stood at the door, armed with the kitchen poker, and looking
so grim and terrible that the officers who were prowling about in
different disguises, dared not hazard an encounter with the warlike
gentleman.

The grocer, the butcher, and the baker lowered their respective
commodities down the area by means of a rope and basket provided for the
purpose; but they all took very good care to receive the cash first. The
milkman and pot-boy were enabled to supply their articles through the
opening afforded by the door with the chain up inside; and they likewise
strenuously advocated the ready-money principle.

This condition of siege was a source of great delight to Captain
O'Blunderbuss. He was completely in his element. Little cared he for the
opinion of neighbours: _his_ feelings were by no means concerned. The
house, from the first moment he set foot in it, was in a state of
perpetual excitement. He was constantly ordering the servants to do
something or another: a dozen times a-day did he perform what he called
"going his rounds," armed with the poker in case a bailiff should have
crept into the place through some unguarded avenue;—and it was indeed
with the greatest difficulty that Mrs. Curtis could divert him from a
plan which he had conceived and which he declared to be
necessary—namely, the drilling of all the inmates of the house, male and
female, including the five children, for an hour daily in the yard. As
it was, he compelled John, the footman, to mount sentry in the yard
aforesaid, every morning while the housemaid was dusting her carpets and
so forth—indeed during the whole time that the domestic duties rendered
it necessary to have the back-door open. If John remonstrated, the
captain would threaten, with terrible oaths, to try him by a
court-martial; and once, when the poor fellow respectfully solicited his
wages and his discharge, the formidable officer would certainly have
inflicted on him the cat-o'-nine-tails, if the cook had not begged him
off—she being the footman's sweetheart.

Mrs. Curtis took a great fancy to the captain, and allowed him to do
pretty well as he chose. She considered him to be the politest,
genteelest, bravest, and most amusing gentleman she had ever known; and
it soon struck her that his various qualifications threw her husband
considerably into the shade. Whenever she felt low-spirited, he had a
ready remedy for her. If it were in the forenoon, he would exclaim,
"Arrah and be Jasus, Mim, it's no wonther ye're dull, with the inimy
besaging us in this way: and it's a nice mutton chop and a glass of
Port-wine that'll be afther sitting ye to rights, Mim." Then forthwith
he would ring the bell, and order three chops, so that himself and Frank
might keep the dear lady company. If it were in the evening that Mrs.
Curtis was attacked by those unwelcome visitors termed "blue devils,"
the captain would recommend "a leetle dhrop of the potheen, brewed
afther the fashion in ould Ireland;" and while he exhausted all his
powers of eloquence in assurances that it should be "as wake as wather,
and not too swate," he would mix the respectable lady such a stinger,
that her eyes would fill with tears every time she put the glass near
her lips. Sometimes he would undertake to amuse the children up in the
nursery, by going on all fours and allowing them to play at
horse-soldiers by riding on his back; and then, what with his shouting
and bawling, and their laughing and screaming, it was enough to alarm
the whole neighbourhood—and very frequently did.

All these little attentions on the part of the captain either to herself
or her children, gave Mrs. Curtis an admirable opinion of him; and he
rose rapidly in her favour. His success in obtaining the five hundred
pounds from Sir Christopher Blunt was considered by her as sublime a
stroke of mingled policy and daring as ever was accomplished; and his
tactics in opposing a successful foil to all the stratagems devised by
the sheriff's-officers to obtain admission into the dwelling, made her
declare more than once that had _he_ commanded the Allied Army at
Waterloo, it would have been all up with the French in half-an-hour.

The female servants in the house did not altogether admire the position
in which they were placed; but, they were so dreadfully frightened at
the captain, that they never uttered a murmur in his hearing. They
moreover had their little consolations; for Sir Christopher's five
hundred pounds enabled the besieged to live, as the captain declared,
"like fighting-cocks,"—so that the kitchen was as luxuriously supplied
with provender as the parlour; and no account was taken of the quantity
of wine and spirits consumed in the establishment.

We have before hinted that the house was a perfect nuisance in Baker
Street. And no wonder, indeed, that it should have been so considered;
for it seemed to be the main source whence emanated all the frightful
noises that could possibly alarm nervous old ladies or irritate gouty
old gentlemen. No sooner did the day dawn, than Captain O'Blunderbuss
would fling up the window of his bed-room, which was at the back of
the house, with a crashing violence that made people think he was mad;
and, thrusting forth his head with a white night-cap upon it, he would
roar out—"John! John! to arms!" as lustily as he could bawl. This was
not only to save himself the trouble of repairing to the footman's
chamber to summon him, but also for the purpose of letting the
sheriff's-officers, if any were in the neighbourhood, know that he was
on the alert. Then John would poke his head out of another window, and
answer the captain's call; and a few minutes afterwards the back-door
would open and shut with a terrific bang, and John would be seen to
sally forth to mount sentry in the yard, with shouldered poker. Then
an hour's interval of comparative silence would prevail, while the
captain turned in again to take another nap; but, at length, up would
go the window again—out would come the head—and, "John! hot wather!"
would roll in awful reverberation throughout the entire neighbourhood.

The confusion and dismay produced by these alarms were terrific; and the
neighbours all threatened their landlords to give warning on the next
quarter. For it was not only in the morning that the noise prevailed,
but throughout the entire day—aye, and the best part of the night also.
Sometimes the captain would take it into his head to discharge his
pistols in the yard: or else he would have a fencing-match with Frank
Curtis, the weapons being pokers, which made a hideous clang. Then there
were the rows in the nursery, which were truly awful; and, by way of a
variety, Captain O'Blunderbuss would occasionally show himself at the
drawing-room windows and vociferate the most appalling abuse at any
suspicious characters whom he might happen to behold prowling about.
These exhibitions frequently collected crowds in front of the house; and
the captain would harangue them with as much earnestness as if he were a
candidate at a general election. On one of these occasions the
parish-beadle made his appearance, and from the pavement remonstrated
with the gallant officer, who kept him in parlance until Frank Curtis
had time to empty a pitcher of water over the enraged functionary from
the front bed-room window.

But the worst part of the whole business consisted in the goings-on at
night-time. Just when sedate and quiet people were getting cozily into
their first sleep at about eleven o'clock, Mr. Frank Curtis was getting
uncommonly drunk; and, though the captain seemed proof against the
effects of alcohol, no matter in what quantity imbibed, he nevertheless
grew trebly and quadruply uproarious when under the influence of poteen.
Thus, from eleven to twelve the shouts of laughter—the yells of
delight—the cries of mirth—and the vociferations of boisterous hilarity,
which came from the front parlour, made night perfectly hideous: but no
amount of human patience ever possessed by good and forgiving
neighbours, could possibly tolerate the din and disturbance which
prevailed during the "small hours." Then would the captain and his
friend Curtis rush like mad-men into the yard, shouting—roaring—and
bawling like demons, so that the residents in the adjacent houses leapt
from their beds and threw up their windows in horror and alarm,
expecting to find the whole street in a blaze. These performances on the
part of Frank and O'Blunderbuss were intended to show the officers that
they were upon the alert; and they not only had the desired effect, but
accomplished far more—inasmuch as they produced an absolute panic
throughout an entire neighbourhood.

Thus it was that Mr. Curtis's abode—lately so serene and quiet in the
time of Mrs. Goldberry—became a perfect nuisance and a scandal; and had
Bedlam in its very worst days been located there, the noise and alarm
could not have been greater.

It will be remembered that the captain's plan, when first he took up his
residence in Baker Street, was to get Mr. and Mrs. Curtis and the
children away on a Sunday night, and sell off all the furniture on the
Monday morning. But this scheme was postponed at first for one week—then
for another, because the officers kept such a constant look-out, that
the captain saw the necessity of standing the siege until the creditors
should be completely wearied of paying those disagreeable spies to watch
the premises. This determination was the more readily come to, inasmuch
as the five hundred pounds obtained from Sir Christopher Blunt, supplied
sinews to carry on the war in grand style.

When the captain paid the second financial visit to the worthy knight
with a view to the effecting of a further loan on the assignat which
himself and Frank Curtis had resolved to issue, it was not because money
was scarce in Baker Street; but simply because the captain admired "the
fun of the thing," and also considered it prudent to raise as ample a
supply of bullion as possible. The rage which he experienced at his
discomfiture on this occasion, can be better conceived than described;
and, firmly believing that it was Sir Christopher himself who had dealt
him from the carriage window the tremendous blow which sent him
sprawling on the pavement in a most ignominious manner, he vowed the
most deadly vengeance against the new Justice of the Peace. Picking
himself up as well as he could—for the gallant gentleman was sorely
bruised—he repaired to the nearest public-house, to "cool himself," as
he said in his own mind, with a tumbler of the invariable poteen; and,
having reflected upon the insult which he had received, he thought it
best not to communicate his dishonour and discomfiture on his return to
Baker Street. Accordingly, having returned to "the garrison," into which
he effected an easy entry—for no one dared approach the door when it
opened to give _him_ egress or ingress—he assured Mr. and Mrs. Curtis
that the knight was out of town, and would not be back for a week.
However, in a couple of days, the wonderful adventures of Sir
Christopher Blunt and Dr. Lascelles burst upon the metropolis like a
tempest; and, as the morning newspapers were duly dropped down the area
of the besieged dwelling in Baker Street, the entire report was read
aloud by Frank Curtis at the breakfast table. It therefore being evident
that Sir Christopher was not only in town at that moment, but was
likewise in London when the captain had called upon him, the gallant
gentleman affected to fly into a violent rage, swearing that the knight
was denied to him on purpose, and vowing to make him "repint of his
un-gintlemanly conduct." O'Blunderbuss did not, however, in his heart
mean to do any such thing as call again in Jermyn Street; for he had
despaired of inducing the knight, either by threatenings or coaxings, to
advance a further supply; and, now that the worthy gentleman was a
Justice of the Peace, the captain thought that it would be somewhat
imprudent to visit him for the mere sake of committing an assault and
battery. He accordingly invented divers excuses, day after day, for
remaining in "the garrison;" and as funds were abundant, no one urged
him to undertake another financial mission to Sir Christopher Blunt.

The reader must remember that Messrs. Mac Grab and Proggs were very
roughly handled by captain O'Blunderbuss, when they visited the house in
Baker Street for the purpose of arresting Mr. Frank Curtis; and, the
honour of a sheriff's-officer being particularly dear to its possessor,
those worthies considered their's to be at stake, unless they fully
vindicated it by capturing the aforesaid Mr. Curtis in the long run.
They therefore had recourse to all kinds of devices to obtain an entry
into the house, being armed not only with a writ against that
gentleman's person on behalf of Mr. Beeswing, but also with an execution
against the furniture at the instigation of another of Mrs. Curtis's
creditors.

The tricks practised by these worthies to obtain an entry into the
besieged domicile, were as varied as they were ludicrous. On one
occasion, Mr. Proggs, dressed for the nonce as a butcher, and carrying a
leg of mutton in a tray on his shoulder, hurried up to the door, gave
the loud, sharp, single knock peculiar to the trade, and shouted
"T-cher!" in the most approved style. But the parlour window was thrown
up, and out popped the head of the ferocious O'Blunderbuss, the
countenance as red as a turkey-cock, and the mouth vomiting forth a
torrent of abuse; so that the discomfited Mr. Proggs was compelled to
retreat with all the ignominy of a baffled strategist. On another
occasion, Mr. Mac Grab, attired as a general postman, rushed along the
street, stopped at the door of the besieged house, gave the two clear,
rapid strokes with the knocker, and immediately began to look over a
bundle of letters with all the feverish haste of the functionary whose
semblance he had assumed. But John came forth from the area; and again
was the sheriff's-officer's object completely frustrated. Next day,
however, two sweeps appeared in the street, as black as if they had
never known soap-and-water, and were accustomed to lodge, eat, and sleep
in chimneys as well as cleanse them; but upon arriving opposite the
parlour-windows, they beheld the captain and Frank Curtis "taking
sights" at them, the two gentlemen having "twigged the traps" without
much difficulty. Thus, defeated in all their endeavours to accomplish
their aims by cunning, Messrs. Mac Grab and Proggs worked themselves up
to the desperate resolution of using force; and they accordingly took
their post at the front-door of Curtis's house, with the apparent
determination to rush in the first time it should be opened. But, when
it _was_ opened as far as the chain inside would permit, and they
beheld, to their horror and dismay, the terrible captain wielding the
poker, they exhibited that better part of valour which is denominated
_discretion_. At last, however, they could no longer endure the jeerings
of their friends exercising the same agreeable and lucrative profession;
and moreover, the attorneys who employed them in the Baker Street affair
spoke out pretty plainly about gentlemen bribing bailiffs not to execute
writs, and so forth. All these circumstances induced Mr. Mac Grab and
his man Proggs to hold a council of war over two four-penn'orths of
rum-and-water; and the result was a determination, that as the various
devices and stratagems they had practised to enter the dwelling had
failed, and as they feared to carry it by storm, the stronghold must be
reduced by a _surprise_.

It was on the very evening when the Blackamoor experienced so strange an
adventure at Carlton House, that the following scene took place in Baker
Street.

The clock had struck ten; and, supper being disposed of, the whiskey,
hot water, glasses, and _et ceteras_ were placed upon the table, at
which Frank Curtis, his amiable wife, and Captain O'Blunderbuss were
seated—as comfortable a trio as you could wish or expect to see,
especially under such adverse circumstances.

"John!" vociferated the captain, as the domestic was about to leave the
room; "stop a moment, you rogue, and answer me this. Is the area all
safe?"

"Yes, sir," was the ready response.

"And the kitchen-windows—and the back-door—and the yar-rd gate—all
right, eh—John?"

"All right, captain: I've just been the rounds."

"And all the provisions in the garrison, John?—plenty of potheen?"
demanded O'Blunderbuss.

"Plenty, sir. There'll be no more going out again to-night."

"That's a blissing!" exclaimed the gallant captain. "John!"

"Yes—sir."

"Take a glass of whiskey, mate—and slape with the kitchen poker-r under
your pillow, my frind," enjoined the officer. "We must be ar-rmed at all
pints, be Jasus!"

"I shan't forget, sir," said John: and having tossed off the spirit, he
quitted the room.

"Now then to make ourselves cozie," observed the captain, drawing his
chair a little closer to Mrs. Curtis. "Pray, Mim, how d'ye feel your
dear self this evening?—is it in good spirits ye are, Mim?"

"Thank you, captain," returned Mrs. Curtis, "I am quite well—but the
least, least thing nervous. This strange kind of life we're leading——"

"Strange, Mim!" ejaculated the captain: "it's glor-r-ious!"

"Glorious, indeed!" cried Frank. "I only wish the Marquis of Shoreditch
was here along with us—how he would enjoy himself!"

"You will permit me, Mim!" said the captain, grasping the bottle of
whiskey, and addressing the lady in an insinuating manner.

"Now, really, captain—if I must take a very _leetle_ drop——" began Mrs.
Curtis, with a simper.

"Well, my dear madam, it shall be the leetlest dhrop in the wor-rld, and
so wake that a baby of a month old might dhrink it and niver so much as
thrip up as it walked across the room," exclaimed O'Blunderbuss, whose
knowledge of the physical capacities of infants was evidently somewhat
vague and limited. "There, Mim!" he added, placing before the lady a
large tumbler, the contents of which were equal portions of spirit and
water: "you may tell me I'm a Dutchman and unwor-rthy of ould Ireland,
if that isn't the purtiest dhrink iver brewed for one of the fair six."

"You're very kind, captain," said Mrs. Curtis, in a mincing—simpering
manner.

"It's you that's kind to say so, Mim," remarked the captain, placing his
foot close to that of the lady, and ascertaining by the readiness with
which she returned the pedal pressure, that the tender intimation he
wished thereby to convey was by no means unwelcome.

Frank did not of course notice what was going on under the table, and
the conversation progressed in the usual manner—the captain and Frank
vieing with each other in telling the most monstrous lies, and the
silent interchange of love's tokens continuing with increasing warmth
between the gallant gentleman and the stout lady. Mrs. Curtis's spirits,
however, seemed to require a more than ordinary amount of stimulant on
this occasion: she declared herself to be "very low," although she
contrived to laugh a great deal at the captain's lively sallies and
marvellous stories;—but as the clock struck midnight and she rose to
retire to her chamber, she found that the _three_ glasses of toddy which
she had been persuaded to imbibe, had somewhat unsettled the gravity of
her equilibrium. The captain sprang from his seat to open the
parlour-door for her; and as he bade her "good night," she pressed his
hand with a degree of tenderness which, as novel-writers say, spoke
volumes.

"Curthis, my frind," said the captain, as he returned to his seat, "be
the holy poker-r! you possess a rale jewel of a wife. She's the most
amiable lady I ever knew and takes her potheen without any nonsense. Be
Jove! she's an ornamint in a jintleman's household; and we'll dhrink her
health in a bumper!"

"With all my heart," exclaimed Frank, already more than half-seas over.
"But, I say, captain—do you know that I'm getting very tired of the life
we're leading? I wish we could put an end to it somehow or another."

"Be the power-rs! and that's the very thing I was going to recommend to
ye, Frank!" cried the captain, who was more affected by liquor on this
particular night than ever he had been before since the first moment he
had taken up his abode in Baker Street.

"But—how can it be done?" hiccoughed Curtis.

"Is it how the thing's to be done!" cried O'Blunderbuss. "Can't ye, now,
bolt off to France to-morrow night, and lave me in charge of the house?
I'll manage to sell every stick to a broker; and then it's myself
that'll bring over the wife, the children, and the money to ye as safe
as if they were all my own!"

"I don't like the idea of going away alone, captain," observed Frank, as
he refilled his tumbler. "But suppose we talk the matter over
to-morrow—when we've slept off the effects of the toddy!"

"Be Jasus! the toddy has no effects upon me!" exclaimed O'Blunderbuss,
who nevertheless sate very unsteadily in his chair, his body swaying to
and fro in spite of all his efforts to the contrary.

The conversation now languished; but the drinking was maintained, until
Frank Curtis suddenly fell from his seat in a vain attempt which he made
to reach the whiskey-bottle. The captain burst out into a roar of
laughter, and while endeavouring to pick up his companion, rolled
completely over him. He however managed, by means of many desperate
efforts, to place the young gentleman upon the sofa, where he left him
to repose in peace; and, taking up a candle, he staggered out of the
room, muttering to himself, "Be the power-rs! if I didn't know—hic—that
it was impos—sossible—hic—I should say that I—hic—was—dhrunk!"

This was a conclusion which the captain was by no means willing to
admit; and, in order to convince himself that he was perfectly sober and
knew what he was about, he proceeded to examine the front-door according
to his invariable custom ere retiring to rest.

"Well, be the power-rs!" he murmured, as he stood contemplating the door
with all the vacancy of inebriation; "it's John that's a clever
fellow—hic—afther all—hic! Be Jasus! and it's two chains he's put up—and
two bolts at the top—hic—and two bolts at the bottom—hic—and, be the
holy poker-r!" exclaimed the captain aloud, his face expanding with an
expresion of stupid joy; "the house is safe enough—hic—for there's two
doors!"

Supremely happy at having made this discovery, and moreover fancying
himself to be lighted by two candles—in a word, seeing double in every
respect,—the gallant officer staggered along the passage, and commenced
the ascent of the staircase, which appeared to have become wondrously
steep, ricketty, and uneven. Stumbling at every step, and muttering
awful imprecations against the "thunthering fool of a carpenter that had
built such a divil of a lath-er," Captain O'Blunderbuss contrived to
reach the first landing in safety; but, his foot tripping over the
carpet, he fell flat down, extinguishing the light of the candle, though
at the same time giving his head such a knock against the balustrades,
that a million meteoric sparks flashed across his visual organs.

"Blood and hounds!" growled the gallant gentleman; "there must either be
an airthquake—hic—or else, be the power-rs! I'm—hic—raly—hic—dhrunk!"

Picking himself up, the captain groped about for the staircase; and,
finding it with some little trouble, he continued his ascent in a
pleasing state of uncertainty as to whether he were walking on his head
or on his feet, but with the deeply settled conviction that he was
spinning round at a most terrific rate.

"Capthain O'Bluntherbuss," he said, apostrophising himself, as he
staggered along, "is this raly you or another person? If it's
yourself it is—hic—I—I'm ashamed of ye, be the holy poker-r; and
I've a precious good mind—hic—to give ye a dacent dhrubbing,
captain—hic—O'—hic—Bluntherbuss."

Thus soliloquising, the martial gentleman reached the second landing;
but here he paused for a few minutes in a state of awful doubt as to
which way he should turn in order to reach his own room. He knew that
his door must be somewhere close at hand; though whether to the right or
to the left, he could not for the life of him remember. At length he
began to grope about at a venture; and, having encountered the handle of
a door, he hesitated no longer, but entered the chamber with which the
said door communicated.




                             CHAPTER CIII.
                    THE SURPRISE.—A CHANGE OF SCENE.


It was about half-past three o'clock in the morning, and profound
silence reigned in Baker Street, when four men, bearing a ladder upon
their shoulders, passed like phantoms through the obscurity of the
thoroughfare, and halted in front of Mr. Curtis's house; where their
operations, so far from being at all ghost-like, assumed very much the
appearance of those proceedings which are carried on by creatures of
flesh and blood.

Thieves, however, they were not: but sheriff's-officers they were,—being
our old friends Mac Grab and Proggs, assisted by two other queer-looking
fellows of the species which chiefly abounds in the tap-rooms and
parlours of public-houses in Chancery Lane.

Mr. Mac Grab having satisfied himself by a close scrutiny of the number
on the front-door, that they had pitched upon the right house, the
ladder was forthwith placed against the little iron railings forming the
balcony at the drawing-room window; and Mr. Proggs was ordered to mount
first. But Mr. Proggs, having perhaps recently studied some book upon
etiquette, would not think of preceding his master; and Mr. Mac Grab was
doubtless too meek a man to take upon himself the post of honour. As for
the two underlings, they very bluntly assured Mr. Mac Grab that they
would see him unpleasantly condemned before they would venture first;
and thus the entire project was threatened with discomfiture, when
Proggs, overcoming his fears, consented to lead the way.

Up the ladder did this hero accordingly drag himself; and had he lost
his life in the desperate deed, the epic muse would have been compelled
to deplore the death of the last of the famous house of Proggs. But
fortune beamed upon Proggs, though the moon did not; and he reached the
balcony in safety. Mac Grab ascended next—and the two subordinates
followed,—by which time the intrepid Proggs had obtained admission into
the house by the simple process of cutting out a pane with a glazier's
diamond, and thrusting in his hand to undo the fastening of the window.

And now, behold the four men safe in the drawing-room—in actual
possession of the place,—four heroes who had just carried a strongly
fortified castle—by surprise!

A lanthorn, which Mr. Proggs took from his pocket, was lighted; and a
flask of rum, which Mr. Mac Grab took from _his_ pocket, was drunk. The
heroes then stole gently from the apartment—descended the stairs—opened
the front-door—and laid down the ladder along the area railings, so that
the watchman, on going his rounds, might not raise an alarm of
"thieves." This being accomplished, they re-entered the house, and
fastened the street-door, the key of which Mr. Mac Grab secured about
his own person.

The officers next entered the parlour on the ground floor, where they
found Frank Curtis lying asleep upon the sofa.

"That's our chap," said Mac Grab, in a tone of deep satisfaction, as he
threw the light of his lanthorn full upon the young gentleman's
countenance. "I shall take him off at once, with one of the men; and
you, Proggs, will remain in possession along with t'other."

"Two on us isn't enow to keep possession agin that devil of an Irisher,"
exclaimed Proggs, bluntly; and the loudness with which he spoke
disturbed Mr. Curtis.

Starting up, Frank rubbed his eyes—then stared around him with the
stupid vacancy of one who had only half slept off the fumes of
whiskey—and at last, as the truth gradually glimmered upon him, he said
in a hoarse, thick tone, "Well—who the devil are all you fellows?"

"You'll know soon enow who we be," growled Mac Grab. "Come—get up, young
genelman; and don't sit there a-staring at us, as if you was a stuck pig
and we was ghostesses."

"So you've got in at last—have you, old fellow?" said Frank, with an
awful yawn. "But I feel precious seedy, though. Can't you let me sleep a
little longer."

"You won't sleep no more till you gets to Chancery Lane," returned Mac
Grab; "and then you can have a turn-in if you like."

"What o'clock is it?" demanded Frank, his teeth chattering and his whole
frame shivering alike with the cold and the unpleasant petition to which
he had been awakened.

"It's getting on for a quarter to four, or thereabouts," said Mac Grab,
consulting a huge silver watch of the turnip species.

"Then I must have been asleep here for some time," mused Frank aloud;
and, glancing at the table, he added, "Oh! I remember—I was precious
drunk last night——"

"Well, I'm blest if I didn't think you was," said Proggs, expressing his
opinion with more bluntness than politeness. "You'll find a many lushing
coven over in Spike Island."

"Spike Island?" ejaculated Frank: then, as a light broke in upon him
through the mist and fumes of whiskey, he added, "Oh! I understand—the
Bench, eh? Well—never say die, my boys; as my friend the Crown Prince of
Holland used to observe. If it must be the Bench, it must: but you'll
let me tell my wife what's happened."

"We won't let you rouse that Irisher, young gentleman," said Mac Grab.
"Let us get you safe off, and then he may wake up, and be damned to
him."

"I pledge you my word I will not attempt to rouse the Captain,"
exclaimed Curtis: "but I must speak to my wife."

[Illustration]

"Well, that's only fair and reasonable," said Mac Grab; "although you
don't deserve no good treatment at our hands, seeing how we was served
by that owdacious Irish friend of yourn. Howsomever, you shall speak to
your good lady; but mind, I ain't going to lose sight on you."

"You can come with me as far as the bed-chamber door," observed Frank;
"and I shan't keep you many minutes."

"Proggs, you'll come along with me," said Mac Grab. "And now, mind, Mr.
Curtis, what you're up to. We've got pistols with us; and blowed if we
don't use 'em in self-defence if that Irish friend of your's happens to
wake up and tries it on again with any of his nonsense."

"It wasn't my fault that he acted as he did the last time you was here,"
returned Frank. "But come along, you two—if you must go with me."

Curtis lighted a candle, and led the way gently up stairs, Mac Grab and
Proggs following close at his heels. They reached the second landing,
where Frank stopped at a door, which he was about to open, when the
first-mentioned officer said in a low tone, "Now, mind—no nonsense!—we
won't be done a second time, remember."

"I assure you this is my wife's room," returned Curtis, also speaking in
a whisper; and he entered the chamber, the two bailiffs remaining at the
door, which was left ajar.

Frank, carrying the light in his hand, approached the bed, and was just
on the point of saying, "My dear—my dear!"—when he stopped
short—aghast—stupefied—his mouth wide open—and every faculty which he
possessed, save that of sight, entirely suspended.

For there—by the side of his wife—lay Captain O'Blunderbuss!

Both were fast asleep; and the countenance of the gallant officer seemed
absolutely on fire, so red was it in contrast with the white pillow.

"By Jove—this is too bad!" exclaimed Curtis, at length recovering the
powers of speech and movement; and, influenced only by the sudden rage
which took possession of him, and which rendered him bold and courageous
for the instant, he seized a water-jug from the washing-stand and dashed
the contents completely over Captain O'Blunderbuss.

"Blood and thunther!" roared the man of war starting up in a towering
passion;—and, springing from the bed, he was about to inflict summary
chastisement on his friend, when a shriek issued from the couch—and the
captain, stopping short and looking around him, ascertained where he
was. The cause of Frank's conduct towards him was instantly apparent;
and, subduing his anger, he exclaimed, "Be Jasus! and it was all a
mistake, me boy! I dhrank too much of the potheen——"

"The Irishman, by goles!" growled a hoarse voice in the landing outside.

"Well—never mind, Proggs!" cried another voice: "if he touches us, we'll
fire. Holloa! you fellows down there—come up!—come up!" roared Mac Grab.

And now the whole house was in confusion.

Mrs. Curtis lay screaming and shrieking in bed—the captain rushed upon
the landing, with nothing on save his shirt, and looking as if he had
just sprung out of a water-butt—Curtis followed, sulky and not half
satisfied with the apology he had received relative to the presence of
the officer in his wife's chamber—the two men who had been left down
stairs were running up as hard as they could—and the servants were
calling from the garrets to know what was the matter, but rather
suspecting something very much like the real truth in respect to the
invasion of the bailiffs.

"Down—down with ye, wild bastes that ye are!" vociferated the captain,
as the light which Curtis still carried showed the gallant officer the
well known faces of Mac Grab and Proggs.

But the two men, who had worked their courage up to the sticking point,
produced each a heavy horse-pistol; at the appearance of which
formidable weapons the captain hung back, and Curtis shouted out in
alarm, "No violence! I'll keep my word and go off with you quiet
enough."

"Be Jasus! and you shan't though, my dear frind!" cried O'Blunderbuss,
looking rapidly round in search of some object which he might use as an
offensive weapon against the invaders; but the two men from down stairs
now made their appearance, and Curtis put an end to all further
hostilities by surrendering himself to them without any more ado.

"Frank! Frank!" shrieked his wife from the bed-room.

"Curthis, my frind—don't be a fool!" roared the captain: "we'll bate 'em
yet!"

The young gentleman, however, took no notice either of his wife's appeal
or his friend's adjuration, and rapidly descended the stairs, followed
by the sheriff's-officers. He was not only afraid of the pistols; but he
was likewise too much annoyed at the bed-chamber scene to care about
remaining in the house any longer. Not having courage enough to resent
the wrong which he conceived to have been done him, he was nevertheless
unable to endure it passively; and here signed himself, moodily and
sulkily, to the lot which circumstances had shaped for him.

Mac Grab and one of the subordinates accordingly departed with their
prisoner to the spunging-house in Chancery Lane; while Proggs and the
other man remained in possession of the dwelling in Baker Street.

It was about half-past four o'clock on that dark and chilly morning,
when Frank Curtis entered the lock-up establishment owned by Mr. Mac
Grab, the sheriff's-officer. A racking head-ache, the result of the
preceding night's debauch—a cold nervousness, amounting almost to a
continuous shiver,—and thoughts of by no means a pleasant nature, all
combined to depress the young man's spirits to a very painful degree;
and, as the door of the spunging-house closed behind him, he murmured to
himself, "Oh! what a fool I have been!" Fortunately, he had plenty of
ready money in his pocket; and, putting a guinea into Mac Grab's hand,
he said, "Let me have a private room; and have a fire lighted directly."

"Please to sit down for a few minutes in the office here," observed the
bailiff, pocketing the coin, "while I call up the servant."

In the meantime the subordinate had lighted a lamp in the little, dirty,
cold-looking place, dignified by the name of "the office;" and while Mac
Grab went to summon the domestic, Curtis, who was a prey to that fidgety
sensation which seems the forerunner of something dreadful, endeavoured
to divert his thoughts from gloomy topics by scrutinizing the objects
around him.

A sorry desk, much hacked about with a pen-knife and stained all over
with ink—a small shelf containing a few old law books—a law-almanack
with thick black lines in the calender denoting Term-times—a list of the
sheriffs and undersheriffs of England and Wales—printed papers showing
the arrangements of the Courts for the sittings in and after Term—two or
three crazy chairs—and a Dutch clock, which ticked with a monotony
calculated to drive a nervous person out of his senses,—these were the
objects which met his view. Every thing appeared musty and
worm-eaten;—the office looked as if it never were swept out;—and there
was an earthly smell of a peculiarly unpleasant nature.

In this miserable place—so cold and cheerless—Frank Curtis was kept
waiting for nearly half-an-hour; while the man who remained with him
sate dozing in a chair, and every now and then awaking with a sudden
dive down and bob up of the head which painfully augmented the
nervousness of the prisoner. At last Mr. Mac Grab returned, smelling
very strong of rum, and followed by a dirty-looking old woman, who
seemed to have huddled on her clothes anyhow, and to be in a
particularly ill-humour at being disturbed so early in the morning.

"Now then," she said, in a short, sulky tone, addressing herself to
Curtis, without however looking at him: "this way."

Frank followed her into a short passage, and then up a narrow staircase,
the miserable candle which she held in one hand and shaded with the
other on account of the draught, affording only just sufficient light to
render apparent the cheerless aspect of the premises. It was not that
there was any thing mean or poor in the interior of the dwelling, the
office excepted: but there was an air of deep gloom, and also of dirt
and neglect, which struck even so superficial an observer as Mr. Frank
Curtis.

The old woman led the way into a moderate-sized front room on the second
floor, where she lighted two candles, and then set to work to persuade a
few damp sticks smothered with small coal to burn up in the grate. The
apartment was fitted up as a sitting-room, but had a bed in it. The
walls were hung with numerous pictures the frames of which were an inch
thick in dust and cob-webs; and there was a side-board covered with
old-fashioned cut glass. The carpet was worn out in many places, and was
also much soiled with grease and beer: the table-cover was likewise
stained with liquor and spotted with ink. The curtains, which were of
good material, were completely disguised in dust; and the windows were
so dirty that at mid-day they formed a pleasantly subdued medium for the
sun-light. Altogether, there was an air of expense mingled with the most
cheerless discomfort—an appearance of liberal outlay altogether
neutralized by neglect and habits of wanton slovenliness.

The fire burnt feebly—the old woman slunk sulkily away—and Frank Curtis
threw himself upon the bed. He was thoroughly wretched, and would have
given all the money he had left in his pocket for a few hours' tranquil
repose. But sleep would not visit his eyes; and, after tossing about for
some time in painful restlessness, he got up as the clock struck eight.

His burning, feverish countenance craved the contact of cold water; and
the idea of a refreshing toilette rendered him almost cheerful. But the
jug was empty; and there were no towels. He rang the bell: five minutes
elapsed—and no one came. He rang again; and at last, another five
minutes having gone tediously by, the old woman made her appearance. His
wishes were expressed; and the harridan took away the jug. A third
interval of five minutes passed, ere she returned. Then she had
forgotten the towels; and now a quarter of an hour dragged its slow
length along before she came back, bringing with her a miserably thin
rag of about a foot square. She was about to leave the room again, when
Curtis discovered that there was no soap; and ten minutes more were
required for the provoking old wretch to produce a small sample of that
very necessary article. Yet for all this _discomfort_, the prisoner had
paid a guinea in advance!

"Pray let me have some breakfast us soon as you can, my good woman,"
said Frank, humiliated and miserable.

"As soon as the kittle biles down stairs," answered the servant, in a
surly tone, as she turned to leave the room.

"And how long will that be?" demanded Curtis.

"Don't know: the kitchen fire ain't alight yet:"—and she hobbled away.

In a fit of desperation the prisoner addressed himself to his toilette:
but the feeling of utter discomfort still clung to him. The water seemed
thick and clammy, instead of cool and refreshing; and the towel was so
small that it became saturated in a few moments, and he was compelled to
dry his face with a corner of one of the sheets. Having no nail brush,
he could not cleanse his hands properly; and the want of a comb left his
hair matted and disordered. In fact, he positively felt more
uncomfortable and dirty after his ablutions than he did before he began
them; and that disagreeable sensation kept him dispirited and wretched.

He walked about the room, examining all the pictures one after the
other, until he became as thoroughly acquainted with their subjects as
if he had lived for years in that room. He then posted himself at one of
the windows, and watched the people passing up and down the street. It
was now nine o'clock, and the law-clerks were proceeding to their
respective offices. Seedy-looking men were hurrying along with
mysterious slips of paper in their hands; and now and then a
better-attired person, in a suit of black, would be seen wending his way
towards the Chancery Court, carrying the blue bag of his master, a
barrister. Small parties of threes or fours would likewise pass up the
lane, affording to the initiated the irresistible idea—which was also
the true one—of tipstaves conducting insolvents to the court in Portugal
Street.

At the public house, opposite the barred window from which Curtis was
gazing, a small knot of very shabby men had collected; and it required
but little knowledge of the specimens of animated nature in Chancery
Lane, to recognise their especial calling. In fact they were individuals
who belonged to the outworks of the strong entrenchments of the
law,—process-servers, sheriff's-officers' assistants, and men who hired
themselves out to be left in possession at dwellings where executions
were levied. When not actively engaged, they regularly haunted the
public-houses, of which they seemed the very door-posts; and if they
stepped inside to take something, which was very often indeed, they
appeared on intimate terms with the landlord, said "Miss" to the
bar-girl, and called the waiter by his Christian name. They had a dirty,
seedy, mean, and cringing look about them; and yet, if not adequately
recompensed by the unfortunate victims of the law with whom they had to
deal, they would become doggedly insolent and grossly abusive.

Half-an-hour passed away; and Chancery Lane grew more attractive. A few
barristers, in all the imposing dignity of the black gown and the awful
wisdom of the wig, were seen moving along to the Rolls' Court:
well-dressed attorneys alighted from their gigs, cabs, or phaetons at
the doors of their offices;—and articled clerks, having thrown away
their cigars when within view of the windows of their places of
business, made up for lost time by cutting briskly over the pavement,
flourishing short sticks, and complacently surveying their polished
boots, tight-fitting trousers, and flash waistcoats.

Frank Curtis sighed as he beheld so many, many persons in the enjoyment
of freedom;—but his mournful reverie was at length broken by the
entrance of the old woman with the breakfast-tray. His throat was
parched, and he had been unable to drink the water: he now, therefore,
eagerly applied himself to the tea. But it was wretched stuff; and even
extreme thirst could not render it palatable. He tried to eat a piece of
toast; but the butter was so rank that his heart heaved against it. He
broke open an egg: it however tasted of straw, and nearly made him sick.

Having forced himself to swallow a couple of cups of tea, Frank rang the
bell and ordered the woman to bring him a sheet of paper. This command
was complied with, after a long delay; and, by the aid of a worn down
stump of a pen and ink which flowed like soot and water, Frank managed
to pen a brief note to a lawyer whom he knew, and who dwelt in Carey
Street hard by. After a great deal of trouble, a messenger was found,
who, for the moderate reward of eighteen pence, undertook to convey the
note to its place of destination—just fifty yards distant; and in the
course of half an hour, Mr. Pepperton, the legal limb alluded to, made
his appearance in the shape of a short, thin, sallow-faced man, with
small piercing eyes, and very compressed lips.

"Well, Mr. Curtis," said the lawyer, as he entered the room; "got into a
mess—eh?"

"Rather so," replied the young man. "But I don't care so much about
that, as on account of being locked up in this cursed place. The fact is
I must go over to the Bench; and I dare say Sir Christopher won't let me
lie very long there."

"You require a _habeas_, you know," observed the lawyer. "But are you
sure that you're sued in the Court of Queen's Bench? because, if it is
in the Common Pleas or Exchequer, you will have to go to the Fleet."

"The devil!" ejaculated Frank. "But here's a paper which Mac Grab gave
me——"

"Ah! that's right," said Mr. Pepperton, examining the document placed in
his hands. "Yes—it's in the Bench, safe enough. Holloa!" he exclaimed
suddenly, after a few moments' silence: "here's an error in the
description. Your name is Francis, and not Frank."

"Just so!" cried the prisoner, his heart fluttering with the vague hope
which his legal adviser's words and manner had encouraged.

"Well—I think—mind, I _think_ that it is highly probable we may set the
caption aside," continued Pepperton. "At all events it would be worth
the trying. But I must apply to the Judge in Chambers this afternoon;
and if we _do_ happen to fail—mind, I say _if_ we _do_—why, then you can
pass over to the Bench to-morrow."

Somehow or another, persons locked up in spunging-houses always feel
confident of getting out on the slightest legal quibble that their
ingenious attorneys may suggest. They do not apprehend the chance of
failure, and of disbursing two or three guineas, which they can so ill
afford, for nothing: the process of applying to a Judge in Chambers
seems so certain of a triumphant issue, and there is such a spell in the
bare idea, that the door of freedom appears already opening to the
touch.

Frank Curtis was not an exception to the general rule which we have
mentioned; and he forthwith desired Mr. Pepperton to adopt the necessary
steps, although this gentleman assured him that nothing could be done
until the after part of the day.

Poor, deluded captive! Little did he think Mr. Pepperton was well aware
beforehand that there was not the shadow of the ghost of a chance of
success; but that his only motive in suggesting these proceedings was to
make as much out of his client as possible.

When Pepperton had left the room, Frank Curtis began to pace it as if he
were a Wandering Jew confined to a very miniature world; and he examined
the pictures over and over again, until they seemed the most familiar
friends of the kind he had ever known. Then he returned to the window,
and beheld Mr. Mac Grab and one of his men just starting in a
queer-looking gig upon a suburban expedition; and having watched the
equipage until it was no longer visible, he bethought himself of asking
for a newspaper. He accordingly rang the bell, and intimated his wishes
to the old woman, who, after keeping him in suspense as usual for ten
minutes or a quarter of an hour, returned with a _Weekly Dispatch_ a
fortnight old and a _Times_ of ten days back. Curtis could scarcely
control his indignation; and, tossing a shilling to the harridan, he
desired her to send out and buy him a morning paper. She departed
accordingly, and in half-an-hour returned with that day's _Times_,
whereby Mr. Frank Curtis was enabled to divert himself until two
o'clock, when he partook of an execrable chop nearly raw, a potato that
seemed as if it were iced, and a pint of wine which appeared to have
been warmed.

Then how heavily, heavily did the weary hours pass away; and Curtis more
than half regretted that his friend O'Blunderbuss did not call upon him.
He felt that, for the pleasure of his society, he would overlook and
forget the treatment he had received at his hands. But the gallant
officer came not; and, what with another examination of the pictures, a
complete spell of the advertisements (the news being already disposed
of) in the _Times_, and a cigar or two, Frank managed to dispose of the
time, though miserably enough, until five o'clock.

Mr. Pepperton then came back; and Frank awaited the report in
excruciating suspense.

"Well, my dear fellow," said the lawyer, flinging himself in a chair as
if regularly worn out by hard work, "we have lost the point; but we have
this consolation——"

"What?" demanded Curtis, in the anxious hope of seeing another loophole
promising emancipation.

"Why—that we as nearly gained it as possible," returned Pepperton. "It
was old Justice Foozlehem that was at Chambers to-day; and, when I
argued the point, he rubbed his nose with the feather-end of the pen—he
always does that when the thing is very ticklish——"

"Damn Judge Foozlehem!" emphatically cried Mr. Frank Curtis. "A miss is
as good as a mile; and that was what the Prince of Malabar said when my
bullet whistled close by his ear at that duel which him and me fought at
Boulogne three years ago. But, to speak seriously of business—I suppose
that there's nothing left for me to do——"

"Save to pay the debt or go to the Bench," added the lawyer, putting the
alternatives in as nut-shell a compass as possible.

"Well—the Bench it must be, then!" ejaculated Frank.

"I will take out the _habeas_ to-morrow," observed Mr. Pepperton; "and
at about five o'clock in the afternoon the tipstaff will be at
Serjeant's Inn waiting for you—or may be, you'll have to go over to him
at the public-house opposite."

Curtis invited the lawyer to pass the evening with him: but Mr.
Pepperton was engaged elsewhere; and the prisoner was therefore
compelled to drink and smoke in solitude, occasionally varying the
occupation by another spell at the _Times_—another long gaze of envy
from the window—and another scrutiny of the pictures.

At last, when ten o'clock struck, Mr. Curtis was thoroughly worn out by
feverish excitement, suspense, and annoyances of all kinds; and he
retired to rest with the fervent hope of enjoying an uninterrupted
slumber till morning. But scarcely had he begun to get drowsy, when a
tickling sensation commenced in a thousand parts of his body and limbs;
and, to his dismay, he found himself assailed by a perfect legion of
those abominable little torturers termed bugs.

Now, Mr. Curtis was most peculiarly sensitive in this respect; and if
there were ever a flea or a bug in a bed, it was certain to find him
out—aye, and feast upon him too. But never, in the whole course of his
life, had he experienced such an attack as on the present occasion:
never till now had he known bugs so numerous, nor bites so pungent.

At length he jumped up in rage and agony, and lighted a candle. But vain
was all search: not a bug could he find. The legion _appeared_ to have
suddenly _disappeared_. Like Destiny, they were always to be felt, but
never seen. He could not sleep with a light in the room; so, having
extinguished it, he laid himself down once more.

For a few minutes he was suffered to remain quiet enough; but at last,
back came his tormentors by slow degrees; and scarcely had he torn the
skin off one part of his body, than he was compelled to flay another. In
this manner hour after hour passed; and, when he did at length fall
asleep between one and two in the morning, he was pursued by a legion of
bugs and sheriff's-officers in his dreams.




                              CHAPTER CIV.
                     THE VISIT.—THE HABEAS CORPUS.


Frank awoke at seven o'clock, depressed in spirits and unrefreshed in
body. His head still ached; and he was sore all over through having
nearly torn himself to pieces on account of the bugs. His face betrayed
marks of the ravages committed upon him by his little tormentors; and
his eyes were swollen from the same cause. He had not even the comfort
of copious ablutions; for the process of the toilette was not more
satisfactory on this occasion than it had been on the previous day. Thus
all circumstances conspired to make him wretched.

Before he sate down to breakfast, he despatched a messenger to Baker
Street for a few necessaries which he required; and, as he did not
choose to write to his wife, and knew not whether O'Blunderbuss might
still be there, he sent a verbal intimation of his wishes.

The breakfast of this morning was no improvement on its predecessor:
indeed, it struck Curtis that he had got from bad to worse by trying the
desperate experiment of ordering coffee instead of tea. He, however,
knew that it was useless to grumble; and so, having disposed of the meal
as best he could, he sent for the morning paper, with which he whiled
away an hour and a half until the return of his messenger, who came
laden with a portmanteau.

"Well, who did you see in Baker Street?" demanded Frank.

"Please, sir, I see Mr. Proggs and t'other man which is in possession,"
was the answer.

"And who else?" enquired Curtis.

"Please, sir, I see a stout lady as give me a glass of gin, and a tall
genelman as give me a rap over the head," returned the man.

"And what did he do that for?" cried Frank, laughing in spite of
himself.

"'Cos he said, sir, that I didn't speak in a speckful way to him. But
here's a note as the genelman give me to give to you, sir."

Curtis tore open a curiously folded letter which the messenger handed to
him, and the contents of which ran as follow:—

  "Be Jasus, my frind, and it's myself that has a right to complain of
  unfrindly tratement. Here have I been waiting to resave a bit of a
  note from ye, and divil a line or a word at all, at all. Your poor
  wife's distracted and has lost her appetite, and all because of your
  injurious suspicions; but I do all I can to consoul her. If you come
  to reflict upon the matther, Frank, ye must admit that though
  appayrances was against me, yet it isn't Capthain O'Blunderbuss that
  would wrong ye. For, be the powers! and it's mistaken in the bed I
  was—what with botheration and potheen and the candle's going out;
  and divil a hayp'orth did I drame where I was, till ye powred the
  wather all over me. So shake hands, me boy, and let us be frinds
  again; and sure it's myself that will bring Mrs. Curtis down to dine
  with ye at two o'clock this afthernoon, and we'll send in the dinner
  and the potheen first. Proggs and his man are in possission; and I
  feel like a defated ginral: but they're on their best behaviour, and
  so I have not been forced to give either of them a taste of the
  shillaylee. I'm sadly afraid that the chap you have sent up is a
  fool; so if he should forget to give you this letter, mind you ask
  him for it. Your wife sends you a million kisses through me; and
  believe me, my frind, to remain

                                            "Ever yours,
                                               "GORMAN O'BLUNDERBUSS."

"Very good," said Frank Curtis, as he brought the perusal of this
curious epistle to an end: and having paid and dismissed the messenger,
he sate himself down to reflect upon the manner in which he ought to
receive his wife and the gallant gentleman.

On the one hand was the sense of the injury he had received, or fancied
he had received; for he could not well embrace the double conviction
that Mrs. Curtis was _not_ faithless, and that the captain was _not_
treacherous. On the other hand were numerous motives persuasive of an
amicable course,—the want of society, the shame of declaring himself to
be a cuckold—and last, though not least, the infinite terror in which he
stood of Gorman O'Blunderbuss. These reasons were weighty and powerful;
and they grew stronger and stronger as the dinner-hour advanced,—until
they became completely triumphant when a hamper was sent up, containing
cold fowls, ham, wine, dessert, whiskey, and cigars.

No longer hesitating what course to pursue, Frank superintended the
laying of the cloth and the arrangement of the provisions upon the
table: he decanted the wine—tasted it—and found it excellent;—and, those
little proceedings having put him into a thorough good humour, he
received his wife and the captain, when they made their appearance, as
if nothing had occurred to ruffle his mind with regard to them.

Mrs. Curtis thought it necessary to go into hysterics at the sight of
her beloved husband in a spunging-house; but she speedily recovered upon
the said beloved husband's kindly recommending her not to make a fool of
herself;—and the trio sate down to dinner, at which they made themselves
very comfortable indeed. The captain proposed that as the wine-glasses
were particularly small, they should drink their Sherry from tumblers;
and the motion was adopted after a feeble opposition on the part of the
lady.

"Well, Cu-r-r-tis, me boy," exclaimed the gallant gentleman, when they
had made an end of eating, having done immense justice to the viands
provided, "what are ye afther now? It isn't staying here all your life
that you can be thinking of——"

"Nor do I intend to stop in this cursed hole many hours longer,"
interrupted Frank. "I expect to go over to the Bench, at five o'clock."

"The Binch!" cried the captain, overjoyed at the plan chalked out: "be
Jasus! and it's the wisest thing ye can be afther, my frind! The Binch
is a glor-rious place—and ye'll be as comfortable there as at home. The
porther is the best in all London; and it's worth while to be in the
Binch for the pleasure of dhrinking it. Not that I'm a great admirer of
malt, Mim," he added, turning politely towards Mrs. Curtis; "but the
porther of the Binch is second best to rale potheen. Then the amusements
of the Binch, Mim, are delightful! There's the parade to walk upon—and
there's the racquet ground when ye're tired of the parade—and there's
the dolphin-pump—and the coffee-house, a riglar tavern——In fact,"
exclaimed the gallant gentleman, quite lost in admiration of all the
beautiful views and scenes he was so enthusiastically depicting, "the
Binch is a perfect palace of a prison, and I only wish I was there
myself."

"I'm sure I should be most happy to change places with you, captain,"
observed Frank Curtis drily.

"I wouldn't deprive ye of the pleasure, me boy, for all the wor-r-ld!"
cried O'Blunderbuss, in a tone of the utmost sincerity. "But what's to
be done next? Those bastes of the earth are in possession of the
garrison, and every stick will be sould up by them—the ragamuffin scamps
that they are!"

"The wife and children must take a lodging over the water, close by the
Bench," said Curtis; "and if Sir Christopher won't come forward to
assist me, I must either get the Rules or go through the Insolvent's
Court—I don't care much which. My friend, the Earl of Billingsgate, did
both——"

"Be the holy poker-r! and it's myself that will call on Sir
Christopher-r in such a strait as this," vociferated the captain; "and
although he did knock me down from the carriage window, the last time——"

"What!" ejaculated Frank, as much amused as astonished at the
information which the gallant officer had so inadvertently let slip;
"Sir Christopher knocked you down!"

"Blood and thunther!" roared the captain, becoming as red as scarlet;
"and was it afther making a fool of myself that I was? For sure and it
was Sir Christopher that was knocked down—and I didn't like to tell ye
about it before, seeing that he's your own nat'ral uncle. But it's
myself that will call upon him and offer the most abject apology; and
I'll skin him alive if he don't come for'ard as he ought to do, and pay
all your debts, my dear boy. So you persave that there's some use in
having such a frind as Gorman O'Bluntherbuss, of Bluntherbuss Park,
Connemar-r-ra, Ir-r-reland!" added the martial gentleman, with an awful
rattling of the r's.

"The sooner I move over to the neighbourhood of the Bench, the better,"
said Mrs. Curtis; "for I am sick and tired of living in Baker Street.
Just now, when I came out, it seemed to me that all the people I met
laughed in my face, as if they knew our circumstances."

"I wish I had seen them dar-r to laugh!" cried Captain O'Blunderbuss,
lifting up an empty bottle, and flourishing it over his head: "I'd have
sent them slap into the middle of next week, so that they should miss
resayving their money next Saturday night."

In such pleasant chat as this, did the trio while away the time until
about a quarter to five, when Mr. Pepperton made his appearance to
announce that the office had been searched, that three detainers had
been found, and that the _habeas corpus_ was all in apple-pie order.

Frank Curtis accordingly rang the bell, and ordered his bill. In about a
quarter of an hour it was brought;—and thus it ran:—

                         MR. CURTIS'S ACCOUNT.

                                                               _s._ _d._

 Room                                                            10    6

 Breakfast                                                        3    0

 Eggs                                                             0    6

 Messenger to Carey Street                                        2    6

 Reading Newspapers                                               1    0

 Dinner                                                           5    0

 Porter                                                           0    6

 Gin and Cigars                                                   5    6

 Bread and Cheese for Supper                                      2    0

 Porter                                                           0    6

 Room                                                            10    6

 Breakfast                                                        3    0

 Eggs                                                             0    6

 Messenger to Baker Street                                        3    0

 Use of table-cloth, knives, and forks, &c.,   gentleman          2    6
   providing his own dinner

 Extras                                                           5    0

                                                            ——   ——   ——

                                                            £2   15    6

                                                            ——   ——   ——

"Why, my good woman," exclaimed Frank Curtis, amazed as such a terrific
attempt at imposition, "this account is absurd. Besides, there are two
things in it that I paid for myself—I mean the messenger yesterday and
to-day."

"Master says it's all right, sir," observed the harridan.

"And then you charge a shilling for reading two newspapers a fortnight
old," cried Frank, more and more bewildered as he studied the items of
the bill: "and five shillings for _extras_! Why—what the devil are the
_extras_, since it seems to me that you have taken precious good care to
omit nothing?"

"The extras is soap, and candles, and so on," said the woman, growing
impatient.

"Then, be Jasus! and just let me soap over Mr. Mac Grab with a
shillaleh!" ejaculated Captain O'Blunderbuss, starting from his seat.
"It's afther robbing my frind, ye are—ye bastes of the earth!"

Mr. Pepperton however interfered, and represented to the two gentlemen
that there was no possibility of obtaining redress—that
sheriff's-officers might charge exactly what they liked—and that it
would be much better to pay the bill without any haggling. The amount
was accordingly liquidated, and the old woman received half-a-crown as a
gratuity, which she took in a manner most unequivocally denoting that
she had expected at least four times as much.

"Well," exclaimed Frank Curtis, as soon as she had left the room, "of
all infernal impositions this is the greatest! Supposing I was a poor
devil——"

"Then you would have been bundled straight off to Whitecross Street at
once," observed Pepperton. "Lord bless you, my dear sir—there's an
aristocracy amongst debtors as well as in every thing else in this
country."

"I always thought the law was the same for rich or poor," said Curtis.

"You never were under a greater mistake in your life," returned the
solicitor. "Money is all-powerful in England, and makes the gentleman;
and gentlemen are treated quite differently from common people. Such
establishments as the Bench and the Fleet[43] are for those who can
afford to pay for a _habeas_: while those who cannot, must go to the
County Gaol. These spunging-houses, too, are places of accommodation,
for the use of which people must pay liberally."

"Or rather be robbed vilely," said Frank. "But never mind—it can't be
helped. When shall I have to go over to the Bench?"

"The tipstaff is no doubt already waiting at the public-house opposite,"
replied the lawyer.

"Then I'll be off at once," exclaimed Curtis, rising from his chair.

"Be the power-rs! but we'll see ye safe over to the Binch," cried
Captain O'Blunderbuss; "for it may be that I shall have to thrash the
Marshal or skin a tur-rnkey to renther the people dacently civil in that
iligant istablishment."

"Yes—you come with me, captain," said Frank, who had been thinking of
some means to separate his amiable wife and his devoted friend. "You can
put Mrs. C. into a hackney-coach; and to-morrow morning, my dear," he
added, turning towards his spouse, "you can look out for a lodging
somewhere in the neighbourhood of the prison."

"But you don't mean me to remain all alone to-night in Baker Street,
with those odious officers in the house?" exclaimed Mrs. Curtis, not
admiring the proposed arrangement.

"It would not be proper for the captain to stay in the house now that I
am away," said Frank, hastily, and without daring to look at his gallant
friend: indeed, scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when he was
surprised at his courage in having dared to utter them.

Fortunately the captain took the observation in good part, and even
expressed his approval of it; for it struck the martial gentleman that
he should stand a much better chance of amusing himself with Frank
Curtis in the Bench, with the interior arrangements of which he was
pretty well acquainted from old experience, than in the society of Mrs.
Curtis in Baker Street. The lady could not, therefore, offer any farther
opposition to the arrangement proposed; but she darted an angry look
upon the captain, who responded by one of earnest appeal to her mercy.

She now took leave of her husband, and was escorted by Captain
O'Blunderbuss to the nearest coach-stand; and as some time elapsed ere
he returned to the spunging-house, it is presumable that he had a little
difficulty in making his peace with her.

At length, however, he did re-appear; and, the messenger having conveyed
the portmanteau over to the public-house opposite, for which he only
charged a shilling, the prisoner proceeded thither in company with Mr.
MacGrab and Captain O'Blunderbuss, Pepperton bidding them farewell at
the door.

In a little front parlour on the first floor of the public-house alluded
to, sate half-a-dozen seedy-looking men, who were delectably occupied in
smoking cigars and drinking hot gin-and-water. Their conversation was
doubtless very amusing to themselves; but it would have been very boring
to strangers;—for the topic seemed entirely limited to what had taken
place that day at the Insolvent Debtors' Court, or at the Judges'
Chambers. There, in that same room, were those men accustomed to meet
every afternoon (Sunday excepted), at about the same hour; and their
discourse was invariably on the same subjects. They were tipstaffs—or,
more properly speaking, perhaps, tipstaves: they lived in the atmosphere
of debtors' prisons and law-courts;—and all their information was
circumscribed to the transactions thereof. When they were not hovering
about the lobbies of the Fleet or the Bench, they were "down at
Westminster," or "up at Portugal Street;" and if not in any of those
places—why, then they were at the public-house.

It was to one of these worthies that MacGrab introduced Mr. Francis
Curtis; and as the tipstaff thus particularised had not finished his
cigar nor his gin-and-water, Mr. Frank Curtis and Captain O'Blunderbuss
sate down to keep him company till he had. Half an hour afterwards a
hackney-coach was sent for; and the prisoner, his gallant friend, and
the officer were speedily on their road to the King's Bench prison.

Curtis spoke but little during the transit: he felt nervous at the idea
of going to his new home. But the captain rattled away as if he were
determined to speak for himself and his friend both; and the tipstaff
was still in a state of uncertainty as to whether he should set the
gallant gentleman down as a very extraordinary personage, or as a most
wondrous liar, when the vehicle stopped at a little low door in a gloomy
brick wall.

"Be Jasus! and here's the Binch already," exclaimed Captain
O'Blunderbuss, thrusting his head out of the coach-window. "That house
there, with the trees before it, Frank, is the Marshal's—and a very
dacent berth he's got of it: I shouldn't mind standing in his shoes at
all, at all. But come along, me dear frind."

Thus speaking, the captain leapt from the vehicle, followed by Frank
Curtis and the tipstaff; and, having traversed an enclosure formed by
the gloomy-looking wall above alluded to and the high spike-topped
boundary of the prison itself, the trio ascended a few steps which led
them into the upper lobby of the King's Bench.

-----

Footnote 43:

  Within the last few years the Fleet has been suppressed, and the
  Bench, under the general name of the Queen's Prison, has become the
  receptacle for all metropolitan debtors who are enabled to purchase
  the luxury of a _habeas corpus_.




                              CHAPTER CV.
                        THE KING'S BENCH PRISON.


The upper lobby was a small, dirty, and sombre-looking outwork of the
vast establishment. A huge clock hung against one of the walls—a
roasting fire burnt in the grate—and a stout, elderly turnkey, who spoke
with a provincial accent, was seated on a high stool near the inner
door, watching the persons who came _out_ of the prison, and on whose
countenance the glare of a powerful light was thrown by a tin reflector.
Grouped near him were several char-women and messengers, engaged in the
double occupation of discussing a pot of the best ale and the scandal of
the Bench; while another turnkey—a short, active, bustling little
fellow, who rejoiced in the nick-name of "Buffer"—was seated inside a
small enclosure formed by wood-work breast-high, examining a greasy and
well-thumbed book containing sundry hieroglyphics which were supposed to
be entries of the prisoners' names.

To Mr. Buffer was Mr. Frank Curtis duly introduced by the tipstaff; and
the young gentleman's appellations were forthwith inscribed in the
greasy book. He was then desired to pay his gate-fees, which he
accordingly did; and, these little matters being settled, Mr. Buffer
politely informed him that he might "go inside." The head turnkey—who
was the stout, elderly man above alluded to—thereupon opened the door at
which he was seated; and Captain O'Blunderbuss led the way, first across
a small yard, next through the lower lobby—and thence into the grand
enclosure of the King's Bench itself.

Captain O'Blunderbuss turned sharp round to the left, and stopped in
admiration before a low building with a roof slanting down from the high
wall against which it stood.

"There!" cried the gallant officer, in an ecstacy of enthusiasm: "what
place should you be afther taking _that_ to be?"

"Why—I should say it was the scullery or the coal-cellars," replied
Frank.

"Be Jasus! me dear frind—and you're insulthing the finest fature in this
fine prison," exclaimed the captain: "it's the coffee-house."

Mr. Curtis did not like to say how deeply he was disappointed at the
unpromising exterior of an establishment which his companion seemed so
especially to admire; and he therefore silently followed his guide into
the coffee-room, which was just large enough to contain four very little
tables and yield accommodation to about a dozen people at a time.

There was nearly that number present when Captain O'Blunderbuss and
Frank Curtis entered the place; and as there were not two seats
disengaged, the gallant officer put his arms akimbo, fixed his eyes
sternly on a stout, inoffensive-looking old gentleman, and, without
positively addressing his words to him, exclaimed, "Be the holy poker-r!
and I should advise some one to be afther making room on a binch for my
frind and myself—or I'll know the rayson why!"

The inoffensive-looking gentleman shrank dismayed into a corner, and,
two or three others pressing closer together, sufficient space was
obtained to afford Captain O'Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis seats; and
the former, as he took his place at a table, cast a particularly
ferocious glance around on the assembled company, as much as to say, "Be
the power-rs! and ye'd betther not be afther having any of your nonsense
with me!" But as no one at the moment seemed at all inclined to make
even an attempt to interfere with the gallant gentleman, his countenance
gradually lost its menacing aspect; and he ordered the waiter—a
slip-shod, dirty boy—to bring a bottle of wine, spirits not being
allowed.

The company presented to the view of Mr. Frank Curtis rather a motley
aspect. There was a sample of nearly all kinds of social distinctions,—a
sprig of the aristocracy—a broken-down sporting gentleman—a decayed
tradesman—a bankrupt merchant—an insolvent parson—a ruined gamester—a
prize-fighter—a horse-chaunter—an attorney, who had over-reached
himself—a poor author—and one or two others who bore the vague and much
misappropriated denomination of "gentleman." All these were herding
together in a glorious state of democratic equality; for a debtors'
prison goes far to level distinctions, the lordling being very often
glad to obtain a draught of ale from the pewter-pot of a butcher.

The entrance of Captain O'Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis, both of whom
were taken for new prisoners and stared at accordingly, seemed to have
interrupted a conversation that was previously going on;—and for a few
minutes a dead silence prevailed. But at last, when the wine which the
captain had ordered was brought in, and that gallant gentleman and
Curtis gave evident proofs of an inclination to enjoy themselves by
enquiring likewise for cigars, the company recovered the feeling of
hilarity on which the awful appearance of O'Blunderbuss had seemed for a
few minutes to throw a complete damper.

"Well, how did Jackson get on to-day at Portugal Street?" enquired a
rakish, dissipated looking young gentleman, who was smoking a cigar and
drinking a pint of Port-wine.

"He got sent back for six months," answered the person to whom the
question was put, and who was a stout, big man, in very seedy attire.
"It seems that his schedule was made up of accommodation bills, and the
opposition was desperate."

"You talk of accommodation bills, Muggles," observed the young
gentleman; "why, all my debts are in paper of that kind. There's
seventeen thousand pounds against me at the gate; and I'd take my
affidavit that I never had more than three thousand in actual value. So
I suppose I shall get it from the old Commissioner?"

"No, you won't, Pettifer, my boy," cried a short, elderly,
dapper-looking man, putting down a quart pot in which his countenance
had been buried for upwards of a minute before he began to speak; "your
father's a lord—and that's enough," he added, looking mysteriously
around.

"Well, so he is," said the Honourable Mr. Pettifer, lolling back in a
very aristocratic manner, and speaking for the behoof of Captain
O'Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis; "it's true that my father is Lord
Cobbleton, and that I'm his second son. But, after all—what's a
nobleman's second son?"

"Be Jasus! and what indeed?" cried the captain. "Why, my grandfather was
Archbishop of Dublin—and my father was his son—and I'm my father's
son—and yet, be the power-rs! I'm only a capthain now! But if I hadn't
half a million, or some thrifle of the kind locked up in Chancery, I
should be afther rowlling in my carriage—although I do keep a buggy and
a dog-cart, as it is—and my frind Curthis here, jintlemen, wouldn't be
in the Binch for two hunthred thousand pounds, as he is and bad luck to
it!"

"Well—but you know, captain," said Frank, who was determined not to be
behind his gallant companion in the art of lying, and who therefore very
readily took up the cue prepared for him,—"you know, captain, that the
moment my god-father the Duke comes home, I shall be all right."

"Right!—right as a thrivet, me boy!" vociferated O'Blunderbuss; "and
then we'll carry on the war-r-r with a vengeance."

These remarks on the part of the captain and Frank Curtis produced a
deep impression upon the greater portion of the company present; but two
or three of the oldest prisoners tipped each other the wink slyly, as
much as to say, "Ain't they coming it strong?"—although they did not
dare provoke the ire of the ferocious Hibernian by any overt display of
their scepticism.

"Speaking of Chancery," said an old, miserable-looking man, in a
wretchedly thread-bare suit of black, and whose care-worn countenance
showed an intimate acquaintance with sorrow,—"speaking of Chancery," he
repeated, leaning forward from the corner in which he had hitherto
remained silent and almost unobserved,—"you can't know Chancery,
sir—begging your pardon—better or more bitterly than I do."

[Illustration]

"Ah! tell the gentlemen your story, Prout," exclaimed one of the
company. "'Pon my soul 'tis a hard case, and a stain upon a civilised
country.

"A stain!" ejaculated the old man, whose name appeared to be Prout;—"a
stain!" he cried, in a tone of painful irony:—"it is a horror—an
abomination—an atrocity that demands vengeance on those legislators who
know that such abuses exist and who will not remedy them!
Chancellors—Vice-Chancellors—Judges—Law-Lords—Members of
Parliament—Attorney-Generals—Solicitor-Generals—all, all for the last
two-and-twenty years, so help me God! have been familiar with my
case—and yet the Court of Chancery remains as it is, the most tremendous
abuse—the most damnable Inquisition—the most grinding, soul-crushing,
heart-breaking engine of torture that the ingenuity of man ever yet
invented! Yes—all that—and more—more, if I could find stronger language
to express myself in—is that earthly reflection of hell—the Court of
Chancery!"

The old man had spoken with a volubility which had increased in
quickness and in emphasis until it positively grew painful to hear;—and
his countenance became flushed with a hectic, unhealthy red—and his
eyes, usually leaden and dull, were fired with an unnatural lustre—and
his chest heaved convulsively—and his lips quivered with the dreadful
excitement produced in his attenuated and worn-out frame by the
remembrance of his wrongs.

Remembrance!—as if he ever forgot them! No—the Chancery Court was the
subject of his thoughts by day and his dreams by night: every thing he
heard, or saw, or read, was so tortured by his morbid imagination as to
bear some analogy, remote or near, to the proceedings of the Chancery
Court;—when he had a meal, he wondered that the Chancery Court had left
it to him—and when he had none, he said that the Chancery Court made him
starve;—if he felt in tolerably good health, it was because he heard of
some case in Chancery even more flagrant than his own—and that was a
consolation to his diseased mind; and if he felt ill which was nearly
always the case, he declared that the Chancery Court made him so:—in
fact, he was truly a victim, in every sense and way, of that tremendous
tribunal which has instruments of torture far more terrible for the
feelings than those which the Inquisition of Spain ever invented for the
body!

"Yes," exclaimed Prout, after a few moments' pause, "and all that
diabolical tyranny is carried on under the semblance and with the solemn
forms of justice. You go into a fine court, where you see a man of
splendid intellect, fine education, and profound knowledge, seated in a
chair, with the wig and gown; and before him are rows of barristers
almost as learned as himself. Well—would you not think that you were in
a tribunal worthy of the civilisation of this country! Yet—better were
it if savages from the South Sea Islands became your judges; better to
die upon the threshold of that court, than enter its walls. It is a
damnable and a cursed tyranny, I repeat; and the English are a weak—a
pusillanimous—a spaniel-like race, that they do not rise in rebellion
against that monstrous tribunal!"

Again he paused, overpowered by excitement:—but there was something
terribly real and awfully sincere—aye, and sternly true—in that man's
denunciations!

"Yes—I say," he resumed, after having refreshed himself from a
pewter-pot near him—though there had been a time when he was accustomed
to drink wine,—"the English people are a nation of paltry cowards for
allowing this hideous Chancery Court to uprear its head amongst them.
Did not the French destroy their Bastille?—and was the Bastille ever
half so bad, in one way, as this Chancery Court is in another? It is all
useless for two or three people to declaim, or two or three authors to
write, against such a flagrant abuse. 'Tis a public grievance, and must
be put down by the public hand! The whole body of lawyers are against
law-reform—and the profession of the law has vast influence upon both
Houses of Parliament. From the Houses of Parliament, then, we have no
hope: the strong hand of the people must do it. You might as well ask
the Lords to abolish hereditary aristocracy, or the King to dethrone
himself, as expect the Houses of Parliament to sweep away the Chancery
Court."

"But could we do without it?" enquired an attentive listener.

"Do without it!" exclaimed Prout, indignantly—almost contemptuously, at
the nature of the question: "certainly we can! France does without
it—Holland does without it—Prussia does without it—Switzerland does
without it—and the United States do without it;—and where is the law of
property better administered than in those countries? There the transfer
of land, or the bequeathing of other property, is as simple as that of
merchandize or stock; but here—here, in England, which vaunts its
freedom and its civilization, the process is encumbered with forms and
deeds which leave the whole arrangement liable to flaws, difficulties,
and endless embarrassments. Talk of Equity indeed! 'tis the most
shameless mockery of justice ever known even amongst barbarians. But let
me tell you an anecdote? In 1763, a suit was commenced in Chancery
relative to some lawful property on which there was a windmill. The
cause was not referred to the Master till 1796—thirty-three years having
elapsed, and the lawyers, who had grown old during the proceedings, not
having been idle. In the Master's office did the case remain till
1815—though the new lawyers who had succeeded the old batch that had
died off in the meantime, were as active as the matter would allow them
to be. Well—in 1815 the Master began to look into the business; but,
behold! the windmill had disappeared—it had tumbled down—it had wasted
away into dust—not a trace of it remained!" actually shrieked out the
old man, in the excitement of his story.[44]

"Thus the affair was fifty-two years in Chancery, and was knocked on the
head after all?" observed one of the company present.

"While Law slept, Time was awake and busy, you see," said Prout, with a
bitter irony which actually chilled the hearts of his auditors. "But I
can give you plenty of examples of the infernal—heart-breaking delays of
Chancery—and my own amongst the rest presently," he continued. "There is
the case of _Bute_ versus _Stuart_: it began in 1793—and in 1813 _a
step_ was made in the cause![45] Then, again, you have the case of the
_Attorney-General_ versus _Trevelyan_: it commenced in 1685, and is an
affair involving an endowment for a Grammar-School at Morpeth. This
cause never will be finished![46] But how much property do you suppose
there is locked up in Chancery—eh? Ah! now I am going to tell you
something astounding indeed—and yet as true as the Gospel! _Thirty-eight
millions sterling_ are locked up in that dreadful tribunal. A
tribunal!—no—it is a sepulchre—a tomb—a grave in which all justice and
all hopes are interred! But you will say that this enormous fund is only
as it were in temporary trust, to be in due time portioned out to its
rightful owners. Pshaw!—nonsense! More than _one-third_ concerns persons
who are dead and have left no heirs, or else whose representatives are
ignorant of their rights. The Suitors' Fund is a bank of plunder—of
shameful, diabolical plunder effected under the _forms of the law_!"

"But what about your own case, old fellow?" enquired the Honourable Mr.
Pettifer.

"I'll tell you in a moment, gentlemen," cried Prout, rejoiced to observe
the interest created by his strictures on the most hellish tribunal that
ever disgraced a civilised country. "Twenty-five years ago," he said, "I
was a prosperous man, having a good business in the City; and I had
managed to save four thousand pounds by dint of strict economy and the
closest attention to my affairs. A lawyer—a friend of mine—told me of a
favourable opportunity to place the sum out at good interest and on the
best possible security. A gentleman, in fact, wanted to borrow just that
amount on mortgage, he having a capital estate. The matter was fully
investigated, and the security was considered unexceptionable. So I lent
the money; and for three years the interest was regularly paid, and all
went on well. The gentleman suddenly died; and his nephew, who inherited
the estate, hunted out an old entail, effected a hundred and fifty years
previously, and of the existence of such an entail no mention had been
made in subsequent deeds. So the nephew would not acknowledge the
validity of the mortgage, and refused to pay me a fraction of my four
thousand pounds. He would not even settle the interest. I was therefore
forced into Chancery; and seven years afterwards I got a decree in my
favour, but I was sent into the Master's Office on account of certain
details which I will not stop to explain to you. This was fifteen years
ago—and I am still in Chancery! I have spent three thousand pounds in
costs—and am totally ruined. The excitement and worry of law made me
neglect my business: my affairs fell into confusion—my creditors took
all my stock in trade—and here have I been eleven years for the balance
of my liabilities. Twenty-two years have I been engaged in _law_—and
have not yet got _justice_! And yet I am told that I live in a civilised
country, where the laws are based on consummate wisdom, and where the
meanest as well as the highest individual is sure to obtain justice.
Justice indeed!—such justice as one finds in the Chancery Court! My
original claim was for four thousand pounds—and I have spent three
thousand in costs, and owe my lawyer five hundred pounds more. But what
do you think of this? Eight years ago a _written question_ was put by
the Master to the respondent in the suit; and it is still a matter of
dispute whether he is to answer it or not! Here's law for you—here's
justice! Why—it is enough to make a man curse himself for belonging to a
country in which such things take place: it is enough to make me ashamed
of being an Englishman! Suppose a savage from the South Sea Islands came
to England—beheld all the glitter and glory of our outward appearance of
civilisation—studied our language, and was then told of such cases as
these? What would he think. He would say, '_After all, you are in
reality a very barbarous people; and I shall be glad when I get back to
my own far-off island!_'"[47]

"As far as all this goes, you are right enough," observed an attorney,
who was one of the company present: "but had you gone much farther, you
would have been equally correct. You may denounce nearly all our laws
and statutes to be radically bad and a disgrace to civilisation. But it
is useless to hope that an efficient reform will be ever effected by the
Parliament; because the Parliament is loth to interfere with existing
usages, and is afraid to meddle with existing rights. Nothing short of a
Revolution can possibly accomplish a proper change."

"Why—this is treason!" exclaimed the Honourable Mr. Pettifer, his
aristocratic feelings deeply wounded by the lawyer's bold and manly
declaration.

"It may be treason—but it is nevertheless the truth," said the attorney,
with the cool firmness of a man entertaining an honest conviction of the
justice of his observations. "I declare most of our laws to be a
disgrace and a shame. In France all the laws are contained in one book,
accessible to every person: here, in this country, they are totally
inaccessible to the community in general. Do you think France would ever
have had her Code without a Revolution?[48] Do you know how silly,
absurd, and contradictory are some of our statutes—those statutes which
are approved of by the Law-Officers of the Crown, and enacted by wise
senators? There is a statute, for example's sake,[49] which decrees that
one half of the penalty inflicted in a particular case is to go to the
informer, and the other half to the King. And yet under this statute
Judges sentence men to transportation—say, fourteen years'
transportation, to be halved by the informer and the King! Then there
are statutes still upon the book, and which, though unrepealed, could
scarcely be put into execution without inflicting an odious tyranny. A
statute of Edward VI. forbids agricultural labourers to hire themselves
out, or be hired, by the day, and not for less than a year. By a statute
of William and Mary, no peasant may sell goods in a town, except at a
fair; and a statute of Henry VII. decrees, under severe penalties, that
no cattle shall be killed in a walled town, nor in Cambridge. There is
also a statute, I forget of which reign, enacting that no shoemaker may
be a tanner, nor a tanner a shoemaker. The laws relating to Marriage are
in many respects absurd, and in others obscure. A marriage contracted by
persons under age, by means of license, without the consent of their
parents, is unlawful; but such persons may contract a lawful marriage by
banns, although without the consent of their parents. Thousands and
thousands of persons have been led to believe that it is lawful for a
man to marry his deceased wife's sister; whereas it is _not lawful_, and
the issue of such a marriage is illegitimate."

At this moment the learned gentleman was interrupted by the clanging of
a loud bell, carried by a person who was proceeding round the main
building of the prison, and who every now and then stopped ringing for
the purpose of vociferating as loud as he could—"Strangers, women, and
children, all out!"

"Shall you have to leave?" demanded Frank Curtis, in a whisper to his
friend the captain.

"Divil a hap'orth of it, me boy!" exclaimed O'Blunderbuss. "The person
who keeps the Coffee-house will be glad to give me a bed as well as
yourself; for money, frind Cur-r-tis, procures everything in this
blissed Spike-Island."

Another half-hour was passed in discourse on various topics, the inmates
of the Coffee-house parlour having become wearied of commenting upon the
laws of their country; and, at the expiration of that interval renewed
shouts, now emanating from the immediate vicinity of the lower lobby,
warned all strangers to quit the prison. At the same time the parlour
was rapidly cleared, O'Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis alone remaining
there:—for it seemed to be a rule on the part of the prisoners to rush
to the gate, for the purpose of seeing the "strangers" take their
departure.

The captain now gave a furious pull at the bell; and, when the slip-shod
waiter appeared, he demanded a conference with the keeper of the
Coffee-house. This request was speedily complied with; and satisfactory
arrangements were entered into for beds. Another bottle of wine was
ordered, the captain persuading Curtis that it would be better for him
to take his first survey of all the grand features of the Bench in the
morning, and to pass the evening in conviviality. This they accordingly
did until eleven o'clock, when the lights in the parlour were put out,
and the two gentlemen were shown to their respective bed-chambers—the
said chambers being each about twice as big as a coffin, and quite as
inconveniently angular.

-----

Footnote 44:

  The anecdote is a positive fact!

Footnote 45:

  It is not terminated yet!

Footnote 46:

  Mr. Prout's prophecy seems likely to be fulfilled; for the case pends
  yet, having now lasted _one hundred and sixty-two years_!!! In 1710
  Lord Chancellor Harcourt made a decree commanding the boundaries of
  the litigated land to be ascertained; and the commissioner appointed
  to carry this decree into effect, reported that no boundaries could be
  traced! Proceedings continued; and on the 25th of January, 1846, the
  case was re-argued before Vice-chancellor Shadwell, eight counsel
  being engaged for relator, lessee, trustees, corporation, and the
  various other parties interested. The Vice-Chancellor of England
  referred the matter to the Master's Office, where it is not likely to
  be disinterred for the next half century! Really, we English are a
  highly civilised people: a law-suit may be perpetuated through a dozen
  generations, without any delay or fault on the side of the parties
  interested—_the whole and sole blame resting upon the Chancery Court_.

Footnote 47:

  Mr. Commissioner Fane, of the London Bankruptcy Court, was brought up
  as a Chancery lawyer; and in a recent "Letter to Lord Cottenham" he
  thus explains the causes of that shameful dilatoriness which
  characterises Chancery proceedings:—

  "In Chancery the suitor applies first to the judge: every thing is
  done in writing. The judge, after great expense has been incurred and
  after a long delay, makes a decree: that decree tells the Master, in
  endless detail, what he is to do (just as if he required to be taught
  the simplest matters): the decree is drawn up, not by the judge, who
  might be thought wiser than the Master, but by the registrar, who, in
  teaching the Master, frequently omits some material direction; the
  parties then adjourn to the Master's office; there the matter lingers,
  month after month and year after year; at last the Master makes his
  report, tells the Court what he has found, and sometimes what he would
  have found if the registrar had authorised him to do so, and at last
  the Court either acts or sends the matter back to the Master with new
  directions. Meanwhile, as Lord Bacon said about two hundred years ago,
  'Though the Chancery pace be slow, the suitor's pulse beat quick.' I
  know of nothing to which to compare this process except the game of
  battledore and shuttlecock, in which the poor suitor plays the part of
  shuttlecock, and is tossed from the judge to the Master, and from the
  Master to the judge, over and over, till the scene is closed only too
  often by despair, insolvency, or death."

Footnote 48:

  "The _Code Napoleon_ is sometimes declared to be a failure; but it has
  been no failure. In place of the previously differing laws of the
  provinces of the ancient kingdom it has substituted a consistent
  uniform code for the entire of France. But it is urged, that it has
  been buried under a load of commentaries. Of course there has risen a
  pile of judicial constructions, as must be the case with the text of
  every code. But these constructions have a platform to rest upon,
  framed in the light of modern science. Ours are wholly different; they
  have no such foundation to settle upon: they rest upon a mingled heap
  of rubbish and masonry, of obsolete laws and laws in force. Even the
  basement storey has not been firmly laid, as in France. This, however,
  it is that the nation requires to have done; it requires an entirely
  new legal edifice to be erected. All that is good in the past it would
  have preserved under a new and better arrangement; and then the mass
  of statutes, reports, and text-books from which the analysis had been
  made, and which had long embarrassed both the learned and
  unlearned—declared by parliamentary authority to be no better than
  waste paper—null and void, and no more citable for any purpose of
  legal argument, illustration, or decision."—_Black Book of England._

Footnote 49:

  53rd, George III.




                              CHAPTER CVI.
                A FARTHER INSIGHT INTO THE KING'S BENCH.


At half-past seven o'clock on the following morning, the slip-shod
waiter knocked at Mr. Curtis's door, exclaiming, "Please, sir, you must
get up, and go down to the lobby by eight, 'cos you're wanted."

"Who want's me there?" demanded Frank, leaping from his bed, and
suddenly animated by the hope that Sir Christopher had accidentally
heard of his predicament and had come to pay his debts.

But the boy had hurried down stairs again; and Curtis was accordingly
compelled to hurry over his toilette in a state of profound suspense. By
the time his ablutions were performed and he was dressed, it was close
upon eight o'clock; and he repaired to the gate, having bestowed _en
passant_ a thundering knock with his clenched fist on the door of the
captain's crib.

The gate of the lower lobby was not as yet opened; but in its immediate
vicinity several of the prisoners were collected—some in dressing-gowns,
others in their shirt-sleeves, and all having a certain air of seediness
not observable elsewhere. At length, when the massive portal _did_
expand, in rushed a motley assortment of messengers, char-women, and
such itinerant venders as milk-men, water-cress boys, and the
fustian-clad individual who sold red herrings and shrimps.

When this influx of varied specimens of animated nature had passed,
Frank Curtis entered the lobby and demanded of a one-armed turnkey
standing before the fire, "who it was that required his presence?".

"Me and my partners, sir," was the reply.

"And what for?" enquired Frank.

"Just to take your likeness, sir," was the farther explanation given.

"My likeness!" cried the young gentleman, glancing rapidly around in the
expectation of beholding an artist with pallet and brushes all ready;
but, not perceiving any such individual, he began to look very ferocious
indeed, under the impression that the turnkey had a mind to banter him.

"We call it taking the likeness of a new prisoner, sir," observed the
one-armed functionary, who was really a very civil fellow, "when we have
him here by day-light just to take a look at him—so that we may know him
again," he added significantly. "You see, sir, there's between three and
four hundred prisoners in the college—we call it a college, sir,
sometimes—and it isn't a very easy thing to remember every new-comer,
unless we have a good look at him."

"Oh! now I understand you," exclaimed Frank, laughing heartily at the
idea of having his likeness taken in such a style.

While he was yet indulging in this expression of his mirth, the other
turnkeys made their appearance, and, each individually wishing him a
"good morning," they scanned him from head to foot—apparently committing
to memory every one of his features _seriatim_. Frank tried to look as
unconcerned as possible; but he nevertheless felt very uncomfortable,
and was heartily glad when the operation, which lasted about five
minutes, was over. The other turnkeys then withdrew; and Curtis remained
alone with the one-armed official.

"Nice place this, sir, for a prison—ain't it?" asked the latter, taking
his seat on a stool near the door, which stood open, and whence the eye
commanded a view of the spacious racquet-ground and a small portion of
the main building.

"Well—it might be a great deal worse," replied Frank. "You must have
some strange characters here?" he added, enquiringly.

"I b'lieve ye!" exclaimed the turnkey, fixing his looks mysteriously
upon the young gentleman in a species of dim intimation that it was
indeed a very remarkable place. "You see that old feller in the rugged
blue coat, a-rolling the fust racquet-ground there? Well—he come here to
this prison twenty year ago in his carriage, and had his livery servants
to wait upon him; and now he's glad to drag that roller every morning
for a few pence."

"And can't he manage to get out?" asked Frank, with an ominous shudder.

"Lord bless you, sir," cried the turnkey, "he's his own prisoner!"

"His own prisoner!" repeated Curtis. "What—do you mean to say that he
keeps himself in the Bench?"

"I do, sir—and a many does the same," continued the turnkey, in a low,
mysterious tone. "These poor creaturs, sir, stay in prison so long that
all their relations and friends dies off; and if they went out, they
wouldn't have a soul to speak to, or a place to go to. So, if their
creditors dies too and their discharge is sent 'em, they keep it in
their pockets and never lodge it at the gate—'cos they prefer staying
inside, where they have companions and can get a bit of something to eat
in one way or another."

"This is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard in my life," said
Frank.

"There's many things more stranger still _here_," returned his
informant, who was pleased with the mysterious importance which his
position as narrator of these marvels gave him. "What should you think
of men putting themselves into prison, and making up their minds to stay
here all their lives perhaps?"

"I should think you were joking if you said so," answered Curtis.

"Joking! Lord bless you, sir, I wouldn't joke about no such a thing,"
exclaimed the turnkey, with a spice of indignation in his manner. "But
I'll tell you how it is. There—you see that stout man in the
shooting-jacket a-bargaining for them bloaters with the chap that's
sitting on the bench outside the Tap? Well—he committed a forgery, or
summut of that kind; and, knowing there was a warrant against him, and
not choosing to run away from London for fear of being took in the
country, he got a friend to arrest him for debt. So he immediately
passed over to the Bench by _habeas_; and the warrant for felony was
lodged at the gate against him. But his debts must be paid before the
warrant can be executed; and as you see he's in a manner his own
detaining creditor—leastways, his friend outside is—he isn't likely to
have his discharge till the felony business can be settled somehow or
other."

"The Bench is then a most convenient place for people who ought to be in
Newgate?" said Curtis. "But live and learn; and the more one sees of the
world——"

"The more curiouser it is—ain't it?" cried the turnkey. "Well—now you
see that tall, stout gentleman there, walking up and down in front of
the State House with the stick in his hand? He's been here some years,
and is wery likely to stay a many years longer. His creditors allows him
three guineas a week for his kindness in remaining a prisoner in the
Bench."

"What!" ejaculated Curtis, now more astonished than ever. "His
_creditors_ pay him for staying _here_!"

"It's as true as you're alive, sir," was the reply; "and it's easy
enough to explain, too. That gentleman has got a good landed estate,
which is in the hands of his two or three principal creditors, who
manage it and receive all the rents for the purpose of paying themselves
their claims upon him. Well, now—if he went through the Insolvents'
Court, _all_ the creditors would come in for their share of the proceeds
of the estate; and so the two or three principals ones allow him three
guineas a week to keep him here and prevent him going through the Court.
It's a deuced good thing for him, I can tell you; and he's as happy as a
King. He has his wife—leastways, his lady with him,—we call 'em all
_wives_ here;—and he's got a batch of the loveliest and nicest children
you ever see. There they are, sir—the little innocents—a-playing there
in the mud, just as if there wasn't no such place as prison at all; and
yet they was all born up in that room there in the State House, with the
green safe at the window and the flower-pots."

"And who is that lame, elderly man, running about with newspapers in his
hand?" enquired Frank.

"He's the newsman of the Bench—and a prisoner like the rest on 'em," was
the answer. "Ah! some years ago he was a rich man, and in a flourishing
way of business. But he got into Chancery, and that's the same as
getting into the Bench; 'cos one always leads to t'other—for even to be
a vinner in Chancery, one must pass at least a dozen years or so here
fust. That seems to be the rule, as far as I can understand it. Well,
sir—now that lame man is obliged to turn newsman; so you see there's a
many rewerses in this world, sir. Ah! the world's a queer place, ain't
it?—almost as queer as the Bench itself!"

What the turnkey's notions of the world might be, it is not easy to
conceive: but they were evidently somewhat dim and misty—inasmuch as he
seemed impressed with the belief that the Bench and the world were two
distinct places:—but, then, the Bench was _his_ world, though not a
prisoner there himself; and perhaps he established a distinction as
existing between the "world within" and the "world without." Alas!
many—many who _were_ prisoners did the same!

"Who are those two ladies that have just come down to walk on the gravel
there, by the side of the racquet-ground?" enquired Frank Curtis, much
amused by the turnkey's gossip.

"We call that gravel-walk _the parade_," observed the official. "Those
ladies are mother and daughter; and it's the daughter that's a prisoner.
She's a devilish fine gal; and the old woman stays with her to take care
of her. But she and the Honourable Mr. Pettifer are deuced thick
together; and the mother winks at it. Such things will happen in the
best regilated families—particklerly in the Bench, where no one ain't
over and above partickler. This isn't the shop for morals. Mr. Curtis:
all the young single women that comes here, is sure to get corrupted.
But that's no look-out of mine;"—and with this solacing conclusion, the
turnkey hit the lock of the door a tremendous blow with his key.

"Be the power-rs! and is it afther staling a march upon me that ye are?"
vociferated a well-known voice at this moment; and the captain stalked
up to the gate, looking quite fresh and blooming after a good night's
rest and copious ablutions.

"They had me down to take my likeness," cried Frank; "or else I dare say
I should have slept on till now."

"Well—we'll just make the round of the Binch, me boy," exclaimed the
captain; "and by that time the breakfast will be ready. I've orthered
it—hot rolls and coffee, with kidneys, eggs, cresses, and such like
thrifles; and a walk will give us an appetite."

Curtis accordingly took his friend's arm; and they set out on their
limited ramble.

"That building on your right, Frank," said the captain, "is the State
House, where Government prisoners and such like spalpeens are kept—or
ought to be; but the prisoners for debt get hould of the rooms there,
and the divil himself can't turn 'em out. But here's the Tap: and this
is the first lion of the Binch."

They entered a low and dirty-looking place, in which there were several
common tables of the roughest description, and the surfaces of which
were completely carved out into names, initial letters, men hanging, and
a variety of devices—these ingenious and very elaborate specimens of
wood-engraving having been effected by penknives. A tremendous fire
burnt in the grate, round which were assembled several of the poorer
class of prisoners and the messengers, eating their breakfast;—and, at
one of the tables just alluded to, the newsman was sorting his papers.

As the captain and Curtis were retracing their way from an inspection of
the interior of the tap-room, the former stopped at the bar, exclaiming
to the man in attendance, "Two half pints, Misther Vernon—and good
mornin' to ye."

"You would not drink malt liquor so early, will you?" asked Frank, with
a look of astonishment at his companion.

"Be Jasus! and it's for you to taste the porther, me boy!" exclaimed the
captain. "Don't you remimber all I said yesterday in its praise?
Come—dhrink!"

And Mr. Curtis was accordingly compelled to swallow half a pint of
porter, though malt liquor before breakfast was somewhat repugnant to
his taste. The beer was veritably of first-rate quality; and the captain
was as proud to hear the young gentleman's eulogy on its merits, as if
he had brewed it himself.

"Now let us continue our ramble," said he;—and away they went,
arm-in-arm, the two or three poor prisoners who were lounging at the
door of the Tap respectfully making room for them to pass.

Entering upon the parade, Frank now for the first time obtained a full
view of the front of the main building—a long, gloomy, barrack-like
structure, with half a dozen entrance-ways leading to the various
staircases. Fixed to the ledges of many of the windows, were safes in
which the prisoners kept their provisions; and in several instances
these safes were covered with flower-pots containing sickly plants.
Precisely in the centre of the building was the chapel; and over the
chapel was the infirmary. Most of the rooms on the ground-floor were
fitted up as little shops, the occupants being prisoners, and the
business carried on being entirely in the "general line." The
lumps of butter—wedges of cheese—red herrings—slices of
bacon—matches—balls of twine—candles—racquet balls—sweet-stuff—loaves of
bread—rolls—soap—eggs—and other articles of the nature usually sold in
such magnificent marts of commerce, were arranged so as to make the best
possible show, and carry out the spirit of competition which raged as
fiercely in that little community as in the world without. A peep
through the window of one of those miniature shops, showed the canisters
of tea and the jars of tobacco and snuff standing orderly upon the
shelves of three feet in length; and behind a counter, along which Tom
Thumb could have walked in two strides, stood the stout proprietor of
the concern, examining with rueful looks the wonderful increase of
chalk-marks which the morning's sales had compelled him to make upon a
slate against the honoured names of his customers.

"Now look this way, me frind," cried the captain, as he forced Frank to
turn round towards the racquet-courts. "D'ye see nothing particular?"

"Nothing but the high wall, with the spikes on the top, and the netting
to prevent the balls from going over," answered Curtis.

"There—there, me boy!" vociferated O'Blunderbuss, impatiently pointing
in a particular direction. "Now d'ye see any thing worth looking at?"

"Well—I see the pump there," said Frank, vainly searching after a more
interesting object.

"Be Jasus! and that's jist what I wanted ye to see," exclaimed the
captain. "It's the Dolphin-pump, me boy—the finest pump in
Eur-r-rope—the pride of the Binch——But, be the power-rs! ye shall taste
the wather and judge for yourself!"

Curtis protested that he would rather not;—the captain was however
resolute; and a tumbler was borrowed from a prisoner who was smoking an
early pipe at one of the ground-floor windows. Then the captain began to
pump away like a madman; and Frank was compelled to imbibe a deep
draught of the ice-cold water, which would have been pronounced
delicious by any one who did not admire alcoholic beverages much better
than Adam's ale.

"Don't you mean to take a glass, captain?" enquired Frank.

"Be Jasus! and I know it of ould," returned that gallant gentleman: "so
there's no need for me to pass an opinion upon it. Besides it's not to
astonish my stomach with any unusual dhrink that I'd be afther, Frank:
but you're a young man, and can stand wather better than me."

Curtis did not consider the reasoning altogether conclusive: he however
refrained from farther argument;—and the two gentlemen resumed their
walk.

Between the eastern extremity of the main-building and that part of the
wall which looked directly upon the Borough, was the market-place,—an
assemblage of miserable sheds, where a butcher, a fishmonger, a
greengrocer, and a vender of coals carried on each his peculiar
traffic—the said spirited traders being prisoners as well as the
shopkeepers above alluded to.

At a stall in the centre of the market, and at which vegetables, fruit,
and fish were sold, stood a tall, thin, weather-beaten old woman,
resembling a gipsey in dress as well as in complexion, and having an
ancient bonnet perched most airily upon the top of her head. This
respectable female was denominated "Old Nanny," and was in such wise
greeted by Captain O'Blunderbuss, who informed Frank in a whisper that
she was not a prisoner, and, in spite of competition, had pretty well
the monopoly of the market.

"The fact is, me boy," he said, "she has the advantage of money. Those
fellows in the sheds there, set up in business with a floating capital
of eighteen-pence each, and can't afford to give credit: and a tradesman
in the Binch who can't give credit, stands no more chance, be Jasus! of
getting custom than if he began with an empty shop."

The captain now proceeded to show his friend the public kitchen, which
was in the immediate vicinity of the market; and thence they passed up
the back of the main building, O'Blunderbuss especially directing
Frank's attention to that quarter which was denominated "the Poor-Side."

The Poor-Side!—Yes in every public establishment in England, is the line
of demarcation drawn between the rich and the poor,—in the debtors'
prison as well as in the church of God! Oh! what a disgraceful thing is
poverty made in this country! Why—the contamination of Newgate, if borne
by a man possessing a well-filled purse, will be overlooked in society;
while the rags that an unsullied character wears, are a ban—a stigma—a
reproach! "He has been in the workhouse," or "She has been on the
parish," are taunts as bitter in meaning and as keen in spirit, as the
phrase "He has been in Newgate," or "She has just come from the
treadmill." Aye—and even amongst the lowest classes themselves, it is a
deeper stain to associate a name with the workhouse, than to connect it
with the felons' gaol! Such is the dreadful—demoralizing consequence of
that example set by the upper classes, whose ideas of men's excellence
and worth are guided chiefly by the standard of the purse.

The Poor-Side!—And for whom is the Poor-Side of debtors' prisons
instituted? For those who go penniless to gaol,—the best proof that they
have profited nothing by the losses of their creditors,—the best
evidence that their liabilities were legitimately contracted! But the
fashionable swindler—your man-about-town—your _roué_—your rake, who gets
into debt wherever he can, and without the slightest intention of ever
paying a single farthing,—_he_ drives down in his cab to the
prison—treats the bailiff to wine upon the way—and takes with him into
confinement all that remains to him of the plunder of duped tradesmen,
there to spend it in riotous living and in the best room which the best
quarter of the gaol can afford! If a debtors' prison have a _Poor-Side_,
it ought also to have a _Swnidlers'-Side_.

No word in the English language is used so frequently and so
contemptuously as the monosyllable _Poor_. "Oh! he is a poor devil!" is
a far worse character to give of any one, than to say at once, "He is
dishonest." From the latter sentence there is a hopeful appeal in the
question—"But _can_ he pay?" "Yes—he can, if he chooses." "Oh! then, if
he _can_, we will trust him and risk it." But from the former sentence
there is no appeal; it is a judgment without qualification—a decision
too positive and weighty to admit of a doubt. The objection—"Well, he
may be poor; but he may also be honest," is never heard. The idea of
poverty being honest! Why—in the estimation of an Englishman, _poverty_
is a word expressing all that is bad. To say that a man is _poor_, is at
once to sum up his character as every thing unprincipled and roguish.
Such magic is there in the word, that rich men, and men well-to-do in
the world, instantly button up their breeches' pockets when they hear it
applied to a person. They seem to consider that a poor wretch can have
no other possible object in view than to get the better of them.
Poverty, in their eyes, is something that goes about preying upon the
rich—something to be loathed and shunned—something that ought not to
intrude itself into respectable places. A man may just as well be
leprous, as be poor!

So undeniable are these truths—so universally recognised are these
facts, that designing individuals always endeavour to seem well off,
even if they be insolvent. They dress well, because they know the
sovereign influence of a good coat. They talk largely—because they see
how necessary it is "to keep up appearances." They toss about their last
few guineas, as the only means of baiting a hook to catch fresh dupes.
It is impossible that a man, with fine clothes, well-polished boots,
elegant guard-chain, and lemon coloured gloves,—it is impossible that
such a man can be poor! Oh! no—trust him with anything! Why—what poor
man would be perfumed as he is?—the aristocratic odour of wealth
surrounds him as with an atmosphere peculiar to the rich. Trust him by
all means!—But that poor-looking devil, who sneaks along the shady side
of the way—who has a wife and half-a-dozen children at home—and who is
struggling from morning to night to earn an honourable crust,—don't
trust him—have nothing to do with him—don't assist him with the loan of
a single sixpence—on the contrary, give him a thrust farther down into
the mud, if you can;—because he is undisguisedly _poor_!

Such appear to be the rules of conduct in this enlightened and glorious
country. God help the poor!—for poverty is a terrible crime in "merry
England!"

The Poor-Side of the King's Bench struck Frank Curtis as being
particularly miserable:—it quite gave him the horrors! And no
wonder;—for the architect—a knowing fellow was he!—had so arranged the
building, that the windows of the Poor-Side should look upon the
dust-bins and the conveniences. Yes—a knowing fellow was that architect!
_He_ understood what the poor are worth in this free and civilised
land,—_he_ saw in a moment where they ought to be put;—and therefore he
arranged for their use a number of dens where the atmosphere was certain
to be one incessant pestilential odour; and where he would have been
sorry,—very sorry to have placed the kennel of his favourite hound!

Yes:—well might Frank Curtis feel the horrors—callous and indifferent as
the young man naturally was—on beholding the Poor-Side. The ground-floor
rooms were even at mid-day in a state of twilight, the colossal wall
being only a few feet distant:—the windows were blackened with dirt; and
from the upper ones hung a few rags—the miserable duds of the miserable,
miserable inmates. Half-starved, pale, and emaciated women—the wives or
daughters of those poor prisoners—were loitering at the doorways,—some
with children in their arms—children, Oh! so wan and wasted—so sickly
and so death-like—that it must have made their parents' hearts bleed to
feel how light they were, and how famine-struck they seemed! And yet
those little, starving children had their innocent winning ways, as well
as the offspring of the rich; and they threw their skeleton arms around
their mother's necks—and their lips sent forth those infantile sounds so
sweet to mothers' ears;—but still the little beings seemed to be pining
rapidly away through actual want and in the prison atmosphere! "God help
the poor," we said ere now: but, Oh! with tearful eyes and beating heart
do we exclaim—"God help the children of the poor!"

Frank Curtis and the captain, having now completed their walk round the
prison, entered the parlour of the Coffee-house, where an excellent
breakfast awaited them, and to which they did ample justice.

The repast being disposed of, Captain O'Blunderbuss took a temporary
leave of Frank Curtis, it being arranged that the gallant officer should
proceed to Baker Street in order to induce the men in possession, either
by means of bribes or menaces, to allow Mrs. Curtis to remove as many
valuables from the house as possible; and, this notable aim being
achieved, the captain was to pay his respects to Sir Christopher Blunt.

Frank Curtis, being now temporarily thrown upon his own resources for
amusement, strolled out upon the parade, and was gazing at the
racquet-players, when Mr. Prout accosted him.

"Good morning, sir. Have you taken a survey of the Bench yet?" said the
Chancery prisoner.

"I have been round the building, and seen all that's worth seeing, I
believe," replied Curtis. "But the Poor-Side appears to be a wretched
place."

"Wretched!" cried Prout, in a bitter tone: "ah! you may well make that
observation, sir! But if my affairs do not end in a speedy settlement, I
shall have to move to that quarter myself."

"How is that?" enquired Frank.

"Do you not know—have you not yet learned that you must pay even to have
a room in this prison—a place to which you do not come of your own
accord?" said Prout. "A shilling a week is the room-rent; and he who
cannot pay it, must go over to the Poor-Side. This is English justice,
Mr. Curtis! You must pay to live in a prison!"

"It seems to me monstrously unfair——"

"Unfair! 'tis vile—rascally!" cried the Chancery prisoner. "But, talking
of the Poor-Side puts me in mind of a strange story connected with that
quarter of the Bench; and if you have nothing better to do for an hour
or so, and will step up to my room——"

"I shall have great pleasure," interrupted Curtis; "for, to tell you the
truth, the time does hang rather heavy on my hands;—and till my friends
the Marquis of Aldersgate and the Prince of Paris, who is staying in
London, come over to see me, I may just as well amuse myself with your
story."

Prout accordingly led the way to his room, which was in the front of the
building and commanded a view of the parade and racquet-grounds. It was
very plainly furnished, but neat and clean; and its owner informed
Curtis that he had a married daughter who visited him every day, was
very kind to him, and superintended his little domestic concerns.

"But I will not detain you longer than I can help, sir," observed Prout;
"and I can promise you that you are about to hear a true tale of deep
interest. I have thought of it so often, and have so frequently repeated
its details to myself, in the solitude of this chamber, that I am
enabled to give you the whole story in a connected form; although it was
not in the same continuous manner that the vicissitudes I am about to
relate, became known to me. Alas! 'tis a sad—sad tale, sir; but I am
afraid that, bad as it is, it still is not the worst that might be told
of human nature."

Frank Curtis seated himself opposite to the old man, who, after a short
pause, commenced his narrative in the following words.




                             CHAPTER CVII.
                           A TALE OF SORROW.


"It was about thirty years ago that a poor but respectable and
kind-hearted tradesman, of the name of Craddock, came up from Plymouth
to London to receive a hundred pounds which had fallen to him through
the death of a relative of whom he had not heard for years until he
received the lawyer's letter announcing his decease and the legacy.
Craddock was a linen-draper in a very small way at Plymouth: and though
industrious, temperate, and obliging, he never had succeeded in doing
any thing better than earning a mere living. He was about forty-five
years of age at the time of which I am speaking, and had long been
married to a woman as generous-souled as himself. They were childless;
and, in spite of their poverty, they often regretted that they had no
offspring to become the object of their affection, and to comfort them
when old age should overtake them. Indeed, it appears that they had
seriously thought of adopting some poor person's child: but
circumstances of various kinds had opposed this plan; and they at last
ceased to converse upon it—endeavouring to render themselves as happy as
they could in each other's society. And happy, for that matter, they
were too; for the mutual attachment which linked their hearts together,
was firmly established; and, as they advanced in years, they seemed to
become so necessary to each other, that when Craddock received the
lawyer's letter summoning him to London, it was with the greatest
difficulty his wife would allow him to set out alone. He however
succeeded in making her understand that a hundred pounds did not
constitute an independent fortune,—that it was absolutely necessary to
carry on the shop,—and that therefore she must remain at home to manage
it. Accordingly, the worthy dame tarried at Plymouth, and her husband
came up to London by the stage—at that period a journey of no
inconsiderable importance.

"It was the first time Mr. Craddock had ever been in the metropolis: but
he did not stay a moment longer than his business absolutely compelled
him, which was four or five days. The lawyer with whom he had to
transact his little affair, was a kind and conscientious man—for there
_are_ many good lawyers as well as bad ones;—and he hastened the
business as much as possible. Accordingly, Mr. Craddock received his
money in less than a week; and he instantly went to the Belle Sauvage on
Ludgate Hill to take his place home again by the coach. There was only
one inside-seat vacant by the stage that was to start in the evening;
and Craddock secured it. He then returned to the little lodging where he
had slept during his sojourn in London, and which was somewhere in the
neighbourhood of Doctors' Commons. Having packed up his portmanteau, he
shouldered it, and was wending his way to the Belle Sauvage, when his
attention was drawn to a little boy who was sitting on a door-step in
one of the narrow, secluded streets in that district. The child, who was
very neatly dressed and about two years old, was crying bitterly.
Craddock stopped and spoke kindly to him; and though the boy was too
young to give any explanation of the cause of his grief, it was easy to
divine that he had strayed from home, or been lost by a negligent
servant. Two or three other persons stopped likewise; and some of the
neighbours came out of their houses: but the boy was unknown to them.
Craddock tried to console him; but the little fellow wept as if his
heart would break. By accident the parish-beadle passed that way, and,
on learning what was the matter, said, 'Oh! the best thing I can do, is
to take the poor child to the workhouse.'—Now, the mere name of a
workhouse was terrible to the ears of the kind-hearted Craddock; and,
obeying the impulse of the moment, he exclaimed, 'No, no: not while I
have a crust to give him, poor child!'—'Why don't you take him home with
you, then?' demanded the beadle: 'the parish will be very glad to be
quit of such a bargain as a lost child promises to be.'—'But I live at
Plymouth,' returned honest John Craddock.—'Never mind if you live at the
devil, so as you agree to take the child,' persisted the parochial
authority.—'Well, I have not the least objection: on the contrary, I
shall be delighted to do so,' said Craddock, his eyes filling with tears
as the poor boy's grief became more heart-rending. 'I will give you my
address; and if you hear any enquiries made by the parents of the child,
you can let me know.'—'Very good,' exclaimed the beadle, as he received
the card on which John Craddock's name, calling, and abode were printed
in bold type. The worthy linen-draper then took up the boy in his arms,
the beadle consenting to carry the portmanteau; and in this manner they
proceeded to the Belle Sauvage, the kind looks, soothing tone, and fond
caresses of Craddock having the effect of somewhat diminishing the
little fellow's grief.

[Illustration]

"The coach was just ready to start; and Craddock took his place, with
the child upon his knees. The beadle renewed his promise to write in
case he should hear any thing relative to the boy's parents; and the
stage rolled out of the old inn yard. It was evening—the shops glared
with light; and the scene, as well as the ride in the coach, amused the
boy, so that his violent weeping ceased—but frequent sobs agitated his
little chest, until at last he fell asleep in worthy John Craddock's
arms. It was now for the first time that the linen-draper had leisure to
reflect upon the step which he had taken; and it struck him that he had
acted imprudently. He was taking away the child from the city to which
he most probably belonged, and where he was alone likely to be found by
his parents,—taking him away to a far distant town. But, on the other
hand, he remembered the beadle's declaration that the lost child must be
conveyed to the workhouse; and he likewise felt certain that should the
little creature's parents make proper enquiries concerning their child,
the parochial authority would know what explanation to give. Craddock
therefore came to the conclusion that he had performed a Christian deed
and an Englishman's duty; and, having thus set all scruples at rest, he
began to reflect upon the pleasure which his wife would experience in
receiving the foundling. For the child was a most interesting one—with
curly flaxen hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a sweet complexion; and as
he lay sleeping in Craddock's arms, and the lights of the shops in the
outskirts of London, which the coach was then traversing, beamed through
the window upon the boy's countenance, the worthy linen-draper thought
that he had never seen a face so truly cherub-like. But tears came
afresh into the worthy man's eyes—for he reflected that an afflicted
father and a distracted mother might at that moment be calling upon
heaven to restore them their lost child; and, as he bent down and kissed
its cool and firm cheeks, on which the traces of weeping still remained,
he murmured to himself, 'If thy parents never succeed in recovering
thee, my boy, I will be as a father, and I know that my wife will be as
a mother to thee!'—The other inside passengers admired the child
greatly; but when honest John Craddock told them the story connected
with his possession of the boy, they merely hem'd and coughed drily as
if they thought him a very great fool for so burthening himself.
Craddock understood what was passing in their minds; and he only hugged
the child closer to his bosom.

"During the night, the little fellow frequently awoke, and cried for his
papa and mamma; and the good linen-draper was indefatigable in his
exertions to console and comfort him—uttering all possible kind things,
and purchasing nice cakes for him at the way-side inns. Throughout the
following day, too, Craddock was compelled to persevere in this
affectionate and conciliatory treatment, which he, however, maintained
with a good heart; and as the long, tedious journey of two hundred and
sixteen miles drew towards a close, and evening was again drawing on, he
had the satisfaction of observing that his little charge seemed to
appreciate—or at least to understand his attentions. At last the coach
entered the famous sea-port; and in a very short time Craddock was set
down at his own door, the stage passing through the street in which he
lived. You may suppose that his wife was greatly astonished when she
perceived the present that the worthy linen-draper had brought her: but
she was not many moments before she took the child in her arms, and
covered it with kisses. Then how the kind-hearted dame wept when
Craddock explained to her the manner in which he had become possessed of
the boy; and as he spoke she pressed the little being all the closer and
all the more fondly to her bosom. The social tea-table was spread, and
the servant-girl was sent out to procure some cakes and other nice
things for the boy; and then how he was petted and made much of—and how
happy the good couple seemed when their attentions and caresses were
rewarded with smiles!

"Several days passed, during which Craddock received no intelligence
from the beadle who had promised to write to him in case of enquiries
being instituted respecting the lost child:—weeks elapsed—and still no
tidings! The idea—I had almost said the fear—which the worthy couple
entertained that they might be compelled to part with the child just as
they were getting fond of it, grew gradually fainter and fainter; and at
length, when six months had passed and little Alexander (for so they
called the boy) had grown not only reconciled to his condition, but
appeared to have forgotten that it had ever been otherwise,—by the time
six months had passed, I say, Mr. and Mrs. Craddock ceased to
contemplate even the chance of being called upon to surrender their
charge. Not but that those excellent people would have rejoiced, in one
sense, to restore little Alexander to the arms of his parents; but in
another sense they could not quench in their secret souls the fond hope
that he might be left undisturbedly in their care. Thus time passed on:
Craddock's business, which had only required a little capital to give it
an impetus, exhibited every sign of improvement since the investment
therein of the hundred pounds received in London; and Alexander throve
apace.

"I shall now take a leap of twenty years, which brings us up to a date
of only ten years ago; and at that time great alterations—but all for
the better—had taken place in the circumstances of the Craddocks.
Indeed, they had retired from business, having made a considerable
fortune; and were settled in a handsome dwelling at a short distance
from Plymouth—their native town. Craddock and his wife had, however,
descended tolerably far into the vale of life, sixty-five winters having
passed over their heads; but in Alexander—now a fine, tall, handsome
young man of twenty-two—they had a source of real comfort and happiness.
Though acquainted with the circumstance which had led to his adoption by
Mr. and Mrs. Craddock, and, therefore, knowing well that they were not
his real parents, his attachment to them was so great—his affection so
sincere—and his gratitude so boundless, that he never once manifested
any desire to quit them for the purpose of instituting enquiries
relative to his birth. His constant and unwearied endeavour was to show
himself deserving of all they had done for him,—the tender care they had
taken of him in his infancy—the excellent education they had given him
in his boyhood—and the affectionate consideration with which they
treated him now that he was grown to man's estate; for in all respects
did they regard him as their son, and in this light was he looked upon
by their friends and dependants. In fact, nothing was wanting to
complete the happiness of Alexander Craddock. He had become enamoured of
a beautiful girl, the orphan daughter of an officer in the Navy, and who
resided at Plymouth with an old aunt. Lucy Middleton had no fortune; but
she possessed the invaluable treasures of amiability of disposition—a
sweet temper—a kind heart—and those sterling qualities which fitted her
for domesticity, and gave promise that she would prove an admirable
housewife. Alexander loved her, and was loved in return; and his adopted
parents gave their consent to the match. Accordingly, one fine Spring
morning, when the heavens appeared as auspicious as the prospects of the
youthful pair, the hands of Alexander Craddock and Lucy Middleton were
united; and, after a six weeks' tour in Wales, they returned to Plymouth
to take possession of a commodious and handsome dwelling, which the
adopted father of the young man had furnished during their absence for
their reception. A year passed away, at the expiration of which Lucy
presented her husband with a lovely boy; but almost at the same time the
family experienced a severe loss in the death of old Mr. Craddock, who
was carried off in a moment by the lightning-stroke of apoplexy.
Alexander was dreadfully grieved at this shocking occurrence—a feeling
in which his excellent young wife largely shared; but they were
compelled to restrain their sorrow as much as possible, in order to
console the bereaved widow. Mrs. Craddock was, however, unable to bear
up against this heavy affliction: the suddenness of its arrival and the
awful manner in which her husband fell down dead at her feet, when as it
were in the midst of a state of perfect health, gave her a shock which
she never recovered. She was spirit-broken, and could not rally, in
spite of the tender devotion and unwearied attentions shown her by
Alexander and Lucy, as well as by the aunt of the latter. Thus was it
that in less than six weeks from the sudden demise of Mr. Craddock, his
affectionate relict was consigned to the same tomb which held his
remains.

"When Alexander had so far recovered himself, after experiencing these
cruel inroads upon his happiness, as to investigate the affairs of his
late adopted parents, he found that he was left sole heir to the
handsome fortune acquired by their honest industry: but, though the will
and other papers were strictly correct and accurate in all points, he
found that certain circumstances connected with his inheritance would
compel him to repair to London, and probably retain him in the capital
for some weeks. He was not sorry at the idea of quitting Plymouth for a
time, his spirits having been deeply affected by the deaths of his
adopted parents; and he found Lucy and her aunt, who now lived
altogether with them, perfectly agreeable to shift their place of abode.
It was accordingly about eight years ago that this family arrived in
London, and took a house in a genteel but quiet neighbourhood. Alexander
found his income, chiefly derived from funded property, to be seven
hundred a-year; and on this he knew that he could live well, but not
extravagantly. A natural curiosity—which was the more lively now that he
had lost his adopted parents—prompted him to make certain enquiries in
the district of Doctors' Commons, with the hope of solving the mystery
of his birth. The only intelligence he gleaned, was, that the beadle who
figured in the opening of the tale, had been dead just twenty-two years;
and as Alexander was now twenty-four, he could calculate pretty
accurately that the parochial authority alluded to must have been
carried off by the hand of the destroyer within a few weeks, if not
within even a very few days, from the date when he himself, as a young
child, had fallen into the charge of Craddock. Beyond this fact
Alexander could ascertain nothing at all calculated to assist in rolling
away the veil of mystery which covered his parentage: none of the
inhabitants in the street where Craddock had found him sitting on the
door-step, remembered any thing of the loss of a child at the period
named;—no tradition of the fact remained. Alexander felt somewhat
disappointed with these unsuccessful results of his enquiries; but he
possessed too many elements of happiness—too many substantial
accessories to comfort and mental tranquillity—to remain long affected
or dispirited by the apparent permanence of that mystery which enveloped
his birth.

"Alexander was naturally of an active disposition, and abhorred a life
of idleness. He had been married two years, and was the father of two
children; and contemplating the probability of having a numerous
offspring, he felt anxious to augment his worldly possessions. 'My
adopted father,' he would reason with himself, 'carried on business
until a late period of his life, and was happy in the occupation which
it afforded him. Why should not I embark in some eligible and safe
undertaking which will give me a few hours' employment every day and
yield a profit at the same time?' The subject of his musings was
communicated to his amiable wife and her aunt; and those ladies joyfully
encouraged a spirit so praiseworthy and so indicative of steadiness and
prudence. The matter had been under discussion one morning at the
breakfast-table, when the daily newspaper was brought in; and an
announcement, worded somewhat in this way, met Alexander's
eyes:—'ELIGIBLE INVESTMENT.—Any gentleman having a few thousand pounds
at his immediate disposal, and desirous to occupy a few leisure hours
each day in a highly respectable and advantageous manner, is requested
to apply to Edward Walkden, Solicitor, Bush Lane, Cannon
Street.'—Alexander read this advertisement aloud; and the ladies agreed
with him that the nature of it was tempting enough to prompt farther
enquiry. Accordingly, the young man proceeded in the course of the
morning to the address indicated, and found Mr. Walkden's establishment
to be large and having every appearance of respectability as well as
solidity. Half-a-dozen clerks were busily employed in the front office;
and the shelves were covered with japanned tin cases, containing the
papers of the most substantial clients. Upon being introduced into the
lawyer's private office, Alexander found himself in the presence of a
tall man, whose years were upwards of sixty, and whose countenance, once
handsome, wore an expression of mingled mournfulness and severity. He
was attired in a plain suit of black: his manners were cold and
reserved; but there was a business-like air about him and his office,
which augmented the good opinion already entertained by Alexander in
respect to the lawyer and his establishment.

"Walkden was evidently a man of very few words; and therefore, when
Alexander had explained the object of his visit, the information he
sought was speedily given. 'I have a client,' said the lawyer, 'who has
taken out a patent for a particular purpose; and he requires five or six
thousand pounds to work it effectually. The person advancing the amount,
will become an equal partner with the patentee, and will find a few
hours of pleasant and agreeable occupation daily in superintending the
commercial branch of the concern, while the patentee directs the
manufacture of the article. There are the papers, sir: take them with
you, and read them at your leisure.' Walkden handed the young man a
bundle of documents tied round with red tape, and then bowed him out of
the office. On his return home, Alexander examined the papers, and was
highly delighted with the prospect which they opened to him. He felt
convinced that an immense fortune was to be made: the thing was as clear
as day-light! The patentee possessed the secret of effecting vast
improvements in the manufacture of broad-cloths, which he undertook to
produce not only of a superior quality, but likewise at a very reduced
price. The calculations showed that large returns were certain to follow
a comparatively small outlay, and that the business might be extended to
a wonderful degree in proportion to the capital advanced to work upon.
In a word, the whole affair was of the most roseate hue: Alexander, his
wife, and her aunt were in raptures at the brilliant prospect thus
fortunately opened to their contemplation; and it was resolved that he
should lose no time in securing a share in so excellent an undertaking.
Accordingly, on the following morning, he returned to Mr. Walkden, who
received him with cold politeness, and requested his speedy decision in
the matter—'as so promising a business had already attracted the notice
of several capitalists, who were eager and willing to embark their
funds.'—'And you will guarantee the respectability of your client, sir?'
enquired Alexander.—'I have been established in this profession for
upwards of thirty years, young man,' said the lawyer, almost sternly;
'and never have I allowed my office to be made the means of carrying out
an illegitimate transaction. My client, Mr. Scudimore, is a man of
integrity and honour; and whatever he promises, _that_ will he
perform!'—'In this case, Mr. Walkden,' observed Alexander Craddock, 'the
sooner I have an interview with Mr. Scudimore, the better.'—The lawyer
made no farther observation, but furnished his visitor with the address
of the patentee; and Alexander accordingly repaired to Mr. Scudimore's
dwelling, which was situated somewhere near Finsbury Square.

"Mr. Scudimore was an elderly person—very well dressed—plausible in his
discourse, and over-polite in his manners. In fact, he seemed to be the
very reverse of his solicitor in respect to disposition; for he received
Alexander as if he had known him all his life; and the young man found
himself sitting at lunch, and on the best possible terms with his new
friend, almost before he had time to look round him. Then, if the affair
which thus brought them together, had looked well upon paper, it assumed
so glorious an aspect, when described in the glowing language of Mr.
Scudimore, that Alexander Craddock, generous, frank, and confiding as he
naturally was, came to a complete understanding with the patentee ere he
took his departure. On the following day Scudimore dined at his house;
and the ladies were quite charmed with their new acquaintance. Matters
progressed rapidly through the business-like attention which Walkden
devoted to the affair; and in less than a fortnight the deeds of
partnership between Alexander Craddock and James Scudimore were duly
signed at the lawyer's office, in Bush Lane, Cannon Street. Immediately
afterwards, Alexander sold out six thousand pounds, which he paid into a
bank to the joint account of Craddock and Scudimore; and in the course
of a few days the latter gentleman took his departure for a
manufacturing town, where he was to hire premises and establish a
factory without delay, Alexander remaining in London to prepare a
warehouse to receive the goods. For some months all appeared to go on to
the complete satisfaction of both parties: Scudimore wrote up the most
pleasing accounts from the country; and at last he informed his young
partner that the factory was in perfect readiness to commence
operations. It however appeared that more money was required; and
Alexander, after an interview with Walkden, threw a farther sum of four
thousand pounds into the business, all the funds being completely at the
disposal of Scudimore. But almost immediately after the advance of this
second sum, the letters from the provincial town ceased. Several weeks
passed away: no communications were received from Scudimore;—and Mr.
Walkden appeared to be as astonished as Alexander himself. A visit to
the banker created a vague suspicion in the mind of the young man that
all was not right;—for though Scudimore had drawn out the first amount
by means of a number of successive cheques, he had received the whole of
the second advance on one draught, and almost immediately after it had
been paid in. A little farther enquiry convinced Alexander that Walkden
had presented all the cheques for payment at the bank. Without, however
losing a moment by calling on the lawyer for an explanation, Alexander
proceeded post-haste to the provincial town where he expected to find
Scudimore; and there all his fears were speedily confirmed. No premises
had been hired by any such person—no factory established in such a name:
but Mr. Scudimore had resided at an hotel in the place for several
months, and had taken his departure, no one knew whither, at a date
which, on calculation, Alexander found to be precisely four days after
he had paid the second sum into the banker's hands. No doubt now
remained in his mind that he was the dupe of a designing villain; and he
was convinced that Walkden was an accomplice. To London he returned
without delay; and, on his arrival, he repaired direct to the lawyer's
office. That professional gentleman received him with his usual cold and
reserved politeness, affecting not even to notice the excitement under
which the young man was labouring.

"'Your friend Mr. Scudimore, sir, is a villain!' exclaimed
Alexander.—'Such language is intolerable in my office, sir,' said
Walkden, in his chilling, phlegmatic manner.—'Intolerable or not, it
is the only language I can use under such circumstances,' cried the
young man. 'Scudimore has absconded with the whole sum of ten thousand
pounds which I advanced in this swindling concern; and it was through
you and your representations, sir, that I have been thus cruelly
deceived and basely plundered.'—'Softly, Mr. Craddock, if you please,'
observed the lawyer; 'because your language conveys an imputation
which I repel with scorn and contempt. My character is too well
established to be injured by the calumny of an obscure stranger. You
requested me to give you Mr. Scudimore's address in the first
instance: I did so; and it was with _him_ that you made all your
arrangements. You then both came to me, informed me that every thing
was settled between you, and employed me professionally to draw up
certain deeds.'—'But you gave me the highest character of your friend
Scudimore!' ejaculated Alexander.—'I spoke of him as I had always
found him up to that hour when you questioned me,' said Walkden: 'but
I never pretended to possess the power of prophesying that he would
continue honest up to the day of his death!'—'Contemptible, vile
sophistry!' exclaimed Alexander, his cheeks glowing with indignation.
'It is a base conspiracy to plunder me; and I will unmask you!'—'And
supposing that I have incurred a chance of losing as much as yourself
through this Mr. Scudimore?' said the lawyer, without losing his
temper, but with a smile of malignant triumph on his lips.—'_You_ lose
by him!' cried Alexander, in a tone of bitter irony: 'you knew him too
well to trust him.'—'At all events I may have somewhat calculated upon
_your_ joint responsibility,' observed Walkden, fixing his cold, grey
eyes upon the young man whom these ominous words startled.—'What do
you mean?' he demanded, his heart sinking within him.—'I mean,'
answered Walkden, 'that I have discounted your acceptances to the
amount of eight thousand pounds; that I have passed away those bills
of exchange in the course of business; that when they fall due
shortly, I shall be unable to take them up; and that the holder will
therefore look to you for the payment of them?'—Alexander sank,
speechless and powerless, into a seat as the whole scheme of villainy
was thus fully developed to his horrified contemplation.—'As you were
in partnership, and all the deeds establishing that partnership were
drawn up in the regular way and strictly binding, Scudimore had not
only a right to sign bills in your joint name,' proceeded the lawyer,
'but you cannot for an instant dispute your liability in respect to
them.'—'Is it possible,' gasped Alexander, 'that I can have been so
foolish and you so wicked? Oh! my poor wife—my beloved children, what
will become of you, now that I am ruined by my own madness and this
awful combination of villainies!'—'Mr. Craddock,' said Walkden,
drawing himself up to his full height, while his iron features
remained implacable and rigid, 'you must not allow your tongue a
license in respect to me. Again I tell you that my character is too
well established, and my reputation too substantially good, to be
injured by false calumnies. Indeed, I am not at all clear that I have
not some grounds to complain of conspiracy and villainy: for it
certainly looks suspicious—most suspicious that your partner should
obtain from me advances to the amount of eight thousand pounds, and
then abscond. You would not come out of court with very clean hands,
Mr. Craddock, I can tell you.'—'Wretch!' ejaculated the unhappy young
man, now goaded to desperation: 'how dare you hint at any connivance
on my part with the scoundrelism of your own friend—_you_ who
presented at the bank all the drafts for the money which I was insane
enough to lodge there!'—'I certainly received several sums on behalf
of Mr. Scudimore, to whom I duly remitted them,' said the lawyer,
still in that cold, reserved tone which so much aggravated the rage of
the ruined Craddock. 'But we will now put an end to this interview,
sir,' he added; 'as my time is precious.'—'Yes, I will leave you,
treacherous miscreant that you are!' exclaimed Alexander; and rushing
into the clerks' office, he vociferated with mad excitement,
'Gentlemen, if you wish to behold the greatest villian on the face of
the earth, go and look at your master!'—He then hurried away, the
victim of a mingled rage and grief which it would be impossible to
describe.

"But how could he face his dear wife—her affectionate aunt—his
much-loved children? '_Ruined—totally ruined_:' how awfully do these
words sound upon the ears! A man, when alone in the world and with none
dependent on him or his exertions, may murmur those words to himself
with comparative calmness: but the individual who has a wife and
children looking to him for every necessary of existence—ah! _he_ indeed
feels his heart seared as with red-hot iron when his lips, expressing
the conviction which circumstances force on his startled mind, frame the
frightful words, '_Ruined—totally ruined!_' Miss Middleton (the aunt)
and Lucy were already acquainted with the unpleasant nature of the
suspicions which Scudimore's protracted silence had created in the mind
of Alexander; and they were likewise aware of the object of his journey
into the country. But they had yet to learn the fatal result of the
enquiries which he had instituted; and it was still left for him to
break to them the particulars of his interview with Walkden. On his
return home, his anxiety and mental suffering were betrayed by his
countenance,—for he was unskilled in the schools of duplicity, and knew
not how to conceal a lacerated heart beneath a tranquil exterior. The
ladies pressed him with questions: they saw that something dreadful had
occurred—and they implored him not to keep them in suspense. He told
them all,—told them how Scudimore had plundered him of ten thousand
pounds—how he remained liable to Walkden for eight thousand more—and how
the payment of this imminent liability would sweep away the whole of his
fortune, leaving him a ruined man! Then, in that hour of bitter trial,
he found how dear is woman as a 'ministering angel;'[50] and, having
been comparatively soothed and tranquillised by the consolatory language
of his Lucy and Miss Middleton, he proceeded to the office of his own
solicitor, whom he resolved to consult relative to the posture of his
affairs.

"The moment he had left the house, Lucy and Miss Middleton held a hasty
council together. 'Do you think it would be imprudent or improper, my
dear aunt,' asked the young wife, 'if I were to call upon this Mr.
Walkden, and implore him not to press the payment of a debt which will
deprive Alexander of all the resources that he might render available
for the purpose of retrieving himself?'—'On the contrary, I approve of
the step,' was the reply. 'Alexander says that Mr. Walkden was stern and
severe; but then Alexander himself may have been hasty and indignant.
After all, this Mr. Walkden has perhaps been duped, as well as your
husband, by Scudimore.'—'I fear that this is not the case,' said Lucy:
'I am impressed with the conviction that the lawyer and Scudimore were
in league together. Nevertheless, as we are entirely at Walkden's mercy,
it would be unwise to irritate, but prudent to conciliate him.'—'Go, my
dear child,' exclaimed the aunt; 'and may you succeed in softening the
heart of this man who holds your dear husband in his iron grasp.'—Lucy
accordingly attired herself in a simple and modest manner, and proceeded
to the office of Mr. Walkden, who, happening to be disengaged at the
time, immediately received her.

"'I have called, sir,' began Lucy, whose courage almost failed her when
she found herself in the presence of a man of such stern, cold, and
indeed forbidding aspect—for this was the first time she had ever seen
him,—'I have called, sir,' she repeated, 'on behalf of my husband, whose
ruin is certain unless you show him some degree of mercy.'—'Mr. Craddock
behaved in a manner the most insulting, and dared to utter suspicions
the must derogatory to my character, even in the presence of my clerks,'
observed Walkden, in a tone so chilling that it seemed as if the breath
which wafted those words to the young wife's ears, passed over the ice
of the poles.—'But surely, sir,' urged Lucy, the tears trickling down
her cheeks, 'you will make some allowances for the excited feelings of a
young man just entering the world as it were, and so cruelly struck on
its very threshold by the hand of misfortune? At least, sir, if not for
his sake, I implore you for that of his innocent children to be lenient
and merciful.'—'Law forms and ceremonies are not influenced by such
considerations, madam,' said Mr. Walkden. 'At the same time, I have no
objection to search the Commentaries; and if I there find leniency
recommended in filing a declaration, or mercy enjoined in signing
judgment, I have not the slightest objection to instruct my common-law
clerk accordingly.'—Lucy stared at the attorney in wild bewilderment and
uncertainty as he thus delivered himself in a measured tone of such
frigidity that it seemed as if an automaton of ice were speaking; but at
length she murmured, 'May I then hope, sir, that you will not press for
the payment of this heavy debt when the bills become due?'—Walkden fixed
his eyes upon the lovely and tearful countenance which was upturned so
imploringly towards him; and at the instant he thought within himself
that he had never before seen a female face of such surpassing beauty.
Then his glance slowly and deliberately wandered from the faultless
features to the contours of the well-formed bust, developed even by the
plaits of the thick shawl which Lucy wore; and thence his survey was
continued until his contemplation had embraced the wasp-like waist, and
the flowing outlines of a symmetrical form, terminating in feet and
ankles ravishingly modelled.—'You are doubtless much attached to your
husband, madam?' he said, his tone becoming the least thing more
tender—or rather losing one small degree of its cold severity.—'Attached
to him, sir!' exclaimed Lucy, perfectly astonished at the question: 'I
love—I worship him! He is the best of husbands and the best of
fathers!'—'Then you would make _any_ sacrifice to restore him to peace
of mind?' said Walkden, his voice becoming more tender still, and his
demeanour gradually unbending from its stiff formality.—'Oh! yes,' cried
the artless Lucy; '_any_ sacrifice would I make to see my Alexander
happy as he was wont to be!'—'_Any_ sacrifice,' repeated the lawyer, now
positively allowing his features to relax into a faint and significant
smile, while his voice was lowered and changed into a tone of soft
familiarity; 'consider what you say—_any sacrifice_! Well, then on that
condition'—and he took her hand.—A light broke instantaneously upon the
mind of Lucy; and, snatching back her hand as if from the maw of a wild
beast, she started from her seat, uttered a cry of indignation and
abhorrence, and disappeared from the office before the baffled and
disconcerted lawyer had time to make an effort to detain her.

"Lucy's heart was still swelling with mingled resentment and anguish,
when she reached her home; and Alexander who returned at the same time,
saw in an instant that she was a prey to no ordinary emotions. Throwing
herself into her husband's arms, Lucy burst into tears—her pent-up
feelings no longer obeying the control of that restraint which she
sought to impose upon them. Then, by dint of questioning, Alexander
gleaned enough to convince him that his beloved wife had been flagrantly
insulted by the villain who had already heaped such grievous wrongs upon
his head. Maddened by this fresh injury, Alexander was about to rush
from the house and inflict some dreadful chastisement upon the
cold-blooded monster Walkden, when his wife and her aunt threw
themselves at his feet, and implored him, with tears and impassioned
entreaties, not to aggravate the perils and embarrassments of his
position by involving himself in a quarrel with their enemy. Alexander
was moved by the prayers of those whom he loved; and he faithfully
promised them not to suffer his indignant feelings to master his
prudence. When calmness and composure were somewhat restored, he
proceeded to explain the result of the visit which he had just paid to
his own solicitor. That gentleman had said to him, 'It is as clear as
day-light that you are robbed by Walkden and Scudimore conjointly; but I
really do not think that you could _prove_ a conspiracy in a criminal
court. I should, however, decidedly advise you to resist the payment of
the bills; and, as Walkden is tolerably sure to push the matter on to
trial, the verdict of a jury in the civil case will enable us to judge
how far we may hope to punish the scoundrel attorney in another manner.'
Alexander had accordingly placed himself entirely in his solicitor's
hands; and there rested the business for the present.

"But a serious change took place in the disposition and habits of
Alexander Craddock. Smarting under the wrongs which he had received, he
grew restless and unsettled—experienced less delight than he was wont to
feel in the society of his wife and children—showed signs of
irritability, and an impatience of the slightest contradiction, however
trivial—and remained longer over his wine after dinner. Lucy beheld all
this, and wept in secret: but when with Alexander, she redoubled her
attentions, and sought every possible opportunity of proving her
devotion. She implored him to give up the house they then occupied, and
adopt a more economical mode of life; but his answers were at first
evasive—then impatient—and at last so sharp and angry, that she was
compelled, though with reluctance, to abandon the topic, at least for
the present. To add to Lucy's grief, her aunt, who had so long fulfilled
towards her the duties of a mother, was attacked with sudden
indisposition, which increased with alarming rapidity, and carried her
off in the course of a few days. Alexander manifested far less sorrow
than Lucy had expected him to have shown; and this proof of an
augmenting callousness on his part, pierced the heart of the amiable
young lady to the very quick. But scarcely had the remains of Miss
Middleton been consigned to the tomb, when a fresh misfortune occurred
to increase the irritability of Alexander. The bills for eight thousand
pounds fell due, and were dishonoured by him, in accordance with the
advice of his solicitor. He was immediately after arrested: and, as he
had resolved to defend the action, he paid into court the whole sum in
dispute, a proceeding whereby he could alone save himself from remaining
in prison until the trial. He had, however, gone through the ordeal of a
spunging-house, and he considered himself disgraced; the irritability of
his temper increased—he daily grew more attached to the bottle—and his
affections towards his wife and children were evidently blunted. Oh! how
ramified and vast are the evil effects of the villainy of one man
towards another,—striking not only the individual victim, but rebounding
and reacting on his wife, his children, and his friends!

"Lucy again revived the expression of her wish that a cheaper dwelling
should be taken and a more economical style of living adopted. But
Alexander would not listen to the proposal. He declared his certainty of
gaining the suit and of recovering his money from the court—a result, he
said, which would enable him to employ his funds in some legitimate
commercial enterprise. On this subject he spoke so confidently, that
Lucy entertained the most sanguine hopes of beholding happiness restored
beneath a roof where naught save happiness had once prevailed; and it
was but with little apprehension that she marked the arrival of the day
fixed for the trial. The most able counsel had been retained on both
sides; and the cause excited immense interest. Walkden had been
established for years, and bore an excellent character: indeed, none of
his friends or clients could for a moment believe that he was an
accomplice of the villain Scudimore. The whole question, as presented to
the cognizance of the tribunal, was whether Mr. Walkden had given value
for the bills, and was a _bona fide_ holder of securities which he had
legitimately and honourably discounted in the course of business. The
evidence he adduced to establish these points was certainly of a nature
likely to prove most convincing to a jury, though Alexander knew full
well that Walkden had suborned the grossest perjury on the part of his
clerks and the other persons whom he put forward as witnesses.
Nevertheless, the verdict was in Walkden's favour; and Alexander
returned home a prey to the liveliest grief and the most bitter
resentment. Lucy did all that woman's goodness and ingenuity could
suggest to console him; but the excitement of his feelings gained upon
him with such overwhelming violence and rapidity, that he grew
delirious, and a brain-fever supervened. The best medical advice was
procured for him by the almost heart-broken Lucy; but weeks and weeks
passed away without enabling the physicians to pronounce him beyond the
reach of danger. During that period he had many lucid intervals, on
which occasions he recognised his wife and children—embraced them
tenderly—wept over them—implored heaven to bless them—and then, in the
bitterness of overwhelming reminiscences, desired them to look upon him
as one who was dead,—his excitement relapsing into delirium again. Poor
Lucy! seldom was it that she reposed her aching head upon a pillow,
throughout the period of her beloved husband's illness—and never until
completely crushed with the fatigue of long vigils and the burthen of a
grief beneath which she herself was sinking. At length—just as her
pecuniary resources began to fail, and the want of funds excited alarms
which augmented her afflictions—Alexander's malady took a sudden turn
which filled her mind with the most joyous hope; and when the delirium
had altogether passed away, his manner was so kind and gentle—his
language so endearing and affectionate—and his temper so entirely devoid
of irritability, that Lucy's heart became elate with the most cheering
aspirations and delightful visions. Alexander spoke of his misfortunes
with calmness and resignation; and said, 'Our property is all swept
away, dearest; but I am young, and shall soon be strong and active
again; and then I will work to obtain a livelihood for us all. And who
knows, my beloved Lucy, but that the bread of honest though perhaps
severe toil, may not prove the sweetest we shall have ever eaten?'—Then,
when his wife heard him discourse in this manner, she would throw
herself into his arms, and thank him—yes, thank him fervently for
becoming a consoler in his turn.

"The fond pair had been conversing in this style one afternoon—the first
day on which Alexander was enabled to walk down stairs to the parlour
without assistance,—and their children were playing in a corner of the
apartment, when the door was suddenly and violently opened, and two or
three coarse-looking fellows unceremoniously made their appearance.
Their mission was soon explained. The money paid into court had only
just covered the amount of the bills of exchange which had formed the
ground of action; and Alexander was now arrested by Walkden for the
costs, which had been taxed at a hundred and odd pounds. The unfortunate
young couple had not the money; and Lucy had already made away with
their plate, jewellery, and other valuables in order to provide her
husband with every comfort and luxury in his illness. The furniture was
worth more than the amount of the costs: but arrears of rent were due to
the landlord. Lucy implored the bailiffs, with tears in her eyes, not to
remove Alexander for a few days, when he might have recovered the shock
of this new and unforeseen blow; but they were inexorable, intimating
pretty plainly that they were instructed to show no leniency of any
kind. She, however, by dint of entreaties—actually going down upon her
knees to the officers—succeeded in inducing them to wait while she
repaired to his own solicitor. But this gentleman was unable to assist
her to the amount she required: he nevertheless manifested the kindest
and most respectful sympathy towards her, giving her a few guineas for
immediate necessities, and promising to incur the expense of the
measures necessary to enable her husband to remove next day from a
lock-up house to the King's Bench. It was some consolation to the almost
heart-broken young lady, to find that Alexander possessed at least one
friend in the world; but even this faint and poor gleam of solace
vanished, and gave way to the keenest apprehensions, when on her return
she found her husband a prey to all that fearful excitement which had
proved the forerunner of his late dangerous malady.

"What was to be done? There seemed but one alternative; and this she was
determined, in her affectionate solicitude and zeal, to adopt without
the knowledge of Alexander. Indeed, he scarcely appeared to be aware of
what was going on; but raved, talked wildly, and menaced and wept by
turns in the presence of the officers who surrounded him. Away sped Lucy
to Bush Lane; and a second time did she enter the establishment of that
individual who had brought such rapid—such signal—such unredeemable ruin
on the heads of a once happy family. Walkden received her in his private
office, and coldly desired her to be seated, a smile of infernal triumph
relaxing his stern and usually rigid features; while his eyes scanned
the wasted, but still touchingly beautiful and deeply interesting
countenance of that afflicted young lady. Lucy was for some minutes so
overcome by the intensity of her feelings, that she was unable to utter
a word; and when she did speak, it was a mere gasping forth of
disjointed sentences, broken by frequent sobs of convulsing agony. The
lawyer bent over her, like Satan whispering to a desperate creature the
terms on which wealth and power might be purchased,—bent over that
crushed, much-enduring, and amiable young wife, and murmured in her ears
_his_ terms of mercy towards her husband. She rose and looked at him in
amazement and horror. Was he a human being, or a veritable fiend? His
cold, grey eyes sank not beneath the reproachful and indignant glance of
that outraged lady; and a smile of demoniac triumph again played upon
his lip. Doubtless he thought that her anger was only momentary, and
that the sternness of necessity would force her to a compliance with his
will. But he knew not the mind of Lucy. 'Villain! monster!' she
exclaimed: 'has your infamy no bounds?' and she fled from the presence
of the cold-blooded scoundrel as if the atmosphere which he breathed
were fraught with the plague.

"With what a heavy heart did she return home—that home from which her
husband must now be dragged immediately and before her eyes,—a home
which, perhaps, would not long remain so for herself and children. But
suddenly, and as if by divine inspiration, she remembered that all her
courage was now required to enable her to bear up against her
afflictions for the sake of Alexander—for the sake of her offspring;—and
it is astonishing how, in the midst of the deepest sorrows, woman can
ofttimes display an energy of which the stronger sex is altogether
incapable. And so it now was with Lucy Craddock. She even succeeded in
comforting her husband and soothing his excitement, by reminding him
that the more he appeared to be crushed, the greater would be the
delight of his savage and unrelenting enemy. This species of
remonstrance, so kindly—so gently administered, had the desired effect;
and Alexander, animated with a spirit of endurance, and fortified by the
example of his admirable wife, rose if possible superior to his
misfortunes, and proceeded with a feeling of proud resignation to the
lock-up-house. Thence on the ensuing day he was removed to the King's
Bench: and it was here that I first formed his acquaintance, when he
entered the prison six years ago.

"Immediately after his arrival, his spirits gave way rapidly; and it was
necessary for his wife to take up her abode with him altogether. She
accordingly disposed of the furniture in their house, paid the landlord
and the few other small creditors, and brought her children over to the
small cheerless chamber in which her husband was lying on a bed of
sickness. Thus was this once happy family—like so many, many others,
reduced from a state of comfort, and even affluence, to poverty and a
prison-room. Heaven only knows what misery—what privations they had
undergone, when it was first whispered to me by a char-woman that the
Craddocks seemed to be in great distress. I was then a little better off
than I am now; and I immediately repaired to their room, inventing some
excuse for my intrusion. Oh! what a scene of destitution—what a
heart-rending spectacle met my eyes! The furniture which the Craddocks
had hired, had been all removed away in consequence of their inability
to pay for its use: Alexander, pale and emaciated, was sitting upon a
trunk; the two children, thin and wasted, were crying for food; and the
poor, heart-rent Lucy was looking over a few things in a hatbox,
evidently with a view to select the most likely articles to be received
by the pawnbroker—while her scalding tears fell fast upon her hands as
she turned over the only relics left of a wardrobe once extensive and
elegant. It went to my very soul to contemplate that scene! I shall not
pause to explain all the particulars which rendered me intimate with the
Craddocks: suffice it to say, that they accepted my assistance, and that
in a few hours their chamber once again wore an aspect of such comfort
as the restitution of the furniture and a well supplied table could
possibly afford in a prison. I did not learn their history
immediately—nor all its details at once: portions of it were
communicated by degrees—some of the particulars oozed out
incidentally—and the feelings and sentiments experienced by the
sufferers in the various phases of their eventful tale, transpired from
time to time,—until at length I gleaned all those facts which I have now
related to you. But by far the most terrible portion of the history of
the Craddocks is yet to come."

Prout paused for a few moments, and then enquired of Frank Curtis if he
were wearied of the narrative. The young gentleman assured him that, so
far from being tired of the story, he was deeply interested in its
progress; whereupon the Chancery prisoner proceeded in the following
manner.

-----

Footnote 50:

                  O woman in our hours of ease,
                  Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
                  And variable as the shade
                  By the light quivering aspen made;—
                  When pain and anguish wring the brow,
                  A ministering angel thou!

                                                           WALTER SCOTT.

          And such is woman's love—the secret power
          That turns the darkest to the brightest hour;
          That smothes the wrinkles care has learned to plough,
          And wipes the trace of anguish from the brow!
          And Oh! if spite of war and wasting pain,
          Feelings so noble—so divine remain,
          Where were the brighter star to cheer our gloom,
          Make heaven of earth, and triumph o'er the tomb!

                                                  UNIVERSITY PRIZE POEM.




                             CHAPTER CVIII.
                   CONCLUSION OF THE TALE OF SORROW.


"Although I was enabled to administer temporary assistance to this
unfortunate and persecuted family, and, under the delicate guise of a
_loan_ of money, _gave_ them the wherewith to make themselves
comparatively comfortable, it was nevertheless necessary for Alexander
to resolve upon some decisive step. To remain in prison was to bury his
talents in a manner so as to render them completely unavailable,—to
think of liquidating the enormous burthen of debt which lay upon his
shoulders, was ridiculous,—and to move the stony heart of Walkden was a
hopeless idea. The only alternative was the Insolvents' Court. Good
food, medical attendance, and the altered appearance of his wife and
children, who had all improved greatly, restored Alexander to some
degree of health and spirits; and he soon began to discuss with me and
Lucy his present position and plans for the future. The lawyer who had
enabled him to pass over to the Bench, returned to town at this precise
period, after some weeks' absence; and he not only agreed to provide the
funds to take Alexander through the Insolvents' Court, but also promised
to give him employment as a clerk on his release. Thus was it that this
good man infused hope into the bosoms of the Craddocks; and the
necessary steps were adopted to effect the emancipation of the prisoner.
But scarcely were the initiatory proceedings set on foot, when
intelligence was received to the effect that Walkden was resolved to
oppose Alexander's discharge by all the means that were within his
power. This intimation, which reached the prison through a private
channel, aroused Alexander's fury against the man who so unrelentingly
persecuted him; and it required all the attentions of his amiable wife
and all the manifestations of friendship which I was enabled to offer,
to restore him to comparative tranquillity.

[Illustration]

"Well, the day fixed for his examination at the Insolvents' Court
arrived; and Alexander proceeded thither in the usual charge of a
tipstaff. His case was called on at an early stage of the day's
business; and he found a formidable array of counsel employed against
him. I shall not pause to dwell upon all the details of the proceeding:
suffice it to say that Walkden was placed in the witness-box, and, being
examined by the barristers whom he had feed, made the entire case look
so fearfully black against Alexander Craddock, that he was remanded to
gaol for twelve months, his discharge to take place at the expiration of
that period. Fearful was the state of excitement in which he returned to
the Bench; and in the course of a few hours he was delirious. It was
frightful to hear his ravings, in which the name of Walkden was
uppermost, and associated with the bitterest imprecations and menaces.
Poor Lucy! I thought her heart would break, as she sate watching by her
husband's bed; but she was rewarded to some extent for her vigils and
her sorrow, when, on the return of his senses, he recognised her before
he even knew his own children, much less me—his humble friend,—and
manifested his purest love for her in the most impassioned language and
with the tenderest embraces. But though the delirium left him and
returned no more, he soon fell into a deep and brooding melancholy, from
which it was scarcely possible to arouse him. He fancied himself
dishonoured—permanently dishonoured by the sentence passed upon him by
the Insolvents' Court; and though the friendly lawyer and myself, as
well as Lucy, endeavoured to reason with him against the
belief,—pointing out every circumstance calculated to prove that he was
a victim, and not a culprit,—he took the matter so to heart that it was
evident his spirit was broken!

"My own resources began to fall off at this period, and I was unable to
assist the Craddocks as much as I could wish. Moreover, Alexander and
Lucy both felt averse to remain dependant upon me; and the friendly
lawyer had proved so generous that they were naturally delicate in
applying to him. Lucy accordingly made up her mind how to act. She
proposed that they should remove over to the Poor-Side, and receive the
County money. They would thus obtain a room rent free, and a few
shillings a-week to purchase bread. Alexander's pride struggled against
this project; but he yielded at last to the entreaties and
representations of his excellent wife, who assured him that she felt no
shame in showing that she was poor, and that the only real disgrace lay
in dishonesty. 'Wherefore, then, should we contract any debts which we
cannot pay?' she enquired; 'and if we continue to live in this part of
the prison we must keep up certain appearances, which we have not the
means to do.'—Alexander succumbed, I say, to this reasoning; and to the
Poor-Side they accordingly removed. I never shall forget the day when
this change took place. Lucy had made the new chamber look as neat at
possible; and she endeavoured to maintain a smiling exterior as she
arranged the little furniture and the few things of their own which were
left to them. But every now and then she glanced anxiously towards her
husband, who sat in a musing—or rather an apathetic manner—watching her
proceedings; and I observed that a tear frequently started to her eye,
and that every now and then she caught up her children and pressed them
passionately to her bosom. I insisted upon providing dinner on that day;
and I did all I could not only to make this poor family as comfortable
as possible, but also to raise Alexander's spirits. But if he smiled it
was so faintly, or sickly, that my heart sank within me as if he had
been my own son.

"A few weeks passed away, and I observed that Lucy managed to keep the
family pretty comfortably. They had no lack of plain and humble food—and
the children were always neat and clean. Whenever I called at their
room, I found Lucy busy in some way or another—either washing or mending
the clothes, or ironing out her husband's linen, or else plying the
needle at work which, though I know little of such matters, did not seem
to me to have any reference to the family wardrobe at all. One night I
could not sleep, and got up to take a walk round the prison. It was
between twelve and one; and, as I passed round by the Poor-Side, I
chanced to look up at the window of the Craddocks' room. To my surprise,
I observed a light burning; and the truth flashed upon me. Poor Lucy was
sitting up to work—to waste her youth, her health, and her spirits over
the needle, that she might obtain the means to purchase comforts for her
husband and children! The conviction went to my very heart like a pang;
and I thought how bitter is often the mission of a good and virtuous
woman in this world! I remember that I had no inclination to retire to
rest again that night; and I kept walking—walking round the prison,
impelled by some invincible influence thus to wander about the gloomy
place, as if to watch how long the feeble light would be burning in that
one room! It was nearly four o'clock when that light was extinguished;
and I heaved a sigh as I murmured to myself the name of poor Lucy
Craddock! When day came, and I was enabled to call upon Alexander after
breakfast. I examined the young wife and mother with more attention than
usual; and it then struck me that she was visibly wasting away. Her
health was evidently declining; and her spirits were entirely forced.
She was gay and lively as ever; but that gaiety and liveliness were
assumed, not real—artificial, not natural,—the veil which an excellent
and amiable woman—a most affectionate wife and the best of mothers—put
on to cover the secret of her breaking heart!

"Three mouths of the year for which Alexander had been remanded, passed
away; and Lucy beheld her children drooping and pining through want of
proper air and exercise. This discovery was a new affliction. She would
not permit the little things to play about along with the ragged, dirty
offspring of the other prisoners on the Poor-Side; and she was unable to
spare the time to take them out herself. I understood the struggle that
was passing in her mind. If she devoted an hour or two each day to them,
she must give up some of the work which, as I found out, she had
obtained from a warehouse in the Borough; and by so doing their comforts
and those of her husband would be abridged. On the other hand, she could
not see those poor innocents confined to a close room and pining for
fresh air. She accordingly resolved to take them out for a certain
period each day, and to steal another hour or two from her repose. I
knew that she did this, because when I either walked about until very
late, or else rose early to take my ramble about the prison, I saw the
light in the chamber even at five o'clock in the morning! My God! It is
as true as I am here, that this poor, devoted woman at length limited
herself to only three hours' rest; and though her children improved in
health, her own was suffering the most frightful ravages. It was evident
that Alexander did not suspect the labour and toil which his wife
endured: he had sunk into a species of apathy which blinded him to a
fact that I discovered so easily, and which gave me the acutest pain.
You may be sure that I did all I could for the family, and in as
delicate a way as possible,—always proposing to join my dinner to
their's when I knew that I had a better one than they; but my own
resources were becoming daily more cramped; and my accursed Chancery
business not only lingered on, but absorbed all the funds I could raise
or my friends could muster in my behalf. Thus six months passed
away—Lucy in the meantime being worn down to a skeleton, and seeming
only the shadow of her former self. Still she grew not, slovenly:
dirt—that too frequent companion of poverty—was not the characteristic
of her little chamber; and her husband always had his clean shirt for
the Sabbath, and even decent apparel, considering that he lived on the
Poor-Side of the King's Bench Prison!

"It was Term Time; and my business compelled me to take a day-rule. That
is to say, I obtained permission to go out for a day to attend to my
affairs, my friends giving security to the Marshal of the Bench for my
safe return. I resolved to avail myself of this opportunity to call on
Walkden, and represent to him the cruelty and absurdity of keeping
Alexander in confinement, when by withdrawing the detainer he might
restore him to freedom. I was prepared to find Walkden a severe and hard
man; but the reception I experienced was calculated to make me set him
down as a fiend in mortal shape. The moment I mentioned my business, he
stopped me short,—rising from his seat, and saying in a cold, icy
manner, 'The name of Craddock is abhorrent to me, sir. I was grossly
insulted by his injurious suspicions; and he shall rot in prison before
I permit him to escape my vengeance. He thinks that he will be freed in
six months' time; but he is mistaken.'—'No, sir,' I exclaimed
indignantly, 'it is you who are mistaken. The fiat of the Insolvents'
Court is stronger than your vindictive will.'—'We shall see,' observed
Walkden, in an implacable tone; and I was compelled to withdraw, not
only grieved at the ill-success of my visit, but filled with vague
apprehensions that fresh persecutions were in waiting for my unhappy
friend. But I did not breathe a word to either Alexander or Lucy
relative to the step which I had taken nor the fears thus excited within
me; although I could not banish the lawyer's dark menace from my
thoughts. Months passed away—Lucy still managing to keep the wolf from
the door, as the vulgar phrase goes; while her health was sinking
rapidly.

"At length the period drew nigh when Alexander expected to obtain his
deliverance; and now his spirits began to rise. He gradually shook off
the apathy which had so long clouded his intellect and impaired his
energies; and he spoke highly of the prospect of release. But Walkden
watched him from a distance, and seemed to gloat over the new scheme of
vengeance which he had in store for this hapless family. Indeed, the
blow came on a day when Alexander had declared to me that he had not
felt his heart so light for a long, long time. A detainer was lodged
against him at the gate—a detainer for a thousand pounds! The fact was
that a mistake had been committed in Alexander's schedule, and an item
to that extent omitted. The judgment of the Court was therefore void and
null in respect to a debt not inserted in the schedule; for such is the
atrocious law, made on purpose to persecute those unfortunate debtors
who do not come within the meaning of the Acts which enable traders to
apply to the Bankruptcy Court. The way that I heard first of the
detainer being lodged at Walkden's suit was in this wise:—A char-woman
came to my room, saying that Mrs. Craddock, who appeared to be in great
distress of mind, wished to see me immediately. I hurried to the
Poor-Side, a misgiving preparing my mind to receive intelligence of
farther persecution on the part of the fiend Walkden. On entering the
Craddock's chamber, I found Alexander lying almost senseless on the bed,
deep and prolonged gaspings alone denoting that he was alive. Lucy was
on her knees, imploring him not to give way to despair; and the children
were crying piteously, although they were too young to understand the
nature of the misfortune which had fallen on their parents' heads. I
strove to awaken my unhappy friend to the necessity of enduring this new
affliction with courage; and in a short time my representations, joined
to Lucy's prayers and entreaties, succeeded to some little extent. 'You
must petition the Insolvents' Court again,' I said; 'and you are sure of
having no farther remand. In six weeks you will be free.'—'But the
means—the means to pass this ordeal a second time!' he exclaimed almost
frantically.—'The Marshal has some charitable funds at his disposal,' I
observed; 'and I will instantly wait upon him, and present the whole
circumstances of the case.'—Alexander was in that feverish state of
excitement which cannot endure suspense when any gleam of hope is
afforded in the midst of despair; and he urged me to lose no time in
seeing the Marshal. As I quitted the room, Lucy pressed my hand in a
manner expressive of deep emotion, as she murmured in a low tone, 'You
are our only friend!'

"Within ten minutes I was seated in the Marshal's private office,
explaining the nature of my business. I unreservedly and frankly
revealed to him Alexander Craddock's whole history; and you may be sure
that I did not forget to dwell upon the admirable conduct of Lucy. The
Marshal is a humane man, although nothing more than a superior kind of
gaoler; and he listened to me with great interest. When I had concluded
my narrative, which was rather long, he said, 'Mr. Prout, I will lose no
time in calling myself upon Mr. Walkden, whom I know well by name, and
whose character has certainly appeared to me this day in a new light. I
am well aware that he is harsh and severe; but I do not think him
capable of keeping this man in prison under all the circumstances which
you have detailed to me. I will see him, and endeavour to excite his
compassion by unfolding to him all the particulars of Craddock's
history, as you have now related them to me. If he should persist in
retaining him in gaol, I will then from my own pocket advance the
necessary funds to enable your poor friend to petition the Court again.
In the meantime give Craddock this guinea.'—I returned my warmest thanks
to the Marshal for his goodness, and was hurrying back to the Craddocks
with the money and the hopeful intelligence I had in store for them,
when, as I passed through the upper lobby, my attention was directed to
a new prisoner who had just arrived; for on the turnkey asking him his
name, he replied—SCUDIMORE! A moment's scrutiny of the man convinced me
that he was the same who had plundered Craddock, a description of his
personal appearance having been frequently given to me by Alexander. I
was sorry to find that he had become an inmate of the same place as the
individual whom he had so deeply injured, and whose excited feelings I
feared might lead him to some act of violence towards the villain. Well
aware that Alexander could not be long before he must inevitably learn
the fact of Scudimore's arrest, I resolved to mention it to him without
delay, so as to prepare him to meet his enemy within the precincts of
the Bench. I, however, communicated my good news first; and Lucy was
overjoyed when she learnt that the Marshal had resolved to interest
himself in her husband's behalf. But Alexander's manner suddenly became
so strange—so unaccountably sombre and gloomy—and so menacingly
mysterious, when I revealed to him the circumstance of Scudimore's
presence in the prison, that both Lucy and myself grew terribly alarmed.
We implored him not to notice Scudimore even when they should meet; but
he gave no reply. I, however, whispered to Lucy my hopes that the
Marshal would succeed in inducing Walkden to liberate her husband at
once; and thereby remove her husband from the vicinity of the scoundrel
who had ruined him. I also resolved to be as much with Alexander as
possible; and I was delighted to find that he showed no inclination to
leave his room for the purpose of taking his usual walk up and down the
back of the prison-building.

"In the course of a couple of hours the Marshal sent me in word that he
had not succeeded in finding Mr. Walkden at his office, but had made an
appointment with the head-clerk to call again in the evening, when the
result of his interview with the lawyer should be immediately
communicated to me, even if the gates were closed. I therefore saw that
the Marshal was in earnest in carrying out the business he had taken in
hand; and Lucy was inspired with the same strong hopes that I
entertained. But Alexander received the Marshal's message with an
apathetic coldness which filled me with alarm; and it was evident that
his mind brooded over other affairs, which I could not help thinking
were connected with the arrival of Scudimore at the Bench. I was,
however, glad to observe that Lucy did not participate in my fears to
the same extent as she did in my hopes: poor creature! the thought of
seeing her husband soon free was the absorbing sentiment in her mind! I
remained with the Craddocks on that eventful day up to almost nine
o'clock, when a letter which I received by the last post compelled me to
go to my room for a few minutes to look out a few papers connected with
my own case, and which my attorney required the first thing in the
morning. I assured Lucy that I would return as soon as possible, the
promised intelligence from the Marshal being now every moment expected
by us.

"And now I come to a frightful portion of my sad tale. I had been about
five minutes in my room, and had just sealed up the packet which was to
be given to a messenger that night to deliver early next day to my
solicitor, when Lucy rushed in without knocking. She fell exhausted upon
the floor; and it was some moments before she could articulate a word. I
was cruelly alarmed; and my hand trembled so as I poured her out some
water that I could scarcely hold the glass. At length I learnt that
Alexander had suddenly started from his chair, a minute after I left
him, and seizing a knife, had rushed from the room. Before Lucy could
reach the bottom of the stairs, he had disappeared; and, in a state
bordering on distraction, she had naturally flown to me. While she was
gasping forth the few words which thus made me acquainted with the cause
of her visit, cries of horror suddenly burst from the parade-ground and
struck upon our ears. I cannot at this moment remember what we thought,
or what we said—no, nor how we got down the stairs: the next incident
that I _do_ recollect, after hearing those appalling cries, was finding
myself elbowing my way through a group of prisoners assembled on the
parade; and then, by the moonlight, what a spectacle met my eyes! A man
was lying on the ground, weltering in his blood; and another was passive
and motionless in the grasp of three or four prisoners. The former was
Scudimore: the latter was Alexander Craddock. Then female shrieks of
anguish rent the air; and Lucy threw herself wildly into her husband's
arms, exclaiming in a tone so piercing that it still rings in my
ears—'You did not do it, Alexander! Oh! no—you could not—you would not!
Tell me—I conjure you,—tell me that you did not do it!'

"Almost at the same moment a cry was raised of—'The Marshall'—and
immediately afterwards that gentleman came up to the spot, accompanied
by _another individual_, whom, as the moonlight fell upon his
countenance, I instantly recognised to be Walkden. And that
countenance—how was it changed! No longer cold and implacable, every
feature bore the imprint of ineffable anguish and black despair. Then,
when in a few hurried words, the assassination of Scudimore was
communicated by the bye-standers to the Marshal and Walkden, and
Alexander Craddock was mentioned as the murderer, a scene of the most
wildly exciting interest ensued. For Walkden sprang towards the
guilty—unhappy young man, and throwing his arms frantically around
him,—poor Lucy shrinking back at his appearance,—exclaimed, 'My son!—my
dear, and long-lost son! Pardon me—pardon me—I am the cause of all
this—Oh! my God! how frightfully am I punished!'—and the wretched
Walkden fell heavily upon the ground, overpowered—stunned—crushed by
emotions too awful to be even conceived!

"I must here pause for a few moments to give a word or two of necessary
explanation. The Marshal had found Mr. Walkden at his office in the
evening, and had begged him to grant Alexander's release. But the
miscreant was inexorable, alleging that he had received at the
prisoner's hands insults of a nature which rendered mercy impossible.
The Marshal, hoping to touch the man's heart by a recital of all the
interesting circumstances of Alexander's life, began to tell his story;
but scarcely had he explained how Alexander had been found by the late
Mr. Craddock in the neighbourhood of Doctors' Commons, when Walkden's
whole manner suddenly underwent an appalling change: he turned ghastly
pale—trembled like an aspen-leaf—and then, in another minute, covered
his face with his hands, exclaiming in a tone of the deepest anguish,
'_Merciful God! it is my own son whom I have plundered and persecuted
thus vilely! Oh! wretch that I am—miscreant, demon that I have
been!_'—The Marshal was naturally overwhelmed with astonishment at these
terrific self-accusations, which nevertheless appeared to be too well
founded; for it was indeed the only child of the miserable lawyer who
had been lost by a neglectful servant years ago in the neighbourhood of
Doctors' Commons; and the sudden death of the beadle happening the very
next day, had destroyed the only clue to the infant. Mrs. Walkden died
of a broken heart; and it was most probably these misfortunes which,
acting upon a morbid mind, rendered the attorney the harsh, severe,
merciless man which he had so effectually proved himself to be.

"And what miseries had he piled up, to fall on his own head! He had
ruined his son—rendered him a murderer—and also endeavoured to seduce
that son's wife. Oh! it was a fearful scene, which took place on the
parade-ground on that eventful evening. Scudimore lay a corpse at the
feet of the man whom he had injured; and senseless by the side of the
corpse, fell Walkden who had made Scudimore his instrument and
accomplice in the iniquitous transaction which paved the way for this
accumulation of horrors. Alexander understood nothing that took place.
He saw it all—but comprehended it not. His reason had fled; and it is
most probable that he was already a maniac when he rushed from his room
armed with the fatal knife—and perhaps even when I observed the strange
change come over him on his learning from my lips that Scudimore was an
inmate of the Bench. As for Lucy—poor, crushed, heart-broken Lucy—she
had fainted when Walkden proclaimed himself her husband's _father_! But
I must hasten and bring my story to a conclusion. The Marshal speedily
gave the orders necessary under the circumstances which had occurred;
and, on Lucy being recovered from her swoon, she found that she had not
been the prey of a hideous dream, as she at first supposed—but that her
husband had been taken from her, and lodged in the strong-room—a maniac
and a murderer! Oh! what a heart-rending duty it was for me to implore
her to take courage for her children's sake! Walkden, who had in the
meantime been restored to his senses, begged her to make his house her
home in future, and look on him as a father;—but she shrieked forth a
negative in so wild a tone and accompanied by such a shudder, that the
wretched man could not be otherwise than deeply convinced how ineffable
was the abhorrence that she entertained for him. The Marshal kindly took
charge of the stricken woman and her young children; and the corpse of
Scudimore was conveyed to a room there to await the attendance of the
Coroner on the following day.

"But little more remains to be told. During the night that followed the
deplorable events which I have just related, Alexander Craddock grew
furious with excitement, and became raving mad. A brain-fever
supervened; and in less than twelve hours from the moment when his hand
avenged his wrongs on the villain Scudimore, he himself was no longer a
denizen of this world! Ten days afterwards the Marshal received a letter
from Walkden, which he subsequently showed to me, and the contents of
which ran thus as nearly as I can recollect them:—'_I am about to quit
England, and shall never be again heard of by one who has to much reason
to shudder at the mere mention of my name. I allude to my deeply-injured
daughter-in-law. My share of the ten thousand pounds, of which Scudimore
plundered her husband, was precisely one half. This amount, with
compound interest, I have placed in the funds in her name; and I implore
her to forgive a man who is crushed and heart-broken, and who loathes
himself!_'—Lucy, who had only for her children's sake been able to
sustain anything like the adequate amount of courage necessary to
support her afflictions, was somewhat solaced—if solace there could be
in the midst of such bitter, bitter woe—by the certainty that those
children were now secure against want. She accordingly removed with them
into a small but comfortable dwelling near Norwood—but not before she
had called on me, to express all her gratitude for the kindnesses which
I had been enabled to show the family. She moreover endeavoured to
compel me to receive a sum of money, as she said in repayment for the
amounts I had at various times lent them; but that sum was a hundred
times greater than any I had ever been able to assist them with. I would
not receive a fraction; and I wept on parting with her, as if she had
been my own daughter. During the year which she survived the loss of her
husband—for she only _did_ survive it a year—she came frequently to
visit me, always accompanied by her children; and on every occasion she
brought me some touching and delicate memorial of her esteem. But her
health had been undermined by the long vigils—the deep anxieties—the
corroding cares—the serious toils—and the frightful shocks, which had
characterised her existence in this accursed prison; and she died in the
arms of an affectionate female friend, who dwelt in her neighbourhood,
and whose bosom her misfortunes had deeply touched. This friend promised
to be a second mother to the poor children; and she has fulfilled her
word. Two respectable gentlemen accepted the guardianship of the
orphans, so far as their pecuniary interests are concerned; and those
orphans will be rich when they become of age,—for Walkden died a short
time ago, leaving them all his fortune. Poor Lucy sleeps in the same
grave with her husband; and thus ends my TALE OF SORROW."

The old man wiped away the tears from his eyes: and Frank Curtis was not
only deeply interested in the narrative which he had just heard, but
even affected by its lamentable details, on which he was about to make
some remark, when, happening to glance from the window, he espied the
captain on the parade staring about him in all possible directions.
Curtis therefore took leave of Mr. Prout, after thanking him for the
recital of the melancholy tale, and hastened to join his friend.

Captain O'Blunderbuss had no good news to relate. The officers in
possession in Baker Street had positively refused to allow Mrs. Curtis
to take any thing, beyond wearing apparel, away with her; and the
excellent lady had accordingly moved, with her two trunks and her five
children, to a lodging in Belvidere Place.

The captain had likewise been unsuccessful in his visit to Sir
Christopher Blunt. He had seen the knight, it is true; but neither
menaces nor coaxings had proved potent enough to induce that gentleman
to draw forth his purse or sign his autograph to a cheque.

"What the devil, then, must I do?" demanded Frank Curtis, shuddering as
he thought of the Poor-Side.

"Be Jasus! and go dacently and genteelly through the Insolvents' Court,"
exclaimed the captain; "and I'll skin the Commissioners alive if they
dar-r to turn you back, my frind!"

"I really think there is no other alternative left but to petition the
Court," observed Frank Curtis; "and therefore I'll make up my mind at
once to do so."




                              CHAPTER CIX.
                             THE PRISONERS.


We must leave Mr. Frank Curtis to adopt the necessary measures in order
to effect his emancipation from the Bench _viâ_ the Insolvents' Court,
and suppose that a month has passed since the period when the Blackamoor
consigned to his dungeons Tim the Snammer, Josh Pedler, Old Death, Mrs.
Bunce, her husband, and Tidmarsh.

It was about nine o'clock in the evening, when the Blackamoor, attended
by Cæsar, who bore a light, entered the subterranean passage containing
the doors of the cells in which the prisoners were separately retained.
Wilton followed, bearing a large basket; and two more of the Black's
retainers brought up the rear, one carrying a naked cutlass and the
other a pair of loaded pistols in their hands.

Opening the door of the first cell, the Blackamoor took the light from
Cæsar's hand, and stopping on the threshold, said, "Timothy Splint,
another sun has set, and the close of another day has come. Had you been
surrendered up to the justice of the criminal tribunals of your country,
you would ere this have ceased to exist: your guilt would have been
expiated on the scaffold."

"Oh! I would rather it had been _that_," exclaimed the man, in a tone
which carried to the hearts of his listeners a conviction of his
sincerity,—"I would rather it had been _that_, than this frightful
lingering in utter darkness! The light, sir, is as welcome to me as food
would be if I was starving," he added with profound emphasis.

"Are you afraid to be alone and in the dark?" enquired the Blackamoor.

"It is hell upon earth, sir!" cried Tim the Snammer. "What! can you ask
me whether I'm afraid, when the place is haunted with dreadful
spectres?"

"The spectres are created by your own guilty conscience," answered the
Black, mildly but solemnly: then, advancing farther into the dungeon, so
that the light fell upon the haggard countenance of the prisoner, he
said, "You see that there are no horrible apparitions now; and why
should they not remain here when you can enjoy the use of your eyes as
well as when you are involved in darkness?"

"That is what I say to myself—that is what I am always asking myself,"
exclaimed Timothy Splint. "And yet I can't help thinking that _he_ is
there—the murdered man, you know—with his throat so horribly cut——Oh!
yes—when I am alone and in the dark, I am sure he is there—just where
you are standing now. He never moves—he stands as still as death—and his
eyes glare upon me in the dark. It is dreadful—dreadful!"—and the
wretched criminal hid his face in his hands.

"Are you sorry, then, that you killed Sir Henry Courtenay?" asked the
Black.

"Sorry!" repeated Splint, in a thrilling—agonising tone. "I wish that I
could only live the last few months over again! I'd sooner beg—go to the
workhouse—break stones in the road—or even starve, than rob or do any
thing wrong again! Oh! I would indeed! For I see now that though a man
may only mean for to rob, he stands the chance of taking away life; and
it's a horrid—horrid thing to say to one's self, '_I am a murderer!_'
But it's more horrid still to see the dreadful spectre always standing
by one—quite plain, though in the dark—and never taking his cold eyes
off his assassin."

"If you had a light, Timothy Splint, you would no longer think of your
crimes," said the Blackamoor; "and then you would be ready to fall back
into your old courses, if you had your liberty given to you once more."

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed the man, his frame convulsed with a horrible
shudder. "I wish I had never known such courses at all: I wish I could
live over again during the whole period that I've been so wicked. I am
sure I should be a good man then—if so be I had all my experience to
teach me to be so. I never thought it was such a shocking thing to be
wicked till I came to be left alone in darkness—yes, all alone with my
frightful thoughts! I would sooner be put to death at once: but—but—" he
added, in a hesitating manner—"I haven't the courage to brain myself
against the wall, because the spectre of the murdered baronet seems to
stand by to prevent me."

"And have you, then, ever thought of suicide, since you first became a
prisoner here?" enquired the Blackamoor.

"Often and often, sir—very often," exclaimed Splint, emphatically.

"You never told me this before; and yet I have visited you regularly
every evening to bring you food and talk to you for a short time," said
the Blackamoor.

"But you never spoke to me so kindly as you do now, sir," cried the
criminal, earnestly; "and when a man has been upwards of thirty
days—yes, I have counted your visits, and this is the thirty-first,—when
a man, I say, has been thirty-one days all alone and in darkness, except
for a few minutes every evening, he begins to feel the want of hearing a
human voice—and when that voice speaks in a kind manner——"

Timothy Splint's tone had gradually become tremulous; and now he burst
into tears. Yes—the villain—the robber—the murderer wept; and those were
tears such as he had not shed for a long, long time!

When the river is ice-bound by the cold hand of winter it seems
unconscious of the presence of the flower thrown on its impenetrable
surface; but when thawed by the warm sun, and flowing naturally again,
the stream opens its bosom to receive the rose-bud which it caresses
with its sparkling ripples, and wafts gently along as if rejoiced at the
companionship. So was it with the heart of this man; and the slightest
word spoken in a kind manner was now borne on by the current of feelings
thawed from a state of dull and long-enduring obduracy.

"Your crimes are manifold and great," said the Blackamoor; "but there is
hope for even the vilest," he added, unable altogether to subdue a
profound sigh; "and contrition is all that remains for sinful mortals,
who cannot recall the past."

"I _am_ penitent, sir—I _am_ very penitent, I can assure you," exclaimed
the man, in a tone of deep emotion. "A few weeks ago I should have been
ashamed to utter such a thing; and now it does me good to say so.—And
I'll tell you something more, sir," he continued, after a moment's
hesitation; "though I suppose you will not believe me——"

"Speak frankly," said the Blackamoor.

"Well, sir—I have tried to recollect a prayer; and last night when I
repeated it, I thought that the spectre gradually grew less and less
plain to the view, and at all events seemed less horrible. I was praying
again when you came just now—and I shall pray presently—for I know that
there is some consolation in it."

"You do well to pray, Timothy," observed the Blackamoor. "Would you not
like to be able to read some book?"

"If I only had a candle and a Bible, sir," exclaimed the man, speaking
under the influence of feelings deeply excited but unquestionably
sincere, "I think I should even yet be happy in this dreadful dungeon."

"What makes you fancy that the Bible would render you happy?" enquired
the Black.

"Because I used to read it when I was a lad, and I remember that it
contains many good sayings," answered Splint. "Besides, it declares
somewhere that there is hope for sinners who repent; and I should like
to keep my eyes fixed at times upon God's own promise. I am sure that my
mind would be easier; for though I know that the promise _is_ given, yet
I feel a desire to repeat it over and over again to myself—and also to
learn whether God ever forgave any one who was so bad as I am."

"You shall have a light and a book," said the Blackamoor.

"Oh! you are jesting—you are deceiving me!" cried Splint. "But that
would be so cruel, sir, on your part——"

"I am not jesting—the subject is too serious to be treated lightly," was
the answer: then, making a sign to Wilton to step forward, he took from
the basket which that dependant carried, a lamp already trimmed and a
couple of books. "There is a volume of Tales—and there is the Bible," he
continued: "take whichever you prefer."

"The Bible, if you please, sir," cried Splint, eagerly, while his
countenance denoted the most unfeigned joy. "I know not how to thank you
enough for this kindness!"—and tears again started from his eyes.

"Had you chosen the Tales, you should not have had either book or
light," said the Black.

Wilton now gave the prisoner a plate containing bread and cold meat, and
a bottle of water, while Cæsar lighted his lamp; and the door was then
again closed upon him.

"That man is already a true penitent," whispered the Blackamoor to
Wilton. "Let us now visit his late companion in iniquity."

The party proceeded to the next cell, in which Joshua Pedler was
confined, the two armed dependants stationing themselves in such a
manner as to be visible to the inmate of the dungeon when the door was
opened.

"Thank God! you are come again," he cried, starting up from his bed the
moment the light flashed in upon him. "But why do you come with swords
and pistols in that fashion?" he demanded, savagely.

"In case you should offer any resistance," answered the Blackamoor. "I
do not choose to put chains upon you; and therefore I am compelled to
adopt every necessary precaution when I visit you in this manner."

"I really would not harm you, sir—I would not for the world," said
Pedler, in a milder tone. "You are not cruel—though severe; and I feel
very grateful to you for not giving me up to justice. I hope you are not
offended with me for speaking as I did: I try to be patient—I endeavour
to be mild and all that——"

"What is it, then, that irritates your temper?" enquired the Blackamoor.

"My own thoughts, sir," answered Josh Pedler, bitterly. "Just before I
heard the key grating in the lock, I was a thinking what a fool I have
been for so many years, and how happy I might be, perhaps, if I was a
labouring-man."

"You are sorry that you have been wicked?" observed the Black,
interrogatively.

"And so would any one be when he comes to be locked up here in the
dark," returned the man. "It is all very well when one is at liberty,
and has friends to talk to, and plenty of drink; because company and gin
_can_ prevent a body from thinking. But here—here—oh! it is quite
different; and my opinion is that a dark dungeon is a much worse
punishment than transportation—leastways, judging by all I've heard from
men which has been transported and has come home again when their time
was up."

"Would you rather be transported at once, then—or remain here?" enquired
the Blackamoor.

"I would sooner remain here, for several reasons," said Pedler. "In the
first place, I don't want to get into bad company again; because I'm
afraid I should go all wrong once more;—and, in the second place, I know
that the thoughts which I have are good for me, though they're not
pleasant."

"But if you could this minute join some of your old friends to drink and
smoke with them, would you not gladly do so?" asked the Black.

"I scarcely know how to answer you, sir," replied Pedler, musing. "I am
afraid I might—and yet I am very certain that I should be a fool for my
pains. I would sooner earn an honest living somehow or another: I should
like to have good thoughts——But that is impossible—impossible!" he
added, shaking his head gloomily.

"Why is it impossible?" demanded the Black.

"Because a man to have good thoughts, must do something that is good,"
was the prompt rejoinder; "and I have been a wicked fellow for so many
years. I wish I had been good; but it is too late now!"

"It is never too late to repent," said the Blackamoor.

"I know that the Bible promises that," observed Pedler; "but then people
would never believe that a rascal like me could become good for any
thing. Besides, after all that has happened, I don't hope for any
opportunity of showing that I feel how stupid I have been to lead such a
life as I have done. Who would trust me with any work? what honest
person would associate with me? It's no use questioning me, sir: you see
that even you yourself don't feel comfortable in visiting this place,
since you come with armed people."

"If you could obtain your liberty by killing me, would you not do it?"
asked the Black.

"As true as you are there, I would not harm a hair of your head!" cried
Josh Pedler, emphatically. "I shudder when I think of that dreadful
business down at the Cottage yonder—in fact, I can't bear to think of
it. I don't say that I am actually afraid at being in the dark; but
darkness causes terrible thoughts. It seems as if the mind had eyes, and
couldn't shut them against particular things;—and now that I have found
out this much, I should be a long time before I did a wrong deed again,
even if I was turned out into the midst of London this very minute
without a penny in my pocket."

"What would you do if you were set free this moment?" demanded the
Blackamoor. "At the same time, do not suppose that you are about to have
your liberty."

"I am not mad enough to fancy it possible," replied Josh Pedler. "But if
such a thing did happen, I would go to Matilda—the gal that I spoke to
you about, sir——"

"And who is now in a comfortable position," added the Black.

"Yes—thanks to your kindness," said the man; "and I should like you as
long as I lived, if it was only on account of what you have done for
her. But, as I was going to tell you—supposing I was set free, I would
take 'Tilda with me into the country—as far away from London as
possible; and then I'd change my name, and try to get work. Ah! I should
be happy," he continued, with a profound sigh, "if I could only earn
enough to keep us in a little hut. But don't make me talk in this way
any longer: I feel just—just as if I—I was going to cry."

The man's voice became faltering and tremulous as he uttered these last
words; and his lashes were moistened with tears.

"Should you feel pleasure in writing a letter to Matilda?" asked the
Blackamoor, in a kind tone.

"Yes—above all things!" eagerly cried the criminal. "I am no great
penman; but she could make out my scribbling, I dare say;—and it would
do me good to give her some proper advice—I mean, just to let her know
what my thoughts is at times. Besides, now that I'm separated from her,
I find that I liked her more—yes—a good deal more than I used to fancy I
did; and I should be glad to beg her forgiveness for what I made her do
when I was sick and in want."

"You shall have a light and writing-materials," observed the Black.

"You are a good man—I feel that you are, sir!" exclaimed Josh Pedler,
the tears now trickling down his cheeks. "If I had only fallen in with
such a person as yourself, when I was young, I shouldn't have turned out
as I did. But though people may never know that it is possible for a
fellow like me to alter, yet altered my mind _is_—and I don't look on
things as I used to do."

Wilton gave Josh Pedler a supply of food, a lamp, and writing-materials,
the dungeon already containing a table in addition to the other
necessary but plain and homely articles of furniture. The criminal was
overjoyed at the indulgence shown him on the occasion of this visit: and
he saw the door close upon him with feelings which seemed to have
experienced a great relief.




                  END OF VOL. I. OF THE SECOND SERIES.




      PRINTED BY J. FAUTLEY, "BONNER HOUSE," SEACOAL LANE, LONDON.




                          TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES


 1. Several entries in the Table of Illustrations are missing reference
    page numbers, e.g. "For Woodcut on page 233 see page ___"
 2. Added missing anchor for footnote on p. 71.
 3. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical
    errors.
 4. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
 5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.